Fic: Echo a New Song
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,981
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: For the Plaude Bingo prompt "unexpected date."
Summary: Peter and Claude pull surveillance duty for the new Company.
As much as the new Company was founded on a stance of honesty and openness, you still couldn’t just walk up to someone and strike up a conversation about their ability. New prospects had to be observed, to gauge their own levels of honesty and openness. For every dozen people who were confused and scared and grateful for help of any kind, there was one that was dangerous, to say the least.
Some agents liked the hands-off nature of surveillance, but Peter didn’t think he was one of them. The idea of standing around watching when someone was clearly struggling with their ability seemed nothing but cruel to him, and had driven him to avoid surveillance duty for as long as he could. His luck had run out, but at least Claude would be with him. He’d noticed lately that that tended to make a lot of things better.
He’d caught an earlier flight into Fresno than his partner, and had checked into his room at the Marriott with time to spare. Too much time, really, as a strange mix of nerves and anticipation set in. He caught himself checking out his reflection in the mirror, frowning at the patina of fatigue his evening flight out of New York and subsequent jet lag had cast over him. Peter checked his watch, and headed for the shower.
He had to scramble for his ringing cell phone on the way out, “Yeah, hey, Claude.”
“Am I interrupting something?” came the sardonic reply. Peter pictured the man’s smile.
“Just me waiting on you. I guess your flight’s landed by now, or you wouldn’t be calling.”
“Bright boy. I’m on my way to the hotel now. Get yourself decent an’ I’ll pick you up.”
“Got it.” Peter hung up, and fixed a speculative eye on his suitcase. He ended up trying on all of the clothes he brought for the job. Nothing seemed quite right. It was a hard call to make- he couldn’t know for sure where a surveillance detail would take him, so he figured what he wore had to cover a lot of bases. He settled on a dark, nice-ish sweater and jeans just in time to hear a knock on his door.
Claude stood outside in one of the suits he deigned to wear when it was otherwise unavoidable. He could’ve been an average businessman, though the lack of tie and the presence of a worn duffel bag instead of a sleek rolling suitcase gave him away. He lifted the bag by its strap with a brief, “Can I leave this here?”
“Oh, uh, sure,” Peter replied, stepping out of the way so Claude could drop the bag by the door. “You know, I would’ve met you outside. You didn’t have to come to my door.”
“Wasn’t a problem.” He straightened, “You ready then?”
“Yeah, um... Am I dressed okay?” Now, as ever, Peter welcomed Claude’s expertise.
Blue eyes ran over him. Peter tried not to squirm. An interminable moment crawled by before Claude said, “You’re dressed fine. Come on.”
Peter was left blinking for a moment before he had to hurry after Claude. “So, did you do a lot of these, before?” He winced, Because that’s exactly what he wants to talk about, moron.
“Plenty. It’s hard to find a better job for an invisible man.”
Peter let out an awkward laugh, “Oh, right. So we’re just gonna stay invisible the whole time.”
“Told ya’ you were dressed fine, Pete.”
Peter decided to shut up. Everyone would be better off.
They drove Claude’s rental out to a suburb about half an hour away from the airport. Their target, Jon Akimov, was just leaving his apartment building, getting in his car and heading down the road. Claude didn’t hesitate to follow. It was a tense ride north and Peter didn’t dare distract Claude from the unfamiliar streets. They hanged back more and more to avoid detection as Akimov navigated a neighborhood of single-family homes. The final turn showed his car parked along the curb in front of one of them. Claude stopped three houses away, and he and Peter spotted Akimov standing at the door, rocking on his feet. The door opened, and a young woman barely seemed to touch the ground as she launched herself into Akimov’s arms.
“Hunh,” Peter said.
The pair strolled away from the house, one arm each still wrapped possessively around the other. Akimov opened the passenger side door for the woman and she slid inside.
“Do we follow them?” Peter asked as Akimov got into the driver’s seat. An unpleasantly voyeuristic feeling was beginning to steal over him.
“No reason not to.” They went invisible until Akimov drove past, and then Claude pulled away from the curb.
Eventually they pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant. The building itself was somewhat boxy, with off-white walls and a green overhanging roof. A sign proclaimed it The Lime Light. Peter and Claude went invisible upon leaving the car, and stepped inside to find a casual bar and dining area done in rough brick, red walls, and forest green upholstery. It wasn’t too crowded, which was fortunate as the agents waded in among the patrons and waiters, looking for Akimov while keeping their own presence as undetectable as possible.
Peter shot Claude a perplexed look as they finished their sweep of the restaurant without any luck. The man cocked his head to the right, towards an open door through which Peter spotted more tables, chairs, and diners. An outdoor patio.
The setting sun cast an orange glow across the area, drawing shadows from the stone pillars and the overhead trellis. There were free-standing tables of delicate-looking wrought iron with small tea light candles flickering in the soft breeze. “Nice,” Claude commented.
Peter shushed him automatically, and the man gave him a questioning look. Peter rolled his eyes and whispered, “We can’t let people hear two disembodied voices. What if someone notices?”
“They’ll certainly notice a whispering disembodied voice. But just another conversation in the middle of a restaurant? I promise no one’s going to hear us and think there are two invisible blokes wandering about. That is, unless you don’t stop talking about it, see?”
He gestured at the other diners, and indeed no one had so much as glanced in their direction so far. Peter gave a resigned frown.
And Claude had the nerve to look oddly contrite, “It’s all right. Didn’t expect you to get that straight away. Come on, our boy’s over here.” He guided Peter down the patio with a hand between his shoulder blades.
Akimov and his date sat at the furthest table by an iron railing that fenced in the patio. “They look happy,” Peter heard himself say.
He caught Claude’s glance before he could safely look elsewhere. “Yeah, they do,” Claude replied, and his soft tone brought Peter’s eyes back to him, but he was looking out at the parking lot a few yards off across a green lawn. “Ah, anyway, we can have a seat, I suppose,” he said, and moved to an empty table near their target. He pulled out a chair, but stayed standing. Peter stared at him until annoyance flashed across his face, “Have a seat, Peter.”
“Oh, right. Okay...” Somewhat bewildered, Peter sat in the offered chair. Claude sat down across from him.
“So,” the man said, “What ability does he have?”
“Uh, his file said ‘voice projection.’”
“What, like, the ability to be heard in the back of a theater when giving a speech?”
“I’m thinking more like across a football field, and like he was standing right in front of you.”
Claude considered this, “Interesting. Not too threatening. From what I can see, it hasn’t done much to hurt his social life.”
Peter’s grin was self-deprecating, “Yeah, they might’ve passed me an easy one for my first time.”
Claude grinned as well, “Color me surprised. Bet it’s the work of a minute for you to get special treatment.”
Peter flinched, stung. “Hey, I don’t ask to be treated any differently than anyone else. I’m willing to do whatever has to be done, no matter what it is. Okay, yeah, maybe I was born to be a spoiled rich kid, but I’ve worked damn hard not to be. And maybe that’s not the struggle of the ages but I’m not going to let y-”
“Pete!” Peter realized Claude had been trying to get his attention for at least the last half of his wholly unexpected rant. He shut his mouth. “What I meant was...” He paused. Seemed to lose the end of his sentence, bringing a strangely desperate gleam to his eyes. “I meant... the way you look, the way you act, you’re... It’s not hard, being nice to you. Doing things for you. That’s all.”
The man turned away, scowling deeply, leaving Peter to blink in astonishment. Finally recognizing the bizarre compliment for what it was, he managed to utter, “Thanks.”
Claude shrugged. A few blessedly silent minutes passed before he said, “Look, I’ll be shocked if Jon has some kind of catastrophic episode in the next hour. You hungry?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay, come along.” He stood, and Peter followed him back into the main dining room. “Now,” he said, with a sly smile, “I’m going to teach you how to steal a plate of food in a busy restaurant. Unless it’ll offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Peter picked up on the gentle tease this time, “I think it would be okay, just this once.”
“Fantastic.” He led Peter back to the restaurant’s kitchen door, stationing himself and Peter on either side of it. The dinner rush was picking up, and waiters passed in and out frequently carrying large round trays of dishes. Peter’s stomach growled as various tantalizing scents breezed by his nose. “When you see something you like, grab it. Got to be smooth, though, or you might tip the whole tray over. Probably won’t get you caught, but it’ll still draw unwanted attention.”
“And the waiter might get in trouble,” Peter added. Claude gave a “yeah, right, that too” nod.
Peter turned back to the trays passing by. Several meals looked delicious, but they seemed to travel out of reach in the space of a blink. His hands fluttered helplessly as he tried again and again to snag one, never timing it quite right. Eventually he sighed and looked up to find Claude watching him, face a picture of pitying interest. Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Claude moved away from the door and to his side.
“I know, I know, it’s all right,” he said, and though his soothing tone was meant to mock, there was something in its depth that did unexpected things to Peter’s stomach. “I’m deliberately not telling you about all the restaurants I had to leg it out of to go clean a hot meal off my trousers.” Peter snickered, Claude grinned. He took hold of Peter’s wrist, and raised his hand to the level of the passing trays. “You just... spot one comin’... let your fingers just touch it... and then lift it off.”
A plate of beef and mashed potatoes seemed to practically float off the tray, suddenly in Peter’s hand, heavy and fragrant and his. “... Cool.”
“You’re a natural,” Claude winked, and took half a second to procure his own bowl of pasta.
“Could you... help me get a drink?” Peter asked. This was very weird, what was going on here, but... that didn’t mean he was misinterpreting it.
“Sure.” Claude stepped closer, so his chest was almost touching Peter’s back, and his fingers wrapped around his wrist again. Peter suppressed the sudden urge to laugh, knowing it would’ve come out a terminally embarrassing giggle. A smaller tray of drinks came by, and Peter let Claude guide his hand to light on a glass, and lift it up and off as easily as a blown feather. “There you have it.”
Peter smiled over his shoulder at Claude, and wondered if he imagined the pink tinge on the man’s cheeks as he let go and turned back towards the patio. Walking behind him, Peter knew he wasn’t mistaking the color of Claude’s ears. This is completely bizarre.
They re-entered the patio to see Akimov and his date still having a fine time, but the agents’ table occupied by another couple. Peter spotted Claude’s scowl, and bumped his shoulder softly, “It’s okay, we’ll just eat picnic style. Come on.”
He led Claude to the railing, pinning his drink between his chest and forearm to free a hand and grab some silverware as he went. He sat on the railing and lifted one leg and then the other over it. Then he strolled out a little ways and folded his legs beneath him on the grass. He looked back at Claude and lifted his glass with another smile. The man chuckled, and also crossed the railing and sat down, one leg propped up and the other stretched out in front of him. “We’ll have to be a bit quieter out here, I think,” he said, “People expect extra voices where other people are, not where people aren’t supposed to be.”
“That’s okay. As long as we can still see Jon, right?”
“Yeah.”
They actually didn’t talk at all for a long time. It really was a beautiful evening, and the food tasted as delicious as it smelled, and Peter had learned a while back to appreciate certain moments like this as thoroughly as he could. In any case, he couldn’t forget that they had a job to do. He looked to Akimov. Though the pair had started sitting on opposite sides of their table, they had somehow worked their way around so only inches separated them. Their heads bent close together, and Peter could see part of the woman’s rather brilliant smile.
Peter wondered when the last time Claude went on an actual date was. He smirked to himself- what about him? Has to’ve been... Christ, at least three years, maybe more.
“Something funny?”
Peter looked at Claude. Maybe it was only the light, but the man somehow looked younger. More open. “Nothing, just... This is nice. Not really what I was expecting for surveillance duty.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of hours spent crammed in a car, or hangin’ round some office, or sitting on a public bench waiting for something to happen.”
“Well, that’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, how?”
Peter half-shrugged, “You’ll be there, right?”
Claude blinked at him, still looking impossibly young and in that moment Peter wanted to pull him close and be everything Claude needed him to be, even if he was going to wake up any minute now and realize this was completely insane. Meanwhile, Claude flashed a smile and replied, “I’ll do my best, mate.”
Peter decided to focus on regaining some portion of his professionalism, but a low rumble rolled above his head, and he squinted up to see dark clouds sailing over The Lime Light’s roof and the patio. He barely had time to say, “Uh oh,” before the thunderhead burst and heavy rain began pelting the earth.
Claude swore and jumped to his feet. He grabbed Peter’s arm and tugged him up as well and they were running towards the parking lot. The rental car’s lights flashed as Claude pressed the button to unlock it. They wrenched open the doors and all but leapt inside. Even though he was dripping water, Peter found himself laughing.
“What- what’re you laughin’ about now?” Claude asked. He didn’t seem to notice the smile on his own face.
“We left the plates and glasses and stuff out there. That’s gonna confuse some people later.”
“Plates and glasses and stuff? We left our bloody target in there, Pete!”
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Peter asserted with a wave. He was lying back against his seat, not even bothering to wipe off his face as he watched rivulets run down the windshield among splattering drops.
“Yeah. Yeah, he will,” Claude agreed with a small laugh.
Peter turned to him, watched a raindrop creep down from his hairline to his temple, curving around his cheekbone. He didn’t even really think before reaching out and wiping it away with the backs of his fingers.
Claude didn’t exactly flinch, or lean in. He looked at Peter, and no, it hadn’t been a trick of the light. Claude still managed to look painfully young, the damage of seven years’ isolation winding back the clock to a delicate, hesitant time. The weight of responsibility was almost crushing. But Peter fanned out his fingers again, let the tips touch Claude’s cheek and hoped they were warm against rain-clammy skin.
While the rest of him seemed frozen, Claude’s eyes darted to Peter’s outstretched hand and back to his face. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but his mouth wouldn’t let him. Peter leaned closer slowly, let his whole palm press against Claude’s cheek and that made panicking eyes shut, worried lines of tension across his forehead fade, made his lips part and let out a sigh. In that second with all defenses dropped, Peter closed the distance between them. If Claude’s lips were cold, his breath was hot and Peter’s tongue chased it inside his mouth, happy to share his own breath and maybe warm them both up. He felt one palm press like a brand against his side, and another slide up to cradle the back of his head. Peter let his free hand rest on Claude’s neck as he arched as well as he could in his seat, already aching for more contact.
Rain continued to pound on the car’s roof. Jon Akimov and his girlfriend were getting a drink at the bar. And it was the best date Peter had ever had.
Word Count: 2,981
Disclaimer: Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: For the Plaude Bingo prompt "unexpected date."
Summary: Peter and Claude pull surveillance duty for the new Company.
As much as the new Company was founded on a stance of honesty and openness, you still couldn’t just walk up to someone and strike up a conversation about their ability. New prospects had to be observed, to gauge their own levels of honesty and openness. For every dozen people who were confused and scared and grateful for help of any kind, there was one that was dangerous, to say the least.
Some agents liked the hands-off nature of surveillance, but Peter didn’t think he was one of them. The idea of standing around watching when someone was clearly struggling with their ability seemed nothing but cruel to him, and had driven him to avoid surveillance duty for as long as he could. His luck had run out, but at least Claude would be with him. He’d noticed lately that that tended to make a lot of things better.
He’d caught an earlier flight into Fresno than his partner, and had checked into his room at the Marriott with time to spare. Too much time, really, as a strange mix of nerves and anticipation set in. He caught himself checking out his reflection in the mirror, frowning at the patina of fatigue his evening flight out of New York and subsequent jet lag had cast over him. Peter checked his watch, and headed for the shower.
He had to scramble for his ringing cell phone on the way out, “Yeah, hey, Claude.”
“Am I interrupting something?” came the sardonic reply. Peter pictured the man’s smile.
“Just me waiting on you. I guess your flight’s landed by now, or you wouldn’t be calling.”
“Bright boy. I’m on my way to the hotel now. Get yourself decent an’ I’ll pick you up.”
“Got it.” Peter hung up, and fixed a speculative eye on his suitcase. He ended up trying on all of the clothes he brought for the job. Nothing seemed quite right. It was a hard call to make- he couldn’t know for sure where a surveillance detail would take him, so he figured what he wore had to cover a lot of bases. He settled on a dark, nice-ish sweater and jeans just in time to hear a knock on his door.
Claude stood outside in one of the suits he deigned to wear when it was otherwise unavoidable. He could’ve been an average businessman, though the lack of tie and the presence of a worn duffel bag instead of a sleek rolling suitcase gave him away. He lifted the bag by its strap with a brief, “Can I leave this here?”
“Oh, uh, sure,” Peter replied, stepping out of the way so Claude could drop the bag by the door. “You know, I would’ve met you outside. You didn’t have to come to my door.”
“Wasn’t a problem.” He straightened, “You ready then?”
“Yeah, um... Am I dressed okay?” Now, as ever, Peter welcomed Claude’s expertise.
Blue eyes ran over him. Peter tried not to squirm. An interminable moment crawled by before Claude said, “You’re dressed fine. Come on.”
Peter was left blinking for a moment before he had to hurry after Claude. “So, did you do a lot of these, before?” He winced, Because that’s exactly what he wants to talk about, moron.
“Plenty. It’s hard to find a better job for an invisible man.”
Peter let out an awkward laugh, “Oh, right. So we’re just gonna stay invisible the whole time.”
“Told ya’ you were dressed fine, Pete.”
Peter decided to shut up. Everyone would be better off.
They drove Claude’s rental out to a suburb about half an hour away from the airport. Their target, Jon Akimov, was just leaving his apartment building, getting in his car and heading down the road. Claude didn’t hesitate to follow. It was a tense ride north and Peter didn’t dare distract Claude from the unfamiliar streets. They hanged back more and more to avoid detection as Akimov navigated a neighborhood of single-family homes. The final turn showed his car parked along the curb in front of one of them. Claude stopped three houses away, and he and Peter spotted Akimov standing at the door, rocking on his feet. The door opened, and a young woman barely seemed to touch the ground as she launched herself into Akimov’s arms.
“Hunh,” Peter said.
The pair strolled away from the house, one arm each still wrapped possessively around the other. Akimov opened the passenger side door for the woman and she slid inside.
“Do we follow them?” Peter asked as Akimov got into the driver’s seat. An unpleasantly voyeuristic feeling was beginning to steal over him.
“No reason not to.” They went invisible until Akimov drove past, and then Claude pulled away from the curb.
Eventually they pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant. The building itself was somewhat boxy, with off-white walls and a green overhanging roof. A sign proclaimed it The Lime Light. Peter and Claude went invisible upon leaving the car, and stepped inside to find a casual bar and dining area done in rough brick, red walls, and forest green upholstery. It wasn’t too crowded, which was fortunate as the agents waded in among the patrons and waiters, looking for Akimov while keeping their own presence as undetectable as possible.
Peter shot Claude a perplexed look as they finished their sweep of the restaurant without any luck. The man cocked his head to the right, towards an open door through which Peter spotted more tables, chairs, and diners. An outdoor patio.
The setting sun cast an orange glow across the area, drawing shadows from the stone pillars and the overhead trellis. There were free-standing tables of delicate-looking wrought iron with small tea light candles flickering in the soft breeze. “Nice,” Claude commented.
Peter shushed him automatically, and the man gave him a questioning look. Peter rolled his eyes and whispered, “We can’t let people hear two disembodied voices. What if someone notices?”
“They’ll certainly notice a whispering disembodied voice. But just another conversation in the middle of a restaurant? I promise no one’s going to hear us and think there are two invisible blokes wandering about. That is, unless you don’t stop talking about it, see?”
He gestured at the other diners, and indeed no one had so much as glanced in their direction so far. Peter gave a resigned frown.
And Claude had the nerve to look oddly contrite, “It’s all right. Didn’t expect you to get that straight away. Come on, our boy’s over here.” He guided Peter down the patio with a hand between his shoulder blades.
Akimov and his date sat at the furthest table by an iron railing that fenced in the patio. “They look happy,” Peter heard himself say.
He caught Claude’s glance before he could safely look elsewhere. “Yeah, they do,” Claude replied, and his soft tone brought Peter’s eyes back to him, but he was looking out at the parking lot a few yards off across a green lawn. “Ah, anyway, we can have a seat, I suppose,” he said, and moved to an empty table near their target. He pulled out a chair, but stayed standing. Peter stared at him until annoyance flashed across his face, “Have a seat, Peter.”
“Oh, right. Okay...” Somewhat bewildered, Peter sat in the offered chair. Claude sat down across from him.
“So,” the man said, “What ability does he have?”
“Uh, his file said ‘voice projection.’”
“What, like, the ability to be heard in the back of a theater when giving a speech?”
“I’m thinking more like across a football field, and like he was standing right in front of you.”
Claude considered this, “Interesting. Not too threatening. From what I can see, it hasn’t done much to hurt his social life.”
Peter’s grin was self-deprecating, “Yeah, they might’ve passed me an easy one for my first time.”
Claude grinned as well, “Color me surprised. Bet it’s the work of a minute for you to get special treatment.”
Peter flinched, stung. “Hey, I don’t ask to be treated any differently than anyone else. I’m willing to do whatever has to be done, no matter what it is. Okay, yeah, maybe I was born to be a spoiled rich kid, but I’ve worked damn hard not to be. And maybe that’s not the struggle of the ages but I’m not going to let y-”
“Pete!” Peter realized Claude had been trying to get his attention for at least the last half of his wholly unexpected rant. He shut his mouth. “What I meant was...” He paused. Seemed to lose the end of his sentence, bringing a strangely desperate gleam to his eyes. “I meant... the way you look, the way you act, you’re... It’s not hard, being nice to you. Doing things for you. That’s all.”
The man turned away, scowling deeply, leaving Peter to blink in astonishment. Finally recognizing the bizarre compliment for what it was, he managed to utter, “Thanks.”
Claude shrugged. A few blessedly silent minutes passed before he said, “Look, I’ll be shocked if Jon has some kind of catastrophic episode in the next hour. You hungry?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Okay, come along.” He stood, and Peter followed him back into the main dining room. “Now,” he said, with a sly smile, “I’m going to teach you how to steal a plate of food in a busy restaurant. Unless it’ll offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Peter picked up on the gentle tease this time, “I think it would be okay, just this once.”
“Fantastic.” He led Peter back to the restaurant’s kitchen door, stationing himself and Peter on either side of it. The dinner rush was picking up, and waiters passed in and out frequently carrying large round trays of dishes. Peter’s stomach growled as various tantalizing scents breezed by his nose. “When you see something you like, grab it. Got to be smooth, though, or you might tip the whole tray over. Probably won’t get you caught, but it’ll still draw unwanted attention.”
“And the waiter might get in trouble,” Peter added. Claude gave a “yeah, right, that too” nod.
Peter turned back to the trays passing by. Several meals looked delicious, but they seemed to travel out of reach in the space of a blink. His hands fluttered helplessly as he tried again and again to snag one, never timing it quite right. Eventually he sighed and looked up to find Claude watching him, face a picture of pitying interest. Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Claude moved away from the door and to his side.
“I know, I know, it’s all right,” he said, and though his soothing tone was meant to mock, there was something in its depth that did unexpected things to Peter’s stomach. “I’m deliberately not telling you about all the restaurants I had to leg it out of to go clean a hot meal off my trousers.” Peter snickered, Claude grinned. He took hold of Peter’s wrist, and raised his hand to the level of the passing trays. “You just... spot one comin’... let your fingers just touch it... and then lift it off.”
A plate of beef and mashed potatoes seemed to practically float off the tray, suddenly in Peter’s hand, heavy and fragrant and his. “... Cool.”
“You’re a natural,” Claude winked, and took half a second to procure his own bowl of pasta.
“Could you... help me get a drink?” Peter asked. This was very weird, what was going on here, but... that didn’t mean he was misinterpreting it.
“Sure.” Claude stepped closer, so his chest was almost touching Peter’s back, and his fingers wrapped around his wrist again. Peter suppressed the sudden urge to laugh, knowing it would’ve come out a terminally embarrassing giggle. A smaller tray of drinks came by, and Peter let Claude guide his hand to light on a glass, and lift it up and off as easily as a blown feather. “There you have it.”
Peter smiled over his shoulder at Claude, and wondered if he imagined the pink tinge on the man’s cheeks as he let go and turned back towards the patio. Walking behind him, Peter knew he wasn’t mistaking the color of Claude’s ears. This is completely bizarre.
They re-entered the patio to see Akimov and his date still having a fine time, but the agents’ table occupied by another couple. Peter spotted Claude’s scowl, and bumped his shoulder softly, “It’s okay, we’ll just eat picnic style. Come on.”
He led Claude to the railing, pinning his drink between his chest and forearm to free a hand and grab some silverware as he went. He sat on the railing and lifted one leg and then the other over it. Then he strolled out a little ways and folded his legs beneath him on the grass. He looked back at Claude and lifted his glass with another smile. The man chuckled, and also crossed the railing and sat down, one leg propped up and the other stretched out in front of him. “We’ll have to be a bit quieter out here, I think,” he said, “People expect extra voices where other people are, not where people aren’t supposed to be.”
“That’s okay. As long as we can still see Jon, right?”
“Yeah.”
They actually didn’t talk at all for a long time. It really was a beautiful evening, and the food tasted as delicious as it smelled, and Peter had learned a while back to appreciate certain moments like this as thoroughly as he could. In any case, he couldn’t forget that they had a job to do. He looked to Akimov. Though the pair had started sitting on opposite sides of their table, they had somehow worked their way around so only inches separated them. Their heads bent close together, and Peter could see part of the woman’s rather brilliant smile.
Peter wondered when the last time Claude went on an actual date was. He smirked to himself- what about him? Has to’ve been... Christ, at least three years, maybe more.
“Something funny?”
Peter looked at Claude. Maybe it was only the light, but the man somehow looked younger. More open. “Nothing, just... This is nice. Not really what I was expecting for surveillance duty.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of hours spent crammed in a car, or hangin’ round some office, or sitting on a public bench waiting for something to happen.”
“Well, that’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, how?”
Peter half-shrugged, “You’ll be there, right?”
Claude blinked at him, still looking impossibly young and in that moment Peter wanted to pull him close and be everything Claude needed him to be, even if he was going to wake up any minute now and realize this was completely insane. Meanwhile, Claude flashed a smile and replied, “I’ll do my best, mate.”
Peter decided to focus on regaining some portion of his professionalism, but a low rumble rolled above his head, and he squinted up to see dark clouds sailing over The Lime Light’s roof and the patio. He barely had time to say, “Uh oh,” before the thunderhead burst and heavy rain began pelting the earth.
Claude swore and jumped to his feet. He grabbed Peter’s arm and tugged him up as well and they were running towards the parking lot. The rental car’s lights flashed as Claude pressed the button to unlock it. They wrenched open the doors and all but leapt inside. Even though he was dripping water, Peter found himself laughing.
“What- what’re you laughin’ about now?” Claude asked. He didn’t seem to notice the smile on his own face.
“We left the plates and glasses and stuff out there. That’s gonna confuse some people later.”
“Plates and glasses and stuff? We left our bloody target in there, Pete!”
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Peter asserted with a wave. He was lying back against his seat, not even bothering to wipe off his face as he watched rivulets run down the windshield among splattering drops.
“Yeah. Yeah, he will,” Claude agreed with a small laugh.
Peter turned to him, watched a raindrop creep down from his hairline to his temple, curving around his cheekbone. He didn’t even really think before reaching out and wiping it away with the backs of his fingers.
Claude didn’t exactly flinch, or lean in. He looked at Peter, and no, it hadn’t been a trick of the light. Claude still managed to look painfully young, the damage of seven years’ isolation winding back the clock to a delicate, hesitant time. The weight of responsibility was almost crushing. But Peter fanned out his fingers again, let the tips touch Claude’s cheek and hoped they were warm against rain-clammy skin.
While the rest of him seemed frozen, Claude’s eyes darted to Peter’s outstretched hand and back to his face. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but his mouth wouldn’t let him. Peter leaned closer slowly, let his whole palm press against Claude’s cheek and that made panicking eyes shut, worried lines of tension across his forehead fade, made his lips part and let out a sigh. In that second with all defenses dropped, Peter closed the distance between them. If Claude’s lips were cold, his breath was hot and Peter’s tongue chased it inside his mouth, happy to share his own breath and maybe warm them both up. He felt one palm press like a brand against his side, and another slide up to cradle the back of his head. Peter let his free hand rest on Claude’s neck as he arched as well as he could in his seat, already aching for more contact.
Rain continued to pound on the car’s roof. Jon Akimov and his girlfriend were getting a drink at the bar. And it was the best date Peter had ever had.