Author's Note: I posted this story last weekend on the peterandclaude lj community (http://community. but thought I'd post it here as well. It's Plaude (so slash- you have been warned), short- just over 800 words- and pure unadulterated fluff. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: "Heroes" and its characters/plotlines do not belong to me. They simply inspire me to write.
It was a year before Claude felt secure enough to find Peter again. And even then, secure was stretching it a little. Claude knew that despite the months that had passed, his pursuers were aware that Peter's company was the first thing he'd seek when he returned. They were probably watching him like a hawk, ready to pounce at the opportune moment. But Claude couldn't think about that. There were some things that were greater than practical logic, and this was one of those things.
Peter was in bad shape when they reunited. Claude had found a version of Peter he'd never seen before. He looked incredibly tired, and there were bruises and scrapes on his face and what Claude could see of his body. The boy had stopped trying to heal himself. Thoughts raced through Claude's head, thoughts that demanded to know who had gotten to his empath, who had broken Peter's spirit like this, but he pushed them away long enough to shake the boy awake. Dark eyes refused to focus on the older man for a second, and even when they did, the worry in them was so strong that Claude drew him close, soothing the anxieties away using the only means he could think of.
When the kiss broke, Peter looked drained, but his eyes were calmer. And just like that, the empath started to heal. Literally. Claude suddenly felt remarkably like the Prince Charmings one reads about in fairy tales, and could have smirked. But something else, something more powerful, silenced all of his corny jokes, and he stared into Peter's eyes until he was sure that all traces of fear were gone from them.
They stayed in the house for days. Peter made him tea and they watched television– silly BBC shows, cartoons, and old sitcoms– and slept. Peter tried to get him to have sex every night, but Claude refused every time until the fourth night. Then, when Peter rolled on top of him and pressed their lips together, Claude returned it with enthusiasm. He wasn't sure how to express why he'd said no before. Certainly every other part of his body thought it was a good idea. But for the first four days, there had just been something missing. And as he drew Peter closer and felt his whole being tingle with anticipation, he realized that he'd been gone too long. He had been waiting for it to feel like home. And now...well, now it did.
Six months later and they were still here. Peter went to work every day, and Claude left the house too. "Doing God knows what," Peter always said, and Claude would just smile and say, "What do you mean, mate? I'm saving the world." (It wasn't necessarily a falsehood. He was wandering the streets, invisible, keeping tabs on the world around him. If anything suspiciously out of the ordinary were to happen, he would know about it.) About once a week, on his lunch break, Peter would call to tell Claude about something exciting that had happened at work, and Claude would make fun of him, but the more sarcastic he got, the more it meant he really cared.
At the end of the day, Claude would come back when the sun was going down. Six months later meant winter, cold and grey, and most nights when he returned he would find Peter sitting curled up on the couch, a fleece cover thrown around his shoulders, half-eaten frozen dinner beside him, watching TV. Claude would plop down next to him and cuff him on the back of the head for not taking better care of himself. Then his eyes would go warm, and he would adjust the blanket around his shoulders, pick up Peter's frozen dinner, and start eating it himself.
And then? Then they would watch TV, next to each other. They would make fun of the commercials, and Claude would complain that there wasn't anything really new on TV these days. Once it got past a certain hour, they would ignore the TV altogether. Claude would pin Peter down onto the couch, kisses getting deeper and more urgent, followed the removal of more clothes than was practical in the badly heated apartment. When they were finished– sweaty, sticky, panting, and so thoroughly entwined that they were unlikely to ever come loose– Peter would reach over to the remote and turn off the TV, casting the room into complete blackness. And there they would lie, until it got late enough that it was time to pick up their clothes and go to bed.
This could feel like home for the rest of my life, Claude thought, staring at the ceiling, seconds after they'd climbed into bed on a long day. And Peter lay on his side and stared at the profile of his lover, hearing the thought, and responded in his mind, It will. You have my word.
Comments are more than appreciated! This is the first fic I've written in literally months, but I'm excited about it, so I hope you enjoyed!
Saena