now you're really living (peter/claire, heroes)
Title: Now You’re Really Living
Author: missaliceblue
Pairing: Peter/Claire.
Rating: PG to be safe. Mostly canon.
Status: Completed one-shot. 3500 words
Summary: Claire misses Peter. A whole lot. Angst and fluff for iamlillykane’s birthday.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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It all started when you first saw him, looking at you like he knew you and you stared while he talked - at the stubble on his chin, the way his lips pressed together then parted. He had beautiful eyes and you tried not to grin too big because you didn't want him to think you were just a stupid, selfish girl (and you were, back then).
He smiled at you again in the dingy little jail cell, and even though he looked sick and pale you thought he was beautiful, a word you’d never thought applied to boys. And when your dad had his back turned, before the goodbyes and after the surprises, he hugged you (Peter, his name, which you knew, rolled it over your tongue, tasted it slowly). He hugged you and it was so much more than that to you - you weren’t sure if it was to him, but in either case that night you were lost, gone, end of story.
He left and you went home and to school the next day where you wrote his name on the inside of your purple trapper keeper, like he was your secret, something you kept hidden away in pen and paper and your own heart that beat quicker in your bed when you thought about the eyes, the lips, the stubble on the chin and how it would feel pressed against your cheek.
But it was all just a crush, you knew that, come on, you were a stupid, selfish little girl back then but you were trying to get less stupid as fast as you could (which counts for something). He was a grown-up, you weren’t. He lived far away and even though you swore he had a special look for you, it was easy to convince yourself it was just your own imagination.
But it wasn't and that was the thing. It wasn’t. Late one night he showed up, hovering outside your window and you threw it open and pulled him into your room, and he laughed when you seemed scared that he might fall. But no, he could fly, which was awesome and you told him so in that excited sort of voice that grown-ups don’t use (or forget how to at the very least).
At first you asked, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Because why else would he have been there? Why else would he have come back? He sat on the ledge of your window, his feet planted firmly on your floor and he chuckled before he told you, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
And at first you smiled back, just a little smirk in the corner of your mouth because you were confused at the look on his face (like he was telling you something with his mind, with his eyes, and you couldn’t or didn’t get it). Then his face softened, just a tiny bit but you could tell, and the warm light in his eyes wasn’t quite so piercing so you relaxed a little when you stepped closer to him.
That’s when he put his hands on your wrists, his slim fingers pressing gently into your palms (which were already numb at this point). He held you tighter and he pulled you, slowly - not very hard though because your feet were already sliding closer to him even though you didn't tell them to. You told yourself to breath and that was the last thing you felt for awhile. He pulled you between his legs, his knees skimming your hips and you couldn’t believe this was happening just how you had been hoping it would. His hands slid up your arms and curled over your jaw, held you there for a long minute and he just looked, looked at you and you thought you felt his fingers shaking.
You felt it all stop when he kept staring - your breath and his too, the wind blowing through your window, your heart and the world in general. He pulled your face to his and when he kissed you it shivered down your shoulders and through your spine, vibrating a promise that was like a curse almost, it was that strong.
And so it all made a perfect sort of sense that when things got bad, that’s where you ran. You weren’t going to Canada. You weren’t going to go with some guy you didn't trust either. Just because your dad trusted him didn't mean you did - you loved your father but you didn't trust him implicitly.
So you went to New York, even though you hadn’t seen him for a little while. That space of days didn't matter, because he managed to text you every once in awhile and though he never said it exactly you knew he was thinking about you, wishing good things for you, just like you were doing too. You knew when he said he missed you just what that meant.
You hadn’t known him long, that’s true, but you didn't have to get to know him. You already did. There were now two clearly divided eras in your life - the time before him, and the time after. You never asked for a definition of your relationship with him. You already knew.
Which is why it was all you could do to stumble into your (apparently) Grandmother’s guest bathroom, turn on the faucet and the shower and try to cry as quietly as you could. You left dark stains of mascara and eyeliner in her white towels, your mind racing as you concentrated on keeping your wails below the thrum of rushing water in the pipes, not daring to let your mind go there.
You found out Peter was your uncle that day. That was also the day you stopped being a stupid, selfish girl.
It was never spoken of out loud between you, which was good because you don’t think you could have handled it if it was. Nothing changed. Nothing felt different. But it was and that was trouble. You softly prodded your Grandmother to see if there was any way that it was a mistake. All you got was a knowing look and the reassurance, “Don’t worry dear; he’s your uncle and always will be.”
You had other things to worry about anyway, and for a time you thought maybe it was going to work out - you were going to forget about the fact that you had kissed you uncle and liked it (even though you hadn’t known he was your uncle at the time, doesn’t really matter anyway because it’s just as gross to everyone else). Maybe it would become the family joke some day, when you could stand to talk about it without wanting to throw up. Maybe that instant, weird connection you felt to him was just your blood calling out to him - recognizing each other. Maybe that’s all it was. He treated you well, like a niece. The words were all the right ones for a niece and for awhile you thought that that was how it was going to be and you tried to get used to the idea of being okay with it.
You pulled the glass out of his head and brought him back to life. He pulled you into his arms and hid you from the FBI. And though the words were right, when he looked at you now there was that look in his eyes. His eyes were dark now and he looked mad a lot of the time. The point was things still hadn’t changed, not really, you felt that in your guts every morning when you woke up. It was an ache that never eased, a burning that you couldn’t quell no matter what you did.
And then he died. Blew up in the sky in a big, hot, red bomb. It was a devastating end to a terrible story and really, it sounded like something some terrible, evil, mean writer would have dreamed up. It reminded you of Titanic, such an unfair, unhappy ending that it seemed almost like a joke. For a while you tried to forget. For a while you told your dad that yes, it sucked but you were going to be okay. That you missed him but hey, you hadn’t known him all that long anyway.
This was how you pretended, for months. You moved, changed your name, got a haircut. You met a boy and went back to cheerleading. You didn't pick up when your grandmother called, and after a few half-hearted attempts you didn't bother calling your father again either. You ignored your mom when she said you were losing weight and started stealing clothes in a smaller size, shoplifting being something you’d never done before but you did now. You ignored your brother, which you’re pretty sure he considered meaner than the way you’d always picked at him before. Your dad smiled at you and said, "This was all I ever wanted for you," and when you asked what he said, "That you were finally safe. That now you’re really living." To that you just laughed and laughed and when you looked in the mirror one day you saw a hard, angry girl in the reflection and you punched your dresser, hard, until your knuckles bled.
There were problems with people who were out to get you, and for a couple days you thought your dad was dead, which made you cry buckets and buckets, in a way you’d never cried for him. But things worked out, and you hugged your dad and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until you were bawling into his chest and he told you that it was okay. You heard the scared confusion in his throat when you didn't stop, couldn’t, and you heard your mother say, “She’s having a fit or something because this isn't normal.”
So you were normal the next day, and would be every day after. You promised this to yourself. Not long after that you were kissing your boyfriend in the hammock in the backyard of your new house and that is where you realised that you didn't really like that boy all that much. It hits you like a ton of bricks in the middle of a kiss, and it is the sure sort of knowledge that you’ve felt before. He was a little dopey and too tall - you hate having to stretch onto your tiptoes when you kiss. You knew that, had known that from the beginning but you had kept going with him because he was comfortable and familiar and it wasn't for weeks that that you understood why.
The boyfriend looked like your dead uncle. The things that you hated about him were pieces that didn't fit into your little fantasy, stuff that he couldn’t help (too tall, mole, short eyelashes). When you finally realised that you felt that burning rush through you again, the ache that had never left - you only thought or were pretending it had. It had never gone away and that is why the realisation left you curled up on your bed, with the television on mute and your hand under your ear.
You were hungry and you would never be full again, pining after a dead person who would never come back, and even if he did he was your uncle and the entire situation was impossible. It had been months and you weren’t even close to being over it. You wanted to laugh and you did, except there was no shower handy to hide your sobs this time, and your dad came into your room and held you when the laughing turned into crying, the way it had for the last four months or so.
He rocked you like you were a tiny baby and you were grateful when he patted your head and told you, “It’s going to be okay.” You just closed your eyes and gripped your fingers into his shirt, happy when he held you closer because it felt like most days you were going to fall apart into pieces, liquefy like a girl made of water, like on Amelie, a movie which pissed you off to no end. People don’t get happy endings, not like that anyway.
Which is kind of an ironic sort of moment, because that was when you opened your eyes, saw around your dad’s side to the muted television in your room, and you gasped because there was your father. Your real father. Your dad turned and he watched too, but you weren’t aware of that. You were staring because it was a press conference, and there were a lot of people there. Cameramen, reporters, aides, interns, and in the middle was your father.
But that’s not what had made you gasp. It was him, your uncle, the boy that had kissed you once, a long time ago. The boy who had wiped your tears and held your hand, the only person on the planet who reflected the anger in your eyes after you both found out, both of you unspeakably pissed about something that could never be changed. And it was unspeakable.
The boy you thought was dead. You thought Peter was dead, and he isn’t.
Your dad grunted and pulled out his phone but all you could do was stare and stare. He had short hair and more muscles but his face looked perfect and for a minute you are filled with a rage that makes you want to tear down the house and for a brief second you think you probably could. Before you can do that though you hear your dad’s voice in your head and he is grumbling into the phone, but you don’t really pay attention because you’re still staring and staring.
Then you hear the word plane and ticket you snap your neck over to your dad for just a second before you stare at the television again. You shush him until the screen goes dark and then he tells you, “I’m putting you on a red eye flight if you want to go.” You just nod. He says “You don’t have to go,” and then you nod again. He says “I’ll come with you if you want,” and you shake your head this time. He sighs and tells you to get packed because you are going back to Texas, because your father is staying at a ranch there for the press conference.
That wait is only hours but it is a long one. You pack your white wool coat and your ladylike clothes, New York clothes that you got the last time you went there. You wear heels because you have to do this right and you don’t sleep at all on the plane. It is still dark, early in the morning when the plane’s wheels touch down onto Texas soil, a place that doesn’t feel like home but it is familiar.
Your grandmother meets you at the airport in a car she drives herself, which makes you a little angry because you sort of expected him to come and get you but you understand when she explains, “His memory is sketchy and there’s a possibility that you weren’t significant enough for his brain to retain.” She says this in a bitchily apologetic tone that makes you want to grab the steering wheel and jerk it toward you, hard. This is a violent thought which scares you a little in its intensity, but you know you’ll feel better as soon as you see him.
It’s still early when you get to the ranch, an opulent mansion more like, which is surrounded by fields that you can see in the tiny sliver of sun that is peeking over the horizon. You see your father for the first time in months, it’s early but he’s up (though you doubt it is for you). He looks good in his suit with his hair slicked back, but you don’t have time for this. You ask for Peter, and your father says he is probably outside on his morning walk. Your father says this with a chuckle. He was always dismissive.
So you button up your white wool coat and stick your fingers in the pockets. As you’re leaving your grandmother says, “You aren’t to be pushy. He probably won’t recognize you and you shouldn’t scare him. You should introduce yourself to him like you’ve never met.” You nod and you walk out the door of the house and as slow as you can force yourself to. You have no clue where you are going, and you feel yourself panicking as you survey the land around the house and don’t see him.
You pick a direction and you start walking, your leather heels sinking into the soft dirt. The dirt is cold on your ankles but you keep walking. Every once in awhile you pause, listening for his footsteps, twigs breaking, anything, but you hear nothing. You throw your hair over your shoulder and you keep walking. You look for minutes that feel like hours, each second that passes is hurting you physically. You decide to follow a small creek that cuts through one of the many fallow fields. It is freshly plowed and the sun begins to burn a golden brown over the field but none of that matters because you cannot find Peter.
You feel tears begin to gather in your eyes, frustrated ones. You wonder if you should call his name but you don’t want to scare him like your grandmother warned against so you don’t. You finally throw your hands down in frustration and turn around, spin in a small circle as you look all around you.
He’s there. A ways away from you, standing in one of the fallow fields by an old hickory tree which is leafless and gray from the winter, but he is not. His eyes are wide and he has this look on his face. You hold your breath and you stare at him as you walk, just like he did when he kissed you months ago, back when you didn't know he was your uncle and it was okay.
And then he says the most beautiful word in the world, one that makes you sigh with relief and you want to cry but you don’t, instead you speed your walk, your heels slipping in the dry and dusty dirt. He said your name. He remembers you.
His arms are open as you get closer to him, a distance that you are closing rapidly but seems to be never-ending to you. He is smiling, you see that as he hugs you close to him and he is saying some words but you don’t hear them - your ears are ringing with him instead as he leans his cheek onto the top of your head and holds you tight, like you’re a dear thing to him.
This is when you grab onto him, tightly. You crush your fingers into his coat and you feel that stupid, selfish girl inside of you - she struggles out of you and she pinches her fingers into his coat deeper and she makes the words come out of your mouth as you push your body against his.
He doesn’t seem to mind though, and his arms grow tighter, his face leaning down as fingers thread into dark brown hair. She is greedy and she is grabbing him - would sink her fingers all the way into him if she could, just so she could make sure that he never, ever left again.
“Gimme,” she says in her ferocious, hungry voice. “Give me it.”
And then he does, and the sweetness pours down your throat - douses the fire, soothes the ache, fills you completely as it spills over your lips and tongue. This is how it ended, with his beautiful eyes staring into yours and there were no words between you - no complications, logistics of time and space, other people who didn't matter. He has been dead and he has come back to life, over and over, just like you. If you can do that - beat that, than everything else is easy.
Now you have him back and now you’re really living. He whispers your name into your mouth after he kisses you. He is warm and welcoming when he runs his hands through your hair and pulls your face right up to his - till your noses touch. He tells you that he remembers and he is never, ever going to forget, or pretend to, ever again. This is how it ended, in a fallow field as dawn broke over you both.
a/n - sorry this is so late, iamlillykane. happy birthday.
also, ive noticed a few of you have rec'd me on your journals. thank you so much. it's such a compliment, and i thank you for it wholeheartedly, though i havent been a very good fic author lately. school has been insane for me (as you can see, this is the only thing i've written all month). i'll have more time over break.
Author: missaliceblue
Pairing: Peter/Claire.
Rating: PG to be safe. Mostly canon.
Status: Completed one-shot. 3500 words
Summary: Claire misses Peter. A whole lot. Angst and fluff for iamlillykane’s birthday.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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It all started when you first saw him, looking at you like he knew you and you stared while he talked - at the stubble on his chin, the way his lips pressed together then parted. He had beautiful eyes and you tried not to grin too big because you didn't want him to think you were just a stupid, selfish girl (and you were, back then).
He smiled at you again in the dingy little jail cell, and even though he looked sick and pale you thought he was beautiful, a word you’d never thought applied to boys. And when your dad had his back turned, before the goodbyes and after the surprises, he hugged you (Peter, his name, which you knew, rolled it over your tongue, tasted it slowly). He hugged you and it was so much more than that to you - you weren’t sure if it was to him, but in either case that night you were lost, gone, end of story.
He left and you went home and to school the next day where you wrote his name on the inside of your purple trapper keeper, like he was your secret, something you kept hidden away in pen and paper and your own heart that beat quicker in your bed when you thought about the eyes, the lips, the stubble on the chin and how it would feel pressed against your cheek.
But it was all just a crush, you knew that, come on, you were a stupid, selfish little girl back then but you were trying to get less stupid as fast as you could (which counts for something). He was a grown-up, you weren’t. He lived far away and even though you swore he had a special look for you, it was easy to convince yourself it was just your own imagination.
But it wasn't and that was the thing. It wasn’t. Late one night he showed up, hovering outside your window and you threw it open and pulled him into your room, and he laughed when you seemed scared that he might fall. But no, he could fly, which was awesome and you told him so in that excited sort of voice that grown-ups don’t use (or forget how to at the very least).
At first you asked, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Because why else would he have been there? Why else would he have come back? He sat on the ledge of your window, his feet planted firmly on your floor and he chuckled before he told you, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
And at first you smiled back, just a little smirk in the corner of your mouth because you were confused at the look on his face (like he was telling you something with his mind, with his eyes, and you couldn’t or didn’t get it). Then his face softened, just a tiny bit but you could tell, and the warm light in his eyes wasn’t quite so piercing so you relaxed a little when you stepped closer to him.
That’s when he put his hands on your wrists, his slim fingers pressing gently into your palms (which were already numb at this point). He held you tighter and he pulled you, slowly - not very hard though because your feet were already sliding closer to him even though you didn't tell them to. You told yourself to breath and that was the last thing you felt for awhile. He pulled you between his legs, his knees skimming your hips and you couldn’t believe this was happening just how you had been hoping it would. His hands slid up your arms and curled over your jaw, held you there for a long minute and he just looked, looked at you and you thought you felt his fingers shaking.
You felt it all stop when he kept staring - your breath and his too, the wind blowing through your window, your heart and the world in general. He pulled your face to his and when he kissed you it shivered down your shoulders and through your spine, vibrating a promise that was like a curse almost, it was that strong.
And so it all made a perfect sort of sense that when things got bad, that’s where you ran. You weren’t going to Canada. You weren’t going to go with some guy you didn't trust either. Just because your dad trusted him didn't mean you did - you loved your father but you didn't trust him implicitly.
So you went to New York, even though you hadn’t seen him for a little while. That space of days didn't matter, because he managed to text you every once in awhile and though he never said it exactly you knew he was thinking about you, wishing good things for you, just like you were doing too. You knew when he said he missed you just what that meant.
You hadn’t known him long, that’s true, but you didn't have to get to know him. You already did. There were now two clearly divided eras in your life - the time before him, and the time after. You never asked for a definition of your relationship with him. You already knew.
Which is why it was all you could do to stumble into your (apparently) Grandmother’s guest bathroom, turn on the faucet and the shower and try to cry as quietly as you could. You left dark stains of mascara and eyeliner in her white towels, your mind racing as you concentrated on keeping your wails below the thrum of rushing water in the pipes, not daring to let your mind go there.
You found out Peter was your uncle that day. That was also the day you stopped being a stupid, selfish girl.
It was never spoken of out loud between you, which was good because you don’t think you could have handled it if it was. Nothing changed. Nothing felt different. But it was and that was trouble. You softly prodded your Grandmother to see if there was any way that it was a mistake. All you got was a knowing look and the reassurance, “Don’t worry dear; he’s your uncle and always will be.”
You had other things to worry about anyway, and for a time you thought maybe it was going to work out - you were going to forget about the fact that you had kissed you uncle and liked it (even though you hadn’t known he was your uncle at the time, doesn’t really matter anyway because it’s just as gross to everyone else). Maybe it would become the family joke some day, when you could stand to talk about it without wanting to throw up. Maybe that instant, weird connection you felt to him was just your blood calling out to him - recognizing each other. Maybe that’s all it was. He treated you well, like a niece. The words were all the right ones for a niece and for awhile you thought that that was how it was going to be and you tried to get used to the idea of being okay with it.
You pulled the glass out of his head and brought him back to life. He pulled you into his arms and hid you from the FBI. And though the words were right, when he looked at you now there was that look in his eyes. His eyes were dark now and he looked mad a lot of the time. The point was things still hadn’t changed, not really, you felt that in your guts every morning when you woke up. It was an ache that never eased, a burning that you couldn’t quell no matter what you did.
And then he died. Blew up in the sky in a big, hot, red bomb. It was a devastating end to a terrible story and really, it sounded like something some terrible, evil, mean writer would have dreamed up. It reminded you of Titanic, such an unfair, unhappy ending that it seemed almost like a joke. For a while you tried to forget. For a while you told your dad that yes, it sucked but you were going to be okay. That you missed him but hey, you hadn’t known him all that long anyway.
This was how you pretended, for months. You moved, changed your name, got a haircut. You met a boy and went back to cheerleading. You didn't pick up when your grandmother called, and after a few half-hearted attempts you didn't bother calling your father again either. You ignored your mom when she said you were losing weight and started stealing clothes in a smaller size, shoplifting being something you’d never done before but you did now. You ignored your brother, which you’re pretty sure he considered meaner than the way you’d always picked at him before. Your dad smiled at you and said, "This was all I ever wanted for you," and when you asked what he said, "That you were finally safe. That now you’re really living." To that you just laughed and laughed and when you looked in the mirror one day you saw a hard, angry girl in the reflection and you punched your dresser, hard, until your knuckles bled.
There were problems with people who were out to get you, and for a couple days you thought your dad was dead, which made you cry buckets and buckets, in a way you’d never cried for him. But things worked out, and you hugged your dad and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until you were bawling into his chest and he told you that it was okay. You heard the scared confusion in his throat when you didn't stop, couldn’t, and you heard your mother say, “She’s having a fit or something because this isn't normal.”
So you were normal the next day, and would be every day after. You promised this to yourself. Not long after that you were kissing your boyfriend in the hammock in the backyard of your new house and that is where you realised that you didn't really like that boy all that much. It hits you like a ton of bricks in the middle of a kiss, and it is the sure sort of knowledge that you’ve felt before. He was a little dopey and too tall - you hate having to stretch onto your tiptoes when you kiss. You knew that, had known that from the beginning but you had kept going with him because he was comfortable and familiar and it wasn't for weeks that that you understood why.
The boyfriend looked like your dead uncle. The things that you hated about him were pieces that didn't fit into your little fantasy, stuff that he couldn’t help (too tall, mole, short eyelashes). When you finally realised that you felt that burning rush through you again, the ache that had never left - you only thought or were pretending it had. It had never gone away and that is why the realisation left you curled up on your bed, with the television on mute and your hand under your ear.
You were hungry and you would never be full again, pining after a dead person who would never come back, and even if he did he was your uncle and the entire situation was impossible. It had been months and you weren’t even close to being over it. You wanted to laugh and you did, except there was no shower handy to hide your sobs this time, and your dad came into your room and held you when the laughing turned into crying, the way it had for the last four months or so.
He rocked you like you were a tiny baby and you were grateful when he patted your head and told you, “It’s going to be okay.” You just closed your eyes and gripped your fingers into his shirt, happy when he held you closer because it felt like most days you were going to fall apart into pieces, liquefy like a girl made of water, like on Amelie, a movie which pissed you off to no end. People don’t get happy endings, not like that anyway.
Which is kind of an ironic sort of moment, because that was when you opened your eyes, saw around your dad’s side to the muted television in your room, and you gasped because there was your father. Your real father. Your dad turned and he watched too, but you weren’t aware of that. You were staring because it was a press conference, and there were a lot of people there. Cameramen, reporters, aides, interns, and in the middle was your father.
But that’s not what had made you gasp. It was him, your uncle, the boy that had kissed you once, a long time ago. The boy who had wiped your tears and held your hand, the only person on the planet who reflected the anger in your eyes after you both found out, both of you unspeakably pissed about something that could never be changed. And it was unspeakable.
The boy you thought was dead. You thought Peter was dead, and he isn’t.
Your dad grunted and pulled out his phone but all you could do was stare and stare. He had short hair and more muscles but his face looked perfect and for a minute you are filled with a rage that makes you want to tear down the house and for a brief second you think you probably could. Before you can do that though you hear your dad’s voice in your head and he is grumbling into the phone, but you don’t really pay attention because you’re still staring and staring.
Then you hear the word plane and ticket you snap your neck over to your dad for just a second before you stare at the television again. You shush him until the screen goes dark and then he tells you, “I’m putting you on a red eye flight if you want to go.” You just nod. He says “You don’t have to go,” and then you nod again. He says “I’ll come with you if you want,” and you shake your head this time. He sighs and tells you to get packed because you are going back to Texas, because your father is staying at a ranch there for the press conference.
That wait is only hours but it is a long one. You pack your white wool coat and your ladylike clothes, New York clothes that you got the last time you went there. You wear heels because you have to do this right and you don’t sleep at all on the plane. It is still dark, early in the morning when the plane’s wheels touch down onto Texas soil, a place that doesn’t feel like home but it is familiar.
Your grandmother meets you at the airport in a car she drives herself, which makes you a little angry because you sort of expected him to come and get you but you understand when she explains, “His memory is sketchy and there’s a possibility that you weren’t significant enough for his brain to retain.” She says this in a bitchily apologetic tone that makes you want to grab the steering wheel and jerk it toward you, hard. This is a violent thought which scares you a little in its intensity, but you know you’ll feel better as soon as you see him.
It’s still early when you get to the ranch, an opulent mansion more like, which is surrounded by fields that you can see in the tiny sliver of sun that is peeking over the horizon. You see your father for the first time in months, it’s early but he’s up (though you doubt it is for you). He looks good in his suit with his hair slicked back, but you don’t have time for this. You ask for Peter, and your father says he is probably outside on his morning walk. Your father says this with a chuckle. He was always dismissive.
So you button up your white wool coat and stick your fingers in the pockets. As you’re leaving your grandmother says, “You aren’t to be pushy. He probably won’t recognize you and you shouldn’t scare him. You should introduce yourself to him like you’ve never met.” You nod and you walk out the door of the house and as slow as you can force yourself to. You have no clue where you are going, and you feel yourself panicking as you survey the land around the house and don’t see him.
You pick a direction and you start walking, your leather heels sinking into the soft dirt. The dirt is cold on your ankles but you keep walking. Every once in awhile you pause, listening for his footsteps, twigs breaking, anything, but you hear nothing. You throw your hair over your shoulder and you keep walking. You look for minutes that feel like hours, each second that passes is hurting you physically. You decide to follow a small creek that cuts through one of the many fallow fields. It is freshly plowed and the sun begins to burn a golden brown over the field but none of that matters because you cannot find Peter.
You feel tears begin to gather in your eyes, frustrated ones. You wonder if you should call his name but you don’t want to scare him like your grandmother warned against so you don’t. You finally throw your hands down in frustration and turn around, spin in a small circle as you look all around you.
He’s there. A ways away from you, standing in one of the fallow fields by an old hickory tree which is leafless and gray from the winter, but he is not. His eyes are wide and he has this look on his face. You hold your breath and you stare at him as you walk, just like he did when he kissed you months ago, back when you didn't know he was your uncle and it was okay.
And then he says the most beautiful word in the world, one that makes you sigh with relief and you want to cry but you don’t, instead you speed your walk, your heels slipping in the dry and dusty dirt. He said your name. He remembers you.
His arms are open as you get closer to him, a distance that you are closing rapidly but seems to be never-ending to you. He is smiling, you see that as he hugs you close to him and he is saying some words but you don’t hear them - your ears are ringing with him instead as he leans his cheek onto the top of your head and holds you tight, like you’re a dear thing to him.
This is when you grab onto him, tightly. You crush your fingers into his coat and you feel that stupid, selfish girl inside of you - she struggles out of you and she pinches her fingers into his coat deeper and she makes the words come out of your mouth as you push your body against his.
He doesn’t seem to mind though, and his arms grow tighter, his face leaning down as fingers thread into dark brown hair. She is greedy and she is grabbing him - would sink her fingers all the way into him if she could, just so she could make sure that he never, ever left again.
“Gimme,” she says in her ferocious, hungry voice. “Give me it.”
And then he does, and the sweetness pours down your throat - douses the fire, soothes the ache, fills you completely as it spills over your lips and tongue. This is how it ended, with his beautiful eyes staring into yours and there were no words between you - no complications, logistics of time and space, other people who didn't matter. He has been dead and he has come back to life, over and over, just like you. If you can do that - beat that, than everything else is easy.
Now you have him back and now you’re really living. He whispers your name into your mouth after he kisses you. He is warm and welcoming when he runs his hands through your hair and pulls your face right up to his - till your noses touch. He tells you that he remembers and he is never, ever going to forget, or pretend to, ever again. This is how it ended, in a fallow field as dawn broke over you both.
a/n - sorry this is so late, iamlillykane. happy birthday.
also, ive noticed a few of you have rec'd me on your journals. thank you so much. it's such a compliment, and i thank you for it wholeheartedly, though i havent been a very good fic author lately. school has been insane for me (as you can see, this is the only thing i've written all month). i'll have more time over break.