[Heroes] You can sleep while I drabble (Nathan/Peter, drabbles)
Title: You can sleep while I drabble
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: Various (G, PG, PG-13, light R)
Word Count: Total: 1820 (W)
Warning(s): General sappiness and nothingspecial-ness. Somebody's underage in this fic, wanna guess who?
Spoiler(s): None.
Thanks to: snopes_faith, the bitching beta.
Notes: Part of the You can sleep series. Past fics:
+ You can sleep while I drive
+ You can sleep while I watch you
(You definitely need to read You can sleep while I drive before this one.)
#1
Rating: G
Note: Prequel to You can sleep while I drive
Sometimes you and Bennet drink together. It’s a silent sharing in some central bar, shoulder by shoulder at the counter or face by face at the table without really watching each other; you meet perchance, or maybe not. You’ve got little in common, and if they asked you, you’d say you don’t even like each other - but sometimes scars stretch and burn and it’s like there’s nobody else able to understand.
“Beer? I would’ve said whisky.”
“I stopped with whisky. Ten years ago.”
Bennet falls silent. The television chats and the alcohol cleans up your head from bad thoughts.
#2
Rating: PG-13
Note: A week after You can sleep while I drive
Bennet tells you to sit and hands you a folder with two blue vials above the table.
“Peter Petrelli from Boston. He moved to Odessa after his mother’s death. A touching story. Be sure he learns it well, you’ll find all the references inside.”
“He's supposed to be my son?”
“Brother. Stepbrother.”
You nod, looking at the new Peter’s passport and ID card. The kindred thing upsets you vaguely, but it’s just the simplest excuse to explain why he lives with you.
“He’s of age, too. In case they find out.”
You look up. “What?”
“In case they find out you fuck him.” The neon light reflects on the edge of Bennet’s glasses. His expression is impassible, and at the same time slightly mocking. “Be careful. With such a power, the boy is a loose cannon.”
Peter’s waiting for you out of the room, nervous and pale like a sheet. Only when you’re in the car, out of Primatech, he starts relaxing.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bennet. I just remembered it.”
“What?”
“He had different glasses, but it was him.”
“Peter?”
He moves the edge of his sweatshirt aside. Then you notice for the first time the two black marks on his shoulder.
#3
Rating: PG-13
Note: Two weeks after You can sleep while I drive
Peter doesn’t like you to drink.
The thing started after the first day, when he saw you uncork the eightth beer in the afternoon and asked you if you always drink this much. You shrugged, the border of your vision slightly blurred and reduced. You weren’t drunk - not yet. That time Peter settled for your not-answer, but you had a suspicion it would not always go that way.
You don’t like changes. You don’t know how to deal with them. Peter is a pleasant change, but the truth is you’re not used to having somebody around. You’re not used to counting the beers you’re drinking when you’re at home -stopping before that one that will be too much.
“You’re destroying your liver, you know that?”
“You’ll give me a piece of yours.”
“I can’t,” he answers, serious. “We’ve got different blood types.”
In the still very thin mist of your fifth beer, you wonder how can Peter know your blood type.
“Never mind, then.”
“You could drink something else. Coffee?”
“I’d destroy my heart. Even if fifteen years of law practice taught me you can live without it, I’d rather not risk.”
“Let’s make a deal.”
“No.”
“I’ll drink everything you do.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And if you don’t want me to drink, you just have to stop.”
“Sure.”
“Give me the bottle, c’mon.”
“When you’re twenty-one.”
It ends with Peter grabbing the bottle from your hands and pouring it all on the carpet, you ordering him to clean up, him ignoring you and deciding he really, really wants to have sex.
So the official reason why you can’t drink too much is that you have to control him. Without control, Peter could blow up your house, and one explosion has been enough in your life.
The unofficial reason is that drunken sex is not that big a deal.
#4
Rating: (light) R
Note: Three weeks after You can sleep while I drive
It's always pleasant to have Peter on your legs, with his knees planted on the couch at both sides of your thighs and his face near to yours - so near his breath warms your cheek. The focused expression pushes nice wrinkles up on his forehead, and he's concentrating so hard that he holds his breath until he has to catch it, his tongue clenched between his teeth and his cheeks red.
Except he usually doesn't have a razor in his hand.
"Didn't you say I looked better with the beard?"
"I lied."
Tufts keep falling on your neck and shoulders, while the blade passes, cuts and rustles against your face. Peter bends your face aside to attack the curve of your jaw and you wait with your closed eyes for the cut to come. No big deal, you already have a scar on that side.
"Between your beard and my hair, there was too much hair around."
"That's why we agreed you would have your hair cut."
"I need it."
"For what?"
"Hiding when you start lecturing. And you said you liked it."
"I lied."
Peter brushes his thumb on your smooth cheek and leans a kiss on it. His lips are warm against your damp, cool skin freshly shaven. You rest your hands on his hips.
"It had become a being on its own."
"Yes, it was a family member."
"Had you given it a name too?"
Peter leans his hand on your right cheek, still soft with beard, and kisses you without waiting for an answer. You let him for a little, kissing him back with lazy pecks on his lips, then open yours and gently caress his lower lip with the tip of your tongue.
You feel him relaxing with a contented moan, his knees sliding further towards the backrest and his arms encircling your neck while he deepens the kiss. You slowly unwrap him from his T-shirt like a candy.
Then a sudden noise comes from behind your shoulders, a creaking and suspicious one. Peter jumps up, rubbing his groin on your belly, and casts a glance down behind the couch.
“If you broke it, start praying because I’ve got no others.”
“It’s just the blade. It got torn out.”
“That was the last one.”
Peter sits back on your thighs, considering you with a peaceful look.
“Maybe, if you walk only facing sideways…”
“… you’re dead, Peter. Dead.”
#5
Rating: PG-13
Note: A month after You can sleep while I drive
In a month, you started thinking your life could resume moving again. You started hoping that there’s something for you too; that not everything ended when the bomb took away Nathan Petrelli and all he had. You started believing that sometimes luck or God or whatever may give you a second chance.
It’s then that Peter tells you.
“It’s out of question.” You keep eating, but your roastbeef suddenly lost any taste. It feels like chewing the couch padding.
“I’ve already talked with Bennet. He didn’t say no,” Peter insists, nervously.
“I don’t give a damn about what Bennet says.”
“But…”
You look him in the eye. “No, okay? It’s ‘no’, Peter. Not up for debate.”
“But it’s not dangerous! I’d help Hana with papers and stuff like that. She said it too, that my abilities can be useful. And Bennet agreed. Even if he didn’t say right out, he let me understand it.”
“They don’t need your abilities for papers and stuff like that. If you want to work with papers, graduate and find a job as secretary.”
Peter sighs. “I want to be useful, Nathan. I want to do something.”
“Find a job. That would be something. And it would be useful.”
“Hana told me they would give me an undercover job at Primatech. Paid job. It would be like a real one. And I wouldn’t need to graduate, they don’t care about that.”
“Listen, Peter.” You let knife and fork fall on the plate. You’re not hungry anymore. “I don’t want to argue, okay? We can keep talking about this endlessly, my answer will always be no. You won’t do this thing. End of the story. Nothing else to say.”
“Why?” exclaims Peter, jumping on his feet. “Why can’t you let me try? Here I’m not useful to anyone, I don’t…”
“You’re useful to me!” you answer, and you don’t notice it but you’re shouting. “You’re useful to me, okay? You’re the only, the last thing I have, and I’m not sending you to be killed because one day you decided you want to save the world. The world can go to hell, you’ll stay here.”
You push your chair backwards, making it screech against the floor, and you’re almost on the bedroom’s threshold when Peter’s voice reaches you, low and angry:
“You can’t tell me what to do. I’m of age.”
“You’re not of age. Peter Petrelli is. You’re not…”
The light turns off in Peter’s face. “I’m not Peter Petrelli. I’m nobody. Right.”
You sigh, but Peter already turned his back on you and is clearing the table. After three days away, you would’ve liked a warmer welcome.
You ignore each other all day, moving around each other in circles, like equilibrists, without ever meeting. It’s unnerving and painful and new, because it’s the first time you’ve fought and you’d forgotten what it was like to live under the same roof of somebody you’re not speaking to. It happened with Heidi, sometimes, and it could last for days.
You have dinner silently, without watching each other, at the opposite sides of the couch. Some way, even through the barrier you manage to communicate that neither of you would cook; in the evening you silently went out and bought something at a take-away.
You’ve ended eating for half an hour, with the boxes and bottles piled on the floor and an old rerun of The Godfather on TV, when Peter starts moving towards you. You lean your arm on the backrest, following him at the corner of your eye, and when Peter finally leans his head on your shoulder you hug him and pull him closer.
“I thought you left.”
You need a couple of seconds to understand. “To where?”
“I don’t know. Just left.”
You kiss his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Anywhere.”
Peter hugs you a little tighter and sighs, watching the TV. You wait for him to talk again.
“I don’t want to do this if you’re not alright with it.” He looks up at you. “But can you think about it? Please?”
You nod.
“And you’ll talk with Bennet?”
“Okay.” You know what Bennet’s going to tell you. You’ve already talked with him, many times.
Peter smiles lightly and shifts upward to kiss your neck, near your ear. It’s a warm and short contact, but it’s enough to take off your bad mood and tiredness.
“Let’s go to bed? I’ve already seen this movie.”
You nod, ignoring the Corleones and the mafia of New York that doesn’t know they’re meant to blow up in fifty years.
After, in your bed, you find it hard to remember why you argued. The problem is still there, just delayed - but when you close your eyes you think this is your second chance, and this time you won’t waste it.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: Various (G, PG, PG-13, light R)
Word Count: Total: 1820 (W)
Warning(s): General sappiness and nothingspecial-ness. Somebody's underage in this fic, wanna guess who?
Spoiler(s): None.
Thanks to: snopes_faith, the bitching beta.
Notes: Part of the You can sleep series. Past fics:
+ You can sleep while I drive
+ You can sleep while I watch you
(You definitely need to read You can sleep while I drive before this one.)
#1
Rating: G
Note: Prequel to You can sleep while I drive
Sometimes you and Bennet drink together. It’s a silent sharing in some central bar, shoulder by shoulder at the counter or face by face at the table without really watching each other; you meet perchance, or maybe not. You’ve got little in common, and if they asked you, you’d say you don’t even like each other - but sometimes scars stretch and burn and it’s like there’s nobody else able to understand.
“Beer? I would’ve said whisky.”
“I stopped with whisky. Ten years ago.”
Bennet falls silent. The television chats and the alcohol cleans up your head from bad thoughts.
#2
Rating: PG-13
Note: A week after You can sleep while I drive
Bennet tells you to sit and hands you a folder with two blue vials above the table.
“Peter Petrelli from Boston. He moved to Odessa after his mother’s death. A touching story. Be sure he learns it well, you’ll find all the references inside.”
“He's supposed to be my son?”
“Brother. Stepbrother.”
You nod, looking at the new Peter’s passport and ID card. The kindred thing upsets you vaguely, but it’s just the simplest excuse to explain why he lives with you.
“He’s of age, too. In case they find out.”
You look up. “What?”
“In case they find out you fuck him.” The neon light reflects on the edge of Bennet’s glasses. His expression is impassible, and at the same time slightly mocking. “Be careful. With such a power, the boy is a loose cannon.”
Peter’s waiting for you out of the room, nervous and pale like a sheet. Only when you’re in the car, out of Primatech, he starts relaxing.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bennet. I just remembered it.”
“What?”
“He had different glasses, but it was him.”
“Peter?”
He moves the edge of his sweatshirt aside. Then you notice for the first time the two black marks on his shoulder.
#3
Rating: PG-13
Note: Two weeks after You can sleep while I drive
Peter doesn’t like you to drink.
The thing started after the first day, when he saw you uncork the eightth beer in the afternoon and asked you if you always drink this much. You shrugged, the border of your vision slightly blurred and reduced. You weren’t drunk - not yet. That time Peter settled for your not-answer, but you had a suspicion it would not always go that way.
You don’t like changes. You don’t know how to deal with them. Peter is a pleasant change, but the truth is you’re not used to having somebody around. You’re not used to counting the beers you’re drinking when you’re at home -stopping before that one that will be too much.
“You’re destroying your liver, you know that?”
“You’ll give me a piece of yours.”
“I can’t,” he answers, serious. “We’ve got different blood types.”
In the still very thin mist of your fifth beer, you wonder how can Peter know your blood type.
“Never mind, then.”
“You could drink something else. Coffee?”
“I’d destroy my heart. Even if fifteen years of law practice taught me you can live without it, I’d rather not risk.”
“Let’s make a deal.”
“No.”
“I’ll drink everything you do.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And if you don’t want me to drink, you just have to stop.”
“Sure.”
“Give me the bottle, c’mon.”
“When you’re twenty-one.”
It ends with Peter grabbing the bottle from your hands and pouring it all on the carpet, you ordering him to clean up, him ignoring you and deciding he really, really wants to have sex.
So the official reason why you can’t drink too much is that you have to control him. Without control, Peter could blow up your house, and one explosion has been enough in your life.
The unofficial reason is that drunken sex is not that big a deal.
#4
Rating: (light) R
Note: Three weeks after You can sleep while I drive
It's always pleasant to have Peter on your legs, with his knees planted on the couch at both sides of your thighs and his face near to yours - so near his breath warms your cheek. The focused expression pushes nice wrinkles up on his forehead, and he's concentrating so hard that he holds his breath until he has to catch it, his tongue clenched between his teeth and his cheeks red.
Except he usually doesn't have a razor in his hand.
"Didn't you say I looked better with the beard?"
"I lied."
Tufts keep falling on your neck and shoulders, while the blade passes, cuts and rustles against your face. Peter bends your face aside to attack the curve of your jaw and you wait with your closed eyes for the cut to come. No big deal, you already have a scar on that side.
"Between your beard and my hair, there was too much hair around."
"That's why we agreed you would have your hair cut."
"I need it."
"For what?"
"Hiding when you start lecturing. And you said you liked it."
"I lied."
Peter brushes his thumb on your smooth cheek and leans a kiss on it. His lips are warm against your damp, cool skin freshly shaven. You rest your hands on his hips.
"It had become a being on its own."
"Yes, it was a family member."
"Had you given it a name too?"
Peter leans his hand on your right cheek, still soft with beard, and kisses you without waiting for an answer. You let him for a little, kissing him back with lazy pecks on his lips, then open yours and gently caress his lower lip with the tip of your tongue.
You feel him relaxing with a contented moan, his knees sliding further towards the backrest and his arms encircling your neck while he deepens the kiss. You slowly unwrap him from his T-shirt like a candy.
Then a sudden noise comes from behind your shoulders, a creaking and suspicious one. Peter jumps up, rubbing his groin on your belly, and casts a glance down behind the couch.
“If you broke it, start praying because I’ve got no others.”
“It’s just the blade. It got torn out.”
“That was the last one.”
Peter sits back on your thighs, considering you with a peaceful look.
“Maybe, if you walk only facing sideways…”
“… you’re dead, Peter. Dead.”
#5
Rating: PG-13
Note: A month after You can sleep while I drive
In a month, you started thinking your life could resume moving again. You started hoping that there’s something for you too; that not everything ended when the bomb took away Nathan Petrelli and all he had. You started believing that sometimes luck or God or whatever may give you a second chance.
It’s then that Peter tells you.
“It’s out of question.” You keep eating, but your roastbeef suddenly lost any taste. It feels like chewing the couch padding.
“I’ve already talked with Bennet. He didn’t say no,” Peter insists, nervously.
“I don’t give a damn about what Bennet says.”
“But…”
You look him in the eye. “No, okay? It’s ‘no’, Peter. Not up for debate.”
“But it’s not dangerous! I’d help Hana with papers and stuff like that. She said it too, that my abilities can be useful. And Bennet agreed. Even if he didn’t say right out, he let me understand it.”
“They don’t need your abilities for papers and stuff like that. If you want to work with papers, graduate and find a job as secretary.”
Peter sighs. “I want to be useful, Nathan. I want to do something.”
“Find a job. That would be something. And it would be useful.”
“Hana told me they would give me an undercover job at Primatech. Paid job. It would be like a real one. And I wouldn’t need to graduate, they don’t care about that.”
“Listen, Peter.” You let knife and fork fall on the plate. You’re not hungry anymore. “I don’t want to argue, okay? We can keep talking about this endlessly, my answer will always be no. You won’t do this thing. End of the story. Nothing else to say.”
“Why?” exclaims Peter, jumping on his feet. “Why can’t you let me try? Here I’m not useful to anyone, I don’t…”
“You’re useful to me!” you answer, and you don’t notice it but you’re shouting. “You’re useful to me, okay? You’re the only, the last thing I have, and I’m not sending you to be killed because one day you decided you want to save the world. The world can go to hell, you’ll stay here.”
You push your chair backwards, making it screech against the floor, and you’re almost on the bedroom’s threshold when Peter’s voice reaches you, low and angry:
“You can’t tell me what to do. I’m of age.”
“You’re not of age. Peter Petrelli is. You’re not…”
The light turns off in Peter’s face. “I’m not Peter Petrelli. I’m nobody. Right.”
You sigh, but Peter already turned his back on you and is clearing the table. After three days away, you would’ve liked a warmer welcome.
You ignore each other all day, moving around each other in circles, like equilibrists, without ever meeting. It’s unnerving and painful and new, because it’s the first time you’ve fought and you’d forgotten what it was like to live under the same roof of somebody you’re not speaking to. It happened with Heidi, sometimes, and it could last for days.
You have dinner silently, without watching each other, at the opposite sides of the couch. Some way, even through the barrier you manage to communicate that neither of you would cook; in the evening you silently went out and bought something at a take-away.
You’ve ended eating for half an hour, with the boxes and bottles piled on the floor and an old rerun of The Godfather on TV, when Peter starts moving towards you. You lean your arm on the backrest, following him at the corner of your eye, and when Peter finally leans his head on your shoulder you hug him and pull him closer.
“I thought you left.”
You need a couple of seconds to understand. “To where?”
“I don’t know. Just left.”
You kiss his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Anywhere.”
Peter hugs you a little tighter and sighs, watching the TV. You wait for him to talk again.
“I don’t want to do this if you’re not alright with it.” He looks up at you. “But can you think about it? Please?”
You nod.
“And you’ll talk with Bennet?”
“Okay.” You know what Bennet’s going to tell you. You’ve already talked with him, many times.
Peter smiles lightly and shifts upward to kiss your neck, near your ear. It’s a warm and short contact, but it’s enough to take off your bad mood and tiredness.
“Let’s go to bed? I’ve already seen this movie.”
You nod, ignoring the Corleones and the mafia of New York that doesn’t know they’re meant to blow up in fifty years.
After, in your bed, you find it hard to remember why you argued. The problem is still there, just delayed - but when you close your eyes you think this is your second chance, and this time you won’t waste it.