Title: All the People We Used to Know (1/12)
Sequel to: The Price of a Memory
Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Warnings: slash, AU, loosely holiday-related, starts out on the fluffy side but doesn't stay that way, liberties taken with the Season Two timeline of events
Spoilers: AU after the end of Season One, but through Season Two just to be safe.
Summary: Six months after the events of The Price of a Memory, Claude finds himself participating under protest in a Petrelli family gathering. But more is going on than meets the eye and soon Claude and Peter are faced with a difficult decision.
Disclaimer: Heroes and the associated characters don't belong to me.
All the People We Used to Know
Part 1/12
This story is the sequel to my previous piece, The Price of a Memory. It will be posted here in pieces in the coming weeks or you can read it in its entirety over on my live journal, which is listed as the homepage in my user profile.
When Claude had left a roughly drawn diagram of the Petrelli family tree taped to the icebox a few weeks back, he'd meant it as a cheap joke. The thing was, after all, scribbled onto the back of a paper placemat he'd nicked from some restaurant or another, complete with grease stains where bits of food had tossed themselves off the plate. True, it wasn't one of his better creations, but he still felt that it had some merit as a kind of incisive commentary on the current state of the Petrelli gene pool and its relation to just about everyone else in the known world.
In retrospect, Claude could see how he should have better anticipated the way the subtle humor of his sketch ended up flying over Peter's head, effectively planting itself in some unknown corner of the universe where those without severe mental deficiencies could appreciate such things. Clearly, he was in need of a better audience.
As it was, the only audience he had was still a bit irritated that no one had thought to mention to him the long-lost niece he'd met on several occasions during a time that was now lost to him. It was his brother Nathan who'd accidentally let something slip during a phone conversation, dropping the name like Peter would know who he was talking about. Which he did, after a fashion. After all, in piecing together the events of his forgotten life, it wasn't like Peter could miss the whole embarrassing "save the cheerleader, save the world" episode, which came complete with its own catch phrase. It was just that in retelling the story, no one had remembered to tell Peter he was related to the girl whose life he had saved.
So now Peter had taken the drawing--or, more closely, his lack of knowledge about little Claire Bennet, the girl he'd last seen aiming a gun at his head in Kirby Plaza--like it was meant as some kind of criticism of him as a person. He'd since set about correcting his failings with nightly study sessions in which he spent hours at the kitchen table, tracing with his fingers the lines connecting each person, his lips silently forming the syllables of their names as he went. Satisfied that he'd seen enough, he'd then flip the paper over and map out in his own hand on a separate sheet of paper all that he could remember. It had gotten so on his good days he'd have the entire list down in an hour or two. But on his bad days, it could take all night.
Creeping into the flat that evening, Claude found Peter in a state of mild frustration, which was a sight better than finding him in the throes of the massive depression such an activity could sometimes bring on. Coming up behind Peter, Claude slipped an arm around the other man's waist and kissed him lightly on the neck. Peter responded to the touch distractedly, leaning into it and allowing for a hint of a smile even as he refused to remove his concentration from the task at hand. In retaliation for being so blithely ignored, Claude placed a lingering kiss at the ticklish spot just where Peter's neck met his shoulder.
"How are the pigeons?" Peter asked, still without looking away from where his finger had stopped on Noah Bennet's name, underneath which Claude had scribbled "Claire's adopted father and intolerable git--shite at parties." A small victory. Claude could work with that.
"All tucked in their pigeon beds, fast asleep," Claude replied. "They tried to convince me they deserved a place on this family tree of yours, but I felt it was crowded enough without them adding to the confusion. Then they started calling me names, said I've been neglecting them for months now, all because of you."
Peter gave him a sidelong look. "Uh-oh," he said. "I'm sensing the potential for a major political uprising."
"Aye, well, I was able to placate them with a bedtime story," Claude said, resting his chin on Peter's shoulder. "I told them this tale about this boy I knew who encountered all sorts of new and strange people from all over the world only to discover that each and every one of them was a long-lost relative from some sordid affair or another, buried under miles of closely-guarded family secrets involving convenient house fires and illegal adoptions."
"His love life must have suffered," Peter said. "Assuming he wasn't into incest."
"Well, there was some speculation on that score," Claude said. "But no, his sex life was fine because along came me and there was no reason to examine our potential genetic connection in any depth because we were already having sex and it might make things awkward."
Peter sighed, tossing the pencil he'd been holding so that it landed on the other side of the table, rolling off onto the floor. He leaned forward, scrubbing his face with his hands before taking them away and looking down at the incomplete family tree once more.
"Some people would pay good money to forget their families, you know," Claude said once the mild outburst had passed. "Me. Suresh. That man Suresh is living with now. What's his name again?"
"Uh, Matt," Peter said. "Right? Yeah. Matt. The cop." He eyed Claude. "It's been six months, you know."
"You're one to preach," Claude said. "You forgot his name, too. Don't think I hadn't noticed."
"I have an excuse," Peter said. "I forget everyone's name. You should know Matt by now."
The truth was, Claude did know Matt Parkman, whether he wanted to or not. Parkman had shown up shortly after Peter and Claude had departed Suresh's flat for greener, more private pastures in the form of Peter's old place. He'd been filled with uncertainty and some sob story about a cheating wife and a baby that might not be his, none of which was very original or interesting. But Molly had worshipped the man from the start, probably because he'd saved her life on more than one occasion. That alone had been enough to gain him a free pass into Suresh's island of lost toys.
"Anyway, I don't know what it is you're so worried about," Claude said, pulling the paper away from Peter and examining it for himself, wondering about the dozens of as-yet undiscovered branches of Petrellis still lurking in obscurity. "It's not like they're going to make you recite the names of all your relatives on national television under pain of death or anything."
Though Claude felt that in all fairness the little family reunion Nathan had arranged in Washington to introduce Claire to his wife and kids and re-introduce her to Peter and his mother basically amounted to the same thing.
"Maybe not," Peter said. He ran a hand through his hair, which had grown out to what Claude liked to think was a happy medium between the puppy dog bangs he'd had when they'd originally known each other and the more severe cut he'd been wearing at the time of their second introduction. "I mean, I know the basics. Nathan and my mother. The kids. Sometimes I accidentally switch Claire and Heidi's names--"
"Scary thought," Claude said.
"--but it's not like I don't know who Heidi is," Peter said. "It's just that…Claire is going to be the first person I've met from that time knowing I've met her before." Claude shifted, uncomfortable with the allusion to his own lies after discovering Peter's memory loss. "I went to her high school. I saved her from Sylar. But those are just things other people have told me. Like stories about someone else." His brow furrowed. "I don't even know what she looks like."
"Total jail bait, I'd imagine," Claude said. "That's always how these things work."
Peter narrowed his eyes before burying his face in the crook of his arm with a groan. Claude moved around so he was sitting on the chair next to Peter. They sat like that for a minute in silence before Claude noticed Peter had surfaced enough to peer at Claude over the top of his forearm. Claude raised an eyebrow, suspicious of the look he was getting. Or what he could see of it, at any rate.
"Come with me."
"Not a chance," Claude said.
Peter sat up, taking Claude's hand loosely in his own. "Come with me," he said again, as if repeating the request would somehow change Claude's answer. Luckily, the power of persuasion was not one Peter had had much of a chance to acquire. Or if he had, he didn't know how to use it properly.
"Not a chance in hell," Claude replied. "You know why not?"
"Because you weren't invited," Peter said. This was an old argument.
"Exactly," Claude said. "Also, your mother scares the living shit out of me."
Peter raised an eyebrow at this new bit of information. "You've never met my mother," he said.
"What're you on about? Of course I have."
"When?"
"Working for the Company," Claude said. "We were never formally introduced or anything but she knew my partner pretty well, being that she and her people were the ones handed Claire over to him and all. She didn't seem to like me much then and I don't think the fact that I'm interfering with her favorite son will do anything to improve her opinion of me now."
Peter gestured vaguely, resigned enough to concede the point.
"Also, did I mention that my former partner is little Claire's adopted father?" Claude went on, though by now he knew he'd won. "Because he's going to be there too at this festive little, pre-holiday, 'let's introduce the secret daughter to the wife and kids' family get-together of yours, from what I hear. Chaperoning and all that to make sure your family's influence doesn't corrupt his precious daughter beyond repair, no doubt. You know what he was doing last time I saw him?"
"Shooting at us with tranquilizer guns," Peter said. Another familiar argument.
"And the time before that?"
Peter shrugged.
"Shooting me in the chest," Claude said. "With real bullets, mind."
Peter sighed. "Look, I know about your history with Bennet," he said. "But he's only going to be there part of the time. I guess he has some business thing here in New York to take care of first. So technically, if you wanted to get away from him, you'd have to go to Washington with me. At least for a few days. And then leave as soon as he gets there."
Claude gave Peter a dry look. "Grasping at straws now, mate."
Peter arched an eyebrow. "You really think you could survive almost an entire week here without me?" He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, knowing he had a fair point.
"Seems to me I have a better chance of surviving up here without you than I do down there with them," Claude said. "Just don't let them brainwash you too much. I know how they like to do that."
Without giving Peter a chance to respond with the usual blind defensiveness he employed whenever talking about his family, Claude leaned forward, pressing their lips together. For a moment, Peter just sat there, keeping his folded arms between them. But this was hardly the first time they'd disagreed on something in the half year they'd been together and, though in principle he believed he shouldn't have to, Claude wasn't above working for it every now and then. Sometimes it was a particular way of sucking on Peter's bottom lip that did it or a ghosting of his fingers up Peter's sides, underneath his shirt. Tonight it was a skillful swipe of his tongue that gained him entrance to that pliant mouth. Peter allowed the kiss to deepen for a moment before pulling away, breathless.
"Come with me," he said.
Claude smirked. "I love it when you talk in filthy double entendres without meaning to,' he said and set about ignoring Peter's intended meaning while doing what he could to comply with the second, unintended one.