The Lions Come Crawling From Stone
Title: The Lions Come Crawling From Stone
Rating: PG
Pairings: Eventual Peter/Claude and Peter/Elle.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: None.
This was originally supposed to be part of my Big Boom submission but... I found it wasn't quite right for that. I decided instead just to post it here. Extreme alternate universe awaits.
Prologue
It's raining.
It's a Tuesday morning and it's raining. The sun forgot to wake, its gray-horizon mind still dreaming; exhausted from the coy grins of a moon, the turn of harvest hips. They charmed all night and then vanished, leaving only empty promises. A star collapsed from the disappointment. Its heart was broken.
And light spills into the room, lazy as a yawn. It mumbles greetings to the fables smeared across the walls; a babble of color and dizzy roses. They're softer now, cast to shadow and early hours--each lamented by a clock. It tries to chase the seconds, tries to cradle them close. Possess. It never can. And it sings an unhappy terce.
Why? Why? Why?
It’s ignored.
Because a boy is playing king beneath it, his knights all circled close; their black-button eyes keeping secrets. Brave bears, all, and beloved: they were gifts from his brother, hidden beneath jacket folds and cautious hands. They were not supposed to be given. They were named indulgences. But they could not be resisted, and now they are his.
Peter is glad.
"What're we gonna do about this?" he asks, voice an attempted timber. It fails. He's six and too young still to mimic authority. But he tries, fingers wagging impatiently, brow trying to raise in a singular intimidation. It can't. The other is too lonely and has to follow. He thinks his bears won't mind. "How are we going to fix this problem?"
Because there's always a problem. His father said so and it therefore must be true. One plus one equals two and Daddy is never wrong.
“When will these fools learn that it’s never going to work? They're not getting rid of me that easy. Falling on their own swords as if the public would care.” Arthur Petrelli is scowling at the paper. He seems to think it wicked.
Peter is certain that it is. The words are always too big and they mock him.
“Well it doesn't matter. I’ll show them. I’ll rip their tongues out and shove them up their--”
“Little ears, dear,” his mother interjects, peering over her cup. It's tiny and white, nothing like the one Peter made for her a month before; a giant glass painted pink, summer scribbled along the curves. He was proud of it and so was she. But she says it's too special to waste on such a tedious thing as breakfast.
He agrees.
“The boy’s not even listening, Angela.”
He is, but he’s very good at hiding. He can keep his smiles tucked inside. No one ever sees them. No one ever knows.
“Still-- I think there are far better things to discuss. Don’t you?”
Arthur grumbles and returns to his pages.
No one talks after that.
"So what are we going to do?" he repeats. "To take care it?" He holds up a battered toy, an army doll with crayon stained uniform and missing arm. "He's causing trouble for us." Because Daddy is always complaining of that. Peter isn't sure what it means but knows it must be important. He sits the doll in the center of the circle and frowns. "Any suggestions?"
His bears are curiously silent.
He huffs. "You're not playing right."
They stare, solemn.
"C'mon," he whines. "Play."
But they have no answer to give him and he blinks, realizes suddenly that they can't. The game isn't known; the rules haven't been explained. He never learned them and couldn't share.
"Oh," he murmurs. "Okay."
He then wobbles up, reaches for his favorite bear (because he does have a favorite, even as he'll never admit it. He doesn't want to hurt the others, brand them inferior). Velveteen fur and a stitched mouth are cradled against him. "'S time to go, Nay," he says. "'S'plorin'." He's dragging his letters again. His mother would be furious.
Oops.
"Ex...ploring," he then stresses.
Nay seems to understand. And a paw flops most accommodating and points toward the door.
Peter nods and pads forward, grasping at the handle. The brass is slick against his fingers. There's jam left still from the morning. He's saving it for later. And he then shuffles out, is met by first floor splendor. He's alone in his little corner; the rest of the house sprawling elegantly beyond him, pixie prisms from chandeliers and stone lions. He named them Rufus and Roger. They guard the banisters. They used to his friends; he stole bread from the kitchen for them and stuffed it between their teeth, dabbled honey on their noses for surprise. He thought they liked it. But now they won't let him pass, keep him captured here, separated. He once played on the higher levels, giggled greetings to his parents. But little legs couldn't master wide stairs, and he was moved. He wishes he hadn't been. He misses his family.
He finds a threshold then, its insides all closed tight. The library is beyond, filled to books and tobacco flavors, conspiracies. He wants it. But he remembers his manners, knocks, waits. He hears nothing. No grumbles or griefs. It must be safe. And he grins, hurries in, shuts the door behind him. It's a massive room, drenched in mahogany and marble, antebellum words. A desk looms in the back. Peter scurries toward it, climbing into a chair. He feels... good.
Because he’s like his father now and that’s what he’s meant to be.
“You’re very important, you know.”
Mr. Linderman smells of peppermint. He holds Peter’s hand while they walk through the garden, carnations blooming in their wake; the flush of red against winter. It’s beautiful.
“I am?”
“Oh yes, my boy. Oh yes. You’re going to be... extraordinary.”
His brow furrows, exaggerated. “What’s that?”
The look is patient, a welcome of questions and their persistence. And he's a child's favorite because of it. Mr. Linderman never yells or offends. He never snarls or snaps. He simply smiles and tells the truth. “It means-- Oh, what does it mean?” He breathes and a circle shivers out. Delicate. It slowly disappears. “It means that, when you grow up, you’re going to do great things. Important things.”
“Like Daddy?”
“Just like Daddy,” he says, crouching so they are then stare to stare. He does this often, offers gentle expressions and creaky knees. “And maybe even better.” The tone is a secret. “Everyone thinks your brother is the one that’s going to change the world. But, if I were a gambling man, I’d put my money on you. And I have a considerable amount of money.”
“Really?”
He taps Peter's nose. “Really, really." He reaches forward then, petting idle curls, soothing the tangles of snow. The gesture is fond and familiar. "You have a destiny, son. You just have to wait a bit for it to come true.”
And he will. His powers will come. One day. And then he’ll be loved. That’s what happens, he’s certain. Abilities bring affection. It’s why his father is so popular, all craving his glances, his time. They call him a villain and that must be very important. It’s always given quietly, as if a prayer. And prayers, he knows, are good. So Daddy is good.
“I’ll be just like him,” he whispers, hugging his bear. “And then he’ll be happy. We’ll rule the city. Momma said so. Take it away from all of those... people. Won’t that be fun?”
Nay doesn’t reply. He must be too giddy.
But he still warns of danger, head tilting toward the door; lolling with the sudden approach of footsteps. Peter gasps, sliding quickly to the floor. He crawls beneath the desk, curling himself inside. He’s not meant to be here. He’s not meant to play. And he tries to blur with the wood.
Nay stays helpfully quiet.
Thank you.
The door opens then, reveals shadows and linen. There’s a tiny crack along the edge of the desk and dark eyes peek out, can see his father stalking in; with Mr. Parkman trailing behind, wet-mouthed and worried. His belly sags inside his shirt and pushes at the buttons.
“I can explain,” he begins.
“And who says I want an explanation?”
Mr. Parkman flinches, wipes a dirty handkerchief across his face. The lace is stained old. He swallows, anxious.
Arthur merely sits, his legs stretching out. Italian leather rests precariously next to Peter. “I am not happy,” he drawls, voice a soft diplomacy. “Do you know why?”
“I--”
“I’d suggest you think very carefully before you speak.”
A cough, nervous. Nothing follows.
“You see, Maury, I’m not happy because you haven’t done what you're supposed to. I gave you one little assignment and that was somehow too much for you.”
“No, boss,” he rushes. “It wasn’t. I just-- I just--”
“You just what, Maury? Let me know so I can figure this all out.”
His father is so patient. Peter smiles.
“I didn’t-- I couldn’t get it done when you wanted, boss. I had to spend time with Matty. Lillian was bustin’ my balls and I couldn’t put her off again. We already have enough problems. She was talking about counseling and I-- Well I told Hank to take care of it. How was I to know he’d get caught?”
“You were to know because it’s your job to know.” And all patience turns brittle, thin. “You ignored a direct order to play with your... child?”
“It wasn’t-- My wife--”
“I don’t care about your wife,” he says, and there’s no fury. There’s only calm, calm, certainty. “I don’t care about your son. I don’t care about all your insignificant problems. Pay the bills. Make ends meet. Do this. Do that. It doesn’t matter to me.” He drags a finger across the desk and it makes a terrible sound. “All I care about is having people, my people, do as they’re told.”
“I’m sorry, boss.”
“Oh, don’t be.... I consider it my fault.” The sigh is long and labored. “I’ve been careless with you. I haven’t created the proper boundaries. You’ve had too much freedom and it was my mistake to assume you could handle it. I should’ve known better.”
“I--”
“You know what you are, Maury?” The question is strangely gleeful. “You’re like a pup that hasn’t been trained yet. You want to please but you get distracted. Sloppy.” He hums, considering. “You need to be broken first.”
And there’s a strangled noise, the wince of bones; a body is lifted and tossed, dismissed with the wave of a hand. Parkman is struggling against the wall, clutching at his throat. He can’t breathe. He can’t scream.
Arthur merely stands, strolls around the desk. He leans at the corner and shrugs. “You see, this is what happens when you disobey me. I have to teach you a lesson and I don’t like doing that, Maury. I really don't. Especially in my home. It’s unseemly.” A thumb flicks, crooked, and sends a man barreling across the room. He smacks against a mantle and wheezes out a shriek.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” continues Arthur. “This isn't what I planned. But it is what you forced me to do and I’m not one to shy away from my obligations.” His fingers curl and steal all air.
Parkman goes pale, eyes siphoning the blood and threatening to burst.
They receive no sympathy. “Next time I tell you to do something, you’d better do it. Because I didn’t win this war by having my soldiers fail me. And I didn’t get rid of all those ridiculous heroes because my men decided to forget what they were fighting for. Are we clear?”
There’s no answer but a sob, a shudder of skin.
“I need to hear it,” he presses. “Yes or no. I know you can manage that, Maury.”
And lips are granted a reprieve, are allowed to gasp reply.
“Ye-- Yes--” croaks Parkman. “Yes.”
“Good.”
And, with that, he’s released; left to drop He crashes like guilt and coils, afraid.
“Than-- Thank--”
“Gratitude isn’t becoming when you’re about to vomit, Maury. Shut up.”
He goes mute and shivering.
“Good dog,” comes the praise. “Now... let me make one thing clear: if you ever disobey me again, I’m not going to kill you. I'm not even going to hurt you. I’m going to instead take that precious son of yours apart. Piece by piece. And I’m going to make you watch.” He strides toward him, leaning down to grasp a chin, force a stare. “Family doesn’t come first in your world. I do. You better remember that.”
A nod, frantic. A choking promise.
Arthur just shoves him away. “Now get out before someone sees you.” He reaches then into his pocket, draws out a coin. He flips it onto the floor. “Here. Take your wife somewhere special tonight. On me.”
Parkman gathers the quarter and then staggers up, fumbling toward the door. He ducks out, stout legs waddling as fast as they can. Gone.
Arthur simply follows, calling out for servants and wine.
And Peter remains beneath the desk.
He doesn’t want to be a villain anymore.
.