the winner (peter/claire)
Title: The Winner
Author: missaliceblue
Pairing: Peter/Claire. Written for rtwofan's prompt challenge.
Rating: PG-13 for language. Oh yeah, and canon incest.
Status: Completed one-shot at 2,000 words. Please blame eowyn_girl again.
Summary: What's a broke paparazzo to do when he catches Congressman Petrelli's brother kissing his niece? Frothy like a tasty glass of Fanta.
The link between immortality and incest looks a lot like a paunchy guy named Phil with a camera around his neck.
“You gonna buy a one, man? Powerball’s up to $300 million,” said the convenience store clerk, and pointed at the little roll of tickets.
Phil leered longingly at the roll of tickets, but he shook his head. “Love to, can’t afford it.”
“Serious? I bought $50 bucks worth,” said the clerk, as he made change for Phil.
$50 bucks? He’s barely got five. He’s barely got money to keep gas in his car.
Two weeks was the last time he had a paycheck, and it’d been two months since the last time he’d had one with triple figures. The weather had been cold and New York’s pretty folks had been staying inside way too much.
Which doesn’t help Mr. Picture Man, aka, Phil.
He’s pretty upfront about his title of leech, slime, dirt, paparazzo - whatever you want to call him. He didn't plan on this. He went to film school. Trouble is no one told him that so did everyone else.
He takes the pictures, and they usually pay the bills, whatever. He doesn’t think too much about the peripherals.
On this day, though, the day of his biggest scoop, Phil was headed for Central Park. God had taken pity on him and given him a warm day. And warm days were when a certain set of boho identical twins liked to sunbathe on the grass.
No dice though, not yet at least. Phil got comfy in his very best hiding spot, completely obscured by this big old branchy bush. His camera was out, though, poised and ready to go. He had filled his trusty back pack with the essentials he’d picked up at the convenience store - Slim Jims and a couple orange Fanta.
All the energy he’d need for a long day of celeb scoping. Hopefully.
Phil scratched his leg and yawned. He’d been out late last night at a club in the Jersey - Jersey of all places, where supposedly one of the latest Hollywood hookups was supposed to meet.
Nothing had panned out there, and he had a payment due on his Hyundai next week.
And that’s when he spotted the Chick. His double chin warbled a little as he snapped his neck to face her. Ah, blondes. Lord, but Phil had a thing for blondes. Smooth, tanned legs slithered out of her shorts - itty, bitty shorts that no blonde had any business wearing.
Chick looked vaguely familiar but Phil had spent so much time looking at pretty blondes that they were all kinda starting to look the same, you know? Not that he wanted to stop looking. No way.
She had long blonde hair that hung loose over her shoulders, and Phil watched her saunter slowly down the pavement. She dashed into a little alcove by the lake - pretty private and secluded, but not from Phil’s vantage point.
The Chick stopped right in front of him and leaned over the railing.
Ah, thank you God. Things were looking up for Phil.
She shifted her hips from side to side, the halter top around her neck showing off a good deal of smooth, tanned back.
She was barely legal, looked like, but who cares? Not like he’d ever speak a word to her, or vice versa. Chicks like that - blonde chicks like that sure as hell didn't talk to Phil, unless he was paying them $2.99 a minute.
Phil eased the camera out from the bag. He stuck the lens through the small hole in the case around his neck. Wouldn’t hurt to take a few pictures of this little scene. Strictly for home use, of course.
So he snapped a couple, and called it good. He was continuing to admire the view when a dude walked up to the girl. Of course. Chicks that look like that didn't go long without a big old fistful of man candy.
Dude was thin and pale and not at all muscled and stupid like he thought he’d be. Of course he was ‘cute’ - not like Phil could tell, he wasn’t gay - but you hang around the Hollywood pretties long enough and you get a radar for these sorts of things.
The Dude wound his arm around her waist and pulled her up against his hip. She smiled up at him, and her freakin’ face…aw. She looked like she loved him. Big old smile, her eyelids blinking all slow.
Phil’d never been married, but he’d gotten close a couple times. Would have got closer if he’d had a chick that looked at him like the Chick was looking at the Dude at the moment.
It was a blatant invitation. Man, why didn't he kiss her? Phil would have had his hands all over that ass by now.
Maybe Dude was gay. For the first time, Phil looked at the dude for more than a few seconds. And wow, did Dude look…familiar. Phil’s eyes were blinking rapidly behind his dark glasses. Dude had a real distinctive face. Where had he seen it? Actor? Singer? Party brat?
Nah, the dude was too old for that stuff, didn't dress well enough to be anything special. She was, though. Phil looked at the chick, ordering his eyes to examine her profile instead of - well - other things. Damn. Damn she was familiar too!
And then they were sucking face. Dude put his other hand on Chick’s hip, and pulled her over to him. He ran his hands up and down her waist and spun her around so she was leaning up against him.
His pap instincts took over. Someone kisses, you take a pic, even if you don’t know who it is, because you never freakin’ know. Look at the Lewinsky pap - the guy made a mint off of two-year-old recycle bin crap.
As he covertly snapped pictures of the couple, Phil wracked his mind. Roll call of New York society. He thought briefly of the crowd at the Hamptons, the art scene, the blue-blood elite, politicos -
Oh hell, that was it. Petrelli. That was Peter Petrelli. Brother of Nathan Petrelli, congressman of the Silk Stocking District. The one with tall buildings filled with rich, white, Republicans. The kinda people that hired Phil to clean bird shit out of their deck pools.
And the chick was...no. No way. Phil felt his fingers tingling as he frantically pushed the button on his camera. He watched picture after picture get saved to his memory card. He was sitting not four feet away from Congressman Nathan Petrelli’s brother and daughter as they swapped spit and a good helping of tongue, too.
So long Hyundai. Hello Audi. Shit, hello Bentley. Hello retirement fund! Phil felt giddy, was having a hard time keeping his toes from tapping.
And then they stopped kissing. The blonde (he couldn’t remember her name - Nathan Petrelli’s long-lost infidelity incarnate. Something. She hadn't been around long, anyway) leaned away from Peter. Her uncle, Phil reminded himself.
“Peter, I…” her voice was real soft. Phil tried not to be too obvious and lean forward, but he wanted to hear this.
“I love you.” The chick said it real soft and her voice kinda trembled and she looked up into the eyes of the dude (Peter. Her uncle).
The corner of Phil’s mouth raised, and he’d be willing to bet at least a million (which wasn’t going to be hard, after he sold this pic) that the chick had never said that before.
You only get to tell someone you love them, like that, once. The first time. Phil had told it to a little Mexican girl named Londa years and years ago. Yeah. It had sounded just like that.
Peter’s face went all pink - dude was blushing! And he told the chick that he loved her too, and pulled her face up to his.
Phil didn't take a picture this time. Didn't need to. He already had plenty.
“Is it gonna work out? I’m so scared, Peter…I’m scared.” The chick spoke softly, but Phil could just barely make out the words.
Peter rubbed the chick’s arm. “It is. I’m going to make it work out. We’ll move away if we have to.”
Better be to France, bucko. Only place where that kinda shit is legal.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” said the girl, her hair falling over her shoulder as she looked at the ground.
“Just for a little while. A little while longer.” The dude pulled her up against him, and kissed the top of her head.
“How do you know?” She looked at him, and her voice was all wobbly. Shit. Shit.
“Because I love you,” said Peter plainly. “When it feels like this - when it’s this strong, it can’t be a mistake. Or wrong.”
The girl, the chick turned her face against Peter’s chest, and he sorta rocked her for a minute.
Phil saw the tears slide down her cheeks - her nose got all red and she sniffled and she really looked like hell when she cried.
He heard her take a shaky little breath, somewhere between a sob and a normal, run-of-the-mill inhale. Aw, crap.
Phil stood up from his little crow’s nest. Peter and Chick jumped apart abruptly.
“Hiya,” said Phil, holding firmly to his camera around his neck.
And damn if it wasn’t just all over their faces - guilt and shame and all the good expressions that he remembered well from Catholic school as a kid.
“Gotta say, you crazy kids - if you wanna kiss your niece, buddy, I’d do it inside.”
The girl started to cry harder, and he hadn't even said anything yet.
“Look, Chick, don’t cry, okay? I’m not gonna do anything.” He held the camera away from his chest. “See, deleted?”
“What the hell do you want?” asked the Dude - Peter, all angry.
“Nothin’. Not talking to you, anyway, was I?” Phil fiddled with his camera, and then held it up to her, Chick. He’d wiped the memory clean, and she stepped forward to get a closer look.
“You’re damn lucky I can’t stand weepy females. Always was a sucker for blondes too.”
Phil winked at the girl, who just stared. He sighed.
“But seriously, you two gotta keep it under wraps, okay? Most of the world doesn’t give a shit who you bone, but they don’t wanna see or hear about it, you know? Eegh.” Phil shivered at the thought of his own female family members, most of whom looked like Chris Farley in drag.
They continued to stare at him, no thanks or handshakes. He was hoping at least for a hug from Chick, but no dice. Phil sighed.
“Alright. Well. My good deed of the century and all that,” he said disgustedly as he picked up his back pack and left the biggest paycheck of his whole stupid life behind him.
“Seeya, Chick,” tossed Phil over his shoulder as he tramped up the hill, marching in time to the echo in his head - stupid, stupid, stupid.
He cursed himself all the way home - idiot, retard, goddamn stupid jerk.
He cursed himself as he flopped down onto his rickety futon and flipped on the television to the nightly news. Freakin’ idiot. Better keep an eye out for the closest b-list celeb news, or else the Hyundai’s gone, and it’s hello bus.
He cursed himself as he reached into his backpack for the last can of Fanta (he was a nervous eater, hey), and came out with a silver piece of paper in his hand instead.
A lottery ticket.
And the television was showing some stupid report at the moment, but the numbers were flashing at the bottom of the screen.
Phil’s eyes were glazed over and dumb as they flicked from the numbers to the screen, numbers, screen. Over and over and over.
He wouldn’t see it for awhile yet, but when he did - when he had calmed down enough to, he would. He would flip over the little ticket that was going to change his life and see, in sweetly girlish writing, a little heart with one word by it.
Chick
fin
a/n: eowyn_girl ignored me in chat tonight while she wrote her take on this challenge, so this is all her fault. this was written in like an hour and is very nearly a crackfic and for that i apologise. all this after i said i was tired of paire. clearly i have issues. clearly i need help.
also, the prompt was this: "Prompt #3 is just a phrase. "The link between immortality and incest."
Author: missaliceblue
Pairing: Peter/Claire. Written for rtwofan's prompt challenge.
Rating: PG-13 for language. Oh yeah, and canon incest.
Status: Completed one-shot at 2,000 words. Please blame eowyn_girl again.
Summary: What's a broke paparazzo to do when he catches Congressman Petrelli's brother kissing his niece? Frothy like a tasty glass of Fanta.
The link between immortality and incest looks a lot like a paunchy guy named Phil with a camera around his neck.
“You gonna buy a one, man? Powerball’s up to $300 million,” said the convenience store clerk, and pointed at the little roll of tickets.
Phil leered longingly at the roll of tickets, but he shook his head. “Love to, can’t afford it.”
“Serious? I bought $50 bucks worth,” said the clerk, as he made change for Phil.
$50 bucks? He’s barely got five. He’s barely got money to keep gas in his car.
Two weeks was the last time he had a paycheck, and it’d been two months since the last time he’d had one with triple figures. The weather had been cold and New York’s pretty folks had been staying inside way too much.
Which doesn’t help Mr. Picture Man, aka, Phil.
He’s pretty upfront about his title of leech, slime, dirt, paparazzo - whatever you want to call him. He didn't plan on this. He went to film school. Trouble is no one told him that so did everyone else.
He takes the pictures, and they usually pay the bills, whatever. He doesn’t think too much about the peripherals.
On this day, though, the day of his biggest scoop, Phil was headed for Central Park. God had taken pity on him and given him a warm day. And warm days were when a certain set of boho identical twins liked to sunbathe on the grass.
No dice though, not yet at least. Phil got comfy in his very best hiding spot, completely obscured by this big old branchy bush. His camera was out, though, poised and ready to go. He had filled his trusty back pack with the essentials he’d picked up at the convenience store - Slim Jims and a couple orange Fanta.
All the energy he’d need for a long day of celeb scoping. Hopefully.
Phil scratched his leg and yawned. He’d been out late last night at a club in the Jersey - Jersey of all places, where supposedly one of the latest Hollywood hookups was supposed to meet.
Nothing had panned out there, and he had a payment due on his Hyundai next week.
And that’s when he spotted the Chick. His double chin warbled a little as he snapped his neck to face her. Ah, blondes. Lord, but Phil had a thing for blondes. Smooth, tanned legs slithered out of her shorts - itty, bitty shorts that no blonde had any business wearing.
Chick looked vaguely familiar but Phil had spent so much time looking at pretty blondes that they were all kinda starting to look the same, you know? Not that he wanted to stop looking. No way.
She had long blonde hair that hung loose over her shoulders, and Phil watched her saunter slowly down the pavement. She dashed into a little alcove by the lake - pretty private and secluded, but not from Phil’s vantage point.
The Chick stopped right in front of him and leaned over the railing.
Ah, thank you God. Things were looking up for Phil.
She shifted her hips from side to side, the halter top around her neck showing off a good deal of smooth, tanned back.
She was barely legal, looked like, but who cares? Not like he’d ever speak a word to her, or vice versa. Chicks like that - blonde chicks like that sure as hell didn't talk to Phil, unless he was paying them $2.99 a minute.
Phil eased the camera out from the bag. He stuck the lens through the small hole in the case around his neck. Wouldn’t hurt to take a few pictures of this little scene. Strictly for home use, of course.
So he snapped a couple, and called it good. He was continuing to admire the view when a dude walked up to the girl. Of course. Chicks that look like that didn't go long without a big old fistful of man candy.
Dude was thin and pale and not at all muscled and stupid like he thought he’d be. Of course he was ‘cute’ - not like Phil could tell, he wasn’t gay - but you hang around the Hollywood pretties long enough and you get a radar for these sorts of things.
The Dude wound his arm around her waist and pulled her up against his hip. She smiled up at him, and her freakin’ face…aw. She looked like she loved him. Big old smile, her eyelids blinking all slow.
Phil’d never been married, but he’d gotten close a couple times. Would have got closer if he’d had a chick that looked at him like the Chick was looking at the Dude at the moment.
It was a blatant invitation. Man, why didn't he kiss her? Phil would have had his hands all over that ass by now.
Maybe Dude was gay. For the first time, Phil looked at the dude for more than a few seconds. And wow, did Dude look…familiar. Phil’s eyes were blinking rapidly behind his dark glasses. Dude had a real distinctive face. Where had he seen it? Actor? Singer? Party brat?
Nah, the dude was too old for that stuff, didn't dress well enough to be anything special. She was, though. Phil looked at the chick, ordering his eyes to examine her profile instead of - well - other things. Damn. Damn she was familiar too!
And then they were sucking face. Dude put his other hand on Chick’s hip, and pulled her over to him. He ran his hands up and down her waist and spun her around so she was leaning up against him.
His pap instincts took over. Someone kisses, you take a pic, even if you don’t know who it is, because you never freakin’ know. Look at the Lewinsky pap - the guy made a mint off of two-year-old recycle bin crap.
As he covertly snapped pictures of the couple, Phil wracked his mind. Roll call of New York society. He thought briefly of the crowd at the Hamptons, the art scene, the blue-blood elite, politicos -
Oh hell, that was it. Petrelli. That was Peter Petrelli. Brother of Nathan Petrelli, congressman of the Silk Stocking District. The one with tall buildings filled with rich, white, Republicans. The kinda people that hired Phil to clean bird shit out of their deck pools.
And the chick was...no. No way. Phil felt his fingers tingling as he frantically pushed the button on his camera. He watched picture after picture get saved to his memory card. He was sitting not four feet away from Congressman Nathan Petrelli’s brother and daughter as they swapped spit and a good helping of tongue, too.
So long Hyundai. Hello Audi. Shit, hello Bentley. Hello retirement fund! Phil felt giddy, was having a hard time keeping his toes from tapping.
And then they stopped kissing. The blonde (he couldn’t remember her name - Nathan Petrelli’s long-lost infidelity incarnate. Something. She hadn't been around long, anyway) leaned away from Peter. Her uncle, Phil reminded himself.
“Peter, I…” her voice was real soft. Phil tried not to be too obvious and lean forward, but he wanted to hear this.
“I love you.” The chick said it real soft and her voice kinda trembled and she looked up into the eyes of the dude (Peter. Her uncle).
The corner of Phil’s mouth raised, and he’d be willing to bet at least a million (which wasn’t going to be hard, after he sold this pic) that the chick had never said that before.
You only get to tell someone you love them, like that, once. The first time. Phil had told it to a little Mexican girl named Londa years and years ago. Yeah. It had sounded just like that.
Peter’s face went all pink - dude was blushing! And he told the chick that he loved her too, and pulled her face up to his.
Phil didn't take a picture this time. Didn't need to. He already had plenty.
“Is it gonna work out? I’m so scared, Peter…I’m scared.” The chick spoke softly, but Phil could just barely make out the words.
Peter rubbed the chick’s arm. “It is. I’m going to make it work out. We’ll move away if we have to.”
Better be to France, bucko. Only place where that kinda shit is legal.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” said the girl, her hair falling over her shoulder as she looked at the ground.
“Just for a little while. A little while longer.” The dude pulled her up against him, and kissed the top of her head.
“How do you know?” She looked at him, and her voice was all wobbly. Shit. Shit.
“Because I love you,” said Peter plainly. “When it feels like this - when it’s this strong, it can’t be a mistake. Or wrong.”
The girl, the chick turned her face against Peter’s chest, and he sorta rocked her for a minute.
Phil saw the tears slide down her cheeks - her nose got all red and she sniffled and she really looked like hell when she cried.
He heard her take a shaky little breath, somewhere between a sob and a normal, run-of-the-mill inhale. Aw, crap.
Phil stood up from his little crow’s nest. Peter and Chick jumped apart abruptly.
“Hiya,” said Phil, holding firmly to his camera around his neck.
And damn if it wasn’t just all over their faces - guilt and shame and all the good expressions that he remembered well from Catholic school as a kid.
“Gotta say, you crazy kids - if you wanna kiss your niece, buddy, I’d do it inside.”
The girl started to cry harder, and he hadn't even said anything yet.
“Look, Chick, don’t cry, okay? I’m not gonna do anything.” He held the camera away from his chest. “See, deleted?”
“What the hell do you want?” asked the Dude - Peter, all angry.
“Nothin’. Not talking to you, anyway, was I?” Phil fiddled with his camera, and then held it up to her, Chick. He’d wiped the memory clean, and she stepped forward to get a closer look.
“You’re damn lucky I can’t stand weepy females. Always was a sucker for blondes too.”
Phil winked at the girl, who just stared. He sighed.
“But seriously, you two gotta keep it under wraps, okay? Most of the world doesn’t give a shit who you bone, but they don’t wanna see or hear about it, you know? Eegh.” Phil shivered at the thought of his own female family members, most of whom looked like Chris Farley in drag.
They continued to stare at him, no thanks or handshakes. He was hoping at least for a hug from Chick, but no dice. Phil sighed.
“Alright. Well. My good deed of the century and all that,” he said disgustedly as he picked up his back pack and left the biggest paycheck of his whole stupid life behind him.
“Seeya, Chick,” tossed Phil over his shoulder as he tramped up the hill, marching in time to the echo in his head - stupid, stupid, stupid.
He cursed himself all the way home - idiot, retard, goddamn stupid jerk.
He cursed himself as he flopped down onto his rickety futon and flipped on the television to the nightly news. Freakin’ idiot. Better keep an eye out for the closest b-list celeb news, or else the Hyundai’s gone, and it’s hello bus.
He cursed himself as he reached into his backpack for the last can of Fanta (he was a nervous eater, hey), and came out with a silver piece of paper in his hand instead.
A lottery ticket.
And the television was showing some stupid report at the moment, but the numbers were flashing at the bottom of the screen.
Phil’s eyes were glazed over and dumb as they flicked from the numbers to the screen, numbers, screen. Over and over and over.
He wouldn’t see it for awhile yet, but when he did - when he had calmed down enough to, he would. He would flip over the little ticket that was going to change his life and see, in sweetly girlish writing, a little heart with one word by it.
Chick
fin
a/n: eowyn_girl ignored me in chat tonight while she wrote her take on this challenge, so this is all her fault. this was written in like an hour and is very nearly a crackfic and for that i apologise. all this after i said i was tired of paire. clearly i have issues. clearly i need help.
also, the prompt was this: "Prompt #3 is just a phrase. "The link between immortality and incest."