fic: Half Light Makes For A Clearer View
Title: Half Light Makes For A Clearer View.
Rating: R, for adult themes.
Pairings or Characters: Peter/Claire, Hiro, Nathan, Isaac, Simone, a couple of minor OCs.
Warnings: Non-graphic sex, swearing, incest, alternate reality, set sometime after S2 but no spoilers, mentions of suicide and drug abuse - all that good stuff.
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.
Summary: Peter's pretty sure he's not crazy, he doesn't feel crazy, but everyone keeps telling him that he is. If he could just kick this feeling of déjà vu, then maybe he'd be okay.
Notes: I don't even know. I started this a couple of days ago, meaning for it to be in response to pairechallenge's prompt, breathe, but this one kind of got away from me and did its own thing. It's sort of a merge with another show (it'll become obvious which one) but you don't really need to have seen it to get this. I hope. :|
Her lips brush against his as he opens his eyes. Her hand is on his chest, and the corners of her green eyes crinkle with a smile when she sees he's awake.
God, she's beautiful.
“Breathe, just breathe,” she says, moving her hand to cradle his neck. He frowns, what-?
And then his body rebels, a long racking cough bringing up gallons of water as she rolls him onto his side and rubs his back.
“Oookay,” she murmurs. “That's good, bring it all up now.”
The water stings as it comes out of his nose and mouth, and his throat burns as the cough threatens to bring up one of his lungs. She continues to hover over him, rubbing circles on his back and reassuring him that everything's all right, and when, finally, he stops, she helps him to sit up.
“Claire?” he asks, blinking water out of his eyes and wiping his mouth.
She's crouched beside him, and however much he might like to - which, to be honest, isn't all that much - he can't help but notice the expanse of toned tanned stomach between her shorts and her bikini top. She smiles confusedly at him.
“Have we met before?”
“I..” He rubs his forehead and glances around, seeing, for the first time, the crowd gathered around them and the deep blue of the sky above them. “I'm in California,” he finishes.
She nods encouragingly. “That's right.”
“My- my mom sent me out here after my breakdown.”
Her smile falters a little, her face taking on a definite 'oh god, crazy person' expression for a moment.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his ears pinking, “too much information.”
“That's okay, least you remember who you are.” She pats him on the arm and looks up at the crowd. “Okay,” she says loudly, “nothing to see here, move back!”
As they dissipate, he gets a good view of the sea glittering in the sunlight and the sand beneath him. “I was swimming? I'm a terrible swimmer.”
“Which we all quickly found out,” she teases, standing up and brushing sand off her legs before offering him a hand. She supports him with an arm around his chest as he fights off a wave of dizziness. “Come on, let's go inside and get you something to eat. That'll make you feel better.”
“Inside?” he questions, and she points to a small shack a little way across the beach. When they get there, she settles him on a chair and snatches a jacket off one of the hooks there, pulling on and zipping up the bright yellow top. Thick black letters on the back say 'LIFE GUARD'.
Oh, that makes more sense.
She rummages around in the small fridge in the corner and comes back out with a plastic container.
“This is... someone's.” She grins and pulls the lid off, handing him one of the sandwiches. “Eat that, it'll bring your blood sugar up.”
He takes a bite. Chicken salad, ew. He chews and swallows it anyway, keeping his eyes on her as she moves to sit across from him. She tucks an errant blonde strand of hair back into her high ponytail and stares back at him. He blushes and looks away.
“So,” she says, “since you seem to know already my name...”
“Oh!” He clears his throat, holds his hand out awkwardly. “I'm Peter Petrelli.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Petrelli.” Her hand feels small and rough in his soft palm. He guesses that she does a lot of hands on work, unlike him. “Hey, you aren't related to that Petrelli, are you?”
“Uh, yeah. I'm his brother. I don't make such a great first impression, though.”
“Oh, I don't know,” she says, and grins. His stomach flip flops, and he feels dizzy again for a minute. He blinks rapidly, willing his head to clear, because it seems like he's not seeing her properly. Even after the fuzziness around her image lessens, it still doesn't quite feel right.
“You certainly know how to get a girl to kiss on a first date,” she finishes, then widens her eyes and blushes. “Not that, you know-” The phone rings then, before he can tell her that he knows what she means, and she exhales. “Saved by the bell,” she mutters, and moves to pick it up.
When her back is turned, he lays the sandwich on the table and gets up. His skin begins to itch, not as if he's been bitten, but more like it's jumping, and his head begins to swim again, so much so that he has to hold on to the table for support.
“I'm going to go,” he forces out between clenched teeth, feeling his way to the door as his vision greys out.
She turns to look over her shoulder, the cord twisted between her fingers. “Hang on, West,” she says into the phone and holds it to her shoulder. “Are you going to be okay? I can call a doctor.”
He leans against the wall as casually as he can and gropes for the door handle. “No, I'm great. Thanks for, you know, saving me.” With that, he exits the shack quickly and stumbles back out into the sunlight, throwing an arm up against the glare as his vision snaps back with alarming rapidity.
He makes his way across the beach, kind of hoping that Claire's come to the door to see that he's okay. When he gets to the edge of the beach and looks back though, the door is still closed, and for some reason his heart sinks. He turns away and scrutinises the familiar, yet foreign, streets before him, picks a direction and begins to walk.
*
Three hours later, he finds himself outside a building. He's been past four times, and there's something that keeps drawing him back to it. He might live here, but he has no keys on him, or anything else for that matter - just his shorts and his t-shirt that's now stiff from the salt water.
He stares up at it, considering what he's going to do - he could go back down to the beach, but it's getting dark now and he's gone round in so many circles that he really has no idea where he is - when the door opens and a grey-haired woman comes out.
“Peter!” she exclaims, coming over to him. “Look at the state of you!” She touches the bridge of his nose gently, where the skin's red and beginning to peel, and he winces. “Have to get some calamine on that,” she says firmly, taking him by the arm and leading him in.
“Where have you been all day, Peter? And where's your bag? You had a bag when you left this morning? Oh dear, you didn't get mugged, did you?”
He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that, Mrs... Mitchell. I think I left my stuff on the beach.”
She purses her lips and sits him down on the paisley couch in her lounge. “You really need to get your head out of the clouds. Boy like you could get in trouble.” She ruffles his hair affectionately and shuffles off, reappearing a minute later with a bottle of lotion.
She squeezes a good amount of it into her palm, and starts to work into the bridge of his nose. “This is going to hurt something dreadful for a couple of days, why didn't you put on some sun block?”
He shrugs. Truth is, maybe he did, but everything seems so undefined - like, he knows who Mrs Mitchell is, but he didn't even remember her before he met her just now. He lets her rub lotion on his burnt arms, and then she sits back, her mouth a straight, disapproving line.
“I suppose you don't have your keys on you either.”
He shakes his head dumbly.
She reaches across her coffee table stacked with home improvement magazines and sepia photos of smiling faces and rummages through a pot of keys, pulling out a set. “Here's your spare. Remember to get a new copy cut and give these one back to me when you can.” She presses them into his hand, and he thinks, okay, so she must be my landlady.
“Thanks,” he says weakly, and follows her to the door.
“Get your head down and get some rest, Peter,” she tells him. “And for god's sake, look after yourself better.”
“Okay.” He looks out into the hall and frowns, biting her lip.
“Second floor, third door to the right,” she says slowly, her voice losing its admonishing qualities and taking on a worried tone.
He smiles. “Thanks.” He climbs the stairs, only hearing her door close when he gets to the landing.
*
His apartment feels... neglected. He wonders how long he's been here; with a small television set, a laptop that looks like it's been plugged in all day and a ratty old couch, it doesn't exactly scream bachelor pad. Which he guesses he probably is.
He runs his thumb across the track pad of the computer, and the screen blinks to life. It seems like he left his browser open, eight tabs open mostly with gaming sites and a couple of - he blushes even though no one's around - porn sites. The MSN messenger icon bounces insistently, so he clicks on it, bringing up a window. There's one message, which says: Peter, r u there? from ~*time&space*~ left at 3.05pm, almost two hours ago.
He types back: im here, noting that his screenname is blvd-of-brkn-drms. He thinks he must be a real downer to be around. The reply is almost instant.
Peter! Yaay ur back. U normally online early. Have u herd news?
He takes a second to decipher the words, then types back: What news?
The bar on the bottom of the window states that ~*time&space*~ is typing, and a couple of minutes later, a new message pops up.
Omg best thing evr. Ive been mad waiting 4 sum1 to tell, Ando doenst care. Isaac Mendez is goin 2 b at San Diego Comic Con. Soooooo excitin maybe u introduce me? Ive been practicing my englsh every night.
Peter's attention drifts to his mostly empty corkboard propped up against the wall, where two Comic Con tickets are tacked.
Sure I will, he types back, considering for a second before finishing, Hiro.
*
Later, after Hiro's rambled on about the convention and about how boring his job is, Peter goes through every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen, finding only enough cutlery for one, and a stack of frozen dinners in the freezer. He reads the back of the box twice before shoving it into the oven and searches out a packet of cookies, which he settles down with in front of the television. He flicks through the channels aimlessly, vetoing episodes of Maury and Everybody Loves Raymond before the shrill wail of a phone cuts through his stupor.
He starts, he hadn't even known that there was a phone in here, and moves toward the sound emanating from his small back bedroom. He stops at the door in surprise; it's as if a bomb has gone off. Clothes are strewn all over the floor, his covers are half off the bed, books are piled up against the wall, and posters are taped haphazardly to the peeling wallpaper.
“Jesus,” he mutters, stepping over clothes to untangle his cordless phone from the sheets.
He pushes the 'answer call' button and holds the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Peter.” Nathan's voice snaps out curtly, and Peter sways from the wave of recognition.
“H-hi,” he stammers out.
“How are you doing, Pete?” His tone is tense with forced lightness.
“I'm okay, I'm... good.” He toes a crumpled t-shirt as he speaks, pushing it aside to find an empty bag of chips. He reaches down and picks it up, turning it over to read its best before date. Ew, it's over a month old.
“Mm,” Nathan answers non-committally, pausing for a second. “Look, your landlady called. She said you came home in a daze and didn't even have your keys on you. Have you been taking your pills?”
Automatically, Peter looks over to his bedside table, where a pill dispenser sits. Monday to Wednesday's slots are empty of the small white tablets of the others, and he's pretty sure it's Wednesday today, so... “Yeah.”
“You hesitated,” Nathan says bluntly. “Peter. You know you have to take them. You don't won't to start having delusions again, do you?”
“No, of course not.” He sits down heavily on the bed. “I just- I have this feeling, Nate Like, I don't know, I'm missing something.”
Nathan speaks as though through gritted teeth. “The last time you had a feeling, you threw yourself off a building and made me watch.”
“I know. I- I met a girl today. She seemed so... familiar. I just can't get it out of my head.”
“Oh.” Some good humour seems to seep into his voice. “Well, she must have been quite the girl to throw you for a loop like this.”
Peter picks at the loose threads on his quilt. “She is.” He doesn't know why, but it's true. He might have just met her, but deep down inside he knows her completely, and he knows she's amazing.
“Okay.” Nathan sighs. “I can't get away from here at the moment, but I'm going to fly down to see you on Sunday. Don't do anything stupid, okay? And for god's sake, if you start feeling unwell, go see your doctor.”
Peter opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again and sniffs. Smoke. His dinner. Shit. “Shit.”
“What's wrong?”
Peter stands. “I think something might have been set alight. I have to go now, Nathan.”
“Peter? Peter!” Nathan barks down the phone. “Remember, Sunday morning!”
*
Sunday takes an age to roll around, through mornings spent eating soggy cereal, afternoon talking to Hiro and nights not sleeping. In his bathroom cupboard, he finds numerous bottles of pills - painkillers, uppers, downers, tranquillisers and sleeping pills, but he doesn't take any of them, even when the silence of the very early morning buzzes loud in his ears and he desperately wants to just fall asleep.
On Sunday, he gets up at five, after two hours of fitful, unsatisfying rest, and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. His appearance is less than appealing; he hasn't bothered shaving in a couple of days, his hair is shaggy, hanging in front of his eyes and curling down his neck, and the definition that he knows - he remembers - he had on his chest is gone.
“Okay,” he tells his reflection, “just because you are crazy doesn't mean you need to look it.” He picks up a pair of scissors he'd laid out in preparation earlier, and holding a lock of hair tort between his fore and middle finger, snips it clean off. He continues in this way, cutting off all the offensively long bits of hair and then brings his electric shaver out, switching it on and attacking the hair growing down his neck. It gets a bit mangled, as the too-long hair gets caught in the spinning blades, but he does the best he can before washing and shaving his face, and jumping into the shower. The trail of dark hair marks his previous spot by the mirror and he frowns as it gets stuck to his wet feet. When he goes downstairs to borrow a vacuum cleaner from Mrs M. (he can't believe he doesn't already have one) she stares at him for a second before giving him a small hand held dust buster.
After that, he eats, dresses and tidies up the best that he can - nudging his clothes and books underneath his bed and straightening the sheets. Just as there's a knock on the door, he remembers his pills. He's been taking those, at least, since there are so many notes taped up around the place about remembering to take them and Nathan sounded really serious on the phone, and he's a nurse, he knows about withdrawal symptoms and consulting your doctor and all that stuff. He just doesn't know why he needs to take them. He remembers, faintly, being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but it doesn't seem real and he's pretty sure he's not delusional right now.
Maybe that's what they all say, though
He holds them in his palm as there's a second knock. “Coming!” he yells, closing his hand to a fist. He slips into the bathroom and throws them into the toilet before he can change his mind, quickly pulling the chain.
He hopes this is the right decision.
*
“What have to done to yourself?” Nathan asks, taking in the sunburn, the nicks from the shaver and the haircut.
“I cut my hair.” Peter shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “I looked kind of homeless before.”
“You look kind of homeless now. Surely you could have paid someone to do... that.” Nathan pushes his sunglasses up into his - perfectly cut - hair, and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops.
“It was a spontaneous sort of thing, I didn't want to wait.”
Nathan arches an eyebrow.
“It's not a symptom of bipolar,” he reassures his older brother. “It's just a haircut.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“Yeah, right.” Peter shifts from foot to foot, suddenly awkward. He really doesn't want Nathan to come in, he's embarrassed by the state of his apartment. “Let's go down to the beach.”
“The beach? You hate the beach. Remember those holidays in Italy? Could barely get you out of your room.”
“Well, apparently I like it now.” He reaches behind him and snatches the spare set of keys off the table by the door. “And I need your opinion on something.”
*
“She the one?” Nathan nods up to life guard's tower where Claire sits with a pair of binoculars.
“Yeah.” They cross the sand towards her, and frankly, Nathan looks ridiculous, in his dress shoes and pants. At least he's not wearing a tie, Peter thinks.
“She's cute,” Nathan says, somewhat dismissively. “Too young for you, by the looks of it, though.”
Peter stuffs his hands in his shorts' pockets and tries not to pout. She's gorgeous, he thinks. “I wasn't suggesting I was going to da-” He stops in his tracks as she, for some reason, twists around and catches sight of him. Her expression is unreadable for a second, then she smiles, unfolding her legs and climbing down off the tower.
He can't breathe, he feels dizzy, sick. He plants his feet firmly in the ground and takes a ragged breath, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.
“Are you okay?” Nathan's question sounds far away, like he's at one end of a tunnel and Peter's at the other.
“Uh huh,” he grunts, rubbing his face vigorously and opening his eyes. Claire jogs towards them, a slightly damp bright yellow life guard t-shirt clinging indecently to her body. Try not to pass out, he tells himself as she stops not a foot away from them.
“Mr Petrelli,” she says brightly, “I hope you haven't come back for more 'mouth to mouth'.” She smiles, but stares for a little bit longer than he thinks is normal, and he's forced to break eye contact first, looking down at her bare feet, which are adorable with all the sand collected between her toes.
“Mouth to mouth?” Nathan questions, rounding on Peter.
He winces. “I just got into a bit of... trouble a couple of days ago, no big deal.”
“So why didn't you mention it?”
“Because it was no big deal,” Peter insists. “I'd forgotten all about it.”
“You forgot that you nearly drowned?” Nathan's eyes flash dangerously with a look that says, 'we'll talk about this later'. He hadn't ever wanted Peter to leave New York, that was their mother's doing, and Peter can easily see himself being carted back to the mansion and kept there under lock and key.
Claire clears her throat.
“Oh, hey, sorry. Claire, this is my brother Nathan. Nathan, this is Claire.”
Nathan's face shifts from angry older brother to schmoozing politician in a blink of an eye. He holds his hand out. “Hello.”
“Nathan Petrelli.” Claire lets out a low whistle, taking his hand. “So I'm talking to the future president of the US of A. That's kind of cool.”
Nathan chuckles. “Well, let's hope so. Just remember to vote in November. You are old enough to vote, aren't you?”
She rolls her eyes heavenward. “I know I look fourteen, but I'm actually eighteen. I'm just saving up for college in September.”
“Well, good. I haven't got a nice shiny badge for you, but maybe you'll remember me anyway.”
Peter's disgusted; Nathan's shamelessly flirting with her, just to get her vote, right after he explained the weird feelings he' s been having about her. And maybe he's just a tiny bit jealous, too.
“I like your hair.” She's talking to him, he realises, and he jerks his head up. She's fuzzy again. His vision blurs and his throat feels like it's beginning to constrict.
“Thanks,” he manages.
“He looks like an idiot,” Nathan says with affection.
“He looks cute. He looks like...” She bites the inside of her mouth. “Like he needs to be looked after.”
“Yeah,” Nathan mutters, as the ground begins to spin under Peter's feet. “He does.”
*
Everything's so weird at the moment.
I know, Hiro replies. Then: like wat?
Everything. I've been having these weird spells where I think i'm going to pass out & it's only when i'm around this girl. & i've been having difficulty remembering things.
U've met a girl? Wats she like?
Peter smiles, hands poised over the keyboard; it's so like Hiro to ignore the bad stuff and focus on the good. He's not sure how he knows that, but he does.
She's... amazing. She's a life guard and she saved my life last week. I've only talked to her twice, it's weird. I've never felt anything so intensely before.
Do u luv her?
His fingers twitch. Yes.
!!! well u know wat they say: "He who saves a life is responsible for it." or she. Watev.
They?
The Chinese.
Oh.
There's a couple of minutes paused, as Hiro starts typing, then stops, then starts again. Ask her to comcicon!
Nooooo. She'll think i'm a dork.
Don't u want her to know the real u?
No. I already let it slip about my breakdown. I dont need any further embarassment. How would I even get another ticket this close to the date, anyway?
Dont wrry about that, my frend. Hiro will find u tickets. Just remember to pick me up from the airport?
I'm not going to forget. Don't worry.
*
He's running late. Hiro's plane lands in half an hour and he isn't even dressed. He shoves on a pair of jeans which he can just about get buttoned up, and a loose t-shirt and grabs a banana before heading out the door, coming back a second later for his car keys.
His car is blue. It's blue and it has a dent on the hood and a long scratch down the left hand side. So where is it?
He looks around the street. Up and down and back again, and... there it is, in all its not-glory. He unlocks the door and gets in, brushing cola cans and newspapers aside. The engine turns over twice before it starts and then he's off, making really bad time to LAX.
*
The board tells him that the flight from Tokyo, Japan arrived fifteen minutes ago.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running from the entrance to terminal three, past people with trolleys full of suitcases and families wrangling snivelling children. When he gets as close to the gate as he can, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper with 'Hiro' written on it out of his pocket and smooths it out, holding it up.
There aren't too many people milling around any more, and he wonders if Hiro's tried to make his own way into the city. He'd phone him, but yeah, his battery is dead. He forgot to charge it up, just like he forgot to set his alarm last night and buy more food yesterday afternoon. He's been that way all week, running around like a headless chicken, trying to get back into shape and decorate his apartment but forgetting all the stupid little things that should be ingrained by age twenty-eight.
He pushes the very clear memory of flushing his pills this morning to the back of his mind, and puts his little incidents down to lack of sleep.
“Peter Petrelli!”
He spins on his heel and is immediately tackled by all five foot six of Hiro Nakamura.
“I thought you had forgotten!” He hugs him quickly, but tightly - Hiro's stronger than he looks.
“No, I was just... stuck in traffic.”
Hiro grins up at him and adjusts his glasses. “You're taller than I'd thought you'd be.” He rummages around in his bag, most of his arm and head disappearing into it, then emerges with a rectangular piece of paper held gently between his fingers. “Ticket!”
He hands it over and Peter checks the back. “This is for real. I thought you were going to forge one, or something. Where'd you get it?”
“Ebay!”
“Hiro, that must have been expensive. I can't take this.” He tries to give it back, but Hiro refuses to take it.
His head bobs from side to side as he clamps onto Peter's arm and leads him out of the airport. “I come from very rich family, not a problem. Just ask the girl, I want to meet her.”
*
Hiro arrives five days before the convention, so naturally, Peter leaves it till the day before to work up the courage to ask Claire out. He pulls on his least scuffed pair of sneakers, and jogs down to the beach. The hottest part of the day is over, and he thinks it's possible that she isn't even there today; after all, why would she work every day? And he doesn't even know her last name, so it's not like he could find out where she lives. And anyway, that would just be a little too creepy, it's not like she even knows him. And she probably has a boyfriend already, a girl like that would.
By the time he gets there, he's just about ready to turn around and go straight home, which he probably would do if he weren't so wiped out. He rests his palms on his knees and sucks in four long breaths. The muscles in the back of his legs twitch and sweat pours from his forehead, making his hair stick up at odd angles when he rakes his hands through it.
He's bright red and shiny from the sunblock and he has a white strip of zinc across his nose to stop his burn from getting any worse; there's no way she's going to say yes. Maybe he should go home and clean himself up, and then come back and-
A bright t-shirt catches his eye, and he calls out before he loses his nerve. Only... yeah, that's a guy.
Or a boy, really. With dark hair and brown eyes, he looks a bit like Peter did as a teenager.
“Is everything okay, Sir?” he asks.
“Um.” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I'm, uh, looking for Claire. I don't know her last name, but she's blonde, pretty, really pretty and has kind of...” He's about to make some kind of gesture that could probably be taken as lewd, but the boy's expression saves him the humiliation.
“Yeah, I know Claire,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Oh, really? Is she here?”
A pause. “Yes.” And that's all he says. 'Yes', and then just stands there, glowering slightly.
“So. Can you point me in her general direction, please?” Peter feels some of his old self reassert itself as this kid glares at him; he's not going to be intimidated by some eighteen year old punk.
The boy clicks his teeth together a couple of times, then throws a thumb over his shoulder wordlessly.
Peter smirks. “Well, thanks for all your help.”
*
The ground shifts beneath him again when he sees just the back of her, but he balls his fists and concentrates. No, he tells himself, suck it up and take some goddamn control. Almost begrudgingly, the ground stills, and he walks gingerly over to where she's standing at the shore, letting the water wash up to her ankles. He lays a hand on her shoulder gently, and for just a second, it seems like his hand shudders. Not a shudder from him, but like... a double image.
“West,” she begins angrily, whipping her head round, then her features soften. “Peter, hi.”
“Hi.”
They smile shyly at each other - or at least he does, he can't imagine someone as full of life as Claire has ever been shy - and just as he begins to speak, she cuts him off.
“I'm glad you're here,” she says. “I- I found your bag. I didn't want to give it to you while your brother was around.”
“My bag? Why not?”
Her eyes are so green it's kind of ridiculous. “You know why.” She wraps her arms around herself, even though she can't possibly be cold. “I tried to find you, but apparently you're not listed in the phone book.”
Peter shakes his head. “No, probably not. Nathan wouldn't want reporters trying to milk me for dirt. Apparently I'm easily led.”
She raises her eyebrows at that and beckons him to follow her. “I'm glad you're okay,” she says, as they approach the shack.
“Me? Why wouldn't I be?”
She gives him one indecipherable look over her shoulder and opens the door. On the formica table, sits a black bag with thick straps and a whole array of badges pinned to it, and he suddenly remembers very clearly Nathan giving him the large red, white and blue 'Vote Petrelli' badge that holds centre stage. She reaches inside and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“What's that?”
“Peter.” She sighs and gives it to him. He opens it up and reads it. Twice. And then again just to make sure that it is actually his writing. Yeah, that's definitely his slanted scrawl.
“This is a-” he begins, then stops.
“Yeah,” she says. “Don't you remember writing it?”
He shakes his head slowly and reads out a paragraph, like it'll make more sense out loud. “'I'm sorry for everything I'm going to put you through; I know it's selfish and I know I'm selfish, but nothing feels real any more. When I'm on my medication I feel completely numb, and when I'm off it I feel great, but you all hate it, and I don't want to keep putting you through all of that crap. You can say it was an accident and then Nathan's campaign won't be affected - it might even help-'” He winces at this part. Could he be trying to make them feel any worse than they already would? “'Please email Hiro and tell him he can have the tickets, I don't want him to miss out because of me...'” He trails off and drops the letter back to the table. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“You didn't write that?” she asks, a voice going up hopefully at the end.
“No, I wrote it. I just don't remember writing it.”
“What, were you drunk, high?”
“Probably not. My memory's just kind of weird at the moment. Look, it's just- since meeting you, I've been... different. I don't know if it's just a coincidence, or what, but I feel like there's something more than what I'm seeing, and I'm the only one who knows it, and I certainly don't feel like I want to kill myself!” he finishes, throwing his hands in the air as Claire watches passively.
“Are you sure that's not just- y'know, a symptom of your...” She casts about for a word, and he collapses into the nearest chair, banging his head on the table. “Are you okay?”
He groans, and puts his hands over his head. “You think I'm completely insane.”
“Well...” She pulls a chair around and settles next to him. “I don't think you're insane, I'm just worried that you might be having a manic episode.”
He rolls his head to one side and squints at her. “How do you know about that?”
She freezes, her mouth forming a perfect O, and then giggles nervously, blushing an incredibly pleasing shade of pink. “Internet,” she says. “There's some... gossip about your family online.”
“Oh,” he replies. “Super.”
She pokes him in the shoulder. “Don't worry, I don't think anyone's going to recognise you out here.”
“Because I'm out of shape with a bad haircut?”
Her hand travels to his back, where she rubs it sympathetically, and as subtly as he can, he leans in towards her. “That's not what I meant,” she tells him.
“I know. I just- you're never going to say yes now,” he mumbles the last part, ducking his head down.
“Say yes to what?”
He rocks his head from side to side in answer.
“Say yes to what?” she repeats.
He takes a deep breath and blurts it out quickly. “I wanted to know if you'd come with me and my friend - Hiro - to the-the comic con that starts tomorrow. But, look, you're not going to say yes because it's dorky and you're gorgeous and-”
“Yes.”
“I'm fucking nuts and-- What? What?”
Her hand moves from his back to lie over his. “I said yes, I will go with you and your dorky friend.”
“But- but, you can't possibly be interested.” In his head, he's telling himself to stop trying to talk her out of it, but his mouth just won't quit. “You must have a boyfriend. Before, it sounded like you were expecting someone else.”
She chews on her lip. “Yeah, well. We sort of broke up today. After I found your bag, I guess I got sort of... fixated? And his reaction just made his possessive nature hit home real hard and I dumped him. I'm not really that bothered, so I guess it wasn't really meant to be.”
Peter lifts his head and reaches out, his fingers stopping inches from her cheek. It feels so right to do it, but he knows he's crossing some sort of line. He curls his fingers into his palm, and lets his hand drop. “I'm too old for you, you know.”
“Mentally, I think we're pretty much the same age.”
“Heeey.” He narrows his eyes. “I think you're being nasty to me.”
She pushes her bare foot against his leg. “You can take it.”
*
He brushes the trash out of his car into the street and glances around to check no one's noticed.
“Sorry about this,” he mutters to Claire. She shrugs.
“You obviously haven't seen my brother's room.”
Hiro laughs a little too loudly and hops in the back, fiddling with the seatbelt. “Let's go!” he yells. “Vroom!”
Claire's eyes widen, and a grin spreads over her face. Peter's toes start to tingle.
“Your friend is very cute,” she says over the roof of the car. “So are you.” She ducks into the car before he can reply, leaving him with car keys in his hand and very little idea of what direction he's supposed to drive in.
*
This might have been a mistake, he thinks, as they push through the crowd. Hiro looks fit to burst from excitement, and Claire looks kind of overwhelmed, and on what planet did he think this would be a good idea for date?
Maybe she'd only agreed because she'd recognised that it wasn't a date at all; just a harmless lonely dude with a crush. He resolves to give her the opportunity to leave as soon as he can, he'll even drive her home. No hard feelings.
“Isaac Mendez!” Hiro shouts, pointing up at far the wall, where a picture of him hangs, with words beneath it saying: 'signing here'. “Come on!”
Hiro drags both of them to the back of the line, and proceeds to talk in an unintelligible mixture of English and Japanese, occasionally gesturing at something happily. Claire bites her lip to keep from laughing, and links her arm through Peter's. He stares at it, and then up at her face.
“What?” she asks innocently.
“Nothing.” They're only a couple of people away from Isaac now, who's hunched over scribbling something on a Ninth Wonders graphic novel. He looks pretty much the same, Peter notes absently, watching a darker hand close on Isaac's shoulder. He follows the line of the person's arm, and then baulks, trying to hide himself behind Claire.
“What's wrong?” she hisses, alarmed. Hiro spins around and looks at him too, as do half of the people in the line.
“This... this was a bad idea,” he whispers. “Let's just go.”
“What? No way! Tell me what's wrong!” Claire's eyes bore into him, and he starts to feel like a bit of fool hiding behind her like he is. He straightens up a little.
“That woman over there? With Isaac?” She nods for him to continue. “That's my sort of ex-girlfriend.”
“That's Simone?” Hiro exclaims. “She is very pretty.”
“How is she your 'sort of' ex-girlfriend?” Claire asks, her voice a little tight.
“We- well, I was her father's nurse, and we sort of flirted? And then Isaac overdosed and I helped her out and she left him and we did some stuff, and then he got clean and I had a breakdown. She dumped me.” He doesn't meet her eyes. Jesus, this is like therapy, but worse.
She blows out a long breath out through her teeth and frowns. “And why can't you go over there?”
“Why? Because I look like this, Claire!” He runs his hands through his hair as proof, where his bangs refuse to do anything but hang pathetically and unevenly across his forehead. She sniffs.
“You're such a girl, Peter.” She digs into her oversized bag and produces a can of hairspray. “Close your eyes and stand still,” she orders, beginning to run her fingers through his hair.
Yeah, like he could do anything but. He sways slightly on the spot as he feels how close her body is to his, how warm she is. He doesn't dare open his eyes.
“Okay, all done. Peter, open your eyes.”
He fights off more dizziness as he looks into her smiling face. Her elbows are resting on his shoulders, and it's all very distracting. He lifts one hand to touch his hair, and she bats it away.
“Don't fuss with it.” She clicks her tongue, bringing her hands down heavily onto his shoulders. “And remember, she dumped you, you're out here in the sun, living it up with the beautiful people, and she's in smelly old New York with some skinny little artist.”
He laughs. “It's not quite like that, but thanks.” They stare at each other some more, and he appreciates the shape of her mouth when she smiles, and her long eyelashes, and the curled strand of hair that's got loose from its tie.
“Mm,” he hums intelligently, trying to kick his brain back into gear.
“Peter?”
He turns his head slowly, and locks his gaze with Simone's. Claire's hands tighten for a second in a comforting squeeze, then move away. “Hi, Simone,” he chokes out, already missing Claire's touch.
*
They're having a party later on, Isaac tells them, when he writes a long dedication and draws a little sketch in Hiro's graphic novel. They should all come, he says, smiling charmingly. He doesn't know any of the other people who are going to be, he says, they just sort of invited themselves.
Every inch of Simone screams that the last thing she wants is a party, but Hiro would probably cry if Peter said no, so he accepts, and after a day of signings and panels, they walk over to the expensive hotel Isaac's staying in.
It's just gone nine o'clock, but Peter can already hear pounding music as they approach the suite.
“I hope you don't have a curfew,” Peter mutters close to Claire's ear as they're let in by Princess Leia.
“I don't, but you might want to be careful next time you go to Copy Kingdom.”
He's about to ask her just what the hell does that mean, when Isaac throws his arm around his shoulders and presses a can of beer into his hand.
“Peter,” he slurs. “My goood friend, Peter Petrelli. Glad you could make it.”
Peter eyes him nervously. “Okay. It's nice to see you too.”
“Simone still talks about you all the time.” His voice drops a notch, turning serious. He leans in. “I think she misses you.”
Peter steps back, bumping into Claire, who slips her hand into his. “Why don't we sit down?” she says, tugging him away, Hiro at their heels.
And this is where they find Simone, in a dark green wraparound dress, anxiously watching Isaac move from person to person.
“Peter.” Some of the tenseness leaves her as she addresses him, and she looks maybe even more beautiful than he remembers, but all he can really focus on is how Claire's hip is bumping against his. He takes a long drink from the can in his hand, and sits down on the large couch.
“Hey, Simone. How is everything?”
Simone drops down in the chair across from him as Hiro spots someone dressed as Spock and ambles off to talk to them - and the whole top of Claire's leg is pressing into his now.
“Well...” She shifts in her seat, checks on Isaac again, and clasps her hands in her lap. “Not so good, Peter.”
“Oh, what's wrong?” Claire hooks her foot around his leg. He takes another swig of his beer.
“It's Isaac. He's... I don't know what to do with him. I thought he was better.” She sighs.
“He's using again?” His head begins to buzz; he hasn't had alcohol in a couple of years, he realises, and he's always been a lightweight, and Claire's hands are... on his arm? He looks at her questioningly. She just smiles, pulling his hand holding the beer over to her mouth and taking a sip.
Faintly, he hears Simone saying something about talking later, but Claire's fingers are tracing patterns on his arm now, and well... Yeah.
“What are you doing, Claire?”
She bats her eyelashes at him, making another grab at the can. “What do you mean?”
“You're all over me!” He holds the can to her mouth, and she wraps her fingers around his hand.
“Why wouldn't I be? Peter, really, I can't imagine what you were like before if you don't think you're attractive now. People must have been passing out in the street at the sight of you.” She leans in then, and brushes a kiss on his lips, one hand on his thigh to brace herself. She flickers for a second, like a bad TV transmission, and he sucks in a deep breath, because this has to be real, he can't let it be a hallucination.
“Claire,” he forces out, cupping her cheek. To his relief, she snaps back into focus, and she doesn't seem shocked by his touch or anything, so maybe this is for real. “Do you ever feel like... we already know each other? I don't mean in a cheesy pick up line sort of way, I mean like- the first time we met, I felt like I knew you. I even knew your name!”
She shrugs. “You probably saw it on the life guard roster. I'd seen you around the beach before. You used to just come and sit by the shore and stare at the sea for a couple of hours, and then go home. You never went in, until, y'know, that day.”
“Really? I don't remember that at all. I don't really remember anything very clearly from before I met you.” He bites his lip; that sounds creepy. She's probably creeped out now, she probably wishes she'd never agreed to come to this den of inequity with him.
“That's weird,” she says, and he prepares himself for the brush off, or her storming out. “I mean, it never felt like we'd met before, to me, but there's definitely some kind of connection between us. I don't normally molest guys I've only known for a week.” She scoots down and lays her head on his shoulder, tangling their legs together.
Well, okay then.
*
So, some undetermined amount of time later, he's lying on the floor, and Claire's hands are up his shirt. At least, he hopes it's Claire, he's kind of out of it; Isaac passed something around, and if looks could kill, Simone would have murdered him, cut his body up into tiny pieces and flushed then down the toilet, but he was pretty fucking drunk by then, and whatever - now he's high and giggling for god's sake.
“You're ticklish!” Claire says with delight.
“Am not!” He makes a pathetic attempt to get away before giving up, as her fingernails skitter across his stomach and he wriggles beneath them. “Stop it! Claire!” He grabs her shoulders and pulls her down, mashing his mouth against hers with little precision. His eyes are still open, and that, it turns out, is the biggest mistake he's made this night, because the scene around them - the revellers, the stucco ceiling, the lights - slide away from him, leaving just a flashing light behind Claire's head. He squeaks in alarm.
Claire jumps back, as the noise and light crashes down on him again, and stares at him with wide, dilated eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I'm... fine.” He rubs his face and swallows, his throat suddenly feeling like it's been coated in something.
“Oh God!” Claire claps a hand over her mouth. “You probably shouldn't smoke pot, it probably contra- screws up your medication! Oh shit!”
“It's not that.” He tries to sit up, but that doesn't work out the way he'd like it to.
“We have to get you to a hospital!” Claire exclaims, running her hands through her hair.
“It's not that,” he says, a little more forcefully, and she stops, hands tangled in her long hair. She looks amazing, but it's probably not the time for that.
“What do you mean?” she asks slowly. “Are you... not... taking your medication?”
“Claire,” he begins, his eyelids drooping. “I-”
And then he passes out.
*
It feels like someone's driven a truck over his face, and then maybe backed over him a couple of times.
“Morning.”
He cracks one eye open to the view of Claire's legs, and throws an arm across his face to block the light streaming in through the windows. “It's morning?” he rasps.
Her laugh is short, and not very sweet. She crouches down, holding a mug of something carefully. “Drink this, it'll make you feel better.”
The bitter smell of coffee makes him want to puke, to be honest, but he pushes himself to his elbows and takes it anyway. “So,” he begins, then stops, finding that to be the sum total of what he's got to say.
“Yeah,” Claire agrees.
“I... should have told you before, I'm sorry.”
She shakes her head. “No, you shouldn't. It's your private stuff, and you don't have to share it with anyone. I'm just worried about you. I like you.”
He smiles, and braves a sip of the coffee. It's as bad as he thought it would be. “I like you too,” he says quietly.
“Well, good.” She offers him her hand, and their combined effort manages to get him to his feet.
The room's pretty much been trashed, he sees. Several people are passed out in various parts of the room, including Hiro, curled up asleep on the couch.
“What's that?” he asks, pointing to a half painted picture leaning against the wall.
“I think Isaac started it last night,” Claire says, moving off to the bathroom. “I'll be out in about ten minutes,” she tells him.
A sketched out and half-painted image of a shadowy figure runs up diagonally from the bottom right hand corner, and as he looks at it, the drawing fills itself in, as if painted by an invisible hand. He stands there, enthralled, as a girl in red and white appears on the canvas, yellow hair quickly coloured in.
He's so amazed by it that he doesn't hear the creaking floorboards that herald someone's arrival, and he jumps when tapped on the shoulder.
“Didn't mean to scare you.” Isaac smirks, and just for a moment Peter could swear that his eyes seem to be completely white. He makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat and stumbles away.
“You really must have partied hard last night,” Isaac comments, picking up his painting and holding it under his arm. “I'm going to finish this off in front of all the fans today, that should make them happy.” Behind him, Simone stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Peter,” she says curtly, turns on her heel and walks out.
“Sorry man,” Isaac says, following her out. “Guess you're not golden boy any more.”
His parting shot barely makes an impression on Peter as he collapses down beside Hiro. “Shit!”
Hiro stirs, squinting round at him. “What is wrong?”
“I think I am actually insane. I'm hallucinating, and I can't remember anything and I just feel like I shouldn't be here. Fuck!”
“Quantum Leap,” Hiro says solemnly, settling his head back down on a cushion. “Beckett always forgets about his past when he jumps into a new body.”
Peter considers this. “You know Isaac's painting something in front of an audience soon, right?”
Hiro is up and out of there faster than he can blink.
*
Quantum Leap. It's a ridiculous idea, but now he can't get it out of his fucking head. He spends the week after the convention in a state veering between sheer exhaustion and moronic happiness as he visits Claire everyday at the beach and acts like a teenager pressed against the flimsy wooden door of the shack.
But something isn't right. He feels it when they hold hands, and when they kiss, and when they go out for dinner, and the sense of the familiar overwhelms him when he meets her parents, where he feels the something-isn't-rightness more than ever, and not just because Mr Bennet is one seriously scary dude.
Hiro goes home, and Peter misses having someone to share his crappy apartment with, misses not being alone, and misses Claire. All the damn time.
And then the dreams start up. They seem great at first, Claire in a little cheerleader's uniform, all pom poms and curly hair and high kicks; it's hot, he likes it.
He doesn't like it so much when he dreams about her being chased down and killed by some faceless guy, and when his flying dreams start up again, he knows this has got to be a bad sign.
He has a full bottle of pills in his bathroom cabinet, and he considers taking them every morning, but there's always some reason to put it off till tomorrow.
“Mm, muscles,” Claire breathes into his ear one night, dragging his t-shirt up and over his head. She'd come round with a pizza, but that was quickly relegated to the kitchen as they tripped over things on their way to his bedroom.
“I've been working out.”
“I can tell.” She drops her head down and kisses his throat, her tongue swirling against his skin. He groans and unbuttons her jeans clumsily, sliding them down over her hips. Tonight might be the night, he thinks. They've been waiting because, well, he feels weird about the age difference, and it's possible that Noah Bennet will sense Peter having sex with his daughter, come over and shoot him. Tonight though, he can just feel that something is going to happen.
She makes quick work of her clothes and the rest of his, and soon is burrowing under his covers and waving condom in his face. She straddles him, taking over control completely, her long blonde hair falling like curtains on either side of her face.
“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing his hips up against hers harder as she moves on top of him with increasing speed. “Fuck, don't stop, don't stop!”
He presses his head back hard into his pillow and grips her upper arms, and...
“Hey, it gets better!”
“What?”
“Life after high school. It gets a lot better.”
“Fuck!” he yells as she crashes into him, panting into his shoulder.
“That was ama- Peter?” Her voice sounds fearful, and slowly, as millions of contradictory events clash in his mind, he holds his hand between their faces.
“You're seeing this, right?” he whispers. She nods. His hand, all his fingers spread out, is a double image, like he's splitting apart. She tries to grasp it, eyes large and shiny never leaving his, but her finger pass right though.
“I think I have to go,” he says, choking on the last word.
“I don't understand.” Tears rolls down her face, and he wants to wipe them away, but he can't.
“I know,” he says. “Neither do I.”
And then she flickers, and everything's gone.
*
He's still in his bedroom, but it's not his bedroom; the walls are a different colour, the blanket on the bed is rough and scratchy, and when he looks down at himself, he finds that he's fully dressed, in clothes that he doesn't own.
He sits up, gets to his feet, notices that he's wearing shoes, and walks across the bare floorboards. He had carpets, he thinks.
The door's ajar, pale yellow light cutting across the floor. He pushes it open gently with his foot.
He definitely doesn't remember ever having a huge pool of blood on his living room floor.
In the middle lies a figure, blonde hair fanned out like a halo.
“Claire?” Her hair is different, shorter, and her skin doesn't have that deep tan that comes from being at the beach all day, but it's definitely her. His heart beats fast enough to come right out of his chest as he approaches, crouching beside her and checking where the blood is coming from.
She's been shot four times, in her stomach, chest, leg and the back of her head, and her dead eyes stare up at him, but it's the last wound that he focuses on. Some piece of knowledge in the back of his mind is scratching to be let out, and he goes with his first instinct; he digs his fingers into the hole, grimacing as he feels warm blood and brain tissue and god knows what else, and pulls the bullet out.
There's a second of doubt, as he holds the disgusting thing in his palm and she continues to lie there like- like she should, and then she tenses, hands balling to fists, and coughs, spraying drops of blood across her clothes.
“Claire,” he repeats, with both relief and trepidation, because she's not the girl he's been dating for the past two months, but she is the girl he knows.
She pulls herself up, the bullet from her now healed stomach rolling off her with a soft clunk. “Peter?” Her eyes widen, and she throws herself at him, her arms clamping tightly around his neck.
“Peter,” she whispers. “Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you. Even Molly couldn't find you.”
Molly. Doctor Suresh. The list. He rocks back on his heels, holding one arm around Claire's waist to steady her. “Molly can find people,” he says slowly. “Nathan can fly, you can heal and I... absorb powers. I'm not crazy.” He looks at her desperately for confirmation. She frowns.
“Of course, Peter. Seriously, where have you been?”
He shakes his head, suddenly unable to speak, because now he knows all that, he knows something else, too. His niece. He pushes some of the tangled hair away from her face, and wonders how to articulate this, how to stop these feelings that maybe he's had since he first met her but are now as raw as an exposed nerve and too intense to ignore. He wishes he had more time.
He gets his reprieve in the worst possible way, this side of blowing up again.
The door slams open, and Claire scrambles to her feet. “Shit, he's back.”
“Who is?” He lets her tug him up, and they move towards the back of the room in sync.
“The last guy you saw before you disappeared. I've been tracking him. He isn't very happy.”
Peter takes in the other man's appearance as he steps slightly in front of Claire. He remembers him; they ran into each other at beach - the pieces are starting to fall into place - when Peter came to visit Claire in California. The guy had been beyond distressed, wielding a knife and yelling that he wanted to go home and Peter had tried to calm him, thinking 'what's the worst he can do to me?' - and then he'd woken up to Claire's lips on his.
“Quantum Leap,” he mutters.
“Why are you following me?!” the guy shouts, waving the gun at them. “Why can't I just go home?!”
Peter flicks his hand and sends the gun clattering to the floor. “Where is home?”
The guy stumbles back, colliding into the wall. “I don't know! I can't- can't remember!” He flickers, his edges turning fuzzy, and splits apart, his mouth open in a silent scream.
“What the hell?” Claire mutters behind Peter, gripping tightly to his arm. The guy splits apart completely, for a second becoming two, then one image fades away. He drops to his knees and gasps, then looks up slowly.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
Peter shakes his head. “It doesn't matter, everything's okay now.”
“Oh.” The guy's eyes roll back into his head and he slumps to the ground.
“And that's probably for the best.”
“Okay, really: what the hell?” Claire looks up at him, then down at the guy and back again.
“He didn't have anything to anchor him to his world. He must have been really lonely and confused; doesn't quite remember anything, and every time he moves on he loses another piece of himself. It was lucky I had you, Claire.” He takes her hand and studies it, not ready to look up at her just yet, because then he'll have to deal with everything this has thrown up.
“I don't get it,” Claire says, letting him kneed her hand nervously.
“I know.” He risks a look at her, her slightly parted lips, her long eyelashes, and the way she meets his gaze - he thinks, maybe.
“You're my niece,” he says, and that's a whole conversation right there.
And then he kisses her.
Rating: R, for adult themes.
Pairings or Characters: Peter/Claire, Hiro, Nathan, Isaac, Simone, a couple of minor OCs.
Warnings: Non-graphic sex, swearing, incest, alternate reality, set sometime after S2 but no spoilers, mentions of suicide and drug abuse - all that good stuff.
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.
Summary: Peter's pretty sure he's not crazy, he doesn't feel crazy, but everyone keeps telling him that he is. If he could just kick this feeling of déjà vu, then maybe he'd be okay.
Notes: I don't even know. I started this a couple of days ago, meaning for it to be in response to pairechallenge's prompt, breathe, but this one kind of got away from me and did its own thing. It's sort of a merge with another show (it'll become obvious which one) but you don't really need to have seen it to get this. I hope. :|
Her lips brush against his as he opens his eyes. Her hand is on his chest, and the corners of her green eyes crinkle with a smile when she sees he's awake.
God, she's beautiful.
“Breathe, just breathe,” she says, moving her hand to cradle his neck. He frowns, what-?
And then his body rebels, a long racking cough bringing up gallons of water as she rolls him onto his side and rubs his back.
“Oookay,” she murmurs. “That's good, bring it all up now.”
The water stings as it comes out of his nose and mouth, and his throat burns as the cough threatens to bring up one of his lungs. She continues to hover over him, rubbing circles on his back and reassuring him that everything's all right, and when, finally, he stops, she helps him to sit up.
“Claire?” he asks, blinking water out of his eyes and wiping his mouth.
She's crouched beside him, and however much he might like to - which, to be honest, isn't all that much - he can't help but notice the expanse of toned tanned stomach between her shorts and her bikini top. She smiles confusedly at him.
“Have we met before?”
“I..” He rubs his forehead and glances around, seeing, for the first time, the crowd gathered around them and the deep blue of the sky above them. “I'm in California,” he finishes.
She nods encouragingly. “That's right.”
“My- my mom sent me out here after my breakdown.”
Her smile falters a little, her face taking on a definite 'oh god, crazy person' expression for a moment.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his ears pinking, “too much information.”
“That's okay, least you remember who you are.” She pats him on the arm and looks up at the crowd. “Okay,” she says loudly, “nothing to see here, move back!”
As they dissipate, he gets a good view of the sea glittering in the sunlight and the sand beneath him. “I was swimming? I'm a terrible swimmer.”
“Which we all quickly found out,” she teases, standing up and brushing sand off her legs before offering him a hand. She supports him with an arm around his chest as he fights off a wave of dizziness. “Come on, let's go inside and get you something to eat. That'll make you feel better.”
“Inside?” he questions, and she points to a small shack a little way across the beach. When they get there, she settles him on a chair and snatches a jacket off one of the hooks there, pulling on and zipping up the bright yellow top. Thick black letters on the back say 'LIFE GUARD'.
Oh, that makes more sense.
She rummages around in the small fridge in the corner and comes back out with a plastic container.
“This is... someone's.” She grins and pulls the lid off, handing him one of the sandwiches. “Eat that, it'll bring your blood sugar up.”
He takes a bite. Chicken salad, ew. He chews and swallows it anyway, keeping his eyes on her as she moves to sit across from him. She tucks an errant blonde strand of hair back into her high ponytail and stares back at him. He blushes and looks away.
“So,” she says, “since you seem to know already my name...”
“Oh!” He clears his throat, holds his hand out awkwardly. “I'm Peter Petrelli.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Petrelli.” Her hand feels small and rough in his soft palm. He guesses that she does a lot of hands on work, unlike him. “Hey, you aren't related to that Petrelli, are you?”
“Uh, yeah. I'm his brother. I don't make such a great first impression, though.”
“Oh, I don't know,” she says, and grins. His stomach flip flops, and he feels dizzy again for a minute. He blinks rapidly, willing his head to clear, because it seems like he's not seeing her properly. Even after the fuzziness around her image lessens, it still doesn't quite feel right.
“You certainly know how to get a girl to kiss on a first date,” she finishes, then widens her eyes and blushes. “Not that, you know-” The phone rings then, before he can tell her that he knows what she means, and she exhales. “Saved by the bell,” she mutters, and moves to pick it up.
When her back is turned, he lays the sandwich on the table and gets up. His skin begins to itch, not as if he's been bitten, but more like it's jumping, and his head begins to swim again, so much so that he has to hold on to the table for support.
“I'm going to go,” he forces out between clenched teeth, feeling his way to the door as his vision greys out.
She turns to look over her shoulder, the cord twisted between her fingers. “Hang on, West,” she says into the phone and holds it to her shoulder. “Are you going to be okay? I can call a doctor.”
He leans against the wall as casually as he can and gropes for the door handle. “No, I'm great. Thanks for, you know, saving me.” With that, he exits the shack quickly and stumbles back out into the sunlight, throwing an arm up against the glare as his vision snaps back with alarming rapidity.
He makes his way across the beach, kind of hoping that Claire's come to the door to see that he's okay. When he gets to the edge of the beach and looks back though, the door is still closed, and for some reason his heart sinks. He turns away and scrutinises the familiar, yet foreign, streets before him, picks a direction and begins to walk.
*
Three hours later, he finds himself outside a building. He's been past four times, and there's something that keeps drawing him back to it. He might live here, but he has no keys on him, or anything else for that matter - just his shorts and his t-shirt that's now stiff from the salt water.
He stares up at it, considering what he's going to do - he could go back down to the beach, but it's getting dark now and he's gone round in so many circles that he really has no idea where he is - when the door opens and a grey-haired woman comes out.
“Peter!” she exclaims, coming over to him. “Look at the state of you!” She touches the bridge of his nose gently, where the skin's red and beginning to peel, and he winces. “Have to get some calamine on that,” she says firmly, taking him by the arm and leading him in.
“Where have you been all day, Peter? And where's your bag? You had a bag when you left this morning? Oh dear, you didn't get mugged, did you?”
He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that, Mrs... Mitchell. I think I left my stuff on the beach.”
She purses her lips and sits him down on the paisley couch in her lounge. “You really need to get your head out of the clouds. Boy like you could get in trouble.” She ruffles his hair affectionately and shuffles off, reappearing a minute later with a bottle of lotion.
She squeezes a good amount of it into her palm, and starts to work into the bridge of his nose. “This is going to hurt something dreadful for a couple of days, why didn't you put on some sun block?”
He shrugs. Truth is, maybe he did, but everything seems so undefined - like, he knows who Mrs Mitchell is, but he didn't even remember her before he met her just now. He lets her rub lotion on his burnt arms, and then she sits back, her mouth a straight, disapproving line.
“I suppose you don't have your keys on you either.”
He shakes his head dumbly.
She reaches across her coffee table stacked with home improvement magazines and sepia photos of smiling faces and rummages through a pot of keys, pulling out a set. “Here's your spare. Remember to get a new copy cut and give these one back to me when you can.” She presses them into his hand, and he thinks, okay, so she must be my landlady.
“Thanks,” he says weakly, and follows her to the door.
“Get your head down and get some rest, Peter,” she tells him. “And for god's sake, look after yourself better.”
“Okay.” He looks out into the hall and frowns, biting her lip.
“Second floor, third door to the right,” she says slowly, her voice losing its admonishing qualities and taking on a worried tone.
He smiles. “Thanks.” He climbs the stairs, only hearing her door close when he gets to the landing.
*
His apartment feels... neglected. He wonders how long he's been here; with a small television set, a laptop that looks like it's been plugged in all day and a ratty old couch, it doesn't exactly scream bachelor pad. Which he guesses he probably is.
He runs his thumb across the track pad of the computer, and the screen blinks to life. It seems like he left his browser open, eight tabs open mostly with gaming sites and a couple of - he blushes even though no one's around - porn sites. The MSN messenger icon bounces insistently, so he clicks on it, bringing up a window. There's one message, which says: Peter, r u there? from ~*time&space*~ left at 3.05pm, almost two hours ago.
He types back: im here, noting that his screenname is blvd-of-brkn-drms. He thinks he must be a real downer to be around. The reply is almost instant.
Peter! Yaay ur back. U normally online early. Have u herd news?
He takes a second to decipher the words, then types back: What news?
The bar on the bottom of the window states that ~*time&space*~ is typing, and a couple of minutes later, a new message pops up.
Omg best thing evr. Ive been mad waiting 4 sum1 to tell, Ando doenst care. Isaac Mendez is goin 2 b at San Diego Comic Con. Soooooo excitin maybe u introduce me? Ive been practicing my englsh every night.
Peter's attention drifts to his mostly empty corkboard propped up against the wall, where two Comic Con tickets are tacked.
Sure I will, he types back, considering for a second before finishing, Hiro.
*
Later, after Hiro's rambled on about the convention and about how boring his job is, Peter goes through every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen, finding only enough cutlery for one, and a stack of frozen dinners in the freezer. He reads the back of the box twice before shoving it into the oven and searches out a packet of cookies, which he settles down with in front of the television. He flicks through the channels aimlessly, vetoing episodes of Maury and Everybody Loves Raymond before the shrill wail of a phone cuts through his stupor.
He starts, he hadn't even known that there was a phone in here, and moves toward the sound emanating from his small back bedroom. He stops at the door in surprise; it's as if a bomb has gone off. Clothes are strewn all over the floor, his covers are half off the bed, books are piled up against the wall, and posters are taped haphazardly to the peeling wallpaper.
“Jesus,” he mutters, stepping over clothes to untangle his cordless phone from the sheets.
He pushes the 'answer call' button and holds the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Peter.” Nathan's voice snaps out curtly, and Peter sways from the wave of recognition.
“H-hi,” he stammers out.
“How are you doing, Pete?” His tone is tense with forced lightness.
“I'm okay, I'm... good.” He toes a crumpled t-shirt as he speaks, pushing it aside to find an empty bag of chips. He reaches down and picks it up, turning it over to read its best before date. Ew, it's over a month old.
“Mm,” Nathan answers non-committally, pausing for a second. “Look, your landlady called. She said you came home in a daze and didn't even have your keys on you. Have you been taking your pills?”
Automatically, Peter looks over to his bedside table, where a pill dispenser sits. Monday to Wednesday's slots are empty of the small white tablets of the others, and he's pretty sure it's Wednesday today, so... “Yeah.”
“You hesitated,” Nathan says bluntly. “Peter. You know you have to take them. You don't won't to start having delusions again, do you?”
“No, of course not.” He sits down heavily on the bed. “I just- I have this feeling, Nate Like, I don't know, I'm missing something.”
Nathan speaks as though through gritted teeth. “The last time you had a feeling, you threw yourself off a building and made me watch.”
“I know. I- I met a girl today. She seemed so... familiar. I just can't get it out of my head.”
“Oh.” Some good humour seems to seep into his voice. “Well, she must have been quite the girl to throw you for a loop like this.”
Peter picks at the loose threads on his quilt. “She is.” He doesn't know why, but it's true. He might have just met her, but deep down inside he knows her completely, and he knows she's amazing.
“Okay.” Nathan sighs. “I can't get away from here at the moment, but I'm going to fly down to see you on Sunday. Don't do anything stupid, okay? And for god's sake, if you start feeling unwell, go see your doctor.”
Peter opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again and sniffs. Smoke. His dinner. Shit. “Shit.”
“What's wrong?”
Peter stands. “I think something might have been set alight. I have to go now, Nathan.”
“Peter? Peter!” Nathan barks down the phone. “Remember, Sunday morning!”
*
Sunday takes an age to roll around, through mornings spent eating soggy cereal, afternoon talking to Hiro and nights not sleeping. In his bathroom cupboard, he finds numerous bottles of pills - painkillers, uppers, downers, tranquillisers and sleeping pills, but he doesn't take any of them, even when the silence of the very early morning buzzes loud in his ears and he desperately wants to just fall asleep.
On Sunday, he gets up at five, after two hours of fitful, unsatisfying rest, and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. His appearance is less than appealing; he hasn't bothered shaving in a couple of days, his hair is shaggy, hanging in front of his eyes and curling down his neck, and the definition that he knows - he remembers - he had on his chest is gone.
“Okay,” he tells his reflection, “just because you are crazy doesn't mean you need to look it.” He picks up a pair of scissors he'd laid out in preparation earlier, and holding a lock of hair tort between his fore and middle finger, snips it clean off. He continues in this way, cutting off all the offensively long bits of hair and then brings his electric shaver out, switching it on and attacking the hair growing down his neck. It gets a bit mangled, as the too-long hair gets caught in the spinning blades, but he does the best he can before washing and shaving his face, and jumping into the shower. The trail of dark hair marks his previous spot by the mirror and he frowns as it gets stuck to his wet feet. When he goes downstairs to borrow a vacuum cleaner from Mrs M. (he can't believe he doesn't already have one) she stares at him for a second before giving him a small hand held dust buster.
After that, he eats, dresses and tidies up the best that he can - nudging his clothes and books underneath his bed and straightening the sheets. Just as there's a knock on the door, he remembers his pills. He's been taking those, at least, since there are so many notes taped up around the place about remembering to take them and Nathan sounded really serious on the phone, and he's a nurse, he knows about withdrawal symptoms and consulting your doctor and all that stuff. He just doesn't know why he needs to take them. He remembers, faintly, being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, but it doesn't seem real and he's pretty sure he's not delusional right now.
Maybe that's what they all say, though
He holds them in his palm as there's a second knock. “Coming!” he yells, closing his hand to a fist. He slips into the bathroom and throws them into the toilet before he can change his mind, quickly pulling the chain.
He hopes this is the right decision.
*
“What have to done to yourself?” Nathan asks, taking in the sunburn, the nicks from the shaver and the haircut.
“I cut my hair.” Peter shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “I looked kind of homeless before.”
“You look kind of homeless now. Surely you could have paid someone to do... that.” Nathan pushes his sunglasses up into his - perfectly cut - hair, and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops.
“It was a spontaneous sort of thing, I didn't want to wait.”
Nathan arches an eyebrow.
“It's not a symptom of bipolar,” he reassures his older brother. “It's just a haircut.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“Yeah, right.” Peter shifts from foot to foot, suddenly awkward. He really doesn't want Nathan to come in, he's embarrassed by the state of his apartment. “Let's go down to the beach.”
“The beach? You hate the beach. Remember those holidays in Italy? Could barely get you out of your room.”
“Well, apparently I like it now.” He reaches behind him and snatches the spare set of keys off the table by the door. “And I need your opinion on something.”
*
“She the one?” Nathan nods up to life guard's tower where Claire sits with a pair of binoculars.
“Yeah.” They cross the sand towards her, and frankly, Nathan looks ridiculous, in his dress shoes and pants. At least he's not wearing a tie, Peter thinks.
“She's cute,” Nathan says, somewhat dismissively. “Too young for you, by the looks of it, though.”
Peter stuffs his hands in his shorts' pockets and tries not to pout. She's gorgeous, he thinks. “I wasn't suggesting I was going to da-” He stops in his tracks as she, for some reason, twists around and catches sight of him. Her expression is unreadable for a second, then she smiles, unfolding her legs and climbing down off the tower.
He can't breathe, he feels dizzy, sick. He plants his feet firmly in the ground and takes a ragged breath, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.
“Are you okay?” Nathan's question sounds far away, like he's at one end of a tunnel and Peter's at the other.
“Uh huh,” he grunts, rubbing his face vigorously and opening his eyes. Claire jogs towards them, a slightly damp bright yellow life guard t-shirt clinging indecently to her body. Try not to pass out, he tells himself as she stops not a foot away from them.
“Mr Petrelli,” she says brightly, “I hope you haven't come back for more 'mouth to mouth'.” She smiles, but stares for a little bit longer than he thinks is normal, and he's forced to break eye contact first, looking down at her bare feet, which are adorable with all the sand collected between her toes.
“Mouth to mouth?” Nathan questions, rounding on Peter.
He winces. “I just got into a bit of... trouble a couple of days ago, no big deal.”
“So why didn't you mention it?”
“Because it was no big deal,” Peter insists. “I'd forgotten all about it.”
“You forgot that you nearly drowned?” Nathan's eyes flash dangerously with a look that says, 'we'll talk about this later'. He hadn't ever wanted Peter to leave New York, that was their mother's doing, and Peter can easily see himself being carted back to the mansion and kept there under lock and key.
Claire clears her throat.
“Oh, hey, sorry. Claire, this is my brother Nathan. Nathan, this is Claire.”
Nathan's face shifts from angry older brother to schmoozing politician in a blink of an eye. He holds his hand out. “Hello.”
“Nathan Petrelli.” Claire lets out a low whistle, taking his hand. “So I'm talking to the future president of the US of A. That's kind of cool.”
Nathan chuckles. “Well, let's hope so. Just remember to vote in November. You are old enough to vote, aren't you?”
She rolls her eyes heavenward. “I know I look fourteen, but I'm actually eighteen. I'm just saving up for college in September.”
“Well, good. I haven't got a nice shiny badge for you, but maybe you'll remember me anyway.”
Peter's disgusted; Nathan's shamelessly flirting with her, just to get her vote, right after he explained the weird feelings he' s been having about her. And maybe he's just a tiny bit jealous, too.
“I like your hair.” She's talking to him, he realises, and he jerks his head up. She's fuzzy again. His vision blurs and his throat feels like it's beginning to constrict.
“Thanks,” he manages.
“He looks like an idiot,” Nathan says with affection.
“He looks cute. He looks like...” She bites the inside of her mouth. “Like he needs to be looked after.”
“Yeah,” Nathan mutters, as the ground begins to spin under Peter's feet. “He does.”
*
Everything's so weird at the moment.
I know, Hiro replies. Then: like wat?
Everything. I've been having these weird spells where I think i'm going to pass out & it's only when i'm around this girl. & i've been having difficulty remembering things.
U've met a girl? Wats she like?
Peter smiles, hands poised over the keyboard; it's so like Hiro to ignore the bad stuff and focus on the good. He's not sure how he knows that, but he does.
She's... amazing. She's a life guard and she saved my life last week. I've only talked to her twice, it's weird. I've never felt anything so intensely before.
Do u luv her?
His fingers twitch. Yes.
!!! well u know wat they say: "He who saves a life is responsible for it." or she. Watev.
They?
The Chinese.
Oh.
There's a couple of minutes paused, as Hiro starts typing, then stops, then starts again. Ask her to comcicon!
Nooooo. She'll think i'm a dork.
Don't u want her to know the real u?
No. I already let it slip about my breakdown. I dont need any further embarassment. How would I even get another ticket this close to the date, anyway?
Dont wrry about that, my frend. Hiro will find u tickets. Just remember to pick me up from the airport?
I'm not going to forget. Don't worry.
*
He's running late. Hiro's plane lands in half an hour and he isn't even dressed. He shoves on a pair of jeans which he can just about get buttoned up, and a loose t-shirt and grabs a banana before heading out the door, coming back a second later for his car keys.
His car is blue. It's blue and it has a dent on the hood and a long scratch down the left hand side. So where is it?
He looks around the street. Up and down and back again, and... there it is, in all its not-glory. He unlocks the door and gets in, brushing cola cans and newspapers aside. The engine turns over twice before it starts and then he's off, making really bad time to LAX.
*
The board tells him that the flight from Tokyo, Japan arrived fifteen minutes ago.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running from the entrance to terminal three, past people with trolleys full of suitcases and families wrangling snivelling children. When he gets as close to the gate as he can, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper with 'Hiro' written on it out of his pocket and smooths it out, holding it up.
There aren't too many people milling around any more, and he wonders if Hiro's tried to make his own way into the city. He'd phone him, but yeah, his battery is dead. He forgot to charge it up, just like he forgot to set his alarm last night and buy more food yesterday afternoon. He's been that way all week, running around like a headless chicken, trying to get back into shape and decorate his apartment but forgetting all the stupid little things that should be ingrained by age twenty-eight.
He pushes the very clear memory of flushing his pills this morning to the back of his mind, and puts his little incidents down to lack of sleep.
“Peter Petrelli!”
He spins on his heel and is immediately tackled by all five foot six of Hiro Nakamura.
“I thought you had forgotten!” He hugs him quickly, but tightly - Hiro's stronger than he looks.
“No, I was just... stuck in traffic.”
Hiro grins up at him and adjusts his glasses. “You're taller than I'd thought you'd be.” He rummages around in his bag, most of his arm and head disappearing into it, then emerges with a rectangular piece of paper held gently between his fingers. “Ticket!”
He hands it over and Peter checks the back. “This is for real. I thought you were going to forge one, or something. Where'd you get it?”
“Ebay!”
“Hiro, that must have been expensive. I can't take this.” He tries to give it back, but Hiro refuses to take it.
His head bobs from side to side as he clamps onto Peter's arm and leads him out of the airport. “I come from very rich family, not a problem. Just ask the girl, I want to meet her.”
*
Hiro arrives five days before the convention, so naturally, Peter leaves it till the day before to work up the courage to ask Claire out. He pulls on his least scuffed pair of sneakers, and jogs down to the beach. The hottest part of the day is over, and he thinks it's possible that she isn't even there today; after all, why would she work every day? And he doesn't even know her last name, so it's not like he could find out where she lives. And anyway, that would just be a little too creepy, it's not like she even knows him. And she probably has a boyfriend already, a girl like that would.
By the time he gets there, he's just about ready to turn around and go straight home, which he probably would do if he weren't so wiped out. He rests his palms on his knees and sucks in four long breaths. The muscles in the back of his legs twitch and sweat pours from his forehead, making his hair stick up at odd angles when he rakes his hands through it.
He's bright red and shiny from the sunblock and he has a white strip of zinc across his nose to stop his burn from getting any worse; there's no way she's going to say yes. Maybe he should go home and clean himself up, and then come back and-
A bright t-shirt catches his eye, and he calls out before he loses his nerve. Only... yeah, that's a guy.
Or a boy, really. With dark hair and brown eyes, he looks a bit like Peter did as a teenager.
“Is everything okay, Sir?” he asks.
“Um.” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I'm, uh, looking for Claire. I don't know her last name, but she's blonde, pretty, really pretty and has kind of...” He's about to make some kind of gesture that could probably be taken as lewd, but the boy's expression saves him the humiliation.
“Yeah, I know Claire,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Oh, really? Is she here?”
A pause. “Yes.” And that's all he says. 'Yes', and then just stands there, glowering slightly.
“So. Can you point me in her general direction, please?” Peter feels some of his old self reassert itself as this kid glares at him; he's not going to be intimidated by some eighteen year old punk.
The boy clicks his teeth together a couple of times, then throws a thumb over his shoulder wordlessly.
Peter smirks. “Well, thanks for all your help.”
*
The ground shifts beneath him again when he sees just the back of her, but he balls his fists and concentrates. No, he tells himself, suck it up and take some goddamn control. Almost begrudgingly, the ground stills, and he walks gingerly over to where she's standing at the shore, letting the water wash up to her ankles. He lays a hand on her shoulder gently, and for just a second, it seems like his hand shudders. Not a shudder from him, but like... a double image.
“West,” she begins angrily, whipping her head round, then her features soften. “Peter, hi.”
“Hi.”
They smile shyly at each other - or at least he does, he can't imagine someone as full of life as Claire has ever been shy - and just as he begins to speak, she cuts him off.
“I'm glad you're here,” she says. “I- I found your bag. I didn't want to give it to you while your brother was around.”
“My bag? Why not?”
Her eyes are so green it's kind of ridiculous. “You know why.” She wraps her arms around herself, even though she can't possibly be cold. “I tried to find you, but apparently you're not listed in the phone book.”
Peter shakes his head. “No, probably not. Nathan wouldn't want reporters trying to milk me for dirt. Apparently I'm easily led.”
She raises her eyebrows at that and beckons him to follow her. “I'm glad you're okay,” she says, as they approach the shack.
“Me? Why wouldn't I be?”
She gives him one indecipherable look over her shoulder and opens the door. On the formica table, sits a black bag with thick straps and a whole array of badges pinned to it, and he suddenly remembers very clearly Nathan giving him the large red, white and blue 'Vote Petrelli' badge that holds centre stage. She reaches inside and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“What's that?”
“Peter.” She sighs and gives it to him. He opens it up and reads it. Twice. And then again just to make sure that it is actually his writing. Yeah, that's definitely his slanted scrawl.
“This is a-” he begins, then stops.
“Yeah,” she says. “Don't you remember writing it?”
He shakes his head slowly and reads out a paragraph, like it'll make more sense out loud. “'I'm sorry for everything I'm going to put you through; I know it's selfish and I know I'm selfish, but nothing feels real any more. When I'm on my medication I feel completely numb, and when I'm off it I feel great, but you all hate it, and I don't want to keep putting you through all of that crap. You can say it was an accident and then Nathan's campaign won't be affected - it might even help-'” He winces at this part. Could he be trying to make them feel any worse than they already would? “'Please email Hiro and tell him he can have the tickets, I don't want him to miss out because of me...'” He trails off and drops the letter back to the table. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“You didn't write that?” she asks, a voice going up hopefully at the end.
“No, I wrote it. I just don't remember writing it.”
“What, were you drunk, high?”
“Probably not. My memory's just kind of weird at the moment. Look, it's just- since meeting you, I've been... different. I don't know if it's just a coincidence, or what, but I feel like there's something more than what I'm seeing, and I'm the only one who knows it, and I certainly don't feel like I want to kill myself!” he finishes, throwing his hands in the air as Claire watches passively.
“Are you sure that's not just- y'know, a symptom of your...” She casts about for a word, and he collapses into the nearest chair, banging his head on the table. “Are you okay?”
He groans, and puts his hands over his head. “You think I'm completely insane.”
“Well...” She pulls a chair around and settles next to him. “I don't think you're insane, I'm just worried that you might be having a manic episode.”
He rolls his head to one side and squints at her. “How do you know about that?”
She freezes, her mouth forming a perfect O, and then giggles nervously, blushing an incredibly pleasing shade of pink. “Internet,” she says. “There's some... gossip about your family online.”
“Oh,” he replies. “Super.”
She pokes him in the shoulder. “Don't worry, I don't think anyone's going to recognise you out here.”
“Because I'm out of shape with a bad haircut?”
Her hand travels to his back, where she rubs it sympathetically, and as subtly as he can, he leans in towards her. “That's not what I meant,” she tells him.
“I know. I just- you're never going to say yes now,” he mumbles the last part, ducking his head down.
“Say yes to what?”
He rocks his head from side to side in answer.
“Say yes to what?” she repeats.
He takes a deep breath and blurts it out quickly. “I wanted to know if you'd come with me and my friend - Hiro - to the-the comic con that starts tomorrow. But, look, you're not going to say yes because it's dorky and you're gorgeous and-”
“Yes.”
“I'm fucking nuts and-- What? What?”
Her hand moves from his back to lie over his. “I said yes, I will go with you and your dorky friend.”
“But- but, you can't possibly be interested.” In his head, he's telling himself to stop trying to talk her out of it, but his mouth just won't quit. “You must have a boyfriend. Before, it sounded like you were expecting someone else.”
She chews on her lip. “Yeah, well. We sort of broke up today. After I found your bag, I guess I got sort of... fixated? And his reaction just made his possessive nature hit home real hard and I dumped him. I'm not really that bothered, so I guess it wasn't really meant to be.”
Peter lifts his head and reaches out, his fingers stopping inches from her cheek. It feels so right to do it, but he knows he's crossing some sort of line. He curls his fingers into his palm, and lets his hand drop. “I'm too old for you, you know.”
“Mentally, I think we're pretty much the same age.”
“Heeey.” He narrows his eyes. “I think you're being nasty to me.”
She pushes her bare foot against his leg. “You can take it.”
*
He brushes the trash out of his car into the street and glances around to check no one's noticed.
“Sorry about this,” he mutters to Claire. She shrugs.
“You obviously haven't seen my brother's room.”
Hiro laughs a little too loudly and hops in the back, fiddling with the seatbelt. “Let's go!” he yells. “Vroom!”
Claire's eyes widen, and a grin spreads over her face. Peter's toes start to tingle.
“Your friend is very cute,” she says over the roof of the car. “So are you.” She ducks into the car before he can reply, leaving him with car keys in his hand and very little idea of what direction he's supposed to drive in.
*
This might have been a mistake, he thinks, as they push through the crowd. Hiro looks fit to burst from excitement, and Claire looks kind of overwhelmed, and on what planet did he think this would be a good idea for date?
Maybe she'd only agreed because she'd recognised that it wasn't a date at all; just a harmless lonely dude with a crush. He resolves to give her the opportunity to leave as soon as he can, he'll even drive her home. No hard feelings.
“Isaac Mendez!” Hiro shouts, pointing up at far the wall, where a picture of him hangs, with words beneath it saying: 'signing here'. “Come on!”
Hiro drags both of them to the back of the line, and proceeds to talk in an unintelligible mixture of English and Japanese, occasionally gesturing at something happily. Claire bites her lip to keep from laughing, and links her arm through Peter's. He stares at it, and then up at her face.
“What?” she asks innocently.
“Nothing.” They're only a couple of people away from Isaac now, who's hunched over scribbling something on a Ninth Wonders graphic novel. He looks pretty much the same, Peter notes absently, watching a darker hand close on Isaac's shoulder. He follows the line of the person's arm, and then baulks, trying to hide himself behind Claire.
“What's wrong?” she hisses, alarmed. Hiro spins around and looks at him too, as do half of the people in the line.
“This... this was a bad idea,” he whispers. “Let's just go.”
“What? No way! Tell me what's wrong!” Claire's eyes bore into him, and he starts to feel like a bit of fool hiding behind her like he is. He straightens up a little.
“That woman over there? With Isaac?” She nods for him to continue. “That's my sort of ex-girlfriend.”
“That's Simone?” Hiro exclaims. “She is very pretty.”
“How is she your 'sort of' ex-girlfriend?” Claire asks, her voice a little tight.
“We- well, I was her father's nurse, and we sort of flirted? And then Isaac overdosed and I helped her out and she left him and we did some stuff, and then he got clean and I had a breakdown. She dumped me.” He doesn't meet her eyes. Jesus, this is like therapy, but worse.
She blows out a long breath out through her teeth and frowns. “And why can't you go over there?”
“Why? Because I look like this, Claire!” He runs his hands through his hair as proof, where his bangs refuse to do anything but hang pathetically and unevenly across his forehead. She sniffs.
“You're such a girl, Peter.” She digs into her oversized bag and produces a can of hairspray. “Close your eyes and stand still,” she orders, beginning to run her fingers through his hair.
Yeah, like he could do anything but. He sways slightly on the spot as he feels how close her body is to his, how warm she is. He doesn't dare open his eyes.
“Okay, all done. Peter, open your eyes.”
He fights off more dizziness as he looks into her smiling face. Her elbows are resting on his shoulders, and it's all very distracting. He lifts one hand to touch his hair, and she bats it away.
“Don't fuss with it.” She clicks her tongue, bringing her hands down heavily onto his shoulders. “And remember, she dumped you, you're out here in the sun, living it up with the beautiful people, and she's in smelly old New York with some skinny little artist.”
He laughs. “It's not quite like that, but thanks.” They stare at each other some more, and he appreciates the shape of her mouth when she smiles, and her long eyelashes, and the curled strand of hair that's got loose from its tie.
“Mm,” he hums intelligently, trying to kick his brain back into gear.
“Peter?”
He turns his head slowly, and locks his gaze with Simone's. Claire's hands tighten for a second in a comforting squeeze, then move away. “Hi, Simone,” he chokes out, already missing Claire's touch.
*
They're having a party later on, Isaac tells them, when he writes a long dedication and draws a little sketch in Hiro's graphic novel. They should all come, he says, smiling charmingly. He doesn't know any of the other people who are going to be, he says, they just sort of invited themselves.
Every inch of Simone screams that the last thing she wants is a party, but Hiro would probably cry if Peter said no, so he accepts, and after a day of signings and panels, they walk over to the expensive hotel Isaac's staying in.
It's just gone nine o'clock, but Peter can already hear pounding music as they approach the suite.
“I hope you don't have a curfew,” Peter mutters close to Claire's ear as they're let in by Princess Leia.
“I don't, but you might want to be careful next time you go to Copy Kingdom.”
He's about to ask her just what the hell does that mean, when Isaac throws his arm around his shoulders and presses a can of beer into his hand.
“Peter,” he slurs. “My goood friend, Peter Petrelli. Glad you could make it.”
Peter eyes him nervously. “Okay. It's nice to see you too.”
“Simone still talks about you all the time.” His voice drops a notch, turning serious. He leans in. “I think she misses you.”
Peter steps back, bumping into Claire, who slips her hand into his. “Why don't we sit down?” she says, tugging him away, Hiro at their heels.
And this is where they find Simone, in a dark green wraparound dress, anxiously watching Isaac move from person to person.
“Peter.” Some of the tenseness leaves her as she addresses him, and she looks maybe even more beautiful than he remembers, but all he can really focus on is how Claire's hip is bumping against his. He takes a long drink from the can in his hand, and sits down on the large couch.
“Hey, Simone. How is everything?”
Simone drops down in the chair across from him as Hiro spots someone dressed as Spock and ambles off to talk to them - and the whole top of Claire's leg is pressing into his now.
“Well...” She shifts in her seat, checks on Isaac again, and clasps her hands in her lap. “Not so good, Peter.”
“Oh, what's wrong?” Claire hooks her foot around his leg. He takes another swig of his beer.
“It's Isaac. He's... I don't know what to do with him. I thought he was better.” She sighs.
“He's using again?” His head begins to buzz; he hasn't had alcohol in a couple of years, he realises, and he's always been a lightweight, and Claire's hands are... on his arm? He looks at her questioningly. She just smiles, pulling his hand holding the beer over to her mouth and taking a sip.
Faintly, he hears Simone saying something about talking later, but Claire's fingers are tracing patterns on his arm now, and well... Yeah.
“What are you doing, Claire?”
She bats her eyelashes at him, making another grab at the can. “What do you mean?”
“You're all over me!” He holds the can to her mouth, and she wraps her fingers around his hand.
“Why wouldn't I be? Peter, really, I can't imagine what you were like before if you don't think you're attractive now. People must have been passing out in the street at the sight of you.” She leans in then, and brushes a kiss on his lips, one hand on his thigh to brace herself. She flickers for a second, like a bad TV transmission, and he sucks in a deep breath, because this has to be real, he can't let it be a hallucination.
“Claire,” he forces out, cupping her cheek. To his relief, she snaps back into focus, and she doesn't seem shocked by his touch or anything, so maybe this is for real. “Do you ever feel like... we already know each other? I don't mean in a cheesy pick up line sort of way, I mean like- the first time we met, I felt like I knew you. I even knew your name!”
She shrugs. “You probably saw it on the life guard roster. I'd seen you around the beach before. You used to just come and sit by the shore and stare at the sea for a couple of hours, and then go home. You never went in, until, y'know, that day.”
“Really? I don't remember that at all. I don't really remember anything very clearly from before I met you.” He bites his lip; that sounds creepy. She's probably creeped out now, she probably wishes she'd never agreed to come to this den of inequity with him.
“That's weird,” she says, and he prepares himself for the brush off, or her storming out. “I mean, it never felt like we'd met before, to me, but there's definitely some kind of connection between us. I don't normally molest guys I've only known for a week.” She scoots down and lays her head on his shoulder, tangling their legs together.
Well, okay then.
*
So, some undetermined amount of time later, he's lying on the floor, and Claire's hands are up his shirt. At least, he hopes it's Claire, he's kind of out of it; Isaac passed something around, and if looks could kill, Simone would have murdered him, cut his body up into tiny pieces and flushed then down the toilet, but he was pretty fucking drunk by then, and whatever - now he's high and giggling for god's sake.
“You're ticklish!” Claire says with delight.
“Am not!” He makes a pathetic attempt to get away before giving up, as her fingernails skitter across his stomach and he wriggles beneath them. “Stop it! Claire!” He grabs her shoulders and pulls her down, mashing his mouth against hers with little precision. His eyes are still open, and that, it turns out, is the biggest mistake he's made this night, because the scene around them - the revellers, the stucco ceiling, the lights - slide away from him, leaving just a flashing light behind Claire's head. He squeaks in alarm.
Claire jumps back, as the noise and light crashes down on him again, and stares at him with wide, dilated eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I'm... fine.” He rubs his face and swallows, his throat suddenly feeling like it's been coated in something.
“Oh God!” Claire claps a hand over her mouth. “You probably shouldn't smoke pot, it probably contra- screws up your medication! Oh shit!”
“It's not that.” He tries to sit up, but that doesn't work out the way he'd like it to.
“We have to get you to a hospital!” Claire exclaims, running her hands through her hair.
“It's not that,” he says, a little more forcefully, and she stops, hands tangled in her long hair. She looks amazing, but it's probably not the time for that.
“What do you mean?” she asks slowly. “Are you... not... taking your medication?”
“Claire,” he begins, his eyelids drooping. “I-”
And then he passes out.
*
It feels like someone's driven a truck over his face, and then maybe backed over him a couple of times.
“Morning.”
He cracks one eye open to the view of Claire's legs, and throws an arm across his face to block the light streaming in through the windows. “It's morning?” he rasps.
Her laugh is short, and not very sweet. She crouches down, holding a mug of something carefully. “Drink this, it'll make you feel better.”
The bitter smell of coffee makes him want to puke, to be honest, but he pushes himself to his elbows and takes it anyway. “So,” he begins, then stops, finding that to be the sum total of what he's got to say.
“Yeah,” Claire agrees.
“I... should have told you before, I'm sorry.”
She shakes her head. “No, you shouldn't. It's your private stuff, and you don't have to share it with anyone. I'm just worried about you. I like you.”
He smiles, and braves a sip of the coffee. It's as bad as he thought it would be. “I like you too,” he says quietly.
“Well, good.” She offers him her hand, and their combined effort manages to get him to his feet.
The room's pretty much been trashed, he sees. Several people are passed out in various parts of the room, including Hiro, curled up asleep on the couch.
“What's that?” he asks, pointing to a half painted picture leaning against the wall.
“I think Isaac started it last night,” Claire says, moving off to the bathroom. “I'll be out in about ten minutes,” she tells him.
A sketched out and half-painted image of a shadowy figure runs up diagonally from the bottom right hand corner, and as he looks at it, the drawing fills itself in, as if painted by an invisible hand. He stands there, enthralled, as a girl in red and white appears on the canvas, yellow hair quickly coloured in.
He's so amazed by it that he doesn't hear the creaking floorboards that herald someone's arrival, and he jumps when tapped on the shoulder.
“Didn't mean to scare you.” Isaac smirks, and just for a moment Peter could swear that his eyes seem to be completely white. He makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat and stumbles away.
“You really must have partied hard last night,” Isaac comments, picking up his painting and holding it under his arm. “I'm going to finish this off in front of all the fans today, that should make them happy.” Behind him, Simone stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Peter,” she says curtly, turns on her heel and walks out.
“Sorry man,” Isaac says, following her out. “Guess you're not golden boy any more.”
His parting shot barely makes an impression on Peter as he collapses down beside Hiro. “Shit!”
Hiro stirs, squinting round at him. “What is wrong?”
“I think I am actually insane. I'm hallucinating, and I can't remember anything and I just feel like I shouldn't be here. Fuck!”
“Quantum Leap,” Hiro says solemnly, settling his head back down on a cushion. “Beckett always forgets about his past when he jumps into a new body.”
Peter considers this. “You know Isaac's painting something in front of an audience soon, right?”
Hiro is up and out of there faster than he can blink.
*
Quantum Leap. It's a ridiculous idea, but now he can't get it out of his fucking head. He spends the week after the convention in a state veering between sheer exhaustion and moronic happiness as he visits Claire everyday at the beach and acts like a teenager pressed against the flimsy wooden door of the shack.
But something isn't right. He feels it when they hold hands, and when they kiss, and when they go out for dinner, and the sense of the familiar overwhelms him when he meets her parents, where he feels the something-isn't-rightness more than ever, and not just because Mr Bennet is one seriously scary dude.
Hiro goes home, and Peter misses having someone to share his crappy apartment with, misses not being alone, and misses Claire. All the damn time.
And then the dreams start up. They seem great at first, Claire in a little cheerleader's uniform, all pom poms and curly hair and high kicks; it's hot, he likes it.
He doesn't like it so much when he dreams about her being chased down and killed by some faceless guy, and when his flying dreams start up again, he knows this has got to be a bad sign.
He has a full bottle of pills in his bathroom cabinet, and he considers taking them every morning, but there's always some reason to put it off till tomorrow.
“Mm, muscles,” Claire breathes into his ear one night, dragging his t-shirt up and over his head. She'd come round with a pizza, but that was quickly relegated to the kitchen as they tripped over things on their way to his bedroom.
“I've been working out.”
“I can tell.” She drops her head down and kisses his throat, her tongue swirling against his skin. He groans and unbuttons her jeans clumsily, sliding them down over her hips. Tonight might be the night, he thinks. They've been waiting because, well, he feels weird about the age difference, and it's possible that Noah Bennet will sense Peter having sex with his daughter, come over and shoot him. Tonight though, he can just feel that something is going to happen.
She makes quick work of her clothes and the rest of his, and soon is burrowing under his covers and waving condom in his face. She straddles him, taking over control completely, her long blonde hair falling like curtains on either side of her face.
“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing his hips up against hers harder as she moves on top of him with increasing speed. “Fuck, don't stop, don't stop!”
He presses his head back hard into his pillow and grips her upper arms, and...
“Hey, it gets better!”
“What?”
“Life after high school. It gets a lot better.”
“Fuck!” he yells as she crashes into him, panting into his shoulder.
“That was ama- Peter?” Her voice sounds fearful, and slowly, as millions of contradictory events clash in his mind, he holds his hand between their faces.
“You're seeing this, right?” he whispers. She nods. His hand, all his fingers spread out, is a double image, like he's splitting apart. She tries to grasp it, eyes large and shiny never leaving his, but her finger pass right though.
“I think I have to go,” he says, choking on the last word.
“I don't understand.” Tears rolls down her face, and he wants to wipe them away, but he can't.
“I know,” he says. “Neither do I.”
And then she flickers, and everything's gone.
*
He's still in his bedroom, but it's not his bedroom; the walls are a different colour, the blanket on the bed is rough and scratchy, and when he looks down at himself, he finds that he's fully dressed, in clothes that he doesn't own.
He sits up, gets to his feet, notices that he's wearing shoes, and walks across the bare floorboards. He had carpets, he thinks.
The door's ajar, pale yellow light cutting across the floor. He pushes it open gently with his foot.
He definitely doesn't remember ever having a huge pool of blood on his living room floor.
In the middle lies a figure, blonde hair fanned out like a halo.
“Claire?” Her hair is different, shorter, and her skin doesn't have that deep tan that comes from being at the beach all day, but it's definitely her. His heart beats fast enough to come right out of his chest as he approaches, crouching beside her and checking where the blood is coming from.
She's been shot four times, in her stomach, chest, leg and the back of her head, and her dead eyes stare up at him, but it's the last wound that he focuses on. Some piece of knowledge in the back of his mind is scratching to be let out, and he goes with his first instinct; he digs his fingers into the hole, grimacing as he feels warm blood and brain tissue and god knows what else, and pulls the bullet out.
There's a second of doubt, as he holds the disgusting thing in his palm and she continues to lie there like- like she should, and then she tenses, hands balling to fists, and coughs, spraying drops of blood across her clothes.
“Claire,” he repeats, with both relief and trepidation, because she's not the girl he's been dating for the past two months, but she is the girl he knows.
She pulls herself up, the bullet from her now healed stomach rolling off her with a soft clunk. “Peter?” Her eyes widen, and she throws herself at him, her arms clamping tightly around his neck.
“Peter,” she whispers. “Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you. Even Molly couldn't find you.”
Molly. Doctor Suresh. The list. He rocks back on his heels, holding one arm around Claire's waist to steady her. “Molly can find people,” he says slowly. “Nathan can fly, you can heal and I... absorb powers. I'm not crazy.” He looks at her desperately for confirmation. She frowns.
“Of course, Peter. Seriously, where have you been?”
He shakes his head, suddenly unable to speak, because now he knows all that, he knows something else, too. His niece. He pushes some of the tangled hair away from her face, and wonders how to articulate this, how to stop these feelings that maybe he's had since he first met her but are now as raw as an exposed nerve and too intense to ignore. He wishes he had more time.
He gets his reprieve in the worst possible way, this side of blowing up again.
The door slams open, and Claire scrambles to her feet. “Shit, he's back.”
“Who is?” He lets her tug him up, and they move towards the back of the room in sync.
“The last guy you saw before you disappeared. I've been tracking him. He isn't very happy.”
Peter takes in the other man's appearance as he steps slightly in front of Claire. He remembers him; they ran into each other at beach - the pieces are starting to fall into place - when Peter came to visit Claire in California. The guy had been beyond distressed, wielding a knife and yelling that he wanted to go home and Peter had tried to calm him, thinking 'what's the worst he can do to me?' - and then he'd woken up to Claire's lips on his.
“Quantum Leap,” he mutters.
“Why are you following me?!” the guy shouts, waving the gun at them. “Why can't I just go home?!”
Peter flicks his hand and sends the gun clattering to the floor. “Where is home?”
The guy stumbles back, colliding into the wall. “I don't know! I can't- can't remember!” He flickers, his edges turning fuzzy, and splits apart, his mouth open in a silent scream.
“What the hell?” Claire mutters behind Peter, gripping tightly to his arm. The guy splits apart completely, for a second becoming two, then one image fades away. He drops to his knees and gasps, then looks up slowly.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
Peter shakes his head. “It doesn't matter, everything's okay now.”
“Oh.” The guy's eyes roll back into his head and he slumps to the ground.
“And that's probably for the best.”
“Okay, really: what the hell?” Claire looks up at him, then down at the guy and back again.
“He didn't have anything to anchor him to his world. He must have been really lonely and confused; doesn't quite remember anything, and every time he moves on he loses another piece of himself. It was lucky I had you, Claire.” He takes her hand and studies it, not ready to look up at her just yet, because then he'll have to deal with everything this has thrown up.
“I don't get it,” Claire says, letting him kneed her hand nervously.
“I know.” He risks a look at her, her slightly parted lips, her long eyelashes, and the way she meets his gaze - he thinks, maybe.
“You're my niece,” he says, and that's a whole conversation right there.
And then he kisses her.