Fic: Take a Seat and Catch Your Breath (2/3)
Title: Take a Seat and Catch Your Breath (2/3)
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claude, assorted other characters, canon and otherwise
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2500+ in this 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:
A/N: Same universe as Differential Diagnosis, so.
Tony’d been taken back to the agency clinic. So’d Claude, eventually, once Shirley had noticed him pacing the kitchenette. How she’d even realized he was there was worth figuring out, as was her ability to bully and guilt him out of the offices and downstairs to the tiny, overcrowded medical facility, but he hadn’t had the time nor the energy for it. Hadn’t had the time nor energy for much, as reluctant as he was to admit that, especially to himself.
The doctor at the clinic, a thin, exhausted-looking young woman with dark brown eyes that suddenly and unpleasantly reminded him of Peter’s, had agreed. Had sent him home immediately, but at least been kind or clever enough to let him check in on Tony. Who really had been fine; banged up, bruised, still sleeping, but fine. Same for their suspect; drugged, handcuffed to his bed in the clinic, for all the good that would probably do, and Claude tried not to think about it too much.
He’d run into Gail on the way out of the building, and she’d run up to him and given him a damn hug. Jostling his stitches in the process, getting herself covered in dust and dried blood and god knew what else, but Claude found himself hugging her back anyway.
Didn’t think much of it at the time, but on the way back to his flat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Barely six months since he’d met all of them, and now this. Couple of years ago, even during the Company years, or maybe especially then, the realization that he was attached to these people would’ve had him out the door and quite willing to never look back. Now, it just made him feel angry and impatient and in desperate need of a less permanent sort of escape.
Which made Peter showing up at his door the next morning, less than a day since he and his partner had dropped Claude off there, either very unfortunate or entirely appropriate.
Both, actually. Because, among other things, Peter looked about the complete opposite of happy to see him. As if Claude had dragged him halfway across town to his overpriced and underheated flat, instead of just having opened his door to the sour-looking young man glaring at him through the peephole. Really, though, he shouldn’t have opened the door, so perhaps he really was the one to blame.
“Here,” Peter said, tossing a plastic bag full of something heavy and sloshing at him. “For your stitches.”
“Thanks?”
Peter nodded at him, and turned around. Then turned back, and pointed at him with a surprising amount of viciousness.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I-“
“You went back to work. You said you’d stay in and rest.”
“No, mate, you said I should, and I admitted that yeah, I probably should. Made no promises I’d actually do it.”
“Oh, awesome, be a smartass about it. You have to be careful, you…” Peter shook his head and turned away from him again. Said, almost too quietly to hear, “You have to be okay.”
“Peter-“
“Just…take care of yourself, okay? Please?” he half-turned, and looked at Claude, eyes softer and frown set. Claude felt for him, truly, he did, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Peter’s guilt dictate his behavior. Before yesterday, it’d been more than a year since he’d seen the lad, and it wasn’t as though they’d-as though he owed him anything, not really.
“Yeah, Pete, I’ve been takin’ care of myself for longer than you’ve been alive. I think I’ve gotten the hang of it by now, thanks all the same.”
Peter let out a strangled, exasperated noise and looked about ready to leave, and Claude found himself more than a bit grateful of the fact. But then his expression shifted, to something thoughtful and searching, and he pivoted till he was facing Claude again directly, with his hands in his pockets.
“Have you eaten?” he said, almost hesitantly, and then his voice got stronger. “You want to get dinner?”
Claude found himself staring. Opened his mouth, and said, very carefully. “Peter.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s eight in the mornin’, mate.”
“Oh.” Peter blinked at him, and blushed. Shrugged. “Breakfast. You want to get breakfast?”
Technically no, no he didn’t. He’d eaten already, not that he ever ate much that early. But Peter was…there, and an interesting combination of entirely familiar and wholly unpredictable. Claude was curious, and Peter had always been interesting. Annoying, yes, infuriating, often, but never boring. So he said yes. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it.
*
And there wasn’t, at first.
For one, it didn’t take him long to realize that interesting didn’t even begin to describe Peter at present. There was a bit of the old poodle there, especially with regards to his mother, but the rest of him was a warring mass of emotions tugged between nascent cynicism and die-hard nobility and stupid sodding loyalty to some sort of belief in the better natures of mankind, despite repeated first-hand knowledge of its worst. There was a kind of strength in that that Claude respected, and if he were a better person he’d have been more intrigued by that than by the potential of being at hand when the inevitable meltdown happened. He wasn’t filled with glee at the possibility or anything like that, at least. But he was resigned to it, somewhat interested whether it could be averted or at least postponed. Not that he thought he’d have anything to do with that, but he figured it must be possible.
Peter seemed to sense it too. Oscillated between lethargy and nervous energy when not on call, or at least Claude came to surmise as much from the next couple of he ran into him.
Which was what kept happening, strangely enough.
Like the morning after, when he realized the ambulance parked outside the aggressively bland office building he was heading to was a familiar one, as was the young man leaning against it, with two cups of coffee set next to him.
He walked over. Settled to the left of him, leaning against the hood of the ambulance as well. Peter looked over, and Claude crossed his arms and looked back.
“What if I’d stayed home like you told me to?”
Peter shrugged. “I’d be out a buck-fifty for coffee, I guess.”
“Coulda given it to your partner.”
Peter laughed. “Hesam on more than one cup of coffee? Not the best idea in the world.”
“No?”
“No. Grisly murder-suicide level of not the best idea, actually.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
“You do that,” Peter turned, and his arm brushed against Claude’s in the process. “Sorry,” he said, ducking his head while handing him the cheap disposable cup.
“What for?” he couldn’t help asking, and Peter just shrugged again. Took a sip of his own coffee, and Claude followed suit.
It happened a couple more times after that: on his way into the office or out of it, there’d been an ambulance, and a young man with two cups of coffee and an apparently desperate need for his attention.
He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but there were worse ways to start and end a day. He came to appreciate the time with Peter, actually. At least partly because with Tony still recovering from a broken arm and stuck almost exclusively on desk duty, most field assignments lately had involved him and Robert (not Bob, he’d been very clear about that, and ensured that Claude would refer to him as such every time he had to refer to him at all), who was probably the least interesting person on the planet. Which seemed ironic, given the fact that he could have potentially brought the whole of it to a stop, and he supposed he should be grateful the man seemed to have no interest in doing so. He didn’t seem to have much of an interesting in doing anything else, though, and for that alone Claude came to much prefer any time he spent with the walking disaster of emotion and stalled impulse that was Peter, just by way of contrast.
*
Eventually, Peter had shown up out of uniform, at the end of the day. Waiting for him, right in the reception area, with an invitation to dinner. It hadn’t been a particularly welcome gesture, but he wasn’t one to turn down a free meal, and so he went.
They didn’t talk much about anything in particular, same as they hadn’t when it was just coffee. Work. The city. His health, although he tried to avoid that one, because he didn’t especially appreciate Peter haranguing him about it and the stitches and how he shouldn’t scratch at them or strain the area or do anything except, apparently, lay in bed and lick his wounds.
It was not his proudest moment, but he eventually consented to letting the young man change the dressing. Which upon reflection had disaster written all over it; he hadn’t noticed them before, but the warm, soft-eyed looks Peter kept giving him were liable to become a problem, if they hadn’t already.
Peter guiding up his shirt and touching him, ducking his head enough to get a closer look, running his fingers along the still-sensitive line of healing skin. Slicking it with ointment, then looking up at him through dark eyelashes as he pressed a new bandage against Claude’s side, and leaving his hands where they were for just a beat too long…yeah, it’d become a problem already, and he took an automatic step away from Peter the moment he straightened up and dropped his hands from Claude’s side.
“How’s it look?” he said, precisely, and Peter smiled.
“Good. Minimal scarring.”
“Right, well, was so concerned about that.” Peter cocked his head and frowned, as if trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic. Claude held back a smile, and continued: “Bikini season’s comin’ up, after all.”
Peter snorted, and rolled his eyes, and set about taking off his gloves and packing up the rest of the ointment and the spare bandages. “You’re welcome, then.”
“Mm,” he said, and tucked his shirt back in. Disaster averted.
For the time being, at least.
*
“Claude? Claude?”
He blinked. Dr. Reynolds was watching him, looking more concerned than she had in a while.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Yep. Right. ‘m fine.”
“Okay. So how’s it going? With Robert?”
“Fine. Great. Miss Tony a bit, but I think he’s appreciatin’ the break from me, right?”
“Claude-“
“He’s married, did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Went to check in on him a coupla days ago, she was there. Nice woman, out of town a lot. Guess that’s why I never…”
He trailed off, almost accidentally, tapping his fingers against his knees and thinking about the night before, about the fact that there hadn’t been an ambulance outside the building that morning. Dr. Reynolds cleared her throat, and he had to consciously keep himself from jolting.
“Claude? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. Just…been a bit busy, lately, got a lot on my mind. You know how it is.”
“Okay. Well. If there’s anything you want to talk about…”
“Right. Got it. Yeah.” He paused. “Thanks.”
She cocked her head and gave him a slightly puzzled, mostly teasing smile. “So, any good dreams lately?”
Claude coughed, and did his best to will away the blush he could feel coming before she noticed it.
*
There hadn’t been an ambulance outside the office that afternoon either.
There had been an empath in his kitchen, though, going through his refrigerator. Not the sort of behavior any of his training had prepared him for. Not that he’d immediately recognized it as such.
What he’d first become aware of, before he’d even made it entirely through the door, was a light that he hadn’t left on and the sound of footsteps. That sort of situation he was a little more prepared for, and he was invisible and tense and fighting the impulse to bolt when he heard the voice.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Peter. Right. He could breath again, and fade back into visibility. Wait, what? Peter? “What’re you-”
“You don’t have anything in your refrigerator. You need…actual food, Claude. You don’t even have aspirin or anything, what are you gonna do if you get sick?”
“I’m…” he was at a loss for a second, but the sheer level of audacity this little gesture represented made that a temporary condition. “How in the…hell is that any of your business? How’d you even get in here, you mad-“
“Your landlady let me in,” he seemed to deflate for a bit, stopped raging quite so much, and shrugged.
“What?”
“She’s…she saw me here yesterday. She thinks I’m your…I don’t think she cares.” Peter started pacing again, and ran a hand through his hair.
“That may be, mate, but I do. It’s my bloody flat, I’d very much prefer for you to have to go through me before turnin’ up in here, if only so I can keep you out.”
Peter stopped moving, and starred at him. “You have…you have to take care of yourself, Claude.”
“Peter-“
“I mean it. I want you to…” he took a breath, and seemed to realize whatever he was saying wasn’t something he actually wanted said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to…” he fidgeted, and looked away. “…freak you out.”
“I think we’re past that, mate.” He let out a breath and walked over to his couch. Sat down on it, heavy and exhausted, as he watched Peter look torn between sitting down next to him or continuing his paces. “So I’m askin’ you again, mate: why’s this any business of yours?”
“Claude…”
“I haven’t a right to know why a mad empath’s decided turnin’ up in my flat and yelling at me’s the best use of his time?”
“No. I mean. Just…” Peter let out a heavy breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
And he left. Actually bloody left. Just walked out of the flat that he had, for all intents and purposes, broken in to, just to harass Claude for a bit, and didn’t even have the courtesy to let him know why.
Bloody well unacceptable, is what that was. He’d let Peter know it, the next day, and force it out of him, this reason for his sudden and inconvenient fixation on Claude’s well-being.
*
Part 3!
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claude, assorted other characters, canon and otherwise
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2500+ in this 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:
A/N: Same universe as Differential Diagnosis, so.
Tony’d been taken back to the agency clinic. So’d Claude, eventually, once Shirley had noticed him pacing the kitchenette. How she’d even realized he was there was worth figuring out, as was her ability to bully and guilt him out of the offices and downstairs to the tiny, overcrowded medical facility, but he hadn’t had the time nor the energy for it. Hadn’t had the time nor energy for much, as reluctant as he was to admit that, especially to himself.
The doctor at the clinic, a thin, exhausted-looking young woman with dark brown eyes that suddenly and unpleasantly reminded him of Peter’s, had agreed. Had sent him home immediately, but at least been kind or clever enough to let him check in on Tony. Who really had been fine; banged up, bruised, still sleeping, but fine. Same for their suspect; drugged, handcuffed to his bed in the clinic, for all the good that would probably do, and Claude tried not to think about it too much.
He’d run into Gail on the way out of the building, and she’d run up to him and given him a damn hug. Jostling his stitches in the process, getting herself covered in dust and dried blood and god knew what else, but Claude found himself hugging her back anyway.
Didn’t think much of it at the time, but on the way back to his flat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Barely six months since he’d met all of them, and now this. Couple of years ago, even during the Company years, or maybe especially then, the realization that he was attached to these people would’ve had him out the door and quite willing to never look back. Now, it just made him feel angry and impatient and in desperate need of a less permanent sort of escape.
Which made Peter showing up at his door the next morning, less than a day since he and his partner had dropped Claude off there, either very unfortunate or entirely appropriate.
Both, actually. Because, among other things, Peter looked about the complete opposite of happy to see him. As if Claude had dragged him halfway across town to his overpriced and underheated flat, instead of just having opened his door to the sour-looking young man glaring at him through the peephole. Really, though, he shouldn’t have opened the door, so perhaps he really was the one to blame.
“Here,” Peter said, tossing a plastic bag full of something heavy and sloshing at him. “For your stitches.”
“Thanks?”
Peter nodded at him, and turned around. Then turned back, and pointed at him with a surprising amount of viciousness.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I-“
“You went back to work. You said you’d stay in and rest.”
“No, mate, you said I should, and I admitted that yeah, I probably should. Made no promises I’d actually do it.”
“Oh, awesome, be a smartass about it. You have to be careful, you…” Peter shook his head and turned away from him again. Said, almost too quietly to hear, “You have to be okay.”
“Peter-“
“Just…take care of yourself, okay? Please?” he half-turned, and looked at Claude, eyes softer and frown set. Claude felt for him, truly, he did, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Peter’s guilt dictate his behavior. Before yesterday, it’d been more than a year since he’d seen the lad, and it wasn’t as though they’d-as though he owed him anything, not really.
“Yeah, Pete, I’ve been takin’ care of myself for longer than you’ve been alive. I think I’ve gotten the hang of it by now, thanks all the same.”
Peter let out a strangled, exasperated noise and looked about ready to leave, and Claude found himself more than a bit grateful of the fact. But then his expression shifted, to something thoughtful and searching, and he pivoted till he was facing Claude again directly, with his hands in his pockets.
“Have you eaten?” he said, almost hesitantly, and then his voice got stronger. “You want to get dinner?”
Claude found himself staring. Opened his mouth, and said, very carefully. “Peter.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s eight in the mornin’, mate.”
“Oh.” Peter blinked at him, and blushed. Shrugged. “Breakfast. You want to get breakfast?”
Technically no, no he didn’t. He’d eaten already, not that he ever ate much that early. But Peter was…there, and an interesting combination of entirely familiar and wholly unpredictable. Claude was curious, and Peter had always been interesting. Annoying, yes, infuriating, often, but never boring. So he said yes. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it.
*
And there wasn’t, at first.
For one, it didn’t take him long to realize that interesting didn’t even begin to describe Peter at present. There was a bit of the old poodle there, especially with regards to his mother, but the rest of him was a warring mass of emotions tugged between nascent cynicism and die-hard nobility and stupid sodding loyalty to some sort of belief in the better natures of mankind, despite repeated first-hand knowledge of its worst. There was a kind of strength in that that Claude respected, and if he were a better person he’d have been more intrigued by that than by the potential of being at hand when the inevitable meltdown happened. He wasn’t filled with glee at the possibility or anything like that, at least. But he was resigned to it, somewhat interested whether it could be averted or at least postponed. Not that he thought he’d have anything to do with that, but he figured it must be possible.
Peter seemed to sense it too. Oscillated between lethargy and nervous energy when not on call, or at least Claude came to surmise as much from the next couple of he ran into him.
Which was what kept happening, strangely enough.
Like the morning after, when he realized the ambulance parked outside the aggressively bland office building he was heading to was a familiar one, as was the young man leaning against it, with two cups of coffee set next to him.
He walked over. Settled to the left of him, leaning against the hood of the ambulance as well. Peter looked over, and Claude crossed his arms and looked back.
“What if I’d stayed home like you told me to?”
Peter shrugged. “I’d be out a buck-fifty for coffee, I guess.”
“Coulda given it to your partner.”
Peter laughed. “Hesam on more than one cup of coffee? Not the best idea in the world.”
“No?”
“No. Grisly murder-suicide level of not the best idea, actually.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
“You do that,” Peter turned, and his arm brushed against Claude’s in the process. “Sorry,” he said, ducking his head while handing him the cheap disposable cup.
“What for?” he couldn’t help asking, and Peter just shrugged again. Took a sip of his own coffee, and Claude followed suit.
It happened a couple more times after that: on his way into the office or out of it, there’d been an ambulance, and a young man with two cups of coffee and an apparently desperate need for his attention.
He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but there were worse ways to start and end a day. He came to appreciate the time with Peter, actually. At least partly because with Tony still recovering from a broken arm and stuck almost exclusively on desk duty, most field assignments lately had involved him and Robert (not Bob, he’d been very clear about that, and ensured that Claude would refer to him as such every time he had to refer to him at all), who was probably the least interesting person on the planet. Which seemed ironic, given the fact that he could have potentially brought the whole of it to a stop, and he supposed he should be grateful the man seemed to have no interest in doing so. He didn’t seem to have much of an interesting in doing anything else, though, and for that alone Claude came to much prefer any time he spent with the walking disaster of emotion and stalled impulse that was Peter, just by way of contrast.
*
Eventually, Peter had shown up out of uniform, at the end of the day. Waiting for him, right in the reception area, with an invitation to dinner. It hadn’t been a particularly welcome gesture, but he wasn’t one to turn down a free meal, and so he went.
They didn’t talk much about anything in particular, same as they hadn’t when it was just coffee. Work. The city. His health, although he tried to avoid that one, because he didn’t especially appreciate Peter haranguing him about it and the stitches and how he shouldn’t scratch at them or strain the area or do anything except, apparently, lay in bed and lick his wounds.
It was not his proudest moment, but he eventually consented to letting the young man change the dressing. Which upon reflection had disaster written all over it; he hadn’t noticed them before, but the warm, soft-eyed looks Peter kept giving him were liable to become a problem, if they hadn’t already.
Peter guiding up his shirt and touching him, ducking his head enough to get a closer look, running his fingers along the still-sensitive line of healing skin. Slicking it with ointment, then looking up at him through dark eyelashes as he pressed a new bandage against Claude’s side, and leaving his hands where they were for just a beat too long…yeah, it’d become a problem already, and he took an automatic step away from Peter the moment he straightened up and dropped his hands from Claude’s side.
“How’s it look?” he said, precisely, and Peter smiled.
“Good. Minimal scarring.”
“Right, well, was so concerned about that.” Peter cocked his head and frowned, as if trying to figure out if he was being sarcastic. Claude held back a smile, and continued: “Bikini season’s comin’ up, after all.”
Peter snorted, and rolled his eyes, and set about taking off his gloves and packing up the rest of the ointment and the spare bandages. “You’re welcome, then.”
“Mm,” he said, and tucked his shirt back in. Disaster averted.
For the time being, at least.
*
“Claude? Claude?”
He blinked. Dr. Reynolds was watching him, looking more concerned than she had in a while.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Yep. Right. ‘m fine.”
“Okay. So how’s it going? With Robert?”
“Fine. Great. Miss Tony a bit, but I think he’s appreciatin’ the break from me, right?”
“Claude-“
“He’s married, did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Went to check in on him a coupla days ago, she was there. Nice woman, out of town a lot. Guess that’s why I never…”
He trailed off, almost accidentally, tapping his fingers against his knees and thinking about the night before, about the fact that there hadn’t been an ambulance outside the building that morning. Dr. Reynolds cleared her throat, and he had to consciously keep himself from jolting.
“Claude? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine. Just…been a bit busy, lately, got a lot on my mind. You know how it is.”
“Okay. Well. If there’s anything you want to talk about…”
“Right. Got it. Yeah.” He paused. “Thanks.”
She cocked her head and gave him a slightly puzzled, mostly teasing smile. “So, any good dreams lately?”
Claude coughed, and did his best to will away the blush he could feel coming before she noticed it.
*
There hadn’t been an ambulance outside the office that afternoon either.
There had been an empath in his kitchen, though, going through his refrigerator. Not the sort of behavior any of his training had prepared him for. Not that he’d immediately recognized it as such.
What he’d first become aware of, before he’d even made it entirely through the door, was a light that he hadn’t left on and the sound of footsteps. That sort of situation he was a little more prepared for, and he was invisible and tense and fighting the impulse to bolt when he heard the voice.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Peter. Right. He could breath again, and fade back into visibility. Wait, what? Peter? “What’re you-”
“You don’t have anything in your refrigerator. You need…actual food, Claude. You don’t even have aspirin or anything, what are you gonna do if you get sick?”
“I’m…” he was at a loss for a second, but the sheer level of audacity this little gesture represented made that a temporary condition. “How in the…hell is that any of your business? How’d you even get in here, you mad-“
“Your landlady let me in,” he seemed to deflate for a bit, stopped raging quite so much, and shrugged.
“What?”
“She’s…she saw me here yesterday. She thinks I’m your…I don’t think she cares.” Peter started pacing again, and ran a hand through his hair.
“That may be, mate, but I do. It’s my bloody flat, I’d very much prefer for you to have to go through me before turnin’ up in here, if only so I can keep you out.”
Peter stopped moving, and starred at him. “You have…you have to take care of yourself, Claude.”
“Peter-“
“I mean it. I want you to…” he took a breath, and seemed to realize whatever he was saying wasn’t something he actually wanted said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to…” he fidgeted, and looked away. “…freak you out.”
“I think we’re past that, mate.” He let out a breath and walked over to his couch. Sat down on it, heavy and exhausted, as he watched Peter look torn between sitting down next to him or continuing his paces. “So I’m askin’ you again, mate: why’s this any business of yours?”
“Claude…”
“I haven’t a right to know why a mad empath’s decided turnin’ up in my flat and yelling at me’s the best use of his time?”
“No. I mean. Just…” Peter let out a heavy breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
And he left. Actually bloody left. Just walked out of the flat that he had, for all intents and purposes, broken in to, just to harass Claude for a bit, and didn’t even have the courtesy to let him know why.
Bloody well unacceptable, is what that was. He’d let Peter know it, the next day, and force it out of him, this reason for his sudden and inconvenient fixation on Claude’s well-being.
*
Part 3!