The Lions Come Crawling From Stone: Part One

[c_quinn]

Title: The Lions Come Crawling From Stone (Part One)
Rating: PG
Pairings: One-sided Peter/Claude, one-sided Peter/Elle.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: None.



So... I posted the prologue to this a while back ( Here.) but then forgot to follow through. Oops. Here's the next chapter.

The city is a machine.

A slow-turning sentience.

Glass gears, stone pistons, the ratcheting of consequence. The streets are soaked to deliberation; crowds moving in tandem, without stumbles or profanities. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Again and again they march. No bursts of screams or accusations. No challenge of rules. It's perfection, carefully crafted; the pieces all maintained and slick.

Peter hates it.

The smiles and simpers. The sterile sweetness.

It surrounds him, forcing every breath to become a shallow thing; as if a too deep inhalation would be a tragedy, selfish. The world must be shared instead. Take nothing, give all.

He hates it.

And he shuffles through the sways, the long rows of strangers. They all stand straight and solemn. Walk on. Walk on. Never waver. He wonders what would happen if he did. If he stepped only just a little from the line. If he touched shoulder to shoulder.

He doesn't.

He mustn't.

He can't.

Instead he clings to his school-books, the histories written a mere decade before. It seems so long ago... It wasn't. And the words surrounding it teach him everything, and nothing. They've been sanitized for scholars, made weak through their recitations. Seventeen can earn no education, it seems. Just a mockery.

New York is not as it was, his books say. It has changed (for the better, for the best). Abilities are now embraced. Powers are now honored. It wasn't always so. The pages tell of times not so faraway, when humans were afraid, when gifts were hidden. But then-- Then the war came and a helix was renamed: necessary.

It was a clash of heroes and villains; though the titles are now reversed. The ones once kind are hated; the ones once vile are martyred.

Truth, he thinks, is a gather of society, not facts.

Because good intentions were not enough to win favor. Not then, not now, not ever. Heroes once swore to protect the city. They wanted to... help. But they ignored justice, defied the courts and broke buildings. They had no control. They had no subtlety. Simple crimes were answered with sizzles of power. Too much. Too much. The damage was more of a burden than the cause. It was all flash and flare, impractical.

And it summoned the villains.

They crawled into sight, encouraged by the public's dismay; feasting on their jealousy, their anger, their common questions of why, why, why. They offered greater numbers and greater understanding. They relished their powers, had learned them long before. Unlike the heroes who fretted too much over morality, the worry of life. They were useless because of it. They hesitated. They failed.

And the city was tired of them. Of virtue. It always lost.

The villains, however, didn't.

They unleashed war and won.

No one... cared.

And now the books sing of progress; bold words, bolder promises. Everything is right, they assure. Everything is safe.

Because the villains--now saviors branded--dominate. Every crime, every addiction, every reckless murder: gone. A Company was formed, their whims now law. No secrets, no deceptions. Evil was washed bright; and from this New York became... secure. Impossibly secure.

Because none dared to challenge them. And none dared to continue the game. All human fiends were swept away, and statistics became tiny things. Their numbers dropped and shattered. No theft. No heroin. No assassinations.

The villains thought such things too crude.

And none would risk disagreement.

They would've been butchered in Times Square if they had. Strung up. Sliced thin. Riveted to the neon. Death would've been slow and it would've painful. And there were no men willing to make themselves a sacrifice. Only a witness.

And now--

Now New York is the safest city in the world.

With its philosophy shared in Tokyo, Moscow and Las Vegas.

The Company has sprawled across the globe, spanning continents and watching everything.

The public is grateful.

Peter is not.

He never could be.

He never will.

He doesn't remember life before his family controlled the avenues, before they slandered every breath with their demands. They've always been careful tyrants; looming above stone, offering leers and declarations. It has always been so. For him. But he's memorized the past through other stories, texts that haven't been altered. So many have--the heart of history carved out and replaced to dull efficiency, the pieces flung away. They were thought uncouth.

He has them now, though, tucked beneath the bland margins of his school-books. They're waiting in his bag, where they pulse and sigh and sob. It's a perilous thing to keep them, to hoard the truth. He's afraid it will be heard.

And that....

Peter's terrified of that.

And so he ambles on, refusing to glance up, refusing to speak. It's an easy thing.

Because none dare to seek him.

He's known, nodded to, whispered after; the young prince. Meant to be protected. Meant to be ignored.

And he hates this too.

Because he's alone, forced to chosen alliances, tedious friendships. There is no one to trust. There is no one to adore. He's without a soul to share.

Life, he thinks, is empty.

It shouldn't be.

It's not supposed to be.

And he finally finds home then. It's a cold palace, marble-eyed and cautious; ivy woven deliberate across the corners. He trudges up the stairs (one, two, three) and reaches for the door. It's not locked. It doesn't need to be. None would enter without permission... or a craving for suicide.

And there's no one to meet him as he shuffles in. There's just the grand foyer, the gilded lions. It's a lesson in opulence, Italian stone and French glass and statues stolen from Tibet. It's an international travesty. He doesn't approve. He just hurries through it.

And it's easy to run through the halls. There's none that would stop him. The servants shiver into the walls, ghosts always, gone. They offer no reproach, only battle the dust and dainty crystal. And his parents are... Somewhere. Anywhere. He isn't sure. They tell him nothing and ask for nothing. They simply vanish.

Good riddance.

There's guilt with the thought.

He ignores it.

He always does.

He arrives at his room then, nestled still away from everything. It's meant to be a punishment, he knows. Distance should shame, remind of flaws and lost affection; his helpless blood and delusions. But it's instead a solace. An escape. If he must be lonely, he wants at least to be in peace. He’s grateful for the chance.

And he ambles in, shuts the door, locks it. He always locks it. It’s a futile gesture but it still soothes. He then pads to the bed, ducking down to crawl beneath it. There's a board he's made loose, shielded by old toys he pretends not to miss. He pushes them gently away, tugs up the plank. Inside is his collection: books and stains of parchment. He's been gathering them for years, secrets and hopes. They're all he has.

And he adds more to the pile now. Treasure. Absolution. He buys it from dirty alleys; passing dollars into plastic fingers, elastic palms that can't be traced. He can tell no one.

But, of course, there's no one to tell.

He places his gifts all inside then. Except for one. It’s a thin slip in his bag; he keeps it cradled close. He’ll stack it with the others later but now... Now he wants to learn. And he closes the hole, scatters bears across it once more (all except for Nay, who is perched still on a shelf, watching over him), stands. He flops then onto the bed, coiling small, shielding pages. They’re so very vital.

Even if they’re mistaken childish.

Because it’s a comic book that he’s holding now; the cover soaked to blue, a silhouette brushed faint in its center, imposing.

Claude.

It’s Claude.

And a grin can’t be denied. He wouldn't even try to. Because he’s been reading these stories as religions, charting the adventures of an invisible man; all tease and temper, the ninth wonder.

His ninth wonder.

Claude.

He appeared five years ago, shimmering across the panels; never seen, never understood. He was shadows and air and dark laughter. He was a knight of no code beyond smiles.

And he was real.

No mere fiction. No simple daydream. He was flesh and blood and consequence.

He still is.

Because there are whispers in the night. Peter hears them sometimes; when he's curled insignificant, when he's forgotten on a chaise. His father stalks by, seething at a thief, at his refusal to be caught. Claude has plagued their Company often, striking fast, offering taunts. He can't be found. No prophecies can chase him. No telepathy can seek. He's elusive, ephemeral.

Incredible.

And he's not alone.

Because he has allies; other heroes, other knights, forced to keep themselves obscure now. They will not fight. They will simply... aid.

And they're sheltering a man. Of that a boy is sure. There's no proof of it, of course. No mention in a comic; but its author (some young scribbler called Issac) knows the cost and wouldn't reveal such a thing. All exploits are drenched whimsical instead, made to resemble fantasy.

But they're real. And Peter knows what they mean.

Just as he knows what it means as he opens the page: hands shaking, breath quick; startled lashes and dizzy gaze. He's... infatuated. Every word makes him thrill. Every sketch makes him giggle. And it's absurd. He knows it is. He's too old for imaginary loves, and he's too young for such devotion.

But...

Claude is brave and reckless and---

Wonderful.

Even as others would never admit it.

"So... if you could have any power, what would it be?"

It's curiosity, masquerading as boredom. They're caught in the terrible in-between of adolescence. They're awkward in their play.

His reply is still an immediate one: "Invisibility."

And there's a scoff beside him; the high arch of a brow. Elle leans forward, legs swinging wild from the edge of a table. It's summer and they're reveling in the warmth, in a park. "Seriously?" She shakes her head and her hair tangles. It suffers always from static. She doesn't seem to mind. "That's lame, Petey."

"It is not," he says. "And don't call me that."

She snickers and pinches his cheek; a little spark bursting at the curve.

He doesn't flinch with it.

Not anymore.

Because she's conditioned him to it, from too many days and too many hours. Together. Experimenting. They met as children, danced as pixies, became eventual uncertainties. She’s... different than him. Her grace was forced long ago; her mind was opened. And all thoughts inside were burned. Damaged. Little bird with the steel talons. Predator. But she’s a familiar madness, known, and he keeps her close. She's the only one who pretends not to pity him.

“So tell me, hot shot: why would you want invisibility?” She curls her fingers and lightning breaks. She hurls it toward the sun.

“Dunno,” he lies. “Just think it would be good to have.”

“But you wouldn’t be seen.”

He snorts. “That’s kind of the point, Elle.”

“Then it’s a bad one,” she counters, lips curling beneath a smear of lipstick. Vermilion. Too old. She wants desperately to be more than herself. To piece the parts new again. Whole again. “Because I’d want everyone to see me.”

And the words are betrayed, sad. Her logic has been changed, carved by wicked hands with wicked intentions. She doesn’t remember, but he does. He could never forget. Because she was once a sweet little girl with sweet little dreams. She ribboned daisies together and called herself a queen. Now-- Now she’ll sing with an assassination. It’s only a matter of time and her father’s impatience.

He won’t tell her this, though. He doesn’t want her to kill him.

Instead he offers a smile. Reminds, “No one would see you anyway. Not really. All super-villains wear masks, remember? It’s part of the costume.”

“Not mine,” she huffs, tossing blue diamonds to the sky. They simmer into rain, electric. “No mask. No cape. Just me.” And the expression turns giddy then; sudden and dangerous. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Well that’s not good...”

And this time he does flinch with the shock. It’s sharp against his throat.

“Hey!”

“Oh, poor Petey," she croons, exposing her teeth. "Want me to kiss it better?”

“... No.”

“Your loss.” And she drapes herself against him. She has no understanding of tact. He's given up on explanation. “You can be my sidekick,” she offers. “With the power to be pretty. You'll force all our enemies to fall down at your feet.” And she licks his cheek then, laughing.

He blushes and pretends he approves.

She's pleased. Adds, “And don’t worry, Peter-Piper: I’ll let you wear a costume. A real... tight one. It’ll compensate for your humanness.”

“My... humanness?”

“Yep,” she says. “It’s your one great flaw.”

And he thinks she was wrong.

He thinks there’s strength in failure.

He thinks he’s meant to be more.

He thinks he’s lying to himself.

Maybe it’s better that way.

And he looks back to a comic then, watching as charcoal blurs vicious--fury within the fray. Claude is fighting again, trying again.

And a boy wants only to join him.

Would you wait for me?

Please?

.