Title: Lines
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Disclaimer: Um, nope, don't own them!
Beta: frellingblonde
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.
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Ten
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Peter remembers jumping off his father's desk when he was five years old.
There had been a cape involved, and Peter's obsession with flying had already kicked in.
It had been his brother, studying in the room down the hall, who had come rushing at his shout of pain, scooped him up and set him on the desk and catalogued each body part, face sickeningly pale (tight with panic) before he realized that Peter was fine and went off on Peter for doing such an "incredibly stupid" thing. Even that young, Peter had realized where the anger came from, why Nathan was only ever truly angry with a few people around him, why he was always far more upset (emotional) with Peter than anyone else.
Peter's always known one thing for sure in his life, one utter certainty and that is the simple fact that Nathan loves him, completely and totally and despite everything, it's the one thing that he's never once doubted.
The hours before the explosion (his mother and his brother and the doubt that had crept in) had shaken that belief but his brother had pulled through, had been the man who had checked him for injuries years before.
His brother loves him, even if he's usually too harsh to show it in ways that other people can see.
Peter loves his brother, completely and totally.
But in his heart of hearts, he knows he's just using Nathan as an excuse, a wall between himself and Claire, between himself and what he knows is inevitable, this connection that blood can strain but not break.
What he knows is wrong even though it doesn't feel wrong.
His brother's kept him from doing stupid things before, caught him when he fell before.
This time isn't supposed to be different.
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Claire's trying to avoid him, and he's trying to help.
Because if he thinks about this too much, he knows, he won't get on the plane with her.
He'll run again, faster and farther than before, and he's horribly convinced that she won't run after him anymore.
So he doesn't go into the kitchen to make his lunch unless he knows she's somewhere else in the house and there's no chance of ambushing her. He makes sure he's busy with work his heart isn't in and stays out of the house when it's time for dinner so that there'll be no awkward glances across the table. He blasts music through his headphones when he goes to bed (not that it does any good, it's so easy to focus on her past the sound). He tries not to be alone on their floor or glance into the open door of her room when he walks past.
Key word in the last instance being tries.
Because this is where he always fails, where his control slips and he looks through a door that's always open when he walks by. Sometimes she's sleeping, napping, hair tangled and cheek pillowed on an arm; other times she's restlessly going through her few possessions she brought with her as if she's actually focused on them.
Today, she's packing them all up, music drifting from the laptop on the desk against the wall as she folds and unfolds and refolds her clothes, face blank until she notices him (she always does) and then it tightens. Under the music, her heartbeat quickens, breathing changing as he stares and can't look away, weakened by the sudden familiarity of the image.
For a moment, she looks younger and softer (scared but strong) as she packed according to his mother's instructions, white blouse looking too pristine against the dark wood of the home he'd never truly fit into.
Things had been simpler then even though they hadn't been at the same time. It had been the two of them against the world, and for all the fear he'd felt then, so much of it had been focused on her and somehow keeping her safe in the chaos. Keeping safe this girl at his side who understood him without even knowing him, made him feel like some missing piece had finally been slid into place.
"Packing isn't this fascinating."
You are, but he doesn't say that because her voice is already strained (and he doesn't think he'd be able to get the words out anyway) and he doesn't want to upset her even more.
So instead he stands in the doorway and takes her in silently, too aware of how she's changed since that day years before, pretty youth sharpened into a woman's grace, softest curves edged down over time. It's deeper than that, though, shows itself through bleakness in her eyes and tightness to her form that's not supposed to be there.
"Need help?"
He doesn't mean to ask but the words slip out and he swallows and bites his tongue until he tastes blood, bites harder when she pauses and the line of her shoulders stiffens, his back straightening in a subtle way he's acutely come to recognize. He knows, instinctively, how to make her loosen again, the way to slide his palm up her spine to make the tension in her muscles ease.
Peter used to do it all the time, would trail his fingers up her spine and pull her to him and stroke her hair and just hold her while he pretended that she was only a niece to him. Would do it as long as he could until it became too much and he had to pull away, had to excuse himself and try to remind himself that uncles didn't feel like this about their nieces and breathe through the pain of the separation.
(And it's such a stupid cliché but it's true.)
His fingers itch with the urge to follow those instincts and she's staring at him, lips colorless and eyes wide.
"I don't need your help."
"Of course not," he agrees and steps forward and then stops himself, taking a breath and then pushing it out.
Claire swallows, frowns and stares down at the clothes as she folds and unfolds and refolds, as she doesn't meet his eyes and doesn't order him out and doesn't speak to him. His feet betray him (it's the only way he can let himself think about what he's doing) and he takes another steps towards her, finds himself inside her room instead of just peering in.
They haven't talked about the important stuff (not about this or France or what happens when they get there or what happens after France) or the useless stuff (half-hearted joking over Nathan's inability to not smile like a politician when he wants something from them) and he misses even that, misses useless conversations that they couldn't have with anyone else.
He doesn't want it to be like this and also he doesn't know how he wants it to be but that's not true either because he knows what he wants and he knows that what he wants is wrong, sick, will send him to hell no matter how many people he may save before he gets there. He's a son of a bitch who wakes up aching in the nights with her name tangled up in his throat like the sheets around him, skin flushed and feeling hollow in a way that he knows how to fix.
Another step and there's only the bed between them and she's staring at him, teeth biting into her bottom lip.
"Need anything?"
"No," she says but she's nodding at the same time as she knots her fingers into a delicate blouse, ruins the silk.
White, he notices as a bitter laugh simmers in his middle— and he remembers how her hair had looked dark gold against the other white blouse, the nervous expression on a young face as she stood and packed and then hesitated at his words because she had believed him even if it scared her.
I'm sorry, he wants to say, words choking him, I'm sorry and I hate this and I love you and I wish I was a better man for you because you deserve more than this—
They haven't done anything, haven't touched but it's intimate, the way they're staring at each other across the bed, the quiet way they're breathing and how completely aware he is of how much he wants to touch her. Trail fingers up her arms to cradle the curve of her neck and it would be easy when his control came undone and she wouldn't hesitate because she wants this as much as he does even if she's scared of what comes after—
At some point in the last few years, she's become braver (better and stronger) than he is.
"I'm not coming back," she tells him quietly and he swallows and doesn't say anything. "This is my last visit," she continues as she twists the silk blouse first one way and then the other, licks her lips. "I'm staying in France from now on because I don't want to do this anymore." A pause and she looks at him, meets his eyes. "I'll send you your gifts by mail."
Claire's sure he's coming back and the sane part of him needs that to be the truth even if it's not what he wants.
He imagines the loss of control that a part of him knows is inevitable, a body moving easily against his, quickened breathing and a thundering heartbeat, nails gripping his arms as she arches, tightens, and groans his name in a way that he's fantasized about and hates himself for being able to picture so easily. And he imagines after, pushing damp hair off a flushed face and smoothing fingers over a hip and then around to stroke her spine.
Somehow, it's the second fantasy that scares him the most, what comes after that loss of control.
"I'm not— I'm staying with you."
"Right," she laughs, and it's a strangled sound that slices deep.
And he wants to assure her but he can't because he wants to pull away and remind himself that she's his niece and this is wrong, sick, and that it doesn't matter how right it may feel because he can't lose control. "If you need anything—"
"I'm a big girl, I can pack by myself," and she doesn't look at him and he knows he's been dismissed.
"Okay," he says, and then— "I'm just down the hall," and he doesn't know why he says that, swallows at the way her eyes fly up to study him, go soft and turn wary at the same time. He freezes, hesitates, but then walks out slowly and shuts her door behind him and flees to his room to pretend that he needs to pack even though he's been packed for two days.
When he hears her door swing open behind him and he knows she's watching him so he doesn't let himself look back, just shuts and locks his door to keep her out and leans there and breathes through the pain.
(Peter hates when stupid clichés are true.)
