Title: The
Queen of Hearts
Characters: Paire, Ensemble, hints of Peter/Simone
Genre: Angst,
Romance, UST
Rating: PG-13,
T
Disclaimer: I
don't own Heroes or any of its characters, nor do I own the lyrics
in the summary, which are from the song Desperado.
Summary: "Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy. She'll beat you if she's able. You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet." Living with Claire teaches Peter the difference between love and infatuation.
A/N: Well, the angst had to start sometime… It's a long chapter though, so that should count for something, right? I was going to split it up but decided I liked it this way.
Chapter Eleven: Let's Spend the Night Together
He wouldn't stop looking at her. Ever since Hiro had found them outside of Isaac's building, he hadn't stopped looking at her. At first, she didn't know what to think about his little case of amnesia, so she avoided his question, using Hiro's presence as an excuse not to answer.
She'd rushed back into the apartment, wanting to distance herself from him and the situation. It was just too much. She'd just had the single most erotic moment of her life, yet Peter didn't seem to remember a thing. How was that even possible? She could feel a bundle of emotions churning in her gut but wasn't sure she could identify a single one.
Then Niki started talking, her explanation riddled with apologies. She told them this amazing story about Jessica, some sort of alternative personality who took over her body and made her do these terrible things, after which, she woke up, having no recollection of even doing them.
And that answered so many of Claire's questions but apparently not nearly enough of Peter's, whose eyes were fixated on her. She kept her gaze determinedly away from him as those awful emotions festered inside her. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but one stood out among the others: Jessica made Niki do things she didn't want to do, things that she was obviously ashamed of.
Claire's heart sank. Is that how Peter viewed kissing her? Was it really so awful that he'd regret it that much? She cast him a quick look out of the corner of her eye and decided she didn't want to find out. She was humiliated enough, actually believing that he had returned her feelings, had wanted her as much as she wanted him. God, she was stupid.
And he was still looking at her. The entire cab ride home, she kept her head down, not daring to meet his eyes, unwilling to see what expression his face held. He'd tried to talk to her once, "Claire," he'd began, soothing and careful, "What happened?"
She'd replied with the short, "I don't want to talk about it." And though he seemed even more distressed by her dismissal, he respected her wishes for the rest of the drive.
---
When they finally entered the apartment, Peter's looks were interspersed with harsh coughs, and she could vaguely remember him coughing when they were in the car but was too caught up in her own thoughts to pay much attention to it.
He coughed into his hand and seemed a little dizzy on his feet. She was about to suggest he sit down, when he straightened up and looked at her determinedly, "We need to talk."
She huffed and retorted, "No, we don't."
"Claire," he said her name as if he was trying to reason with her, and it irritated her so much that he wouldn't just let it go. He laid a hand on her shoulder, probably to reassure her and convince her to talk to him, but she shrugged him off. His touches never got her anywhere, with the exception of the mess she was currently in.
He looked so hurt by her rejection, sad even, and he tried again, "You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is I did, even if I…" he trailed off. She wasn't sure what the end of that sentence was supposed to be, and maybe she wasn't going to know because another bout of coughs suddenly hit him.
She watched, concerned, as he heaved, trying to regain his breath. "You need to lie down," she said, taking his arm and leading him to the couch. He didn't resist her, just laid back on the couch before rolling to his side and coughing some more. She knelt down on the floor and smoothed his hair out of his eyes, momentarily wondering why her healing wasn't helping him.
He let out a few stray coughs before finally calming, his breathing evening out. When she realized her fingers were still toying with his hair, she jerked her hand away. And the look was back – that awful, guilt-ridden look.
"Did I…" his voice was hesitant, maybe a little fearful, "Did I hurt you?" He looked so vulnerable, like her answer might break him.
She was quick to reassure him, "No," because the thought of this man physically harming her was preposterous.
But her response didn't seem to convince him, nor did it erase that miserable expression from his face. "If I didn't…" he began, "Why won't you just tell me what happened?"
His question was almost an accusation. He seemed certain she was lying to him or at the very least hiding something. And she was, of course, but it wasn't what he thought it was. He hadn't hurt her, unless you counted the time she bumped her head against the wall, and it definitely was not in her best interest to relive those particular memories.
She sighed and tried to reason with him without having to humiliate herself by owning up to the truth. "Peter, you heard Niki. It wasn't even you who did it. You weren't in control, so it really doesn't matter."
Wrong thing to say.
Peter's expression turned fierce, "Yes, I did hear Niki, and that's exactly why I want to know what happened. If I hurt you…"
She gave him an exasperated look, "You didn't."
But he didn't believe her. "Damn it, Claire! Tell me what happened!"
At his impassioned outburst, she cracked, blurted out, "You kissed me, okay?" Immediately, she wished she could take the words back, make it so he'd never heard them.
Peter looked shell-shocked, like that was the last thing he'd expected her to say, "What?" Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she was a little hurt that the idea of kissing her was so appalling to him.
"That's what happened," she responded, "Just a stupid, meaningless kiss." She fervently hoped he couldn't hear the bitterness in her voice, and she hoped even more that he couldn't see the hope in her eyes, willing him to disagree with her assessment of the kiss, to tell her that it did mean something.
But he didn't seem to notice anything, just gave her a doubtful look, "Claire, I may not remember everything that happened, but when I came to, I had you pinned up against the wall. That doesn't seem like some innocent kiss." She had to agree, 'innocent' was definitely not the word she would use to describe the way his mouth had pressed against hers.
"Yeah, well, that's all it was," she bit out defensively. Why couldn't he just let the subject go? He seemed determined to prod and prod until he had her figured out, until he learned that not only had he kissed her, but she had kissed him back, that she had wanted it to happen, been waiting for it. And then he was going to pity her and things would be even more awkward and…
"I think you should get some sleep," he said, and she must've missed something because that distraught look was back in place.
She furrowed her brows in confusion, "Peter?"
He sighed, "Go to bed, Claire."
She looked at him, a little stunned and a lot hurt. Sure, she'd wanted a way out of the conversation, but this dismissal wasn't what she'd had in mind. Peter had never talked to her like this. They'd been spending nearly every waking moment together, and he always seemed to enjoy having her around.
She considered responding with some biting retort but didn't really know what she would say, and truthfully, she didn't think it would make any difference. So she rose to her feet and looked down at him helplessly, giving him the chance to take it back, to apologize, but he remained silent, didn't so much as look at her, so she turned on her heal and made her way to the bedroom.
---
The next morning, Claire woke up feeling groggy. She'd spent the better half of the night tossing and turning, caught between vivid memories of Peter's hands on her body and the hurtful dismissal that came not long after.
She warily made her way to the kitchen, not really knowing what to expect from Peter, but instead of the usual sight of him making breakfast, she found a note saying that he'd gone up to the roof. He didn't extend an invitation to her, so she took that to mean he wanted some time alone, and it irked her that he was entitled to his space when she wasn't.
He finally got hungry and came down for lunch, and though she couldn't bare to have his gaze directed at her the night before, she wanted more than anything for him to look in her direction, to give her that quirky, lopsided smile only he could pull off.
She stood beside him at the kitchen counter, watching as he made them both sandwiches. Any other time, she would've been a little giddy that he didn't have to ask how she liked hers, but today it merely gave him an excuse not to talk to her.
Letting out a small sigh, she opened a cabinet and retrieved two glasses, then moved to the freezer to get some ice. She gave the tray a slight twist to loosen the ice cubes and dropped a few into each glass. And inspiration struck. Maybe if she started acting normal, then Peter would follow her example. She wanted so much to put everything that happened last night behind them.
She eyed the ice cubes, discreetly picking one up and hiding it in the palm of her hand. Nonchalantly, she made her way behind him, then jerked the collar of his shirt away from his neck and dropped the cube of ice down his back.
He let out a surprised yelp and squirmed a little as the cold ice slid down his skin. She burst into giggles, eyes filled with mirth as he spun around to face her. His incredulous look transformed into something akin to smirk as he reached out and snatched her wrists, pushing her back into the counter and holding her there as he floundered for a piece of ice to retaliate with.
Her wild laughter filled the room as she struggled to get free, but he didn't yield, his body pressing hers against the counter to keep her from escaping. She could see his hand coming toward her, beads of moisture trailing over his skin where the ice had already begun to melt.
But it didn't come any closer. He was staring down at her, wearing that infuriating look again. "I'm sorry," he said, then pulled away from her and dropped the ice into the sink.
This had to be the most confusing man ever, "Peter?"
His eyes were so sad, and she had no idea why. "I appreciate what you're trying to do," he began, "But you really don't have to." Then he turned away and headed back out the front door, and she looked forlornly at his untouched meal.
---
Claire's eyes fluttered open, and she blearily glanced around in the dark, finally settling on the figure sitting hunched over on the side of the bed.
"Peter?" she asked, "Is everything okay?"
He startled at the sound of her voice and gave her a panicked look. "Everything's fine."
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she prodded, "It's late. What are you doing here?"
"Yeah, uh, sorry about that," he replied, then stood abruptly. "I'll just be going now."
"Peter," she called out, effectively stopping his retreat, "Are you stalking me?"
His eyes widened, expression horrified, "What? No! Of course, not."
A small giggle escaped her mouth, "Relax, Peter. It was a joke." He relaxed but only slightly. "So, if you're not a peeping tom, why exactly are you in my room in the middle of the night?"
"Technically, it's my room," he replied, offering her the first sign of that crooked smile she missed so much.
"I don't think so," she argued haughtily, "You gave up all rights to this room when you made such a big deal about me sleeping in here. So, tell me why you're here."
That hint of a smile disappeared, "I just had a bad dream. I needed to check and make sure you were all right."
Touched by his concern, she was filled with the urge to comfort him this time, to be there for him the way he was always there for her. "What was the dream about?"
He looked away from her, hesitated before answering, "I couldn't protect you."
She waited for his eyes to travel back to hers, then gave him a soft smile, "It was just a dream. That's not going to happen."
He looked away from her again, stared guiltily down at his feet, "How can you be so sure? I couldn't even protect you from myself."
She drew her brows together, "What are you talking about?" then finally understood what he was referring to, "Peter, I told you. You didn't hurt me. We just kissed."
But it seemed like no matter how many times she said it, he just refused to believe her, "You don't have to lie." She was a little offended that he thought she was so dishonest, but he wasn't finished speaking, and she figured this might be her only chance to get to the bottom of this. "After… what happened at Isaac's… you didn't want anything to do with me, and you were so against telling me…" he paused, looking so distraught, "You wouldn't even let me touch you. God, after everything that happened with that fucking football player, this is the last thing you need."
And Claire suddenly understood why he was acting this way. He thought that he'd tried to… "Oh, Peter…"
He looked away, ashamed. And it was such a misunderstanding, and yesterday, she would've done anything to escape embarrassment, but now, seeing him like this, she was willing to face whatever humiliation it took to erase that expression from his face. She had been so busy worrying about her own broken heart that she never stopped to see how much he was hurting. God, she had to fix this.
She lifted up the covers and said, "Come here."
He looked so reluctant, so unsure, "Claire, I don't think…"
"Come here," she repeated, voice firm, leaving no room for argument, and hesitantly, he did what she said, sliding in between the sheets and lying down on his side, facing her, but staying close to the edge, making no move to touch her.
She reached a hand out, smoothed it around his waist, settled it low on his spine, and used it to pull her body across the gap between them. His body was so warm, so firm against hers, and she couldn't help thinking back to the way he had pressed up against her outside of Isaac's, except now his chest was bare, and her hands itched to run over his skin, to caress every inch his shirt had prevented her from reaching.
She shoved those thoughts aside. This wasn't about that. The only reason she was touching him was to prove that he was wrong about what happened, that she wasn't afraid of him. The last thing he needed was for her to jump him.
Mentally shaking her head, she focused on the man in her arms, voice filled with earnestness, "You've got it all wrong. You're nothing like Brody."
He started to protest, but she wouldn't have it. "No. I swear, Peter, you didn't try to…" She let the statement hang in the air, not finishing it. The idea of Peter trying to do something like that to her just seemed so ridiculous that she couldn't even say it aloud.
She continued, doing her best to explain the situation without actually confessing her feelings, "I'm sorry I acted the way I did. You had just kissed me out of nowhere, and then you didn't remember. It was awkward, and I was embarrassed…"
His hands stayed down at his sides, but he looked so hopeful, like he wanted to believe her so badly. "I just can't stand the though of you getting hurt."
She gave him an indulgent smile, simultaneously touched and amused by his one-track mind. "The only thing that's hurting me is you pushing me away. I want my friend back."
He ran a hand through his hair, "I get that. It's just…" he sighed and then gazed directly into her eyes, "I can't let anything bad happen to you."
That fierce, protective look nearly took her breath away. "You won't," she breathed, and she held his gaze, her expression open, and spoke with all the conviction she could muster, "I trust you."
Her words inspired the most beautiful thing: Peter looked at her in awe, as if she was the most wondrous thing he'd ever seen, and he gathered her in his arms and clutched her to him, finally returning her embrace. His chin rested on top of her head as he held her close, voice nearly trembling as he whispered, "You're amazing, Claire."
God, it felt so good to have him hold her like this, as if she was the most precious thing in the world. She didn't fully understand why he'd looked at her like that, why he seemed so incredibly grateful, but she was content to snuggle in closer, just to enjoy the reverence in the way he touched her. And maybe he didn't want her, maybe he'll never feel the same way she did, but right now, in this moment, it was enough.
---
When she woke up, he was lying on his back with her sprawled on top him, her head resting on his chest. One of his hands was wrapped around her, holding her in place, while the other rested behind his head. He was staring up at the ceiling with an odd expression on his face, and though she couldn't decipher it, he was obviously deep in thought.
Smiling up at him sleepily, she greeted, "Good morning."
He glanced down at her, "Morning," then looked back up at the ceiling. He didn't say anything else for a while, and Claire felt a sense of dread creeping up inside her.
Eyes still on the ceiling, he finally broke the silence. "I've been thinking about… what happened at Isaac's."
Interesting how 'what happened at Isaac's' had become a euphemism for kissing her senseless, but since he didn't feel the same way about the situation as she did, the dread only grew stronger, making her apprehensive about whatever conclusion he'd made.
Indecision was written across his face, but he pressed on, "I don't think that kiss should count as the one you owe me. Since I don't remember it and all, I think it's only fair."
His words surprised her; they weren't at all what she'd expected. He looked at her meaningfully, and she suddenly understood what he was doing, what he was trying to say. Last night she'd asked for her friend back, and now she'd gotten him.
She beamed up at him, feeling all those festering emotions run out of her, letting her relief replace them, and he was smiling down at her softly. But it wasn't long before he was staring back up at the ceiling, that same unreadable expression on his face.
Despite really wanting to know what he was thinking, she didn't ask him about it. It was too soon, and though they had finally regained their footing, the ground still seemed unstable, volatile, as if it was just waiting to trip them up again.
Instead, she tightened her hold on him, laid her cheek back down on his chest, and chose to enjoy the moment as long as it lasted.
