fic: Don't Try This At Home.
Title: Don't Try This At Home.
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claire, Nathan/Heidi, implied Claire/Elle.
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, oral sex, one rather gross scene, swearing, crack.
Summary: Claire gets her tongue pierced. Written for heroes_fest prompt: Somebody gets a tongue piercing (or tries). Can be serious or cracktastic.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor pretend to have any claim over the characters I'm writing about, and by writing this, I am not endorsing any legal or moral wrongdoing. It's fiction, guys.
Note: Okay, so, um. I wrote this in sort of a blaze of porny goodness. My sex scenes are still lacking I'm afraid, but I think I'm making progress. I'm posting this way ahead of schedule in honour of twistdmentality, who prodded me over it this evening. Also, I'd just like to say that I'm really sorry if the prompter isn't a Peter/Claire shipper, because this is so OMGPAIRE, and completely seasonally out of date, but it kind of had to be for the idea I had in mind.
Oh, and I hope I don't have to say this, but there are parts of this that that you really should not try at home. ^^
Over time, Claire has come to appreciate her power. Sure, at first she'd been freaked, she felt acutely the stigma of being abnormal. It had been bad enough when her lip gloss was the wrong shade of pink; her friends simply would not have understood.
But, when you've had your neck broken and your skin burnt and you've been the driver of a totalled car and emerged unscathed, you have to start thinking that maybe this healing thing isn't such a hardship. And it had brought her to New York, so yeah, all in all she's come to accept this upside down world she now finds herself living in.
Christmas in New York is nothing like Christmas in Texas. For one, there's snow, lots and lots of it, and two, there's a constant stream of parties and functions which as a de facto Petrelli, she's obligated to attend. It means a different dress every evening, and being chatted up by more men than she'd ever imagined would be interested in her. If you'd gone back a couple of years and told her that one day she'd be the queen bee of the New York party circuit and that she'd wish for nothing more than shoes that don't rip at her heels endlessly - never leaving a mark but exceedingly irritating and uncomfortable nevertheless - and a hot cup of cocoa (and well, there's something else, but we'll deal with that later), she might have laughed in your face, and certainly would have asked you why you were prophetising at her and maybe she'd call her dad, and everyone knows what a badass Bennett is...
Anyway, anyway, we're getting off the point. The point being that this is all very new to her, and not all entirely welcome, but it's what she got now, and if there's one thing she's becoming very adept at, it's playing the hand that's dealt her.
And there are some rewards, like when she catches Peter's eye across a crowded room and he smiles crookedly at her before downing a glass of champagne. They drink a lot at these things, because they can; it doesn't effect them as much as it does other people, and there's no chance of liver damage, which is all to the good, because excess alcohol intake is an absolute necessity at Petrelli functions.
And by excess, I mean excess, like five bottles of wine and a dozen or so vodka shots, which does effect even Peter, he's sparkly-eyed and loose-limbed, and Nathan asks, nay, orders Claire to remove his brother before he affects Nathan's chances in the opinion polls.
She slips an arm around his back and helps him up the stairs. He stumbles a bit, sniggering quietly at something known only to himself. She places a hand on his chest to steady him and lets out a disgusted sound.
“Way to drain Nathan's entire liquor cabinet, Peter.”
“Maybe I meant to do it - oops!” He trips and falls against her, cheek pressed against her hair, and hands grabbing her in inappropriate places to break his fall. “Maybe,” he continues in a sing-song voice, “I did it to be allowed out of there.”
“There have got to be better ways than drinking your weight's worth in alcohol. Like, I don't know, being an adult and telling Nathan that you want to leave?”
He turns his face to bury his nose in her hair, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, mom,” she hears, muffled.
“Oh my God!” She stops, taking him firmly by the waist and pulling him round so they're eye to eye. “I am nothing like Angela. Ew, oh my God, take that back!”
He smiles distractedly, staring down at her dress, at the scandalously low neckline that had been getting so much attention from Nathan's fellow politicians. “Yeah, you're noooothing like Ma.” He leans in closer, still intent on her cleavage, and she wonders if this is headed where she thinks it's headed: her hands around his waist, Peter not completely in control of his faculties, it's the opening scene to many a naughty dream.
His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip and he cocks his head, looking at her curiously. She decides to take a chance, jerking his hips closer to hers and pressing herself up onto her tiptoes. He bites his lip, slipping forward and bumping his forehead against hers accidentally. And then his mouth covers hers, his tongue meeting hers, and he explores her body, running a hand down the silky fabric of her dress and expertly unzipping the back, slipping his fingers under her bra. She has to admire his smooth moves, they must come from years of practice. She smiles, pressing closer to him when Peter pulls away, taking a gasping breath. She's unwilling to let him get too far away, but feels she should at least make some superficial offer to let him forget this whole thing happened.
“Maybe we shouldn't do this, you're drunk...”
He grins at her, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up in all directions. “I sobered up, like, five seconds into that kiss.”
“And you still...?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She grabs his shoulders, roughly pulling him in for a second go.
See now, this sucks. That pair of cuff links just aren't going to cut it as his present any more.
**
Present buying is doubly important at this time of year, because of how close Peter's birthday falls to Christmas. He's complained at length about the downside of being born on the 23rd; everyone forgetting about it in the excitement of the holidays, only getting one set of presents, and if you do get two sets, they're cheap crap because no one wants to shell out twice over a two day period. She tells him to shut up and stop emoting, but she does want to make it special for him this year. Which means thinking outside of the box somewhat.
She's leaden down with bags; perfume for Heidi, electric toy cars for her brothers, an engraved pen for Nathan (what? She doesn't know what the hell to get the man), a dog grooming kit for her mom, sunglasses for her dad (they're totally awesome, she thinks he'll look very cool in them when he's beating the crap out of Sylar), the newest violent computer game for Lyle, and still nothing for Peter. She's staggering through the mall, fretting over how many shopping days there are to go when a shop catches her eye. She shuffles over, dropping the bags on the ground and peering through the window.
Well, this would certainly count as outside of the box.
There's a guy leaning against the door frame, drinking a cup of coffee. He drains it and turns to her, the chain running from his ear to his nose jingling. “You coming in?”
“Um, no.” She pulls her attention away from the pictures of various different piercings. He notices the one she'd been particularly intent on.
“Ah. That's a popular one. It can be very fun, especially if you've got someone to share it with. The... sensations.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out. “A lot of fun,” he reiterates. They share a look and she smiles.
“Thanks, that's something to consider.”
He winks at her, “I'm always ready to help a pretty face, come back any time sweetheart.” He goes back into the shop, and she gapes at the ribbons criss-crossing his back.
New York really is not like Texas.
**
“Claire, come here and try this dress on.” Claire looks up from her laptop to see Angela unfolding yet another dress from a tastefully decorated box.
“Do I - do I have to?” She's sitting with her feet underneath her, in sweatpants and a hooded top, no make-up and unwashed hair. It's supposed to be her lazy day.
Angela shoots her a reproachful look and smiles apologetically at the heavily made up stylist that's been trailing around after her for days now. The Petrelli family Christmas is not merely a day to stuff yourself with turkey and make recyclers cry; it's a whole event. Claire's beginning to realise that everyday is an event for the Petrellis.
“Yes you do, now come here,” Angela orders, and Claire's reminded strongly of a dog being called to heel. She puts the laptop on the coffee table and goes over to them, getting a sympathetic look from Heidi, who quickly volunteered to fill out party invites in an attempt to avoid the war brewing between Nathan and Angela. Claire wishes she'd thought of it first.
“What's this one for?” she asks, touching the red satin. It's gorgeous of course, they always are, but the thrill of new clothes has really worn off over the festive period. “I thought I was wearing the yellow tomorrow night.”
“Oh, this is for the 25th, of course.”
Claire grimaces. “I have to get dressed up on Christmas Day? I kind of wanted to... just wear jeans and a t-shirt, be relaxed, y'know?”
Angela just laughs, her stylist twittering alongside her. The corner of Claire's eye twitches, just a little bit. But she doesn't want to make waves; antagonising Angela isn't the wisest thing to do, considering what she's getting up to with Peter.
“Okay,” she says a little too brightly, smiling just a little too sweetly. “Let me just-” She turns to find Heidi looking down at her computer screen, an expression something between surprise and amusement on her face.
“Uh.” Claire tries not look too guilty as she snatches the laptop up, stabbing at the button until the BME wikipedia page closes. “I was just...”
Heidi smiles nervously, a blush creeping up into her cheeks. “Really, I- didn't mean to intrude-”
“But-”
“Really-” Heidi repeats. “Let's just...”
“Yeah, that's - that's...”
In the background, they can hear Angela say loudly, “Now which is better, the gold or the red trim?” as she holds up tablecloths to Peter and Nathan, who have just got back from picking the boys up from school. The two men edge away from her as she starts bringing out colour swatches for the Christmas tree.
“Claire,” she barks shrilly, “Come along.”
**
So, you know how she'd got used to her power? There are still times when it proves to be a problem. Like, for instance, right now.
Her tongue will heal straight back up, straight away. That's not easily explainable to a body piercer. She's bought the barbell, it's red and sparkly and festive, and she rolls it between her palms while the greasy son of a eminent surgeon chats her up.
“What's that?” he asks, pointing at the piece of jewellery.
“Oh, nothing.” For want of any pockets or bags, she slips it into her bra. He ogles at her briefly, then a sly smile spreads across his face.
“Hey, wanna go somewhere a little more-?” He jerks forward, spilling wine all down her dress.
“Oh, sorry man.” The greasy boy spins round, ready for a fight, then deflates, faced with Peter's friendly yet intimidating face. He backs up a step, knocking into Claire.
“Oh, um, I-” he stammers. Peter ignores him completely.
“You should probably get cleaned up, Claire.”
“Yeah, probably, don't want people to think I bathe in alcohol.”
He smirks. “Do you need some help?”
She glances at the stammering wreck of a boy, and smiles. “You know, Peter, I think maybe I do.”
He slips an arm around her shoulders and they wind their way through the other guests. The boy gathers himself just in time to see Peter's hand travel farther down her back than it really should do.
Ah. The point, of course, we're moving away from it again. The point is that she can't just go and have her tongue pierced, and she wouldn't even know where to begin to look for an evolved piercer. She has tried to do it herself, with a sterilised knitting needle in front of the bathroom mirror, but she can't. It's just... her mouth. She's always hated dentists, there's something wrong on the most basic level about people poking around in your mouth. She's being a pussy over it, but she thinks she's allowed. It's just something you don't do yourself. Which means she needs to find someone else to do it, and normally that would be Peter, or perhaps Zach, both of whom wouldn't bat an eyelid at such an odd request, but neither of them can; Peter because, well, that would ruin the whole surprise, wouldn't it? And Zach because she doesn't think she could justify a flight to Texas to get her gay best friend to pierce her tongue.
There's only one alternative that she can see.
**
There's only one way to get into somewhere you're not meant to be: look like you are. She's learned that much from Angela. So she takes a cab to Hartsdale and walks into the Primatech Research facility with her head held high, her shoulders back, her expensive Manolo's clicking on the linoleum. If someone tries to ask her what she's doing there, she just flips her hair back dramatically, sighs, and continues.
If it's always this easy to get in, she isn't surprised they can't keep hold of Sylar.
She finds the room she's looking for, and walks straight in; there's no point in knocking.
She greets the person inside, “Hello.”
The blonde turns away from the sink - evidently, her room is set up for, for want of a better word, torture - and brushes a strand of hair away from her face. In her left hand she's holding a syringe and in the right she has a small cup of pills. Claire suddenly wonders if this was such a good idea.
“Claire Bennet.” She twirls the syringe between her fingers and licks her lips.
“Elle.”
They stand across from each other, facing each other down.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Claire snaps, throwing her hands in the air. “I need your help with something.”
“My help?” Elle asks, eyes all wide and innocent. “Why Claire, I never knew you cared.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, I need you to do something for me.”
Elle cocks her head to the side. “This is all very surprising, but go ahead, I'm fascinated now.” She leans back against the counter and puts down the syringe and cup. It makes Claire feel slightly better.
She takes a breath and tells herself not to show any fear. Elle can probably smell it.
“I want to have my tongue pierced and-”
“What?” Elle interrupts. “Daddy's little girl wants to be a deviant? How very interesting.”
Claire purses her lips and continues. “And I need someone to do it for me. I can't go to a piercer's for obvious reasons.”
“Surely there must be other people you would choose over me. Mohinder, perhaps, he has lots of sharp implements at his disposal.”
“And you don't?” Claire smiles. “Come on, Elle, this is going to cause me a lot of pain. That must excite your psychopathic little mind.”
Elle pushes herself forward off the counter and approaches Claire until they're nose to nose.
“It does sound like fun,” she whispers. “Will you scream very loud?”
“As loud as you want me to,” Claire replies, holding her gaze steadily. Elle suddenly grins, a crazy light brightening her eyes, and grabs a pair of scissors.
“Open wide!”
“Um...” Claire presses herself against the wall, suddenly questioning the thinking behind her choice. Elle pins her in, her left palm pressed into the wall next to Claire's head, and her right knee next to her hip.
“Put your big girl panties on, Claire-bear,” Elle breathes into her ear, and then moves her hand, prying Claire's mouth open and taking hold of her tongue. In one smooth move, she lifts the closed scissors and brings them down onto the centre of Claire's tongue.
“Wha the fuh?!” Claire shrieks, thrashing her head from side to side. Blood fills her mouth, some of it dribbling down her chin, and rest sliding down the back of her throat.
“Do you have the barbell, or would prefer me to just hold these scissors here?” She gives them a twist and dig, and Claire yelps, pulling the barbell out of her pocket and shakily dropping it in Elle's open palm. Elle unscrews the ball and quickly removes the scissors, pushing the top of the barbell through the hole and secures it in place. “There you go, how's that?”
Claire glares at her, wiping her chin, and moves over the sink, washing the blood out of her mouth. “Feels funny, like ith's-” She stops and frowns. “Ith's,” she tries again, and Elle sniggers.
“Good luck with that, lispy.”
She sighs. “Shhhit.”
**
December 23rd.
There's a big family get-together in Peter's honour, including many people that Claire are sure have never actually left the mansion over this extended party period. He kisses all the right cheeks, and says all the right things, but Claire knows that he hates his birthday being turned into another photo opportunity.
He keeps trying to catch her eye, but she feigns disinterest, keeping always to the fringes of the crowd of people, and Angela never lets Peter stray very far.
At first, Claire had been worried about her lisp, which would surely give her away in seconds, but she realises now that in actual fact, no one's interested in what she's got to say, as long as she looks pretty and smiles sweetly. Which she does, until her cheeks ache.
Presents are given, either small and inexpensive or overly expensive and useless, and Peter looks particularly sullen when he unwraps hers; the two hundred dollar cuff links. Nathan comments on how nice they are, and Claire can tell by the look on Peter's face that he wants to throw them at his brother and have a major sulk, but he's just turned thirty - it's no longer seemly.
Dinner is much the same as every other dinner she's had with them, only with more embarrassing anecdotes from Peter's childhood, and his cheeks burn as he ducks his head down and tries to be as inconspicuous as he can.
“Pete!” Nathan exclaims after the main course of thyme roasted sea bass, (of which Claire eats little because the chilli burns her tongue) a little merry from the wine. “Got any new girls we should know about?”
Peter glances at her, and she looks down at her plate. “Uh, I don't know. There is someone, but I think maybe I've down something to upset her.”
“You? No way, Peter. What girl could resist your charm?” Nathan knocks his brother playfully in the arm with his elbow. “Right?” He looks over at Claire, who smiles demurely and shrugs, pushing the fish around on her plate.
Peter spends the rest of the dinner looking miserable, and at nine o'clock excuses himself. “I'm sorry man, I'm just really tired, I'm going to go home and get some sleep.”
“You can stay here for the night,” Nathan offers, getting to his feet unsteadily. Peter makes one last attempt to get her attention, and when she turns away, he shakes his head.
“Nah, I think it's better if I go home.”
He leaves, and she gives it fifteen minutes before also excusing herself. The party guests barely even notice, so it's easy for her to slip out the front door rather than go up the stairs. At least she doesn't have to do the jumping out of the window thing again, it's effective, but its result is kind of gross.
**
When she gets to his building, it's almost ten, and she manages to slip in behind someone else coming in, so she gets to give him a proper surprise.
Even though she can hear music being played fairly loudly from within his apartment, she has to knock twice before he answers. He's already in his pyjamas; fleecy pants and a ratty old t-shirt, and he's holding a tub of ice cream. He pouts at her, his eyes all sad and puppy dog like, and she can't help but smile at how adorable he is.
“What?” he says, frowning at her. She wipes some of the chocolate off his cheek with the back of her hand, and pushes him further into the apartment, taking the tub out of his hand and setting it down on the nearest table.
“Did I do something to make you angry?” he asks, as she leads him into the bedroom. She shakes her head coyly and positions him next the bed. “I mean, I know that this-” he rushes on, but she stops him, placing a finger on his lips. She presses her lower body against his, resting her elbows on his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair. His breathe hitches in his throat and she grinds against him a little harder, eliciting a moan as he kisses her neck and tries to make his way to her mouth, but she breaks off, taking half a step back. He almost falls over at the loss of pressure, but steadies himself just as she tugs his pants down, and kneels down. She wraps her fingers around his erection and he gasps quietly, clenching the sheets behind him in his fists. She takes it into her mouth, and he jerks forward, squeezing the sheets harder.
“Oh, oh... Jesus! What, what was...” He looks down at her, and she pulls back, sticking her tongue out. The stud glitters red at him.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asks sweetly.
“N-no,” he stutters, and she places her hands on his hips.
“Oooh God,” he groans, “I'm going straight to hell.”
Burn baby, burn.
**
December 25th
Peter wakes up, his arms over his head, sheets twisted around his torso and legs, and even though there's practically a blizzard going on outside, he's boiling hot.
“Uh.” He tries to push himself up on to his elbows but delicate hands snake across his chest and push him back down.
“Where are you going,” Claire whispers, still half-asleep. Her hands skim lightly over his body, and he shivers with pleasure, recent memories making everything down to his toes tingle.
He shifts, curling into her. “It's Christmas Day. Ma'll be killing the sacrificial turkey soon, everyone's going to wonder where we are.” He smiles, running a hand through her tangled hair. “We've been MIA for a day and two nights.”
“No one's called,” she says, running her tongue over his nipple. This is absolutely his best birthday ever.
“I pulled the plug out of the wall,” he admits.
“Then no one is going to call,” she counters, and manages to slide herself almost entirely on top of him. His arms come up instinctively to wrap around her back, and he laughs,
“I guess Christmas is cancelled this year.”
Epilogue
They try to sneak back into the mansion at a quarter to two in the afternoon. 'Try' being the operative word here, because as soon as they step through the door, they run straight into an all out war seemingly taking place in the hallway.
“Get out! Get out of my house, you poisonous old bitch!” Nathan yells at his mother. “You have a home of your own, use it!”
“Don't you dare, don't dare speak to me like that, Nathan Petrelli! I am your mother!” She puts her hands on her hips, pulling herself up to full height, and even though that's quite a bit less than Nathan's, her demeanour is nothing short of terrifying.
Nathan sneers at her. “Yeah, but you wouldn't know it, would you?” he all but spits out at her. Peter and Claire try to edge by, and his attention snaps to them. “And where the hell have you two been? And why are you wearing those clothes?”
She adjusts the old NYU t-shirt of Peter's and shoves her hands into the pockets of his old track pants. The clothes she'd arrived in have long since been ruined, and it's looking very dodgy for her to be so intimately dressed in her uncle's clothes.
“Claire decided to-” Peter starts, but Nathan cuts him off.
“No, I want to hear it from her.”
She gulps. “I- I ssstayed wif Peter.”
Nathan narrows his eyes. “Open your mouth.”
Claire looks to both Peter and Heidi for help, but all they can do grimace sympathetically. She opens her mouth a tiny bit.
“Wider,” he barks.
She's not going to get away with this, she realises, and opens her mouth fully.
“What the fuck is that? You got your tongue pierced? Why?”
She shrugs.
“Well, you can just go straight up to your room and take that thing out, no daughter of mine is going to start poking holes in herself.”
Nodding, she bolts for the stairs, dragging Peter along with her.
“Pete,” Nathan begins, but they're already halfway up the staircase, and then he hears Heidi trying to reason with Angela. He spins around.
“I said 'get out'!”
**
Peter and Claire don't re-emerge for hours, by which time Nathan has finally managed to eject his mother from the house, and has consumed half a bottle of wine, and a quarter of the chocolate log.
“I hate Christmas,” he informs them when they enter the kitchen.
“So does everyone else,” Claire tells him, shooing him out of the room. “Now go sit on the sofa and watch TV, and I'll show you Christmas Bennett-style.”
And that is how, at almost midnight, the four of them (Simon and Monty had crashed out from sugar withdrawal around ten o'clock) find themselves watching Christmas Time in South Park, and eating most of the contents of the Petrelli's very large fridge.
“I feel sick,” Nathan says, squinting at the back of a carton of eggnog. “What the hell is in this?”
“No one knows, sweetheart,” Heidi tells him, pushing his arm down, and snuggling into his side. Across from them, Peter's slumped down into the couch and Claire's practically sitting in his lap, sharing some private joke with him and touching his face tenderly.
“What's going on?” Nathan asks to no one in particular, squinting confusedly at his brother and daughter. Heidi places a finger on the side of his face and turns it towards her.
“It's nothing that you need to worry about tonight.” She kisses him softly and he melts into her, forgetting about the incestuous goings-on, and decides, just for one night, that he's going to be as irresponsible as everyone else he knows.
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claire, Nathan/Heidi, implied Claire/Elle.
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, oral sex, one rather gross scene, swearing, crack.
Summary: Claire gets her tongue pierced. Written for heroes_fest prompt: Somebody gets a tongue piercing (or tries). Can be serious or cracktastic.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor pretend to have any claim over the characters I'm writing about, and by writing this, I am not endorsing any legal or moral wrongdoing. It's fiction, guys.
Note: Okay, so, um. I wrote this in sort of a blaze of porny goodness. My sex scenes are still lacking I'm afraid, but I think I'm making progress. I'm posting this way ahead of schedule in honour of twistdmentality, who prodded me over it this evening. Also, I'd just like to say that I'm really sorry if the prompter isn't a Peter/Claire shipper, because this is so OMGPAIRE, and completely seasonally out of date, but it kind of had to be for the idea I had in mind.
Oh, and I hope I don't have to say this, but there are parts of this that that you really should not try at home. ^^
Over time, Claire has come to appreciate her power. Sure, at first she'd been freaked, she felt acutely the stigma of being abnormal. It had been bad enough when her lip gloss was the wrong shade of pink; her friends simply would not have understood.
But, when you've had your neck broken and your skin burnt and you've been the driver of a totalled car and emerged unscathed, you have to start thinking that maybe this healing thing isn't such a hardship. And it had brought her to New York, so yeah, all in all she's come to accept this upside down world she now finds herself living in.
Christmas in New York is nothing like Christmas in Texas. For one, there's snow, lots and lots of it, and two, there's a constant stream of parties and functions which as a de facto Petrelli, she's obligated to attend. It means a different dress every evening, and being chatted up by more men than she'd ever imagined would be interested in her. If you'd gone back a couple of years and told her that one day she'd be the queen bee of the New York party circuit and that she'd wish for nothing more than shoes that don't rip at her heels endlessly - never leaving a mark but exceedingly irritating and uncomfortable nevertheless - and a hot cup of cocoa (and well, there's something else, but we'll deal with that later), she might have laughed in your face, and certainly would have asked you why you were prophetising at her and maybe she'd call her dad, and everyone knows what a badass Bennett is...
Anyway, anyway, we're getting off the point. The point being that this is all very new to her, and not all entirely welcome, but it's what she got now, and if there's one thing she's becoming very adept at, it's playing the hand that's dealt her.
And there are some rewards, like when she catches Peter's eye across a crowded room and he smiles crookedly at her before downing a glass of champagne. They drink a lot at these things, because they can; it doesn't effect them as much as it does other people, and there's no chance of liver damage, which is all to the good, because excess alcohol intake is an absolute necessity at Petrelli functions.
And by excess, I mean excess, like five bottles of wine and a dozen or so vodka shots, which does effect even Peter, he's sparkly-eyed and loose-limbed, and Nathan asks, nay, orders Claire to remove his brother before he affects Nathan's chances in the opinion polls.
She slips an arm around his back and helps him up the stairs. He stumbles a bit, sniggering quietly at something known only to himself. She places a hand on his chest to steady him and lets out a disgusted sound.
“Way to drain Nathan's entire liquor cabinet, Peter.”
“Maybe I meant to do it - oops!” He trips and falls against her, cheek pressed against her hair, and hands grabbing her in inappropriate places to break his fall. “Maybe,” he continues in a sing-song voice, “I did it to be allowed out of there.”
“There have got to be better ways than drinking your weight's worth in alcohol. Like, I don't know, being an adult and telling Nathan that you want to leave?”
He turns his face to bury his nose in her hair, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, mom,” she hears, muffled.
“Oh my God!” She stops, taking him firmly by the waist and pulling him round so they're eye to eye. “I am nothing like Angela. Ew, oh my God, take that back!”
He smiles distractedly, staring down at her dress, at the scandalously low neckline that had been getting so much attention from Nathan's fellow politicians. “Yeah, you're noooothing like Ma.” He leans in closer, still intent on her cleavage, and she wonders if this is headed where she thinks it's headed: her hands around his waist, Peter not completely in control of his faculties, it's the opening scene to many a naughty dream.
His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip and he cocks his head, looking at her curiously. She decides to take a chance, jerking his hips closer to hers and pressing herself up onto her tiptoes. He bites his lip, slipping forward and bumping his forehead against hers accidentally. And then his mouth covers hers, his tongue meeting hers, and he explores her body, running a hand down the silky fabric of her dress and expertly unzipping the back, slipping his fingers under her bra. She has to admire his smooth moves, they must come from years of practice. She smiles, pressing closer to him when Peter pulls away, taking a gasping breath. She's unwilling to let him get too far away, but feels she should at least make some superficial offer to let him forget this whole thing happened.
“Maybe we shouldn't do this, you're drunk...”
He grins at her, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up in all directions. “I sobered up, like, five seconds into that kiss.”
“And you still...?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She grabs his shoulders, roughly pulling him in for a second go.
See now, this sucks. That pair of cuff links just aren't going to cut it as his present any more.
**
Present buying is doubly important at this time of year, because of how close Peter's birthday falls to Christmas. He's complained at length about the downside of being born on the 23rd; everyone forgetting about it in the excitement of the holidays, only getting one set of presents, and if you do get two sets, they're cheap crap because no one wants to shell out twice over a two day period. She tells him to shut up and stop emoting, but she does want to make it special for him this year. Which means thinking outside of the box somewhat.
She's leaden down with bags; perfume for Heidi, electric toy cars for her brothers, an engraved pen for Nathan (what? She doesn't know what the hell to get the man), a dog grooming kit for her mom, sunglasses for her dad (they're totally awesome, she thinks he'll look very cool in them when he's beating the crap out of Sylar), the newest violent computer game for Lyle, and still nothing for Peter. She's staggering through the mall, fretting over how many shopping days there are to go when a shop catches her eye. She shuffles over, dropping the bags on the ground and peering through the window.
Well, this would certainly count as outside of the box.
There's a guy leaning against the door frame, drinking a cup of coffee. He drains it and turns to her, the chain running from his ear to his nose jingling. “You coming in?”
“Um, no.” She pulls her attention away from the pictures of various different piercings. He notices the one she'd been particularly intent on.
“Ah. That's a popular one. It can be very fun, especially if you've got someone to share it with. The... sensations.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out. “A lot of fun,” he reiterates. They share a look and she smiles.
“Thanks, that's something to consider.”
He winks at her, “I'm always ready to help a pretty face, come back any time sweetheart.” He goes back into the shop, and she gapes at the ribbons criss-crossing his back.
New York really is not like Texas.
**
“Claire, come here and try this dress on.” Claire looks up from her laptop to see Angela unfolding yet another dress from a tastefully decorated box.
“Do I - do I have to?” She's sitting with her feet underneath her, in sweatpants and a hooded top, no make-up and unwashed hair. It's supposed to be her lazy day.
Angela shoots her a reproachful look and smiles apologetically at the heavily made up stylist that's been trailing around after her for days now. The Petrelli family Christmas is not merely a day to stuff yourself with turkey and make recyclers cry; it's a whole event. Claire's beginning to realise that everyday is an event for the Petrellis.
“Yes you do, now come here,” Angela orders, and Claire's reminded strongly of a dog being called to heel. She puts the laptop on the coffee table and goes over to them, getting a sympathetic look from Heidi, who quickly volunteered to fill out party invites in an attempt to avoid the war brewing between Nathan and Angela. Claire wishes she'd thought of it first.
“What's this one for?” she asks, touching the red satin. It's gorgeous of course, they always are, but the thrill of new clothes has really worn off over the festive period. “I thought I was wearing the yellow tomorrow night.”
“Oh, this is for the 25th, of course.”
Claire grimaces. “I have to get dressed up on Christmas Day? I kind of wanted to... just wear jeans and a t-shirt, be relaxed, y'know?”
Angela just laughs, her stylist twittering alongside her. The corner of Claire's eye twitches, just a little bit. But she doesn't want to make waves; antagonising Angela isn't the wisest thing to do, considering what she's getting up to with Peter.
“Okay,” she says a little too brightly, smiling just a little too sweetly. “Let me just-” She turns to find Heidi looking down at her computer screen, an expression something between surprise and amusement on her face.
“Uh.” Claire tries not look too guilty as she snatches the laptop up, stabbing at the button until the BME wikipedia page closes. “I was just...”
Heidi smiles nervously, a blush creeping up into her cheeks. “Really, I- didn't mean to intrude-”
“But-”
“Really-” Heidi repeats. “Let's just...”
“Yeah, that's - that's...”
In the background, they can hear Angela say loudly, “Now which is better, the gold or the red trim?” as she holds up tablecloths to Peter and Nathan, who have just got back from picking the boys up from school. The two men edge away from her as she starts bringing out colour swatches for the Christmas tree.
“Claire,” she barks shrilly, “Come along.”
**
So, you know how she'd got used to her power? There are still times when it proves to be a problem. Like, for instance, right now.
Her tongue will heal straight back up, straight away. That's not easily explainable to a body piercer. She's bought the barbell, it's red and sparkly and festive, and she rolls it between her palms while the greasy son of a eminent surgeon chats her up.
“What's that?” he asks, pointing at the piece of jewellery.
“Oh, nothing.” For want of any pockets or bags, she slips it into her bra. He ogles at her briefly, then a sly smile spreads across his face.
“Hey, wanna go somewhere a little more-?” He jerks forward, spilling wine all down her dress.
“Oh, sorry man.” The greasy boy spins round, ready for a fight, then deflates, faced with Peter's friendly yet intimidating face. He backs up a step, knocking into Claire.
“Oh, um, I-” he stammers. Peter ignores him completely.
“You should probably get cleaned up, Claire.”
“Yeah, probably, don't want people to think I bathe in alcohol.”
He smirks. “Do you need some help?”
She glances at the stammering wreck of a boy, and smiles. “You know, Peter, I think maybe I do.”
He slips an arm around her shoulders and they wind their way through the other guests. The boy gathers himself just in time to see Peter's hand travel farther down her back than it really should do.
Ah. The point, of course, we're moving away from it again. The point is that she can't just go and have her tongue pierced, and she wouldn't even know where to begin to look for an evolved piercer. She has tried to do it herself, with a sterilised knitting needle in front of the bathroom mirror, but she can't. It's just... her mouth. She's always hated dentists, there's something wrong on the most basic level about people poking around in your mouth. She's being a pussy over it, but she thinks she's allowed. It's just something you don't do yourself. Which means she needs to find someone else to do it, and normally that would be Peter, or perhaps Zach, both of whom wouldn't bat an eyelid at such an odd request, but neither of them can; Peter because, well, that would ruin the whole surprise, wouldn't it? And Zach because she doesn't think she could justify a flight to Texas to get her gay best friend to pierce her tongue.
There's only one alternative that she can see.
**
There's only one way to get into somewhere you're not meant to be: look like you are. She's learned that much from Angela. So she takes a cab to Hartsdale and walks into the Primatech Research facility with her head held high, her shoulders back, her expensive Manolo's clicking on the linoleum. If someone tries to ask her what she's doing there, she just flips her hair back dramatically, sighs, and continues.
If it's always this easy to get in, she isn't surprised they can't keep hold of Sylar.
She finds the room she's looking for, and walks straight in; there's no point in knocking.
She greets the person inside, “Hello.”
The blonde turns away from the sink - evidently, her room is set up for, for want of a better word, torture - and brushes a strand of hair away from her face. In her left hand she's holding a syringe and in the right she has a small cup of pills. Claire suddenly wonders if this was such a good idea.
“Claire Bennet.” She twirls the syringe between her fingers and licks her lips.
“Elle.”
They stand across from each other, facing each other down.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Claire snaps, throwing her hands in the air. “I need your help with something.”
“My help?” Elle asks, eyes all wide and innocent. “Why Claire, I never knew you cared.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, I need you to do something for me.”
Elle cocks her head to the side. “This is all very surprising, but go ahead, I'm fascinated now.” She leans back against the counter and puts down the syringe and cup. It makes Claire feel slightly better.
She takes a breath and tells herself not to show any fear. Elle can probably smell it.
“I want to have my tongue pierced and-”
“What?” Elle interrupts. “Daddy's little girl wants to be a deviant? How very interesting.”
Claire purses her lips and continues. “And I need someone to do it for me. I can't go to a piercer's for obvious reasons.”
“Surely there must be other people you would choose over me. Mohinder, perhaps, he has lots of sharp implements at his disposal.”
“And you don't?” Claire smiles. “Come on, Elle, this is going to cause me a lot of pain. That must excite your psychopathic little mind.”
Elle pushes herself forward off the counter and approaches Claire until they're nose to nose.
“It does sound like fun,” she whispers. “Will you scream very loud?”
“As loud as you want me to,” Claire replies, holding her gaze steadily. Elle suddenly grins, a crazy light brightening her eyes, and grabs a pair of scissors.
“Open wide!”
“Um...” Claire presses herself against the wall, suddenly questioning the thinking behind her choice. Elle pins her in, her left palm pressed into the wall next to Claire's head, and her right knee next to her hip.
“Put your big girl panties on, Claire-bear,” Elle breathes into her ear, and then moves her hand, prying Claire's mouth open and taking hold of her tongue. In one smooth move, she lifts the closed scissors and brings them down onto the centre of Claire's tongue.
“Wha the fuh?!” Claire shrieks, thrashing her head from side to side. Blood fills her mouth, some of it dribbling down her chin, and rest sliding down the back of her throat.
“Do you have the barbell, or would prefer me to just hold these scissors here?” She gives them a twist and dig, and Claire yelps, pulling the barbell out of her pocket and shakily dropping it in Elle's open palm. Elle unscrews the ball and quickly removes the scissors, pushing the top of the barbell through the hole and secures it in place. “There you go, how's that?”
Claire glares at her, wiping her chin, and moves over the sink, washing the blood out of her mouth. “Feels funny, like ith's-” She stops and frowns. “Ith's,” she tries again, and Elle sniggers.
“Good luck with that, lispy.”
She sighs. “Shhhit.”
**
December 23rd.
There's a big family get-together in Peter's honour, including many people that Claire are sure have never actually left the mansion over this extended party period. He kisses all the right cheeks, and says all the right things, but Claire knows that he hates his birthday being turned into another photo opportunity.
He keeps trying to catch her eye, but she feigns disinterest, keeping always to the fringes of the crowd of people, and Angela never lets Peter stray very far.
At first, Claire had been worried about her lisp, which would surely give her away in seconds, but she realises now that in actual fact, no one's interested in what she's got to say, as long as she looks pretty and smiles sweetly. Which she does, until her cheeks ache.
Presents are given, either small and inexpensive or overly expensive and useless, and Peter looks particularly sullen when he unwraps hers; the two hundred dollar cuff links. Nathan comments on how nice they are, and Claire can tell by the look on Peter's face that he wants to throw them at his brother and have a major sulk, but he's just turned thirty - it's no longer seemly.
Dinner is much the same as every other dinner she's had with them, only with more embarrassing anecdotes from Peter's childhood, and his cheeks burn as he ducks his head down and tries to be as inconspicuous as he can.
“Pete!” Nathan exclaims after the main course of thyme roasted sea bass, (of which Claire eats little because the chilli burns her tongue) a little merry from the wine. “Got any new girls we should know about?”
Peter glances at her, and she looks down at her plate. “Uh, I don't know. There is someone, but I think maybe I've down something to upset her.”
“You? No way, Peter. What girl could resist your charm?” Nathan knocks his brother playfully in the arm with his elbow. “Right?” He looks over at Claire, who smiles demurely and shrugs, pushing the fish around on her plate.
Peter spends the rest of the dinner looking miserable, and at nine o'clock excuses himself. “I'm sorry man, I'm just really tired, I'm going to go home and get some sleep.”
“You can stay here for the night,” Nathan offers, getting to his feet unsteadily. Peter makes one last attempt to get her attention, and when she turns away, he shakes his head.
“Nah, I think it's better if I go home.”
He leaves, and she gives it fifteen minutes before also excusing herself. The party guests barely even notice, so it's easy for her to slip out the front door rather than go up the stairs. At least she doesn't have to do the jumping out of the window thing again, it's effective, but its result is kind of gross.
**
When she gets to his building, it's almost ten, and she manages to slip in behind someone else coming in, so she gets to give him a proper surprise.
Even though she can hear music being played fairly loudly from within his apartment, she has to knock twice before he answers. He's already in his pyjamas; fleecy pants and a ratty old t-shirt, and he's holding a tub of ice cream. He pouts at her, his eyes all sad and puppy dog like, and she can't help but smile at how adorable he is.
“What?” he says, frowning at her. She wipes some of the chocolate off his cheek with the back of her hand, and pushes him further into the apartment, taking the tub out of his hand and setting it down on the nearest table.
“Did I do something to make you angry?” he asks, as she leads him into the bedroom. She shakes her head coyly and positions him next the bed. “I mean, I know that this-” he rushes on, but she stops him, placing a finger on his lips. She presses her lower body against his, resting her elbows on his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair. His breathe hitches in his throat and she grinds against him a little harder, eliciting a moan as he kisses her neck and tries to make his way to her mouth, but she breaks off, taking half a step back. He almost falls over at the loss of pressure, but steadies himself just as she tugs his pants down, and kneels down. She wraps her fingers around his erection and he gasps quietly, clenching the sheets behind him in his fists. She takes it into her mouth, and he jerks forward, squeezing the sheets harder.
“Oh, oh... Jesus! What, what was...” He looks down at her, and she pulls back, sticking her tongue out. The stud glitters red at him.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asks sweetly.
“N-no,” he stutters, and she places her hands on his hips.
“Oooh God,” he groans, “I'm going straight to hell.”
Burn baby, burn.
**
December 25th
Peter wakes up, his arms over his head, sheets twisted around his torso and legs, and even though there's practically a blizzard going on outside, he's boiling hot.
“Uh.” He tries to push himself up on to his elbows but delicate hands snake across his chest and push him back down.
“Where are you going,” Claire whispers, still half-asleep. Her hands skim lightly over his body, and he shivers with pleasure, recent memories making everything down to his toes tingle.
He shifts, curling into her. “It's Christmas Day. Ma'll be killing the sacrificial turkey soon, everyone's going to wonder where we are.” He smiles, running a hand through her tangled hair. “We've been MIA for a day and two nights.”
“No one's called,” she says, running her tongue over his nipple. This is absolutely his best birthday ever.
“I pulled the plug out of the wall,” he admits.
“Then no one is going to call,” she counters, and manages to slide herself almost entirely on top of him. His arms come up instinctively to wrap around her back, and he laughs,
“I guess Christmas is cancelled this year.”
Epilogue
They try to sneak back into the mansion at a quarter to two in the afternoon. 'Try' being the operative word here, because as soon as they step through the door, they run straight into an all out war seemingly taking place in the hallway.
“Get out! Get out of my house, you poisonous old bitch!” Nathan yells at his mother. “You have a home of your own, use it!”
“Don't you dare, don't dare speak to me like that, Nathan Petrelli! I am your mother!” She puts her hands on her hips, pulling herself up to full height, and even though that's quite a bit less than Nathan's, her demeanour is nothing short of terrifying.
Nathan sneers at her. “Yeah, but you wouldn't know it, would you?” he all but spits out at her. Peter and Claire try to edge by, and his attention snaps to them. “And where the hell have you two been? And why are you wearing those clothes?”
She adjusts the old NYU t-shirt of Peter's and shoves her hands into the pockets of his old track pants. The clothes she'd arrived in have long since been ruined, and it's looking very dodgy for her to be so intimately dressed in her uncle's clothes.
“Claire decided to-” Peter starts, but Nathan cuts him off.
“No, I want to hear it from her.”
She gulps. “I- I ssstayed wif Peter.”
Nathan narrows his eyes. “Open your mouth.”
Claire looks to both Peter and Heidi for help, but all they can do grimace sympathetically. She opens her mouth a tiny bit.
“Wider,” he barks.
She's not going to get away with this, she realises, and opens her mouth fully.
“What the fuck is that? You got your tongue pierced? Why?”
She shrugs.
“Well, you can just go straight up to your room and take that thing out, no daughter of mine is going to start poking holes in herself.”
Nodding, she bolts for the stairs, dragging Peter along with her.
“Pete,” Nathan begins, but they're already halfway up the staircase, and then he hears Heidi trying to reason with Angela. He spins around.
“I said 'get out'!”
**
Peter and Claire don't re-emerge for hours, by which time Nathan has finally managed to eject his mother from the house, and has consumed half a bottle of wine, and a quarter of the chocolate log.
“I hate Christmas,” he informs them when they enter the kitchen.
“So does everyone else,” Claire tells him, shooing him out of the room. “Now go sit on the sofa and watch TV, and I'll show you Christmas Bennett-style.”
And that is how, at almost midnight, the four of them (Simon and Monty had crashed out from sugar withdrawal around ten o'clock) find themselves watching Christmas Time in South Park, and eating most of the contents of the Petrelli's very large fridge.
“I feel sick,” Nathan says, squinting at the back of a carton of eggnog. “What the hell is in this?”
“No one knows, sweetheart,” Heidi tells him, pushing his arm down, and snuggling into his side. Across from them, Peter's slumped down into the couch and Claire's practically sitting in his lap, sharing some private joke with him and touching his face tenderly.
“What's going on?” Nathan asks to no one in particular, squinting confusedly at his brother and daughter. Heidi places a finger on the side of his face and turns it towards her.
“It's nothing that you need to worry about tonight.” She kisses him softly and he melts into her, forgetting about the incestuous goings-on, and decides, just for one night, that he's going to be as irresponsible as everyone else he knows.