Peter had been having a great dream. After having saved the world one way or another, he'd been invited to appear on Oprah. He and Oprah had laughed about how crazy Tom Cruise was, jumping on the couch and all, and then they'd started discussing Peter's extended family. All of a sudden, Nathan, his mother, Heidi (who could walk!), Claire, and Nathan's kids had all walked out, faces glowing with smiles and love. Then they'd all sat down, with Oprah, and had ice cream and-
-There was cold water being sprayed on him.
Deeply unhappy at this turn of events, Peter grumbled lowly and cracked open an eye. Oh, he should have guessed. What else did Claude have to do once he'd been Sorted?
"I hate you," Peter groaned, rolling away from Rachel to curl into a ball on the other side of the bed, pulling the blankets over his head. Once he felt protected enough, he smiled stupidly to himself and tried to go back to dreaming about being on Oprah.
Rachel's reaction was remarkably similar. "Go Turn yourself," she muttered, cracking an eye to make sure it wasn't Al. Peter seemed to know him, and her brain was not supposed to be up that early. Burying her face under the blankets, her forehead resting against Peter's back, she attempted to go back to sleep.
Of course, since Claude was there, none of that was happening. "Come on, Petrelli, you said you wanted training. Lazy men don't save the world. Course, neither do you, so maybe you're on the right track." Yanking the blankets off with maniacal pleasure, he ignored Rachel's yelps and began spraying them again. "Let's go. Bring the girl, too. Maybe she can make coffee or bring us donuts."
Yanking the blanket off was just cruel. In strange and unusual ways.
Bereft of continued happy Oprah dreams, Peter frowned into his pillow. Not having a blanket didn't matter, he could just go back to sleep and ignore Claude, and- oh god, cold water! Scrambling to get away, Peter rolled off the bed and crouched low on the floor, trying to hide. That was not the most pleasant way to wake up.
After a moment, he cautiously rose up slightly, peeking over the edge of the bed and glaring balefully when he saw Claude was still there. Peter was going to have to apologize to Rachel; she really didn't need to meet Claude.
"What?" Peter asked groggily, thoroughly confused. "I thought you said you weren't going to help me anymore. What changed your mind?" Not that he wasn't glad that Claude had apparently changed his mind, but he would have at least liked a little warning first.
Claude smirked. Rachel had wound up off the bed on the other side and was pointing a little gun at him, glowering as she pushed her hair off of her face. "Going to argue with me?" he asked, taking a bite of the pastry and grinning wider at Rachel's indignant huff. "Or do you want me to help?"
Of course Claude was never going to tell Peter that the whole bloody reason he'd come to Scotland was to help if he could. No need to be that honest
( ... )
"I don't know," Peter said shortly, folding his arms over his chest and generally looking incredibly stubborn. "So I can empathize with people, get to know them easily, so what? How does that help anybody, if I'm just going to explode if I lose control over myself?"
Looking down at the floor, Peter studied his shoes and frowned. Being beaten around with a stick was easier than this... sort of. "I've only known about this for two and a half months, cut me a little slack," he continued, considerably calmed down.
"Oh, for the love of Jesus Christ and all his little children." Claude heaved out a huge sigh, actually having to walk away from Peter to calm himself down. Impossible. This was literally impossible. It was like beating a plastic spoon against the Hoover Dam and hoping to make a crack.
Returning to Peter, Claude rubbed his face with one hand and snorted a laugh. "Right. Okay. Let's start at the bloody beginning. Empaths don't just sympathize with people, Peter. They feel. They're psychically linked to the people around them. The more you care about a person, the closer you get to them, the more their moods affect you. Sure, you have your own feelings, too, but with someone as powerful as you, it all gets muddled up in your mind," he reached forward and tapped Peter's forehead sharply with one finger.
"You don't know how to control that. Takes time and effort and you've not put that in. But more importantly, you don't understand that. Listen, Peter, you keep thinking about your powers in terms of the individual things
( ... )
Before (and during, and after) he'd known Claude, Peter had always thought of his power as what he picked up from other people, that he'd been nothing on his own. He'd connected with other people and their emotions, had vivid dreams, but Peter had always put that down to... well, him. Nothing special
( ... )
"Sure you don't," Claude smirked. Peter would go through life with one hand holding tightly to whomever he'd decided he cared about at the moment if he could. Then again, he was an empath. But Peter hadn't quite gotten the whole scope of what his power meant for his life. And Claude was more than content to sit back and watch him try to figure it out.
At Peter's snark, Claude simply rolled his eyes. "Hardy har, really. Just full of chuckles today, aren't you? No, smartass, no crystals. No candles. Just you." A grin that was more mocking than anything else crossed his face. "Why? You afraid to work without a net? This is all just going to be you, Peter. Nothing you've begged, borrowed, or stolen. We're going to just work on your power, who you are apart from everyone else." He paused. "Maybe you'd feel better with a teddy bear to hold
( ... )
Peter knew that Claude was being mocking when he suggested a teddy bear, but the idea was a good one. Peter brightened, and immediately hopped up to stride quickly out of the room - even when Claude had started passing on instructions on what to do.
On the way, he found a note from Rachel. Peter studied it, cursing under his breath as he crumpled the bit of paper and tossed it onto the table. Gone for a few days on a run. Perfect excuse to leave and not deal with him, much less her own emotions.
When he returned and sat down again, Peter looked a little shifty, and there was a suspicious shape under his shirt.
Okay, shutting eyes, breathing, he could do that. Emotions, of which there were a lot of. Determination, irritation, embarrassment, misery, tired resignation. Peter couldn't really tell which were his, and - if Claude was right - which belonged to Claude, and what had been prompted from Rachel. "Yeah, I got it," he said slowly, trying not to break his concentration while speaking.
Snorting softly, Claude didn't comment. Fine. A focus object actually wasn't a bad thought for a fledgling empath - anything with deep emotional resonance would do. Maybe he'd even explain that once the lesson was over. Or maybe he'd just laugh at the kid having a stuffed elephant from his nappy days or whatever the hell it was. It was hard to tell.
"Now picture a giant sieve," he coached Peter, voice calm but gruff. "You have to trust, completely, that that sieve is going to be able to sift out your emotions from the rest. This is natural, Peter, what you were born to do. Don't fight it. Just pour everything, all the emotions, into the sieve. Everything that's from you will go into a mental bowl. Whatever is left behind belongs to other people. Try it."
That was a lot easier said than done, Peter supposed. Exactly how was a person meant to filter emotions? Was the human brain even capable of doing that? ...Apparently his was, according to Claude, so trying probably wouldn't hurt.
Imagining the sieve as Claude mentioned, Peter mentally told himself that only his own emotions would pass through. He had to trust in this - and Peter had no problems in believe in something that seemed strange. The first try definitely didn't work, and neither did the second. Just as Peter was assuming he must be doing something wrong, he tried a third time. Some of the stronger emotions dimmed, leaving his own rather too-tired-to-feel-much emotions by themselves.
Huh. Maybe it did work. Absently patting the stuffed animal under his shirt, Peter opened his eyes and smiled slightly at Claude. "Did it. I think." It was a start, at least.
Comments 99
-There was cold water being sprayed on him.
Deeply unhappy at this turn of events, Peter grumbled lowly and cracked open an eye. Oh, he should have guessed. What else did Claude have to do once he'd been Sorted?
"I hate you," Peter groaned, rolling away from Rachel to curl into a ball on the other side of the bed, pulling the blankets over his head. Once he felt protected enough, he smiled stupidly to himself and tried to go back to dreaming about being on Oprah.
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Of course, since Claude was there, none of that was happening. "Come on, Petrelli, you said you wanted training. Lazy men don't save the world. Course, neither do you, so maybe you're on the right track." Yanking the blankets off with maniacal pleasure, he ignored Rachel's yelps and began spraying them again. "Let's go. Bring the girl, too. Maybe she can make coffee or bring us donuts."
Reply
Bereft of continued happy Oprah dreams, Peter frowned into his pillow. Not having a blanket didn't matter, he could just go back to sleep and ignore Claude, and- oh god, cold water! Scrambling to get away, Peter rolled off the bed and crouched low on the floor, trying to hide. That was not the most pleasant way to wake up.
After a moment, he cautiously rose up slightly, peeking over the edge of the bed and glaring balefully when he saw Claude was still there. Peter was going to have to apologize to Rachel; she really didn't need to meet Claude.
"What?" Peter asked groggily, thoroughly confused. "I thought you said you weren't going to help me anymore. What changed your mind?" Not that he wasn't glad that Claude had apparently changed his mind, but he would have at least liked a little warning first.
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Of course Claude was never going to tell Peter that the whole bloody reason he'd come to Scotland was to help if he could. No need to be that honest ( ... )
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Looking down at the floor, Peter studied his shoes and frowned. Being beaten around with a stick was easier than this... sort of. "I've only known about this for two and a half months, cut me a little slack," he continued, considerably calmed down.
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Returning to Peter, Claude rubbed his face with one hand and snorted a laugh. "Right. Okay. Let's start at the bloody beginning. Empaths don't just sympathize with people, Peter. They feel. They're psychically linked to the people around them. The more you care about a person, the closer you get to them, the more their moods affect you. Sure, you have your own feelings, too, but with someone as powerful as you, it all gets muddled up in your mind," he reached forward and tapped Peter's forehead sharply with one finger.
"You don't know how to control that. Takes time and effort and you've not put that in. But more importantly, you don't understand that. Listen, Peter, you keep thinking about your powers in terms of the individual things ( ... )
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Before (and during, and after) he'd known Claude, Peter had always thought of his power as what he picked up from other people, that he'd been nothing on his own. He'd connected with other people and their emotions, had vivid dreams, but Peter had always put that down to... well, him. Nothing special ( ... )
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At Peter's snark, Claude simply rolled his eyes. "Hardy har, really. Just full of chuckles today, aren't you? No, smartass, no crystals. No candles. Just you." A grin that was more mocking than anything else crossed his face. "Why? You afraid to work without a net? This is all just going to be you, Peter. Nothing you've begged, borrowed, or stolen. We're going to just work on your power, who you are apart from everyone else." He paused. "Maybe you'd feel better with a teddy bear to hold ( ... )
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On the way, he found a note from Rachel. Peter studied it, cursing under his breath as he crumpled the bit of paper and tossed it onto the table. Gone for a few days on a run. Perfect excuse to leave and not deal with him, much less her own emotions.
When he returned and sat down again, Peter looked a little shifty, and there was a suspicious shape under his shirt.
Okay, shutting eyes, breathing, he could do that. Emotions, of which there were a lot of. Determination, irritation, embarrassment, misery, tired resignation. Peter couldn't really tell which were his, and - if Claude was right - which belonged to Claude, and what had been prompted from Rachel. "Yeah, I got it," he said slowly, trying not to break his concentration while speaking.
Reply
"Now picture a giant sieve," he coached Peter, voice calm but gruff. "You have to trust, completely, that that sieve is going to be able to sift out your emotions from the rest. This is natural, Peter, what you were born to do. Don't fight it. Just pour everything, all the emotions, into the sieve. Everything that's from you will go into a mental bowl. Whatever is left behind belongs to other people. Try it."
Reply
Imagining the sieve as Claude mentioned, Peter mentally told himself that only his own emotions would pass through. He had to trust in this - and Peter had no problems in believe in something that seemed strange. The first try definitely didn't work, and neither did the second. Just as Peter was assuming he must be doing something wrong, he tried a third time. Some of the stronger emotions dimmed, leaving his own rather too-tired-to-feel-much emotions by themselves.
Huh. Maybe it did work. Absently patting the stuffed animal under his shirt, Peter opened his eyes and smiled slightly at Claude. "Did it. I think." It was a start, at least.
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