Fic; Watched by an Angel [Heroes, R]
Title: Watched by an Angel
Author: sweetbelle07
Fandom: Heroes
Character(s): ghost!Peter/Claire
Rating: R
Summery: Claire receives a visit from the impossible.
A/N: This can be either canon or AU, depending on how you look at the pairing. The existance of a ghost!Peter's actually debatable too... this is probably the product of four hours of Ghost Hunters and being awake at three in the morning.
It's been fourth months, nine days, fourteen hours, sixteen minutes and... some number of seconds since she's touched him.
It's been three minutes and four seconds since she saw his face in the mirror.
She doesn't believe in the paranormal. Ghosts and hauntings and fae creatures are ridiculous and that statement sounds ridiculous coming from a girl who can literally put her bones back together but it's true. If there is such a thing as the spirit, it doesn't linger on earth after death.
She's seeing things. That's all. She's tired. She's had a long day. Her cheeks hurt from smiling at the cameras. She's had one too many drinks. She simply needs to curl into her blankets and cry herself to sleep like every other night.
Claire.
Her head turns faster then her body is supposed to and there's a definite snap as her neck breaks but she doesn't care. Someone said her name. Or she's hearing things on top of seeing things. Being recognized publicly by her birth father is much more draining then she thought.
She practically throws her hairbrush down. It shatters a little trinket her grandmother bought her in Paris but she doesn't care about that either. The trinket was stupid anyway and a really piss poor attempt at cheering her up.
Getting into bed's a little rougher then normal. She throws the decorative pillows off, hardly concerned if they break anything--this room's far too fragile for her taste--and jerks the comforter down, treating it like it offended her somehow.
Her eyes are closed for almost five seconds when she hears it again, louder and more insistent.
Claire!
If it's Monty or Simon dicking around outside her room, she's going to slaughter them. Half brothers or no. Growling in annoyance, she pushes the covers down and stalks over to the door, jerking it open and ready to slap whoever's out there.
The hallway's empty.
She frowns and steps out into the hallway. It's not very long and there are no obvious places to hide. Just a closet--which she discovers holds nothing more then towels--and then her brothers' room. It wouldn't be hard for them to run back in there after messing with her.
She marches over to their bedroom and throws the door open, ready to start yelling at the little cheeky bastards. But they're in bed. Sound asleep. She knows fake sleep and that's not it. So it isn't them and she must be a lot more tired then she thought.
When she steps into the hallway again, she's positive that she sees someone dart into her room. That's the person who's messing with her, she's sure of it and she takes off at a sprint for the room, not even bothering to close her brothers' door. Catching this bastard's too important.
But her room's empty too.
She stands in the doorway for a moment and then steps into the room, closing the door behind her. Wherever they're hiding, she'll find them. She ransacks the room looking for the mystery asshole and turns up nothing. No sign of anyone being in this room tonight but her. The window's even still locked from the inside.
She's nearly crying at this point from frustration.
Claaiiiirre....
"Who's there?" she demands in a choked voice. No crying. That's what this bastard wants, obviously. Fucking with her mind like this.
She receives a light touch to her bare arm in response.
Still convinced there's someone there, she whirls around to greet her mystery asshole and is met with her wall. There's no one there. No one can move that fast. She really is crazy.
Tears start to fall down her cheeks now. She's unable to hold them in any longer. She's frustrated and depressed and whoever's doing this--even if it is all in her mind--is very not funny.
Icy fingers brush her cheek, following the tracks of her tears, and still she doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't want to know if she's insane or if there really is someone there. She just wants it all to go away.
"Leave me alone," she whispers, her voice full of tears.
If rooms have a mood, then this one changes as she says that. It goes from mischievous to apologetic and she feels cold arms wrap around her shoulders, stroking her shoulder blades, trying to make up for making her cry.
She dares to open her eyes again and what she sees brings a scream to her throat.
It can't be.
She blinks and the image is gone but the feeling of being held in someone's arms isn't. Now would be the time to back away and crawl into her bed and pretend this all is a dream but she doesn't. Instead, her hand leaves her side and comes up to hang in the air, almost like she's cupping a cheek that isn't there.
"Peter?" she asks, the first sign of hesitancy she's shown all night coming through in her voice.
It can't be him. Can't be. He's dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Sylar killed him. And he's never coming back.
The invisible arms disappear and she's left standing in the middle of her room, her hand reaching out to nothing and tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Peter?" she calls, a touch of anxiety to her voice now. If he's here, even though it's impossible and goes completely against her beliefs, she wants him back. She wants his arms around her again and she wants him to hold her until she doesn't feel pain anymore.
"Peter, please..."
Desperate now, she glances to the mirror since looking into it was the first time she noticed anything different. He's not there. There's nothing there but her own tear streaked face. Maybe she had just been imagining it. There was a time after his death when she saw him everywhere and maybe the combination of needing sleep and alcohol was bringing that back to the surface.
She climbs into bed again, clutching a pillow and letting it absorb her tears.
Claire.
"Stop it," she hisses, burying her face further into the pillow.
He doesn't give up. If he's really there and not a figment of her sick mind. His fingers are like ice as they trail down her spine, immediately sending her into a fit of shivers and not from the cold. It feels good, this phantom tracing of her spine and unconsciously, she arches into the touch.
It disappears immediately. Like he's a shy ghost or it breaks some kind of spiritual rule for her to interact with him. She's his play thing but he's not hers.
"I'm sorry," she says in case he really is there and straightens her spine. If his presence depends on her lack of a response, then she'll never move an inch in her life again.
Seconds turn into minutes and still nothing happens. She sighs, nuzzling her pillow while trying to hold back another round of tears. He's gone for the night. She scared him off. If he was real which she was starting to believe that he wasn't... again.
She's just about to drift off to sleep when something brushes against her shoulder. Her eyes fly open but that's the only movement she makes. The cold hand doesn't leave her shoulder but it doesn't move, like it's waiting to see if she'll behave this time. She will.
The hand starts to move slowly down her arm. She shivers involuntarily but that doesn't seem to break any rules because it doesn't stop, continuing down to her fingers. He traces each of her fingers over and over until every nerve in her hand is blazing with sensation.
If this is a dream, she never wants to wake up.
She bites her lip to the point where it bleeds when his hand leaves hers and travels down the outside of her hip. She's shivering so consistently now that she hardly notices the response anymore. Her concentration rests on not moving. It's hard. The hardest thing she's ever done to not reach out for him.
His fingers take an odd turn and suddenly they're insistent, somehow getting her to roll onto her back even though she's terrified the move'll make him go away again. It doesn't and she can't even begin to understand why. Her mind is a maze of confusing tonight.
Suddenly there's two hands on her, stroking her everywhere, over clothes and every inch of bare skin he can get to. Her breathing hitches and it's so hard to keep from moaning aloud when phantom fingers move over her breasts.
She bites down hard on her lip again and squeezes her eyes shut. It's so easy to pretend that he's real and there and stroking her like she always wanted him to when he was alive with her eyes closed and even after she swallows the urge to moan, she doesn't reopen her eyes.
He throws her for another loop she feels cold lips press against the hollow of her throat and this time she can't suppress the response. She moans deep in her throat, shivering so violently from pent up desire at this point that it could be considered moving.
It doesn't scare him off or break the rules or whatever the fuck causes him to leave--thank God--and his lips move down her breastbone, as far as the fabric of her sleep shirt'll allow and it allows for a lot. Her grandmother hinted that it's slutty to sleep in such skimpy clothes but right now she's grateful for it.
His hands and lips leave her suddenly and she cries out in protest. Despite her better judgement, her eyes flutter open and she's not that surprised with the sight that greets her. She forces herself not to blink because it made him disappear the last time and for the longest time she stares at his face. The shy smile he wore when she first met him graces his lips and he eyes her curiously, seemingly surprised that she can see him but not overly objective to it.
The painful sting in her eyes forces her to blink and just like the last time, he's not anywhere to be seen when her eyes reopen. But his hands are back, moving down her arms before switching inward to stroke her stomach. Over and over in long, slow strokes.
He's not real (he can't be). Her clothes are still on. Nothing more then touching's happened. And it's the most erotic moment of her life.
She doesn't know how much time passes or how long he stays there, invisible to her eye but not her senses, stroking her until her mouth falls open in a silent gasp. The beginnings of an orgasm start to wash over her and she doesn't care if it makes him go away or breaks all the rules by moving her hand beneath the elastic of her panties because she does it anyway.
She touches herself in the one place he hasn't touched tonight, so turned on by nothing more then stroking that she's desperate to reach her release. It's something she needs even mentally right now. She imagines an ice cold hand encircling her wrist, following and gently guiding at times her movements. But surely he's not there anymore. If he was ever there to begin with. She forced him away by moving.
The pillow catches her cry when she peaks. Wave after wave of pleasure wash over her, sending her to a place she's only been a handful of times and never like this. She whispers his name, purely by instinct, and waits until the very last insignificant wave is finished with her before removing her hand from her panties. She wipes her fingers clean on the bedsheets, making the mental note to get the maid to wash them in the morning.
She's thoroughly exhausted by now and needs nothing more then sleep but still she can't do that without checking first. Slowly, she opens her eyes and looks around the dark room, searching for any sign of him. There isn't any. There wouldn't be even if he is real and she sighs softly. Wishful thinking is getting the better of her again.
Just as she lays back and closes her eyes, she sees something out of the corner of her eye. A quick movement by a dark shadow and she's hit with a mischievous feeling again. If he's real, he's still there. And he's going to be there all night.
She smiles and lets herself drift off to sleep. Watched over by her angel.
Author: sweetbelle07
Fandom: Heroes
Character(s): ghost!Peter/Claire
Rating: R
Summery: Claire receives a visit from the impossible.
A/N: This can be either canon or AU, depending on how you look at the pairing. The existance of a ghost!Peter's actually debatable too... this is probably the product of four hours of Ghost Hunters and being awake at three in the morning.
It's been fourth months, nine days, fourteen hours, sixteen minutes and... some number of seconds since she's touched him.
It's been three minutes and four seconds since she saw his face in the mirror.
She doesn't believe in the paranormal. Ghosts and hauntings and fae creatures are ridiculous and that statement sounds ridiculous coming from a girl who can literally put her bones back together but it's true. If there is such a thing as the spirit, it doesn't linger on earth after death.
She's seeing things. That's all. She's tired. She's had a long day. Her cheeks hurt from smiling at the cameras. She's had one too many drinks. She simply needs to curl into her blankets and cry herself to sleep like every other night.
Claire.
Her head turns faster then her body is supposed to and there's a definite snap as her neck breaks but she doesn't care. Someone said her name. Or she's hearing things on top of seeing things. Being recognized publicly by her birth father is much more draining then she thought.
She practically throws her hairbrush down. It shatters a little trinket her grandmother bought her in Paris but she doesn't care about that either. The trinket was stupid anyway and a really piss poor attempt at cheering her up.
Getting into bed's a little rougher then normal. She throws the decorative pillows off, hardly concerned if they break anything--this room's far too fragile for her taste--and jerks the comforter down, treating it like it offended her somehow.
Her eyes are closed for almost five seconds when she hears it again, louder and more insistent.
Claire!
If it's Monty or Simon dicking around outside her room, she's going to slaughter them. Half brothers or no. Growling in annoyance, she pushes the covers down and stalks over to the door, jerking it open and ready to slap whoever's out there.
The hallway's empty.
She frowns and steps out into the hallway. It's not very long and there are no obvious places to hide. Just a closet--which she discovers holds nothing more then towels--and then her brothers' room. It wouldn't be hard for them to run back in there after messing with her.
She marches over to their bedroom and throws the door open, ready to start yelling at the little cheeky bastards. But they're in bed. Sound asleep. She knows fake sleep and that's not it. So it isn't them and she must be a lot more tired then she thought.
When she steps into the hallway again, she's positive that she sees someone dart into her room. That's the person who's messing with her, she's sure of it and she takes off at a sprint for the room, not even bothering to close her brothers' door. Catching this bastard's too important.
But her room's empty too.
She stands in the doorway for a moment and then steps into the room, closing the door behind her. Wherever they're hiding, she'll find them. She ransacks the room looking for the mystery asshole and turns up nothing. No sign of anyone being in this room tonight but her. The window's even still locked from the inside.
She's nearly crying at this point from frustration.
Claaiiiirre....
"Who's there?" she demands in a choked voice. No crying. That's what this bastard wants, obviously. Fucking with her mind like this.
She receives a light touch to her bare arm in response.
Still convinced there's someone there, she whirls around to greet her mystery asshole and is met with her wall. There's no one there. No one can move that fast. She really is crazy.
Tears start to fall down her cheeks now. She's unable to hold them in any longer. She's frustrated and depressed and whoever's doing this--even if it is all in her mind--is very not funny.
Icy fingers brush her cheek, following the tracks of her tears, and still she doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't want to know if she's insane or if there really is someone there. She just wants it all to go away.
"Leave me alone," she whispers, her voice full of tears.
If rooms have a mood, then this one changes as she says that. It goes from mischievous to apologetic and she feels cold arms wrap around her shoulders, stroking her shoulder blades, trying to make up for making her cry.
She dares to open her eyes again and what she sees brings a scream to her throat.
It can't be.
She blinks and the image is gone but the feeling of being held in someone's arms isn't. Now would be the time to back away and crawl into her bed and pretend this all is a dream but she doesn't. Instead, her hand leaves her side and comes up to hang in the air, almost like she's cupping a cheek that isn't there.
"Peter?" she asks, the first sign of hesitancy she's shown all night coming through in her voice.
It can't be him. Can't be. He's dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Sylar killed him. And he's never coming back.
The invisible arms disappear and she's left standing in the middle of her room, her hand reaching out to nothing and tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Peter?" she calls, a touch of anxiety to her voice now. If he's here, even though it's impossible and goes completely against her beliefs, she wants him back. She wants his arms around her again and she wants him to hold her until she doesn't feel pain anymore.
"Peter, please..."
Desperate now, she glances to the mirror since looking into it was the first time she noticed anything different. He's not there. There's nothing there but her own tear streaked face. Maybe she had just been imagining it. There was a time after his death when she saw him everywhere and maybe the combination of needing sleep and alcohol was bringing that back to the surface.
She climbs into bed again, clutching a pillow and letting it absorb her tears.
Claire.
"Stop it," she hisses, burying her face further into the pillow.
He doesn't give up. If he's really there and not a figment of her sick mind. His fingers are like ice as they trail down her spine, immediately sending her into a fit of shivers and not from the cold. It feels good, this phantom tracing of her spine and unconsciously, she arches into the touch.
It disappears immediately. Like he's a shy ghost or it breaks some kind of spiritual rule for her to interact with him. She's his play thing but he's not hers.
"I'm sorry," she says in case he really is there and straightens her spine. If his presence depends on her lack of a response, then she'll never move an inch in her life again.
Seconds turn into minutes and still nothing happens. She sighs, nuzzling her pillow while trying to hold back another round of tears. He's gone for the night. She scared him off. If he was real which she was starting to believe that he wasn't... again.
She's just about to drift off to sleep when something brushes against her shoulder. Her eyes fly open but that's the only movement she makes. The cold hand doesn't leave her shoulder but it doesn't move, like it's waiting to see if she'll behave this time. She will.
The hand starts to move slowly down her arm. She shivers involuntarily but that doesn't seem to break any rules because it doesn't stop, continuing down to her fingers. He traces each of her fingers over and over until every nerve in her hand is blazing with sensation.
If this is a dream, she never wants to wake up.
She bites her lip to the point where it bleeds when his hand leaves hers and travels down the outside of her hip. She's shivering so consistently now that she hardly notices the response anymore. Her concentration rests on not moving. It's hard. The hardest thing she's ever done to not reach out for him.
His fingers take an odd turn and suddenly they're insistent, somehow getting her to roll onto her back even though she's terrified the move'll make him go away again. It doesn't and she can't even begin to understand why. Her mind is a maze of confusing tonight.
Suddenly there's two hands on her, stroking her everywhere, over clothes and every inch of bare skin he can get to. Her breathing hitches and it's so hard to keep from moaning aloud when phantom fingers move over her breasts.
She bites down hard on her lip again and squeezes her eyes shut. It's so easy to pretend that he's real and there and stroking her like she always wanted him to when he was alive with her eyes closed and even after she swallows the urge to moan, she doesn't reopen her eyes.
He throws her for another loop she feels cold lips press against the hollow of her throat and this time she can't suppress the response. She moans deep in her throat, shivering so violently from pent up desire at this point that it could be considered moving.
It doesn't scare him off or break the rules or whatever the fuck causes him to leave--thank God--and his lips move down her breastbone, as far as the fabric of her sleep shirt'll allow and it allows for a lot. Her grandmother hinted that it's slutty to sleep in such skimpy clothes but right now she's grateful for it.
His hands and lips leave her suddenly and she cries out in protest. Despite her better judgement, her eyes flutter open and she's not that surprised with the sight that greets her. She forces herself not to blink because it made him disappear the last time and for the longest time she stares at his face. The shy smile he wore when she first met him graces his lips and he eyes her curiously, seemingly surprised that she can see him but not overly objective to it.
The painful sting in her eyes forces her to blink and just like the last time, he's not anywhere to be seen when her eyes reopen. But his hands are back, moving down her arms before switching inward to stroke her stomach. Over and over in long, slow strokes.
He's not real (he can't be). Her clothes are still on. Nothing more then touching's happened. And it's the most erotic moment of her life.
She doesn't know how much time passes or how long he stays there, invisible to her eye but not her senses, stroking her until her mouth falls open in a silent gasp. The beginnings of an orgasm start to wash over her and she doesn't care if it makes him go away or breaks all the rules by moving her hand beneath the elastic of her panties because she does it anyway.
She touches herself in the one place he hasn't touched tonight, so turned on by nothing more then stroking that she's desperate to reach her release. It's something she needs even mentally right now. She imagines an ice cold hand encircling her wrist, following and gently guiding at times her movements. But surely he's not there anymore. If he was ever there to begin with. She forced him away by moving.
The pillow catches her cry when she peaks. Wave after wave of pleasure wash over her, sending her to a place she's only been a handful of times and never like this. She whispers his name, purely by instinct, and waits until the very last insignificant wave is finished with her before removing her hand from her panties. She wipes her fingers clean on the bedsheets, making the mental note to get the maid to wash them in the morning.
She's thoroughly exhausted by now and needs nothing more then sleep but still she can't do that without checking first. Slowly, she opens her eyes and looks around the dark room, searching for any sign of him. There isn't any. There wouldn't be even if he is real and she sighs softly. Wishful thinking is getting the better of her again.
Just as she lays back and closes her eyes, she sees something out of the corner of her eye. A quick movement by a dark shadow and she's hit with a mischievous feeling again. If he's real, he's still there. And he's going to be there all night.
She smiles and lets herself drift off to sleep. Watched over by her angel.