September sunny as spring for saena17
For: saena17
By: Anonymous
Title: September sunny as spring
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 2126
Spoilers: None at all
Warnings: Distinct lack of smut or anything else worth warning about. I’m quite disappointed with myself.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
Prompt: Peter and Claude getting caught out in the rain/ a thunderstorm. Or a power outage. Or both. :)
The clouds were there when he woke up.
Grey and heavy, as only clouds could be; full and ominous and dark, covering the sky like a thick wool coat, but still floating higher than he’d be willing to fly. A certain kind of beautiful, if you were in the position to enjoy them.
Which he wasn’t, not really.
He had more than enough to concentrate on as it was, he had more than enough trouble keeping his focus as it was.
Or so he told himself, and kept looking up anyway.
Waiting for the inevitable. Squinting up for the hints of sunlight that might mean it would clear up. Hoping that at least the afternoon would go by without him getting soaked. Getting smacked back to the present, mostly literally, by Claude, who seemed to find it hilarious that he wasn’t thrilled at the possibility of getting rained on.
“Gonna to bloody melt, are you?”
At which point Peter shrugged, glared, and tried to pay attention again.
Successfully enough that when it finally did start raining, he missed the warning sprinkles and went from mostly dry to entirely drenched in about three seconds.
Which he didn’t have time to even process, because he was ducking reflexively and getting his ribs bruised, if not broken, anyway.
“Come on,” he wheezed, backing up, hopefully far enough for the time being. Had to keep moving because Claude did. “It’s pouring!”
Hard enough that he could barely see Claude’s expression, but was pretty sure he could deduce it anyway.
“Oh, is it?” the man said, almost had to shout over the sound of raindrops scattering across concrete, and Peter would have rolled his eyes if they hadn’t been blinking shut reflexively.
“Seriously!” he shouted back, realizing that he was at the edge of the roof and Claude was getting closer. “I think! We can! Take a!” And Claude was an awful lot closer, which was in a way was good, because at that range there was not as much damage he could do, but in another...Peter could almost hear the rush of water falling to the street behind him. He was entirely sure he didn’t want to follow it, healing power or no. “…break!”
Claude gave him a look he could practically, no, actually, feel; one that reminded him that he didn’t stop being a potential weapon of mass destruction just because he was soaking wet and pretty damn close to miserable. Reminded him that he’s spent most of the past few weeks pretty damn close to miserable and that had not exactly been a sign of his great progress.
Which was a good point, one that Claude hadn’t made and hadn’t seen fit to punctuate with another well-aimed blow to his ribs or diaphragm, so he really should have just counted this as his break of the day and been grateful.
He squared his shoulders, took a breath that almost had him feeling like he was sucking in more water than air, and stalked past Claude. Bumping against his shoulder as he went, away from the edge of the roof and back towards the pigeon coop.
And he almost didn’t hear it: a rough laugh, the whir of that pole (and one of these days, he swore, he would find out where Claude got the damn things in the first place), a murmur of, “That’s the spirit,” that seemed more genuinely amused than it did sarcastic.
All over within the second, and then there was the familiar crack of wood against bone and a moment of darkness before the healing kicked in.
He didn’t even stumble as he turned around.
* * *
When he was little, he’d hated getting caught in the rain.
It always meant coming home soaked, getting muddy water all over the carpets and the floors, having to explain to his mother that he hadn’t meant to forget his umbrella, he just had, again.
And now that he was only marginally better at remembering his umbrella, he still hated it; puddles to jump over, smells of wet and drying people in the subways, splashes from cars going much too fast. Sure, getting home and watching it pour outside could be kind of nice, but thinking about the people who couldn’t while you did ruined even that, so on the whole, he didn’t enjoy it.
But at the moment, his appreciation was on the rise.
Sure, he was wet, and a little cold every time he stopped moving long enough to let himself feel it, and his clothes were sticking against him more than they usually did just from his own sweat, but there was something almost soothing in the steady drum of raindrops against the aluminum roof of the pigeon coop. Something almost numbing in the sting of droplets against his shoulders.
And, not least of all, something perversely thrilling about the fact that Claude’s coat, when soaked through, as it must be, didn’t allow the man nearly as much range of movement as it normally did when it whirled around him like the dark wings of an avenging angel.
So at that moment, even when getting a beat-down from Mother Nature herself, along with the normal one administered by Claude Rains himself, Peter found himself grinning a little, because overall he was having much less trouble moving than Claude was.
At least until Claude realized that.
“Hold this,” he growled, thrusting the stick at him. Smacking him under the chin with it, actually, but this time it didn’t seem to have been intentional.
And suddenly, Peter had it in his hands, the instrument of torture that’d been dogging him for the past couple of days. The heft of it shouldn’t have been surprising, but it was; it was because Claude whipped it around like it was nothing. It was also slick with water at the moment, making Claude’s current dexterity with it even more impressive.
Peter wondered for a moment just when his life took the turn that made him capable of admiring the technical prowess of the man who’d gleefully spent the past few days breaking just about every bone in his body, and kept wondering until Claude pulled it from his hands.
Then he had something else to wonder about.
Namely, Claude, soaking wet, hair flat against his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, water dripping off the end of his nose. Beard looking all-out soggy, a slight pudge to his torso, and he was so suddenly human that Peter had to stare a little.
“What?”
“Nothing, just…” Peter shrugged. “Never seen you without the…coat on. I guess.”
Claude gave him an almost suspicious look, and Peter let his eyes drop to the ground.
* * *
It wasn’t long after that that the rain got worse. Fat, heavy droplets giving way to what felt like icy needles, and then the thunder started, and even Claude had to admit that it was probably not a great idea to hang out on top of a building in the midst of a major storm.
So they waited in the greenhouse. For a while, anyway, enough time for Peter to look around, and it was worse than it had been the last time he’d been up here. Musty, a couple of empty pots already covered in dust, nothing alive that he could see. Maybe some spiders, given the cobwebs, but who knows how old those were?
Charles hadn’t been much for gardening; he’d never come out and said so, but Peter had been pretty sure the greenhouse had come with the building, and been stocked haphazardly by other occupants in subsequent years. Or maybe his wife had kept it up, and he hadn’t been quite willing to let it go entirely after she died. He couldn’t quite picture Simone being all that interested, but then again, apparently he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought.
He shook his head at that. Thought Claude might appreciate his thought process, seeing as he’d inspired it, and turned to look at him.
Saw him staring out at the rooftop like he was trying to recognize it, trying remember something, and the words died before they even made it to the back of Peter’s throat.
“Must’ve been nice,” he found himself saying instead, and Claude glanced back at him as if he’d forgotten Peter was there. He cleared his throat. “In here. I don’t how long you’ve been…coming here, with the birds, but it was probably pretty nice at some point. With, uh, the flowers, and everything, you-“
Claude looked away from him, at the floor, but chuckled and Peter stopped talking.
“Wasn’t bad,” the man said finally, and Peter was immediately curious.
So you have been coming here for a while he almost said, but something in what he could see of Claude’s expression kept him from saying it, or, really, anything at all.
After a few more seconds spent staring through the glass walls of the greenhouse, Peter figured it might be time to head home. Not that he really wanted to say that, because the minute he did Claude would sneer about his lack of commitment, but there really didn’t seem to be much of a point of just standing there.
So he swallowed, rested a hand on Claude’s arm, was about to mention that it was probably not going to clear up before it would be too dark to train anyway, but once he’d touched Claude Peter’s thoughts derailed again.
To the fact that while he’d come in contact with the man before, been pressed up against things by him, punched and dragged and tormented plenty, this was different.
This was being able feel the strength of the muscles underneath, the way they flexed as Claude winced, cringed, out of his grasp, and the hints of warmth underneath that didn’t go away just because he had.
“What-”
“We’re done for the day.” Claude said, simply, and faded before Peter could say anything.
* * *
They were done for the day and they weren’t; Peter watched Claude disappear and wondered if he should wait till the rain slowed down to make the trip back home, wondered were Claude was going. Wondered if he had anywhere to go to at all.
Anywhere warm enough, dry enough, anywhere that would guarantee that he’d be able to shout and belittle and show up there for many days to come, because Peter suddenly found the possibility that he didn’t, that he wouldn’t, viscerally terrifying.
It’d be better not to have to wonder, he figured. Better to find him, drag him back, if he had to, keep him safe and another thing Peter would rather not wonder about was why it suddenly seemed to matter so much.
Darted into the apartment instead, ready to try and find him again, like he had before, and succeeded in finding him a lot more quickly than he expected.
He didn’t bump into him, but it was a close thing, and he reached out to steady himself before he remembered it might not be a good idea. Dropped his hands to his sides instead.
“Well?” Claude said, eyebrows up.
“Were you waiting for me?” he couldn’t help be a little incredulous, at the fact that Claude probably was, or at the fact that realizing that gave him a little flush of heat under his wet clothes.
“Didn’t figure you’d appreciate me breakin’ in.”
“In to…in to my apartment?”
Claude gave him a look like he still couldn’t believe how slow on the uptake he was, but Peter didn’t really care. Because while he knew he should probably be a little surprised that Claude, who most of the time didn’t even seem to like him very much, was now all of the sudden inviting himself over, he thought that might just be Claude.
The one who was also willing to steal his beer and take time from whatever his life was to keep him from killing thousands of people, instead of just killing him outright, which, as he kept reminding Peter, would be the much easier option for both of them.
That was just Claude.
Claude, who wouldn’t take the easy way out, who was entirely unpredictable in some ways and completely steadfast in others.
And Peter realized, he’d kind of come to appreciate that. Wasn’t looking forward to losing it any time soon, and maybe wanted to keep it around a little longer, even past lessons and powers and saving the world.
Not something he could tell the man, really, but...but he could smile. Not ask questions. Take him home, and look forward to the day when he could.
That would have to be enough for now, and, for now, it was.
By: Anonymous
Title: September sunny as spring
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 2126
Spoilers: None at all
Warnings: Distinct lack of smut or anything else worth warning about. I’m quite disappointed with myself.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
Prompt: Peter and Claude getting caught out in the rain/ a thunderstorm. Or a power outage. Or both. :)
The clouds were there when he woke up.
Grey and heavy, as only clouds could be; full and ominous and dark, covering the sky like a thick wool coat, but still floating higher than he’d be willing to fly. A certain kind of beautiful, if you were in the position to enjoy them.
Which he wasn’t, not really.
He had more than enough to concentrate on as it was, he had more than enough trouble keeping his focus as it was.
Or so he told himself, and kept looking up anyway.
Waiting for the inevitable. Squinting up for the hints of sunlight that might mean it would clear up. Hoping that at least the afternoon would go by without him getting soaked. Getting smacked back to the present, mostly literally, by Claude, who seemed to find it hilarious that he wasn’t thrilled at the possibility of getting rained on.
“Gonna to bloody melt, are you?”
At which point Peter shrugged, glared, and tried to pay attention again.
Successfully enough that when it finally did start raining, he missed the warning sprinkles and went from mostly dry to entirely drenched in about three seconds.
Which he didn’t have time to even process, because he was ducking reflexively and getting his ribs bruised, if not broken, anyway.
“Come on,” he wheezed, backing up, hopefully far enough for the time being. Had to keep moving because Claude did. “It’s pouring!”
Hard enough that he could barely see Claude’s expression, but was pretty sure he could deduce it anyway.
“Oh, is it?” the man said, almost had to shout over the sound of raindrops scattering across concrete, and Peter would have rolled his eyes if they hadn’t been blinking shut reflexively.
“Seriously!” he shouted back, realizing that he was at the edge of the roof and Claude was getting closer. “I think! We can! Take a!” And Claude was an awful lot closer, which was in a way was good, because at that range there was not as much damage he could do, but in another...Peter could almost hear the rush of water falling to the street behind him. He was entirely sure he didn’t want to follow it, healing power or no. “…break!”
Claude gave him a look he could practically, no, actually, feel; one that reminded him that he didn’t stop being a potential weapon of mass destruction just because he was soaking wet and pretty damn close to miserable. Reminded him that he’s spent most of the past few weeks pretty damn close to miserable and that had not exactly been a sign of his great progress.
Which was a good point, one that Claude hadn’t made and hadn’t seen fit to punctuate with another well-aimed blow to his ribs or diaphragm, so he really should have just counted this as his break of the day and been grateful.
He squared his shoulders, took a breath that almost had him feeling like he was sucking in more water than air, and stalked past Claude. Bumping against his shoulder as he went, away from the edge of the roof and back towards the pigeon coop.
And he almost didn’t hear it: a rough laugh, the whir of that pole (and one of these days, he swore, he would find out where Claude got the damn things in the first place), a murmur of, “That’s the spirit,” that seemed more genuinely amused than it did sarcastic.
All over within the second, and then there was the familiar crack of wood against bone and a moment of darkness before the healing kicked in.
He didn’t even stumble as he turned around.
* * *
When he was little, he’d hated getting caught in the rain.
It always meant coming home soaked, getting muddy water all over the carpets and the floors, having to explain to his mother that he hadn’t meant to forget his umbrella, he just had, again.
And now that he was only marginally better at remembering his umbrella, he still hated it; puddles to jump over, smells of wet and drying people in the subways, splashes from cars going much too fast. Sure, getting home and watching it pour outside could be kind of nice, but thinking about the people who couldn’t while you did ruined even that, so on the whole, he didn’t enjoy it.
But at the moment, his appreciation was on the rise.
Sure, he was wet, and a little cold every time he stopped moving long enough to let himself feel it, and his clothes were sticking against him more than they usually did just from his own sweat, but there was something almost soothing in the steady drum of raindrops against the aluminum roof of the pigeon coop. Something almost numbing in the sting of droplets against his shoulders.
And, not least of all, something perversely thrilling about the fact that Claude’s coat, when soaked through, as it must be, didn’t allow the man nearly as much range of movement as it normally did when it whirled around him like the dark wings of an avenging angel.
So at that moment, even when getting a beat-down from Mother Nature herself, along with the normal one administered by Claude Rains himself, Peter found himself grinning a little, because overall he was having much less trouble moving than Claude was.
At least until Claude realized that.
“Hold this,” he growled, thrusting the stick at him. Smacking him under the chin with it, actually, but this time it didn’t seem to have been intentional.
And suddenly, Peter had it in his hands, the instrument of torture that’d been dogging him for the past couple of days. The heft of it shouldn’t have been surprising, but it was; it was because Claude whipped it around like it was nothing. It was also slick with water at the moment, making Claude’s current dexterity with it even more impressive.
Peter wondered for a moment just when his life took the turn that made him capable of admiring the technical prowess of the man who’d gleefully spent the past few days breaking just about every bone in his body, and kept wondering until Claude pulled it from his hands.
Then he had something else to wonder about.
Namely, Claude, soaking wet, hair flat against his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, water dripping off the end of his nose. Beard looking all-out soggy, a slight pudge to his torso, and he was so suddenly human that Peter had to stare a little.
“What?”
“Nothing, just…” Peter shrugged. “Never seen you without the…coat on. I guess.”
Claude gave him an almost suspicious look, and Peter let his eyes drop to the ground.
* * *
It wasn’t long after that that the rain got worse. Fat, heavy droplets giving way to what felt like icy needles, and then the thunder started, and even Claude had to admit that it was probably not a great idea to hang out on top of a building in the midst of a major storm.
So they waited in the greenhouse. For a while, anyway, enough time for Peter to look around, and it was worse than it had been the last time he’d been up here. Musty, a couple of empty pots already covered in dust, nothing alive that he could see. Maybe some spiders, given the cobwebs, but who knows how old those were?
Charles hadn’t been much for gardening; he’d never come out and said so, but Peter had been pretty sure the greenhouse had come with the building, and been stocked haphazardly by other occupants in subsequent years. Or maybe his wife had kept it up, and he hadn’t been quite willing to let it go entirely after she died. He couldn’t quite picture Simone being all that interested, but then again, apparently he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought.
He shook his head at that. Thought Claude might appreciate his thought process, seeing as he’d inspired it, and turned to look at him.
Saw him staring out at the rooftop like he was trying to recognize it, trying remember something, and the words died before they even made it to the back of Peter’s throat.
“Must’ve been nice,” he found himself saying instead, and Claude glanced back at him as if he’d forgotten Peter was there. He cleared his throat. “In here. I don’t how long you’ve been…coming here, with the birds, but it was probably pretty nice at some point. With, uh, the flowers, and everything, you-“
Claude looked away from him, at the floor, but chuckled and Peter stopped talking.
“Wasn’t bad,” the man said finally, and Peter was immediately curious.
So you have been coming here for a while he almost said, but something in what he could see of Claude’s expression kept him from saying it, or, really, anything at all.
After a few more seconds spent staring through the glass walls of the greenhouse, Peter figured it might be time to head home. Not that he really wanted to say that, because the minute he did Claude would sneer about his lack of commitment, but there really didn’t seem to be much of a point of just standing there.
So he swallowed, rested a hand on Claude’s arm, was about to mention that it was probably not going to clear up before it would be too dark to train anyway, but once he’d touched Claude Peter’s thoughts derailed again.
To the fact that while he’d come in contact with the man before, been pressed up against things by him, punched and dragged and tormented plenty, this was different.
This was being able feel the strength of the muscles underneath, the way they flexed as Claude winced, cringed, out of his grasp, and the hints of warmth underneath that didn’t go away just because he had.
“What-”
“We’re done for the day.” Claude said, simply, and faded before Peter could say anything.
* * *
They were done for the day and they weren’t; Peter watched Claude disappear and wondered if he should wait till the rain slowed down to make the trip back home, wondered were Claude was going. Wondered if he had anywhere to go to at all.
Anywhere warm enough, dry enough, anywhere that would guarantee that he’d be able to shout and belittle and show up there for many days to come, because Peter suddenly found the possibility that he didn’t, that he wouldn’t, viscerally terrifying.
It’d be better not to have to wonder, he figured. Better to find him, drag him back, if he had to, keep him safe and another thing Peter would rather not wonder about was why it suddenly seemed to matter so much.
Darted into the apartment instead, ready to try and find him again, like he had before, and succeeded in finding him a lot more quickly than he expected.
He didn’t bump into him, but it was a close thing, and he reached out to steady himself before he remembered it might not be a good idea. Dropped his hands to his sides instead.
“Well?” Claude said, eyebrows up.
“Were you waiting for me?” he couldn’t help be a little incredulous, at the fact that Claude probably was, or at the fact that realizing that gave him a little flush of heat under his wet clothes.
“Didn’t figure you’d appreciate me breakin’ in.”
“In to…in to my apartment?”
Claude gave him a look like he still couldn’t believe how slow on the uptake he was, but Peter didn’t really care. Because while he knew he should probably be a little surprised that Claude, who most of the time didn’t even seem to like him very much, was now all of the sudden inviting himself over, he thought that might just be Claude.
The one who was also willing to steal his beer and take time from whatever his life was to keep him from killing thousands of people, instead of just killing him outright, which, as he kept reminding Peter, would be the much easier option for both of them.
That was just Claude.
Claude, who wouldn’t take the easy way out, who was entirely unpredictable in some ways and completely steadfast in others.
And Peter realized, he’d kind of come to appreciate that. Wasn’t looking forward to losing it any time soon, and maybe wanted to keep it around a little longer, even past lessons and powers and saving the world.
Not something he could tell the man, really, but...but he could smile. Not ask questions. Take him home, and look forward to the day when he could.
That would have to be enough for now, and, for now, it was.