Cat & Mouse
Pairing - Peter/ Claire
Author Notes - Hello! This is my first Paire fic, and I'm sincerely hoping that people will stop by and have a quick read. It's been a while since I've written some fan fiction but here we go. OH and please read & review; Also feel free to drop me a line if your gearing up for NANOWRIMO - Hope you enjoy.
This story is inspired by the song " Cat & Mouse " by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. The lyrics immediately made me think of Paire. YAY :-)
Peter.
He awoke twisted in sheets, demure in his presence, his lashes tangled with unshed tears, throat tight, constrictive. His breath labored, beads of sweat clung to his skin, his fingers sweeping through errant hair, teeth sinking into his lower lip. He sat upright, clenching the sheets at his sides, just listening to his breathing even out. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
It was just a dream, it was just a dream.
It wasn't an overly cool night, but he had began to chill slightly when the brisk night air collided with the sweat that had dissipated amongst the fibres of the cotton shirt that clung to him like a second pants, although light twisted around his ankles uncomfortably, the waist band sitting too low restricting his flailing legs as he fought the demons that seemed to plague his dreams while he was supposed to be sleeping soundly, he trembled. His mind wrapped half hazardly with the debris of the nightmare that had roused him in a terrifying panic.
It was all just, a terrifying dream. Subconscious. Just get over it.
Those words reminded him of his mother. Worn. Weary. Out of patience for the troubles that littered life's pathways. She knew more than anyone that dreams were more than a subconscious, they had the potential to become real, they could be our future.
Peter leaned forward drawing his knees up to his chest. His mind running rampant with a thousand thoughts. The fear settled low in his stomach, leaving him with the nauseating, churning sensation. His eyebrows knitted together in worry. The last image that had sat most prominent in his mind imprinted in his eyes the second they were pried open.
What he saw. The things he saw. Remembered made him shiver involuntarily; not from the cold. But from the deep seated fear. The possibility. It all kept him awake at night. It wasn't enough to try to right the wrongs that they had done. It wasn't good enough to try and live a normal life. How could he when every night, he saw her.
His Claire.
Her pastel eyes peering up at him, mortified. Her lips upturned disgust oozing from her very body language. The way she had refused his outstretched hand. Her nostrils flaring, while the rims of her eyes flushed red, her glassy eyes staring down at her own hands. Caked with blood. Her eyebrows pinched at the skin between her eyebrows, her forehead creasing ever so slightly.
Her lips would part, almost as if to say his name. Those two syllables, her voice saying them. It was a guilty pleasure, but his name never sounded quite the same coming from anybody else's lips. For the longest time, the wind would pick up her blonde hair tugging it from it's captivity. It would fall across her shoulders, almost as if a curtain was protecting him from seeing what was really happening.
She would stand completely still, Every time he tried to go towards her. To see what was wrong. To see if he could help, she would move away from him so quickly. So suddenly. As if his very touch would burn her.
Peter would feel the pain so vividly, he would clutch his own chest. And it's then, he understands why Claire is so distant. Whose blood is really on her hands. Why her dress is spattered in his blood. Why there isn't that one pool of blood staining her clothes where her skin would of already regenerated. Why isn't he regenerating. Why is he feeling light headed. Why is she standing there watching him fall to the ground.
He lies perfectly still. Watching as she hangs her head low, her teeth clenched together as she cries that heart aching cry. That cry that makes your breath catch, your stomach drop. It makes you want to run. It's a damaged soul, pleading for forgiveness. The kind of crying that you hear when grief overtakes everything else. Her fists are clenched at her side, her knuckles turning white from the anger that pushes her fingernails into her hand, tiny little crescents forming in their wake. There is no hope. Only just that slight feeling of numbness.
She looks down at Peter. Mouths I'm sorry. Leaves.
He remembers hearing nothing but the sound of his own strangled cries. And the simple phrase of it's done.
This nightmare has been following him, in the night. The day. Every time he sees her, it flashes through his mind like a warning. Something to cleave onto. Something to change. It was as if his entire being was telling him to leave. To leave everything behind to just pack up and go. He couldn't do that. Couldn't imagine living away from her.
He was so incredibly selfish. So consumed in his thoughts. His twisted thoughts. The fantasy of having her in his arms, of twirling her golden curls around his fingertips. Of telling her everything that lived within him. Of the failures, Of well known family traits.
The admiration had began innocently. That sad little smile had triggered something within him that he hadn't known existed. He had thought about her a few times after that. They would meet up somewhere and talk about how that night they had become life long friends. How he had been her hero then. How he would always be there to protect her. They would forge a bond, a friendship on mutual appreciation. They were able to relate to each other. She trusted him. And he, Her.
He remembers the way his chest had become tight. The way his hands had trembled, becoming clammy and moist to the touch. Hero seemed to good for someone like him.
They would continue to meet up. They would call each other when life seemed to hard. They would become a safety net. Somewhere in between all these thoughts, she had become something other than friend. She had become his desire. His lustful will that he denied. Unless at home by himself, lonely and drunk. He'd succumb only then to his thoughts, and wash away the guilt of it all in the shower, taking care to scrub his skin extra hard to make sure to clean him self. To rid him self of such evil. He wouldn't go to work the day after. He would just lie there, feeling the disgust in himself, the shame.
It didn't help that the woman he loved seemed to be killing him in his dreams.
He had been avoiding her lately. Knew it was bothering her. Had seen it behind her eyes when she had smiled politely at him across the table over lunch last Tuesday. Had almost pleaded with her to change it to another time, with the subtle hint of - please give me space. She had become frustrated with him, knew it when she threw her napkin upon the table knocking her glass of water slightly, the drop that she would gently dab with her fingertip, drawing idle patterns across the diner counter top. She would cross, and uncross her legs, fidget with the corner of the menus, running the corners beneath her fingernails, as she did everything not to loosen the mask that she usually left at home.
She had sighed loudly, disappointed almost. Her pastel eyes bore into his, looking for some kind of hint, the tiniest of clue's to understand what was happening. What was going through his mind. He only knew this because he was on borrowed time. Reading her mind was something he loathed. If the dream he had was any indicator of what was coming, he figured he would be able to compete with it head on. Catch her first thought and tell her otherwise.
She was thinking of nothing else but how distant he was. How confused she was about her feelings. For what or who he had no idea. Her fingers traced the outline of her glass, her head tilted to the side, her neck exposed as her hair fell over her shoulder. She smiled tightly. Almost too politely. It was the most awkward they had ever been.
I just wish he would tell me what's going on. I feel like I'm losing my hero.
Peter had come home alone that night, to have that dream once again. To see himself writhing on the floor, he was in his uniform. She was in a dress. That was odd, why was she in a dress. His fingertips trembled, delving into a cavity that blood crept out of at an alarming rate. He could smell it, the iron, taste it in the back of his throat. He tried to call out. Tried to speak, only to choke back on the bile that rose. He was able to grunt, roll onto his side, and watch her.
Snapping his mind out of it, he pulled the sheets off himself, pottered into the kitchen, flicking his trusty aluminum kettle on, focusing his attention on the sound of the water boiling and bubbling. He took careful time to measure out the sugar, to retrieve the tea bag, to add the milk first. It was a routine that calmed him, soothed him to go back to sleep.
He sat at his table, with three chairs. All mismatched of course. Stared out the window at the sleeping city's lights. With the occasional sound of a siren blaring past in the distance. The moon sitting serenely on the navy blue sky, glowing stars smiling down at him. As if they knew and understood what the future held.
He wasn't sure if he was ready to admit, what he thought had occurred in the dream, wasn't willing to cross that line and admit it to himself about his thoughts. His desires. He had kept it all hidden so carefully under wraps. Had decided it was best for everyone if he just mentioned nothing about it at all. Had learned to love that sad little smile from a distance.
The thought hadn't occurred to him that she might feel the same. Until he had heard it by accident. That one Tuesday - She had been tracing the shape of a heart on the table, the water clinging to the surface turning it a darker hue then the rest of the table top. A single heart, with the resounding thoughts of "I know I shouldn't but I love him"
She had stared at him smiling, baring her brazen white teeth between the pinkest lips he had ever seen.
" It's just so wrong " She sighed, dragging her hand across the heart she had drawn, smearing it into oblivion. Throwing money down onto the table. She picked up her bag, smiled nicely and left. It had been abrupt. As if she knew he was reading her mind. As if she knew he knew more than he was willing to let on.
So they played the game of cat & mouse, but neither was aware of which role they were playing, at least for now anyway.
All he knew. Was what was in his dreams & the feelings that lingered after wards.
Shall i continue? What do you think? :-)