Fic: Down by the Fire
Title: Down by the Fire
Rating: Probably PG? I don't know. It's low on the ratings scale.
Word Count: 1768
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Spoilers: Vague for the end of season 4.
Warnings: Fluffy.
Summary: There's a blizzard in New York. Peter and Claude pass the time cuddling by the fire. Seriously, that's it.
A/N: For Plaude Bingo!
Even if Peter will never admit it, he is really happy he let his mother badger him into moving.
Or rather, that she forced him into moving. She'd been telling Peter for months that he needed to get a new apartment. (Well, really years if you count how she'd never liked his Lower East Side building.) She didn't approve of the neighborhood, the place was too small, and it was too cramped-- which, okay, it was getting pretty cramped. But her favorite was also to remind him that he's almost thirty, and while having a "one bedroom glorified closet" was cute when he was in nursing school and rebelling against his family, eventually he needed to grow up and get a real place. Especially if he insisted on letting "that man" live with him. Peter ignored her and he rolled his eyes and he was content on letting it stay that way. But then she bought a brownstone in the West Village without even asking him, invited him to lunch, and dropped the keys on the table without a word.
He sputtered. Claude sputtered more, and a lot more angrily.
Except his mother pulled the Let-Me-Do-This-For-My-One-Remaining-Son Card and Peter gave in. Because maybe Claude isn't entirely wrong when he points out that Peter is still kind of a pushover for his family. Ma's all he has left, and the place is nice... and big. Definitely way more than they need.
But there's a fireplace in the living room, and Peter has seriously never been happier to live here. The electricity has been flickering on and off for hours now, and this is the worst storm he can remember the city having since 1996.
He's sitting on the middle of their wooden floor, as close to the fireplace as possible and it's still freezing. Mostly because the heat doesn't stay on for more than forty-five minutes at a time. He can hear Claude's footsteps coming down the stairs, and Peter doesn't even turn around. Instead he just mutters, "This sucks."
Claude's first response is apparently to dump a bunch of blankets on his head.
"Could suck worse. Now come on, I've got about six different blankets here, a down duvet, and the pillows are already on the couch. Should be warm in no time. Unless you prefer to freeze."
Peter lets out a small huff, but he stands, socked feet sliding slightly along the wood. They work silently but efficiently, laying out four of the six blankets on the floor for cushioning. They arrange the pillows next, finally topping it off with two more blankets and the duvet. Between this, the shared body heat, and the sweats they're both wearing, Peter's hoping that they'll actually be able to manage a night's worth of comfortable sleep. As long as the heat doesn't decide to come back on at 3 am. Because then they'll roast.
"You think this is enough?" Peter asks, frowning as a light pounding starts against the windows. It's too cold for rain. So that has to mean hail.
"Should be fine, mate. You want anything else from the kitchen or from upstairs before we get in?"
He smiles at the question, shaking his head and giving Claude a quick kiss on the lips. They have bottles of water on the coffee table if they get thirsty, their cell phones (even if the reception is terrible right now), and tons of bedding. "I'm fine. Not unless we have some marshmallows and skewers," he teases.
Claude snorts. "Memories from your days as a boy scout?"
Peter laughs, finally crawling under the blankets and stretching out happily at the extra warmth. When Claude gets in as well, Peter almost immediately moves closer. "I was never a boy scout. Nature and I didn't get along well when I was a kid."
"Really? I figured you'd like communing with the animals or hugging some trees. Getting in touch with your emotions or something like that." The words are murmured low, but Peter knows Claude well enough by now to figure out when he's being mocked.
"You're a jerk. And the only time I went out in the woods was with my dad and my brother. They liked to hunt."
Claude laughs. "Christ, you killed Bambi's mother."
"Shut up! I did not," he says, hitting Claude gently on the chest. He will never tell the story of how he killed a deer and cried. That goes to his grave.
"Bet that venison tasted fantastic," he teases, still laughing when Peter pinches his hip. Somehow, he thinks the impact is muted by the fact that he's trying to pinch through some thickly lined fabric. But before he can think of another way to retaliate, Claude pulls him closer, dropping a soft kiss to the top of his head, and Peter smiles.
"Smart move. I was two seconds away from kicking you out of bed."
"Like that would've lasted. I just would've sat myself down on the couch and stared until you took me back."
He knows Claude's only joking, but yeah, that sounds about right.
"Plus," Claude adds, "'s not like that's much of a threat. Trust me, mate. Anything is better than being out there."
And then suddenly Peter feels another chill. He didn't think about it, really. In between all the complaining about being cold and the electricity going out, he still gave himself some reality checks. Because he knows he's lucky. Not only since he has the damn fireplace, but because he has a roof over his head at all. He ends up tending to the homeless occasionally at work. There are the injuries earned from a street fight, doled out because two men who don't have anywhere else to go are fighting over the prime real estate of sitting on top of a subway grate. Then there are people who are half-dead when the cops find them because it's just too damn cold outside. It's terrible, and Peter knows that no matter how many of his extra coats he donates in the winter or how much extra money he guilts his mom into giving to charity, that for some people it's not going to be enough. He just never really stopped to think about how three years ago, that could've been Claude. Just out there. He pulls the man impossibly closer to him and kisses him gently on the throat.
"What'd you do during storms?" he murmurs, the words muffled slightly against Claude's shoulder.
Claude shrugs, the motion jostling Peter's head but not enough to make him move. "Depended on the storm. Was never good for me to stay in one place for too long, so I would wait as long as I could before finding somewhere to go. But I knew my way around. Knew the hotels and the like that were always good for a night or two."
"And then what? You'd just leave and find somewhere else?"
"Yeah," Claude says simply, giving another small shrug. Peter's heart twists when he thinks that Claude did that for seven years. He never had a stable place to stay, and he had to adapt to the rain, snow, or blistering heat.
"Well, you won't ever have to worry about that again," Peter says, this time leaning up to drop a kiss to Claude's jaw.
"Suppose not. The government pays me well enough. So I can survive once you finally wise up and kick me out," he says, and Peter can feel the grin on the man's face, but he's not quite ready to joke around yet.
"Shut up. I'm serious." He shifts, moving so his chin is now resting on Claude's chest and he can look up at the man's face. "I don't want you going anywhere, okay?" That's probably been true since he ran into Claude again six months ago, found the man visible and cleaned up and actually consulting with the government on Special relations. They went out to coffee, and then it's like Claude was just there, somehow slotting perfectly into one of the many empty spaces of Peter's life.
Claude's teasing grin finally dies down and he nods, fingers threading carefully through Peter's hair. "Yeah. Okay."
"Good," Peter says, finally resting his head down on the man's chest again. Claude keeps stroking along his head, and it's nice, lulling him into relaxation with the crackling of the fire and the warmth that finally surrounds him.
After a long stretch of silence, Peter decides to murmur, "I love you." He hasn't said it before, but he figures Claude knows. And if it's ever going to be said at all then there's no way in hell Claude is going to be the first to do it. So now is as good a time as any to start.
A long breath is sucked in and exhaled right above him as Claude tightens his arms. "Yeah, Pete. I know," he finally says, breath just barely hitching with the words. No reply, but Peter wasn't expecting one. And this is enough, especially when Claude leans down to kiss him on the corner of the mouth, causing Peter to let out a pleased hum and turn to deepen the kiss.
"Glad to see I'm apparently completely obvious," Peter finally teases, smiling against Claude's lips.
"Yeah," Claude says, letting out a quick snort. "You're about as subtle as a bull in a china shop, Pete. You're a bloody tree with all the sap you leak on a daily basis."
Peter furrows his brow, poking Claude in the side. "Stop coming up with weird metaphors and cuddle me by the fire."
"Case in point."
"Someone needs to make up for the romance deficit you cause in this relationship," Peter says, and even if he's not looking, he just knows Claude is rolling his eyes.
"Fine, mate. I'll be the one to propose."
Peter laughs. "Yeah, I'll expect that to happen around never."
There's a short, huffed out chuckle from Claude, but not any other response as the man keeps holding him. Fingers resume their carding through Peter's hair, and it isn't hard to concentrate on the sound of the fire and the steady rise and fall of Claude's chest. Even camped out on the cold wood floor with no electricity or heating, Peter is completely comfortable laying in Claude's arms. And maybe that is a sappy thought, but as he falls asleep, a smile still on his face, Peter thinks that he really doesn't care.
*
Rating: Probably PG? I don't know. It's low on the ratings scale.
Word Count: 1768
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Spoilers: Vague for the end of season 4.
Warnings: Fluffy.
Summary: There's a blizzard in New York. Peter and Claude pass the time cuddling by the fire. Seriously, that's it.
A/N: For Plaude Bingo!
Even if Peter will never admit it, he is really happy he let his mother badger him into moving.
Or rather, that she forced him into moving. She'd been telling Peter for months that he needed to get a new apartment. (Well, really years if you count how she'd never liked his Lower East Side building.) She didn't approve of the neighborhood, the place was too small, and it was too cramped-- which, okay, it was getting pretty cramped. But her favorite was also to remind him that he's almost thirty, and while having a "one bedroom glorified closet" was cute when he was in nursing school and rebelling against his family, eventually he needed to grow up and get a real place. Especially if he insisted on letting "that man" live with him. Peter ignored her and he rolled his eyes and he was content on letting it stay that way. But then she bought a brownstone in the West Village without even asking him, invited him to lunch, and dropped the keys on the table without a word.
He sputtered. Claude sputtered more, and a lot more angrily.
Except his mother pulled the Let-Me-Do-This-For-My-One-Remaining-Son Card and Peter gave in. Because maybe Claude isn't entirely wrong when he points out that Peter is still kind of a pushover for his family. Ma's all he has left, and the place is nice... and big. Definitely way more than they need.
But there's a fireplace in the living room, and Peter has seriously never been happier to live here. The electricity has been flickering on and off for hours now, and this is the worst storm he can remember the city having since 1996.
He's sitting on the middle of their wooden floor, as close to the fireplace as possible and it's still freezing. Mostly because the heat doesn't stay on for more than forty-five minutes at a time. He can hear Claude's footsteps coming down the stairs, and Peter doesn't even turn around. Instead he just mutters, "This sucks."
Claude's first response is apparently to dump a bunch of blankets on his head.
"Could suck worse. Now come on, I've got about six different blankets here, a down duvet, and the pillows are already on the couch. Should be warm in no time. Unless you prefer to freeze."
Peter lets out a small huff, but he stands, socked feet sliding slightly along the wood. They work silently but efficiently, laying out four of the six blankets on the floor for cushioning. They arrange the pillows next, finally topping it off with two more blankets and the duvet. Between this, the shared body heat, and the sweats they're both wearing, Peter's hoping that they'll actually be able to manage a night's worth of comfortable sleep. As long as the heat doesn't decide to come back on at 3 am. Because then they'll roast.
"You think this is enough?" Peter asks, frowning as a light pounding starts against the windows. It's too cold for rain. So that has to mean hail.
"Should be fine, mate. You want anything else from the kitchen or from upstairs before we get in?"
He smiles at the question, shaking his head and giving Claude a quick kiss on the lips. They have bottles of water on the coffee table if they get thirsty, their cell phones (even if the reception is terrible right now), and tons of bedding. "I'm fine. Not unless we have some marshmallows and skewers," he teases.
Claude snorts. "Memories from your days as a boy scout?"
Peter laughs, finally crawling under the blankets and stretching out happily at the extra warmth. When Claude gets in as well, Peter almost immediately moves closer. "I was never a boy scout. Nature and I didn't get along well when I was a kid."
"Really? I figured you'd like communing with the animals or hugging some trees. Getting in touch with your emotions or something like that." The words are murmured low, but Peter knows Claude well enough by now to figure out when he's being mocked.
"You're a jerk. And the only time I went out in the woods was with my dad and my brother. They liked to hunt."
Claude laughs. "Christ, you killed Bambi's mother."
"Shut up! I did not," he says, hitting Claude gently on the chest. He will never tell the story of how he killed a deer and cried. That goes to his grave.
"Bet that venison tasted fantastic," he teases, still laughing when Peter pinches his hip. Somehow, he thinks the impact is muted by the fact that he's trying to pinch through some thickly lined fabric. But before he can think of another way to retaliate, Claude pulls him closer, dropping a soft kiss to the top of his head, and Peter smiles.
"Smart move. I was two seconds away from kicking you out of bed."
"Like that would've lasted. I just would've sat myself down on the couch and stared until you took me back."
He knows Claude's only joking, but yeah, that sounds about right.
"Plus," Claude adds, "'s not like that's much of a threat. Trust me, mate. Anything is better than being out there."
And then suddenly Peter feels another chill. He didn't think about it, really. In between all the complaining about being cold and the electricity going out, he still gave himself some reality checks. Because he knows he's lucky. Not only since he has the damn fireplace, but because he has a roof over his head at all. He ends up tending to the homeless occasionally at work. There are the injuries earned from a street fight, doled out because two men who don't have anywhere else to go are fighting over the prime real estate of sitting on top of a subway grate. Then there are people who are half-dead when the cops find them because it's just too damn cold outside. It's terrible, and Peter knows that no matter how many of his extra coats he donates in the winter or how much extra money he guilts his mom into giving to charity, that for some people it's not going to be enough. He just never really stopped to think about how three years ago, that could've been Claude. Just out there. He pulls the man impossibly closer to him and kisses him gently on the throat.
"What'd you do during storms?" he murmurs, the words muffled slightly against Claude's shoulder.
Claude shrugs, the motion jostling Peter's head but not enough to make him move. "Depended on the storm. Was never good for me to stay in one place for too long, so I would wait as long as I could before finding somewhere to go. But I knew my way around. Knew the hotels and the like that were always good for a night or two."
"And then what? You'd just leave and find somewhere else?"
"Yeah," Claude says simply, giving another small shrug. Peter's heart twists when he thinks that Claude did that for seven years. He never had a stable place to stay, and he had to adapt to the rain, snow, or blistering heat.
"Well, you won't ever have to worry about that again," Peter says, this time leaning up to drop a kiss to Claude's jaw.
"Suppose not. The government pays me well enough. So I can survive once you finally wise up and kick me out," he says, and Peter can feel the grin on the man's face, but he's not quite ready to joke around yet.
"Shut up. I'm serious." He shifts, moving so his chin is now resting on Claude's chest and he can look up at the man's face. "I don't want you going anywhere, okay?" That's probably been true since he ran into Claude again six months ago, found the man visible and cleaned up and actually consulting with the government on Special relations. They went out to coffee, and then it's like Claude was just there, somehow slotting perfectly into one of the many empty spaces of Peter's life.
Claude's teasing grin finally dies down and he nods, fingers threading carefully through Peter's hair. "Yeah. Okay."
"Good," Peter says, finally resting his head down on the man's chest again. Claude keeps stroking along his head, and it's nice, lulling him into relaxation with the crackling of the fire and the warmth that finally surrounds him.
After a long stretch of silence, Peter decides to murmur, "I love you." He hasn't said it before, but he figures Claude knows. And if it's ever going to be said at all then there's no way in hell Claude is going to be the first to do it. So now is as good a time as any to start.
A long breath is sucked in and exhaled right above him as Claude tightens his arms. "Yeah, Pete. I know," he finally says, breath just barely hitching with the words. No reply, but Peter wasn't expecting one. And this is enough, especially when Claude leans down to kiss him on the corner of the mouth, causing Peter to let out a pleased hum and turn to deepen the kiss.
"Glad to see I'm apparently completely obvious," Peter finally teases, smiling against Claude's lips.
"Yeah," Claude says, letting out a quick snort. "You're about as subtle as a bull in a china shop, Pete. You're a bloody tree with all the sap you leak on a daily basis."
Peter furrows his brow, poking Claude in the side. "Stop coming up with weird metaphors and cuddle me by the fire."
"Case in point."
"Someone needs to make up for the romance deficit you cause in this relationship," Peter says, and even if he's not looking, he just knows Claude is rolling his eyes.
"Fine, mate. I'll be the one to propose."
Peter laughs. "Yeah, I'll expect that to happen around never."
There's a short, huffed out chuckle from Claude, but not any other response as the man keeps holding him. Fingers resume their carding through Peter's hair, and it isn't hard to concentrate on the sound of the fire and the steady rise and fall of Claude's chest. Even camped out on the cold wood floor with no electricity or heating, Peter is completely comfortable laying in Claude's arms. And maybe that is a sappy thought, but as he falls asleep, a smile still on his face, Peter thinks that he really doesn't care.
*