Small Author's Note: For those not really "understanding" what I'm doing...I know you're out there...I'm still doing the basic HEROES plotlines. I'm just tweaking them in a way that will fit the "first meeting" I wrote for Peter and Claire. This one takes place during Godsend, but, for example of what I'm doing, instead of Peter being in a coma for two weeks, he's been hiding out with Claire for two weeks until the "heat" dies down (the reason there is "HEAT" and not the good SMUTTY kind is explained in Acquaintances. Thank you!
Chapter Two: Friends
The walls of Peter's apartment were pale beige, and had numerous small pockmarks in it. How those marks got there Claire didn't know, but she'd spent the last week and a half thinking about it. Some of them looked like spackled-over nail holes, but badly done. Several had distinct hand-shaped imprints. All had been recently painted over, again, in the pale beige.
She'd had plenty of time to think about this since she wasn't allowed to leave the apartment.
Peter, who was allowed, chose not to; this was his apartment, he was perfectly comfortable with secluding himself from family and friends and trying to figure out how to stop the bomb, whatever that bomb was. He'd spent the three days traveling here discussing it with Claire, then the next week brooding over it, ignoring the fact that he now had a minor illegally staying in his New York apartment after he'd traveled over MANY state lines with her. Claire found that she was partly grateful for his preoccupation. It allowed her to get used to his place on her own terms, in her own time.
She knew every mark in those walls, every mark on his body. She knew every scrape on the floor, every loose thread of the couch. Claire had seen every view from the window, of every time of day and night. She knew his place better than he knew it himself, and slowly because of it, it became her place too. A place where she didn't have to pretend to have school spirit and to smile all the time. Where she herself could think long thoughts without having to sugarcoat them for public consumption.
It was a habit of Peter's that she'd picked up as easily as he picked up on others' powers.
Claire had to admit, he looked good when he brooded; his dark bangs hanging over his face, hands twisting and feet stomping about as he fidgeted again and again. She'd spent many an hour just watching him sit there and be emo, and had to admit that she'd spend many an hour doing it again. Sitting in one of the oddly ritzy wingbacks that bracketed his battered leather couch in his derelict apartment, she twirled her hair around her finger and imagined deliciously deviant things about her roommate.
Yes, roommate.
As in...he hadn't touched her since their first 'date'; if you could call fucking in the locker room fifteen minutes after they first met a date.
Which she did.
Her dignity required nothing less.
As it was, they hadn't spent the entire last two weeks not speaking to each other. In between trying to figure out how they were supposed to "save the world" (which included discussions about the definitions of 'save', 'world', and the various interpretations one could make of each word), Peter and Claire did continue to get to know each other. Whereas three weeks ago, they hadn't known each other at all, now they might even be described in passing as "best friends".
Peter didn't treat her as a child, despite her being nine years younger than him, having just passed her seventeenth birthday not too long ago. He'd even bought her a t-shirt in Missouri as a birthday present, though she thinks that has more to do with the fact that he'd spilled soda on her only shirt about half-way between Jefferson City and St. Louis. They'd been in such a hurry to get out of Odessa before someone caught them that Claire hadn't been allowed to return home and pack.
She hadn't taken the time to call her parents either. In the past two weeks, her father had left fifty-seven messages on her phone, each imploring her to call. Her mother had left seventy. While her mother's were pleas for a safe return, seemingly to an imaginary kidnapper of some sort, Claire's father's were not. In fact, they were oddly pointedly directed at her, almost as if he'd known she'd taken off voluntary. Sometimes she even thought he might be following them, just the sensation of eyes on the back of her neck that sent her senses screaming and her head spinning.
Peter had no idea of her suspicions.
"Claire?"
Startled from her place in the chair, her feet slammed to the floor as she whirled around to stare at Peter where he stood near the doorway. "Yeah?"
"I'm going out. I'll be back in a few hours."
Her surprise clearly showed on her face. Neither of them had left the apartment since they'd arrived. Peter had even unplugged the phone and ignored any knock on his door. He hadn't given her a reason, but he hadn't really needed to. Her picture was all over the news for several days. It was to be expected. Cheerleader is murdered in small Texas town, same night another cheerleader goes missing? Surely not a coincidence, and definitely a national news story. It was why Claire still wasn't allowed out, and no one was allowed in.
Peter was sacrificing his own life and relationships to protect her.
Claire nodded and stood, taking in the vintage Tee he wore under his jacket. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to see Isaac. I want to know if he's painted anything new."
"What about your brother? And Simone?" Especially Simone, Claire wanted to know. Was he planning on seeing her? Was he planning on telling her about Claire?
"I'll talk to Nathan when I feel like it...and...I've already spoken to Simone." Peter started across the room, hesitating briefly to brush a kiss across Claire's forehead. "Don't answer the door for anyone. I've got my key. If you need something call my cell," he reminded her over her shoulder. He was almost out the door before he leaned back in to sneak in a snide comment, "And no ordering Skinemax."
Claire laughed and flipped him the bird before sliding back into the seat and picking up the magazine she'd dropped hours ago. This easy camaraderie between them had come at a heavy price. The sexual tension between them was slowly going silent but deadly, growing tighter with every passing day only to be ignored. They liked to pretend that with practice, that ignoring it would get easier and it might even die away. Claire fell asleep with Peter on her mind, and woke with him there as well. Sometimes, there was a look in his eyes that made her wonder if he knew it, or perhaps if he felt the same way.
She did know that he'd spoken to Simone already, though of course Peter was oblivious to that fact. It'd been several nights after they'd fled Odessa. He'd called her in the bathroom, thinking Claire was asleep. She'd hadn't had the heart to tell him she hadn't slept for days, and because of her healing abilities, could go indefinitely without it.
In some of her fantasies, he and she explored that never-ending energy to many delightful prospects. She was no stranger to tantric sex, at least not in her imagination.
She imagined Simone wasn't either. The woman had captured not one, but two powerful Heroes. Isaac, the prophetic painter, and Peter, the sponge; sometimes Claire wondered if Simone had an ability herself. That, of course, was jealousy talking which she couldn't control. She could only take satisfaction in the knowledge that whatever Simone and Peter had was over. She'd heard Peter tell Simone that; he's said explicitly that when he returned to New York he didn't want to see her romantically anymore, since she was in love with Isaac. He'd even gone so far as to call their kiss a mistake.
Claire took satisfaction in the knowledge that she'd had Peter when Simone hadn't.
She wondered what Simone looked like.
He'd run like a little bitch, and he wasn't apologizing for it.
Peter had not, as Claire supposed, been consumed with figuring out how to stop the bomb for the past two weeks. He could barely even think about anything else when she was around. Every movement she made, every sound, every look, was indelibly marked in his memory. He brooded because all he could think about was getting inside her again, and the knowledge that he shouldn't was all that kept his will strong enough to resist.
...but when she fingered the small niches in his wall, her eyes all dreamy as she imagined how they'd gotten there he could swear that the line that kept him from bending her over the coffee table and fucking her became a noose by which he hung himself every night. Later, when the moon was blocked by the skyscrapers and a false orange day overtook the streets, he paced his bedroom, door shut, and pretended that he didn't know she was doing the same on the other side.
The streets were busy, it was lunch time after all, and Peter slipped through the crowd with practiced ease. He'd walked these streets for years, knew every dip and crack that was in the sidewalk. Still, even he was amazed when he observed a hobo-looking man stealing a woman's purse right in front of everyone. He wasn't surprised by the stealing, more so by the fact that no one was doing a damn thing.
"Hey!" He called, trying to get someone's attention, and though several people around him took steps back and continued walking, no one by the thief did the same. "Hey, you!"
The daring thief was now calmly walking away. Peter, the Hero, could no longer stand this insult. Taking off after the man, he grabbed his arm, forcing his attention. "What are you doing?"
"You can see me?" The man asked incredulously.
And so began Peter's headache.
It'd been more than a few hours, but Claire wasn't worried about Peter. Oh, no, sirree. After listening to another round of voice messages from her parents, and several from her brother, Claire found herself in depressed-teenage-girl-ville and decided dipping into Peter's vodka stash was the medicine she needed.
The only problem was that since she healed so quickly, she had to drink continuously just to maintain a buzz. She'd gone through three bottles now, and sipped every few minutes to maintain the "Whirly" feeling that made the room spin so fun. It reminded her of when Peter was inside of her, moving and making the world seem like it didn't exist, but if it did it moved so quickly neither noticed. Even as the world sped by, every touch was in slow motion in her memory though she knew it wasn't in reality. Their tryst in the locker room didn't last more than ten minutes at the most, yet as she sat on the couch in one of his t-shirts (her sleeping garb), she waxed nostalgic and somehow the encounter stretched out infinitely.
For one thing, in her mind their clothes actually were removed all the way, slowly. He slid his hands inside her pants, unbuttoning them and sliding them down slowly. He kneeled and removed them and her shoes, breathing heavily on the swollen and moist part of her that remembered his touch so ardently...
Claire jerked from her thoughts because that last one wasn't true at all. She sat up in the dark, finding the she'd dozed and her buzz was completely gone. The swirlies in the air had dissipated, but when she stood she found her aroused state from her dozing dream hadn't. With a naughty smile she slumped back on the couch, shoving the cushions away and slumping down. Peter was gone and showed no sign of returning, and Lord knew, she'd never risk this when he was here.
All she wore beneath the thin shirt were panties, and skimpy ones at that. Maybe she'd put them on in hopes that Peter would stumble in at an inopportune moment, catching a glimpse of her barely clad rear and finding himself without the will to resist. Maybe he'd push her to the floor and make sure that the same scantily clad rear stung from the force of his love.
Just the thought had her arching from the couch, her hand sliding inside her panties to touch her sensitive flesh.
Claire had never been one for masturbating, not from lack of wanting, but more from lack of privacy. Her parents' room had been right across from hers, and Claire wasn't exactly quiet. She could even admit that several of her "boyfriends" had provided a little stimulus from time to time, though she'd never allowed it to go very far and most had gotten the hints.
Since she and Peter had consummated their relationship, though...
She'd gotten urges. Hot, sweating, wake her in the middle of the night panting urges. Urges that Peter refused to acknowledge, let alone satisfy.
She touched herself, and she thought of him. She rubbed up and down the outside of her cunt first, making long lazy sweeps near the nubbin, pretending that her two fingers was the head of his penis and that he was a teasing little bastard like he'd been that one night. Then she pinched herself, the pain so deliciously close to pleasure that her back arched even further from the couch and she slid to the floor with a jarring thump!
Claire sighed and removed her hand, realizing that this just wasn't working.
Surely she needed more room?
With an evil grin, and Peter still showing no sign of showing up, she crawled her way to his room and pulled herself onto his rumpled bed. It smelled like him, a combination of husky man and Hugo Boss cologne. High quality sheets slid against her skin like a lover's touch and excited her rapidly heating flesh. She wrapped herself in his bedding and found herself almost feeling him there, laughing along her belly as his tongue slid into her navel and lower.
She began again.
She didn't dick around this time, either.
She thrust two fingers inside her and found the width lacking. Peter was wider than that, and imagining him had her moaning in frustration. She ached for him, night and day, and he refused her so callously, so cruel.
She used three fingers and found it more to her liking.
She pressed them in and moved them about, hitting so many interesting spots at once that she began to ripple with pre-orgasm almost at once. Peter's cock couldn't do that, but damn if it didn't go deeper.
She started to move in and out, pretending it was him and that he'd become magically all-touching inside of her. Her slick fingers began to move faster even as her legs fell open and the sheets slid aside. She was open to the air now; it felt cool and refreshing on her fevered skin, her slick sensitive flesh. Her panties were in her way, but she wasn't about to stop and remove them. She was having too much fun. Why hadn't she ever done this before?
Her hips began to pump up and down on the bed, her feet sliding to and fro trying to find purchase. She giggled into the air, a long breathy laugh that echoed over the infomercials in the living room as her flesh tightened and clenched her fingers. She could feel her climax in her stomach and found the twin sensations of her pussy and her fingers most interesting. Almost like being in two places at once; such complex thoughts were lost on her though as she finally let go of all her tension with a moan. She kept pumping her cramping fingers, trying to make it last like Peter could, make it go on for hours like he could until her voice was gone and her legs couldn't move.
In the end, she was left with more frustration because even she couldn't give herself what she needed.
Sighing and grumbling as a black mood settled over her, she slipped from her den of iniquity and straightened the sheets as best she could.
She wondered if she could sneak out without Peter knowing and find someone to fill this void inside her.
Peter's head felt like it was splitting open and the images that lingered there only made it worse.
He'd met an invisible man today. One who'd mockingly introduced himself as Claude Rains before he pushed him off the roof of a building. On the way down to the cab below, where Peter would finally learn the secret to controlling his abilities, Peter had a very interesting dream, if it truly was a dream.
Perhaps it was more of a prophecy, but he had no idea where it came from.
He'd been an exploding man, taking out all of New York. For the life of him, he wanted to dismiss it as a dream, as a figment of his panicking mind.
He knew it wasn't.
As he walked back to his apartment, having left Claude behind to his pigeons, Peter knew with certainty that he was going to die and take most of New York with him.
He was going to explode, and not even Claire could save him.
All his thinking, all his brooding, all his resisting temptation, and within a few weeks he was going to die anyways? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.
Thinking of others had only gotten him hurt. When was Peter supposed to think about himself? When was he going to think about his world? His safety? His happiness?
Peter let himself into his apartment with indecision on his mind, a weakness in his steel shield and was unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Claire sat in front of the TV, her golden legs balanced on the coffee table as she blinded him with a million watt smile, all innocence and light. "Hi, Peter!"
"What'd you do?" He asked in a pseudo-serious voice, knowing her ploys all too well. He slipped off his jacket and inhaled the air around her, a mix of flowers and something familiar.
"Not a damn thing," she replied, turning back to the Psychic Hotline with an evil grin.
"Like I believe that," he snorted, tossing his jacket over the back of the couch. He grew serious quickly, leaning down to brush a kiss on the top of her forehead before nuzzling the crown of her head that glowed like a halo there. "I had a bad night."
She turned on the couch, coming to her knees to wrap her arms around his shoulder, and still everyone was so damn friendly. "What happened? Is it why you've been gone so long?"
"I met another Hero, one I didn't know before today. We got to talking, and fighting, and...something happened."
"What?" She asked, her blue eyes and tempting lips so close that their breath mingled. Peter hesitated, briefly wanting to press his lips to hers, to feel her sigh into him, but he moved away anyways.
"I'll change and tell you all about it, I bet you'll find it funny," he said sardonically over his shoulder as he pulled his bedroom door shut behind him. He immediately froze.
His room smelled different, that same something similar, and with a flash of revelation, he knew what it was. He could remember it so acutely because he dreamt of it every night.
Walking to his bed, he slid his hands over the sheets, fisting them and pulling them close, inhaling deeply.
She'd been here, in his bed, perhaps waiting for him. Most certainly thinking of him, or she damn well better have been.
He pulled the top sheet away, throwing it to the wall, fighting for control.
He was supposed to protect Claire, not fuck her.
Yet deep inside his mind, a little voice started to speak, a little voice brought on by visions of apocalyptic doom...
She wants you to protect her and fuck her. They're not mutually exclusive.
They should be, Peter thought back. She's a girl.
You made her a woman.
He should have known better.
She's got a woman's tastes now...
He should've done a lot of things, and shouldn't have done others.
...she'll go satisfy those tastes elsewhere if you don't step up...
Rage colored his vision at the thought. Claire with Isaac, Claire with Mohinder? Claire with some random footballer going at it in the football field, her cheerleader uniform shoved up over her hips?
Peter lifted the soiled sheet from the floor and threw open his bedroom door, startling Claire onto her feet where the t-shirt rode up and left much skin to bare. Peter hungrily eyed it as he let the sheet slip from his grip. He stalked her retreating form across the room, delighting in the mirrored hunger in her gaze, even if it was mixed with fear.
"Peter?"
"Claire."
"What's wrong?"
"I can't resist anymore, Claire," he whispered into her hair as he pressed his rock-hard body against hers, sliding his arms around her hips and lifting her in one smooth motion, tossing her over his shoulder. She gasped as the sudden motion, all her breath sliding from her body in a long rush even as what was happening finally dawned on her.
"Finally!" She shouted as she slid her hands into his jeans, fondling his ass as he carried her. "I was beginning to think you weren't getting the clues, Peter!"
Peter grinned and tossed her on the bed, and he looked almost sinister in the light, eliciting a shiver of anticipation. "Find something to hold onto."
She licked her suddenly dry lips and asked with a slight grin. "Why?"
He kneeled above her, and they kissed violently, bruised lips and gnashing teeth, the product of weeks of sexual repression and frustration. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk."
Claire's eyes widened. "That'll be challenging."