Fic: Take a Seat and Catch Your Breath (1/3)
Title: Take a Seat and Catch Your Breath (1/3)
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claude, assorted other characters, canon and otherwise
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 3000+ for the first part, 8300+ overall
Summary: Based on the "Courting/Wooing" prompt on Plaude BINGO, so naturally, given me, it's like a million words of build up to that. And eventually some courtship goes on? I guess?
Warnings: None that I can think of.
A/N: Same universe as Differential Diagnosis, so.
“So what do you think?”
He glanced over; Gail was hovering, much too close to him, and hurriedly jotting down notes. On what, he had no idea, because it wasn’t as though he’d said anything yet.
“Dunno. Go ask Tony,” he waved in the direction of the kitchen, where the man was involved in a very serious discussion with a detective wearing a very ugly expression and a suit to match. He kept looking through a stack of magazines, and after a couple more minutes of being ignored, Gail shrugged and wandered off to do as he’d said. He caught Tony’s eye as he watched her go. Tipped his head to the right; Tony nodded back, and kept talking.
The uniformed officer stationed by the door to the bedroom had a perplexed and uneasy look about him, and had since they’d arrived. He’d probably have to do something about that, eventually, but at the moment, it wasn’t exactly priority. The room was, and he might as well go about looking through it.
There were several photographs, more than a hundred, probably, tacked to one wall. Covering what appeared to be the only window in the flat, which just seemed illogical to him, but he figured logic probably hadn’t been high on the man’s list of personality traits. “Telephoto lens?”
“I think so, sir,” the officer had followed him, and was still shifting uncomfortably.
“Right,” he nodded, and confirmed the fact that, as expected, all of the photos were of a tall, dark-haired woman. “You all right, officer?”
“Yep. Fine.” There was a pause, and Claude knew better than to expect it to last. “Sir?”
“Mm?” he’d ducked his head to look through a stack of unpaid parking tickets and takeaway receipts and didn’t bother looking up.
“Are you Homeland Security?”
“Aren’t we all, really?” he glanced up to see the young man looking entirely terrified. He sighed. “No. Not like you’re thinkin’.”
“I…uh…then why are you…?”
“We’re consultin’. We’ve some experience with people like your suspect, figured we’d lend a hand.”
“People like-“
“Fits a profile. When you lot pulled his file, our office got…dinged,” Shirley’s word, not his, but he couldn’t think of a better one. “So we’re helpin’ out.”
“So you’re…FBI…?”
“Somethin’ like,” he said, pointedly, and turned to look at the photographs again. So many of them, from so many angles, from all over the city. Odd, that. Time stamps on all of them, likewise odd and even more helpful.
“Oh. Okay. I…if you have any…if you need help with any-“
“Okay, so I talked to Tony, and he wants to know if you think the guy could be a nuclear…” Gail’s voice weakened, probably off the glare Claude had turned around to give her when she’d come striding into the room and blathering away without bothering to check who was in it. “…scientist?”
“He’s unemployed,” said the officer, looking worried again. “Didn’t even graduate high school. What are…what is she talking about?”
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Johnson. Allen Johnson.”
“Right, Allen. Could you take Gail here downstairs? See if you can show her where to get us some coffee, right?”
“Sir, I…”
“See if the detective wants something, yeah?”
“I…yes. Yes, okay. Sir.”
Claude gave them both an encouraging smile, or as encouraging as he could, while hoping they’d get the hell out of the flat as quickly as they could. Once they’d gone he went looking for Tony. The man was still talking to the detective, who looked no happier, but didn’t seem to appreciate having Tony dragged away mid-sentence by someone offering only a curt “Give us a minute, mate.”
“Nuclear?” he said, about as curtly, once they were out of earshot. Tony’s brow furrowed.
“Neighbor’s reported a bunch of bright flashes, so-”
“If he’s got enough control of it to be doin’ that and not leaking radioactivity all over the place, the ex and half her neighborhood would be dead already. Got to be somethin’ else.”
“Huh,” Tony appeared to consider that, and then looked at him expectantly. Claude shrugged.
“Can tell you what it’s not.”
“Helpful,” Tony said, drily, and Claude smirked.
“Well, what’ve you got?”
“I’ve got an irate NYPD detective getting ready to kick us out, for one.”
“Good thing, that.”
“Why?”
“Our friend’ll be back any minute now.”
Tony sighed. Brought his hand up to his forehead and shut his eyes for a moment. “Seriously?”
“Photos in the other room’ve all got time stamps that stop 'round five-thirty, and there’s a bunch of receipts from a diner couple of blocks from here, most of ‘em from ten past six. Creature of habit, our boy.”
Tony did a quick check of his watch, and sighed again. “Great. Too late to get everyone out?”
“’s just us and the detective in here, mate. Sent the Young Wonder and the uniform out for coffee.”
“Shirley’s going to love that,” Tony said, smiling for a moment, then letting his Serious Agent Face return.
“Shirley’ll deal with it. Want to go tell your mate we’re makin’ his wildest dreams come true and gettin’ out of here?”
“Are we?”
“Cuttin’ him off before he’s on his home turf’s a better idea than just waitin’ for him here, don’t you think?”
Tony appeared to consider it, and glanced back at his watch. “Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Claude nodded and headed for the door. On the way down the stairs, the slight thrill of excitement at being out in the field again began to fad. The case, such as it was, looked fairly open and shut, and despite this being a mandatory consult, chances were that Mr. Larry Iverson, stalker extraordinaire and all around mentally unstable individual, had the power of sneezing flowers or something equally mundane. Best-case scenario, they’d neutralize him immediately, spend a couple of days testing DNA samples, and release him to police custody to be dealt with. Waste of everyone’s time really, but most importantly, waste of his, and an entirely boring one.
He ended up being wrong about most of that, and the next couple of days weren’t boring at all.
*
There were sirens, very bright lights being flashed in his eyes, and a very, very, very young voice asking him something. He tried to focus on what it was.
“Sir? Sir? I’m gonna need to get your name, for-“
“Claude. Claude Rains. ‘m fine.”
“Sir, I think you’re in shock-“
“Nah, I’m all right,” he stood up. Ducked his head, because he was in an ambulance, and didn’t want to hit it against the ceiling. Felt something tugging at his arm, but getting it free was easy enough.
“Sir-!”
He shook his head, trying to clear it of the persistent wheedle. He looked around; more ambulances, right, broken concrete, fine, a bit of dust, to be expected. Tony…Tony’d still been upstairs, hadn’t he? So he’d probably have been all right. No one on the street when it’d happened, good thing. No one’d seen how stupid he’d been, except for the suspect, but Claude doubted he’d be saying much of anything for a while.
Voice. Voice was still pestering him. What? he was about to snap, when it stopped. Was replaced by pressure, on his chest, managing to get him to sit down on something soft. Another voice started up, this one easier to focus on.
“Claude?”
“Hm?” he said, listening, but also thinking, also remembering. Tony had gotten down the stairs, or at least partly, because when the first pulse had hit-
“Claude. I’m going to need you to keep still-“
“What? No. ‘m fine, ‘s Tony that-“
“Claude, your partner’s-“
“Colleague. Not partner. We haven’t got…it’s not…”
“Okay. Your colleague. He’s gonna be fine, but right now, you’re bleeding, and I have to figure out why. So you have to keep still for a-“
He started to stand and was pushed back down again, and not gently, either. He decided to keep put for the time being.
The wail of a departing ambulance was almost indistinguishable from the steady hum of traffic, and it disappeared altogether in the face of a sudden, jolting fact that presented itself in the forefront of his brain. He pushed away the altogether too interested hands currently on his torso and glanced up. The young man’s brow furrowed. A lock of hair fell across it and was tucked back behind an ear. It took his eyes a moment to figure it out. He blinked a couple of times to be sure.
“Peter?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost resigned. And of course it’d be Peter. Fewer than ten medics in all of New York City with clearance levels high enough to be on this sort of call, it wasn’t actually that surprising he’d run into him eventually. Or it wouldn’t have been, had he had any idea that Peter was, in fact, a medic, or willing to have anything to do with this little experiment in government priority setting and secret keeping. He was still gaping when the young man stepped closer and made as if to touch him again. His own arm moved automatically and kept him back.
“Claude,” he sounded bloody disappointed, like Claude was a little boy putting up a fuss when he was supposed to be getting his tonsils looked at.
“Just…What’re you…”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a paramedic-”
“Yeah, mate, didn’t think you were playin’ dress up,” he mumbled, fully aware that Peter wasn’t actually listening.
“-and you’re bleeding, so it’s kinda my job to do something about that, okay?”
There was something in his eyes, and his voice, that made him a hell of a lot harder to keep away now that Claude had noticed it. He raised his hands in defeat, and Peter leaned in again. Guided his arm up, and a quick pinch of discomfort in his side confirmed the fact that he had, in fact, been at the very least grazed. His shirt was ruined, too, soaked in blood, not all of which was his own. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Or about Peter ripping it further. That was probably uncalled for.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to wear Kevlar for these things?”
Claude snorted. “Can’t hit what you can’t see.”
Peter’s head dropped, but not enough for Claude not to catch his expression. “Yeah, that’s never backfired on anyone,” he said, after an incredibly pregnant pause. It was full of something sharp and painful, not entirely unlike the suddenly searing ache radiating from slightly above his waist and through the rest of his chest. He glanced down, to see Peter looking surprised and a little worried as he pulled back his hand.
“Bloody hell, Peter.”
“Sorry. Sorry, I just…it’s much deeper than I thought.” Peter shook his head, and grabbed what appeared to be a bundle of gauze. Pressed it to the wound, gently. It stung, even so, enough that it took Claude a moment to realize that his own hand was being guided over to replace Peter’s. “Keep it there,” Peter said, briskly, and frowned as he turned around and reached for something on one of the shelves behind him. “Yeah, you’re definitely going to need stitches.”
“No shit, mate,” Claude took a breath and shut his eyes. “Not goin’ to a bloody hospital for that, you know. Not allowed to, for one.”
“Well, we could, I know a doctor who’d…she’s been cleared, but…” he could hear Peter speaking, and rummaging around for something. He must’ve found it, because the rummaging stopped and the sound of plastic packaging being ripped open replaced it. “No, I can…take care of it. Yeah. No way I’m gonna try to drag you back to a hospital if you don’t want to go.”
“Generous of you,” he said, and opened his eyes. Peter was still turned away from him, fiddling with something on a tray.
Peter shrugged. “Not the first of these calls I’ve been on.” He turned back around, and frowned as he noticed the blood seeping through the gauze. “Jesus. Whatever that was sure did a number on you.”
“’s not so bad.” Although it was, and the more Peter talked about it, the worse it felt.
“Tough guy. You gonna keep that up and not let me numb it?
“Christ, no. Drugs’re fine.” Or bloody fantastic, in this case.
“Always great to hear that,” Peter said, and there was a hint of a smirk on his lips. Claude held back a smile as the young man ducked his head and ran his fingers along the edge of the still-throbbing wound in his side. “You’re going to need to lie down.”
“Pete-“
Peter glanced up at him. Surprised, and at what, Claude didn’t know. “Yeah?”
“How long’s this gonna take?”
Peter gave him an almost derisive look and said, very slowly, “You want me to rush stitches?”
Fair point, not that he was going to admit it out loud. He dropped back, and heard Peter sigh. “On your side, Claude.”
He turned over. And felt momentarily, ridiculous panicked at it. He was facing away from Peter, getting an entirely brilliant view of some medical supplies and what appeared to be a defibrillator, and absolutely nothing else.
“You okay? Want me to shut the door?” The words came from surprisingly close, almost directly above his ear, and it was even more unnerving, knowing how close Peter was and being unable to do anything about it. Not that he was entirely sure what he wanted to do about it, and that made it even worse, actually.
“No, it’s…” he started to turn his head to get a look at him, but then felt a sharp poke about midway down his back. He took it as the hint it was and stayed still. The pressure on his side subsided. The pain remained about constant, then spiked as something cool and then searingly hot was brushed over the edges of his wound.
“Sorry, just cleaning it. All done now,” Peter spoke again, tone soothing, professional, and entirely impersonal. “You’re going to feel a little prick.”
“Not somethin’ most men would advertize, that.”
There was a pause, wherein he realized what he’d just said that out loud and to whom, and then Peter laughed. Snorted, really, and the pain had stopped, making the slide of his palm over Claude’s ribs significantly less than agonizing. He felt another bit of pressure, this time the strange, disjointed pull of something sharp entering and then exiting his flesh. Painless, but still there. Tugging, smoothing, and he could hear Peter breathing. Steady and low, inhale and exhale.
“How’ve you been?” he said, before the sound could become maddening.
Peter laughed at that, too. Low, and closer to bitter than Claude would’ve thought him capable of. “Fine,” he said, and that was quality sarcasm, there, no doubt about it. “Awesome, actually. You?”
“’bout the same, really.”
Peter laughed again, incredulous this time, and the pass of needle and surgical thread through his skin felt more than a slight bit rougher than the previous ones. Then Peter sighed, and after a pause, the next stitch was a lot smoother and followed by the warmth of Peter’s palm lingering on the skin above his hip.
It was followed by a few more moments of silence, before the stitches resumed, and then Peter spoke again.
“I…had this theory about you,” quietly, almost as if about to confide something shameful. Must’ve been the intersection of close spaces and repressed Catholicism getting to him.
“Did you?”
“Yeah. I thought…you know, you being such a paranoid cynical asshole, something really awful must’ve happened to you.”
“Mm, brilliant bit o’ deduction there, mate.”
“Then I got…picked up. By the Company. After you left. And I thought, that must’ve been it.”
“Right, well, it’s-“
“But it turns out…” there was another brush of fingers along skin that had not been entirely numbed, and it surprised him. Enough that he winced, just a bit, and Peter’s hand withdrew. “Turns out you worked for them.”
“I-“
“And you’re working for them now.”
“It’s not the same, now,” he was surprised at how vehement he sounded. If he’d been in an introspective mood, he’d have pointed out that it probably wasn’t Peter that needed as much convincing on that point. “’s not even the Company anymore, technically.”
“Yeah. Right,” Peter’s words sounded sadly sympathetic, and Claude would’ve turned around, except that there was now a hand on his shoulder, keeping him still. “Almost done.”
“Yeah. Right,” he mimicked, partly expecting to hear Peter laugh again. Was surprisingly disappointed when he didn’t. “How ‘bout you, then?” he said, and Peter made a slightly inquisitive noise. “Workin’ for them too, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” there was a hint of petulance there, and Claude found himself amused by it, even as he realized that Peter wasn’t touching him anymore. Then he was, smoothing what felt like a particularly cumbersome bandage onto his skin.
“So much for stayin’ out of the family business, eh?”
“Shut up, Claude,” Peter said, the same petulance giving way to something else, something milder. His hands were suddenly guiding Claude over, onto his back again, and then gone before Claude could realize why he hadn’t minded the contact or the familiarity of the gesture. “Keep that on for about a day. You’re going to want to clean it every day after that, and switch out the dressing. I’ll give you some to take home. You’re also probably going to need some…”
Claude heard the words but it took him a moment to process them, what with Peter’s hand still on his hip and his eyes staring pretty steadily at Claude’s face.
“Yeah, mate, I’ve had stitches before,” he managed, finally, and looked away. Peter’s hand lingered for a moment, but then jerked back. The movement was followed by the sound of Peter standing, very quickly, and hitting his head on the edge of the cabinets behind him.
Claude turned his head and spotted the proximate cause of the situation that had Peter swearing slightly under his breath and grabbing at the back of his head like he was in pain. Another young man, also in a paramedic’s uniform, currently giving Peter an interested look from sharp eyes.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter said, not sounding it, and frowned before clearing his throat. “Hesam, this is Claude. Claude, this is my partner. Hesam.”
Claude attempted to sit up and was pushed back down by Peter’s hand on his shoulder. He gave a slight wave instead, which Hesam returned, before focusing back at Peter.
“Friend of yours?”
“Uh. Yeah. Kinda.” He could see Peter running a nervous hand through his hair and dropping his eyes to the ground. He looked over at Hesam again; he was cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. Another quick glance at Peter revealed him shaking his head vigorously and stopping once he caught Claude’s eye.
“Your…friend need a ride? I think we got time.”
“Nah, I can get-“
“Good idea. I’ll drive,” and with that, Peter hopped out of the back of the ambulance and around to the front, presumably. Hesam gave a little shrug and climbed in, sitting on the recently vacated bench that ran parallel to the gurney Claude was on. He offered his hand, and Claude took it. They shook silently, and waited. Exchanged a brief look, and then Claude decided to confirm what he’d been thinking for the past few seconds.
“Hasn’t got the key, has he?”
“Nope, not at all,” Hesam grinned, and tucked his arms behind his head before leaning it back against the cabinets Peter had hit his own against.
*
Part 2!
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claude, assorted other characters, canon and otherwise
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 3000+ for the first part, 8300+ overall
Summary: Based on the "Courting/Wooing" prompt on Plaude BINGO, so naturally, given me, it's like a million words of build up to that. And eventually some courtship goes on? I guess?
Warnings: None that I can think of.
A/N: Same universe as Differential Diagnosis, so.
“So what do you think?”
He glanced over; Gail was hovering, much too close to him, and hurriedly jotting down notes. On what, he had no idea, because it wasn’t as though he’d said anything yet.
“Dunno. Go ask Tony,” he waved in the direction of the kitchen, where the man was involved in a very serious discussion with a detective wearing a very ugly expression and a suit to match. He kept looking through a stack of magazines, and after a couple more minutes of being ignored, Gail shrugged and wandered off to do as he’d said. He caught Tony’s eye as he watched her go. Tipped his head to the right; Tony nodded back, and kept talking.
The uniformed officer stationed by the door to the bedroom had a perplexed and uneasy look about him, and had since they’d arrived. He’d probably have to do something about that, eventually, but at the moment, it wasn’t exactly priority. The room was, and he might as well go about looking through it.
There were several photographs, more than a hundred, probably, tacked to one wall. Covering what appeared to be the only window in the flat, which just seemed illogical to him, but he figured logic probably hadn’t been high on the man’s list of personality traits. “Telephoto lens?”
“I think so, sir,” the officer had followed him, and was still shifting uncomfortably.
“Right,” he nodded, and confirmed the fact that, as expected, all of the photos were of a tall, dark-haired woman. “You all right, officer?”
“Yep. Fine.” There was a pause, and Claude knew better than to expect it to last. “Sir?”
“Mm?” he’d ducked his head to look through a stack of unpaid parking tickets and takeaway receipts and didn’t bother looking up.
“Are you Homeland Security?”
“Aren’t we all, really?” he glanced up to see the young man looking entirely terrified. He sighed. “No. Not like you’re thinkin’.”
“I…uh…then why are you…?”
“We’re consultin’. We’ve some experience with people like your suspect, figured we’d lend a hand.”
“People like-“
“Fits a profile. When you lot pulled his file, our office got…dinged,” Shirley’s word, not his, but he couldn’t think of a better one. “So we’re helpin’ out.”
“So you’re…FBI…?”
“Somethin’ like,” he said, pointedly, and turned to look at the photographs again. So many of them, from so many angles, from all over the city. Odd, that. Time stamps on all of them, likewise odd and even more helpful.
“Oh. Okay. I…if you have any…if you need help with any-“
“Okay, so I talked to Tony, and he wants to know if you think the guy could be a nuclear…” Gail’s voice weakened, probably off the glare Claude had turned around to give her when she’d come striding into the room and blathering away without bothering to check who was in it. “…scientist?”
“He’s unemployed,” said the officer, looking worried again. “Didn’t even graduate high school. What are…what is she talking about?”
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Johnson. Allen Johnson.”
“Right, Allen. Could you take Gail here downstairs? See if you can show her where to get us some coffee, right?”
“Sir, I…”
“See if the detective wants something, yeah?”
“I…yes. Yes, okay. Sir.”
Claude gave them both an encouraging smile, or as encouraging as he could, while hoping they’d get the hell out of the flat as quickly as they could. Once they’d gone he went looking for Tony. The man was still talking to the detective, who looked no happier, but didn’t seem to appreciate having Tony dragged away mid-sentence by someone offering only a curt “Give us a minute, mate.”
“Nuclear?” he said, about as curtly, once they were out of earshot. Tony’s brow furrowed.
“Neighbor’s reported a bunch of bright flashes, so-”
“If he’s got enough control of it to be doin’ that and not leaking radioactivity all over the place, the ex and half her neighborhood would be dead already. Got to be somethin’ else.”
“Huh,” Tony appeared to consider that, and then looked at him expectantly. Claude shrugged.
“Can tell you what it’s not.”
“Helpful,” Tony said, drily, and Claude smirked.
“Well, what’ve you got?”
“I’ve got an irate NYPD detective getting ready to kick us out, for one.”
“Good thing, that.”
“Why?”
“Our friend’ll be back any minute now.”
Tony sighed. Brought his hand up to his forehead and shut his eyes for a moment. “Seriously?”
“Photos in the other room’ve all got time stamps that stop 'round five-thirty, and there’s a bunch of receipts from a diner couple of blocks from here, most of ‘em from ten past six. Creature of habit, our boy.”
Tony did a quick check of his watch, and sighed again. “Great. Too late to get everyone out?”
“’s just us and the detective in here, mate. Sent the Young Wonder and the uniform out for coffee.”
“Shirley’s going to love that,” Tony said, smiling for a moment, then letting his Serious Agent Face return.
“Shirley’ll deal with it. Want to go tell your mate we’re makin’ his wildest dreams come true and gettin’ out of here?”
“Are we?”
“Cuttin’ him off before he’s on his home turf’s a better idea than just waitin’ for him here, don’t you think?”
Tony appeared to consider it, and glanced back at his watch. “Fine. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Claude nodded and headed for the door. On the way down the stairs, the slight thrill of excitement at being out in the field again began to fad. The case, such as it was, looked fairly open and shut, and despite this being a mandatory consult, chances were that Mr. Larry Iverson, stalker extraordinaire and all around mentally unstable individual, had the power of sneezing flowers or something equally mundane. Best-case scenario, they’d neutralize him immediately, spend a couple of days testing DNA samples, and release him to police custody to be dealt with. Waste of everyone’s time really, but most importantly, waste of his, and an entirely boring one.
He ended up being wrong about most of that, and the next couple of days weren’t boring at all.
*
There were sirens, very bright lights being flashed in his eyes, and a very, very, very young voice asking him something. He tried to focus on what it was.
“Sir? Sir? I’m gonna need to get your name, for-“
“Claude. Claude Rains. ‘m fine.”
“Sir, I think you’re in shock-“
“Nah, I’m all right,” he stood up. Ducked his head, because he was in an ambulance, and didn’t want to hit it against the ceiling. Felt something tugging at his arm, but getting it free was easy enough.
“Sir-!”
He shook his head, trying to clear it of the persistent wheedle. He looked around; more ambulances, right, broken concrete, fine, a bit of dust, to be expected. Tony…Tony’d still been upstairs, hadn’t he? So he’d probably have been all right. No one on the street when it’d happened, good thing. No one’d seen how stupid he’d been, except for the suspect, but Claude doubted he’d be saying much of anything for a while.
Voice. Voice was still pestering him. What? he was about to snap, when it stopped. Was replaced by pressure, on his chest, managing to get him to sit down on something soft. Another voice started up, this one easier to focus on.
“Claude?”
“Hm?” he said, listening, but also thinking, also remembering. Tony had gotten down the stairs, or at least partly, because when the first pulse had hit-
“Claude. I’m going to need you to keep still-“
“What? No. ‘m fine, ‘s Tony that-“
“Claude, your partner’s-“
“Colleague. Not partner. We haven’t got…it’s not…”
“Okay. Your colleague. He’s gonna be fine, but right now, you’re bleeding, and I have to figure out why. So you have to keep still for a-“
He started to stand and was pushed back down again, and not gently, either. He decided to keep put for the time being.
The wail of a departing ambulance was almost indistinguishable from the steady hum of traffic, and it disappeared altogether in the face of a sudden, jolting fact that presented itself in the forefront of his brain. He pushed away the altogether too interested hands currently on his torso and glanced up. The young man’s brow furrowed. A lock of hair fell across it and was tucked back behind an ear. It took his eyes a moment to figure it out. He blinked a couple of times to be sure.
“Peter?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost resigned. And of course it’d be Peter. Fewer than ten medics in all of New York City with clearance levels high enough to be on this sort of call, it wasn’t actually that surprising he’d run into him eventually. Or it wouldn’t have been, had he had any idea that Peter was, in fact, a medic, or willing to have anything to do with this little experiment in government priority setting and secret keeping. He was still gaping when the young man stepped closer and made as if to touch him again. His own arm moved automatically and kept him back.
“Claude,” he sounded bloody disappointed, like Claude was a little boy putting up a fuss when he was supposed to be getting his tonsils looked at.
“Just…What’re you…”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m a paramedic-”
“Yeah, mate, didn’t think you were playin’ dress up,” he mumbled, fully aware that Peter wasn’t actually listening.
“-and you’re bleeding, so it’s kinda my job to do something about that, okay?”
There was something in his eyes, and his voice, that made him a hell of a lot harder to keep away now that Claude had noticed it. He raised his hands in defeat, and Peter leaned in again. Guided his arm up, and a quick pinch of discomfort in his side confirmed the fact that he had, in fact, been at the very least grazed. His shirt was ruined, too, soaked in blood, not all of which was his own. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Or about Peter ripping it further. That was probably uncalled for.
“Aren’t you guys supposed to wear Kevlar for these things?”
Claude snorted. “Can’t hit what you can’t see.”
Peter’s head dropped, but not enough for Claude not to catch his expression. “Yeah, that’s never backfired on anyone,” he said, after an incredibly pregnant pause. It was full of something sharp and painful, not entirely unlike the suddenly searing ache radiating from slightly above his waist and through the rest of his chest. He glanced down, to see Peter looking surprised and a little worried as he pulled back his hand.
“Bloody hell, Peter.”
“Sorry. Sorry, I just…it’s much deeper than I thought.” Peter shook his head, and grabbed what appeared to be a bundle of gauze. Pressed it to the wound, gently. It stung, even so, enough that it took Claude a moment to realize that his own hand was being guided over to replace Peter’s. “Keep it there,” Peter said, briskly, and frowned as he turned around and reached for something on one of the shelves behind him. “Yeah, you’re definitely going to need stitches.”
“No shit, mate,” Claude took a breath and shut his eyes. “Not goin’ to a bloody hospital for that, you know. Not allowed to, for one.”
“Well, we could, I know a doctor who’d…she’s been cleared, but…” he could hear Peter speaking, and rummaging around for something. He must’ve found it, because the rummaging stopped and the sound of plastic packaging being ripped open replaced it. “No, I can…take care of it. Yeah. No way I’m gonna try to drag you back to a hospital if you don’t want to go.”
“Generous of you,” he said, and opened his eyes. Peter was still turned away from him, fiddling with something on a tray.
Peter shrugged. “Not the first of these calls I’ve been on.” He turned back around, and frowned as he noticed the blood seeping through the gauze. “Jesus. Whatever that was sure did a number on you.”
“’s not so bad.” Although it was, and the more Peter talked about it, the worse it felt.
“Tough guy. You gonna keep that up and not let me numb it?
“Christ, no. Drugs’re fine.” Or bloody fantastic, in this case.
“Always great to hear that,” Peter said, and there was a hint of a smirk on his lips. Claude held back a smile as the young man ducked his head and ran his fingers along the edge of the still-throbbing wound in his side. “You’re going to need to lie down.”
“Pete-“
Peter glanced up at him. Surprised, and at what, Claude didn’t know. “Yeah?”
“How long’s this gonna take?”
Peter gave him an almost derisive look and said, very slowly, “You want me to rush stitches?”
Fair point, not that he was going to admit it out loud. He dropped back, and heard Peter sigh. “On your side, Claude.”
He turned over. And felt momentarily, ridiculous panicked at it. He was facing away from Peter, getting an entirely brilliant view of some medical supplies and what appeared to be a defibrillator, and absolutely nothing else.
“You okay? Want me to shut the door?” The words came from surprisingly close, almost directly above his ear, and it was even more unnerving, knowing how close Peter was and being unable to do anything about it. Not that he was entirely sure what he wanted to do about it, and that made it even worse, actually.
“No, it’s…” he started to turn his head to get a look at him, but then felt a sharp poke about midway down his back. He took it as the hint it was and stayed still. The pressure on his side subsided. The pain remained about constant, then spiked as something cool and then searingly hot was brushed over the edges of his wound.
“Sorry, just cleaning it. All done now,” Peter spoke again, tone soothing, professional, and entirely impersonal. “You’re going to feel a little prick.”
“Not somethin’ most men would advertize, that.”
There was a pause, wherein he realized what he’d just said that out loud and to whom, and then Peter laughed. Snorted, really, and the pain had stopped, making the slide of his palm over Claude’s ribs significantly less than agonizing. He felt another bit of pressure, this time the strange, disjointed pull of something sharp entering and then exiting his flesh. Painless, but still there. Tugging, smoothing, and he could hear Peter breathing. Steady and low, inhale and exhale.
“How’ve you been?” he said, before the sound could become maddening.
Peter laughed at that, too. Low, and closer to bitter than Claude would’ve thought him capable of. “Fine,” he said, and that was quality sarcasm, there, no doubt about it. “Awesome, actually. You?”
“’bout the same, really.”
Peter laughed again, incredulous this time, and the pass of needle and surgical thread through his skin felt more than a slight bit rougher than the previous ones. Then Peter sighed, and after a pause, the next stitch was a lot smoother and followed by the warmth of Peter’s palm lingering on the skin above his hip.
It was followed by a few more moments of silence, before the stitches resumed, and then Peter spoke again.
“I…had this theory about you,” quietly, almost as if about to confide something shameful. Must’ve been the intersection of close spaces and repressed Catholicism getting to him.
“Did you?”
“Yeah. I thought…you know, you being such a paranoid cynical asshole, something really awful must’ve happened to you.”
“Mm, brilliant bit o’ deduction there, mate.”
“Then I got…picked up. By the Company. After you left. And I thought, that must’ve been it.”
“Right, well, it’s-“
“But it turns out…” there was another brush of fingers along skin that had not been entirely numbed, and it surprised him. Enough that he winced, just a bit, and Peter’s hand withdrew. “Turns out you worked for them.”
“I-“
“And you’re working for them now.”
“It’s not the same, now,” he was surprised at how vehement he sounded. If he’d been in an introspective mood, he’d have pointed out that it probably wasn’t Peter that needed as much convincing on that point. “’s not even the Company anymore, technically.”
“Yeah. Right,” Peter’s words sounded sadly sympathetic, and Claude would’ve turned around, except that there was now a hand on his shoulder, keeping him still. “Almost done.”
“Yeah. Right,” he mimicked, partly expecting to hear Peter laugh again. Was surprisingly disappointed when he didn’t. “How ‘bout you, then?” he said, and Peter made a slightly inquisitive noise. “Workin’ for them too, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” there was a hint of petulance there, and Claude found himself amused by it, even as he realized that Peter wasn’t touching him anymore. Then he was, smoothing what felt like a particularly cumbersome bandage onto his skin.
“So much for stayin’ out of the family business, eh?”
“Shut up, Claude,” Peter said, the same petulance giving way to something else, something milder. His hands were suddenly guiding Claude over, onto his back again, and then gone before Claude could realize why he hadn’t minded the contact or the familiarity of the gesture. “Keep that on for about a day. You’re going to want to clean it every day after that, and switch out the dressing. I’ll give you some to take home. You’re also probably going to need some…”
Claude heard the words but it took him a moment to process them, what with Peter’s hand still on his hip and his eyes staring pretty steadily at Claude’s face.
“Yeah, mate, I’ve had stitches before,” he managed, finally, and looked away. Peter’s hand lingered for a moment, but then jerked back. The movement was followed by the sound of Peter standing, very quickly, and hitting his head on the edge of the cabinets behind him.
Claude turned his head and spotted the proximate cause of the situation that had Peter swearing slightly under his breath and grabbing at the back of his head like he was in pain. Another young man, also in a paramedic’s uniform, currently giving Peter an interested look from sharp eyes.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter said, not sounding it, and frowned before clearing his throat. “Hesam, this is Claude. Claude, this is my partner. Hesam.”
Claude attempted to sit up and was pushed back down by Peter’s hand on his shoulder. He gave a slight wave instead, which Hesam returned, before focusing back at Peter.
“Friend of yours?”
“Uh. Yeah. Kinda.” He could see Peter running a nervous hand through his hair and dropping his eyes to the ground. He looked over at Hesam again; he was cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. Another quick glance at Peter revealed him shaking his head vigorously and stopping once he caught Claude’s eye.
“Your…friend need a ride? I think we got time.”
“Nah, I can get-“
“Good idea. I’ll drive,” and with that, Peter hopped out of the back of the ambulance and around to the front, presumably. Hesam gave a little shrug and climbed in, sitting on the recently vacated bench that ran parallel to the gurney Claude was on. He offered his hand, and Claude took it. They shook silently, and waited. Exchanged a brief look, and then Claude decided to confirm what he’d been thinking for the past few seconds.
“Hasn’t got the key, has he?”
“Nope, not at all,” Hesam grinned, and tucked his arms behind his head before leaning it back against the cabinets Peter had hit his own against.
*
Part 2!