Title: Phantoms
Genre: Television
Series:Heroes
Characters: Peter Petrelli, Claire Bennet
Spoilers: None, indiscriminate timeframe
Rating: R
Summary: The wounds have healed, but they've only just begun to wash them away.
Word Count: 431
Author's Note: This was written for pairechallenge on livejournal. Go to the site. Find the comm. Vote.
The water was hot enough to blanket the air in steam too thick to see through and still the blood wouldn't wash away. Claire's fingers trembled as she ran them over her body, again and again and still the harsh black of dried blood lingered. It clung to the tiny hairs covering her body; hairs that stood on end at the rush of cooler air entering the stall. She knew who it was, knew that even without speaking he would know her distress, and she fell into his arms blindly.
His nails ran down her arms, peeling away the crisp black and leaving scarlet lines of pressure in its place. The claustrophobia that had awakened in her as the blood dried and tightened around her slowly eased, replaced with another sensation inside her.
"Peter."
He smiled against the skin of her shoulder and knew without answering that the cold that had lingered inside her, the imagined caress of death that haunted her after battles lost; he knew that it was melting under his ministrations. He didn't need telepathy to hear her thoughts when she wore them so clearly in her eyes.
Earlier they'd removed their ruined clothing silently, the cloth pulling away stiffly, small flakes of lost life drifting to the carpet like dark snow. They were both careful not to breathe though there was no stench to speak of. Neither wanted to have their lungs coated with the death of others, not when those deaths hung so heavy between them already.
She'd looked him in the eyes and smiled slightly, his lips curved a crooked response. They hadn't spoken yet, wouldn't vocalize platitudes or comfort. There weren't any words that he hadn't said a hundred times before.
"Claire." It was an apology.
It was an awakening. His fingers were callused and rough on her skin, rubbing away the dirt and stirring her body into frenzy. She didn't care that she was clean, her body pristine and free of scars and wounds, or that he was still covered in dust and blood. She didn't care that his hair hung over his face, matted with sweat and something else that made it shine rusty in the overhead light.
Claire cared only that he was inside her; her heart, her mind, and her body. He left bruises on her hips where he gripped her too tight and though they healed like everything else the sensation of possession lived on. She could die fighting again and again, but her life wasn't hers to give. She belonged to Peter and he always brought her back.
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