Heroes: "Nothing Left to Live For" (Peter/Candice, R)
Title: Nothing Left to Live For
Author: airspaniel
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Candice
Word Count: 1680
Spoilers: "How to Stop an Exploding Man"
Notes: Written as surprise gift!fic for paynesgrey, and because I feel angsty as all hell tonight.
Summary: Peter is tormented by his actions, and is found by a woman with a death wish.
Peter lay curled up in the middle of the hotel bed, staring blankly at the garish watercolor landscape on the opposite wall.
Why did every place have the same hideous generic crap? His eye twitched, and the painting crashed to the floor, falling behind the bureau.
Good. At least now he didn’t have to look at it.
He wanted to go home, wanted Claire to beam up at him in that sunny way she had, wanted his mother to stroke his hair back and kiss his forehead; so happy to have him back and alive.
He wanted Nathan.
God, he wanted Nathan so badly.
His hands still itched from the fine wool of his brother’s suit, combusting slowly against his skin. Against Nathan’s skin and he never cried out, but it must have hurt him. Feeling his skin melt under his little brother’s touch.
And when he fell, clothes still smoldering, a disappearing dot of brightness against the inky black sky… Peter had watched until the light went out, holding on as long as he could before the world went white. And he knew there was no way for Nathan to survive the crash.
He rolled over, burying his face in the scratchy linen of the bed.
Peter could heal. Peter could fly. Peter could read minds and paint the future and move things without touching them and disappear and explode like an atomic bomb.
And Peter could let his brother die for him. Had let it happen. He could have all the power in the world, and he was so fucking weak.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, waiting for the familiar nausea and panic to subside. How many days since his world ended? Maybe a week.
Time didn’t matter. Not without Nathan.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. He ignored it, curling further into himself. No one knew he was here, no one that mattered, and everyone else could just fucking go away.
A beat, and then a more aggressive fist pounded the door. “Peter! I know you’re there.”
Peter lifted his head, staring in shock at the door. That voice… Surely he was hearing things, projecting his grief onto the person actually outside his door.
Another insistent knock. “Pete! Come on, man. Are you okay?”
He found himself standing in front of the door, hands shaking as he leaned forward to look through the peephole.
Oh god.
How?
But it didn’t matter how. Peter ripped the chain out of the wall as he threw the door open.
Nathan stood in the doorway, immaculate in a navy blue suit with a red silk tie. He looked like he was about to deliver an address to the nation, not reunite with his brother in a seedy hotel days after both of them should have died.
“N… Nathan?” his voice trembled, too close to tears to be trusted.
His brother simply nodded and held out his arms. Peter flew into them, crushing him to his chest, holding on tightly. And he would never let him go again.
“Ssh, it’s all right,” Nathan soothed him, strong hands rubbing his back, calming the deep racking sobs he was only barely aware he was crying.
“Nathan,” he cried, “Oh god, I thought I’d lost you. I… I thought you were…” he pressed his face against those elegantly tailored lapels, unable to continue.
He felt his brother’s laugh, chest rumbling against his forehead. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”
But something wasn’t right. Peter ran his hands up Nathan’s neck, long fingers dipping just below his collar, sweeping up to comb through his hair.
There wasn’t a scratch on him.
Nathan couldn’t heal. Nathan had burned, and Peter had watched.
The wall shuddered as a body struck it, hard, and the look of shock and betrayal in Nathan’s eyes cemented it.
“You aren’t Nathan,” Peter spat, furious.
The man pinned to the wall shook his head. “Pete! It’s me! What the hell?”
“Stop lying!” Peter shoved his forearm against the man’s throat, choking off any further words. “Who are you?”
There was no answer, just familiar brown eyes with a wicked expression, staring through him as if he were made of gauze.
Tears still slid down his face, but Peter didn’t blink as he returned the gaze. Voice level; dripping with malice, he repeated himself.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man on the wall began to laugh, soft and breathy, and Peter was unnerved enough to let his grip slip just a little. The body hit the floor as the air shimmered, and his brother’s form was replaced by a petite brunette wearing a short skirt and an evil smile.
“So you’re Peter Petrelli,” she rasped, rubbing her throat. “I thought you’d be taller.”
He pulled her to her feet and pinned her to the wall, this time using his body and his mind.
“People are looking for you, you know,” she began absently. “You might wanna move again before they find you. That is, if you’re enjoying this life of luxury so much.”
Peter took a deep breath, pulse pounding in his ears. “You didn’t answer my question. And why were you looking for me?”
She shrugged, “Me? I’m someone with a death wish. It seemed like finding you would be an interesting way to pass the time. And it’s so interesting the things people will tell you when they think you’re someone else.”
The air rippled again, and Peter was staring at Simone, dark blood still wet on her blue shirt. He slammed his eyes shut at the sight, and the woman laughed as he pressed her harder against the wall.
“What’s the matter, Pete? Don’t feel like playing?”
Peter dropped his head, mouth twisted in a snarl. “Stop it. Stop this.”
He felt the air shift this time, felt long soft curls brush against his forearm, and he knew who he would be looking at if he opened his eyes now.
There was a laugh like the bubbles in champagne, and Claire’s voice called out loudly in his ear.
“Ready? Okay! Peter, Peter, he’s our man! If he can’t do it-“ her cheer was cut off as Peter slammed a hand into her throat, squeezing tightly.
Her illusion failed as she couldn’t breathe, but his hand stayed firm, choking the life out of her. Her eyes slid shut, face relaxed and almost… happy?
Peter let go, suddenly nauseated, bracing himself with his hands against the wall on either side of her head. She made a faint noise, sighing in disappointment.
“I’m… I’m not a murderer.” Peter gasped, staring at the woman.
“I guess I was wrong about you.”
Her brown eyes opened, hurt and defiant, full of loss and despair.
He might’ve been looking in a mirror.
“Why do you want to die?” he whispered, eyes locked on hers.
She didn’t break the contact. “Maybe there’s nothing left to live for.”
Peter closed the distance between them without thinking.
The kiss was frantic, desperate. She opened her mouth, just as hungry for contact, winding her hands around his back.
He tangled his hands in her hair, tilting her face to plunge his tongue deeper into her mouth. She moaned into it, pulling him tight against her, whimpering softly when she felt him hard against her lower belly.
She rocked her hips into it, bringing them even closer together. Peter groaned, grabbing her roughly and twisting her to the bed. She panted loudly, long legs wrapping around his waist.
Buttons flew as he ripped her blouse open, kissing the bruises he had left on her neck, trailing down across her black lace clad breasts.
“God, Peter!” she cried, arching into his mouth as teeth grazed her nipple, hot tongue laving the stiffening flesh through her bra. Her hands wound tight in his hair, pulling hard, as his hips ground against the hot, wet fabric of her panties.
“Peter,” she breathed, writhing helplessly. “Please, god, just do it.”
His hand slipped between them, quickly opening his jeans and pushing her panties aside.
He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, didn’t even know her name, but right now all that mattered was the tight heat of her body, the urgent feeling of being needed that drove rational thought away.
Her hips canted up towards his as he fucked her, thrusting wildly. She grabbed his ass, pulling him even deeper inside, bucking and moaning underneath him.
“Yes… oh god, yes… Peter!” she gasped, throwing her head back against the bed. “God, don’t stop!”
Peter’s eyes rolled back as he slammed into her. This wasn’t going to last much longer.
Her nails dug into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped wounds, as she went over the edge. She screamed, clenching around him, and he came hard, collapsing heavily on top of her. It was intense; more intense than he had felt in years.
It was almost enough to make him forget.
They lay there for a moment, feeling each other breathe. Peter brushed her hair back from her face, and she smiled at the tenderness. It wasn’t often that either of them had much of that.
And even less often that either of them felt they deserved it.
She shifted a little, uncomfortable under his weight. He rolled to the side, sitting on the edge of the bed as she smoothed her skirt down and stood up.
“You really should go,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless you wanna be found. Again.” She walked to the door; hand outstretched, and found herself halted by a hand at her wrist.
“Who are you?” Peter asked, dark eyes painfully earnest.
The doorknob turned in her hand. “I told you, Peter. I’m someone with a death wish.”
She kissed him softly on the cheek; a friendly gesture. “But since you don’t have that luxury, I suggest you get living. Maybe actually look for that brother you miss so much, huh?”
The door closed behind her and he was left alone, standing in the middle of the room.
In ten minutes his bag was packed, and the room was empty.
Author: airspaniel
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Candice
Word Count: 1680
Spoilers: "How to Stop an Exploding Man"
Notes: Written as surprise gift!fic for paynesgrey, and because I feel angsty as all hell tonight.
Summary: Peter is tormented by his actions, and is found by a woman with a death wish.
Peter lay curled up in the middle of the hotel bed, staring blankly at the garish watercolor landscape on the opposite wall.
Why did every place have the same hideous generic crap? His eye twitched, and the painting crashed to the floor, falling behind the bureau.
Good. At least now he didn’t have to look at it.
He wanted to go home, wanted Claire to beam up at him in that sunny way she had, wanted his mother to stroke his hair back and kiss his forehead; so happy to have him back and alive.
He wanted Nathan.
God, he wanted Nathan so badly.
His hands still itched from the fine wool of his brother’s suit, combusting slowly against his skin. Against Nathan’s skin and he never cried out, but it must have hurt him. Feeling his skin melt under his little brother’s touch.
And when he fell, clothes still smoldering, a disappearing dot of brightness against the inky black sky… Peter had watched until the light went out, holding on as long as he could before the world went white. And he knew there was no way for Nathan to survive the crash.
He rolled over, burying his face in the scratchy linen of the bed.
Peter could heal. Peter could fly. Peter could read minds and paint the future and move things without touching them and disappear and explode like an atomic bomb.
And Peter could let his brother die for him. Had let it happen. He could have all the power in the world, and he was so fucking weak.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, waiting for the familiar nausea and panic to subside. How many days since his world ended? Maybe a week.
Time didn’t matter. Not without Nathan.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. He ignored it, curling further into himself. No one knew he was here, no one that mattered, and everyone else could just fucking go away.
A beat, and then a more aggressive fist pounded the door. “Peter! I know you’re there.”
Peter lifted his head, staring in shock at the door. That voice… Surely he was hearing things, projecting his grief onto the person actually outside his door.
Another insistent knock. “Pete! Come on, man. Are you okay?”
He found himself standing in front of the door, hands shaking as he leaned forward to look through the peephole.
Oh god.
How?
But it didn’t matter how. Peter ripped the chain out of the wall as he threw the door open.
Nathan stood in the doorway, immaculate in a navy blue suit with a red silk tie. He looked like he was about to deliver an address to the nation, not reunite with his brother in a seedy hotel days after both of them should have died.
“N… Nathan?” his voice trembled, too close to tears to be trusted.
His brother simply nodded and held out his arms. Peter flew into them, crushing him to his chest, holding on tightly. And he would never let him go again.
“Ssh, it’s all right,” Nathan soothed him, strong hands rubbing his back, calming the deep racking sobs he was only barely aware he was crying.
“Nathan,” he cried, “Oh god, I thought I’d lost you. I… I thought you were…” he pressed his face against those elegantly tailored lapels, unable to continue.
He felt his brother’s laugh, chest rumbling against his forehead. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”
But something wasn’t right. Peter ran his hands up Nathan’s neck, long fingers dipping just below his collar, sweeping up to comb through his hair.
There wasn’t a scratch on him.
Nathan couldn’t heal. Nathan had burned, and Peter had watched.
The wall shuddered as a body struck it, hard, and the look of shock and betrayal in Nathan’s eyes cemented it.
“You aren’t Nathan,” Peter spat, furious.
The man pinned to the wall shook his head. “Pete! It’s me! What the hell?”
“Stop lying!” Peter shoved his forearm against the man’s throat, choking off any further words. “Who are you?”
There was no answer, just familiar brown eyes with a wicked expression, staring through him as if he were made of gauze.
Tears still slid down his face, but Peter didn’t blink as he returned the gaze. Voice level; dripping with malice, he repeated himself.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man on the wall began to laugh, soft and breathy, and Peter was unnerved enough to let his grip slip just a little. The body hit the floor as the air shimmered, and his brother’s form was replaced by a petite brunette wearing a short skirt and an evil smile.
“So you’re Peter Petrelli,” she rasped, rubbing her throat. “I thought you’d be taller.”
He pulled her to her feet and pinned her to the wall, this time using his body and his mind.
“People are looking for you, you know,” she began absently. “You might wanna move again before they find you. That is, if you’re enjoying this life of luxury so much.”
Peter took a deep breath, pulse pounding in his ears. “You didn’t answer my question. And why were you looking for me?”
She shrugged, “Me? I’m someone with a death wish. It seemed like finding you would be an interesting way to pass the time. And it’s so interesting the things people will tell you when they think you’re someone else.”
The air rippled again, and Peter was staring at Simone, dark blood still wet on her blue shirt. He slammed his eyes shut at the sight, and the woman laughed as he pressed her harder against the wall.
“What’s the matter, Pete? Don’t feel like playing?”
Peter dropped his head, mouth twisted in a snarl. “Stop it. Stop this.”
He felt the air shift this time, felt long soft curls brush against his forearm, and he knew who he would be looking at if he opened his eyes now.
There was a laugh like the bubbles in champagne, and Claire’s voice called out loudly in his ear.
“Ready? Okay! Peter, Peter, he’s our man! If he can’t do it-“ her cheer was cut off as Peter slammed a hand into her throat, squeezing tightly.
Her illusion failed as she couldn’t breathe, but his hand stayed firm, choking the life out of her. Her eyes slid shut, face relaxed and almost… happy?
Peter let go, suddenly nauseated, bracing himself with his hands against the wall on either side of her head. She made a faint noise, sighing in disappointment.
“I’m… I’m not a murderer.” Peter gasped, staring at the woman.
“I guess I was wrong about you.”
Her brown eyes opened, hurt and defiant, full of loss and despair.
He might’ve been looking in a mirror.
“Why do you want to die?” he whispered, eyes locked on hers.
She didn’t break the contact. “Maybe there’s nothing left to live for.”
Peter closed the distance between them without thinking.
The kiss was frantic, desperate. She opened her mouth, just as hungry for contact, winding her hands around his back.
He tangled his hands in her hair, tilting her face to plunge his tongue deeper into her mouth. She moaned into it, pulling him tight against her, whimpering softly when she felt him hard against her lower belly.
She rocked her hips into it, bringing them even closer together. Peter groaned, grabbing her roughly and twisting her to the bed. She panted loudly, long legs wrapping around his waist.
Buttons flew as he ripped her blouse open, kissing the bruises he had left on her neck, trailing down across her black lace clad breasts.
“God, Peter!” she cried, arching into his mouth as teeth grazed her nipple, hot tongue laving the stiffening flesh through her bra. Her hands wound tight in his hair, pulling hard, as his hips ground against the hot, wet fabric of her panties.
“Peter,” she breathed, writhing helplessly. “Please, god, just do it.”
His hand slipped between them, quickly opening his jeans and pushing her panties aside.
He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, didn’t even know her name, but right now all that mattered was the tight heat of her body, the urgent feeling of being needed that drove rational thought away.
Her hips canted up towards his as he fucked her, thrusting wildly. She grabbed his ass, pulling him even deeper inside, bucking and moaning underneath him.
“Yes… oh god, yes… Peter!” she gasped, throwing her head back against the bed. “God, don’t stop!”
Peter’s eyes rolled back as he slammed into her. This wasn’t going to last much longer.
Her nails dug into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped wounds, as she went over the edge. She screamed, clenching around him, and he came hard, collapsing heavily on top of her. It was intense; more intense than he had felt in years.
It was almost enough to make him forget.
They lay there for a moment, feeling each other breathe. Peter brushed her hair back from her face, and she smiled at the tenderness. It wasn’t often that either of them had much of that.
And even less often that either of them felt they deserved it.
She shifted a little, uncomfortable under his weight. He rolled to the side, sitting on the edge of the bed as she smoothed her skirt down and stood up.
“You really should go,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless you wanna be found. Again.” She walked to the door; hand outstretched, and found herself halted by a hand at her wrist.
“Who are you?” Peter asked, dark eyes painfully earnest.
The doorknob turned in her hand. “I told you, Peter. I’m someone with a death wish.”
She kissed him softly on the cheek; a friendly gesture. “But since you don’t have that luxury, I suggest you get living. Maybe actually look for that brother you miss so much, huh?”
The door closed behind her and he was left alone, standing in the middle of the room.
In ten minutes his bag was packed, and the room was empty.