Summary: Some puppies just can't be trained. Oneshot.
A/N: I have a few things to say: Firstly: This takes place after Claude shows Peter Simone and Isaac being all mushy and gushy, and Peter falls off the building and regenerates. It's that night, on the rooftop. This is short. It's an idea that was just kind of burrowing in me for a while, so I decided to let it out. Please please please write me some lovely reviews telling me what you think. And not just "good" or "bad", but what you liked, what you didn't like, your favorite part, what I could've done better. Please/oh-so-subtle attempt at getting long review
Also, I realize that this isn'texactly what Freud would say, but I didn't want to go into all of that stuff. I wanted the rating to stay below T. The man was crazy, and completely obsessed with sex and violence. He's really more of a literary device in this story. Don't shoot me, please.
Lastly, I love Claude. I love writing Claude. I love Claude's teaching stick. I fancy it one of my greatest purposes in life to telepathically bring Claude back to the show. I also love Peter, with every fiber of my being. I'd marry him if I were allowed to marry fictional characters. No joke. Yes, Claude is treating Peter like crap and being awfully mean. But, honestly, would he be the Claude we know and love if he wasn't? There is no character hating here, only love.
Disclaimer: I miraculously don't own any of this except the idea and the actual word construction. Fancy that.
Claude walked out onto the balcony and found a seat near the pigeon coop. Peter was already perched on the ledge, staring out across the city broodingly.
"Thinking about your brother?" Claude asked, scoffingly. The younger man didn't reply. "Your girlfriend?"
Peter laughed bitterly. "No," he answered firmly, still looking out at the lights in the darkness. "My dream."
Claude smirked. "Freud would say - "
"I know what Freud would say," Peter interrupted loudly, angrily, turning to Claude. Realizing his tone, he dropped his volume and emotions and added, "I took psychology in school."
Claude cocked his eyebrows up just slightly. "All right, then," he challenged. "What would Freud say?"
Peter rolled his eyes and crossed his arms protectively across his chest. He sighed. "He'd say it was just my subconscious," he muttered. "He'd say that Simone and Isaac were there because I know Simone still has feelings for him, and I'm worried she'll leave me to go back to him. He'd say that cheerleader, Claire, was there because I felt...connected to her somehow, when I saved her. And Nathan was there because I always run to Nathan when I need help, because Nathan's my big brother and I need him to protect me. And you - " Peter stopped dead, realization dawning in his eyes. "What were you doing there?" he asked Claude suspiciously. "I hadn't even met you yet. How could you be a manifestation of my subconscious when I'd never laid eyes on you before?" Emotions were rising in him like magma. His eyes burned with righteous anger and he looked on Claude in indignation. "You lied to me?" he demanded.
Claude matched him, wild glare for even stare. "I never said anything," he defended calmly. "I just brought up what Freud would say."
"But you tried to make me believe that it's not real," Peter protested. "That I'm not really - " He stopped.
"What?" Claude prompted, verbally throwing down the gauntlet. "You're not really going to reenact Hiroshima all on your lonesome? Can't you see what's happening here? You've got to do something! Show me something! You should know how to do this, but you get in your own way. You stumble over your self and fall down and then whimper until your brother comes to pick you back up again. If you're going to stop this bomb, you're going to have to learn how to stand up and walk on your own because one day you'll fall and you'll take this entire city with you, and then there'll be no big brother to come pick you up. Is that what you want?"
"I'm trying!" Peter yelled, his voice rising to its full volume. "You think I want to blow up? You think I'd rather kill thousands of people including my own family? I don't know how to do this! I don't have my own special abilities, I just plagiarize other people's powers! So maybe in a fix I'll be able to pull out some random ability and save myself, but standing here? Alone? I can't do anything! I don't know how!"
"There is no how," Claude countered. "There's no secret formula or special magic word you can say. There's nothing to learn except how to stay out of your own way! You want to be someone? You want to stop plagiarizing and learn how to do your own work? Stop inhibiting yourself! Let go and get out of the way, because the way you are now, you'll never be anything but a copy-cat mushroom cloud."
Peter glared fire at Claude, who stared icily back. After a still, silent duel that lasted almost a minute and a half, he stood and strode across the balcony, into the greenhouse of the man he'd once worked for. Claude stood as he passed him.
"You won't find answers by running away," Claude called after Peter, meaning a myriad of things. "You've got to face it eventually."
Claude sat back down and gazed out over the city, stroking one of the pigeons through the coop. Peter glowered at nothing in particular, standing heatedly in the greenhouse. He stayed that way for an extended period of time. Claude took a swig from the beer bottle he'd swiped from somewhere and smiled.
"If you want to do something about it..." he began softly and trailed off manipulatively, still smiling serenely.
Peter clenched his fists, breathing heavily with anger. Claude drank calmly from his bottle. The pigeons paid no mind to either, cooing and strutting as they pleased.
Finally, Peter, marched out of the greenhouse angrily and stood directly in front of Claude.
"I want to do it," he said determinedly. "I am not going let this come true."
Claude stood and looked at him directly. "Say what you want, but I'm not making promises," he said cruelly as Peter's eyes narrowed. "Some puppies just can't be trained." And he disappeared into the building.
Peter stood alone on the balcony, and looked angrily up to the sky. He bit his lip in frustration, clenching his fists again. Finally, he sighed shortly and strode across the balcony after Claude, shoving an arm to the side in frustration as he passed the pigeon coop.
Neither man was there to see the mass of wood, wire and pigeons move three inches toward the edge.
What would Freud say to that?