[heroes] The Girl in the Gutter
I am so obsessed with the idea of Peter running into Eden when she was still Sarah, so voila. Originally written for comment fic but it turned into something too big. Also for heroes15 prompt#10: rejection.
Title: The Girl in the Gutter
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter Petrelli/Sarah Ellis (Eden McCain)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When she looked at him again, eyes half-lidded, he saw for an instant what she might have looked like sober. He found her almost pretty, which was not as unsettling as it should have been.
The Girl in the Gutter
_______________________________________________
Peter felt that he worked in a rehab center more often than a walk-in clinic. Merryweather Clinic, it was called - a cute and cooing name, to match the rainbows stickers on the wallpaper and the smiling sunshine painted on the windows. The clinic itself was ill-befitting of its location, however: it sat on the fringes of a very unsafe commercial neighborhood. Two blocks down the night clubs started, then the strip clubs and liquor stores.
It wasn’t that all their patients were drug-users - only the ones Peter treated. Teenage girls didn’t feel comfortable talking to a man about pregnancy scares and abortion counseling, and while he could dress a sprain smartly, Margaret at the front desk insisted he was “just so good with frustrating people.” It didn’t make sense to Peter why anyone would become a nurse if they didn’t possess superhuman patience, but he smiled and endured. It was only until he could get a job in home care, and he didn’t actually mind most of the junkies that came in. A lot of them were very interesting, and as long as they were treated with a modicum of respect, they usually returned the favor.
Eventually Peter put names to each of them, then drug of choice, until he saw very few fresh faces. Every once in a while, like tonight, there was an anomaly, someone he hadn’t treated before. By the look of the girl collapsed on the front step - petite and unmarred - a teenager out partying on the wrong side of town and getting a lot more than she bargained for.
She must have come herself, because she still had her purse over her shoulder. The clasp was closed and there was a square bulge in the leather, like a wallet. When he hoisted her over his shoulder, she gave a little moan, and by the time he’d gotten her into the examination room, she was able to ask where she was.
“Merryweather Clinic,” he told her, easing her back with her head cradled in his palm. Her make-up had smudged and her eyes were bloodshot as she searched the room, but there were no cuts or bruises on her face. Tiny rocks were stuck to her knees with rainwater. “Now I need you to tell me something. What did you take?”
She pouted, then cracked a mischievous smile. “Pills,” she half-sang. “Lots of them.”
“Ecstasy?” he asked, and checked her arms just to be sure. No track marks. “Something prescription?”
“I don’t know,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Maybe both.”
“How long ago?”
“Five minutes, an hour, who knows.” Offhandedly, she remarked, “You need a haircut.”
Peter ignored that, though it was certainly the first time he’d heard it from a patient. Usually drug abusers swore at him or his mother. “You’re going to have to vomit.”
She gave him a look like he was crazy, and for a moment she appeared almost lucid. “What?”
She wasn’t hostile, or aware enough to make a break for it, so he busied himself preparing thirty milliliters of ipecac. He poured a glass of water from the cooler in the corner and turned back to her. “Drink this,” he said, holding up the syrup first and the water second, “then this. It’ll make you vomit.”
“Didn’t know they served tequila here,” she quipped, amused by her own joke, and took it from him. She swallowed it like a shot, then began chugging the water.
“You can slow down,” he said, taking the tiny plastic cup before it fell from her hand, then the glass when she was done. He handed her a bin. He put space between them to put her at ease, all the while keeping himself between her and the door.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, holding the bin to her chest. “I’m a big girl. Can throw up all by myself.”
“Nowhere else I need to be.” His tone was frank and friendly, and while it was true he didn’t want to leave her alone when this was clearly her first time with a possible overdose, he also didn’t trust any drug-user unsupervised in a clinic. Plainly put, it would be poor ethics.
“Suit yourself,” she squinted at his nametag, which he automatically straightened, “Peter. Huh. I’m Sarah.”
“Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
“Sure.” Her head lolled back and she looked at the ceiling for a while before asking, “So, you come here often?”
“More often than you, thankfully.”
She smiled, but didn’t look at him. “Peter, Peter, Peter,” she started, her voice lilting as she swayed slightly. He was prepared to steady her if she began to fall, but she was doing it rhythmically, in time with her little song. When she looked at him again, eyes half-lidded, he saw for an instant what she might have looked like sober. He found her almost pretty, which was not as unsettling as it should have been. “I think you want to kiss me.”
Patients had come onto him before. It wasn’t uncommon, but this was different. He felt an unsteady pull in his chest that hadn’t been there before, and he was about to protest when she began singing his name again. The words got caught somewhere in his throat, and with some effort he swallowed them.
“Don’t you want to kiss me, Peter?” she said, still swaying. “I really, really think you do.”
He couldn’t argue. For some reason he did want to and that didn’t feel wrong. There was a pretty girl alone in a room with him. She clearly thought he was attractive. Why shouldn’t he kiss her?
“Kiss me, Peter,” she hummed, and he stepped closer to the examining table, unsure as to when his feet had begun moving. Her knees brushed his thighs on either side and she inched toward him. Up close, he could see the bags under her eyes and the lines of mascara just below her eyebrow; the way her lipstick creased and smudged in the corner of her mouth. He saw these things without really noticing them, without them mattering.
Alcohol was on her breath and the smell of sweat hung around her like a cloud. There was a glow between her breasts he noticed only then, lime green neon. Ravers wore these things around their wrists and in their shirts to draw attention to their bodies in the dark. The unnatural light it cast on her skin was hypnotic. He could almost hear the bass in the club, see her body writhing to the music.
“Peter.” Her lips printed his name to his ear. He was leaning over her, his breath clotting over the hollow of her throat. His cheek touched hers lightly; Peter turned his head until his lips hovered over Sarah’s. Reality to him had stopped being an exam room and a junkie. It was now this wild girl and the closing space between them. Nothing else.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, and he felt his fingers weave through the hair behind her ears. The last hint of trepidation tumbled out on his breath as he put his lips to hers.
It lasted for a moment before she jerked her head away, folding over and vomiting into the bin in her lap. He’d forgotten about it. He’d forgotten she was still high, that she might have overdosed, that he was in a clinic. Immediately he stepped back, disgusted much more by his behavior than by the echo of her retching sounds.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” he said, like someone who had betrayed a friend. “I don’t know what… I’m sorry.”
Sarah waved a hand, not yet able to stop convulsing. She threw up again, and he refilled the glass of water for her and grabbed a tissue. When she was done, she settled the bin between her legs and wiped her lips.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, after a long drink. “You’re a nice guy and I just… I fucked it all up.”
“You didn’t,” he tried to assure her. “I shouldn’t have responded to you - I never would have normally.”
She glanced up at him, eyes watery from vomiting, and he quickly tried to correct himself. “No, I didn’t mean that, it’s just -”
“It’s okay, Peter.” This time, his name was said on a sigh, but it pulled at his heart in a much different way. “Listen, I’m gonna go.”
“You shouldn’t leave yet,” he said. There was the concern of a nurse and the concern of a man with a hero complex in his voice, and he couldn’t separate the two. “You may still -”
“Move away from the door,” she commanded, putting the bin down and getting to her feet. She wobbled only once. “Move away from the door right now.”
He did, and he wasn’t sure why. Sarah strode past him with surprising confidence.
“Don’t move until you count to ten.” She put a hand on the doorknob and, after a moment of contemplation, leaned up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt soft and sincere. “And thanks, Peter. If I ever need to throw up again, I’ll give you a call.”
She opened the door and stepped out; a cursory glance showed that the clinic was empty aside from Margaret at the front desk, reading a magazine. She didn’t look up. Peter meant to reach out and catch Sarah - he thought of how (a hand on the shoulder? On her wrist? Wrap his arms around her?), but his body wouldn’t move. He watched helplessly as the door closed and she became a whisper of brown hair and black dress through the crack.
By the time he thought to call out her name, he’d counted to twelve.
Title: The Girl in the Gutter
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter Petrelli/Sarah Ellis (Eden McCain)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When she looked at him again, eyes half-lidded, he saw for an instant what she might have looked like sober. He found her almost pretty, which was not as unsettling as it should have been.
The Girl in the Gutter
_______________________________________________
Peter felt that he worked in a rehab center more often than a walk-in clinic. Merryweather Clinic, it was called - a cute and cooing name, to match the rainbows stickers on the wallpaper and the smiling sunshine painted on the windows. The clinic itself was ill-befitting of its location, however: it sat on the fringes of a very unsafe commercial neighborhood. Two blocks down the night clubs started, then the strip clubs and liquor stores.
It wasn’t that all their patients were drug-users - only the ones Peter treated. Teenage girls didn’t feel comfortable talking to a man about pregnancy scares and abortion counseling, and while he could dress a sprain smartly, Margaret at the front desk insisted he was “just so good with frustrating people.” It didn’t make sense to Peter why anyone would become a nurse if they didn’t possess superhuman patience, but he smiled and endured. It was only until he could get a job in home care, and he didn’t actually mind most of the junkies that came in. A lot of them were very interesting, and as long as they were treated with a modicum of respect, they usually returned the favor.
Eventually Peter put names to each of them, then drug of choice, until he saw very few fresh faces. Every once in a while, like tonight, there was an anomaly, someone he hadn’t treated before. By the look of the girl collapsed on the front step - petite and unmarred - a teenager out partying on the wrong side of town and getting a lot more than she bargained for.
She must have come herself, because she still had her purse over her shoulder. The clasp was closed and there was a square bulge in the leather, like a wallet. When he hoisted her over his shoulder, she gave a little moan, and by the time he’d gotten her into the examination room, she was able to ask where she was.
“Merryweather Clinic,” he told her, easing her back with her head cradled in his palm. Her make-up had smudged and her eyes were bloodshot as she searched the room, but there were no cuts or bruises on her face. Tiny rocks were stuck to her knees with rainwater. “Now I need you to tell me something. What did you take?”
She pouted, then cracked a mischievous smile. “Pills,” she half-sang. “Lots of them.”
“Ecstasy?” he asked, and checked her arms just to be sure. No track marks. “Something prescription?”
“I don’t know,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Maybe both.”
“How long ago?”
“Five minutes, an hour, who knows.” Offhandedly, she remarked, “You need a haircut.”
Peter ignored that, though it was certainly the first time he’d heard it from a patient. Usually drug abusers swore at him or his mother. “You’re going to have to vomit.”
She gave him a look like he was crazy, and for a moment she appeared almost lucid. “What?”
She wasn’t hostile, or aware enough to make a break for it, so he busied himself preparing thirty milliliters of ipecac. He poured a glass of water from the cooler in the corner and turned back to her. “Drink this,” he said, holding up the syrup first and the water second, “then this. It’ll make you vomit.”
“Didn’t know they served tequila here,” she quipped, amused by her own joke, and took it from him. She swallowed it like a shot, then began chugging the water.
“You can slow down,” he said, taking the tiny plastic cup before it fell from her hand, then the glass when she was done. He handed her a bin. He put space between them to put her at ease, all the while keeping himself between her and the door.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said, holding the bin to her chest. “I’m a big girl. Can throw up all by myself.”
“Nowhere else I need to be.” His tone was frank and friendly, and while it was true he didn’t want to leave her alone when this was clearly her first time with a possible overdose, he also didn’t trust any drug-user unsupervised in a clinic. Plainly put, it would be poor ethics.
“Suit yourself,” she squinted at his nametag, which he automatically straightened, “Peter. Huh. I’m Sarah.”
“Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
“Sure.” Her head lolled back and she looked at the ceiling for a while before asking, “So, you come here often?”
“More often than you, thankfully.”
She smiled, but didn’t look at him. “Peter, Peter, Peter,” she started, her voice lilting as she swayed slightly. He was prepared to steady her if she began to fall, but she was doing it rhythmically, in time with her little song. When she looked at him again, eyes half-lidded, he saw for an instant what she might have looked like sober. He found her almost pretty, which was not as unsettling as it should have been. “I think you want to kiss me.”
Patients had come onto him before. It wasn’t uncommon, but this was different. He felt an unsteady pull in his chest that hadn’t been there before, and he was about to protest when she began singing his name again. The words got caught somewhere in his throat, and with some effort he swallowed them.
“Don’t you want to kiss me, Peter?” she said, still swaying. “I really, really think you do.”
He couldn’t argue. For some reason he did want to and that didn’t feel wrong. There was a pretty girl alone in a room with him. She clearly thought he was attractive. Why shouldn’t he kiss her?
“Kiss me, Peter,” she hummed, and he stepped closer to the examining table, unsure as to when his feet had begun moving. Her knees brushed his thighs on either side and she inched toward him. Up close, he could see the bags under her eyes and the lines of mascara just below her eyebrow; the way her lipstick creased and smudged in the corner of her mouth. He saw these things without really noticing them, without them mattering.
Alcohol was on her breath and the smell of sweat hung around her like a cloud. There was a glow between her breasts he noticed only then, lime green neon. Ravers wore these things around their wrists and in their shirts to draw attention to their bodies in the dark. The unnatural light it cast on her skin was hypnotic. He could almost hear the bass in the club, see her body writhing to the music.
“Peter.” Her lips printed his name to his ear. He was leaning over her, his breath clotting over the hollow of her throat. His cheek touched hers lightly; Peter turned his head until his lips hovered over Sarah’s. Reality to him had stopped being an exam room and a junkie. It was now this wild girl and the closing space between them. Nothing else.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, and he felt his fingers weave through the hair behind her ears. The last hint of trepidation tumbled out on his breath as he put his lips to hers.
It lasted for a moment before she jerked her head away, folding over and vomiting into the bin in her lap. He’d forgotten about it. He’d forgotten she was still high, that she might have overdosed, that he was in a clinic. Immediately he stepped back, disgusted much more by his behavior than by the echo of her retching sounds.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” he said, like someone who had betrayed a friend. “I don’t know what… I’m sorry.”
Sarah waved a hand, not yet able to stop convulsing. She threw up again, and he refilled the glass of water for her and grabbed a tissue. When she was done, she settled the bin between her legs and wiped her lips.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, after a long drink. “You’re a nice guy and I just… I fucked it all up.”
“You didn’t,” he tried to assure her. “I shouldn’t have responded to you - I never would have normally.”
She glanced up at him, eyes watery from vomiting, and he quickly tried to correct himself. “No, I didn’t mean that, it’s just -”
“It’s okay, Peter.” This time, his name was said on a sigh, but it pulled at his heart in a much different way. “Listen, I’m gonna go.”
“You shouldn’t leave yet,” he said. There was the concern of a nurse and the concern of a man with a hero complex in his voice, and he couldn’t separate the two. “You may still -”
“Move away from the door,” she commanded, putting the bin down and getting to her feet. She wobbled only once. “Move away from the door right now.”
He did, and he wasn’t sure why. Sarah strode past him with surprising confidence.
“Don’t move until you count to ten.” She put a hand on the doorknob and, after a moment of contemplation, leaned up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Her lips felt soft and sincere. “And thanks, Peter. If I ever need to throw up again, I’ll give you a call.”
She opened the door and stepped out; a cursory glance showed that the clinic was empty aside from Margaret at the front desk, reading a magazine. She didn’t look up. Peter meant to reach out and catch Sarah - he thought of how (a hand on the shoulder? On her wrist? Wrap his arms around her?), but his body wouldn’t move. He watched helplessly as the door closed and she became a whisper of brown hair and black dress through the crack.
By the time he thought to call out her name, he’d counted to twelve.