1,001 Words
Title: 1,001 Words
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Word Count: 1,725
Rated: PG
Summary: They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I found a thousand and one in yours.
Warning: No spoilers…unless you don’t know Peter and Claire are related in which case…dude, get the DVDs.
A/N: This is a letter Peter sends to Claire after she tells him she loves him.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. If I did, Peter and Claire would not be even near the same gene pool, and I’d tack on a couple years to Claire’s character for good measure.
Dear Claire,
I know this letter may seem a little out of the blue. We haven’t talked since I left for New York. More importantly, we haven’t talked since you said you loved me. Since you kissed me on the corner of my mouth and pushed me to my terminal without giving me a chance to say anything. Not that I would have been able to. I was too in shock to even eek out a coherent thought.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about. I don’t know if you’re worried about what my reaction might be. I have to imagine it took a lot of courage for you to confront your feelings like you did. Then again, you’re still young. I think it’s easier for you to throw out the “l” word without fearing the consequences.
Not that I don’t think you didn’t think there might be problems with you saying you love me! Clearly…there are, and you had to know that because you’re a smart girl. Oh Lord, if by now, you’re still reading this letter, you must really love me because I’m making no sense…It’s just…it’s all so complicated.
Come to think about it, that’s how you started off you’re little speech, wasn’t it? I remember being unable to hold back a grin. I thought you were just being a dramatic teenager (you have to admit you have a tendency to blow the little things out of proportion). But then, you poured out my heart to me, each word clearly more painful than the next.
When I got on the plane, I didn’t know what to think. My head was still trying to wrap around the idea that you thought you loved me. And I admit, in the beginning, I was sure you were mistaken. Love is a very complex idea. Like I said, young kids throw it around like it’s nothing. I was sure that you didn’t love me. You had probably fallen victim to the hero complex. I had saved you from death and naturally, you felt an abundance of gratitude for that. And that gratitude had grown to infatuation which you mistook for love. But then, I imagined telling you that to your face and I know you would have narrowed your eyes at me and told me in that sweet Texas accent of yours “Who in the hell gives you the right to tell me how I feel?” And you’re right. I have no right.
However, I can tell you how I feel about you. You’re a great person. I don’t think I’ve met anyone as kind and caring as you. You have this sort of inner radiance that can brighten even the darkest places. You’re fair and just, and that’s incredible to find in someone your age, not to mention in anyone nowadays. You stand up for the little people. I don’t think I have to tell you how pretty you are. Around two days ago, I summed up what I felt for you as this: I care deeply for you. But then that all changed when I visited Nathan yesterday and saw your picture on his desk.
It was taken this spring in Central Park. You were sitting on a bench, your head rested in your hands as you faced Heidi’s incessant camera. Your eyes were a strange shade of green that day and that’s the first thing that struck me. They only ever turn green when it’s a sunny day, and I remember you complaining that it hadn’t rained in weeks. You love that about New York. Unlike Odessa and California where the sun always shines, New York always has rain. You love to listen to the rain beat down on your bedroom window.
Your lips were curled upward in that sort of half smile you love to give. It’s the one that you use when you’re really happy about something, but you’re afraid to admit it. You’re afraid it’s all going to disappear just like that. Because every time life’s going well, something comes along to screw it up. You never told me that. I just know it’s the truth.
Your hair was sweeping across your face, almost like the picture was taken during a strong gust of wind. You think your hair is probably your worst physical quality. You think it’s too thin up top and too thick at the bottom. You hate how it can never really curl, only at the ends. You hate that it’s naturally blonde. You’ve always wished it was red or jet black, something unique you said. It baffles me that you could hate it because to me it’s probably the prettiest shade of blonde I’ve ever seen. It’s honey or gold or some other word that connotes a feeling of warmth and comfort deep down in your soul. I think your hair is your best physical quality.
You can see in that picture that your pinky finger is slightly bent the wrong way. It’s from the gymnastics accident you had in fourth grade. You fell off the balance beam and broke your hand. The bone never grew back right, and as a result, your pinky was always crooked. How odd was it, you said, that a girl who could heal herself couldn’t get a bone you broke years ago to go back straight? I told you it was ironic and you fixed that wry smile on your face and told me you were tired of irony.
You were wearing a ring on your right thumb and your left index finger, like always. The one on your thumb is a real white gold band, and it was passed down through the Bennett family tree. Your father gave it to you for your grammar school graduation gift and you’ve never cherished anything quite like it. Except maybe the emerald ring on your other finger that was given to you by my mother. It was her way of saying she was proud of you without actually saying anything at all. I’ve never seen your eyes quite as bright as the day she gave that to you.
There was a coat, my coat to be exact, draped around your shoulders. When you had woken up it had been extra warm outside, and you had insisted on wearing a tank top and shorts despite my warning. You said I was obsessed with the weather channel and that I had to learn that once and awhile those weathermen with all their big fancy equipment were bound to be wrong. Especially since it looked like they never got outside. That day the weathermen had been right, and the smartass little cheerleader had been wrong. You bickered all the way to the park about how cold it had gotten in such little time, all the while throwing not so subtle hints that you’d love it if I gave you my jacket. I pretended not to hear it for awhile, but eventually I caved. Like always.
You snuggled into it, your arms swimming in the sleeves. On your petite figure, it looked more like a trench coat than anything else. You said that the brown zip up matched perfectly with your outfit even though I know full and well that brown and black clash. Still, you tugged it close to your body, sniffing the collar and smiling widely. “It smells like you,” you blurted out, a small blush spreading across your cheeks, and I remember thinking how endearing it was. I threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close. For a couple minutes, I forgot you were my niece and we were a decade apart in age. You were just Claire. My Claire.
I took that picture, with a cheap disposable camera which cost twice what it should. It was the second picture I took. The first was of your shoes because you firmly believed the myth that the first picture on the roll never comes out right. I rolled my eyes at your superstitious nature only to earn a good slap upside the head from you. It was all worth it just to hear you giggle.
We had gone to the park to enjoy your last day in New York. I tried to jam as much sightseeing as possible into one day without overwhelming you. You’re the type of person who needs to take everything in, in order to appreciate it. Finally our day ended in Central Park and you chastised me for not taking a single picture (sans the shoes one) so far. So I propped you on the bench and told you to smile. You tried to hide behind your hands but I begged, giving you the best puppy eyes I could muster and you caved. Like always. It was quiet for a moment when our eyes met. I saw your eyes flicker with something and you said my name. I ducked behind the camera before I heard you and by the time I looked back you already lost all your courage and just gave me that sad little half smile. I snapped the photo. Looking back, I know what it all meant.
The picture, only a moment in time, brought back so many memories of you, some that had nothing to do with the moment it captured at all. Details no person would ever remember unless they were with someone they just couldn’t forget. When Nathan found me staring at it, he smiled and said, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” And all I could do was nod back at him because I was at a loss for words.
You’re probably wondering what my point is…so here it goes. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I found a thousand and one in yours.
I love you too Claire.
Peter
----
A/N: In case you’re wondering, that middle part describing the picture (paragraphs 7-15) is really 1,001 words, and Lord, it was a bitch to get to be that exactly.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Word Count: 1,725
Rated: PG
Summary: They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I found a thousand and one in yours.
Warning: No spoilers…unless you don’t know Peter and Claire are related in which case…dude, get the DVDs.
A/N: This is a letter Peter sends to Claire after she tells him she loves him.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. If I did, Peter and Claire would not be even near the same gene pool, and I’d tack on a couple years to Claire’s character for good measure.
Dear Claire,
I know this letter may seem a little out of the blue. We haven’t talked since I left for New York. More importantly, we haven’t talked since you said you loved me. Since you kissed me on the corner of my mouth and pushed me to my terminal without giving me a chance to say anything. Not that I would have been able to. I was too in shock to even eek out a coherent thought.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about. I don’t know if you’re worried about what my reaction might be. I have to imagine it took a lot of courage for you to confront your feelings like you did. Then again, you’re still young. I think it’s easier for you to throw out the “l” word without fearing the consequences.
Not that I don’t think you didn’t think there might be problems with you saying you love me! Clearly…there are, and you had to know that because you’re a smart girl. Oh Lord, if by now, you’re still reading this letter, you must really love me because I’m making no sense…It’s just…it’s all so complicated.
Come to think about it, that’s how you started off you’re little speech, wasn’t it? I remember being unable to hold back a grin. I thought you were just being a dramatic teenager (you have to admit you have a tendency to blow the little things out of proportion). But then, you poured out my heart to me, each word clearly more painful than the next.
When I got on the plane, I didn’t know what to think. My head was still trying to wrap around the idea that you thought you loved me. And I admit, in the beginning, I was sure you were mistaken. Love is a very complex idea. Like I said, young kids throw it around like it’s nothing. I was sure that you didn’t love me. You had probably fallen victim to the hero complex. I had saved you from death and naturally, you felt an abundance of gratitude for that. And that gratitude had grown to infatuation which you mistook for love. But then, I imagined telling you that to your face and I know you would have narrowed your eyes at me and told me in that sweet Texas accent of yours “Who in the hell gives you the right to tell me how I feel?” And you’re right. I have no right.
However, I can tell you how I feel about you. You’re a great person. I don’t think I’ve met anyone as kind and caring as you. You have this sort of inner radiance that can brighten even the darkest places. You’re fair and just, and that’s incredible to find in someone your age, not to mention in anyone nowadays. You stand up for the little people. I don’t think I have to tell you how pretty you are. Around two days ago, I summed up what I felt for you as this: I care deeply for you. But then that all changed when I visited Nathan yesterday and saw your picture on his desk.
It was taken this spring in Central Park. You were sitting on a bench, your head rested in your hands as you faced Heidi’s incessant camera. Your eyes were a strange shade of green that day and that’s the first thing that struck me. They only ever turn green when it’s a sunny day, and I remember you complaining that it hadn’t rained in weeks. You love that about New York. Unlike Odessa and California where the sun always shines, New York always has rain. You love to listen to the rain beat down on your bedroom window.
Your lips were curled upward in that sort of half smile you love to give. It’s the one that you use when you’re really happy about something, but you’re afraid to admit it. You’re afraid it’s all going to disappear just like that. Because every time life’s going well, something comes along to screw it up. You never told me that. I just know it’s the truth.
Your hair was sweeping across your face, almost like the picture was taken during a strong gust of wind. You think your hair is probably your worst physical quality. You think it’s too thin up top and too thick at the bottom. You hate how it can never really curl, only at the ends. You hate that it’s naturally blonde. You’ve always wished it was red or jet black, something unique you said. It baffles me that you could hate it because to me it’s probably the prettiest shade of blonde I’ve ever seen. It’s honey or gold or some other word that connotes a feeling of warmth and comfort deep down in your soul. I think your hair is your best physical quality.
You can see in that picture that your pinky finger is slightly bent the wrong way. It’s from the gymnastics accident you had in fourth grade. You fell off the balance beam and broke your hand. The bone never grew back right, and as a result, your pinky was always crooked. How odd was it, you said, that a girl who could heal herself couldn’t get a bone you broke years ago to go back straight? I told you it was ironic and you fixed that wry smile on your face and told me you were tired of irony.
You were wearing a ring on your right thumb and your left index finger, like always. The one on your thumb is a real white gold band, and it was passed down through the Bennett family tree. Your father gave it to you for your grammar school graduation gift and you’ve never cherished anything quite like it. Except maybe the emerald ring on your other finger that was given to you by my mother. It was her way of saying she was proud of you without actually saying anything at all. I’ve never seen your eyes quite as bright as the day she gave that to you.
There was a coat, my coat to be exact, draped around your shoulders. When you had woken up it had been extra warm outside, and you had insisted on wearing a tank top and shorts despite my warning. You said I was obsessed with the weather channel and that I had to learn that once and awhile those weathermen with all their big fancy equipment were bound to be wrong. Especially since it looked like they never got outside. That day the weathermen had been right, and the smartass little cheerleader had been wrong. You bickered all the way to the park about how cold it had gotten in such little time, all the while throwing not so subtle hints that you’d love it if I gave you my jacket. I pretended not to hear it for awhile, but eventually I caved. Like always.
You snuggled into it, your arms swimming in the sleeves. On your petite figure, it looked more like a trench coat than anything else. You said that the brown zip up matched perfectly with your outfit even though I know full and well that brown and black clash. Still, you tugged it close to your body, sniffing the collar and smiling widely. “It smells like you,” you blurted out, a small blush spreading across your cheeks, and I remember thinking how endearing it was. I threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close. For a couple minutes, I forgot you were my niece and we were a decade apart in age. You were just Claire. My Claire.
I took that picture, with a cheap disposable camera which cost twice what it should. It was the second picture I took. The first was of your shoes because you firmly believed the myth that the first picture on the roll never comes out right. I rolled my eyes at your superstitious nature only to earn a good slap upside the head from you. It was all worth it just to hear you giggle.
We had gone to the park to enjoy your last day in New York. I tried to jam as much sightseeing as possible into one day without overwhelming you. You’re the type of person who needs to take everything in, in order to appreciate it. Finally our day ended in Central Park and you chastised me for not taking a single picture (sans the shoes one) so far. So I propped you on the bench and told you to smile. You tried to hide behind your hands but I begged, giving you the best puppy eyes I could muster and you caved. Like always. It was quiet for a moment when our eyes met. I saw your eyes flicker with something and you said my name. I ducked behind the camera before I heard you and by the time I looked back you already lost all your courage and just gave me that sad little half smile. I snapped the photo. Looking back, I know what it all meant.
The picture, only a moment in time, brought back so many memories of you, some that had nothing to do with the moment it captured at all. Details no person would ever remember unless they were with someone they just couldn’t forget. When Nathan found me staring at it, he smiled and said, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” And all I could do was nod back at him because I was at a loss for words.
You’re probably wondering what my point is…so here it goes. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I found a thousand and one in yours.
I love you too Claire.
Peter
----
A/N: In case you’re wondering, that middle part describing the picture (paragraphs 7-15) is really 1,001 words, and Lord, it was a bitch to get to be that exactly.