Title: Lines Notes: I got the dinner of cold cuts from all my Christmas holidays spent with my huge German family on my grandmother's side - for the few days before our huge freaking feast, all we'd eat were big platters of cheese and lunch meats and it always worked. We never got too hungry, but we were ST ready to eat a huge meal by the time the feast itself came up. So, yeah, stole that here even though the Petrellis are Italian, not German, heh. It just fit, you know?
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Disclaimer: Um, nope, don't own them!
Beta: Once again, gidgetzb because, yep, awesome - any mistakes are mine!
Rating: NC-17 (sex, language, adult themes)
Warnings: Canon incest, and, um, a whole lot of angst?
Timeline: AU as of S1 finale, a good four years into the future, because, yep, I'm obsessed.
Teaser: Claire finally gets sick of pretending, Peter finally gets a clue.
-
Three
-
Claire wakes him up from several hours of exhausting sleep by getting back a bit past noon, leaving him to lie in his bed and blearily stare at a wall, trying to get his limbs to work. He knows that when she leaves again (and just the thought of it makes him shake a bit because it keeps getting harder to watch her leave for months at a time) he'll sleep for days but he's awake now, even if he's too exhausted to actually move.
He licks his lips and instantly regrets it, sure he can taste her even though it's impossible.
Claire, Claire, Claire—
"Fuck," he breathes and weakly twists into his bed as he hears her footsteps outside his door, waits for the hitch in her movement that always reaches him when she's back for the holidays. It's always the same and when it doesn't come this time, when the sound of her path doesn't waver from the stairs to her own room, he feels something horribly fragile shift in his chest.
Peter doesn't know what it is but it's there suddenly, a vicious jerk inside him that leaves him breathless.
He somehow manages to raise his head, listening as hard as he can, hearing her drop things to the floor and open the closet, able to even hear her heart beating in her chest, fast and furiously. His eyes are still mostly glued shut but he can hear just fine, especially when it comes to Claire—
"Fuck," and he's levering himself out of the damn bed because he suddenly feels panicked and can't figure out why.
How he's getting out of bed, he's not completely sure, since he honestly can't feel his legs.
Unlocking the door, he pries it open and peers out blearily, making out her shape coming back out of her bedroom and closing her door behind her. Takes in bare feet and an unhappy black top (takes it all in within a heartbeat of a glance, a flicker of a gaze that drinks her in) and finally snaps his eyes up to meet hers, finds her staring at him bleakly, tiredly, looking even more beaten down than he feels.
And he doesn't want it to be like this, wants instead to take that bruised look out of her eyes and ease the brittle way she stands and watches him. There isn't a word he can think to describe the pull she causes in him, the ache that leaves him shaking, so he leans dully against his door and grips the knob as if it'll help him figure out how to make it all better for them both.
"Sorry I…" but she can't even finish before she simply nods slowly, carefully, as if she's about to simply shatter into pieces because it just hurts too much. The movement makes her hair fall forward to brush her face in a way that leaves his fingers itching to brush it back, hides her from him but not completely because he sees the look in her eyes and can't help but feel panicked by it.
Peter recognizes it and he doesn't want to because he knows what it means, sees it on his own face when he looks at his reflection every morning— and he's abruptly aware of how close she actually is, realizes with a jerk in his middle that she's been moving towards him in short helpless steps he hasn't even seen her take. There's nothing hidden in the look she's giving him, nothing held back, and she's so much braver than he is.
He can touch her if he wants— it would simply be a matter of hooking fingers around a wrist and pulling her close, pulling her into his room and letting go of the last fragile remains of his self-control. It's what she's waiting for, he knows, and it's what he wants, to give into her, trace the long lines that make up her body until she's fevered and he forgets everything else he's ever felt except for the feel of her.
"Claire—" and, just like last night, he doesn't know what he wants to say, can't pull whatever it is out so he stands like an idiot and watches her give up. Watches as her shoulders drop and her hair falls forward the last bit, leaving him on the outside searching for any sign of her. Watches her shake her head and start moving, managing a weak smile over one shoulder that's nothing but a lie.
Peter watches her walk away this time silently, half-expecting her to simply slide to the floor and just stop, so completely destroyed is that last glance she had given him. But she finally turns that last corner and is gone, leaving him to stand and wait for something to change, something to shift so that they wouldn't feel like this anymore.
Shit, shit, shit, shit— "Shit."
-
Claire's always been physical with Peter, always, even when she's at her most pissed.
And right up until the day he realized why it felt the way it did, the day he realized he couldn't let them even touch one another again (because he knew with complete certainty where it would lead) it had been one of the best aspects of his life.
Claire's always been the opposite of everybody around him, the smothering press of awkwardness he had learned to deal with but never completely accept. She's always fallen easily into his arms for any reason at all— arched her neck to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, reached up to brush his hair from his face and order him for the five hundredth time to get it cut even though she doesn't mean it, skimmed fingertips across his knuckles when things are quiet and she wanted his attention.
It's always been physical and natural, more natural than breathing, and while he's able to keep himself from touching her if he truly tries hard enough, he's never stopped craving it deep down into his bones, on some level he almost doesn't understand himself. When one of them is hurting, the other one reaches out, that's simply how it's always been, even when she was a girl in a high school with a sad little smile that brightened up because of him.
And since the day he pushed her away that first time, Claire's only managed to find new ways to touch him, accidental touches that no one would suspect because they're so innocent— an extra hesitation before she allows him to take something she's handling him, making sure to come around a corner at just the right moment to brush an arm against his, carefully sliding a palm beneath the fabric of his shirt to stroke his back for just a heartbeat when they force a family hug at the end of a holiday visit.
Claire burns him every time, sears herself into him, leaves him wanting more at the same time.
None of that happens today and by the time they take their seats around the dinner table a little bit before dusk, he's almost shaking with a desperate sort of withdrawal.
They never eat big dinners this close to the big feast but they gather together as a tense group and nervously tear their way through massive plates of lunch meat and cheese, and while Claire plays with her food, she doesn't actually eat any of it. It's gotten harder for them all to be together over the last few years and while Peter tells himself it has nothing to do with what he and Claire are caught up in, he knows that's a blatant lie.
They aren't just destroying themselves anymore; they're destroying everyone else around them as well.
Peter sits beside her (he always sits beside her during these meals) and listens to the awkward flow of attempted conversation and watches her suffer quietly and it hurts. He tries to eat his own food but doesn't manage much better than she does; he feels so sick to his stomach he doesn't want to risk anything, so he takes his time chewing tiny bites and playing with his plate as if the ceramic knows the secrets of the universe.
It's panic, he knows, but he doesn't let himself think about it any more deeply than that.
Peter's lost count of how many times she's let her leg drift over to press against his during these meals over the years, how many times she finds a way to be the one to pass him whatever condiment he needs. It doesn't happen today, not once, and he's achingly aware of the fact that Claire's so stiff-backed in her chair that it feels like she's about to splinter to pieces in a way he'll never be able to fix.
His mother's short comment about how Claire likes cheap Christmas lights too much (and it's a dig into Claire's dead family, her real family, the one she buried in a black dress and he knows how many lights the Bennet house always had every year; he's seen her pictures because she shares all of herself with him) finally forces a change, and before he can catch her wrist, she's away from the table, snapping an excuse over a shoulder about needing to check that the wrapping was all right for the boys' presents before she goes to bed.
Claire's wrapping never has a single flaw (Claire loves Christmas more than any of them) so it's not even a good lie.
Peter stops pretending to eat and settles a quiet look on his mother that only gets a tiny smile in response, Angela Petrelli looking silently pleased with herself. He loves his mother, can't pretend he doesn't, but he doesn't trust her and at the moment, he almost wants to hurt her. It's an alarming and sickening feeling he doesn't want to examine too closely, so he drops his gaze and doesn't let himself.
Before Claire and after Claire— everything's different, and this is what she's done to him.
He sits and waits until everyone finishes eating because he knows what's coming and, sure enough, he's right.
As everyone else scatters, Nathan grabs him by the arm and pulls him into their father's study for a talk about how Peter needs to stop making Claire cry (and it's always the same talk, even down to the same hand motions and head bobs) and just like always, Nathan never meets his eyes. Peter watches his big brother finally wind down and pour himself a drink with shaking hands, and hates himself for letting them all get to this point.
It's hard to look at his brother now, and it's taken him a while to understand why.
When he looks at Nathan now, he doesn't just see his big brother anymore, he doesn't just see the hero he grew up wanting to be, the perfect Petrelli he once wished he could become. He looks at Nathan now, and sees something that stands in his way, a wall to get over or dig under or (God forbid) break his way through to get to Claire. Nathan's one of the last ties that hold him back (a tie he clings to in the face of Claire) and everything's changed because of it.
"We have to be a family," Nathan finally says quietly, and Peter closes his eyes and nods like he agrees.
And his brother lets him go with a defeated look in his eyes, doesn't look away from his drink and Peter understands it more than he wants to as he eases away from the study and tries to keep himself downstairs. But Claire's invaded here as well, strings of lights that she seems to put up everywhere just to piss his mother off (it worked today, just like always, because Claire's good at pissing off his mother) and he understands that because Peter's lost count of how many little fights he's started with Claire in an effort to not want her.
And he's unexpectedly aware of the fact that he's watched her all day long as he starts moving up the stairs again, counting the lights as he goes, and thinking about how easy this would be if she wasn't his fucking niece. If he felt the same way about anyone else, there would be no problem, none, but because of shared blood and a lie about family, it's wrong even thought it doesn't feel wrong.
Peter stops, hesitates, and finally sinks his teeth into his lip hard enough that he can taste blood at the sight of Claire leaning against the wall just beside his door, shoulders slumped and head bowed. And just like always, she's instantly aware of him because her head comes up and her eyes focus on him, taking him in. This is new from her though, the defeated look in her eyes, and he suddenly wants it gone because she's not supposed to look at him like this.
He should go downstairs, but he doesn't, because—
"Claire?"
She swipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand and shakes her head, and it makes her hair fall around her face and he wishes she was wearing it back so he didn't want to brush it away from her face. That wouldn't help, though, because when she wears it back, all he can focus on is her neck, the slow curve of it, and wants to feel the beat of her pulse beneath her skin. Wants to feel it quicken because of him until it's almost a hum beneath his fingers.
"Claire," he starts weakly but can't finish because he suddenly no longer feels completely sane.
And just like last night, he doesn't know what happens (it feels like something breaks, though, and he wonders if his heart's finally given out over this) because he swiftly moves forward the last few steps and manages to touch her hand, sweep his fingers possessively across her knuckles and then twist his wrist, sliding his palm against hers for just a second (maybe not even a second, it's so fast) before she jerks her hand back and strides away to her room, shaking her head and saying nothing.
She's already said everything, though, because she reacted and he saw it all— saw the way her entire body shifted because of him, saw the way her eyes flickered shut for just a fraction of a second, saw the tiny way her lips parted and she exhaled raggedly. Heard the same breath hitch in her throat, felt the way her hand trembled a heartbeat before it tightened into a fist and slipped away in the next, leaving him alone and burning and somehow aware in a way he's never felt before.
It's not accidental, it's completely his fault, and he can't make any excuses for it, and he suddenly doesn't care.