Slowing Down
Well, a kind of sequel to Catching Up, more in spirit than in...actual narrative...something. I'm eloquent. From the same rounds_of_kink prompt, although this is the one I actually posted there.
Title: Slowing Down
Pairing/character: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG13! Because there's now...actual slash!
Summary: First season, pre-slash, run of the mill conversation in an alley. OR IS IT?!? Yes, it might be something actually beyond talking! Rejoice!
Disclaimer:: As per usual, no, not mine at all.
A/N: Do not, under any circumstances, encourage me to make this a trilogy sort of thing. Please. Don't. My weak little mind could not refuse, and then where would we be?
“Why’d you do it, mate?”
A bit of a non-sequitur, but it always did to keep the boy on his toes.
“Do what?” Peter seemed to stifle a yawn, but then squared his shoulders and eyed him warily.
Didn’t want to seem tired, then. He had to give the boy credit, he’d have had him running laps round the rooftop (flying them, if he’d been feeling ambitious) if he’d so much as suggested taking a break.
“Leave the family business. Go into nursing,” the tone earned him a flicker of wounded puppy pride, but he had to admit, Peter recovered quickly.
The boy was getting better at reading him, at least. Shame he couldn’t parlay that into something useful.
“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, and kept walking, hands in pockets and hair falling into his face. As usual. “I wanted to help people, I guess.”
“Well isn’t that noble,” he caught up with him easily. Longer strides, for one, and Peter’s oddly aimless gait when he didn’t have someone to follow. “Original, too. Petrelli the Younger, out to save the world. Hospice nurse, though, so it’d be savin’ the world for the dyin’, wouldn’t it? Or maybe from them…help them along a bit, yeah?”
“What do you care?” Peter grumbled at him, “Seriously. It’s not like it has anything to do with training me, does it? Are you just out of things to insult me about?”
“Never,” he let himself grin, even if Peter wasn’t going to see it.
He did, and scowled extra pitifully. “Why do you care about my job?”
“Just curious.”
“Curious?” Peter stopped in the middle of the street, winced as a woman’s enormous handbag almost walloped him in the face, and glared up at him as if his inability to see an avoid large objects approaching at high speed were inherently his fault, and slipped into a nearby doorway. “You ask me a question and make fun of the answer because you’re curious?”
“If it’d been a real answer maybe I wouldn’t have,” Claude shrugged, following.
“It was a real-“
“It was a shite, answer, Pete. Wide-eyed and simplistic. Not entirely unlike you, come to think of it, so I suppose it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise.”
“Yeah, well,” Peter frowned, an unusually combative look in his eye. “Sorry it didn’t meet your standards for career choices.”
“It’s not the reason I’ve a problem with, Peter, if it’d been the real one.”
“What are you talking about-“
“You wanted to help people? Coulda become a doctor, you had the resources behind you. Coulda been like that brother of yours,” he stopped to smirk up at the ubiquitous posters. “Makin’ the world better, one chased skirt at a time.”
“He’s not like that,” Peter almost growled, defensiveness born, Claude had to figure, of knowledge to the contrary.
“’Course, none of that’d sit too well with Saint Peter, would it? Get his nobility all in a twist, I’d bet. Make that honorable little heart of his weep.”
“What, me trying to be a good person is somehow personally insulting to you now?” the boy crossed his arms in front of him, eyes narrowed and scowl practically permanent. “Does it screw with your ‘people suck,’ view of the world a little too much for comfort?”
The boy probably thought he was being clever with that, darkened eyes sparking with the most calculated malice he was probably capable of, and Claude should’ve laughed at that, but should haves tended to get lost around the black hole of optimism and earnestness that was Peter Petrelli.
“You’d have to do a hell of a lot more than try to be any kind of threat to my world view, Peter.”
“Then why do you care?” he didn’t all out shout, didn’t seem all out angry so much as wounded and confused and the expression in those rich brown eyes of his made Claude think of nothing so much as a kicked puppy.
“You keep tryin’ to be a bloody martyr, Pete, and you’ll end up dead, with the only real question being who you’re going to take with you when you go,” he sighed, fighting off the automatic threads of guilt always drawn out by the boy’s soulful looks. “Could be just you, could be your brother, your people, the whole city. Could be me, and then you’d be lost altogether, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, not like you’d really care that much, otherwise,” Peter huffed, his ferocity somewhat tempered when a strand of hair fell over his eye and he went to tuck it back automatically. “God. You just never shut up, do you?”
“D’you want me to?” and he’d stepped closer without realizing, and he couldn’t be sure, really, if it’d been during the shouting or during the sighing, but he had.
Peter just rolled his eyes, the absolute pinnacle of teenaged petulance, and Claude laughed down at him.
“Well, do you?”
“Like it matters if I-“
“You could stop me any time you’d like, pup.”
“Oh,” Peter gave a small, almost bitter laugh, as a depressingly rare glimmer of understanding flickered in his eyes. “I get it. You’re baiting me. Because…actual physical abuse isn’t enough anymore?”
“Consider it extra credit, poodle,” he smirked, or tried to.
Because Peter was giving him an unusually appraising look, and then he wasn’t, on account of having grabbed Claude’s face in his hands and pulled him down into a surprisingly rough kiss.
Surprising, because while it wasn’t as though he’d pictured kissing the boy before, he’d always figured Peter for the soft-hearted romantic type, and the firm, unrelenting fingers digging into his cheeks and holding him in place as he tried to move away, after the initial shock wore off, were anything but sensitive and tender.
His refusal to be moved, even as Claude pressed his hands to the young man’s shoulders and pushed, spoke to a kind of determination he’d rather have encountered elsewhere, one that wasn’t about to do either of them any good at the moment, one that would cause more problems than it solved, like this.
And even when he pulled back, barely, it was with those suddenly steady, suddenly sure hands still on Claude’s cheeks, those already swollen, always impetuous lips barely separate from his own.
“You could stop me whenever you wanted,” he felt the words more than he heard them, brushing against his lips, and heard the smirk more than he saw it, as Peter pulled him back.
And he could have, of course.
Could’ve forced him back, harder, instead of letting his hands slide around Peter’s neck and tilt his head back, rough fingers tangling in smooth hair.
Could’ve bitten down on that crooked lower lip or that overly eager tongue, instead of opening his mouth to the assault and letting that tense, almost anxious body curve closer to his.
Could’ve pulled away as Peter’s arms slipped around his neck and his kisses softened, to the light, lingering presses that he’d have expected to begin with, until they stopped altogether, instead of letting the young man press his forehead against his, eyes shut and breaths shallow.
Should have, really, done anything he could to keep Peter from looking at him the way he was at that moment, dark eyes shinning and small smile barely formed, but should-haves tended to get lost around the black hole of optimism and earnestness that was Peter Petrelli.
“Don’t even,” he murmured instead, all-too aware of the smirk that was trying, unsuccessfully, to sneak onto Peter’s lips. “Think of sayin’ something clever about how unexpected that was.”
“Okay,” the young man grinned back up at him, before dropping his head to Claude’s shoulder and leaning against him as if exhausted.
“Right, then,” he was left to say, as Peter breathed against his neck and seemed, for all intents and purposes, fully content to rest against him in the middle of a doorway for as long as he’d let him.
“Didn’t see it coming though, did you?”
And Peter just laughed at the quick, automatic smack to the back of the head that earned him.
Title: Slowing Down
Pairing/character: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG13! Because there's now...actual slash!
Summary: First season, pre-slash, run of the mill conversation in an alley. OR IS IT?!? Yes, it might be something actually beyond talking! Rejoice!
Disclaimer:: As per usual, no, not mine at all.
A/N: Do not, under any circumstances, encourage me to make this a trilogy sort of thing. Please. Don't. My weak little mind could not refuse, and then where would we be?
“Why’d you do it, mate?”
A bit of a non-sequitur, but it always did to keep the boy on his toes.
“Do what?” Peter seemed to stifle a yawn, but then squared his shoulders and eyed him warily.
Didn’t want to seem tired, then. He had to give the boy credit, he’d have had him running laps round the rooftop (flying them, if he’d been feeling ambitious) if he’d so much as suggested taking a break.
“Leave the family business. Go into nursing,” the tone earned him a flicker of wounded puppy pride, but he had to admit, Peter recovered quickly.
The boy was getting better at reading him, at least. Shame he couldn’t parlay that into something useful.
“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, and kept walking, hands in pockets and hair falling into his face. As usual. “I wanted to help people, I guess.”
“Well isn’t that noble,” he caught up with him easily. Longer strides, for one, and Peter’s oddly aimless gait when he didn’t have someone to follow. “Original, too. Petrelli the Younger, out to save the world. Hospice nurse, though, so it’d be savin’ the world for the dyin’, wouldn’t it? Or maybe from them…help them along a bit, yeah?”
“What do you care?” Peter grumbled at him, “Seriously. It’s not like it has anything to do with training me, does it? Are you just out of things to insult me about?”
“Never,” he let himself grin, even if Peter wasn’t going to see it.
He did, and scowled extra pitifully. “Why do you care about my job?”
“Just curious.”
“Curious?” Peter stopped in the middle of the street, winced as a woman’s enormous handbag almost walloped him in the face, and glared up at him as if his inability to see an avoid large objects approaching at high speed were inherently his fault, and slipped into a nearby doorway. “You ask me a question and make fun of the answer because you’re curious?”
“If it’d been a real answer maybe I wouldn’t have,” Claude shrugged, following.
“It was a real-“
“It was a shite, answer, Pete. Wide-eyed and simplistic. Not entirely unlike you, come to think of it, so I suppose it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise.”
“Yeah, well,” Peter frowned, an unusually combative look in his eye. “Sorry it didn’t meet your standards for career choices.”
“It’s not the reason I’ve a problem with, Peter, if it’d been the real one.”
“What are you talking about-“
“You wanted to help people? Coulda become a doctor, you had the resources behind you. Coulda been like that brother of yours,” he stopped to smirk up at the ubiquitous posters. “Makin’ the world better, one chased skirt at a time.”
“He’s not like that,” Peter almost growled, defensiveness born, Claude had to figure, of knowledge to the contrary.
“’Course, none of that’d sit too well with Saint Peter, would it? Get his nobility all in a twist, I’d bet. Make that honorable little heart of his weep.”
“What, me trying to be a good person is somehow personally insulting to you now?” the boy crossed his arms in front of him, eyes narrowed and scowl practically permanent. “Does it screw with your ‘people suck,’ view of the world a little too much for comfort?”
The boy probably thought he was being clever with that, darkened eyes sparking with the most calculated malice he was probably capable of, and Claude should’ve laughed at that, but should haves tended to get lost around the black hole of optimism and earnestness that was Peter Petrelli.
“You’d have to do a hell of a lot more than try to be any kind of threat to my world view, Peter.”
“Then why do you care?” he didn’t all out shout, didn’t seem all out angry so much as wounded and confused and the expression in those rich brown eyes of his made Claude think of nothing so much as a kicked puppy.
“You keep tryin’ to be a bloody martyr, Pete, and you’ll end up dead, with the only real question being who you’re going to take with you when you go,” he sighed, fighting off the automatic threads of guilt always drawn out by the boy’s soulful looks. “Could be just you, could be your brother, your people, the whole city. Could be me, and then you’d be lost altogether, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, not like you’d really care that much, otherwise,” Peter huffed, his ferocity somewhat tempered when a strand of hair fell over his eye and he went to tuck it back automatically. “God. You just never shut up, do you?”
“D’you want me to?” and he’d stepped closer without realizing, and he couldn’t be sure, really, if it’d been during the shouting or during the sighing, but he had.
Peter just rolled his eyes, the absolute pinnacle of teenaged petulance, and Claude laughed down at him.
“Well, do you?”
“Like it matters if I-“
“You could stop me any time you’d like, pup.”
“Oh,” Peter gave a small, almost bitter laugh, as a depressingly rare glimmer of understanding flickered in his eyes. “I get it. You’re baiting me. Because…actual physical abuse isn’t enough anymore?”
“Consider it extra credit, poodle,” he smirked, or tried to.
Because Peter was giving him an unusually appraising look, and then he wasn’t, on account of having grabbed Claude’s face in his hands and pulled him down into a surprisingly rough kiss.
Surprising, because while it wasn’t as though he’d pictured kissing the boy before, he’d always figured Peter for the soft-hearted romantic type, and the firm, unrelenting fingers digging into his cheeks and holding him in place as he tried to move away, after the initial shock wore off, were anything but sensitive and tender.
His refusal to be moved, even as Claude pressed his hands to the young man’s shoulders and pushed, spoke to a kind of determination he’d rather have encountered elsewhere, one that wasn’t about to do either of them any good at the moment, one that would cause more problems than it solved, like this.
And even when he pulled back, barely, it was with those suddenly steady, suddenly sure hands still on Claude’s cheeks, those already swollen, always impetuous lips barely separate from his own.
“You could stop me whenever you wanted,” he felt the words more than he heard them, brushing against his lips, and heard the smirk more than he saw it, as Peter pulled him back.
And he could have, of course.
Could’ve forced him back, harder, instead of letting his hands slide around Peter’s neck and tilt his head back, rough fingers tangling in smooth hair.
Could’ve bitten down on that crooked lower lip or that overly eager tongue, instead of opening his mouth to the assault and letting that tense, almost anxious body curve closer to his.
Could’ve pulled away as Peter’s arms slipped around his neck and his kisses softened, to the light, lingering presses that he’d have expected to begin with, until they stopped altogether, instead of letting the young man press his forehead against his, eyes shut and breaths shallow.
Should have, really, done anything he could to keep Peter from looking at him the way he was at that moment, dark eyes shinning and small smile barely formed, but should-haves tended to get lost around the black hole of optimism and earnestness that was Peter Petrelli.
“Don’t even,” he murmured instead, all-too aware of the smirk that was trying, unsuccessfully, to sneak onto Peter’s lips. “Think of sayin’ something clever about how unexpected that was.”
“Okay,” the young man grinned back up at him, before dropping his head to Claude’s shoulder and leaning against him as if exhausted.
“Right, then,” he was left to say, as Peter breathed against his neck and seemed, for all intents and purposes, fully content to rest against him in the middle of a doorway for as long as he’d let him.
“Didn’t see it coming though, did you?”
And Peter just laughed at the quick, automatic smack to the back of the head that earned him.