A/N: I've revamped Chapter 4 here. I found it to be too short. So here we are. ^_^
Days slowly turned into weeks and little changed about Peter and Claire's circumstances. Memories of their captivity were patchy at best, brief flashes of labs and white walls, or each other.
One thing that was worrisome to their families was the impossibility of separating the pair. Sandra had argued fiercely to bring her daughter home after her release from the hospital, but wherever Claire went, Peter was sure to follow, and Claire refused to be without him. The Bennets' apartment was small at best, and five people tripping over each other were sure to drive them all crazy. So, it was the Petrelli mansion they were ushered to.
They rarely strayed from one another, coming the point where when one showered or cleaned up in the bathroom, the other waited outside. They still shared a bed, constantly touching both by daylight and nighttime. Nathan had commented that he was surprised they didn't follow each other to the toilet. The snark, of course, covered the father's worry at the sudden intimacy between his brother and daughter. Both Nathan and Noah frowned upon it, and even Sandra and Heidi, normally more sensitive to emotional needs than their husbands, were becoming concerned.
The most distinctive change in Peter was rooted in the way he was with Claire. The only thing that stayed consistent was Peter being tender and attentive, whether as her family or her lover, as only Claire knew him, but in a matter of fourteen months, he had transformed from gentle-eyed dreamer to fierce protector. And Claire herself was skittish, shying away from most physical contact that wasn't her uncle. It was often her screams that filled the dark, nightmares of memories that haunted her, but still refused to be recollected.
Post traumatic stress disorder, Dr. Suresh called it.
"PTSD is not something to be taken lightly. It's a serious condition that affects every aspect of the victim's life. Patients suffer persistent feelings of extreme fear, helplessness and horror. Nightmares, that may or may not consist of flashbacks, may plague sleep. Social situations can invoke tension of different degrees: feelings of being trapped or threatened, paranoid originating from the place or people around them.
It is important to understand the difference between a memory and a flashback. A flashback may vary in detail and circumstance, but is characterized by being extremely vivid. Flashbacks are usually triggered by any kind of reminder relating to the traumatic event. The flashback invokes any, or all, of the five senses, so that the flashback feels as real as if it is occurring in that instant. The things you feel, hear, touch, see or smell feel real as the very moment you experienced them."
For now, they could only wait and see.
She breathed a simple sigh of content, as her lover softly stroked her hair, lips pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.
As strange as their entire situation was turning out to be, Claire felt a stubborn refusal to let any of it go. Giving into defeat, she edged away enough to be out of reach of the caressing fingers of the bed's other occupant, shirting to face him. Peter's open, enticing quickly became one of puzzled concern as he took in her expression. "Claire, is something wrong?"
"Family brunch. You'll have to tell Nathan and Angela you've broken up with yet another girlfriend. What are you going to do?"
His confusion quickly changing to amiable anticipation, Peter quickly rolled his body out of the tangle of sheets and grasped her hips in both hands; he gently straddled her, supporting his arms on either side so not to crush her beneath him. Grinning down at her, he brushed a chaste kiss against her forehead. "Run away with you and elope, I think."
Had her mind not gone on a rollercoaster, followed by a rocket trip through space and beyond, Claire would have been able to think of a more intelligible answer. He could have rationalized, theorized, hypothesized, or seized, any of the above. Instead, she squeaked and tensed, staring wide-eyed at the wall beyond her lover's shoulder, her brain taking a temporary vacation. "Don't joke about something like that."
His boyish excitement ebbed; Peter frowned, brown eyes looking down at her quizzically. "Claire, what's wrong?"
"Theo asked me to marry me yesterday."
Burying his face in her neck, his body began to shake, and Claire smoothed a soothing hand up his spine. "What was your answer?"
She didn't respond. With all the promises he'd broken in the past, all of those he couldn't keep, her silence spoke volumes.
He awakened in the night, trembling, broken out in a cold sweat, lost in the throes of his own chaotic consciousness, the aftereffects of the nightmare still lingering…no manifestations of his troubled senses but rather a monstrous what-if haunting him, mind and soul. It twisted and clawing its way into the darkest reached of his heart, his very perception of life around him.
His face was slick with tears, trailing unchecked over pale skin as more of their counterparts gathered in his eyes. His breath was ragged and uneven, his heart thundering in his chest as he willed his body to calm down. Once his body began to calm down from the sudden shock of the dream, Peter released himself from the bed sheets tangled around his legs, as he raised himself into a sitting position and fought against the familiar pang of disappointment that came upon the discovery that he was alone.
The room was dark and the heat was overwhelming, as he realized the window was shut and locked tight, leaving behind a stale, and stifling air. Peter fumbled for the switch to the small lamp on the bedside table, the sudden illumination that dominated the room startling in his lethargic state. The light filled every inch of the room, banishing away the shadows that had lingered only moments before.
He rose from the bed, making his way to the windowsill and slid the glass open, relief to his smothered feeling coming in the form of fresh, cool breeze filtering through the screen.
Taking in a deep, appreciative breath, it was only then that Peter realized what felt so out-of-place. He was alone in the room.
It wouldn't be the first time he found Claire sick and sweating on the bathroom floor, in the aftermath of a nightmare. He was only surprised that she had not woken him this time around…
…with the sounds of her screams.
Morning light spilled through the open-paned window, filling the room with a brilliant, amber glow. Beams of light spilled over the indistinguishable lumps contentedly cocooned in the bed sheets, causing a handsome face to twist into a grimace, haphazardly throwing a hand over his eyes to ward off the offending illumination. He reluctantly rolled away from the comfortable warmth of his bedmate, offering no more than a soft sigh at the loss of body heat. In a cat-like motion, he languidly stretched his limbs, arching his back.
Despite the nagging thought at the edge of his sleep-fogged mind of what the day was to hold, his face still held the soft, open expression lingering from the previous night's loving. A content smile touched his lips as he leaned on his sight to face the sleeping figure of his bedmate. Watching as the early morning rays danced across her flushed skin, he reached out his hand, his touch soft as a whisper as he slowly traced his fingers down the smooth, tanned back.
Fully awake, Claire lay still as possible, careful not to tense or interrupt the steady, slow pace of her breathing. It was a struggle not to move or moan under her lover's ministrations, feeling her heartbeat pick up, his breath struggling to catch. A pleasurable heat stirring inside, as the sensual touch caressed along her spine, suggestive and seductive as the fingers moved in intricate patterns along her waistline.
The opaque night is thick and black as velvet as it wraps around them, much like his embrace as his arms slip strongly around her, holding her close as the night sheltered them from any prying eyes. The full face of the moon hung low in the sky, providing the evening's only illumination as the pallid lunar glow filtered down faintly, providing her with a faint view of his face outlined in shadow.
His eyes were filled with a soft, loving light as he reached up and brushed away a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch delicate as if she were some fragile treasure he was hesitant to touch, and his expression tender as he gazed down at her. She smiled, and placed her hand over his, cradling his palm against her cheek.
As he kissed her, he tasted of warmth and sunlight, and her senses were overwhelmed by the sensation of his body, naked skin gliding over hers, and the strong, masculine scent mixed with the lingering traces of lovemaking.
The sweltering heat of the summer night bogged down on them, clinging to their skin in a dewy dampness, and they lay together, tangled in his sheets, beneath the night skies with only the stars and the city lights as their witnesses. She did not think of the ring that belonged around her finger or the people waiting for them, or the reality of her life as wife and mother of the children of another man.
She did not think of the past, or the future, the consequences that could precariously bring their world crashing down. She thought only of his kiss, and his touch, and the soaring elation that filled her heart every time she saw that soft light of love in his eyes.For now, it was their own little world, void of any outsiders, and nothing existed but the two of them.
With a sharp gasp, Claire's eyes flew open. The stroking fingers stopped, and her body began to tremble. He smoothed a hand up the small of her back, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You okay?"
"Claire?" His voice was soft and endearing, colored by tender warmth he reserved especially for her.
Peter.
She didn't even have to see him; she would always know him. It was in the way he said her name, with that gentle, loving quality, in a way that no one had ever given her. It was in the way his gaze settled on her, his hazel-brown eyes with the ability to both enthrall and soothe her.
Anyone who would have seen him and recognized him that day would never admit to it, to have seen Dr. Peter Petrelli, son of New York's elite, accomplished physician, dashing in socked feet and dressed in little more than a wife-beater and scrub-bottoms through hospital corridors. His scrub top clutched forgotten in one hand, his Converse left in a locker room, he ran through hallways, dodging nurses, patients and other doctors in his haste.
He would be lucky no one stopped him, or that a supervisor would later deliver him a reprimand, but at the moment he could care less about anything but his intended destination.
He had just finished his shift, changing back into his street clothes when his cell phone had vibrated, his sister-in-law, Heidi, calling to give him the news. And as he stumbled his way into the hospital room he had been given the number of, it was an odd figure he struck. To see Claire lying in bed, pale and tired but positively radiant, she had never looked so beautiful.
With a brief sense of awkwardness, he drew his shirt back over his head, looking down at his feet as he nervously shuffled them, noticing his lack of shoes for the first time. "Where's your husband?" he whispered softly, as she turned her head toward him.
"Out of town," she replied, her voice equally as quiet before she turned her eyes back downward.
He approached with hesitant footsteps, reaching her side to brush away sweat-damp hair from her emerald-green eyes, soft with love and warmth. He gently kissed her forehead before turning his gaze to rest on the newborn babe slumbering so peacefully, contently in her mother's arms.
He smiled then, reaching out to brush his fingers against a small, flushed cheek, smoothing over the golden hair dotting the child's crown. "She's beautiful, Claire."
"Of course she is," she told him in a tone firm with resolution, slick with tears. She watched as he hesitantly and, ever so carefully, lifted the baby into his arms, cradling the tiny body against his chest. "She's your daughter."
His eyes shot to hers, startled, as she gave voice to something they had never spoken aloud. With her husband, Theodore, often out of town on business trips, with the frequency of their trysts together, Claire seemed to have little doubt about her daughter's paternity.
"What's her name?"
"Angelica. Angelica Rose."
Angelica.
Peter Angelo Petrelli.
Claire Rosalynn Bennet.
A single tear trailed down his cheek and he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of Angelica's brow. "Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse as he stifled further tears.
Claire shook her head, softly sobbing. "Please, don't thank me, Peter. Not with what you'll…what you'll-"
Secrets were something to keep, something to never say truth, and he knew that from this moment on, he would never be a real father to this precious little girl.
He caressed her cheek, gently brushing his lips against hers. "It's okay. It'll be okay."
He wished he was as confident as he tried to make himself sound.
She blinked, shaking her head, and focused her attention back on the soft calling of her name.
His mouth stretched into a soft smile, the warmth of his fingers curling around hers as he took her hand. "Hey, how are you feeling?"
"Mmm….better."
He smiled again.
At a sudden thought, she tilted her head thoughtfully, reaching out to trace her fingers along the outline of his jaw. Her touch was light and whisper-soft, and as she grew bolder, let her fingers brush over the smooth skin of his cheek and chin, smoothing them across his lips. Her eyes followed every movement, committing to memory every feature, every angle and hollow. "I always feel better when you're here. It's like having a part of me I didn't know was missing come back to me."
He kissed the fingertips against his lips, accepting the turn of conversation. They had passed the point of avoiding conversations with such implications. "I know what you mean."
"I know you do," in emphasis, she lightly traced the arch to each eyebrow, wryly meeting his eyes. "It's in your eyes. It always has been."
Her hand moved to lie against his cheek. Leaning into her touch, Peter sighed softly. "From the moment we met, I think I've known."
"Did you find everything you were looking for that night? Did I disappoint you?"
He looked up at her through half-lidded eyes. "You would never disappoint me, Claire. You were so beautiful. I knew I'd found you."
Watching her face color, he brushed his lips against her palm, which only helped to darken her blush. He grinned. "I found my soul mate that night," he whispered, his voice soft and gentle, "The first time we met; it's what drew me to you."
He'd long given into the theory, that the other half of your soul could be found in anyone- a best friend, a family member, not just a lover. They were all those things, after all. She had been all that and more long before he first touched her with any kind of sexual intention. Someone who so completed you, made you whole…didn't need categorization. Especially when he had no idea how to label the two of them…so he found his conclusion.
Soul mate.
"No more denying it?"
"What's the point of denial? You're the other half of me, Claire Bennet. I can't hide it, not after everything we've been through." He drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her as she leaned against the warmth of his body.
She sighed contently. "I think we've always been drawn together," she said quietly, "Do you remember? Time and time again, we always find a way back to each other."
"Isn't that what we call fate?"
"I don't know. What do you think? Is it fate that brought us together?"
He tilted her head up to face him, his countenance gone solemn, and he leaned close, enough for the moist warmth of his breath to brush against her lips. "It doesn't matter whether it was fate, destiny or coincidence. I only know that whatever it was, it brought me to you." Closing the small distance, he kissed her.
Gentle and mild, his kiss was warm and tender, nothing more than the soft press of his lips to hers. He slowly pulled back, trailing feather-light kisses down her jaw and chin to her throat, pausing as he felt her fluttering beneath his lips. His gentle attentions stirred a familiar heat inside her, flooded with a kind of longing they had both worked so hard to deny. "Peter…" He rained kisses wherever his lips could touch, feeling her heart beat in time with his own.
But there was nothing held back as his mouth met hers again, nothing mild but equally as gentle, nothing chaste as he kissed her long and deeply. Passion underlined every emotion and sensation, every memory of the other's touch and the desire to feel it once more. He shifted his weight to gently press her back against the bed, as her hands gripped fistfuls of his shirt material. A soft moan fell from her lips, his body leaning flush into hers. Pushing away the warning in her mind, the urge to touch him became too great to resist, as trembling fingers made quick work of the buttons holding his shirt together. At the first hesitant touch to flesh, a combination of yearning and desire thundered through him, a strangled groan catching in his throat.
They broke apart at the need to breathe became too much to ignore. She leaned her head against his, gazing up at him with passion-glazed eyes. "Peter…"
Peter jerked back at the sound of her whisper, breaking away from their embrace. His eyes were dark and shadowed, the nightshirt hanging limply from his slender torso. "I'm s-sorry," he said hoarsely, his voice oddly choked.
"What for?" She couldn't think of anything he possibly had to apologize for, the situation only just creeping its way through the haze and confusion gripping her mind.
Idly toying with the hems of his shirt, he avoided her quizzical eyes, seeming caught between dejection and embarrassment. "I shouldn't have…I didn't mean to, well…" he trailed off awkwardly, running a hand through his hair with a quiet sigh as he pointedly gestured toward his open shirt, to convey his meaning where his words failed him.
Claire felt her face warm as he continued to speak, raising his head to meet her eyes. "I don't know what we'll do about this."
She gave him a wry smile, shaking her head. "Welcome to the club, Peter." They could talk of love and soul-mates all they wanted, but acknowledging their physical attraction was another ball field of denial. Controlling it was another issue all together.
It was way too early in the morning to contemplate all this, anyway.
Before he could respond, she suddenly paled, throwing a hand over her mouth as she jumped out of bed, dashing down the hallway. Peter followed at her heels. He found her bent over the toilet bowl and he kneeled beside her, holding back her hair. He winced sympathetically as he rubbed her back. Claire groaned, leaning her head against cold porcelain, and he kissed the crown of her head, standing up to fetch her a glass of water. He watched her worriedly as she swallowed, and he massaged the back of her neck. "That makes a week of this, sweetheart. I'm calling Mohinder."
She spared him a look. "I told you before. No doctors, Peter."
"Claire…"
She sighed, cocking her head in his direction. "It's an hour at best, and it'll go away soon. It's probably just withdrawal from the medication. Mohinder said detox could be messy."
Doubt filled him, the nurse in him rearing its head, and the gears in Peter's mind began turning. He had gone through the sickness, related to the pills that denied them use of their powers for all those months, clearing out of their system. Neither of them were yet a hundred percent, but this felt different. "Claire," he began hesitantly, "Do you think there's any chance you could be pregnant?"