Fic: A Good Excuse (1/6)
Title: A Good Excuse
Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: NC17 overall
Warnings : Lots of gay sex. Some cursing. Too many words all together.
Summary: Peter is a nurse, Claude is an eccentric artist, and my brain is a strange, strange place. Non-powered AU.
Beta: The absolutely fantastic saena17, who is thoroughly, utterly amazing in every way.
[Part 1] [ Part 2] [ Part 3] [ Part 4] [ Part 5] [ Part 6]
There’s a slice of light and sound cutting through the dark street and entirely unexpectedly, he finds himself with a slim, loose, and laughing young man in his arms.
“S…sorry,” he hears him gasp, feels him shift to try and stand; hands grasping at his coat and arms with a lot more interest than he really feels comfortable with. He catches the young man's eye while automatically attempting to steady him and while he normally wouldn't appreciate it, in this case he thinks of making an exception.
“Hi,” soft, dark, and rather unfocused eyes blink up at him, and he chuckles.
“Hiya,” he says, and moves his hands to the young man’s shoulders. “You all right, mate?”
That sets him giggling again. And it’s not charming in the least.
“I’m drunk,” he says, as if it’s a revelation, and lets out another helpless laugh.
“Never woulda guessed.”
“It’s been…a…really bad day, I’m sorry.” The young man shrugs. “Thanks for…I tripped?”
“Right,” he nods, and now that the kid seems capable of standing on his own, tries to make a break for it, and fails, because there’s a hand grabbing at his shirt.
Sure, he could pull away, but the kid’s balance isn’t good enough to keep him upright if he does and he’s not that much of a bastard.
“I like your accent.”
“Fantastic.”
“Australian?”
He has to laugh at that. Hasn’t heard that one before, at least.
“English.”
“Sorry,” no giggling this time, just big brown eyes entirely focused on his, and it’s worse. “You’re…nice.”
“You’ve no idea.”
A small smile. “Would you…like to find out?” And the young man shuts his eyes, brings a hand to his forehead, before opening them. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean,” he answers, and shakes his head.
“I’m…Peter.”
“All right.”
Peter looks at him carefully, and then lets go of his shirt.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to…sorry. Got to get…”
“Home?”
“That’s right!” and Peter gives him an odd, blinking look. “Sorry. Don’t know why I…sorry.”
“’s all right.”
Peter nods at him, and takes a step back. Or tries to, apparently, only to stumble again and of course he feels compelled to catch him.
“I got you, mate,” and he almost wishes he didn’t, because Peter smiles, a little, wraps a hand around his arm and drops his head to Claude’s chest. “Peter?”
“Mm?” half-asleep and entirely drunk and is he…nuzzling? Damn it, he is. What in the fresh hell has he gotten himself into?
“You do realize we just met?”
“Mm.”
A snort, followed by a decidedly watery sniffle, and Claude sighs.
“Right,” and this, really, is perfect. Ideal situation, all around. No cabs that he can see, no idea where he is, not really, and enough sympathy left in him to make leaving the boy in the middle of the street to sleep it off impossible. “Come on, mate, I’ll steal us a cab. Don’t suppose you’d know where to find one?”
“Mmm…” Peter mumbles into his neck, and he resists the urge to pull away from him. “That way?”
An exaggerated handwave to his left, the moment of it making Peter twists in his arms, and finally manage to do what he’s been trying to keep him from doing the past quarter hour. Namely, falling to the ground, entirely unconscious, and Claude sighs again.
Well, it’s a start.
*
The first thing he notices is the smell of coffee.
He’s not a huge fan, it leaves him feeling jittery and strung out, and he’s had enough moments like that lately. But he can tell, this isn’t exactly the top of the line stuff.
Not Starbucks, probably; too…too lacking in milky-sugary-overpriced-ness to be part of their oeuvre.
And he congratulates himself, for a moment, for slipping “oeuvre” into his mental process, and hopes he’s used it correctly.
The second thing he notices is the very not-couch-pillow smoothness under his cheek.
Which is kind of nice, truth be told. Means he won’t have to go around half the morning with intricate patterns etched on his face, at the very least.
And he yawns, nuzzles against the cool softness, and considers maybe just going back to sleep.
Which is where the third thing comes in.
He has no idea where he is, and his shirt is missing.
While technically those are two things, it’s only the combination of the two that has him panicking, just a little bit.
He opens his eyes hesitantly and gives a cursory glance around.
It’s a bedroom. Well, that makes sense. He’s still wearing pants, which is good, and underwear, which is better. It’s morning, so…shit, it’s morning, he’s going to be late, and-
And there’s the sound of a door he hadn’t even noticed (although seriously, of course there would be doors) opening.
He’s not sure whether to sit up or not; he has absolutely no idea who’s about to come through that door, and whoever it is, it’s going to be awkward. Can’t be anything else, encountering someone you don’t know while half naked and in someone else’s bed.
Maybe it’s the someone else’s bed that he’s in, though, which means it's probably not going to be a bad first impression he's about to make, more like a bad continued impression, and...and the man that’s currently leaning against the doorframe like he could quite easily be holding it up and looking at him with a thoroughly curious but not completely unamused expression doesn't seems to be expecting something.
And he’s sure he’ll be embarrassed as hell about it later, but he’s still too hung-over and hazy to think anything but the childishly defensive, “Who the hell are you?” as he sits up.
Realizes about a second too late (and really, he should, one of these days, have a three second delay put on his thought-to-speech mechanism) that he’s said it out loud, as the man bursts out laughing at that.
“Good mornin’ to you, too, mate,” he says, as Peter feels himself blush.
“I…uh…what…” he blinks, at…at whoever he is, the man. He does actually look somewhat familiar, although Peter can’t really…place him.
“Claude,” the man says.
“What?”
“Name,” he speaks slowly and points to himself, as if not sure Peter’ll really get it otherwise. “In case you’re wonderin’.”
“Oh,” Peter lets out a breath. “Sorry.”
“Bet you are.”
“Peter,” he offers, and the man, Claude, apparently, nods.
“Well, the introductory part of the morning having been concluded, do you think the getting up and leavin’ for our respective lives part could take place?”
“I. Well,” Peter swallows, runs a hand through his hair. “Uh. My shirt is…”
“What?” the man barks at him, and his eyes drop to his lap.
“I don’t…”
“You all right there, Pete?”
“I’m…yeah, I’m…I’m okay, I just…”
And he manages to look up, to catch the slight glimmer in Claude’s eyes, and grins.
“You’re screwing with me.”
“Sort of, yeah,” Claude smiles back, and his voice softens. “Are you all right?”
Peter takes a moment. Nods. And as long as he doesn’t think too hard about his headache, or the fact that he feels intensely nauseous, or the fact that there are very large gaps in his memory of the last night, that’s just about true.
“Right,” Claude nods at him, pushes off against the doorframe, and seems about to step closer. Doesn’t, though, just stops.
“Um,” Peter takes a breath. “Last night, did…did we…” he trails off, trying to look less hopeful than doubtful.
“Didn’t,” the man says, and winks, which Peter doesn’t find reassuring. Claude seems to notice that and laughs again. “What, you’d prefer to hear ‘you’d remember if it had’? No fun in that, if you see it comin’. For the record, though. You would’ve.”
“Then my shirt is…”
“In the dumpster, I think. You might’ve vomited all over it, if I recall.”
“You let me sleep in your bed even after I…” he does an elaborate hand tumble of retching representation.
“Well, first off, it’s not really my bed, and honestly, I’d have been shocked if you had anythin’ else in you.”
“Gee,” he swallows again. “Thanks for that.”
“Welcome,” the man nods. “You ready to get up? I’ll lend you a shirt. No need to return it.”
“No, I’ll bring it back, just-“
“No,” his smile is a little sharper than expected, and Peter furrows his brow. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Why…you don’t want me coming back?”
“Clever, aren’t you?” Even sharper, before blue eyes meet his and with a blink, return to basic geniality. “Wouldn’t be appropriate, really.”
And as much as Peter wants to getting into the “Why, exactly?”s and the “What happened last night?”s, the man is standing up, pointing at some sort of Ikea-esque set of drawers that he’s pretty sure wasn’t picked out by the person who uses it, and expressing his desire that Peter speed things up.
*
“Uh…hello?” he calls, cautiously poking his head out into what appears to be the living room, and peering into a small kitchen.
“Yeah, Pete?” comes the response, from behind the refrigerator door. “You leavin’ already, then?”
“I thought you…what are you…uh,” he shakes his head and sighs. “I normally can talk, you know?”
“Yeah, I may’ve…noticed that, last night,” the refrigerator swings shut, and the man glances at him, before uncapping the bottle of milk. “You certainly did your share of-“
“Did I kiss you?” he blurts out, then winces, shuts his eyes at the look of amused surprise on Claude’s face. “Sorry, just…um…did I?”
“Well,” and blue eyes crinkle kind of wonderfully. “You did try.”
“And by try you mean…”
“Your aim could use some improvement, mate, but points for effort.”
Peter sighs, and resists the temptation to let his head drop to the counter top, and maybe hit it a couple of times.
“Well,” he says, after a moment. “Thank you. For…everything.”
“Mmm,” is the only response, over a swig of milk, straight from the bottle, and there’s something so…oddly endearing in that.
“I…you live here?” he clears his throat as Claude puts the milk down.
“For the time being.”
“You’re visiting?”
“Yeah,” he says, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.
“Are you-“
“Listen, Pete, I’d like to say I appreciate your curiosity but I couldn’t bear the thought of lyin’ to you, so if you could just be on your way, I think it’d really be better for us both, right?”
“Okay,” he blushes, like an idiot, and can’t hold back a giggle from nervousness. “Okay. Yeah. Then I’m just going to go, so…”
“Fantastic,” Claude says, and really seems to mean it, which Peter realizes he should probably feel a little hurt about. “I’ll see you out, then.”
“Oh, I can…find the door if I…” and the man is standing awfully close, unintentionally, he’s pretty sure, but still… “It’s right over…there…right?”
And his body apparently determines that the best way to get the answer to that question is to sidle even closer and look up through tired eyes, to sharp features and a wary expression.
“Not…quite,” and he’s close enough to smell the milk on Claude’s breath and close enough to wonder, a bit, about his own breath, from the night before, and it really doesn’t stop mattering once the man lowers his mouth to Peter’s but it sure does matter less.
Yeah, with being backed up against the wall and having a large hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the contact making his skin tingle and nerves buzz, nothing else really seems to matter much at all.
Aside from the way his legs are feeling a little less reliable then they should be, as a tongue pushes its way into his mouth and another hand settles on his hip, and he has to anchor himself, palm pressed to the larger man’s chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt.
And it’s nice, great, fantastic, all consuming and just a little desperate and he’s half hard already and the other man isn’t exactly immune: rocking against him, panting, letting his hand wander, under his shirt and up his back.
He’s just starting to wonder, hazily, about how far the couch is because he’s really not up to standing for much longer, when Claude bites down on his lip a little harder than he really likes and he makes a small, almost unwitting, noise of complaint but it’s enough to make Claude pull away with a start.
And it has to have taken a moment, for them to get disentangled, for that warm, caressing hand to slip out from under his shirt, for his breath to stop brushing against Peter’s face, but it really doesn’t seem like it, because before he can even open his eyes the man’s about three feet away and looking at him like he’s a ghost or about to become one.
“Uh-“
“Door’s over there,” Claude murmurs, almost as if it’s painful for him, and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t come back here again.”
And Peter barely has time to blink, before the man’s disappeared back into the bedroom, leaving him to stumble out into the hallway and lean against the wall, trying to get himself under control.
Which makes the fact that Claude bursts out of the suite a few minutes later, wrapped in a long, ragged looking coat that’s incredibly incongruous with the fact that he is coming out of a suite, rather awkward.
Not that that’s really Peter’s main concern, at the moment.
“I wasn’t waiting for you,” he blurts out, as Claude fixes him with a glare that manages to be bemused and incredibly vicious at the same time. “I’m going that way.”
Unless I die of embarrassment, goes unsaid, as he turns and heads for what he hopes are the elevators, because from the look of numbers on all the doors, he’s on the twentieth floor.
*
“Maybe he’s a vampire,” Peter looks up blearily from his third cup of coffee at altogether too cheerful brown eyes.
“What?”
“Like Angel. A nice one, but he can’t get too attached to-“
“You have time to watch TV?” he asks, because the rest of the sentence isn’t really worth addressing. “When do you have time to watch TV?”
“When I’m not getting picked up at bars by strange men,” Charlie points out with a smile, teasingly, and sits down opposite him.
“He didn’t pick me up,” he tries to hold back his yawn, and fails. “He just…”
“Took you home and let you sleep in his bed?”
“Okay, yeah, but…nothing happened.”
“So he said.”
“You don’t think I could tell?” he glances up and raises an eyebrow. She gives him a look back that pretty clearly indicates that she doesn’t. “I mean…look, I could tell, if anything had…nothing…yeah.”
“Except for the kiss,” she smirks, or tries to, but it really only looks like a particularly bubbly if a bit smug grin.
“Yeah, well…” he can’t help but smile, before shaking his head. “I started it. Or maybe he started it. I don’t…yeah, I don’t really know.”
“You could always go back and try and figure it out…”
“He didn’t…he told me not to.”
“And you’re just gonna listen to what someone tells you?”
“What else am I going to do? Camp out in front of his door and beg him to let me in?”
She shrugs. “Some people would like that.”
“Some people? Like who?” Charlie shrugs again, and Peter shakes his head. “Yeah, not happening. I’ve got to go, anyway, and, uh…” he nods towards the door. “You’ve got to get back to work, too.”
“What…oh,” she seems to smile in spite of herself as she stands up. “Ohayou, Hiro!”
“Good morning, Charlie,” the young man says, carefully, and then beams. “Peter Petrelli!”
“Hi, Hiro,” he smiles back, and starts to stand.
“You leave?” and for all that Peter’s been told he wears his heart on his sleeve, compared to Hiro, he has the best poker face in the world.
“Have to go to work, Hiro. I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe?”
“But last night, the date go well?”
Peter looks back at Charlie to catch her shaking her head spiritedly behind his back, and then stopping once she realizes Peter’s looking.
“It went…okay, thanks,” Peter nods to himself, willing to leave it that, which apparently Charlie is not.
“He made a new…friend.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Made a new friend.”
“Friend is good.”
“Friend is great, Hiro. I’ll see you two tomorrow, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for them to answer, and bolts before he has to explain anything else. Not that they probably care that much, he thinks to himself, as he crosses the street to the hospital.
*
“Hey,” he looks up from his lunch of cafeteria soup and forces a smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” he says, and he doesn’t, for the most part. Forced smiles aside, any reluctance to see her is entirely his own fault. His own problem, and she’s looking entirely apologetic, and this might work out, after all.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she leads off, once she’s settled down in front of him, eyeing the slice of cake and side of fries on her tray as if she isn’t sure how they got there.
“No, don’t worry about it, I…”
“I didn’t know he was going to be there.”
“Really, it’s-“
“Just, you know, he’s still part of the same…circles, and sometimes…”
“Simone,” he says, a little sharply, and hates himself for. “It’s fine, seriously. Okay?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nods, because it is. Mostly. “So your dad’s doing better, I saw.”
“He is, yeah,” Simone lets out a small laugh, and shuts her eyes for a moment. “Yeah, it’s…it’s good. They’ve got him stabilized, might even let him come home soon, you know?”
“I’m sure they will,” he realizes he’s slipped into his “Comfort a patient’s loved ones” voice and isn’t sure if he should slip out of it. “He’s a fighter.”
“He is that,” Simone’s eyes smile, finally, and she picks up her fork, only to put it down. Reaches for his hand instead, and Peter smiles back as their fingers twine together.
She mouths a thank you at him, he acknowledges it with a nod, and they sit like that for a moment, before it gets awkward and they pull their hands apart.
*
“Hey, Peter, wait a sec!”
He turns to see Simone running to catch up with him, and then stopping, smoothing down her shirt as walks the last few steps. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot to ask. Did you get home okay? Because I didn’t see you leave, you know, with the whole…Isaac…thing, and then one of the other guests didn’t show up, and then-“
“Fine,” he says, and nods firmly, which she seems relieved at.
“Okay,” she chuckles, not quite meeting his eye. “I was worried, you know? I didn’t want you to think that I…wasn’t. Worried. Ah...”
“Hey, you were busy, and I just…had to work this morning, so…don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Great,” she nods back, her hand on her forehead now, and her eyes tired. “God, it’s been one hell of a week, you know?”
“I know,” and god, does he. “But hey, it’s almost over, right?”
She lets out a peal of almost hysterical laughter and then stops herself.
“Yeah, just one more…thing, tonight, but then I can…sleep, maybe. If I…”
“Remember how,” they finish together, and Simone gives him a fond smile.
“Yeah,” she says. “Do you want to come? It’ll be at my apartment this time, so you know, no pressure, and….and Isaac won’t be there, for sure, so you don’t…have to worry about that, not that you would, just…”
“It’s okay, Simone.”
“So you’ll come?” she brightens, way too much, and Peter can’t say no. He knows he can’t say no. And he can’t lie, say he’s got something else to do the next morning, because he doesn’t, and she’ll be able to tell.
“What time?” he says, weakly.
“Around seven?”
“Okay,” he nods. “Might be a little late, I have to…work, till seven, but after that…”
“Awesome,” she gives a brisk nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
And she’s gone, in a flurry of white raincoat and knee-high boots and a designer handbag, and he realizes that in the whole half an hour he’s just spent with her, he hasn’t felt at all guilty for the way the morning started.
Because it’s not like they’re dating, not really, not exclusively, even if they are, but it’d been heading there and then last night happened and it hadn’t been, and then it was now, and she had, for all intents and purposes, just invited him over to her apartment the next day.
So maybe he should’ve felt guilty about kissing someone else. About having been more than willing to go all the way with someone else. About thinking something as high school as “all the way” at this point in his life.
But the one he feels most ashamed about is the latter, and he’s not entirely sure what that says about him.
Simone is right, he thinks. It has been one hell of a week.
*
“Peter!” Simone looks so absolutely thrilled to see him that he stops second-guessing his decision to show up, not that it was ever really in question that he would. “You’re here! And you brought wine!”
“Yeah, uh,” he has no idea about wine, but feels something is expected of him, so he starts talking. It’s obviously a mistake. “My brother gave it to me, but I don’t really drink it, so…”
She’s looking at him curiously, one eyebrow up, and Peter feels himself blush before going on. “I have...no idea why I just told you that.”
She grins. “Because you’re so sweet, Peter, that's why. Seriously, this is great,” she takes the bottle from him, and both eyebrows go up. “Awesome, actually, thank you.”
And then she’s leaning in, and Peter’s aiming for her mouth and she’s apparently aiming for his cheek and both of them miss, of course. Bump foreheads, laugh in embarrassment, and separate.
“We better….get upstairs,” she says after another awkward pause, and Peter trots up the stairs after her.
*
He hasn’t been to her apartment before. Well, inside it, at least.
It’s nice, he thinks. He’s seen his share of apartments, large ones, the ones that are meant to intimidate, the ones that are supposed to leave you awed to the point of disconcerting you before you even step into their lavish and all together stunning interiors, and this isn’t one of those.
It’s much bigger than where he’s living at the moment, which isn’t saying much, but it’s cozier than he expects. The walls are a warm red, the furniture looks elegant but identifiable, and while the looks he’s getting from people as he walks in aren’t exactly full of friendly curiosity, there’s the light smell of something wonderful drifting around him and soft music piping over the titters of conversation that wane before he’s able to catch any of the words.
But still. It’s lacking the white starkness of the night before, the icy temperatures and the complete unwillingness of any of the people he made eye contact with to smile back at him, and Peter’s half-way to relaxing as Simone starts introducing him to people before there’s a knock at the door.
Simone looks somewhat surprised at that.
“Did anyone buzz someone in?” she calls out, but gets no response, and just shrugs. Leaves Peter getting a glass of red wine (because it’s what she’s drinking) as she walks over to the door.
She’s greeting someone at the door, beaming in a way he hasn’t seen, he realizes, and he’s half-way through a gulp of not-bad wine when a familiar voice (it shouldn’t be familiar, it shouldn’t be what he’s been thinking about for the past day and a half, shouldn’t be what he’s pretty sure he’d dreamed the night before) startles him into almost choking on it.
*
Peter’s not entirely sure if he can classify himself as in possession of bad luck or good, at the moment.
Because on the one hand: the guest of honor, naturally, turns out to be the one person (well, probably not the one) that he least wants to be dealing with while trying to at least act like a decent date and a good person. The one that for reasons that he can’t quite understand makes him feel predisposed to snap and sulk and be unable to laugh at actually pretty decent jokes and pay some kind of attention to conversations about the future of conceptual art, which is what he instinctually thinks he should be doing, even though he’s not entirely sure what conceptual art actually really is.
It’s not his scene, to say the least; his family had always been about statesmen and lawyers, both, sometimes, just for a change, and dinners like this were always caught up in talks of the good old days when everyone was fascist and Nathan’s time in the navy, with the occasional glimmer of polite interest tossed in Peter’s direction some time around dessert, right before he was sent to bed, usually following a couple of passive-aggressive inquiries as to his plans for the future that he could never really answer to anyone’s satisfaction.
So this is different. No one seems disappointed to find out he’s a nurse, at least. No one seems especially interested, either, except for one very…excitable…man with heavy eyebrows and a white wife-beater who mostly wants to know where all the medical waste ends up, and just how closely it’s guarded.
Peter does his best to answer politely (incinerator, by Otis, who is very nice but mostly because Peter’s never had to cross him), but he keeps getting distracted while trying to avoid Claude’s gaze, not that the man seems to be looking at him at all, and there’s something about that that rankles a little.
He kind of hates himself for caring, almost as much as he hates himself for not being able to pay attention to what Simone is asking him, but he’s momentarily distracted by his half-hearted search for eyes that he’s starting to think are avoiding his, not the other way around, and he blinks.
“Sorry, what?”
“Ice?” she says, looking a little harried. “Could you run over to the kitchen to get some? It’s down the hall and to the left, I’d go but…Miss Hanson is trying to sell me on Damien Hirst being the next Rothko and…” She must see his expression, and stops.
“Ice?” he offers.
“Ice.”
“Baby?” a pretty girl with dark hair and glasses throws out as she walks by, winking at Peter and nodding at Simone.
“Thank you, Wendy,” Simone laughs, no, genuinely giggles, and Peter can’t help laughing a little too, before heading down the hallway she’d pointed out.
Which is pretty nice, too, a rich chocolate brown on the walls and a couple of framed sketches. He doesn’t look too closely, but doesn’t have to, to recognize the signatures.
He hurries up, into the kitchen, pushing past a swinging door and into a bright room that he doesn’t process much of, beyond the scowling, bearded Englishman leaning casually against the large refrigerator.
“Hey,” he offers, with another small wave. Claude just looks at him, as if Peter’s not terribly interesting in and of himself but nevertheless a welcome respite from boredom.
“So you…don’t like people much?” he offers, not entirely sure why he’s bothering.
Claude snorts. “Only took you seeing me hidin’ from a party given in my honor to figure that one out, did it?”
And he notices, the fact that Claude seems willing enough to admit that he’s hiding, because most people, in his experience…wouldn’t.
“I don’t usually get that drunk,” he blurts out, and Claude raises an eyebrow. “Like I was. Two days ago. It…I don’t usually get that-“
“Got it,” Claude nods, and toasts him with a beer he seems to have procured out of nowhere. “Don’t actually care, but got it.”
“And we’re not…dating. Exactly. Me and…Simone and I, so it’s not like I was…” he feels himself blush fiercely and hates himself for giving him the satisfaction. “I wasn’t cheating on her, or anything. It’s…it’s a new thing.”
“Right,” Claude nods, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. On the verge of either, Peter figures. “But you’d still prefer I didn’t mention it?”
“Mention it if you want,” he shrugs, since he’s pretty sure he won’t. Not that it would matter, but it’s still not exactly a stellar display of his character, and at the moment, he has very little else going for him besides his all around decent guy persona.
“Is that all, then?”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “That’s all. No. Wait, I have to get…”
“Ice,” Claude shakes his head, with a kind of fondness in his eyes. “She sent you back here, did she?”
He shrugs, and Claude laughs again.
“’Course she did,” the eyes he’s been wanting to be able to avoid the whole night meet his and he kind of doesn’t know why he bothered. Avoiding them, that is. Because…because they sure are worth looking at.
“Okay, so…can I…” he gestures past Claude, politely.
“You can,” Claude says mildly, and gives a small smile. And does not, of course, move.
He sighs, and steps closer.
And then his hand’s on the handle of the refrigerator, his arm’s curled against Claude’s chest, and his mouth’s pressed against one that’s not especially welcoming and somehow that makes it even harder to pull away.
Must be that he sees it as a challenge, getting Claude to react, more than anything, and that’s why he doesn’t want to move.
Except that he hears a woman laugh, and even though he’s pretty sure the woman in question isn’t Simone, he feels guilty enough to spring away from the warmth and surprising softness that is Claude Rains when stunned, yank the refrigerator open with an amount of force that surprises himself more than the person he displaces with the action, and pull out a bag of ice as fast as he can.
Adrenaline gets him out of the kitchen and into the hallway before he crashes.
Not literally, but mentally, definitely, leans against the wall and sighs, the bag of ice dripping moisture droplets onto perfectly polished wood floors and that’s something else to feel guilty about.
Drip, drip, drip and it’s like the tell-tale heart, beating its icy wet rhythm, before Peter can manage to breathe again and even smile, he thinks, half-way convincingly.
*
“He’s amazing, huh?”
Simone is talking and it takes him a minute to figure out who she’s talking about.
“I…” he offers, with a shrug, as he helps pick up crumpled napkins and used wine glasses.
“Sorry, I guess you wouldn’t…” she nudges the door to the kitchen open with her hip and Peter takes a breath before he follows her in. “Know. He’s like…you know JD Salinger?”
“Personally?” he jokes, and she gives a perfunctory little chuckle and shakes her head.
“Well, he’s like that. Shows up out of nowhere every once in a while, to sell his stuff. Complete free agent, but he’s good at it. Does just enough to keep people interested, always sells out shows when he’s featured. Doesn’t have a contract, you know? He used to, back when my dad…but even that was so long ago, so…” she turns away from the sink. “So I’ve been trying to get him to sign with me. I kinda…need a name. For the gallery.”
“Like a…brand name?” he offers, and realize that his grasp on business might be even worse than his grasp on contemporary art.
“Sort of like that, yeah,” she smiles. “It usually goes the other way, galleries branding artists but…when you’re starting one…it would look pretty good, you know?”
“So do you…do you think he’s going to?”
“God, I have no idea,” she leans back against the counter for a moment, light eyes lost to speculation. “I’ve known him since I was little, and he was always real nice to me, but…” she shrugs. “He’s very noncommittal, you know? I can never tell if he’s just messing with me about it. Anyway. You want to see one?”
“One…?”
“One of his paintings.”
“Uh, yeah,” he gets out before Simone is leading him out of the kitchen and back down the hall, but to the left instead of right.
*
And it is beautiful, he can say that much.
Isn’t exactly a connoisseur of fine arts, but even he can tell, it is beautiful.
Greys and browns and blacks, colors that really shouldn’t match, really shouldn’t be as stunning, and it’s a cityscape, clearly enough, without being recognizable as any city he’s been in.
Simone is next to him, pointing out the lines and the textures, the significance of the uniformity of the buildings, the fact that it’s from an earlier period, how it’s evolved since then, and Peter takes a moment to recognize how her voice changes.
Not so different from his “Comforting a patient’s loved one” shift, he figures, maybe a little more predatory, and he jumps as she lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she says softly. “Just…if you’re interested, I have a…a book. About him.”
“Sure,” he shrugs, because why not, and she pulls away from him, walks over to a well stocked and beautifully finished bookshelf. Pulls out a large volume the cover of which suggests glossy prints and bright colors.
“You…wrote this?” Peter gasps as it’s handed to him, and the weight of it isn’t surprising, but the first page is.
“Well, the writing’s not much,” she kind of smiles, ducks her head, and Peter remembers why he’d fallen in love with her from the start. “But there’s some real nice pictures.”
He almost wants to put the book down and pull her close, just kiss her, once and for all, but then she looks away and the moment’s lost and he might as well flip through while he waits for it to come back.
But the minute he opens the book, he knows he’s screwed.
Because yes, there’s the paintings, ones he realizes he has seen before, a couple of them in the homes of his parents’ friends, maybe one (and he checks the caption to be sure) at the Whitney, but what’s striking, of course, are the pictures of Claude.
Younger than he is, now, limbs long and gangly and awkward, eyes as bright as ever, even more stunning in features he hasn’t quite grown into yet.
Older, with a beard like the one he has now, sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons, and managing to make the act seem like the most intense one of his life.
And one…one amazing shot of him, clean-shaven, dark grey sweater, chin cupped in his hand and looking at something other people didn’t quite seem to see, and Peter’s breath catches just a little.
“You okay, Peter?”
She’s smiling at him, warm and gentle and maybe a little bit scared, and he shuts the book and does his best to smile back.
*
He promises to call her the next day, and he really, really does mean to.
But the morning comes and goes, between shooting victims and a little boy with bruises no one just gets from falling down the stairs, and however hard he tries, and wants to, he knows that whatever he does, it’s really not the time for that sort of thing today.
And then he goes back to the apartment, resisting the temptation to head back to the bar that he now knows for sure he can manage to get completely and totally shitfaced in, and collapses without even changing out of his scrubs.
And then it’s Sunday, and the dreams he had the night before make it not so much a phone call he probably has to make as a face to face discussion, because…well, because she deserves that much, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier for him to finally pick up the phone.
Monday’s not looking much better, in terms of his day, in terms of his mood, but seeing her, head down and hair up, red coat tied on hastily and gait almost too quick for him to catch up with, seems like a sign.
“Hey,” he calls out, and smiles as she turns around.
“Oh,” she lets out a small, wavering laugh. “Peter. I’m sorry I didn’t…you….hi.”
“How’s it going?” he lays a hand on her shoulder and she sighs. “Are you okay?”
“I’m…I’m…yeah, I’m fine,” and then shakes her head. “No, I’m…I’m exhausted. I’m sorry, did you call, I didn’t…I haven’t been home, and…” she brings a hand up to her forehead and laughs again. “I mean, I had a great time with you. On Friday. Forget everything else, I-”
“Hey,” he says, soothing as he can. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Come here.”
And she curls up against him, sniffling against his shoulder, and sighs as he strokes her hair.
“I’m sorry,” he hears her say, after a moment. “I’m sorry, Peter, I don’t…I can’t…I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have said yes, and…I just…Isaac left, and my dad and….I just needed…”
“Hey, it’s okay,” he pats her back, and pulls his head away. “Okay? I understand.”
“Yeah?” she shuts her eyes for a moment, and drops her forehead against his.
“Yeah,” he gives her a quick kiss, and smiles when she opens her eyes. “And I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need.”
“Whatever I need?”
“Anything,” he says, as earnestly as he can, trying his best not to look wary.
“I really, really need a cup of coffee.”
Three cups of decent coffee, a slice of bad pie, two mutual apologies and honest regrets, and yet another hug outside the diner later, he hails her a cab and promises to call.
He jogs back across the street, waving to her one last time before turning around, and takes a deep breath before walking back to the hospital.
And the rest of the day goes by as it always does; too many deaths and too few false alarms. And even though he’s exhausted, and even though he wants nothing more than to collapse into unconsciousness and not think of anything, he doesn’t go back to his apartment.
*
The door opens. He hadn’t expected it to, after the delay between his knocking and the slide of the deadbolt, but it does open, and he does his best not to look entirely surprised.
“Hi,” he says, hands still in his pockets, the vague chill of October air still clinging to him, and shrugs. “I… are you…how are you?”
Blue eyes look at him dispassionately, and Claude doesn’t seem about to throw him any lifelines.
“Okay,” he laughs to himself. “Okay. So you told me not to come back-“
At that, Claude snorts and shakes his head, and Peter presses a hand to the door he’s almost certain is about to be shut in his face.
“But,” he blurts out, and steps closer. “But see, here’s the thing, you kissed me. And…” he swallows, looks at the door frame. “And I kissed you.”
“Long term memory’s intact, then. Congratulations.”
“Claude-“
“Three seconds, mate,” he says, and Peter knows better than to ask what he means, because that would take longer than three seconds.
What doesn’t take longer than three seconds, not that he’s counting, is taking another step, grabbing Claude’s shirt, and yanking him down into another kiss.
Claude doesn’t respond a hell of a lot better to this attempt, still not yielding an inch, his only concession to the situation being that he doesn’t pull away, and after a few seconds like that Peter gives up.
Lets go of Claude’s shirt, takes a step back, and shrugs.
“That’s a no, then,” he says, and is more than a little relieved to realize he isn’t blushing. “Okay. Well, nice you meet you,” Claude doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, coolly, and Peter nods. “See you around. Or not, I guess.”
He’s halfway down the hall when he hears Claude not-quite call out, because that would imply effort, but the words are sharp and easily heard.
“Your girl know you’re here, Pete?”
He turns back slowly, taking a breath as he goes.
“She’s not…we’re not…she’s not anyone’s girl, okay? She’s her own…and we’re not…So don’t…even…”
“She send you here?”
“No,” he blinks. “Why would she?”
Claude steps out of the apartment, and Peter tilts his head, trying to figure out the look on his face. Trying not to get distracted by the very sudden proximity, the way he feels pulled, almost like gravity, to get closer to him.
Another step. Close enough that Peter has to look up to see his face, surprising enough that he might have gasped a little doing it. And Peter’s anticipating another kiss, or getting forced back against the wall, or something that he should probably brace himself for but Claude just looks him over speculatively, nods, and turns around.
Starts walking back to his own door, and stops, suddenly, to throw an almost annoyed look to Peter over his shoulder.
“You comin’ or not?”
“I…” Peter starts shaking his head to clear it, then realizes that’s not what he wants to do, he wants to nod, but the impulses get confused he ends up doing neither in any identifiable way. “Yeah, I…okay?”
And Claude rolls his eyes, waits for him to catch up, and waves him back into the apartment.
Which he doesn’t have much of a chance to look around in, not that he has to, because once he hears the door slam shut behind him he’s being whirled around to face Claude and that’s all he really sees.
*
The kiss (Claude initiates, and Peter thinks it’s probably better to let him take the lead, at least for now) is a little softer than the last one they’d really shared, the last one he hadn’t been doing most of the work for.
Claude’s hands in his hair, or on his cheeks, and he doesn’t seem as willing to touch Peter anywhere else at the moment. Tenses when Peter drops his hands to his waist, but doesn’t stop kissing him.
Tongues and teeth and heat and Claude’s fingers slipping down to his neck, hesitating there, even as Peter presses closer, his hips tight against Claude’s. The man takes a step back and Peter follows, unthinkingly, because Claude’s warmth, the sturdiness of his body, it’s too intoxicating to let go of. And they move back like that, until Claude is flat against the door, his hands still hovering around Peter’s shoulders.
Until Peter moves to undo the man’s belt, and is stopped, very firmly, by heavy fingers around his wrist, followed by sharp teeth on his lower lip, an almost vibrating tension in the chest he’s pressing against. He pulls back.
“What’s…what’s wrong?” Peter pants, and when Claude doesn’t answer, he tries to lean in again.
Claude moves away from him, hands letting go of Peter’s wrist, body seemingly determined not to touch him at all, and Peter tries to catch his breath as Claude turns his head away from him for a moment and glances back as if to make sure he’s still there.
“You sure about this?” he says, and his voice is somehow lower, huskier, sending a buzz of almost jarring heat through Peter.
“What? Yeah. Of course I’m…” he leans in, just enough to look up to through his eyelashes, to angle his body closer. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
Claude laughs at that, not like he’s amused, but Peter doesn’t have the time to try and understand the sound before Claude’s kissing him again.
Harder, this time, a hand around Peter’s neck almost threatening, another half-way through unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his zipper before Peter can even think to return the favor. And that’s with him being pushed back towards a couch he’d pegged as completely uncomfortable looking, but still preferable to the floor or against the wall, which is where he’s pretty sure this is headed.
The fast, rough strokes dwindling all of his mental capabilities beyond moaning make it difficult for him to do anything other than collapse onto none-too-comfortable looking white cushions when Claude shoves him onto them, and it turns out he’s right about the couch.
Way too easy to roll off of, not wide enough to accommodate both of them thrusting and twisting and trying to struggle out of clothing which, in the end, doesn’t really matter that much.
Because Claude comes without Peter doing anything except kissing down his neck and getting his pants open.
And before Peter can react to that, do anything but grin and do his best to remember the sight of Claude underneath him, eyes gone an amazing shade of blue, neck arched, lips parted in an almost silent gasp, he’s rolled off the couch and onto the floor.
Wind knocked out of him, either from the collision or the weight of Claude’s body on top of him, and he doesn’t exactly get a chance to recover as Claude’s mouth is pressed to his and Claude’s hand is around his cock, stroking and twisting.
Quick, rough, and Peter’s bucking up into his grip desperately, fingers grasping tight to Claude’s arms as if fighting to stay above water.
His head falls back against the floor when he comes, and it’s something else to wince at, between the bruises he probably got from falling in the first place to the ache of his lungs as they try to suck in air they’ve been denied.
And he turns his head as Claude rolls off of him, slowly, and he almost thinks, reluctantly. But he doesn’t get a chance to know for sure, because the man’s standing up with surprising speed and settling his clothes and leaving Peter in an exhausted, boneless heap on the floor as he stalks off to the kitchen.
Water running and then shutting off, the refrigerator opening, and Peter still panting and trying not to shiver against the suddenly freezing wooden floor.
By the time he comes back, Peter has zipped up his jeans and tucked in his shirt and clambered onto the couch (first going so far as re-arranging the cushions and he sort of hates himself for it). Regained his breath and, he hopes, at least enough sanity to be a little bit pissed.
Except that Claude gives him a look, one caught between bewilderment and terror, and Peter does his best not to glare or pout or look incredibly displeased.
“You all right?” the man murmurs at him, dropping onto the couch, and Peter nods. “Hit your head, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, and…” and he’s about to mention the bruises he feels on his upper arms and how his back aches and how he thinks his lip might be bleeding except…except Claude is watching him, soft eyes and drops of water coiling down his neck, as he swallows. And then there’s a suddenly tender thumb running along his lip, and Peter figures that’s as much of an apology as he’s going to get.
“Sorry about that,” Claude mumbles, proving him wrong once again, but not quite meeting his eyes. “Didn’t mean to…” thumb easing from Peter’s lower lip to his chin, fingers along the side of his neck, trailing down his shoulder. “Shouldn’t’ve…” down his arm, but when Peter tries to lean closer he’s pushed back. Gently, but still. “It’s been a while,” whispered, almost, as Peter feels the light press of fingers on his chest, lingering and warming. “Since…”
“It’s okay,” he whispers back, and ducks his head. Tries to seek out blue eyes and fails. Chances a small smile, reaches up to tuck a strand of his hair back, and Claude laughs.
Low and not exactly happily, but the hand on his shoulder slides back up around his neck, and then there’s another stroking along the outside of his thigh.
Peter shifts, slowly, makes sure Claude can tell what he’s doing as he moves to straddle the man’s lap. And once he’s there, Claude sighs. Looks up at him, meets his eyes, and Peter smiles a little wider.
“What’s the bag for?” as Claude runs his hands up his thighs, and it takes Peter a minute to realize what he’s talking about.
“Change of clothes,” he says, and Claude smirks.
“That sure I’d be lettin’ you in, were you?”
“No, just…I’m a nurse, and…”
“’course you are,” Claude laughs again, but it’s quieter, companionable, and Peter sucks in a breath. “Caring, tender, and completely lackin’ in ambition, aren’t you?”
“Hey,” he says, hand pressed to Claude’s chest, and the man grins.
“Didn’t say any of that was a bad thing, did I?”
“Sounded like it,” he mumbles, as Claude pulls him closer again, kisses the side of his neck. Amazingly soft and gentle and sweet and when he turns his head, those lips on his are just as amazingly soft and gentle and sweet.
*
His cell phone alarm buzzes at its customary eight-forty a.m. and he almost rolls off the couch before he remembers where he is.
Not home, which means the alarm isn’t under his pillow, easily accessible and minimally disruptive and…“Claude?”
No answer, save the renewed buzz of his phone, still deep in his bag, and he staggers off the couch, zipping up his jeans and holding back a yawn and...still no sign of anyone else in the tastefully bland living room, door to what he thinks he remembers being the bedroom closed, and he’s not going in there.
His hand finally closes over the vibrating phone, and he checks the time.
“Claude?” he calls out again, walking into the kitchen and wondering if he’ll be able to get home, shower, brush his teeth, even, anything to keep from looking and feeling partly hung-over or entirely grungy and there’s no one in there either, no coffee brewing or any signs of life at all and while there’s a part of him that says that at this point, opening the refrigerator would not be overly familiar, he doesn’t.
He looks out the window instead, at a dark-grey sky, which, naturally, means rain, if for no other reason than because he doesn’t have an umbrella, and while he might ask to borrow one and have an excuse to come back to return it, there’s no one to ask and he’s starting to think that might just be intentional.
And he laughs at himself a little, because what can you do, before walking back to the living room to pick up his bag and put on his shoes and fiddle with his shirt and glance around the empty shelves and spotless tables (coffee and dining), for any sign of personality.
Checks the time again, and only about fifteen minutes have gone by, but it’s enough to make him wonder, enough to make him pretty sure he should just leave and maybe come back, again, later, when he regains the ability not to just fall into some strange man’s arms at random and-
And the sound of the door opening jolts him to his feet, and his automatic chirp of “Claude!” is probably about equally embarrassing to both of them.
“Hello,” Claude says, staring at him for a beat longer than comfortable, paper coffee cups in a cheap cardboard container steaming, other hand still on the door handle, and body seemingly reluctant to step further inside. “Sorry about the-Didn’t think you’d be up yet.”
“I have to get to work,” he says, coming closer. “Can I…”
Claude looks blankly at him for a moment as he gestures at the container and then nods, quickly, as Peter takes it from him.
There’s something about the proximity, the way Claude takes a sharp breath, the way his body seems to practically hum with restraint, that makes it impossible for Peter not to shut his eyes and lean up into a quick kiss.
And then pull away, with a laugh, as Claude gives him a vaguely confused look. He turns around to set the coffee on the nearest table, then back, and Claude’s ready for him this time, a little wary, but not unwelcoming, even wrapping an arm around his waist as he leans up again.
“Good morning,” he murmurs after the kiss, arms around his neck and lips still warm, and this really shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is.
Claude sighs, as if maybe wondering about that himself, giving him another one of those almost suspicious looks, which hurts a bit, especially from that close up, but then it’s gone and he’s kissing him again, one last time before letting him go.
*
“So, uh,” he tries not to seem too invested, tries not to glance back as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “You gonna be in later? I get off work at, uh, about seven-thirty, and we could…” he has to turn around, or keep leaning over gracelessly. Gives a hopeful smile as he tucks back a strand of hair. “We could have dinner.”
The pause doesn’t last as long as he thinks it will, even though it’s longer than he would’ve liked, and Claude just nods, almost as if it would be physically painful for him to do anything else.
Which isn’t what Peter would call encouraging, but it’s better than nothing, and Claude, himself, his hands and voice and lips and eyes, god, those eyes, are a whole lot better than nothing.
“Okay,” he says, a little bit breathless again. “I’ll see you. Soon. Thanks for…” everything, sex, letting me use your shower, coffee, not killing me, all sorts of options and all he comes up with is, “The toothbrush.”
“Peter,” and it’s almost too quiet for him to hear, but he does, and turns back one last time, gives another quick smile as Claude nods again. “I’ll see you.”
[Part 1] [ Part 2] [ Part 3] [ Part 4] [ Part 5] [ Part 6]
Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: NC17 overall
Warnings : Lots of gay sex. Some cursing. Too many words all together.
Summary: Peter is a nurse, Claude is an eccentric artist, and my brain is a strange, strange place. Non-powered AU.
Beta: The absolutely fantastic saena17, who is thoroughly, utterly amazing in every way.
[Part 1] [ Part 2] [ Part 3] [ Part 4] [ Part 5] [ Part 6]
There’s a slice of light and sound cutting through the dark street and entirely unexpectedly, he finds himself with a slim, loose, and laughing young man in his arms.
“S…sorry,” he hears him gasp, feels him shift to try and stand; hands grasping at his coat and arms with a lot more interest than he really feels comfortable with. He catches the young man's eye while automatically attempting to steady him and while he normally wouldn't appreciate it, in this case he thinks of making an exception.
“Hi,” soft, dark, and rather unfocused eyes blink up at him, and he chuckles.
“Hiya,” he says, and moves his hands to the young man’s shoulders. “You all right, mate?”
That sets him giggling again. And it’s not charming in the least.
“I’m drunk,” he says, as if it’s a revelation, and lets out another helpless laugh.
“Never woulda guessed.”
“It’s been…a…really bad day, I’m sorry.” The young man shrugs. “Thanks for…I tripped?”
“Right,” he nods, and now that the kid seems capable of standing on his own, tries to make a break for it, and fails, because there’s a hand grabbing at his shirt.
Sure, he could pull away, but the kid’s balance isn’t good enough to keep him upright if he does and he’s not that much of a bastard.
“I like your accent.”
“Fantastic.”
“Australian?”
He has to laugh at that. Hasn’t heard that one before, at least.
“English.”
“Sorry,” no giggling this time, just big brown eyes entirely focused on his, and it’s worse. “You’re…nice.”
“You’ve no idea.”
A small smile. “Would you…like to find out?” And the young man shuts his eyes, brings a hand to his forehead, before opening them. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean,” he answers, and shakes his head.
“I’m…Peter.”
“All right.”
Peter looks at him carefully, and then lets go of his shirt.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to…sorry. Got to get…”
“Home?”
“That’s right!” and Peter gives him an odd, blinking look. “Sorry. Don’t know why I…sorry.”
“’s all right.”
Peter nods at him, and takes a step back. Or tries to, apparently, only to stumble again and of course he feels compelled to catch him.
“I got you, mate,” and he almost wishes he didn’t, because Peter smiles, a little, wraps a hand around his arm and drops his head to Claude’s chest. “Peter?”
“Mm?” half-asleep and entirely drunk and is he…nuzzling? Damn it, he is. What in the fresh hell has he gotten himself into?
“You do realize we just met?”
“Mm.”
A snort, followed by a decidedly watery sniffle, and Claude sighs.
“Right,” and this, really, is perfect. Ideal situation, all around. No cabs that he can see, no idea where he is, not really, and enough sympathy left in him to make leaving the boy in the middle of the street to sleep it off impossible. “Come on, mate, I’ll steal us a cab. Don’t suppose you’d know where to find one?”
“Mmm…” Peter mumbles into his neck, and he resists the urge to pull away from him. “That way?”
An exaggerated handwave to his left, the moment of it making Peter twists in his arms, and finally manage to do what he’s been trying to keep him from doing the past quarter hour. Namely, falling to the ground, entirely unconscious, and Claude sighs again.
Well, it’s a start.
*
The first thing he notices is the smell of coffee.
He’s not a huge fan, it leaves him feeling jittery and strung out, and he’s had enough moments like that lately. But he can tell, this isn’t exactly the top of the line stuff.
Not Starbucks, probably; too…too lacking in milky-sugary-overpriced-ness to be part of their oeuvre.
And he congratulates himself, for a moment, for slipping “oeuvre” into his mental process, and hopes he’s used it correctly.
The second thing he notices is the very not-couch-pillow smoothness under his cheek.
Which is kind of nice, truth be told. Means he won’t have to go around half the morning with intricate patterns etched on his face, at the very least.
And he yawns, nuzzles against the cool softness, and considers maybe just going back to sleep.
Which is where the third thing comes in.
He has no idea where he is, and his shirt is missing.
While technically those are two things, it’s only the combination of the two that has him panicking, just a little bit.
He opens his eyes hesitantly and gives a cursory glance around.
It’s a bedroom. Well, that makes sense. He’s still wearing pants, which is good, and underwear, which is better. It’s morning, so…shit, it’s morning, he’s going to be late, and-
And there’s the sound of a door he hadn’t even noticed (although seriously, of course there would be doors) opening.
He’s not sure whether to sit up or not; he has absolutely no idea who’s about to come through that door, and whoever it is, it’s going to be awkward. Can’t be anything else, encountering someone you don’t know while half naked and in someone else’s bed.
Maybe it’s the someone else’s bed that he’s in, though, which means it's probably not going to be a bad first impression he's about to make, more like a bad continued impression, and...and the man that’s currently leaning against the doorframe like he could quite easily be holding it up and looking at him with a thoroughly curious but not completely unamused expression doesn't seems to be expecting something.
And he’s sure he’ll be embarrassed as hell about it later, but he’s still too hung-over and hazy to think anything but the childishly defensive, “Who the hell are you?” as he sits up.
Realizes about a second too late (and really, he should, one of these days, have a three second delay put on his thought-to-speech mechanism) that he’s said it out loud, as the man bursts out laughing at that.
“Good mornin’ to you, too, mate,” he says, as Peter feels himself blush.
“I…uh…what…” he blinks, at…at whoever he is, the man. He does actually look somewhat familiar, although Peter can’t really…place him.
“Claude,” the man says.
“What?”
“Name,” he speaks slowly and points to himself, as if not sure Peter’ll really get it otherwise. “In case you’re wonderin’.”
“Oh,” Peter lets out a breath. “Sorry.”
“Bet you are.”
“Peter,” he offers, and the man, Claude, apparently, nods.
“Well, the introductory part of the morning having been concluded, do you think the getting up and leavin’ for our respective lives part could take place?”
“I. Well,” Peter swallows, runs a hand through his hair. “Uh. My shirt is…”
“What?” the man barks at him, and his eyes drop to his lap.
“I don’t…”
“You all right there, Pete?”
“I’m…yeah, I’m…I’m okay, I just…”
And he manages to look up, to catch the slight glimmer in Claude’s eyes, and grins.
“You’re screwing with me.”
“Sort of, yeah,” Claude smiles back, and his voice softens. “Are you all right?”
Peter takes a moment. Nods. And as long as he doesn’t think too hard about his headache, or the fact that he feels intensely nauseous, or the fact that there are very large gaps in his memory of the last night, that’s just about true.
“Right,” Claude nods at him, pushes off against the doorframe, and seems about to step closer. Doesn’t, though, just stops.
“Um,” Peter takes a breath. “Last night, did…did we…” he trails off, trying to look less hopeful than doubtful.
“Didn’t,” the man says, and winks, which Peter doesn’t find reassuring. Claude seems to notice that and laughs again. “What, you’d prefer to hear ‘you’d remember if it had’? No fun in that, if you see it comin’. For the record, though. You would’ve.”
“Then my shirt is…”
“In the dumpster, I think. You might’ve vomited all over it, if I recall.”
“You let me sleep in your bed even after I…” he does an elaborate hand tumble of retching representation.
“Well, first off, it’s not really my bed, and honestly, I’d have been shocked if you had anythin’ else in you.”
“Gee,” he swallows again. “Thanks for that.”
“Welcome,” the man nods. “You ready to get up? I’ll lend you a shirt. No need to return it.”
“No, I’ll bring it back, just-“
“No,” his smile is a little sharper than expected, and Peter furrows his brow. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Why…you don’t want me coming back?”
“Clever, aren’t you?” Even sharper, before blue eyes meet his and with a blink, return to basic geniality. “Wouldn’t be appropriate, really.”
And as much as Peter wants to getting into the “Why, exactly?”s and the “What happened last night?”s, the man is standing up, pointing at some sort of Ikea-esque set of drawers that he’s pretty sure wasn’t picked out by the person who uses it, and expressing his desire that Peter speed things up.
*
“Uh…hello?” he calls, cautiously poking his head out into what appears to be the living room, and peering into a small kitchen.
“Yeah, Pete?” comes the response, from behind the refrigerator door. “You leavin’ already, then?”
“I thought you…what are you…uh,” he shakes his head and sighs. “I normally can talk, you know?”
“Yeah, I may’ve…noticed that, last night,” the refrigerator swings shut, and the man glances at him, before uncapping the bottle of milk. “You certainly did your share of-“
“Did I kiss you?” he blurts out, then winces, shuts his eyes at the look of amused surprise on Claude’s face. “Sorry, just…um…did I?”
“Well,” and blue eyes crinkle kind of wonderfully. “You did try.”
“And by try you mean…”
“Your aim could use some improvement, mate, but points for effort.”
Peter sighs, and resists the temptation to let his head drop to the counter top, and maybe hit it a couple of times.
“Well,” he says, after a moment. “Thank you. For…everything.”
“Mmm,” is the only response, over a swig of milk, straight from the bottle, and there’s something so…oddly endearing in that.
“I…you live here?” he clears his throat as Claude puts the milk down.
“For the time being.”
“You’re visiting?”
“Yeah,” he says, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.
“Are you-“
“Listen, Pete, I’d like to say I appreciate your curiosity but I couldn’t bear the thought of lyin’ to you, so if you could just be on your way, I think it’d really be better for us both, right?”
“Okay,” he blushes, like an idiot, and can’t hold back a giggle from nervousness. “Okay. Yeah. Then I’m just going to go, so…”
“Fantastic,” Claude says, and really seems to mean it, which Peter realizes he should probably feel a little hurt about. “I’ll see you out, then.”
“Oh, I can…find the door if I…” and the man is standing awfully close, unintentionally, he’s pretty sure, but still… “It’s right over…there…right?”
And his body apparently determines that the best way to get the answer to that question is to sidle even closer and look up through tired eyes, to sharp features and a wary expression.
“Not…quite,” and he’s close enough to smell the milk on Claude’s breath and close enough to wonder, a bit, about his own breath, from the night before, and it really doesn’t stop mattering once the man lowers his mouth to Peter’s but it sure does matter less.
Yeah, with being backed up against the wall and having a large hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the contact making his skin tingle and nerves buzz, nothing else really seems to matter much at all.
Aside from the way his legs are feeling a little less reliable then they should be, as a tongue pushes its way into his mouth and another hand settles on his hip, and he has to anchor himself, palm pressed to the larger man’s chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt.
And it’s nice, great, fantastic, all consuming and just a little desperate and he’s half hard already and the other man isn’t exactly immune: rocking against him, panting, letting his hand wander, under his shirt and up his back.
He’s just starting to wonder, hazily, about how far the couch is because he’s really not up to standing for much longer, when Claude bites down on his lip a little harder than he really likes and he makes a small, almost unwitting, noise of complaint but it’s enough to make Claude pull away with a start.
And it has to have taken a moment, for them to get disentangled, for that warm, caressing hand to slip out from under his shirt, for his breath to stop brushing against Peter’s face, but it really doesn’t seem like it, because before he can even open his eyes the man’s about three feet away and looking at him like he’s a ghost or about to become one.
“Uh-“
“Door’s over there,” Claude murmurs, almost as if it’s painful for him, and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t come back here again.”
And Peter barely has time to blink, before the man’s disappeared back into the bedroom, leaving him to stumble out into the hallway and lean against the wall, trying to get himself under control.
Which makes the fact that Claude bursts out of the suite a few minutes later, wrapped in a long, ragged looking coat that’s incredibly incongruous with the fact that he is coming out of a suite, rather awkward.
Not that that’s really Peter’s main concern, at the moment.
“I wasn’t waiting for you,” he blurts out, as Claude fixes him with a glare that manages to be bemused and incredibly vicious at the same time. “I’m going that way.”
Unless I die of embarrassment, goes unsaid, as he turns and heads for what he hopes are the elevators, because from the look of numbers on all the doors, he’s on the twentieth floor.
*
“Maybe he’s a vampire,” Peter looks up blearily from his third cup of coffee at altogether too cheerful brown eyes.
“What?”
“Like Angel. A nice one, but he can’t get too attached to-“
“You have time to watch TV?” he asks, because the rest of the sentence isn’t really worth addressing. “When do you have time to watch TV?”
“When I’m not getting picked up at bars by strange men,” Charlie points out with a smile, teasingly, and sits down opposite him.
“He didn’t pick me up,” he tries to hold back his yawn, and fails. “He just…”
“Took you home and let you sleep in his bed?”
“Okay, yeah, but…nothing happened.”
“So he said.”
“You don’t think I could tell?” he glances up and raises an eyebrow. She gives him a look back that pretty clearly indicates that she doesn’t. “I mean…look, I could tell, if anything had…nothing…yeah.”
“Except for the kiss,” she smirks, or tries to, but it really only looks like a particularly bubbly if a bit smug grin.
“Yeah, well…” he can’t help but smile, before shaking his head. “I started it. Or maybe he started it. I don’t…yeah, I don’t really know.”
“You could always go back and try and figure it out…”
“He didn’t…he told me not to.”
“And you’re just gonna listen to what someone tells you?”
“What else am I going to do? Camp out in front of his door and beg him to let me in?”
She shrugs. “Some people would like that.”
“Some people? Like who?” Charlie shrugs again, and Peter shakes his head. “Yeah, not happening. I’ve got to go, anyway, and, uh…” he nods towards the door. “You’ve got to get back to work, too.”
“What…oh,” she seems to smile in spite of herself as she stands up. “Ohayou, Hiro!”
“Good morning, Charlie,” the young man says, carefully, and then beams. “Peter Petrelli!”
“Hi, Hiro,” he smiles back, and starts to stand.
“You leave?” and for all that Peter’s been told he wears his heart on his sleeve, compared to Hiro, he has the best poker face in the world.
“Have to go to work, Hiro. I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe?”
“But last night, the date go well?”
Peter looks back at Charlie to catch her shaking her head spiritedly behind his back, and then stopping once she realizes Peter’s looking.
“It went…okay, thanks,” Peter nods to himself, willing to leave it that, which apparently Charlie is not.
“He made a new…friend.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Made a new friend.”
“Friend is good.”
“Friend is great, Hiro. I’ll see you two tomorrow, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for them to answer, and bolts before he has to explain anything else. Not that they probably care that much, he thinks to himself, as he crosses the street to the hospital.
*
“Hey,” he looks up from his lunch of cafeteria soup and forces a smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” he says, and he doesn’t, for the most part. Forced smiles aside, any reluctance to see her is entirely his own fault. His own problem, and she’s looking entirely apologetic, and this might work out, after all.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she leads off, once she’s settled down in front of him, eyeing the slice of cake and side of fries on her tray as if she isn’t sure how they got there.
“No, don’t worry about it, I…”
“I didn’t know he was going to be there.”
“Really, it’s-“
“Just, you know, he’s still part of the same…circles, and sometimes…”
“Simone,” he says, a little sharply, and hates himself for. “It’s fine, seriously. Okay?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nods, because it is. Mostly. “So your dad’s doing better, I saw.”
“He is, yeah,” Simone lets out a small laugh, and shuts her eyes for a moment. “Yeah, it’s…it’s good. They’ve got him stabilized, might even let him come home soon, you know?”
“I’m sure they will,” he realizes he’s slipped into his “Comfort a patient’s loved ones” voice and isn’t sure if he should slip out of it. “He’s a fighter.”
“He is that,” Simone’s eyes smile, finally, and she picks up her fork, only to put it down. Reaches for his hand instead, and Peter smiles back as their fingers twine together.
She mouths a thank you at him, he acknowledges it with a nod, and they sit like that for a moment, before it gets awkward and they pull their hands apart.
*
“Hey, Peter, wait a sec!”
He turns to see Simone running to catch up with him, and then stopping, smoothing down her shirt as walks the last few steps. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot to ask. Did you get home okay? Because I didn’t see you leave, you know, with the whole…Isaac…thing, and then one of the other guests didn’t show up, and then-“
“Fine,” he says, and nods firmly, which she seems relieved at.
“Okay,” she chuckles, not quite meeting his eye. “I was worried, you know? I didn’t want you to think that I…wasn’t. Worried. Ah...”
“Hey, you were busy, and I just…had to work this morning, so…don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Great,” she nods back, her hand on her forehead now, and her eyes tired. “God, it’s been one hell of a week, you know?”
“I know,” and god, does he. “But hey, it’s almost over, right?”
She lets out a peal of almost hysterical laughter and then stops herself.
“Yeah, just one more…thing, tonight, but then I can…sleep, maybe. If I…”
“Remember how,” they finish together, and Simone gives him a fond smile.
“Yeah,” she says. “Do you want to come? It’ll be at my apartment this time, so you know, no pressure, and….and Isaac won’t be there, for sure, so you don’t…have to worry about that, not that you would, just…”
“It’s okay, Simone.”
“So you’ll come?” she brightens, way too much, and Peter can’t say no. He knows he can’t say no. And he can’t lie, say he’s got something else to do the next morning, because he doesn’t, and she’ll be able to tell.
“What time?” he says, weakly.
“Around seven?”
“Okay,” he nods. “Might be a little late, I have to…work, till seven, but after that…”
“Awesome,” she gives a brisk nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
And she’s gone, in a flurry of white raincoat and knee-high boots and a designer handbag, and he realizes that in the whole half an hour he’s just spent with her, he hasn’t felt at all guilty for the way the morning started.
Because it’s not like they’re dating, not really, not exclusively, even if they are, but it’d been heading there and then last night happened and it hadn’t been, and then it was now, and she had, for all intents and purposes, just invited him over to her apartment the next day.
So maybe he should’ve felt guilty about kissing someone else. About having been more than willing to go all the way with someone else. About thinking something as high school as “all the way” at this point in his life.
But the one he feels most ashamed about is the latter, and he’s not entirely sure what that says about him.
Simone is right, he thinks. It has been one hell of a week.
*
“Peter!” Simone looks so absolutely thrilled to see him that he stops second-guessing his decision to show up, not that it was ever really in question that he would. “You’re here! And you brought wine!”
“Yeah, uh,” he has no idea about wine, but feels something is expected of him, so he starts talking. It’s obviously a mistake. “My brother gave it to me, but I don’t really drink it, so…”
She’s looking at him curiously, one eyebrow up, and Peter feels himself blush before going on. “I have...no idea why I just told you that.”
She grins. “Because you’re so sweet, Peter, that's why. Seriously, this is great,” she takes the bottle from him, and both eyebrows go up. “Awesome, actually, thank you.”
And then she’s leaning in, and Peter’s aiming for her mouth and she’s apparently aiming for his cheek and both of them miss, of course. Bump foreheads, laugh in embarrassment, and separate.
“We better….get upstairs,” she says after another awkward pause, and Peter trots up the stairs after her.
*
He hasn’t been to her apartment before. Well, inside it, at least.
It’s nice, he thinks. He’s seen his share of apartments, large ones, the ones that are meant to intimidate, the ones that are supposed to leave you awed to the point of disconcerting you before you even step into their lavish and all together stunning interiors, and this isn’t one of those.
It’s much bigger than where he’s living at the moment, which isn’t saying much, but it’s cozier than he expects. The walls are a warm red, the furniture looks elegant but identifiable, and while the looks he’s getting from people as he walks in aren’t exactly full of friendly curiosity, there’s the light smell of something wonderful drifting around him and soft music piping over the titters of conversation that wane before he’s able to catch any of the words.
But still. It’s lacking the white starkness of the night before, the icy temperatures and the complete unwillingness of any of the people he made eye contact with to smile back at him, and Peter’s half-way to relaxing as Simone starts introducing him to people before there’s a knock at the door.
Simone looks somewhat surprised at that.
“Did anyone buzz someone in?” she calls out, but gets no response, and just shrugs. Leaves Peter getting a glass of red wine (because it’s what she’s drinking) as she walks over to the door.
She’s greeting someone at the door, beaming in a way he hasn’t seen, he realizes, and he’s half-way through a gulp of not-bad wine when a familiar voice (it shouldn’t be familiar, it shouldn’t be what he’s been thinking about for the past day and a half, shouldn’t be what he’s pretty sure he’d dreamed the night before) startles him into almost choking on it.
*
Peter’s not entirely sure if he can classify himself as in possession of bad luck or good, at the moment.
Because on the one hand: the guest of honor, naturally, turns out to be the one person (well, probably not the one) that he least wants to be dealing with while trying to at least act like a decent date and a good person. The one that for reasons that he can’t quite understand makes him feel predisposed to snap and sulk and be unable to laugh at actually pretty decent jokes and pay some kind of attention to conversations about the future of conceptual art, which is what he instinctually thinks he should be doing, even though he’s not entirely sure what conceptual art actually really is.
It’s not his scene, to say the least; his family had always been about statesmen and lawyers, both, sometimes, just for a change, and dinners like this were always caught up in talks of the good old days when everyone was fascist and Nathan’s time in the navy, with the occasional glimmer of polite interest tossed in Peter’s direction some time around dessert, right before he was sent to bed, usually following a couple of passive-aggressive inquiries as to his plans for the future that he could never really answer to anyone’s satisfaction.
So this is different. No one seems disappointed to find out he’s a nurse, at least. No one seems especially interested, either, except for one very…excitable…man with heavy eyebrows and a white wife-beater who mostly wants to know where all the medical waste ends up, and just how closely it’s guarded.
Peter does his best to answer politely (incinerator, by Otis, who is very nice but mostly because Peter’s never had to cross him), but he keeps getting distracted while trying to avoid Claude’s gaze, not that the man seems to be looking at him at all, and there’s something about that that rankles a little.
He kind of hates himself for caring, almost as much as he hates himself for not being able to pay attention to what Simone is asking him, but he’s momentarily distracted by his half-hearted search for eyes that he’s starting to think are avoiding his, not the other way around, and he blinks.
“Sorry, what?”
“Ice?” she says, looking a little harried. “Could you run over to the kitchen to get some? It’s down the hall and to the left, I’d go but…Miss Hanson is trying to sell me on Damien Hirst being the next Rothko and…” She must see his expression, and stops.
“Ice?” he offers.
“Ice.”
“Baby?” a pretty girl with dark hair and glasses throws out as she walks by, winking at Peter and nodding at Simone.
“Thank you, Wendy,” Simone laughs, no, genuinely giggles, and Peter can’t help laughing a little too, before heading down the hallway she’d pointed out.
Which is pretty nice, too, a rich chocolate brown on the walls and a couple of framed sketches. He doesn’t look too closely, but doesn’t have to, to recognize the signatures.
He hurries up, into the kitchen, pushing past a swinging door and into a bright room that he doesn’t process much of, beyond the scowling, bearded Englishman leaning casually against the large refrigerator.
“Hey,” he offers, with another small wave. Claude just looks at him, as if Peter’s not terribly interesting in and of himself but nevertheless a welcome respite from boredom.
“So you…don’t like people much?” he offers, not entirely sure why he’s bothering.
Claude snorts. “Only took you seeing me hidin’ from a party given in my honor to figure that one out, did it?”
And he notices, the fact that Claude seems willing enough to admit that he’s hiding, because most people, in his experience…wouldn’t.
“I don’t usually get that drunk,” he blurts out, and Claude raises an eyebrow. “Like I was. Two days ago. It…I don’t usually get that-“
“Got it,” Claude nods, and toasts him with a beer he seems to have procured out of nowhere. “Don’t actually care, but got it.”
“And we’re not…dating. Exactly. Me and…Simone and I, so it’s not like I was…” he feels himself blush fiercely and hates himself for giving him the satisfaction. “I wasn’t cheating on her, or anything. It’s…it’s a new thing.”
“Right,” Claude nods, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. On the verge of either, Peter figures. “But you’d still prefer I didn’t mention it?”
“Mention it if you want,” he shrugs, since he’s pretty sure he won’t. Not that it would matter, but it’s still not exactly a stellar display of his character, and at the moment, he has very little else going for him besides his all around decent guy persona.
“Is that all, then?”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “That’s all. No. Wait, I have to get…”
“Ice,” Claude shakes his head, with a kind of fondness in his eyes. “She sent you back here, did she?”
He shrugs, and Claude laughs again.
“’Course she did,” the eyes he’s been wanting to be able to avoid the whole night meet his and he kind of doesn’t know why he bothered. Avoiding them, that is. Because…because they sure are worth looking at.
“Okay, so…can I…” he gestures past Claude, politely.
“You can,” Claude says mildly, and gives a small smile. And does not, of course, move.
He sighs, and steps closer.
And then his hand’s on the handle of the refrigerator, his arm’s curled against Claude’s chest, and his mouth’s pressed against one that’s not especially welcoming and somehow that makes it even harder to pull away.
Must be that he sees it as a challenge, getting Claude to react, more than anything, and that’s why he doesn’t want to move.
Except that he hears a woman laugh, and even though he’s pretty sure the woman in question isn’t Simone, he feels guilty enough to spring away from the warmth and surprising softness that is Claude Rains when stunned, yank the refrigerator open with an amount of force that surprises himself more than the person he displaces with the action, and pull out a bag of ice as fast as he can.
Adrenaline gets him out of the kitchen and into the hallway before he crashes.
Not literally, but mentally, definitely, leans against the wall and sighs, the bag of ice dripping moisture droplets onto perfectly polished wood floors and that’s something else to feel guilty about.
Drip, drip, drip and it’s like the tell-tale heart, beating its icy wet rhythm, before Peter can manage to breathe again and even smile, he thinks, half-way convincingly.
*
“He’s amazing, huh?”
Simone is talking and it takes him a minute to figure out who she’s talking about.
“I…” he offers, with a shrug, as he helps pick up crumpled napkins and used wine glasses.
“Sorry, I guess you wouldn’t…” she nudges the door to the kitchen open with her hip and Peter takes a breath before he follows her in. “Know. He’s like…you know JD Salinger?”
“Personally?” he jokes, and she gives a perfunctory little chuckle and shakes her head.
“Well, he’s like that. Shows up out of nowhere every once in a while, to sell his stuff. Complete free agent, but he’s good at it. Does just enough to keep people interested, always sells out shows when he’s featured. Doesn’t have a contract, you know? He used to, back when my dad…but even that was so long ago, so…” she turns away from the sink. “So I’ve been trying to get him to sign with me. I kinda…need a name. For the gallery.”
“Like a…brand name?” he offers, and realize that his grasp on business might be even worse than his grasp on contemporary art.
“Sort of like that, yeah,” she smiles. “It usually goes the other way, galleries branding artists but…when you’re starting one…it would look pretty good, you know?”
“So do you…do you think he’s going to?”
“God, I have no idea,” she leans back against the counter for a moment, light eyes lost to speculation. “I’ve known him since I was little, and he was always real nice to me, but…” she shrugs. “He’s very noncommittal, you know? I can never tell if he’s just messing with me about it. Anyway. You want to see one?”
“One…?”
“One of his paintings.”
“Uh, yeah,” he gets out before Simone is leading him out of the kitchen and back down the hall, but to the left instead of right.
*
And it is beautiful, he can say that much.
Isn’t exactly a connoisseur of fine arts, but even he can tell, it is beautiful.
Greys and browns and blacks, colors that really shouldn’t match, really shouldn’t be as stunning, and it’s a cityscape, clearly enough, without being recognizable as any city he’s been in.
Simone is next to him, pointing out the lines and the textures, the significance of the uniformity of the buildings, the fact that it’s from an earlier period, how it’s evolved since then, and Peter takes a moment to recognize how her voice changes.
Not so different from his “Comforting a patient’s loved one” shift, he figures, maybe a little more predatory, and he jumps as she lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she says softly. “Just…if you’re interested, I have a…a book. About him.”
“Sure,” he shrugs, because why not, and she pulls away from him, walks over to a well stocked and beautifully finished bookshelf. Pulls out a large volume the cover of which suggests glossy prints and bright colors.
“You…wrote this?” Peter gasps as it’s handed to him, and the weight of it isn’t surprising, but the first page is.
“Well, the writing’s not much,” she kind of smiles, ducks her head, and Peter remembers why he’d fallen in love with her from the start. “But there’s some real nice pictures.”
He almost wants to put the book down and pull her close, just kiss her, once and for all, but then she looks away and the moment’s lost and he might as well flip through while he waits for it to come back.
But the minute he opens the book, he knows he’s screwed.
Because yes, there’s the paintings, ones he realizes he has seen before, a couple of them in the homes of his parents’ friends, maybe one (and he checks the caption to be sure) at the Whitney, but what’s striking, of course, are the pictures of Claude.
Younger than he is, now, limbs long and gangly and awkward, eyes as bright as ever, even more stunning in features he hasn’t quite grown into yet.
Older, with a beard like the one he has now, sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons, and managing to make the act seem like the most intense one of his life.
And one…one amazing shot of him, clean-shaven, dark grey sweater, chin cupped in his hand and looking at something other people didn’t quite seem to see, and Peter’s breath catches just a little.
“You okay, Peter?”
She’s smiling at him, warm and gentle and maybe a little bit scared, and he shuts the book and does his best to smile back.
*
He promises to call her the next day, and he really, really does mean to.
But the morning comes and goes, between shooting victims and a little boy with bruises no one just gets from falling down the stairs, and however hard he tries, and wants to, he knows that whatever he does, it’s really not the time for that sort of thing today.
And then he goes back to the apartment, resisting the temptation to head back to the bar that he now knows for sure he can manage to get completely and totally shitfaced in, and collapses without even changing out of his scrubs.
And then it’s Sunday, and the dreams he had the night before make it not so much a phone call he probably has to make as a face to face discussion, because…well, because she deserves that much, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier for him to finally pick up the phone.
Monday’s not looking much better, in terms of his day, in terms of his mood, but seeing her, head down and hair up, red coat tied on hastily and gait almost too quick for him to catch up with, seems like a sign.
“Hey,” he calls out, and smiles as she turns around.
“Oh,” she lets out a small, wavering laugh. “Peter. I’m sorry I didn’t…you….hi.”
“How’s it going?” he lays a hand on her shoulder and she sighs. “Are you okay?”
“I’m…I’m…yeah, I’m fine,” and then shakes her head. “No, I’m…I’m exhausted. I’m sorry, did you call, I didn’t…I haven’t been home, and…” she brings a hand up to her forehead and laughs again. “I mean, I had a great time with you. On Friday. Forget everything else, I-”
“Hey,” he says, soothing as he can. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Come here.”
And she curls up against him, sniffling against his shoulder, and sighs as he strokes her hair.
“I’m sorry,” he hears her say, after a moment. “I’m sorry, Peter, I don’t…I can’t…I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have said yes, and…I just…Isaac left, and my dad and….I just needed…”
“Hey, it’s okay,” he pats her back, and pulls his head away. “Okay? I understand.”
“Yeah?” she shuts her eyes for a moment, and drops her forehead against his.
“Yeah,” he gives her a quick kiss, and smiles when she opens her eyes. “And I’m here for you, okay? Whatever you need.”
“Whatever I need?”
“Anything,” he says, as earnestly as he can, trying his best not to look wary.
“I really, really need a cup of coffee.”
Three cups of decent coffee, a slice of bad pie, two mutual apologies and honest regrets, and yet another hug outside the diner later, he hails her a cab and promises to call.
He jogs back across the street, waving to her one last time before turning around, and takes a deep breath before walking back to the hospital.
And the rest of the day goes by as it always does; too many deaths and too few false alarms. And even though he’s exhausted, and even though he wants nothing more than to collapse into unconsciousness and not think of anything, he doesn’t go back to his apartment.
*
The door opens. He hadn’t expected it to, after the delay between his knocking and the slide of the deadbolt, but it does open, and he does his best not to look entirely surprised.
“Hi,” he says, hands still in his pockets, the vague chill of October air still clinging to him, and shrugs. “I… are you…how are you?”
Blue eyes look at him dispassionately, and Claude doesn’t seem about to throw him any lifelines.
“Okay,” he laughs to himself. “Okay. So you told me not to come back-“
At that, Claude snorts and shakes his head, and Peter presses a hand to the door he’s almost certain is about to be shut in his face.
“But,” he blurts out, and steps closer. “But see, here’s the thing, you kissed me. And…” he swallows, looks at the door frame. “And I kissed you.”
“Long term memory’s intact, then. Congratulations.”
“Claude-“
“Three seconds, mate,” he says, and Peter knows better than to ask what he means, because that would take longer than three seconds.
What doesn’t take longer than three seconds, not that he’s counting, is taking another step, grabbing Claude’s shirt, and yanking him down into another kiss.
Claude doesn’t respond a hell of a lot better to this attempt, still not yielding an inch, his only concession to the situation being that he doesn’t pull away, and after a few seconds like that Peter gives up.
Lets go of Claude’s shirt, takes a step back, and shrugs.
“That’s a no, then,” he says, and is more than a little relieved to realize he isn’t blushing. “Okay. Well, nice you meet you,” Claude doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, coolly, and Peter nods. “See you around. Or not, I guess.”
He’s halfway down the hall when he hears Claude not-quite call out, because that would imply effort, but the words are sharp and easily heard.
“Your girl know you’re here, Pete?”
He turns back slowly, taking a breath as he goes.
“She’s not…we’re not…she’s not anyone’s girl, okay? She’s her own…and we’re not…So don’t…even…”
“She send you here?”
“No,” he blinks. “Why would she?”
Claude steps out of the apartment, and Peter tilts his head, trying to figure out the look on his face. Trying not to get distracted by the very sudden proximity, the way he feels pulled, almost like gravity, to get closer to him.
Another step. Close enough that Peter has to look up to see his face, surprising enough that he might have gasped a little doing it. And Peter’s anticipating another kiss, or getting forced back against the wall, or something that he should probably brace himself for but Claude just looks him over speculatively, nods, and turns around.
Starts walking back to his own door, and stops, suddenly, to throw an almost annoyed look to Peter over his shoulder.
“You comin’ or not?”
“I…” Peter starts shaking his head to clear it, then realizes that’s not what he wants to do, he wants to nod, but the impulses get confused he ends up doing neither in any identifiable way. “Yeah, I…okay?”
And Claude rolls his eyes, waits for him to catch up, and waves him back into the apartment.
Which he doesn’t have much of a chance to look around in, not that he has to, because once he hears the door slam shut behind him he’s being whirled around to face Claude and that’s all he really sees.
*
The kiss (Claude initiates, and Peter thinks it’s probably better to let him take the lead, at least for now) is a little softer than the last one they’d really shared, the last one he hadn’t been doing most of the work for.
Claude’s hands in his hair, or on his cheeks, and he doesn’t seem as willing to touch Peter anywhere else at the moment. Tenses when Peter drops his hands to his waist, but doesn’t stop kissing him.
Tongues and teeth and heat and Claude’s fingers slipping down to his neck, hesitating there, even as Peter presses closer, his hips tight against Claude’s. The man takes a step back and Peter follows, unthinkingly, because Claude’s warmth, the sturdiness of his body, it’s too intoxicating to let go of. And they move back like that, until Claude is flat against the door, his hands still hovering around Peter’s shoulders.
Until Peter moves to undo the man’s belt, and is stopped, very firmly, by heavy fingers around his wrist, followed by sharp teeth on his lower lip, an almost vibrating tension in the chest he’s pressing against. He pulls back.
“What’s…what’s wrong?” Peter pants, and when Claude doesn’t answer, he tries to lean in again.
Claude moves away from him, hands letting go of Peter’s wrist, body seemingly determined not to touch him at all, and Peter tries to catch his breath as Claude turns his head away from him for a moment and glances back as if to make sure he’s still there.
“You sure about this?” he says, and his voice is somehow lower, huskier, sending a buzz of almost jarring heat through Peter.
“What? Yeah. Of course I’m…” he leans in, just enough to look up to through his eyelashes, to angle his body closer. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
Claude laughs at that, not like he’s amused, but Peter doesn’t have the time to try and understand the sound before Claude’s kissing him again.
Harder, this time, a hand around Peter’s neck almost threatening, another half-way through unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his zipper before Peter can even think to return the favor. And that’s with him being pushed back towards a couch he’d pegged as completely uncomfortable looking, but still preferable to the floor or against the wall, which is where he’s pretty sure this is headed.
The fast, rough strokes dwindling all of his mental capabilities beyond moaning make it difficult for him to do anything other than collapse onto none-too-comfortable looking white cushions when Claude shoves him onto them, and it turns out he’s right about the couch.
Way too easy to roll off of, not wide enough to accommodate both of them thrusting and twisting and trying to struggle out of clothing which, in the end, doesn’t really matter that much.
Because Claude comes without Peter doing anything except kissing down his neck and getting his pants open.
And before Peter can react to that, do anything but grin and do his best to remember the sight of Claude underneath him, eyes gone an amazing shade of blue, neck arched, lips parted in an almost silent gasp, he’s rolled off the couch and onto the floor.
Wind knocked out of him, either from the collision or the weight of Claude’s body on top of him, and he doesn’t exactly get a chance to recover as Claude’s mouth is pressed to his and Claude’s hand is around his cock, stroking and twisting.
Quick, rough, and Peter’s bucking up into his grip desperately, fingers grasping tight to Claude’s arms as if fighting to stay above water.
His head falls back against the floor when he comes, and it’s something else to wince at, between the bruises he probably got from falling in the first place to the ache of his lungs as they try to suck in air they’ve been denied.
And he turns his head as Claude rolls off of him, slowly, and he almost thinks, reluctantly. But he doesn’t get a chance to know for sure, because the man’s standing up with surprising speed and settling his clothes and leaving Peter in an exhausted, boneless heap on the floor as he stalks off to the kitchen.
Water running and then shutting off, the refrigerator opening, and Peter still panting and trying not to shiver against the suddenly freezing wooden floor.
By the time he comes back, Peter has zipped up his jeans and tucked in his shirt and clambered onto the couch (first going so far as re-arranging the cushions and he sort of hates himself for it). Regained his breath and, he hopes, at least enough sanity to be a little bit pissed.
Except that Claude gives him a look, one caught between bewilderment and terror, and Peter does his best not to glare or pout or look incredibly displeased.
“You all right?” the man murmurs at him, dropping onto the couch, and Peter nods. “Hit your head, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, and…” and he’s about to mention the bruises he feels on his upper arms and how his back aches and how he thinks his lip might be bleeding except…except Claude is watching him, soft eyes and drops of water coiling down his neck, as he swallows. And then there’s a suddenly tender thumb running along his lip, and Peter figures that’s as much of an apology as he’s going to get.
“Sorry about that,” Claude mumbles, proving him wrong once again, but not quite meeting his eyes. “Didn’t mean to…” thumb easing from Peter’s lower lip to his chin, fingers along the side of his neck, trailing down his shoulder. “Shouldn’t’ve…” down his arm, but when Peter tries to lean closer he’s pushed back. Gently, but still. “It’s been a while,” whispered, almost, as Peter feels the light press of fingers on his chest, lingering and warming. “Since…”
“It’s okay,” he whispers back, and ducks his head. Tries to seek out blue eyes and fails. Chances a small smile, reaches up to tuck a strand of his hair back, and Claude laughs.
Low and not exactly happily, but the hand on his shoulder slides back up around his neck, and then there’s another stroking along the outside of his thigh.
Peter shifts, slowly, makes sure Claude can tell what he’s doing as he moves to straddle the man’s lap. And once he’s there, Claude sighs. Looks up at him, meets his eyes, and Peter smiles a little wider.
“What’s the bag for?” as Claude runs his hands up his thighs, and it takes Peter a minute to realize what he’s talking about.
“Change of clothes,” he says, and Claude smirks.
“That sure I’d be lettin’ you in, were you?”
“No, just…I’m a nurse, and…”
“’course you are,” Claude laughs again, but it’s quieter, companionable, and Peter sucks in a breath. “Caring, tender, and completely lackin’ in ambition, aren’t you?”
“Hey,” he says, hand pressed to Claude’s chest, and the man grins.
“Didn’t say any of that was a bad thing, did I?”
“Sounded like it,” he mumbles, as Claude pulls him closer again, kisses the side of his neck. Amazingly soft and gentle and sweet and when he turns his head, those lips on his are just as amazingly soft and gentle and sweet.
*
His cell phone alarm buzzes at its customary eight-forty a.m. and he almost rolls off the couch before he remembers where he is.
Not home, which means the alarm isn’t under his pillow, easily accessible and minimally disruptive and…“Claude?”
No answer, save the renewed buzz of his phone, still deep in his bag, and he staggers off the couch, zipping up his jeans and holding back a yawn and...still no sign of anyone else in the tastefully bland living room, door to what he thinks he remembers being the bedroom closed, and he’s not going in there.
His hand finally closes over the vibrating phone, and he checks the time.
“Claude?” he calls out again, walking into the kitchen and wondering if he’ll be able to get home, shower, brush his teeth, even, anything to keep from looking and feeling partly hung-over or entirely grungy and there’s no one in there either, no coffee brewing or any signs of life at all and while there’s a part of him that says that at this point, opening the refrigerator would not be overly familiar, he doesn’t.
He looks out the window instead, at a dark-grey sky, which, naturally, means rain, if for no other reason than because he doesn’t have an umbrella, and while he might ask to borrow one and have an excuse to come back to return it, there’s no one to ask and he’s starting to think that might just be intentional.
And he laughs at himself a little, because what can you do, before walking back to the living room to pick up his bag and put on his shoes and fiddle with his shirt and glance around the empty shelves and spotless tables (coffee and dining), for any sign of personality.
Checks the time again, and only about fifteen minutes have gone by, but it’s enough to make him wonder, enough to make him pretty sure he should just leave and maybe come back, again, later, when he regains the ability not to just fall into some strange man’s arms at random and-
And the sound of the door opening jolts him to his feet, and his automatic chirp of “Claude!” is probably about equally embarrassing to both of them.
“Hello,” Claude says, staring at him for a beat longer than comfortable, paper coffee cups in a cheap cardboard container steaming, other hand still on the door handle, and body seemingly reluctant to step further inside. “Sorry about the-Didn’t think you’d be up yet.”
“I have to get to work,” he says, coming closer. “Can I…”
Claude looks blankly at him for a moment as he gestures at the container and then nods, quickly, as Peter takes it from him.
There’s something about the proximity, the way Claude takes a sharp breath, the way his body seems to practically hum with restraint, that makes it impossible for Peter not to shut his eyes and lean up into a quick kiss.
And then pull away, with a laugh, as Claude gives him a vaguely confused look. He turns around to set the coffee on the nearest table, then back, and Claude’s ready for him this time, a little wary, but not unwelcoming, even wrapping an arm around his waist as he leans up again.
“Good morning,” he murmurs after the kiss, arms around his neck and lips still warm, and this really shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is.
Claude sighs, as if maybe wondering about that himself, giving him another one of those almost suspicious looks, which hurts a bit, especially from that close up, but then it’s gone and he’s kissing him again, one last time before letting him go.
*
“So, uh,” he tries not to seem too invested, tries not to glance back as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “You gonna be in later? I get off work at, uh, about seven-thirty, and we could…” he has to turn around, or keep leaning over gracelessly. Gives a hopeful smile as he tucks back a strand of hair. “We could have dinner.”
The pause doesn’t last as long as he thinks it will, even though it’s longer than he would’ve liked, and Claude just nods, almost as if it would be physically painful for him to do anything else.
Which isn’t what Peter would call encouraging, but it’s better than nothing, and Claude, himself, his hands and voice and lips and eyes, god, those eyes, are a whole lot better than nothing.
“Okay,” he says, a little bit breathless again. “I’ll see you. Soon. Thanks for…” everything, sex, letting me use your shower, coffee, not killing me, all sorts of options and all he comes up with is, “The toothbrush.”
“Peter,” and it’s almost too quiet for him to hear, but he does, and turns back one last time, gives another quick smile as Claude nods again. “I’ll see you.”
[Part 1] [ Part 2] [ Part 3] [ Part 4] [ Part 5] [ Part 6]