Still furious, but reigning it in (for now), Claude rolled his eyes and hopped up onto a windowsill. "You're over thinking it again. Trying to match up the little numbers all in a row. That's why you blew up, that's why you keep failing."
Jamming his hands in his pockets, Claude glowered at him. "You aren't a man of logic, Peter. That's not how you'll get anywhere. You think with your bloody heart instead, which gets you into a hell of a lot of shit, but it'll get you out again if you can figure out how to use it. Don't try to quantify things or your pretty little head will explode, along with the rest of you." Full of too much nervous energy, Claude hopped up again and started to pace.
"But it's hard, is it?" he asked in a mockingly high and pitiful voice. "Oh, no, Peter Petrelli is having to work at something. Not coming easy to him." He stopped and jabbed a finger at Peter. "Stop making excuses. All you do, all day long, is bitch and moan about how you try, how you're dangerous, how everyone and everything is better
( ... )
Claude choked back a snort. "Can you also carry on normal conversation? Because that would be a trick and a half. Or maybe you could wear clothes that didn't charge by the half hour." Shoveling another forkful of pasta into his mouth, he gestured his fork at me. I, for my part, just stared at him, slightly stunned as he went on. "We get it, we do, you're a big bad witch who screws her way out of emotional entanglements. And you're trying to make Peter, here, feel all warm and tingly by having nice meaningful conversation, only you're too bloody damaged, so you throw out random tidbits and call it sodding intimacy. But the only intimacy you know is the kind with spread legs, isn't it? Not that I'd mind, but Peter here gets hives when he thinks about it. At least, where you're concerned. So you might as well stop trying
( ... )
Damn. Dream land about cool animals had been so much better than the present reality.
Shocked, Peter stared after Rachel as she left the table, and then promptly turned that same look on Claude, with an edge of accusation. "Claude!" He sputtered, appalled. "That was- you- you didn't need to say that!"
He thought about going after Rachel and trying to talk to her, tell her that Claude didn't mean what he said (which was probably a lie). But he knew Rachel was too stubborn, and Claude had effectively pushed her past the point where kind words would work. With a low grown, Peter pushed his plate away and dropped his forehead onto the table.
"I'm not training any more today," he said to the table. And, as afterthought, added, "I'm surrounded by crazy people."
"Was one word I said not true?" Claude looked at Peter, eyebrows raised. "Anything in there you disagree with?" He smirked, standing up. "I'll take the fact you're not running after her with hugs and touchy-feely crap to mean that you agree. She's not worth it, friend, make no mistake, and you're better off realizing it now. So get your head out of the clouds and your bangs out of your face and let's go."
He paused, then his face fell into its usual scowl. "And you're done training when I say you are. Not going to get anywhere if you mope about like a kicked puppy when everyone isn't getting along. Besides, I'm going to try and show you how to stop being a giant mirror and actually figure out what voice in your head is you and what's just you picking up on other people. Got to get your head on straight or else you'll just go mad."
"She is worth it, so stop talking about her like that," Peter scowled into the table. But, with a rather uncomfortable silence, Peter had to admit that Claude was right. Not in the derogatory sense that he had worded it, and not that she wasn't worth it, but the base idea. That she preferred sex over emotional intimacy - which, Peter knew, derived from her own opinion that she wasn't good enough for a long-term relationship, and that everybody would leave her.
Christ. Was that why Rachel liked making innuendo at him and touching him whenever possible? Because she would much rather sleep with him than get to know him?
Peter sighed hopelessly and considered smashing his head into the table so many times that it would take a few hours for his brain to heal. It seemed like a better alternative than thinking about anything.
"Great, tell me how that goes, then. I'll be the guy that's passed out as soon as I try and use anything more," Peter replied. "Good luck with that." Couldn't Claude wait until tomorrow, at least?
Claude smirked, watching it all sink in. "Ah, so now he gets it. Go to the front of the class." Stealing another piece of bread, he propped one hip on the table and pointed the crust at him. "Now, if you were a smart man, which I have my doubts about, you'd run in the opposite direction. But since I know you're not, I'll give you this advice - you're not speaking her language. Also, you're asking the wrong question. It's 'why'. You want to know 'why'."
Lesson on people - a subject Claude considered himself an expert on - done, he shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth and hopped back up. "Stop whining or I'll get out my stick," he grinned savagely. "You're not going to be using anything but your brain. Most underused muscle in your body, and that's saying something." Nudging back Peter's chair with one foot, Claude led the way back into the training room. "Besides, if we're lucky, your girlfriend will slink out while we're busy and we won't have to see her again."
Even though his chair had been nudged back, Peter didn't move, he just watched Claude go back into the training room. Disgruntled, Peter heaved a sigh and pushed himself out of the chair.
He detoured to the bedroom, and ripped a piece of paper from his sketchpad, scribbling a quick message on it. Peter thought about trying to talk to Rachel, but he'd give her some time alone. So he just slipped the note under the bathroom door:
Sorry. Sometimes I wish I could muzzle him. Do you think they make muzzles for people? We should buy one, so he can still help but be quiet.
With that, Peter made his way into the training room, casting the occasional annoyed glance at Claude.
Ignoring the looks being sent his way - Claude didn't consider it a full day unless someone realized how much they hated him - Claude settled himself on the floor, sitting down, and nodded for Peter to do the same.
"Right, so, you're an empath," he started abruptly. "And that means you've got your sticky little fingers in everyone else's feelings. Which is a good thing, mostly, except you have no idea how to control it. So you're smearing everything all together and calling it your own and not doing a damn bit of good to anyone. So we're going to shove everything of you into a glass fishbowl in your brain, so that all your own emotions can swim about without getting lost in everyone else."
He paused. "Think you can handle that? Or should I get big brother in here to hold your hand?"
"I don't need people to hold my hand," Peter protested, sounding a lot more sulky than truly angry. At least it wasn't the untrained dog metaphors, he hated those ones.
After Claude finished his explanation, Peter relaxed in relief - good, no more powers today - and settled down into a sitting position. Should his joints really be cracking like that at his age? God, it had been a long day.
But this sounded okay; a lot more like meditation or something similar. Just a mental exercise. And he was beginning to trust more in Claude's methods. Even though being pushed certainly wasn't fun, it was helping.
"So, focusing my thoughts and emotions, I get it," Peter nodded. To his credit, he didn't crack a smirk when he continued, apparently quite seriously. "Is there going to be pilates as well? Do we need candles, or crystals? I think Rachel has herbs."
Jamming his hands in his pockets, Claude glowered at him. "You aren't a man of logic, Peter. That's not how you'll get anywhere. You think with your bloody heart instead, which gets you into a hell of a lot of shit, but it'll get you out again if you can figure out how to use it. Don't try to quantify things or your pretty little head will explode, along with the rest of you." Full of too much nervous energy, Claude hopped up again and started to pace.
"But it's hard, is it?" he asked in a mockingly high and pitiful voice. "Oh, no, Peter Petrelli is having to work at something. Not coming easy to him." He stopped and jabbed a finger at Peter. "Stop making excuses. All you do, all day long, is bitch and moan about how you try, how you're dangerous, how everyone and everything is better ( ... )
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Shocked, Peter stared after Rachel as she left the table, and then promptly turned that same look on Claude, with an edge of accusation. "Claude!" He sputtered, appalled. "That was- you- you didn't need to say that!"
He thought about going after Rachel and trying to talk to her, tell her that Claude didn't mean what he said (which was probably a lie). But he knew Rachel was too stubborn, and Claude had effectively pushed her past the point where kind words would work. With a low grown, Peter pushed his plate away and dropped his forehead onto the table.
"I'm not training any more today," he said to the table. And, as afterthought, added, "I'm surrounded by crazy people."
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He paused, then his face fell into its usual scowl. "And you're done training when I say you are. Not going to get anywhere if you mope about like a kicked puppy when everyone isn't getting along. Besides, I'm going to try and show you how to stop being a giant mirror and actually figure out what voice in your head is you and what's just you picking up on other people. Got to get your head on straight or else you'll just go mad."
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Christ. Was that why Rachel liked making innuendo at him and touching him whenever possible? Because she would much rather sleep with him than get to know him?
Peter sighed hopelessly and considered smashing his head into the table so many times that it would take a few hours for his brain to heal. It seemed like a better alternative than thinking about anything.
"Great, tell me how that goes, then. I'll be the guy that's passed out as soon as I try and use anything more," Peter replied. "Good luck with that." Couldn't Claude wait until tomorrow, at least?
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Lesson on people - a subject Claude considered himself an expert on - done, he shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth and hopped back up. "Stop whining or I'll get out my stick," he grinned savagely. "You're not going to be using anything but your brain. Most underused muscle in your body, and that's saying something." Nudging back Peter's chair with one foot, Claude led the way back into the training room. "Besides, if we're lucky, your girlfriend will slink out while we're busy and we won't have to see her again."
Reply
He detoured to the bedroom, and ripped a piece of paper from his sketchpad, scribbling a quick message on it. Peter thought about trying to talk to Rachel, but he'd give her some time alone. So he just slipped the note under the bathroom door:
Sorry. Sometimes I wish I could muzzle him. Do you think they make muzzles for people? We should buy one, so he can still help but be quiet.
With that, Peter made his way into the training room, casting the occasional annoyed glance at Claude.
Reply
"Right, so, you're an empath," he started abruptly. "And that means you've got your sticky little fingers in everyone else's feelings. Which is a good thing, mostly, except you have no idea how to control it. So you're smearing everything all together and calling it your own and not doing a damn bit of good to anyone. So we're going to shove everything of you into a glass fishbowl in your brain, so that all your own emotions can swim about without getting lost in everyone else."
He paused. "Think you can handle that? Or should I get big brother in here to hold your hand?"
Reply
After Claude finished his explanation, Peter relaxed in relief - good, no more powers today - and settled down into a sitting position. Should his joints really be cracking like that at his age? God, it had been a long day.
But this sounded okay; a lot more like meditation or something similar. Just a mental exercise. And he was beginning to trust more in Claude's methods. Even though being pushed certainly wasn't fun, it was helping.
"So, focusing my thoughts and emotions, I get it," Peter nodded. To his credit, he didn't crack a smirk when he continued, apparently quite seriously. "Is there going to be pilates as well? Do we need candles, or crystals? I think Rachel has herbs."
Reply
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