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Title: Finding Hope
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Note: Extremely belated response to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
englishmuffin2's prompt on the "Distractions" fic thread: What's Claude thinking between Peter landing on that taxi and his actually getting downstairs to see that Peter's okay?
Summary: I killed him. He asked for my help, pleading, begging and I killed him.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not supposed to happen, that. Really not supposed to happen. He was supposed to fly, to hover, to slow down his descent, something, self preservation, survival instincts kicking in, not smash into a taxi, twisting metal and broken bones screaming in a flash of torn glass. He’s flown before. He said so. Threw himself off this very building, stupid sod. So why didn’t he fly now? Does he need his sacrosanct brother to be here guiding every little baby step? Is that it? God, is he that helpless that he can’t figure this simple thing out when his life is at stake? It’s his life, his pending apocalypse, not precious Nathan’s, self-serving, arrogant asshole who cares more about his status in the polls than about his brother’s soul.
Why didn’t Peter fly? Okay, fine, so I threw him out there a bit unannounced, off you go, send me a postcard, but that’s how it works. No warning signs flashing red, no sirens blaring in your ear before the tornado strikes. Danger smacks you in the gut before you even have a chance to open your eyes and you need to be ready for it. No time for dawdling or nail biting or catching your breath. It’s do or die. That’s not just an expression. It’s the truth. But I wasn’t out to murder him.
He’s not moving. I killed him. He asked for my help, pleading, begging, and I killed him. He died at my hands. Such a good kid, if a bit soft in the head and overly fond of vipers with pretty smiles who pat him on the arm and give him warm milk instead of admitting how much they’re fucking him over. Innocent. Foolish, exasperating innocence, not designed for this fucked up world of torment and betrayal, too pure and precious for the likes of me. I’d tarnish it, corrupt it, and so I did, stupid, always so stupid, but I just wanted him to learn to defend himself, to know the poison smothering him while he still had a chance to breathe, but now he’s dead and gone and nothing can save my cursed soul. I don’t deserve salvation, no gleaming angel wings or divine brilliance of a joyful eternity for these sorry bones. The dank filth of the disposed is my lot. Why did I even think that I could reach any higher than the dirt on my feet?
Oh, shit, did he just move? He moved. Peter moved. He jerks up, moaning in pain, and slides down the side of the car. I think I just forgot how to breathe. He’s looking at me. Peter Petrelli is standing on his own two feet and looking up at me. How? Regeneration. It’s got to be. But he never mentioned... Oh, well, now, surely he hasn’t detailed every single power he’s got, has he, Claude? Oh, by the way, I can heal from anything. Never mind mentioning this trivial, little detail. Son of a bitch. He’s alive. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t murder another innocent soul.
I run to the lift, smash my fingers against the DOWN button, and rush inside when it finally deigns itself to come up to the 30th floor, daring anyone in the building to be stupid enough to try to get on before I get down to the ground. And it takes it’s sweet old time, ancient, rattling thing, no mercy for my shaking heart. I find Peter in the alley, propped up against the car, blood soaked everywhere, a giant splotch slapped around a gaping hole in the middle of his shirt, but the skin underneath looks smooth as far as I can tell, no cuts of scratches on him, nothing, and I smile, almost laughing. He’s alive. I can’t stop chanting it to myself. Peter’s alive. Not very happy with me, though. Understandable. I don’t even mind him shoving me against the wall. The boy deserves some payback, but he doesn’t even take advantage of that, sweet thing that he is. Couldn’t hurt a fly without his conscience curling up and crying. But who cares? He’s alive, and at least one of his powers worked, even if it was the one that requires no conscious awareness of his part. There’s hope. There’s hope.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Note: Extremely belated response to
englishmuffin2's prompt on the "Distractions" fic thread: What's Claude thinking between Peter landing on that taxi and his actually getting downstairs to see that Peter's okay?Summary: I killed him. He asked for my help, pleading, begging and I killed him.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not supposed to happen, that. Really not supposed to happen. He was supposed to fly, to hover, to slow down his descent, something, self preservation, survival instincts kicking in, not smash into a taxi, twisting metal and broken bones screaming in a flash of torn glass. He’s flown before. He said so. Threw himself off this very building, stupid sod. So why didn’t he fly now? Does he need his sacrosanct brother to be here guiding every little baby step? Is that it? God, is he that helpless that he can’t figure this simple thing out when his life is at stake? It’s his life, his pending apocalypse, not precious Nathan’s, self-serving, arrogant asshole who cares more about his status in the polls than about his brother’s soul.
Why didn’t Peter fly? Okay, fine, so I threw him out there a bit unannounced, off you go, send me a postcard, but that’s how it works. No warning signs flashing red, no sirens blaring in your ear before the tornado strikes. Danger smacks you in the gut before you even have a chance to open your eyes and you need to be ready for it. No time for dawdling or nail biting or catching your breath. It’s do or die. That’s not just an expression. It’s the truth. But I wasn’t out to murder him.
He’s not moving. I killed him. He asked for my help, pleading, begging, and I killed him. He died at my hands. Such a good kid, if a bit soft in the head and overly fond of vipers with pretty smiles who pat him on the arm and give him warm milk instead of admitting how much they’re fucking him over. Innocent. Foolish, exasperating innocence, not designed for this fucked up world of torment and betrayal, too pure and precious for the likes of me. I’d tarnish it, corrupt it, and so I did, stupid, always so stupid, but I just wanted him to learn to defend himself, to know the poison smothering him while he still had a chance to breathe, but now he’s dead and gone and nothing can save my cursed soul. I don’t deserve salvation, no gleaming angel wings or divine brilliance of a joyful eternity for these sorry bones. The dank filth of the disposed is my lot. Why did I even think that I could reach any higher than the dirt on my feet?
Oh, shit, did he just move? He moved. Peter moved. He jerks up, moaning in pain, and slides down the side of the car. I think I just forgot how to breathe. He’s looking at me. Peter Petrelli is standing on his own two feet and looking up at me. How? Regeneration. It’s got to be. But he never mentioned... Oh, well, now, surely he hasn’t detailed every single power he’s got, has he, Claude? Oh, by the way, I can heal from anything. Never mind mentioning this trivial, little detail. Son of a bitch. He’s alive. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t murder another innocent soul.
I run to the lift, smash my fingers against the DOWN button, and rush inside when it finally deigns itself to come up to the 30th floor, daring anyone in the building to be stupid enough to try to get on before I get down to the ground. And it takes it’s sweet old time, ancient, rattling thing, no mercy for my shaking heart. I find Peter in the alley, propped up against the car, blood soaked everywhere, a giant splotch slapped around a gaping hole in the middle of his shirt, but the skin underneath looks smooth as far as I can tell, no cuts of scratches on him, nothing, and I smile, almost laughing. He’s alive. I can’t stop chanting it to myself. Peter’s alive. Not very happy with me, though. Understandable. I don’t even mind him shoving me against the wall. The boy deserves some payback, but he doesn’t even take advantage of that, sweet thing that he is. Couldn’t hurt a fly without his conscience curling up and crying. But who cares? He’s alive, and at least one of his powers worked, even if it was the one that requires no conscious awareness of his part. There’s hope. There’s hope.
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Typo: I find Peer in the alley -->Peter
I especially loved these lines:
-Okay, fine, so I threw him out there a bit unannounced, off you go, send me a postcard, but that’s how it works.
-Oh, by the way, I can heal from anything. Never mind mentioning this trivial, little detail.
-Couldn’t hurt a fly without his conscience curling up and crying.
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I love your Claude voice. It always has a good cadence to it, and I can totally see that being his thought process after Peter hits the taxi. Great job!
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Thank you! I love writing Claude's pov, so double yay!
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You've got an amazing Claude voice. :D Well written.
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Very good characterization.
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Thank you so much!
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