Chapter 9 – Louboutins 1
Angela should not have been so easy to ignore.
Claire knew that, and she could almost bring herself to feel guilty the first day. But as one day slipped into another, as she and Peter fell into a smooth rhythm of domesticity – the one that she realized had always lain under the surface of their relationship, just waiting for them to have the time to truly click – it fell by the wayside. They had always thrived in each others' company, and with the last barriers of their old relationship broken down, with the complexities of their mission tamed, they easily reforged their quiescent bond.
She did remember Marc. Visits to Grace assured that. Seeing the blank, unremitting terror in Grace's face, the furtive, darting looks she would make as she tried to avoid Claire's eyes and searched for the husband whose death she could not remember stayed with Claire. She spent long silences at work remembering the fragile state they had found Grace in, and planning exactly the retribution Fusor would receive.
Between those dark moments, there was the cover story, and their comforting reinterpretation of it.
Saturday found her perched on the edge of the artfully distressed, light oak vanity of the master bedroom – determination humming across her skin as she watched Peter fumble with cuff links in the bright midday light. She wrapped her robe more tightly around herself, scarlet cocktail dress peeking out from beneath it, and beckoned him forward with a toss of her head.
"Need help?"
Peter's crisp, white shirt was undone, black jacket tossed onto the bed as he dressed. He looked up at her through his bangs, scrunching his nose in displeasure, even as he collected the gold cuff links in one hand and moved to her.
"I have done this before, you know," he said, extending his arm for her to affix the little golden half helix symbols of the Petrelli law firm. Pinching his sleeve closed with one hand, she slid her other fingers lightly from his palm to his wrist, along the tracery of his veins. She carefully fitted the link into place, swiveled the pin of the link back to close it. Peter turn to the side, offering his right arm to her, while examining the fit of the cuff link.
"I do quality work, you know."
He dropped his arm, assuring her, "Oh, I know."
"And as such," she began loftily, hooking a foot behind his leg to draw him closer still, until his hips bumped up against the dresser. "I think I should personally address your shirt situation."
From this vantage, she was actually the slightest bit taller than him. She rested her fingertips on his bare chest, eyes locked with his. They were almost green at the moment, like a reflection even with the mirror at her back.
They were on dangerous ground.
"You're very bossy today," Peter said.
"And you like it."
He smiled wickedly, and Claire's hands shook.
Claire focused her eyes on the buttons and tried to focus her mind on the mission, hands working as a flush crept up her neck. She felt a droplet of water trickle down her back, and pretended it was from the wet hair pinned atop her head.
Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Why didn't I ever take your name?"
Peter tilted his head to the side, looking at her wonderingly, before saying softly, "Claire, you have never wanted to be a Petrelli."
That was not, strictly speaking, true. There had been one plane ride – from Texas to New York after ditching the Haitian, on the run from the Company – that Claire had spent in delighted panic. She alternately escaped to the lavatory to breathe into a bag, and ignored the in flight movie to scrawl line after line in her airport bought notebook: Claire Petrelli, Mrs. Peter Petrelli, Mrs. Claire Bennet-Petrelli.
She tugged sharply on the starched cotton, making him stumble slightly into her. As he steadied himself, she turned her face away to hide her embarrassment.
"I mean, what are we going to tell everyone?"
He brushed a wet lock of hair from her neck, and her eyes instinctively went to his, just as he'd planned.
Peter smiled and said matter of factly, "We'll tell them you are an actualized young woman who defines her own identity and refuses to be subservient to the patriarchy."
"You sound like my Women's Studies professor!" she exclaimed, buttoning the final buttons.
"That's hardly surprising," he replied, head tilted as he tried to look around her. She scooched over on the dresser, knocking her handbag and cosmetics to the side, as she allowed Peter access to the mirror so he could admire the work. He ran his hand through his hair, tucking his bangs behind his ear before turning his attention back to her.
"Your turn," he declared, beginning to unpin her hair. He picked up a comb from next to her, fingers incautiously brushing against her.
"It's hardly surprising why, Peter?" Claire asked, eyes closing as she relished how gently he worked the snarls out of her hair.
"Because I ought to know a thing or two about my major."
Relaxed in the pleasant sensation of Peter pampering her, it took a moment for his words to register. She blinked her eyes open, staring muzzily at him.
"You were a Women's Studies major?"
Peter nodded, and Claire couldn't restrain the helpless laughter bubbling up in her.
"Yes," he confirmed, chuckling himself. He laid the comb down and began wrapping locks of her hair around his fingers, three at a time, to create wide, loose curls as he flashed nuclear heat through his hands. "For all of two years, before Dad figured out that I really wasn't planning to switch to something more appropriately pre-law, and cut me off."
Which was all very sad, really. But...
"You were a Women's Studies major!" she sputtered through laughs. "It wasn't even to get laid, was it?"
Peter looked vaguely affronted. "Of course, not! I'm not Nathan!"
"Oh God, I love you. You're such a girl," she said, collapsing against his chest, face red with mirth.
"Hey now," he said, seizing her shoulders to put her back on the dresser and pouting, "do you want me to finish doing your hair and make up or not?"
Claire rapidly collected herself to nod solemnly, even as the corners of her mouth twitched. Only a few giggles escaped as he finished curling her hair and moved on to sweeping fine, pink blush across her cheeks. She followed his directions, looking up and down and closing her eyes at intervals.
Grabbing the mascara as he finished up, Claire waved it at him menacingly.
"You're up next, Miss Petrelli," she said with a smirk.
"That's Missus Petrelli, thank you! I'm married now," Peter quipped before rolling his eyes. "And for what? I'm dressed. Unlike you, I don't need a hydraulic lift to get into my shoes."
"Yes, the five inch Christian Louboutins were my idea," she said sarcastically.
Peter smiled crookedly, not even trying to hide his excitement. "Do you want me to put them on for you?"
"You have the legs for it, but they're way too small for you," Claire said, swinging her legs against the vanity as she waited for him to collect them from the box they'd lain in since a very enjoyable afternoon exploiting their expense account earlier in the week.
Peter ignored the jibe, kneeling down before her. Claire caught her breath at the sight of him – pressed pants, stiff white shirt tailored perfectly to his shoulders and tapering to his waist, gold cuff links securing rich cotton sleeves, and the glint of his wedding ring against the black patent leather of her ridiculously expensive designer shoes. His bangs were loose again, almost obscuring the flush on his face in as they spread in a wide black arc.
"You look good down there," Claire said, her voice catching in her throat.
Peter shook his head, keeping a smile to himself. He lifted each foot delicately, slipping the peep-toed shoe on before fastening the ankle strap. Finished, he slid a hand up her leg, starting at the long silver stem of the stiletto heel, eyes following his fingers as they glided over the strap and up to the curve of her calf, coming to a rest on her knee.
He bit his lip, breath coming in short bursts. He looked up at her, eyes hazel crescents, and for a moment he looked like he wanted to ask her something. Claire exhaled heavily, wanting very much to cross her legs, but resisting as she waited for a request that didn't come.
Trying to break the hot, heavy silence, Claire waggled her feet at him and asked, "So how does your inner feminist feel about these tools of the patriarchy?"
Peter wet his lips with a quick flash of pink tongue, before quirking a smirk at her. "That the patriarchy is no match for your power."
"Ohhh, good save," Claire replied.
Claire took his hand and helped him up, even as she slid from the dresser to stand shakily on the heels. She steadied herself briefly against him, pressing close, feeling just how much he appreciated the shoes.
"You okay?" asked Peter, looking at her – not down, for once, since she was hardly more than an inch shorter than him in the shoes.
Playing on Peter's sympathy was always a good strategy, so he hardly saw it coming when Claire gracefully pivoted, putting years of cheerleading and childhood gymnastics to use and pinning him against the vanity. Wielding the brush she had palmed, she grinned as she pushed up against him.
"Now to do something about that undead look you've got going on."
"We really don't have time for this, Claire," Peter replied, struggling and trying to bring his wrist up to indicate his watch. Claire laughed, grabbing his wrist and trapping it against the edge of the dresser. He winced as his sleeve rucked up, flesh getting caught between the metal links of his watch and the wood.
"Ow!"
Claire laughed, "Oh, come on, you baby! It'll be fine."
Peter shrugged awkwardly, righting his sleeve and avoiding her eyes as he looked for the cuff link that had popped loose. Spotting in on the floor, he walked a pace away from her and bent to pick it up. Claire frowned.
"Peter, look at me," Claire demanded. His eyes flicked to her and then back down as he put the cuff link back in without her help, action silently stinging her. "I'm sorry."
Finally, he looked back over at her, expression soft.
"Claire," he started, "I dated Elle, remember? This is hardly the worst I've suffered."
He walked over to her, meeting her eyes. "You're right. I'll heal." He laid a hand on her shoulder, rubbing soothingly down her arm before finding her hand. "Now come on. We really do need to get going."
She squeezed his hand tightly for a moment, searching his eyes for sincerity, relieved to find no blame in them even as she was confused. Dropping his hand, she shrugged out of the robe, exposing the low, heart shaped neckline of her red cocktail dress. The silk fell just to her knees, a length deemed just flirty and desperate enough for her husband-seducing cover.
Glancing again to the mirror, Claire almost didn't recognize herself. She was just another young socialite. Good.
The Hyun's wine tasting party was an annual event, celebrating the first new bottles coming out of the previous November's harvest from the family's vineyard. Annual, of course, for the past ten years, as Peter informed Claire, since the Hyuns were tragically new money.
Their daughter, Evie, was recently engaged to Kwang-Sun Young, the son of a wealthy multi-national brokering giant. As such, the party was equally intended as an opportunity to properly induct her fiancé into Long Island society. Claire made a mental note of that – it meshed with what she recalled from the beach party of Evie's rank in Lexi's social circle. The young dog breeder was clearly an up and comer, but that gained her access, not supremacy. The stress to impress would be on the Hyuns rather than her party guests, and that played to Peter and Claire's benefit.
The tasting was held indoors, spilling out onto the back veranda but no further than the deck. No shoes would be abandoned this afternoon – except by the faint of foot. The spartan dining room of the Hyun house was decorated with latticed grapevines, seasonably bare. Laughter tinkled through the echoic, high ceilinged rooms as they entered, eyes surveying caterer's spread.
It was in the corner, setting out bulbous tasting glasses and previous vintages, that they spotted their mark. Just as quickly, she noticed them, eyes sharpening with greedy intent.
They smiled blandly in response, splitting up to make rounds about the room, greeting everyone they had missed at the previous party. Claire was surprised how many times she actually could smile through a middle aged man criticizing the gaucheness of the Hyuns for celebrating such a silly, unprofitable little hobby. Nonetheless, she was relieved when Peter rejoined her side, bearing small onion tarts as offerings.
"What, no booze?" Claire joked, taking the napkin holding the proffered food.
He popped the tart into his mouth and swallowed almost without chewing before wrapping one hand around her waist, kissing her temple. "You're still underage, darling."
"Do people actually care about that?" Claire asked.
Peter laughed, leading her to the dance floor to better avoid the musty old men. "I think the first time I got drunk was at one of these things. When I was thirteen."
Claire smiled, allowing him to twirl her slowly to the soft jazz a trio played near the window.
"Sounds better than a keg on the back of a truck."
"Oh, we had those, too. You know Catholic schools..."
The music changed, up tempo, and Claire shimmied closer to Peter. He remained curiously restrained and she challenged him, "Oh come on, I know you can do better than that."
"Oh, do you?" he replied, quirking an eyebrow.
"I've seen you dance. And I know you aren't afraid of a little PDA. I watched you with Elle for, what, six months?"
He chuckled lowly, sliding his hands to the curve just above her ass. Lowering his lips to her ear, he murmured, "You watched?"
Claire blushed furiously, but held her ground, moving her hands from demurely resting on his shoulder to clutch at his back..
"I did," she breathed.
He smirked. "What did you think?"
She pulled back slightly, even as she moved her hands to his neck, digging in slightly with her nails. "That I didn't get it. I mean, not that I don't get wanting to throw Elle down and... that I get. But I never understood the two of you together."
"Well, you're looking at it the wrong way," he replied, turning them both. "I wasn't throwing anyone down."
That was an unpleasant thought. Claire felt a surge of possessiveness and flexed her fingers, wanting nothing so much as to mark him, even impermanently – but she held back, remembering the dresser incident. In the end, she curled a hand, brushing the cool red polish of her fingernails against his neck and imagining the color would stay.
They turned again in silence, and Claire's eyes caught on Fusor's, watching them between insolent looks at the socialites.
"How did Elle hurt herself?" Claire asked before she realized the question was even forming in her mind.
Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged slightly in his embrace. "I mean, I thought we were immune to our powers. It's why Ted's wife died, but he didn't."
"This isn't a very appropriate discussion for where we are, Claire," Peter replied, his mouth a tight line.
"What?" Claire asked, taken aback by the sudden change in his tone.
His eyes were on Fusor, but he didn't really seem to be talking about her as he said, "Her mother died because of her power. I don't think hearing us talking about that is going to help us maintain our cover."
"Right," Claire said, hurt. She didn't know where this was coming from, but his words were a cold rush of reality infringing of the fantasy of the last week. She stepped back from him abruptly, although the song was well into a refrain. "Guess I'll go maintain it more."
She didn't look back to see his expression, but she heard no protests as she made a bee-line over to the wine table and their mark. Distraught works, she thought.
"Hard day?" asked Fusor, sympathy sliding uneasily over predatory want.
Claire extended a hand and Fusor placed a glass in it, pouring a 2000 Cabernet for her, filling it all the way rather than daintily for a brief taste. Claire drank half without registering anything beyond the subtle burn of alcohol. She offered the glass again, and Fusor refilled it, saying, "I'll take that as a yes."
"I thought we were done with this stuff!" Claire exclaimed. Sometimes the escape of their cover story was too good. It allowed her to blur too many lines. Her heart, still quick with anger at Peter, felt little change as excitement for the mission took over.
"Who?" Fusor asked.
"I saw you watching us earlier, you know who I'm talking about."
"I do. Your pretty boy husband. Newlyweds, right?"
Claire took another gulp, nodding.
"He seemed a little riled there for a moment, and then he backed off. He do that a lot?"
Claire met Fusor's hard eyes, putting on a look of desperation, "Yes! I just don't understand. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?"
"It's not you," Fusor said, eyes raking down Claire's body and lighting up when they came to her shoes. "And I think I have the solution. Very discreet."
Claire caught the gist, and laid her glass down, folding her arms across her chest, "Why not just go to a pharmacy?"
Fusor plucked one of the caterer's business cards from the table and wrote her number on it.
"I'm very discreet. Who knows who the pharmacist talks to. Do you really want your problems getting around, when you're mother in law is already doing you so much damage?"
Claire took the card with a grateful smile.
"So... is this you?" she asked.
"Yes. Call any time, day or night." Brazenly, Fusor took Claire's hand, running her thumb across the knuckles. Claire suppressed a shudder. "I'll help you."
Claire smiled weakly, and extricated herself with a brief thank you. She walked hurriedly away from the table, not really caring how it looked, although she was sure at the same time that the Claire she was pretending to be would run from such a proposition.
Ducking onto the deck outside, she leaned against the door jamb, trying to slow her accelerated heart rate. On the lawn before her, a group of men were rolling up their sleeves to inexpertly examine the construction of the Hyuns' gazebo. Among them were a Korean man Claire guessed to be Evie's fiancé and a man Claire recognized from the medical file on Grace – her brother Stanton.
Next to him, sure enough, was Peter. Claire's expression softened as she watched him talk closely with Stanton. He was probably giving away information that he shouldn't be, but Claire could see the other man relaxing in Peter's company, so it was hard to care. One of the older men called to Stanton, and he clapped Peter on the back in thanks, trotting over to push some vines aside so the others could look at the foundations. Peter shook his head quietly when Stanton glanced back, beckoning for him to join .
"Oh, come on! Since when is a Petrelli afraid of getting his hands dirty?" Stanton called.
Shrugging wryly, Peter relented. Pocketing his cuff links, he rolled up his sleeves.
And Claire's breath disappeared. On his wrist, right above his watch, was a large, ugly, red welt. It hadn't healed.
"Peter!" she yelled, and his head snapped around. Realization flashed across his expression just as quickly as he quelled it, schooling it into familiar neutrality. "We're going."
Peter nodded once, ignoring the snickering and mutters that followed in his wake.
Once he was close, she said tersely, "Teleport us out, we'll pick up the car later. I need to talk to you, and I don't want her to have time to follow."
In silence, they walked out, deliberately avoiding goodbyes. Finding a secluded area of the drive, Peter wrapped an arm lightly around Claire's waist and took them home.
"I can't believe you!" Claire shouted, pushing him away and throwing her black handbag at him, almost before she sensed the living room materialize. "You said you weren't going to lie to me any more!"
Peter's eyes looked past her as he said, "I didn't lie."
"No! You just let me believe a lie. Because you're like Angela, right? That's what Nathan said. You're too damn good at this to lie outright!"
"I don't know what you expected. You know there are some abilities I'm not allowed to use."
"Allowed, Peter? No one is stopping you except you!"
Peter looked calm, but dead-eyed. "You said earlier that you didn't know why Fusor's mother died. That powers don't turn on us. Mine does. Everyday. It destroys me everyday."
Claire shook her head furiously, "No, no. You have my power so it ..."
Peter grabbed her by the arms, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Your power is part of the problem." He laughed and added, "It's probably the biggest part."
"Is it... is it Adam?"
"No, Claire. He's not the hard one to let go."
Claire pushed him away, swiping at angry tears. "That is such bullshit. You'll use Sylar's, but not mine because my power is the one that's killing you? Are you sure that you aren't just finding another excuse to push me away? Another way to martyr yourself?"
"Claire. This is who I am now. I am not your hero. The only way I can save the world from myself is to give up everything I want."
"And admit that you're a fuck up, right?" Claire sneered. "Sounds like you're just the same as always. What's the excuse with me? I'm too different from you? Too much stronger?"
"You are, Claire!" Peter snapped, voice cracking with the first emotion he'd displayed since they left the wine tasting.
Claire shook her head slowly, tears spilling down her cheeks. She replied, "That's Peter Petrelli, for you, always committed to being the weakest person in the room."
Peter flinched, but remained steadfast, "This is how I have to live."
"Without me, right?"
"Not without you! I'm right here, Claire!" His hands came around her, more gently this time.
"For now. But you're already planning on leaving me."
"How can I not, Claire? Do you understand the kind of temptation that is? Living forever, with all the power in the world? I had to give it up, Claire, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done." He sighed, jawed working against his frustration, and corrected himself, "I had to give you up."
Claire jerked her chin up, shoving him away decisively. "Then I guess you can do it again. Get out."