Going to a Town, Chapter 18
And yes, because plane rides mean lots of extra time, I did write two chapters, and I don't think I'll have time to post the other one tomorrow, due to the wedding from hell prep work I've been roped into, so...blah. Read it. Sorry to clutter up the community. Be thankful, I was going to write three.
Title: Mistake
Characters: Peter, Claude, Bennet (sorry)
Warnings: The return of the way too long flashbacks. But some stuff needed explaining/setting up, so...
Rating: PG13, but mostly for early morning cursing.
A/N: Again, back in time a bit. We'll catch up...next time. I think.
Scarcely three hours after having gone to sleep, and the goddamn phone is ringing. And worse yet, he knows exactly who it is. There is absolutely no one else who would be calling him at goddamn six in the morning on a Saturday and actually expect him to answer.
He picks up the phone, brings it to his ear. Doesn’t say anything; there’s no real reason to.
“Good morning!” The voice on the other line sounds so bloody innocent, like he’s making a courtesy wake-up call that was specifically requested.
He mumbles something that he’s sure could pass for “what”, at least in one of the world’s languages.
“Claude? Buddy?”
A grumble in the affirmative.
“Where are you?” Un-fucking-believable.
“Bangkok, Bennet, where do you think?” And he’s annoyed enough to realize that he probably won’t be getting back to sleep this morning.
“What?” As if he actually believes him. Damn it.
“In some shit-hole off of Central Park, Bennet.” Which you sent me to. Probably paid the bill, even, he thinks, as he sits up and tries to plump the pillows behind him.
“What is it?” He adds, although he really doesn’t want to know.
“Just wanted to see how you were doing.” Like hell you did., he thinks.
“I’ll be back in four days, Bennet, you couldn’t wait till then?”
“I miss you.” Damn, damn, bloody fucking…damn. Not this shit again, not this early.
“You do know this costs a fortune, right, Bennet?” Diverting one of the only ways he knows how.
He can hear the heavy sigh over the line. He’s probably alone, if he’s going to start with the “I miss you”s again. Probably from work, because no one else would be there this…bloody…early. On a Saturday morning, no less. Which means, this is business call.
“I need a favor.”
“I need more than three hours of sleep.”
“Are you with someone?” And the accusation makes him want to laugh, a little, but mostly not. If he had wanted a nagging wife, he would’ve taken up with one of the lovely women Sandra kept introducing him to.
“Between the two of us, Bennet, I think you’re more likely to be with someone,” trying to match the accusing tone but still mock it. You have precedent, he doesn’t add; that would be too cruel.
The cold chuckle on the other end of the line makes it clear he’s struck a nerve. Don’t miss me so much now, do you? He thinks.
“I need you to look someone up for me,” he says, all business this time.
“And this couldn’t wait until…”
“You’re in his neck of the woods.”
“All right, then.”
“Ready? I need you to find out as much as you can about a Peter Petrelli.”
“Any relation to Nathan Petrelli? The mob lawyer?”
“As much as you can, Claude.” In other words, you have no idea, he thinks.
“All right, what’s this for?”
“Just a new hire.”
“And since when have background checks gotten so extensive?”
“Since I’m asking you to do this, Claude.”
And the man hates to pull rank, which is probably why Claude enjoys making him do it so often.
“And why should I, really?”
“Because I’m your boss, Claude.”
And the quick admission with none of their usual banter makes him even more suspicious.
“You all right there, mate?” And whenever he doesn’t call him Bennet, it’s a risk, because it always starts tipping back to “mate” and then “Pal” and then…the “I miss you”s become a lot more sincere and a lot more complicated. But the man obviously needs something right now and…he’ll just keep calling him until he gets it. And then he’ll never get to sleep again.
“We’re getting old, Claude.”
Well, I don’t know about you, he wants to say, but…it’s not going to help anything this morning.
“Claire’s in love, did I tell you that?”
“How old is she, twelve?”
“Nineteen, Claude,” and there’s exasperation, as if he’d forgotten his own daughter’s age. Which, really, wasn’t very fair.
“You remember love back then, Claude? It was everything, wasn’t it? Body and soul and…you know.”
Damn it. This was what came out from forgetting the “Bennet”.
“So what’s this Petrelli fellow like?” He says, another diversionary tactic.
“Peter? Oh, he’s just your type. Green eyes, dark hair, skinny. Desperate for approval.”
“Since when is that my type, Bennet? And since when are you the expert?” And it’s just because it’s so early, but it’s a stupid, stupid question that could only end in…
“I knew it well enough before, apparently.”
***
He has to end it. He knows that. He has to end it before the boy becomes even more…dependent than he already is.
He knew it the morning after he told him he loved him, which, naturally, had been his first mistake, but every day he doesn’t tell him it’s over, he makes it again.
And every night, and it is every night, now, with that added hint of desperation, with that added need to wring every last drop out of this, whatever it was, when he holds him close and lets Peter tell him he loves him, even though he doesn’t say it back, he might as well be.
Peter will never leave him; he knows that. The boy couldn’t stand betraying someone else he loved, it would kill him.
And so this lies on his shoulders, to save them both, but he just can’t do it.
I’ll do it tomorrow, he tells himself, every night, and they build up, and suddenly it’s the last day they’ll have together and Peter doesn’t seem to realize it.
“It’s over, Peter.” He says, and it sounds so damn cliché, so untrue, so dishonest, because it’s not. It’s not for him and it’s probably not for Peter but it has to be.
“I know, Claude, isn’t it sad? I’m going to miss this,” Peter says, brightly, obliviously, gesturing to the sheep, the mountains, the horses, the damned tent they never managed to repair. The boy could be slow when he wanted to be.
“Peter,” he says, and this time, he knows the warning goes through.
“No.” He says, and he sounds so much like Claire, crossing her arms in front of her, refusing to eat her vegetables.
“This isn’t who ya are, Pete,” trying to keep it casual, trying to keep himself from sounding too…attached. And it’s another lie, he knows it is, but it doesn’t have to be.
“You know who I am,” he answers, and this time he’s a lot calmer, almost smug, as though he’s just won the argument.
And he has, which means...which means Claude’s going to have to resort to something else.
“You’re really going to go back and tell them that? That you’re not going to marry Claire, you’re not going to live in that little house they fixed up for you, you’re not going to be their son-in-law? That you’re going to run off with her godfather, of all people? You’re really going to do that to them?”
And it’s getting through, a little. He can see the unease flicker in turbulent green eyes and he almost wants to shut his own, because he’s going to need to do more to tip it over.
“Are ya going to betray them, too?”
And he sees it coming, he knows it’s going to hurt, and he has time to duck, but he doesn’t want to.
The blow connects right under his chin, hard enough to knock him into the dirt, and he knows that this time, there aren’t going to be warm hands and soft lips to make it hurt less.
Title: Mistake
Characters: Peter, Claude, Bennet (sorry)
Warnings: The return of the way too long flashbacks. But some stuff needed explaining/setting up, so...
Rating: PG13, but mostly for early morning cursing.
A/N: Again, back in time a bit. We'll catch up...next time. I think.
Scarcely three hours after having gone to sleep, and the goddamn phone is ringing. And worse yet, he knows exactly who it is. There is absolutely no one else who would be calling him at goddamn six in the morning on a Saturday and actually expect him to answer.
He picks up the phone, brings it to his ear. Doesn’t say anything; there’s no real reason to.
“Good morning!” The voice on the other line sounds so bloody innocent, like he’s making a courtesy wake-up call that was specifically requested.
He mumbles something that he’s sure could pass for “what”, at least in one of the world’s languages.
“Claude? Buddy?”
A grumble in the affirmative.
“Where are you?” Un-fucking-believable.
“Bangkok, Bennet, where do you think?” And he’s annoyed enough to realize that he probably won’t be getting back to sleep this morning.
“What?” As if he actually believes him. Damn it.
“In some shit-hole off of Central Park, Bennet.” Which you sent me to. Probably paid the bill, even, he thinks, as he sits up and tries to plump the pillows behind him.
“What is it?” He adds, although he really doesn’t want to know.
“Just wanted to see how you were doing.” Like hell you did., he thinks.
“I’ll be back in four days, Bennet, you couldn’t wait till then?”
“I miss you.” Damn, damn, bloody fucking…damn. Not this shit again, not this early.
“You do know this costs a fortune, right, Bennet?” Diverting one of the only ways he knows how.
He can hear the heavy sigh over the line. He’s probably alone, if he’s going to start with the “I miss you”s again. Probably from work, because no one else would be there this…bloody…early. On a Saturday morning, no less. Which means, this is business call.
“I need a favor.”
“I need more than three hours of sleep.”
“Are you with someone?” And the accusation makes him want to laugh, a little, but mostly not. If he had wanted a nagging wife, he would’ve taken up with one of the lovely women Sandra kept introducing him to.
“Between the two of us, Bennet, I think you’re more likely to be with someone,” trying to match the accusing tone but still mock it. You have precedent, he doesn’t add; that would be too cruel.
The cold chuckle on the other end of the line makes it clear he’s struck a nerve. Don’t miss me so much now, do you? He thinks.
“I need you to look someone up for me,” he says, all business this time.
“And this couldn’t wait until…”
“You’re in his neck of the woods.”
“All right, then.”
“Ready? I need you to find out as much as you can about a Peter Petrelli.”
“Any relation to Nathan Petrelli? The mob lawyer?”
“As much as you can, Claude.” In other words, you have no idea, he thinks.
“All right, what’s this for?”
“Just a new hire.”
“And since when have background checks gotten so extensive?”
“Since I’m asking you to do this, Claude.”
And the man hates to pull rank, which is probably why Claude enjoys making him do it so often.
“And why should I, really?”
“Because I’m your boss, Claude.”
And the quick admission with none of their usual banter makes him even more suspicious.
“You all right there, mate?” And whenever he doesn’t call him Bennet, it’s a risk, because it always starts tipping back to “mate” and then “Pal” and then…the “I miss you”s become a lot more sincere and a lot more complicated. But the man obviously needs something right now and…he’ll just keep calling him until he gets it. And then he’ll never get to sleep again.
“We’re getting old, Claude.”
Well, I don’t know about you, he wants to say, but…it’s not going to help anything this morning.
“Claire’s in love, did I tell you that?”
“How old is she, twelve?”
“Nineteen, Claude,” and there’s exasperation, as if he’d forgotten his own daughter’s age. Which, really, wasn’t very fair.
“You remember love back then, Claude? It was everything, wasn’t it? Body and soul and…you know.”
Damn it. This was what came out from forgetting the “Bennet”.
“So what’s this Petrelli fellow like?” He says, another diversionary tactic.
“Peter? Oh, he’s just your type. Green eyes, dark hair, skinny. Desperate for approval.”
“Since when is that my type, Bennet? And since when are you the expert?” And it’s just because it’s so early, but it’s a stupid, stupid question that could only end in…
“I knew it well enough before, apparently.”
***
He has to end it. He knows that. He has to end it before the boy becomes even more…dependent than he already is.
He knew it the morning after he told him he loved him, which, naturally, had been his first mistake, but every day he doesn’t tell him it’s over, he makes it again.
And every night, and it is every night, now, with that added hint of desperation, with that added need to wring every last drop out of this, whatever it was, when he holds him close and lets Peter tell him he loves him, even though he doesn’t say it back, he might as well be.
Peter will never leave him; he knows that. The boy couldn’t stand betraying someone else he loved, it would kill him.
And so this lies on his shoulders, to save them both, but he just can’t do it.
I’ll do it tomorrow, he tells himself, every night, and they build up, and suddenly it’s the last day they’ll have together and Peter doesn’t seem to realize it.
“It’s over, Peter.” He says, and it sounds so damn cliché, so untrue, so dishonest, because it’s not. It’s not for him and it’s probably not for Peter but it has to be.
“I know, Claude, isn’t it sad? I’m going to miss this,” Peter says, brightly, obliviously, gesturing to the sheep, the mountains, the horses, the damned tent they never managed to repair. The boy could be slow when he wanted to be.
“Peter,” he says, and this time, he knows the warning goes through.
“No.” He says, and he sounds so much like Claire, crossing her arms in front of her, refusing to eat her vegetables.
“This isn’t who ya are, Pete,” trying to keep it casual, trying to keep himself from sounding too…attached. And it’s another lie, he knows it is, but it doesn’t have to be.
“You know who I am,” he answers, and this time he’s a lot calmer, almost smug, as though he’s just won the argument.
And he has, which means...which means Claude’s going to have to resort to something else.
“You’re really going to go back and tell them that? That you’re not going to marry Claire, you’re not going to live in that little house they fixed up for you, you’re not going to be their son-in-law? That you’re going to run off with her godfather, of all people? You’re really going to do that to them?”
And it’s getting through, a little. He can see the unease flicker in turbulent green eyes and he almost wants to shut his own, because he’s going to need to do more to tip it over.
“Are ya going to betray them, too?”
And he sees it coming, he knows it’s going to hurt, and he has time to duck, but he doesn’t want to.
The blow connects right under his chin, hard enough to knock him into the dirt, and he knows that this time, there aren’t going to be warm hands and soft lips to make it hurt less.