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scandalinbohemiaTitle: Ordinary Day
Fandom: Heroes/The Godfather
Pairing: Peter/Claire, vaguely implied Nathan/Peter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,063 (W)
Warning: Low-rating incest.
Spoilers: None.
Thanks to:snopes_faith, the One more day to Heroes... beta.
Written for:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimmy_dreamer, who requested: "The day after a certain fic".
Notes: Sequel to Redemption, that is part of my series called "Godblessed" (see the masterlist for all the links).
You wake up in your bed, curled to one side and cold because you kicked away the blankets in your sleep. When you sit up to collect them, you notice your nightgown’s collar is loose and open on your chest and one of your breasts is naked. You pull up the covers to your shoulder without fastening it back, smiling vaguely in your pillow at the thought he might’ve seen you like that (even if you know it’s impossible; you kissed him goodbye last night, before his car entered in the courtyard, and then you went to bed alone).
It’s a Sunday morning as grey as a dirty watercolour, with the humidity that seems to try and filter under your skin and freeze any warmth Peter left there. But you resist, ignoring the bad feelings, even when you look at yourself in the mirror and a thorn of anxiety pierce your stomach. You step down to the dining room with your school books and sit at your usual corner – it’s Peter’s seat when he dines with the family, as you notice for the first time.
He’s not at home. You always know when he is, even when he doesn’t leave his office. There’s something oppressive in the mansion when he’s present, as if the air sizzled with static electricity; as if you couldn’t keep still without turning back and make yourself sure he’s not staring at you from the shadows. This morning, when you woke up, for fifteen minutes at least you had the impression he was going to step in your room in no time and call you a whore. But he didn’t, of course. Peter says he won’t know a thing, and you trust Peter. If you didn’t, you don’t know who else you could trust.
You go back to your room when you hear the car in the courtyard, and when you step down again for lunch, your heart jumps to your throat when you see Peter’s silhouette sitting at the table. You swallow it down to his place.
How long has he been there? Why didn’t he come and say hi? Why isn’t he smiling to you?
“Hi, Peter,” you mutter sitting in front of him.
“Hi, Claire.” The knot in your stomach tightens up until it’s a ball of pain, and it doesn’t relent even when Peter reaches out upon the table and touches your fingers. You feel Nathan’s eyes on you.
Whatever happened to this family yesterday, today it seems wiped off like dust hidden under the carpet. Peter and his brother are cordial to each other like nothing had happened at all; and you keep occupying a space without really existing.
If Peter’s smile is any proof, Nathan’s found a way to make Peter forgive him, and a good one too. Or maybe he didn’t, but Peter forgave him anyway. It’s something you think Peter would do – leaving the bad deeds behind his back for the sake of family harmony. Family matters so much to him. When you think this is all so wrong because you’re in the same family, an uncertain voice in your head seems to suggest that in no other way this could’ve happened; that only being part of his family you may hope he’ll choose you over the rest. But maybe it’s just your imagination suggesting perverted complications; you can’t reason lucidly when it feels like there are snakes in your stomach.
“Claire?” You wince violently and your fork falls on the plate. Nathan looks at you frowning. “You’re pale.”
“No,” you reply. “I mean, I’m fine. I just... didn’t sleep well.”
“There were crashes of thunder all night,” Heidi offers, gently.
“Yes,” you answer, hoping this will be enough.
Peter stretches out above the table and leans his palm on your forehead, then on your cheek and on the side of your neck under the ear, all with quick and experienced professionality. “I think you might have some lines of fever. Maybe you caught a cold yesterday night.”
“Maybe it wasn’t the perfect weather to go for a walk,” Nathan replies, but Peter casts him a glance. There’s something wrong in it, a silent agreement veined with a complicity that you don’t understand, that shouldn’t be there. Nathan rolls his eyes and Peter looks back at you, smiling.
“Is there still a thermometer in this house?”
“In the bathroom downstairs. Second drawer,” Heidi answers.
“Come with me, Claire.” Peter pushes his chair backwards.
“I think Claire can take her temperature by herself, honey,” Angela observes slowly.
The table freezes for a second and the smile on Peter’s lips is frozen into a less self-confident grimace. Angela Petrelli is the only woman who, perfectly calm, can upset you more than your father when he’s angry. Not even her sons seem immune.
Then Peter pulls the corners of his mouth upwards and uncovers his teeth in a large, charming commercial-like smile. “Who’s the nurse?”
Angela smiles back, but her face isn’t reassuring at all.
“Come with me, Claire. We don’t want you to catch some serious illness, do we?”
Later, in the bathroom, when Peter takes the thermometer from under your tongue and kisses your lips, your faces touching reflect in the mirror enlightened by the bulb like a wedding photo. You rest your hands on his cheeks, realizing for the first time how cold they are, and Peter studies the thermometer and shakes it to have the mercury bar shrink back to the start.
“Not a line. How do you feel?”
“Fine.” You look at him and try to smile, but the knot in your stomach doesn’t loosen up.
“Claire.” Peter hugs you, pressing his lips on your forehead. “It’s alright.” He strokes your hair. Your face feels so burning hot against his chest it’s suffocating. Peter smells like Nathan’s cologne. “It’s all right,” he repeats, when the first sob escapes from your lips. At the second one, you press a hand on your eyes and try desperately to understand why you’re crying, if Peter’s here with you and everything’s really all right – but you fail.
When the tears start falling down, your nose gets blocked up and you can’t smell anything anymore. His kisses feel more sincere, after that. You accept them like you accepted the rest, pushing back questions and tears. He chose you, didn’t he?
He chose you.
Fandom: Heroes/The Godfather
Pairing: Peter/Claire, vaguely implied Nathan/Peter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,063 (W)
Warning: Low-rating incest.
Spoilers: None.
Thanks to:
snopes_faith, the One more day to Heroes... beta.Written for:
kimmy_dreamer, who requested: "The day after a certain fic".Notes: Sequel to Redemption, that is part of my series called "Godblessed" (see the masterlist for all the links).
This is just an ordinary day
Wipe the insecurities away
You wake up in your bed, curled to one side and cold because you kicked away the blankets in your sleep. When you sit up to collect them, you notice your nightgown’s collar is loose and open on your chest and one of your breasts is naked. You pull up the covers to your shoulder without fastening it back, smiling vaguely in your pillow at the thought he might’ve seen you like that (even if you know it’s impossible; you kissed him goodbye last night, before his car entered in the courtyard, and then you went to bed alone).
It’s a Sunday morning as grey as a dirty watercolour, with the humidity that seems to try and filter under your skin and freeze any warmth Peter left there. But you resist, ignoring the bad feelings, even when you look at yourself in the mirror and a thorn of anxiety pierce your stomach. You step down to the dining room with your school books and sit at your usual corner – it’s Peter’s seat when he dines with the family, as you notice for the first time.
He’s not at home. You always know when he is, even when he doesn’t leave his office. There’s something oppressive in the mansion when he’s present, as if the air sizzled with static electricity; as if you couldn’t keep still without turning back and make yourself sure he’s not staring at you from the shadows. This morning, when you woke up, for fifteen minutes at least you had the impression he was going to step in your room in no time and call you a whore. But he didn’t, of course. Peter says he won’t know a thing, and you trust Peter. If you didn’t, you don’t know who else you could trust.
You go back to your room when you hear the car in the courtyard, and when you step down again for lunch, your heart jumps to your throat when you see Peter’s silhouette sitting at the table. You swallow it down to his place.
How long has he been there? Why didn’t he come and say hi? Why isn’t he smiling to you?
“Hi, Peter,” you mutter sitting in front of him.
“Hi, Claire.” The knot in your stomach tightens up until it’s a ball of pain, and it doesn’t relent even when Peter reaches out upon the table and touches your fingers. You feel Nathan’s eyes on you.
Whatever happened to this family yesterday, today it seems wiped off like dust hidden under the carpet. Peter and his brother are cordial to each other like nothing had happened at all; and you keep occupying a space without really existing.
If Peter’s smile is any proof, Nathan’s found a way to make Peter forgive him, and a good one too. Or maybe he didn’t, but Peter forgave him anyway. It’s something you think Peter would do – leaving the bad deeds behind his back for the sake of family harmony. Family matters so much to him. When you think this is all so wrong because you’re in the same family, an uncertain voice in your head seems to suggest that in no other way this could’ve happened; that only being part of his family you may hope he’ll choose you over the rest. But maybe it’s just your imagination suggesting perverted complications; you can’t reason lucidly when it feels like there are snakes in your stomach.
“Claire?” You wince violently and your fork falls on the plate. Nathan looks at you frowning. “You’re pale.”
“No,” you reply. “I mean, I’m fine. I just... didn’t sleep well.”
“There were crashes of thunder all night,” Heidi offers, gently.
“Yes,” you answer, hoping this will be enough.
Peter stretches out above the table and leans his palm on your forehead, then on your cheek and on the side of your neck under the ear, all with quick and experienced professionality. “I think you might have some lines of fever. Maybe you caught a cold yesterday night.”
“Maybe it wasn’t the perfect weather to go for a walk,” Nathan replies, but Peter casts him a glance. There’s something wrong in it, a silent agreement veined with a complicity that you don’t understand, that shouldn’t be there. Nathan rolls his eyes and Peter looks back at you, smiling.
“Is there still a thermometer in this house?”
“In the bathroom downstairs. Second drawer,” Heidi answers.
“Come with me, Claire.” Peter pushes his chair backwards.
“I think Claire can take her temperature by herself, honey,” Angela observes slowly.
The table freezes for a second and the smile on Peter’s lips is frozen into a less self-confident grimace. Angela Petrelli is the only woman who, perfectly calm, can upset you more than your father when he’s angry. Not even her sons seem immune.
Then Peter pulls the corners of his mouth upwards and uncovers his teeth in a large, charming commercial-like smile. “Who’s the nurse?”
Angela smiles back, but her face isn’t reassuring at all.
“Come with me, Claire. We don’t want you to catch some serious illness, do we?”
Later, in the bathroom, when Peter takes the thermometer from under your tongue and kisses your lips, your faces touching reflect in the mirror enlightened by the bulb like a wedding photo. You rest your hands on his cheeks, realizing for the first time how cold they are, and Peter studies the thermometer and shakes it to have the mercury bar shrink back to the start.
“Not a line. How do you feel?”
“Fine.” You look at him and try to smile, but the knot in your stomach doesn’t loosen up.
“Claire.” Peter hugs you, pressing his lips on your forehead. “It’s alright.” He strokes your hair. Your face feels so burning hot against his chest it’s suffocating. Peter smells like Nathan’s cologne. “It’s all right,” he repeats, when the first sob escapes from your lips. At the second one, you press a hand on your eyes and try desperately to understand why you’re crying, if Peter’s here with you and everything’s really all right – but you fail.
When the tears start falling down, your nose gets blocked up and you can’t smell anything anymore. His kisses feel more sincere, after that. You accept them like you accepted the rest, pushing back questions and tears. He chose you, didn’t he?
He chose you.