Angels and Demons
By Alaricnomad
Was he angel, was he demon? Was he both or neither, or something in between?
She would never really know the answer.
She was one of the chosen few he allowed to know the truth behind the explosion in New York, that Peter himself had been the catalytic bomb that destroyed so many lives. The knowledge, somehow, she took with a grim sort of acceptance- she didn't love him any less, didn't think him any less of a hero…didn't think him any less of a man.
He was just Peter.
He changed- hardened, guarded, and darkened- and she still didn't love him any less. He fought for nearly a year against the new order of things, with Hiro and others, but one by one, friends became enemies or nothing but ashes and memories, alliances shifted and lives hung in the balance on the same level as greed and power and politics.
By the time the Linderman act was passed, branding anyone with special abilities as terrorists, Peter had other responsibilities to uphold. They went into hiding- Claire's unexpected pregnancy something the grief-stricken Niki could focus her attentions on.
Claire was young still, just passed her seventeenth birthday, when Zachary Claude Petrelli was born, renamed Van de Camp and given up for adoption at six weeks. Claude Raines brought a home a month later in the rural areas of New Haven, Connecticut, just across the street from a young couple bringing home a brown-eyed, dark-haired boy they called Zach.
After the baby, they moved a lot, Boston, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, a half dozen other places. Peter seemed to steel himself, the tenderness that once so characterized him buried beneath layers of guilt and emotional stone walls.
He tended to drink more heavily than before, rarely smiled, and it was only when he came back to their shared bed at night that she could see him shed away the armor to reveal the man beneath, the man she'd fallen in love with in the first place.
He touched her so gently, like she was the most precious thing in his world, his hands calloused but soft against her skin. A solemn look fell over his dark eyes whenever the delicate tips of her fingers traced over the scar on his face; he always grinned impishly whenever she found burn from his ever-present beard stubble in the most inappropriate places; after Zachary, they were always careful, never letting urgency overcome their common sense, and in the end, it usually made for a sweeter encounter as they took their time.
He whispered words of love and devotion against her flesh, painting promises of Paris and Italy and the world with his words, He weaved dreams of forever, let his guard down and the tenderness shine through in the pearls of the moonlight, and in the end, it was that lover she knew that kept her all the more in love with him.
Forever did not last so long as the moment her adopted father tracked them down, barely three years down the road after the explosion, adamant they had to hide Claire elsewhere to keep her safe. To her dismay, Peter agreed, the bittersweet taste of his parting kiss the last she had of him.
Andy's sweetness and warm smiles could never measure up to the lingering memories of her hero, but she contented herself with them. Dying her hair, she idly wondered what Peter would think of the new color; whenever Andy's honeyed accent formed the name of a stranger called "Sandra", she knew it would never compare to the sound of Peter calling "Claire" in his passion.
And when Andy presented her with a ring, her hands inevitably found their way to the silver medallion around her neck. St. Peter.
Her yes let a sour aftertaste in her mouth, though she would never let herself remember why.
She was standing in the diner, listening to the low hum of conversation, rustles of the occasional newspaper, the sizzle of the grill when she felt it. A phantom touch to her cheek, another to the back of her neck.
She shivered beneath the ghostly sensation, her breath hitching as her hair was brushed aside, and against the bared skin of her nape, a slender finger spelled out the message A-L-L-E-Y.
She shouted to the kitchen she was taking her break, untying her apron and placing it over the back of a chair before making her to the back, stepping out into the dry air of the Texas autumn afternoon.
"Claire," sounded his deep voice, and before he was visible, his arms were suddenly embracing her from behind.
She wanted to be angry with him, upset or shocked at his sudden appearance, but none of these emotions came close to what she could summon as strong hands turned her to face him, his eyes soft as they searched her face, and warm lips closed over hers.
The kisses were hot, insistent, hands were everywhere and clothing became nothing but barriers. Before she had time to form coherent thought, her back was against the wall, her legs around his hips, uniform rucked up around her waist, and then they were one, moving together as if they had never been apart.
It was the feel of him, the smell of him, the taste of him and she wanted nothing more than to feel him inside and out. She had been so long without him, and now all she felt was Peter.
He could smell the Texan boy's cologne on her and he sought to imprint himself upon her skin, in her body, in her very soul, claim her as what she had always been…his as much as he belonged to her.
It was Claire, nothing but Claire after so long…and he lost himself in her, thoughts of two Hiros, Sylar and changing pasts the farthest thing from his mind.
He whispered plans and warnings into her ear, of the chance to change everything, of his plans of attack on the Homeland Security base in D.C…of the fight that was to come…
With frightening clarity, she realized he was not sure he would be coming out alive. The thought only tightened the way she held on to the solid reassurance of his body.
He sighed out her name, telling her of Bennet's bust; he said he loved her, as he revealed government's knowledge of her identity; he kissed her sweetly, giving her the location of where she was to go next to stay safe.
Staring up at him, beautiful brown eyes apprehended her and held her heart captive. Leaning forward, she kissed the side of his face and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "Trust me," he told her softly.
"Always."
"Love you."
"Forever."
He disappeared as quickly as he had come, and it was the slip of a small card into the pocket of her uniform, bearing the address of the next safe house, her leaving of Andy's engagement ring on the pillow beside his slumbering form, and the final reminder of his parting kiss that led her to the 6 a.m. Greyhound bound of Connecticut.
Angel or demon, Peter Petrelli was lover and father first, hero and savior second.
Until the world was at stake.
She leaned her head against the window as the desert flew by, closed her eyes and thought of their child- brown eyes shared by father and son- and she smiled.
It was the reason she'd fallen in love with him in the first place.