Dead Breadcrumbs, a heroes fanfic

Title: Dead Breadcrumbs
Author: Ginger
Fandoms: Heroes
Pairing/Character: Peter Petrelli, Elle Bishop
Word Count: 926
Rating: PG 13 (Mild sexual situations)
Summary: Post 2x11. Sparks fly from you fingers to the ground and your eyes follow their light until you believe you're deaf and he is dead and you're not here anymore.
Spoilers/Warnings: Second Season of Heroes.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Your first mistake was kissing him and you had lost. This is not a game you're used to, hidden behind thick walls and complicated assignments from your father. This one you play all by yourself against an enemy who is all but an open book to you.

Oh God, how you hate him.

Winning is your game, your activity to waste time and boredom, and with all the others it had always worked. Living in here had taught you not to expect much, but prevailing you had always, since day one when Daddy allowed you to locate your first assignment. And back then you had won.

Now things are way too difficult. He doesn't let you get the upper hand, doesn't let you win over silly things like saying the last word, having the bigger issues. And the worst thing is, he has you shut up.

And that isn't his job. Hell, that isn't even his concern. After all he was supposed be the one without any control. Losing a part of the family does that to you, doesn't it?

Sometimes things just aren't meant to.

3 days since he escaped and you followed him without any permission or order, 2 days since he noticed you when you had lurked around in front of a cheap motel, 1 day since he invited you in and you accepted.

20 hours since you kissed him the second time, without any walls and bars and a smell of utter cleanness around you. 16 hours since he told you he didn't know about anything, much more less than you.

36 minutes since he was gone.

But you can't pinpoint the exact moment when you had lost control.

There is a storm outside when you decide to not longer wait but let him go to hell and just leave. You grab your jacket, the keys too and head outside. Throwing the keys in some bushes next to your car, a small satisfied smile creeps up your lips and you feel slightly ahead.

It's as you reach your car when you notice him; leaning against the back of it, drained, his head ducked against the stormy rain.

The words Hello Stranger linger on your lips but you don't dare saying them. You aren't sure he would even react.

He has a scar, right above his left eyebrow. You don't ask him about that and you suddenly feel helpless about this situation because he's sitting on the bed, head in his hands and you're standing in the middle of the room, quiet and heavy breathing.

You wish you knew what to do.

There's no one who says what is he next thing to do. No one who tells you a target or hands you an assignment. You clasp your hands together in front of you and watch him sighing again and again until you can't stand that sound anymore and the door looks awfully appealing to you.

Next thing you know is that you're outside and your hair is wet and you still see him inside, scar on his face, head buried and sighs leaving his lips.

Sparks fly from you fingers to the ground and your eyes follow their light until you believe you're deaf and he is dead and you're not here anymore.

That night you lie next to him, too many inches between you two, silence heavy on your chest.

His kisses are colder now, more distant than the two before and you start comparing him to pillows you once found comfort in. You place his hand on your stomach, a slight movement, you don't notice it yourself until it's gone and you feel cold and alone again.

Much more so when he sighs against the darkness and lightening coming through the window makes everything look distant and foreign.

And distance is anything but you were looking for.

You start to try kissing him more often and it confuses him, you can tell. But when you're touching him he's there, and warm and here, and you feel like it's the way it's supposed to be.

On the sixth day you pull your shirt off when you go to bed.

He doesn't even blink.

On the seventh day he's gone again and you're sure he won't come back this time so you're up and gone. It has stopped raining, no sun, but thick fog ahead of the road.

You blink several times but every time your vicinity gets further and further away until you believe it's dark and there's no light except for sparks flying out of your thumbs.

And you hate him even more.

3 days later he climbs in your car, second scar on his right arm, and a black eye. You don't ask, he doesn't tell.

He's closer now.

That's all you can ask for.

Next time you lie in bed with him, he's staring at the ceiling and you notice his eyes all doing but focusing. It's irritating.

Gone again, you ask and he sighs. His scar is darker now, much more familiar, as stain of him searching but not finding.

You don't know what he does when he's gone. It's a habit, waiting, hoping, wondering. It gets on your nerves because your not used to doing so little. Every time he comes back you sit there, waiting for him. It's not your purpose.

Everything but this.

You send a small spark through your fingers, through his chest.

Later he starts pushing your shirt aside. And you stop wondering.