Fic: Enlightened
Title: Enlightened
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1192
Summary: Based on the "Candles" prompt on Plaude BINGO. So it's your basic "the power goes out, candles are searched for, conversations are had" type thing.
Warnings: None that I can think of.
A/N: Set after Take a Seat and Catch Your Breath, although it's probably not necessary to read that first.
It snowed last night.
It snowed a lot, last night. It snowed enough last night that right now, the city is quiet. The street below is empty. The sky is still grey. The sidewalks are still white. There still haven’t been any cars or trucks or plows through yet, that’s how much it snowed last night.
It’s kind of driving him crazy. Just how quiet everything is. How still everything is. The city isn’t supposed to be that quiet, isn’t supposed to feel that empty.
Claude, sleeping beside him, isn’t helping; the man is loud and intrusive and everywhere when he’s awake, but asleep, he never moves and he barely seems to breathe. Peter feels tempted to curl closer, listen harder, just…just to make sure, but that’ll just wake him up and he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want to have that argument again.
He hears a familiar whirring, clanking sound, and then even the regular hum of the refrigerator stops. The power’s out.
He’s been telling himself that’s why he couldn’t fall asleep. Because he was waiting for that to happen, because he wanted to make sure…well because he wanted to be aware it happened. He slips out of bed; tries to keep the sheets from rustling, tries to keep from making too much noise.
The floor is cold. That's unsurprising. He heads to the kitchen; the matches are there, probably, though it's been ages since he's had to us them. Opening cabinets, though, that'll make noise and he wants to avoid that fight.
He goes to look for the candles first instead. They’re in the closet with the spare blankets and change of sheets, neither of which are likely to end up clattering to the floor, and easy enough to find. He grabs a couple of blankets for good measure.
Matches, then. He goes back to the kitchen, drops the blankets onto the table and sets the candles on the countertop. Eases a drawer open; not in there, or at least he can’t see them. Pushes it shut. Reaches for the next one.
“Cold as fuck in here, mate.”
He doesn’t jump, probably because Claude hadn’t tried to touch him. He still has to force his heart back down his throat as he gets it together enough to turn around.
“Power’s out,” he manages.
“Get some-“
“Candles,” he picks one up off the counter, and turns around. “Yeah.”
Claude smiles at him. “Right, so you’re on top of it, then.”
“Yeah, that’s me, always on top of things.”
Claude raises an eyebrow, and he has to laugh. Claude seems to see that as a sign that he can approach, and he does. Rests his hands on Peter’s hips. Peter puts the candle back down on the countertop, and looks up as Claude speaks again.
“You should come back to bed, mate.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, cocking his head, holding back a smile. “Why’s that?”
“Gotta conserve body heat, right?”
Peter finds himself biting at his lower lip and tilting his hips closer to Claude’s, which are plenty close as it is. “That is like the oldest line in the book.”
“That’s ‘cos it works, mate,” Claude grins, then gives his ass a quick slap. Peter laughs and ducks his head, only to have Claude’s hand under his chin, guiding it up. “Coming?”
“Yeah. Just give me a sec, okay?”
Claude nods. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even let go of his chin, and Peter looks at him. The man shrugs.
“Claude,” he says, turning away and out of his reach. Reaches for another drawer, and yanks it open. Sending the silverware inside clattering, but he can do that now. “You’re hovering.”
“I’m waitin’.”
“No,” he slams the drawer shut, and reaches for another one. “You’re hovering. I know hovering, my mom’s great at it-“
“Hear your brother was pretty good at it, too,” Claude says, tone conversational and light. “In more than one sense, actually.”
Peter stops. Eases this drawer shut, carefully. Doesn’t turn around. “Claude?”
“Peter.”
“Go to bed.”
“You first, mate,” that same cheery, innocuous tone, and Peter sighs. He’s run out of drawers to yank open or slam shut. It’s cold, and he’s tired, and he’s pissed off, and he doesn’t want to be doing this.
“I…” his voice is weaker than he wants it to be, and he still can’t turn around. “I can’t find the matches.”
There’s a sound behind him. An annoying, infuriating, quick sound. A scratch and a hiss.
“Seriously?” he says, suddenly all the more exhausted. He hears Claude step closer, feels him reach around to light one of the candles. The flickering glow of new light makes everything seem softer, or maybe that’s the warmth of Claude’s body pressed against his back.
“Seriously,” Claude murmurs, his lips dangerously close to Peter’s neck.
“When?”
“When you were skulking ‘round lookin’ for the candles.”
“Asshole. You could have just told me.”
“Idiot. You coulda just asked.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I was supposed to know you-“ he stops. Because Claude had taken that moment to give him a quick, light kiss on the cheek, and is now in the process of pulling away from him.
“Claude?”
“Goin’ to bed, mate.”
“Okay.”
Claude gives him a look, all raised eyebrows and you really are an idiot expression. It takes him a moment, but then he nods. Grabs the lighted candle, and follows him back to the bedroom.
*
He’d have been okay with just lying next to him, just barely touching, like they’d been before, but the minute he lays his head on his pillow, Claude grabs his arm and drags him over. Not just closer, but half on top of him, and when Peter tries to look up, he feels his head forced down to where his ear is about level with Claude’s heart.
“What are you-“
“What you wanted, wasn’t it? Earlier?”
“I…yeah,” he says, quietly, and Claude sighs.
“Right. Then just stay there.”
“Can you…can you sleep like this?”
“Can’t sleep with you knockin’ about the flat, tryin’ to be stealthy.”
“Claude…”
“I’m tellin’ you it’s all right, mate. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Okay,” he says. Swallows the suddenly thick feeling in his throat. “Thank you.”
“’Welcome.”
He probably doesn’t need to say anything else.
“Don’t like it when it gets all quiet,” he murmurs, trying to keep it from happening again, and Claude sighs.
“I know.”
“Yeah, of course you know,” and he hears it in his own voice, petulance and annoyance and he’s not sure why. He’s glad Claude’s there. He’s glad Claude’s holding him. “You just know everything, don’t you?”
“Would you rather I didn’t?” Claude’s tone is hesitant and light, and Peter just curls closer.
“I don’t know.”
The candle flickers away on the nightstand. The extra blankets are piled on top of them. His eyes shut, and he can hear Claude’s heart beating. Can feel Claude’s breathing, steady and even. Like the tide, he thinks, suddenly and absurdly, and tries to clear his head of the thought.
He falls asleep. Dreams of white sands, blue water, and the occasional warm breeze.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1192
Summary: Based on the "Candles" prompt on Plaude BINGO. So it's your basic "the power goes out, candles are searched for, conversations are had" type thing.
Warnings: None that I can think of.
A/N: Set after Take a Seat and Catch Your Breath, although it's probably not necessary to read that first.
It snowed last night.
It snowed a lot, last night. It snowed enough last night that right now, the city is quiet. The street below is empty. The sky is still grey. The sidewalks are still white. There still haven’t been any cars or trucks or plows through yet, that’s how much it snowed last night.
It’s kind of driving him crazy. Just how quiet everything is. How still everything is. The city isn’t supposed to be that quiet, isn’t supposed to feel that empty.
Claude, sleeping beside him, isn’t helping; the man is loud and intrusive and everywhere when he’s awake, but asleep, he never moves and he barely seems to breathe. Peter feels tempted to curl closer, listen harder, just…just to make sure, but that’ll just wake him up and he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want to have that argument again.
He hears a familiar whirring, clanking sound, and then even the regular hum of the refrigerator stops. The power’s out.
He’s been telling himself that’s why he couldn’t fall asleep. Because he was waiting for that to happen, because he wanted to make sure…well because he wanted to be aware it happened. He slips out of bed; tries to keep the sheets from rustling, tries to keep from making too much noise.
The floor is cold. That's unsurprising. He heads to the kitchen; the matches are there, probably, though it's been ages since he's had to us them. Opening cabinets, though, that'll make noise and he wants to avoid that fight.
He goes to look for the candles first instead. They’re in the closet with the spare blankets and change of sheets, neither of which are likely to end up clattering to the floor, and easy enough to find. He grabs a couple of blankets for good measure.
Matches, then. He goes back to the kitchen, drops the blankets onto the table and sets the candles on the countertop. Eases a drawer open; not in there, or at least he can’t see them. Pushes it shut. Reaches for the next one.
“Cold as fuck in here, mate.”
He doesn’t jump, probably because Claude hadn’t tried to touch him. He still has to force his heart back down his throat as he gets it together enough to turn around.
“Power’s out,” he manages.
“Get some-“
“Candles,” he picks one up off the counter, and turns around. “Yeah.”
Claude smiles at him. “Right, so you’re on top of it, then.”
“Yeah, that’s me, always on top of things.”
Claude raises an eyebrow, and he has to laugh. Claude seems to see that as a sign that he can approach, and he does. Rests his hands on Peter’s hips. Peter puts the candle back down on the countertop, and looks up as Claude speaks again.
“You should come back to bed, mate.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, cocking his head, holding back a smile. “Why’s that?”
“Gotta conserve body heat, right?”
Peter finds himself biting at his lower lip and tilting his hips closer to Claude’s, which are plenty close as it is. “That is like the oldest line in the book.”
“That’s ‘cos it works, mate,” Claude grins, then gives his ass a quick slap. Peter laughs and ducks his head, only to have Claude’s hand under his chin, guiding it up. “Coming?”
“Yeah. Just give me a sec, okay?”
Claude nods. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even let go of his chin, and Peter looks at him. The man shrugs.
“Claude,” he says, turning away and out of his reach. Reaches for another drawer, and yanks it open. Sending the silverware inside clattering, but he can do that now. “You’re hovering.”
“I’m waitin’.”
“No,” he slams the drawer shut, and reaches for another one. “You’re hovering. I know hovering, my mom’s great at it-“
“Hear your brother was pretty good at it, too,” Claude says, tone conversational and light. “In more than one sense, actually.”
Peter stops. Eases this drawer shut, carefully. Doesn’t turn around. “Claude?”
“Peter.”
“Go to bed.”
“You first, mate,” that same cheery, innocuous tone, and Peter sighs. He’s run out of drawers to yank open or slam shut. It’s cold, and he’s tired, and he’s pissed off, and he doesn’t want to be doing this.
“I…” his voice is weaker than he wants it to be, and he still can’t turn around. “I can’t find the matches.”
There’s a sound behind him. An annoying, infuriating, quick sound. A scratch and a hiss.
“Seriously?” he says, suddenly all the more exhausted. He hears Claude step closer, feels him reach around to light one of the candles. The flickering glow of new light makes everything seem softer, or maybe that’s the warmth of Claude’s body pressed against his back.
“Seriously,” Claude murmurs, his lips dangerously close to Peter’s neck.
“When?”
“When you were skulking ‘round lookin’ for the candles.”
“Asshole. You could have just told me.”
“Idiot. You coulda just asked.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I was supposed to know you-“ he stops. Because Claude had taken that moment to give him a quick, light kiss on the cheek, and is now in the process of pulling away from him.
“Claude?”
“Goin’ to bed, mate.”
“Okay.”
Claude gives him a look, all raised eyebrows and you really are an idiot expression. It takes him a moment, but then he nods. Grabs the lighted candle, and follows him back to the bedroom.
*
He’d have been okay with just lying next to him, just barely touching, like they’d been before, but the minute he lays his head on his pillow, Claude grabs his arm and drags him over. Not just closer, but half on top of him, and when Peter tries to look up, he feels his head forced down to where his ear is about level with Claude’s heart.
“What are you-“
“What you wanted, wasn’t it? Earlier?”
“I…yeah,” he says, quietly, and Claude sighs.
“Right. Then just stay there.”
“Can you…can you sleep like this?”
“Can’t sleep with you knockin’ about the flat, tryin’ to be stealthy.”
“Claude…”
“I’m tellin’ you it’s all right, mate. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Okay,” he says. Swallows the suddenly thick feeling in his throat. “Thank you.”
“’Welcome.”
He probably doesn’t need to say anything else.
“Don’t like it when it gets all quiet,” he murmurs, trying to keep it from happening again, and Claude sighs.
“I know.”
“Yeah, of course you know,” and he hears it in his own voice, petulance and annoyance and he’s not sure why. He’s glad Claude’s there. He’s glad Claude’s holding him. “You just know everything, don’t you?”
“Would you rather I didn’t?” Claude’s tone is hesitant and light, and Peter just curls closer.
“I don’t know.”
The candle flickers away on the nightstand. The extra blankets are piled on top of them. His eyes shut, and he can hear Claude’s heart beating. Can feel Claude’s breathing, steady and even. Like the tide, he thinks, suddenly and absurdly, and tries to clear his head of the thought.
He falls asleep. Dreams of white sands, blue water, and the occasional warm breeze.