Creative Outlet

Life After (a Sandra/Bennet fic)

2007-12-29T13:23:42Z

Title: Life After
Author:runningondreams
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sandra/Bennet, Lyle, Claire

Spoilers/Warnings: Through 2x9 “Cautionary Tales” and then AU, implied drug use
Written for:apckrfan in the rare_heroes Sekrit Santa Exchange, with the prompts: 1) Would love to see why Sandra's still loyal to Noah and standing by him after finding out he'd altered her memories for a long while. 2) They clearly care for one another, I'd like to see that come through even if it's a gen fic. 3) And well, what would a fic involving Sandra be without involving Mr. Muggles.
Disclaimer: Heroes and all its characters belong to Tim Kring, NBC, and their affiliates.

Summary: “There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go.” ~Anonymous

A/N: Many thanks to indyhat for an awesome beta.

She remembers him telling her one night about the danger they’d been in. About people who could read minds and paint the future, and how Claire had been wrapped up in the middle of it all, a single piece in an intricate puzzle he still didn’t understand. It had seemed so unreal, sitting on their new sofa and sharing a cup of coffee while he spun tales of saving the world. Like something out of a movie with a cheesy tagline, and when she’d told him so he’d smiled and whispered soft promises into her hair, holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish before his eyes.

The thought that he might have been the one disappearing had never crossed her mind.

There are cardboard boxes all over the house, and she doesn’t know what to do.

They’ve been tripping over them all afternoon, some securely taped closed and others only half full, cardboard flaps hanging listlessly in quiet rooms. She spends twenty minutes looking for plates, cutting open everything with a ‘fragile’ label and digging through packing peanuts until they coat every inch of carpet, because if they aren’t leaving then they have to be able to eat, even if no one is hungry.

Lyle finds her slumped in the living room, surrounded by china and clutching uselessly at a gilt-edged platter her parents had given them as a wedding gift.

They’d never used it, saving it for some special occasion that had never come. Would never come, now.

She doesn’t want to admit that her children are stronger than she is, but she can’t seem to focus, and Lyle’s bringing her a wet cloth for her face and a microwaved cup of tea while Claire tugs the plate away and puts it safely back in the box. She can hear West in the background, asking if there’s anything he can do. He hasn’t left Claire’s side for more than ten minutes in almost twenty hours, she’s sure, but she can’t make herself tell him to go home and get some rest. Someone needs to be there for Claire, and she can’t think through the haze in her head.

Someone has to keep their family together, and she just can’t face the fact that that someone is her.

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” – CS Lewis

She’d thought the first night would be the hardest. The night when the relief of having her daughter home had been ripped to shreds by the news that her husband was dead (and how could he be? He was just there, and he was going to bring Claire home and everything was going to be all right again). She’d thought, in the lucid moments when she realized that Claire still hadn’t changed out of her cheerleading uniform, that Lyle was asleep and still didn’t know, that it was 3 a.m. and she hadn’t moved for four hours…. She’d thought that nothing could possibly be worse than that night when the world crashed down around her and shattered on the floor like so much porcelain. If she just managed to survive that night….

But now she’s holding a gun, and Noah’s ashes are sitting on the stairs, and it’s so much worse, because she has to keep living. She has to protect their family, and she doesn’t know how. Her daughter can survive a nuclear explosion and there are people in the world who can generate electricity from their palms, and she never even learned how to fire a gun properly. She’s never been in a fight in her life, never been this scared, not even with men in her home threatening to kill her, to kill Claire and Lyle because of something Noah had done that she hadn’t even known about, had never even thought to ask about.

She’s always had faith that Noah would set things right because he always has, and she can’t help but hate him a little bit for not being here to tell his boss to get the hell out of their house.

All she has is a rough itinerary and a badly sketched map and she knows it can’t possibly be enough, but by God it’ll have to be. Noah trusted her to take care of their family if anything happened and so that’s what she’ll do (but surely he can’t have meant this, or else how could he leave her?).

But no matter how many times she tells herself that they can do this, that they’ll be okay, she knows she’s barely a shadow following his footsteps, and nothing will ever be okay, not ever again.

That first year they were married they’d still been in St. Louis, in the little apartment on Chestnut Street where there’d barely been space for the bed and they’d joked that the toaster and coffee pot couldn’t sit on the counter at the same time without knocking the other off. Noah was working at the University and she was taking shifts at the bakery down the street, and they were trying to make rent and paying off school loans at the same time but they were young and happy and in love, and so that didn’t matter. She’d been covering for Lizzie when he came visiting and she’d been so flustered she’d clean forgot the day. It wasn’t until he’d pulled her out from behind the counter and told her to cover her eyes that she even remembered she should be looking forward to anything.

When his arms came back around her and she opened her eyes to find the table in front of her covered in pictures and forms and flyers she didn’t know what to make of it, and even as warm breath whispered ‘happy anniversary’ in her ear she couldn’t quite believe that he was giving her the trip to Europe she’d always wanted.

A few slips of paper, and he gave her the world.

She can’t remember what Noah wanted done when he died (and these days she’s not sure if she can trust her memory anyway, she’s getting so forgetful), but she does know that he wouldn’t have wanted them to hang around wailing over something they couldn’t change. Always stepping forward, always looking for the next rung, that’s her husband. Was her husband, except that that’s not true because he’ll always be her husband, always be her knight in shining armor, even if he never had liked fairytales. She’d joked once that he did a fine James Bond impression, rushing off to save the company from one paper disaster after another, and he’d just smiled said he’d be home for Sunday dinner.

She’d never thought it might be true, and the movies had never said what happened when the handsome secret agent was just a little too slow, or a little too careless, because he never was.

But then, she’d never thought Noah would be.

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” – Robert Benchley

The ashes are just dust and dirt, finer than sand, and she has to stop herself from touching them because she can’t quite believe that this is all that’s left. 19 years of marriage, and they didn’t even give her his ring. Just a pile of dust, like something she might sweep off the back patio, and it’s about as far a thing from her husband as she can think of. Even the urn looks wrong somehow, and she can’t imagine how it’s supposed to fit all the gaps that have suddenly opened in her life, can’t even begin to think about those gaps because that would mean he really is gone, and she’s still praying for another miracle, though God knows getting a daughter back from the dead is more than anyone has any right to ask for.

She keeps expecting him to walk through the door with that apologetic smile he has, the one she sees when he’s late for dinner, the one he wears whenever he’s trying to make up for something, even if she doesn’t know what, and maybe he’ll spin some tale of –of a mix-up at the hospital or some miracle-worker at that Company of his, and she won’t care whether he’s telling the truth because at least he’ll be here.

She barely feels anything when Claire asks if she can take the ashes to the ocean, and she stands back with Lyle when they get there (he’s been so quiet since they told him, like a ghost of a fourteen-year-old and she can’t remember the last time he spoke more than two words together). She just stands there with Mr. Muggles in her arms (poor darling probably doesn’t have a clue what’s going on anymore), and she watches her daughter pour that little pile of dust into the sea.

And she thinks that maybe this way at least one of them will be able to move on.

*

It was Claire’s fourth birthday, a grand old occasion on the back lawn with all the kids in her preschool class and it seemed like half the neighborhood kids as well, though at least she wasn’t doing it all herself. Kelly from two streets over had offered help cook for the afternoon and several of the kids’ mothers were helping with gifts and cake and games, and Noah was there with his English friend (and she can’t for the life of her remember his name) to “keep the little blighters from killing each other.” It was a perfect afternoon with blue skies and fluffy clouds and even the cold couldn’t dampen Claire’s insistence on an outdoor party, even if she did have to wear her coat all day.

But it’s not the cake she remembers, or the fight between Kenneth Forester and Evan Daugherty (and they have that on tape), or even the smile that threatened to reach all the way around Claire’s head when she opened the box of her very own My Little Pony set. They have photos of those in the family albums, from the days when everything the kids did was new and they still had the energy to take pictures.

What she remembers best, what stayed with her in the days afterwards when Noah was working long hours, and Lyle was teething, and Claire’s new toys drew long scratches in the hardwood floors, was the moment when her husband walked through the back door with their son on his shoulders and their daughter clinging to his leg and she realized she had everything she’d ever wanted, even if she’d never known to ask for it.

Dragging Claire out of Costa Verde is almost literal, and Sandra hasn’t felt this thin since she had two toddlers underfoot and Noah was gone on some trip or other every weekend. Her beautiful, talented, miraculous daughter has some fool plan in her head and she’s developed Noah’s stubborn streak to boot. Sandra can’t blame her for being tired of fear and tired of running, but God help her, she’s not going to sit by and watch her little girl get herself killed for her father’s mistakes.

She comes down from packing up the master bedroom (and she’s not thinking about that, not thinking about the pictures and the jewelry and that beautifully carved headboard his parents gave them) to find Claire up to her elbows in so many file folders she doesn’t know where they’ve all come from. Noah always keeps things so organized she’s never realized how much paper is in those cabinets of his, and looking at Claire now- wiping tears on her sleeve and setting her jaw in a way Sandra knows means trouble- she wishes he’d just thrown it all away.

Claire’s motoring on about people who can help and going to the newspaper of all things, and all Sandra wants in this moment is for Noah to walk in and tell Claire to stop this, because it’s never going to get them anywhere.

But, of course, he doesn’t.

Claire’s talking like she isn’t part of the family anymore and Lyle’s acting like he doesn’t want to be, and Mr. Muggles, poor thing, is about ready to have a nervous breakdown with all the tension in this house, and she has to make it right all on her own.

She doesn’t know what to do, but something has to be done, so she waits ’til Claire’s gone to bed and locks Mr. Muggles in the laundry room, and she burns the files. It’s an easy thing to start the gas fireplace even if they’d never used it, and she feeds it folder after folder, half-thrown handfuls at a time, names she’s never heard of, people she’ll never meet, and she burns it all, watches it crinkle and twist and glow and fade to grey dust. And as she rakes out the fireplace and dumps the ash in a trash bag on the patio she wonders whether this isn’t more of who Noah was than the remains Bob delivered ever could be.

It’s almost 4am when the last flame goes out and she stares blindly at the yellow-stamped boxes around her, face flushed and eyes glassy from the fire and ash all over her clothes and her hair, and she’ll have to take a shower before the kids are up or they’ll never get out of here.
Even after the lies, and the lost memories, and God-knows-what else, her husband’s life was still paper, and she can feel a scream itching in her throat and tears stinging her eyes because it’s not fair that she’s still finding secrets and he’s not there to take the blame.

Worse is the thought that she chose to stay with him, chose the lies and the strangeness because it was Noah, and a life with Noah and danger was leaps and bounds better than a life without either.

But now Noah’s gone, and the secrets are all she has left.

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.” ~Kenji Miyazawa

Heat permeates the car against all her efforts to get the air conditioner working and the radio keeps frizzing out on them until Lyle shuts it off with a quick, impatient motion, and she supposes that’s better than staring out the window without a word the way he’s been doing. Eight hours of driving with only a handful of stops (because everyone needs to stretch their legs sometimes, don’t they Mr. Muggles? Yes they do), and she’s tempted to ask Claire to take the wheel just so she can get a short nap. But Claire’s been as quiet as Lyle since she finished shouting (and good Lord, she’d never thought her daughter was quite that dramatic), and there’s no guarantee she wouldn’t wake up to find they were on their way back to California.

The silence spins between them and it’s so strange, because Noah was always the quiet one listening to their stories (and he’d always been a good listener, since the first time she met him), and now he’s gone it seems like they’ve got nothing left to talk about. Lyle and Claire aren’t even fighting with each other and she isn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved- she doesn’t have the energy to deal with their bickering but it’d be nice to have something normal to hold onto.

But then, the past three days have been so far beyond normal that she’s not sure she would recognize it anymore.

The first time Noah took her to a company party she’d been so nervous she nearly didn’t make it out of the car. It was just so—overwhelming, with the lights and the music and all those people, and he’d only just gotten the job and she’d always been terrible at names and oh, God, she’d never been to anything that fancy in her life.

But Noah promised to stay by her side all night (and he really did try, and he only left her alone for ten minutes while they were sorting something out), and everyone was so kind to her, and they didn’t seem to mind at all when she fumbled the names (and they had such strange names too! All first names and last names but never the two together).

New Years Eve and Noah was back in time for the countdown, and he kissed right there on the dance floor in front of his entire office, and she knew she was probably redder than a tomato when he let her go but he was smiling that shy little smile and nobody seemed to be watching, so she supposed that was all right.

Sometimes she wonders if he knew, then, just what he was getting into.

She doesn’t know how the first check finds them. She’s gotten rid of everything she can that might connect their new address to the one in Costa Verde, and they’ve changed their name again (Hartford this time, and she hopes it’ll be the last because she’s not sure this family can survive another), but still there’s an envelope in her hands that’s addressed to her maiden name, and she’s terrified. She almost cuts herself with the letter opener her hands are shaking so badly, and when she finally gets it open her legs give out right there in the entryway.

“Sandra— I hope this is never necessary, but I promised to keep you safe any way I could—”

Mr. Muggles’ paws are pressing into her thighs and a cold nose is pushing against her face, and she realizes she’s crying so hard she’s hiccupping for air. The letter drifts to the floor and she pulls her wonderful little dog into her lap and sobs over the only man in the world who would plan for a day when his family couldn’t even claim his name.

"Funny thing about families. You think they’ll hang together after a loss. But death doesn’t necessarily unite you.”- Anne Hosansky

*

Three weeks in Salt Lake City, and Lyle’s shouting at her. She’s never seen him so angry, never heard so much frustration, and it’s all about how she can’t run his life, and Claire’s always been their favorite anyway, and he doesn’t care that Dad’s dead!

And she’s yelling after him, and she swore never to scream at her children like this but she’s his mother, after all, and that’s not true, and damn it Lyle come back here! And she knows that everyone deals with grief in different ways but that doesn’t excuse the fact that her son is skipping class and making the rest of them even more miserable with his temper, or that his clothes smell like alcohol and marijuana when he finally comes home (and she doesn’t want to know how he gets it or who he gets it from because there are some things she just can’t deal with).

Three weeks, and Claire’s stopped fighting. She comes to meals and goes to school and does her homework, but she only picks at her food and her teachers are worried that she hasn’t made any friends and her grades are falling. Sandra feels like she’s losing her little girl all over again, but this can’t be fixed with movies and shopping and girl-talk, and the longer it lasts the less sure she is that it can be fixed. Her daughter can heal from any wound but that doesn’t make her invulnerable, and sometimes Sandra wonders if this unbelievable gift is a curse after all.

Her children are twisting away from her and she doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know how to do more than try to talk to them, and hold them, and make sure they have three meals a day and a roof over their heads because God knows they could be so much worse off than they are. She’s tried to keep their lives as normal as she can with school and sports and rules but if they don’t care then there’s nothing she can do.

She feels like her children are leaving her while they’re still in the house, and she’s not sure she can live without them.

She remembers the night Noah brought Claire home, when she thought she’d been handed a little angel, the baby was just that perfect. And Noah was so careful with her, like he thought she might break or explode at any minute, and watching him become a father was just about the most amazing thing she’d ever seen because it wasn’t so much the ways he changed as the ways he didn’t. He was more somehow. More careful, more focused, more Noah, in all the ways that mattered, and more there than he’d been in months. She remembers the crib, and the car seat, and piles of blankets and that new hole in their budget called ‘baby things,’ but she can’t remember painting Claire’s room or the first time he brought her a teddy bear.

She remembers holding Lyle after seven hours of labor and seeing Noah’s face relax in wonder when he held his son for the first time as Claire whined and begged for ‘just one look daddy, please can I see him daddy?’ But she can’t remember Lyle’s first day of school or whether Noah made it to his son’s first grade graduation.

They’re just little things, little pockets of forgetfulness that could happen to anyone, really, but they make her wonder about the things she doesn’t even know she should remember.

She’s taking Mr. Muggles for a walk around the neighborhood (a champion like Mr. Muggles living the life of a common house pet, and it’s just such a shame, isn’t it Mr. Muggles?), and then she’ll start on dinner before the kids get back, and –

–She wakes up in the hospital with Claire clutching her hand tight enough to hurt and Lyle sitting pale-faced in the corner. She tries to smile for them but the gesture makes her temples pound and she has to close her eyes against the pain for a moment. There’s a doctor talking about bruises in her brain and memory loss and a whole long spiel of information that only means that whatever Noah did to her is still a problem and there’s not much they can do about it.

When she opens her eyes there are tears on Claire’s cheeks. She pulls her daughter into a one-armed hug (and oh, God, her hands are shaking so badly) and Claire sobs into the blankets, and then Lyle’s clinging to her other arm saying he’s so sorry and I didn’t mean it mom, I swear I didn’t, and she holds her children close and tells them that everything will be all right, that they’ll get through this, they’ll be okay.

At this point they need the hope so badly that it doesn’t matter if it’s not true.

“The hardest part of faith is the last hour.” -David Wilkerson

There are grey spaces in her mind. They’re small, and scattered, and most of the time she can avoid them. She doesn’t often think about the everyday actions of her life after all, and that’s all that surrounds them. Everyday things like taking Mr. Muggles to the groomer’s and making dinner and doing laundry and buying groceries. Ordinary days when something went wrong, or Noah slipped up, or she saw something strange.

She knows that he was only trying to protect her, that he never meant to hurt her, but all the words in the world can’t change the fact that he still did it. He found someone to reach into her head and take away pieces of her life (of their life), like it was nothing, like they’d never been part of her, and there’s something in her that will never forgive that.

But there’s another part of her, a bigger part, the part that’s held faith through all the lies and business trips and danger and secrets, and that part will always believe in him, no matter what hidden details she finds lurking in their past.

She just wishes he’d believed in her enough to let her remember every minute of it.

25 Heroes icons for your viewing pleasure:

2007-12-26T18:31:01Z

Most pics are from Cautionary Tales, one is from early S1

--Hiro (x3)
--Bennet family (x2)
--Bennet&Sandra (x13)
--Bennet and Claire (x4)
--Sandra and Claire (x2)
--Sandra (x1)

--1 Friends Only banner (hiro)

1.	2.	3.	4.	5.
6.	7.	8.	9.	10.
11.	12	13.	14.	15.
16.	17.	18.	19.	20.
21.	22.	23.	24.	25.

credits in this post

Please comment and credit!

Father's Day (a Lies to Live By fic)

2007-12-22T00:18:51Z

Title: Father’s Day
Series: Lies to Live By (link to “Partners”) -can be read separately-
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Implied Claude/Bennet, baby!Claire, Sandra/Bennet
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/Spoilers: implied slash, less-than-legal adoptions, implied mistreatment of a child (canon), 1x17 and much of volume 2.
Written for: nina_ds in the Morally Grey November Exchange with the prompts: at least some of it to be set during their partnership, pre-shooting; foreshadowing; Claude complaining about American beer.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring and NBC and their affiliates.
Summary: “According to the file, we’ve adopted a healthy little girl: approximately five months old, 17 lbs—”

AN: Heartfelt thanks to fantasticpants, who read at least five drafts of this story and asked the question “Why now?” without which this fic would never have come to be, and to indyhat, who provided both an excellent beta and inspiration.

“And I thought I was special. You’re invulnerable to harm.”

- Rodney Skinner (The Invisible Man), “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen”

The airport wasn’t exactly crowded, but at a gate almost exclusively populated by tired men in drab suits, they were standing out far too much for Claude’s comfort. Not that they were dressed inappropriately (after all, they had had a meeting with Thompson and Nakamura to attend), but the flower-printed blankets and baby-bag just didn’t give off the same impression as a leather briefcase. Not to mention the fact that the baby had screamed for twenty minutes before they’d been able to figure out how to change her nappy.

The hardest part had been convincing Bennet of the fact that, just because only the women’s toilet was fitted with a changing table, that wasn't a sufficient deterrent to stop them using it. Claude figured Bennet’s impression of a new father at the end of his tether was good enough that no-one would care much. And if anyone did, the sight of two grown men fumbling over how to tie a nappy was probably too amusing for them to actually say anything.

And he’d always thought Three Men and a Baby was unrealistic.

Bennet looked like a strong wind could knock him over. Or possibly had knocked him over, repeatedly. He was staring vacantly out the window, apparently ignorant of the fact that his tie was crooked and his hair was sticking up in tufts. The source of his condition lay sleeping in Bennet’s arms. Arms Claude was sure were going to start cramping soon.

He rubbed his hands over his face tiredly and leaned back in the uncomfortable gate-chair, wishing for a footrest. Or at least a cushion.

“So what’re you goin’ to tell her?”

Bennet blinked, turning towards him with still-vacant eyes. “Who?”

Claude raised his eyebrows. “Sandra. You remember, the wife who’s going to be raising this kid with you?”

Bennet blinked again as this idea slowly processed and then glanced down at the child in his arms.

“Fuck.” He said eloquently.

“Oi!” Claude chided, grinning, “innocent ears can hear you, you know.”

Bennet glared at him balefully and Claude leaned forward, reaching out for the bundle of baby and blankets cradled against his partner’s chest.

“Why don’t you let me hold her for a bit? Get yourself a coffee, rejoin the land of the living. And then you c’n think about what to tell Sandra.”

The raw relief in Bennet’s expression made Claude think that the Company might have gone a little too far this time. Even finding themselves unexpectedly alive at the end of the day didn’t merit that much bare emotion.

He leaned closer, sliding out of his chair to improve his reach. The transfer was clumsy, Bennet’s arms tangling with Claude’s elbow and the end of the blanket, and when he finally held the warm little form safely in his arms, Claude was afraid to move. The tiny face wrinkled in a frown for a moment before settling back into the calm lines of sleep, and he let out his breath slowly.

Bennet was smirking at him, which was utterly unfair considering that his own reaction to Nakamura’s demand had been like that of a stuttering goldfish.

“You going to be all right?”

Claude scowled. A stuttering goldfish, he reminded himself, and out of water.

“I haven’t spent my entire life in a cave, rookie. We’ll be fine. Go.”

As soon as Bennet had rounded the corner he relaxed his shoulders and shifted the baby’s weight more securely against his chest. For a moment he’d almost thought Bennet would refuse to give her up.

Thompson had told him to keep an eye on the girl, that they were depending on him to see the first signs of manifestation. He’d also told Claude that in the interest of creating a stable environment for the kid he should break off the extracurricular activities he and his partner had been indulging in.

Claude had agreed.

Of course, Thompson being Thompson, Claude was pretty sure that wasn’t what he’d actually meant. He was also certain that Thompson hadn’t believed him for a second, and with Bennet’s new assignment held carefully in his arms he could feel a noose tightening around his neck, knotting his life ever-more-securely to Bennet’s. To the Company. One false step and he’d hang himself properly.

Because he would never be able to betray a child. Not like this. There were reasons she hadn’t been given to him, he knew. Reasons like the fact that hiding her would be so much easier for him. He was one of them. Affirmative action wasn’t even on the Company’s radar in that respect. And he had an unfortunately well-documented tendency to bend the rules. Bennet didn’t.

“I don’t even know your name,” he murmured, “I haven’t got the slightest idea who you are.” He sank onto the hunk of plastic masquerading as his chair and leaned back cautiously, shifting his arms until one hand was free to trace softly rounded cheeks. “Not even a year old yet, and already the Company owns you. Sorry about that. My fault. But Bennet…. He’s a good man.” He paused, “Your dad’s a good man. He’ll look out for you. And your mum’s gonna love you. She’s fantastic, makes the best chicken parmesan you’ll ever taste. And I—I’ll be there. I promise. You deserve a normal life, don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.”

The baby just turned and snuggled deeper into his shoulder, and Claude was caught between a sudden need to protect and worrying at the insanity implicit in talking to a sleeping infant.

“Should’ve had a drink before that meeting,” he muttered, and belatedly wondered whether alcohol was on the list of things not to mention in the presence of small children.

“I hope you’re worth all this.”

The baby yawned.

Claude sighed and fumbled for the baby-bag zipper with his free hand. There had been a folder involved somewhere along the line that might give some direction on how they were supposed to put this past Sandra. His fingers met the familiar cool texture of manila and he grinned at the predictability of the Company, pulling out the blank file and balancing it on his knee.

“Let’s see…” He flicked it open and slid the first sheet of paper off the pile. “Claire Bennet. No birth record, just a certificate of adoption and medical history. Well, mother’s side anyway.” He frowned as the details of the file slowly came together. “Now that’s interesting.”

“What is?” Bennet leaned over his shoulder and Claude flinched instinctively, hyper-aware of the warm life cradled against his chest.

“Shi--- Da—” Claude sputtered incoherently, “Be careful Bennet, you’re going to wake her up!”

“Hmn.” Bennet ignored him and picked up the papers, studying them intently. Claude glared at him as Bennet slowly navigated the row of plastic benches, weaving distractedly to avoid hazardously placed suitcases. Even when Bennet finally sat down, his attention remained fixed on the file, diverted only to sip at his coffee every few seconds.

“You’re a right bastard, you do know that.”

Bennet’s blank expression was mildly disturbing. “I thought we weren’t swearing around her.”

Claude choked back a retort that was definitely not appropriate for younger audiences and glowered wordlessly for a moment before he felt capable of speaking evenly.

It didn’t help that what he really wanted to do was wipe that distant apathy off Bennet’s face. With hot coffee, if need be.

He forced a smile that was closer to a baring of teeth. “Have you thought of what to tell Sandra yet?”

Bennet shifted his shoulders awkwardly and cleared his throat, ducking his head as if he could disappear into the paperwork.

“According to the file, we’ve adopted a healthy little girl: approximately five months old, 17 lbs—”

“Claire.” Claude interrupted, and Bennet stared at him inquiringly. “Your daughter’s name is Claire.”

“My daughter—” Bennet started,

“—is named Claire,” Claude finished.

Bennet rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Claude, I need you to help me with this.”

“I am helping you, mate. The less you treat this like an assignment, the more likely Sandra is to believe you.”

Bennet was silent for a long moment, absently staring at the papers still lying on his lap.

“She’s never going to believe me. “ He whispered hoarsely.

Claude frowned. “Sure she will. Just tell her you’ve been working on the papers for a while.”

Bennet shook his head. “We’ve been talking about adoption, but we hadn’t made a decision. It takes months to get that paperwork through. Years, sometimes. And there are all kinds of interviews to make sure the couple would be good parents…” He licked his lips and swallowed heavily, “I can’t do this, Claude.”

Shit. The last thing they needed right now was for Bennet to lose his nerve. All the paperwork in the world wouldn’t be enough for the Company to forgive him if he failed this one, and then Claude would be out another partner. Just when things were starting to get comfortable.

“Hey. Bennet look at me.” When Bennet failed to react Claude snapped his fingers in his face. “Oi, rookie, pay attention.” Bennet flinched back, his reactionary glare impeded by confusion, and Claude found himself missing that iron control. He’d gotten used to not having to do the thinking for both of them, used to depending on Bennet being prepared. Dangerous, that. He’d have to break himself of it soon.

“For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together. Sandra may be your wife, but she isn’t a bloody telepath. As long as you keep your story straight, you’ll be fine.”

Bennet raised his eyebrows. “This isn’t exactly a case of blaming misplaced pants on the cleaners, Claude.”

Claude rolled his eyes. “You’re never going to forget that, are you? No, don’t answer that, it doesn’t matter. What matters, is that in this case you have a secret weapon.”

Bennet just stared at him, and Claude sighed in resignation. Thompson was going to be hearing about this. He wanted a raise. Though it took a lot of the satisfaction away when you knew your paycheck was generated by a balding man in sales with an unhealthy affinity for Grecian mythology.

He raised his arms a few inches in demonstration, giving Bennet a pointed look over the bundle of blankets. “You’ve got Claire, mate.”

“I thought that was the problem.”

Claude sneered, exasperated. “Is this a new development, or have you always been this dumb and just covered it better? What, exactly, do you think Sandra is goin’ to do when you put an infant in her arms: say ‘no, take her back’?”

“That’s…” Bennet paused, apparently at a loss for words, his throat working silently.

“What?” Claude smirked, “Morally grey?”

Bennet glared. “This is my wife—”

“Yes! And if you don’t do this properly the Company will make sure that she’s no longer an issue!”

The words were out of his mouth before he thought, before he could register the potential impact on his partner’s fragile little construct of the way things worked.

Bennet’s mouth hung half-open as if frozen, color rapidly shrinking from his face.

“That’s—, You can’t—”

Claude looked away, tucking the pink and green blanket more securely around Claire’s warmth and tracing her sleeping features lightly. This was not a discussion he’d anticipated.

“Don’t you dare threaten my wife Rains.”

Claude snapped his head up sharply. “Oh, open your fucking eyes, Bennet,” he spat, “You think she’s safe? You think you can keep your precious little home-life separate from your job? Well I’ve got news for you mate- there’s no such thing. Not in this company.” He sneered, “Poster boys may get more leniency than most but you’re kidding yourself if you think they wouldn’t touch her.”

Bennet took a steadying breath shakily. “My family, is my business. It’s none of the Company’s concern—”

Claude snorted scornfully. “Haven’t we already had this discussion? Everything in your life is the Company’s concern, remember? Or have you conveniently forgotten the bets on your marriage and the fact that Nakamura handed you a daughter of your very own not five hours ago?” He shook his head, “They own you mate. Just like the rest of us. There is nothing in your life that they can’t touch.”

He let Bennet absorb the words in silence, unsure whether his partner would take him seriously. Somehow, Bennet was always stunned to find out how much of his privacy had been breached by his employers. Claude was only ever surprised by the freedoms left to them.

“He said that they would take her, if she manifested. Nakamura, I mean.” Claude glanced up to find Bennet’s gaze focused on Claire.

“They’ll want you to turn her in.” Claude watched Bennet carefully, “Like Elle.”

“Elle.” Bennet’s expression didn’t waver.

“The little girl with electric hands?”

“I remember.”

Could you do that, friend? Could you stand over a child left in your keeping and order more tests? Could you face Sandra afterward? Could you explain why her little girl flinched at her touch and screamed whenever the lights went off?

Claude pushed the image away and lifted Claire gently, recapturing Bennet’s attention.

“Why don’t you hold her ‘til we board?” he whispered, “You’ll need to get used to it.”

Bennet accepted the child’s weight without protest, staring at her without blinking, and Claude felt a cautious flicker of hope. He tamped it down quickly.

Hope was nigh well useless in their line of work.

“Shhhh, careful there. No one appreciates a screaming baby Claire-bear, not even the pretty ones. Look at that, look at all the colors.”

“Aww, what a darling little thing!”

Claude glanced up from his endeavor of introducing Claire to what a sunset looked like from above to find a stewardess’s interested eyes peering over his shoulder. He grinned, shifting the infant back into the cradle of his arms.

“She can be cute when she wants to be,” he allowed, and the stewardess smiled.

“She’s adorable, and with her daddy’s blue eyes too.”

Claude raised his eyebrows in surprise, though he supposed it was a natural assumption. “Oh, she’s not mine. I’m just playin’ nanny for the moment. My partner’s adopting.” He nodded towards the front of the plane, where Bennet was scribbling half-hatched plans on cheap airline napkins.

The woman frowned. “Your partner?”

“Yeah, been together about eight months now. It’s a bit much to handle an infant on your own, so I’m along for moral support. Isn’t that right Claire-bear?” He bopped Claire’s nose gently, grin widening as she made a wild grab for his finger. Bennet had all but shoved her into his lap as soon as she woke up, looking like a man narrowly escaping the gallows, and Claude had left him to his precious planning without a word.

Looking after Claire was more entertaining anyway, with the added benefit of giving him future blackmail material. The last hour alone had to be worth at least three mission reports, double that if she started crying again.

The woman was gaping at him, apparently struggling to regain her composure.

“And your –partner—is adopting?”

Claude blinked. There was something odd about that sentence. “Yeah,” he affirmed, “his wife couldn’t make the trip.”

“He’s married?”

Claude frowned. “ ’Course he is, why wouldn’t he be?”

A flush of red was climbing over the stewardess’ face, which she quickly covered with embarrassed hands.

“Oh.” Claude felt his eyes widen, “You thought—”the rest of the sentence melted in his throat as she nodded, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t offend—”

Claude laughed. “No, no it’s fine.” He laughed again and shook his head. “We work together. Primatech Paper, sales and recruiting.” He grinned kindly, prompting a self-conscious smile in return, “There’s lots of traveling involved; this is just a special trip.”

Claire gurgled, waving her hands happily, and the stewardess seemed grateful for the change in topic.

“Well, you’re sweet with her. She’s certainly a lot calmer than the baby on our last flight. He screamed the entire trip, poor thing.”

“No, don’t say that! You might give her ideas.” Claude’s half-mockingly horrified expression only made the woman laugh.

The plane jerked, suddenly, forcing Claude to stumble back and brace himself against the wall. Claire’s face screwed up at the sudden movement and a thin wail tore through the background of idle chatter and churning engines, growing in volume with every second. Claude bent over her hurriedly, trying to comfort her through the crackle of the pilot’s announcement.

Apologies for the disturbance ladies and gentlemen—

“Shhhh. It’s okay Claire-bear, it’s okay. It’s just a bit of turbulence, nothing to worry about—”

— request that all passengers please return to their seats—

“Work with me here love, your dad’ll never let me hear the end of it—”

“Here, let me.” Before Claude could register what was happening the stewardess had lifted Claire out of his arms and was rocking her against her uniformed chest, singing softly.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”

Claire calmed slowly, aided no doubt, by the plane’s continuing steadiness. Soon she hiccupped into reassuring silence. Claude watched carefully, and then she was being gently returned to him with a murmured “you should return to your seat now.” He cradled her weight against his chest and carefully edged into the aisle, wary of any sudden movement that might disturb Claire.

Bennet was still studying scraps of paper when he reached their seats.

“What, no hello kiss?” Claude teased, “Here I am, lookin’ after your daughter free of charge, and bein’ mistaken for your domestic partner, I might add, and you can’t even muster a proper greeting?”

Bennet ignored him, mouthing silent speeches to himself, and Claude scowled. Usually he got at least an impatient glare. On a good day Bennet might drag him into the nearest room with a lock on the door, but Claude wasn’t holding his breath. Infants had a tendency to render the mile-high club a moot point.

“No seriously friend, I can’t sit down if you don’t take her for a minute.”

Bennet stared at him for a moment, calculating, before he offered his arms. As soon as Claire was resting snugly against his partner’s chest, Claude squeezed into his seat and leaned back into the cheap upholstery, stretching his arms over his head with a groan.

“Mmmn. Something so small has no right to be that heavy. I think mothers must have special muscles built in.” He could feel Bennet’s eyes on him. 27 missions with the rookie and he knew Bennet was always watching. And always for different reasons. He let his hands dangle over the back of his seat and closed his eyes, waiting. He’d found that Bennet was surprisingly impatient when he wanted something.

“Are you going to take her back?” Flat, irritated words, right on cue.

Claude smirked. “No, I don’t think so mate. You looked like you could use some inspiration.” Claire gurgled and he cracked his eyes open to see her playing with her hands, Bennet staring down at her, dumbfounded. For a moment, Claude could actually imagine them as a family. But then Bennet’s expression closed, and he was the Company’s lapdog again.

“I need to work on what to tell Sandra.”

Claude raised his eyebrows at the flippant edge on that statement.

“Yes, you do,” he agreed, “but since you’re going to forget it all the minute your pretty wife turns those big blue eyes on you, you may as well practice acting like you actually want the kid.”

Bennet pursed his lips thoughtfully, gaze darting between his partner and his daughter.

“What makes you think I don’t want her?”

“You’ve been givin’ her over to me any chance you get; that’s hardly a sign of an eager father, mate.” Claude folded his arms across his chest uncomfortably under Bennet’s assessing eyes and stared resolutely at the seat-back in front of him. If Bennet really didn’t want Claire he’d have to make sure Sandra accepted her anyway, or Thompson would want to know why.

“You’re good with her.” Bennet said factually, and Claude buried his hands further ’round his ribs, tucking his chin into his chest stubbornly. This line of conversation could only lead to more involvement in Bennet’s life than he already had, and he couldn’t afford to get attached. More attached.

Never mind that if the invitation were offered, he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

“You’d be a better father than I would be. You already put her interests before your own—”

“She’s just a child Noah,” Claude interrupted, whispering harshly. “Do you understand that? She just a kid who’s lost her parents, an’ do you know why?”

He held Bennet’s eyes evenly, willing him to understand.

“Because of us,” he finished. “Because we went in there and ballsed things up and brought her burning house down around her.” It was a chancy thing, he knew, to bait Bennet this way. You couldn’t work for the Company if you made decisions based on guilt, it was too dangerous, but Bennet had his own code of checks and balances. And he valued a job well done.

Claire started crying and the moment splintered as Bennet’s attention was dragged to the squalling bundle in his arms, tired dismay etching lines around his eyes and mouth. Claude sighed resignedly and reached under the seat for the baby bag.

“She’s probably hungry. I’ll see if I can get a bottle warmed up.”

Bennet didn’t reply, too busy soothing his daughter with quiet words and coaxing hands to notice his partner’s departure.

Claire only quieted as they exited the airport. No sooner had they gotten her fed and calmed than they’d started to lose altitude, and she’d found the change in pressure objectionable. Bennet’s mouth was pinched with exhaustion, his clothes wrinkled and baby drool smeared over his collar. Claude was sure he didn’t look any better, tie undone and jacket stained with drool and tears and the cup of cola Claire had upset with one of her wilder protestations. The pull to just disappear was almost as overwhelming as his headache, and another frantic nappy-change as soon as they’d left the plane hadn’t improved matters. He thought Bennet might use his tranquilizer on the next woman to coo over the child.

“Do you want to drive, or should I?” Christ, he even sounded worn thin, his voice nearly cracking.

Bennet closed his eyes wearily. “I’ll drive,” He croaked, “if you’ll hold Claire.”

Claude nodded and accepted the armful without comment. She stared up at him innocently, as though she hadn’t made the last hour one of the more exhausting of his life.

“Don’t give me that look, little miss. I know you.” A curious hand reached for his nose and he jerked his head back reflexively. Bennet snorted.

“Come on. The sooner we get to Odessa, the sooner we can get this over with.”

Claude watched through half-lidded eyes as Bennet load their bags, too tired to comment on the jumble of luggage in the back seat, even if it was unusually chaotic for his partner’s organized efficiency. He was just glad to be able to rest Claire’s weight on his lap a bit; he could swear she’d grown exponentially heavier over the course of the afternoon.

“It’s never goin’ to be over, you know.”

Bennet glanced over quickly, most of his attention on the length of highway in front of them. “What do you mean?”

Claude watched Claire curl her tiny hand around his finger, tugging away gently when she tried to stick it in her mouth.

“Well, it’s not exactly bag and tag, is it? There’s not some bit of paperwork you sign off on and file away- she’s a child. She’ll grow up, probably outlive you. She’s part of your life for as long as you live, every minute of it.” Claire now seemed to be trying to eat her own hand. He pulled it away from her mouth, wincing at the trail of saliva that followed as she gurgled at him.

Bennet sighed, exasperated. “Thank you, Claude. I really needed that image of my life as one long, never-ending assignment. I’m sure it will be very useful.”

Claude’s lips tilted into a tired grin. “Your thanks is duly noted. You can repay me with a drink. At this point even that piss you call beer sounds appealing. ”

Bennet chuckled. “If Sandra ever lets me out of the house again we’ll find a bar.”

Claire’s desire to eat her blanket successfully thwarted, Claude took his gaze off her to watch Bennet for a moment, biting the inside of his lip.

“We could always just stop by the shop and crash at my flat,” he offered, finally.

Bennet’s eyes darted over at him quickly, then refocused on the road. Claude waited, the seconds dragging as scenery whipped by.

“It’s a possibility,” Bennet finally allowed, and Claude sighed. He hadn’t really expected anything else; Bennet was a paranoid bastard almost by definition.

“It’s a possibility that you were switched with a bloody robot at birth,” he muttered, “in fact, it’d explain a few things.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

The conversation was abandoned as they pulled onto familiar neighborhood streets, silence settling heavily and bringing apprehension with it, dark anticipation wrapping long fingers around his chest. Claude pulled Claire closer and made himself breathe slowly. For all the assurances he’d passed on to Bennet, there was still a chance that Sandra wouldn’t accept their story. And if the girl didn’t have a family the Company might just take her anyway, ability or no.

What they did to the people he brought in, what they’d done to little Elle, to him… he couldn’t let that happen. Not to Claire.

The car shuddered to a halt and they sat quietly for a moment, Bennet staring blankly out the window, probably counting the steps to his front door. Claude fiddled nervously with the corner of Claire’s blanket.

“You ready for this?” he finally asked, not taking his gaze from the girl’s questioning eyes. The creaking pop of the driver’s door opening was the only reply he received.

“Oi!” He pushed his own door open with a foot and stepped out carefully, turning to shout over the car’s roof, “Rookie, hold up a minute will you?”

Bennet stopped halfway up the front walk, shoulders hunched defensively in the long shadows of twilight. Claude thought he looked more like a man off to face his own death than the new father he was supposed to be.

“I think you better hold her, less chance of a mix-up.”

Bennet’s lips parted as if to speak, then closed as he nodded. “You’ll stay?” he asked, Claire held safely to his chest.

“ ’Course I’ll stay mate; you think I’d let you go in there alone after all this?”

“Okay.” Bennet nodded and cleared his throat, “Okay, let’s go.”

They approached the short porch together, Claude darting glances to the side every few steps to make sure Bennet was still with him and not running for the hills. He rang the doorbell without waiting for his partner’s approval.

The image of traveling child-salesmen danced at the front of his mind and he had to bite back what felt suspiciously like a nervous giggle. The twitch of his lip disappeared as the doorknob turned.

“Noah?” Blonde curls poked around the door, blue eyes widening in surprise as Sandra pushed the door the rest of the way open. “What’s going on? Why are you just standing out here like—” Her eyes lighted on the bundle of blankets in her husband’s arms and she trailed off softly.

“Sandra, I—” Bennet froze, mouth half-open with forgotten words, and Claude watched them carefully. If Bennet couldn’t pull this off…

Two steps and Claire was resting in Sandra’s arms, doing the best impression of adorable innocence Claude had ever seen. Sandra seemed caught between surprise and worry, lines creasing her forehead as her mouth hung slack.

“What—”

“She’s ours, Sandra.” Bennet interrupted, “She— I have the adoption papers.”

Sandra’s astonished gaze returned to her husband, and Claude could see a handful of curls clutched in one baby fist.

“Adoption papers… Noah—”

“Her parents died in the fire in Kermit a few weeks ago;” Bennet continued stubbornly, “they were looking for a family in the area and… and our name came up and….” The words ground to a halt as Sandra continued to stare, speechless.

“Her name’s Claire,” Bennet finished desperately, and Claire gurgled happily at her name, tugging on the captured hair.

Slowly, Sandra looked down at the child in her arms. “Claire,” she murmured softly, “you poor little thing… I think,” she stepped back slowly, “I think I need to sit down.”

Bennet rushed to guide her through to the sitting room, settling beside her on the sofa and holding her shoulders gently. Claude stood just inside the doorway, watching his partner spin tales of half-truths and white lies while Sandra nodded, surprise slowly giving way to joy.

There was a yip near his ankles and Claude glanced down to find Sandra’s little toy poodle sniffing at his trouser cuff. It stared up at him imploringly and barked, sharply.

Claude looked back to the sofa, the family huddled closer now as Sandra cooed over her new daughter and Bennet looked on, smiling softly.

“You ’n me both friend.” The dog attacked his shoes and Claude sighed and crouched down to rub its ears and save his laces. Soon they would need to unload the car and think about things like high-seats and cribs and strollers and tiny little outfits. Claude would have to remind Bennet that they had work in the morning, that Thompson would expect a written report, that they’d want Claire in for regular checkups these first few weeks. Soon he’d have to return to his flat, alone.

He pushed the thoughts away and watched Bennet kiss Sandra’s hair as she traced thin finger over Claire’s cheek in wonder.

And he tried to convince himself that this invisibility was only temporary.

Possibly the best website ever:

2007-11-14T20:15:19Z

So, it's been a really long time (again). But school ate my life and I really haven't had much to say that wasn't complaints about professors and classes. But! the semester is almost over and I've started writing again, so this journal is not dead yet ^^. In fact I'll probably be posting some recs in the next few days, but for now I just have one thing to say.

You should go to this website, and practice your vocabulary.

This is a website dedicated to ending world hunger: for every word you get right, it donates 10 grains of rice to the United Nations World Food Program. Not only is this a fantastic cause, but it's fun too ^^. And slightly addictive, last night, I got up to 2,000. It's a simple way to make the world just a little bit better in your free time, and they have some really interesting words too! :D

41 Heroes Icons

2007-06-03T03:29:43Z

A lot of image repeats- I was mostly experimenting with different tools and spacings. Six pictures for 41 icons. I need to do something more productive.

Bennet & Claire (x16)
Nathan/Adrian Pasdar (x12)
Peter/Milo Ventimiglia (x13)

Credits in this post

Bennet & Claire:

1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8
9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16

Nathan/Adrian:

17	18	19	20
21	22	23	24
25	26	27	28

Peter/Milo:

29	30	31	32
33	34	35	36
37	38	39	40

Please comment if you like them/ snag them.
Credit if used.

Kisses meme drabbles

2007-05-25T00:44:43Z

Because I apparently can't write anything under 250 words. *laughs* So hey! separate post. And sheesh! You guys think I can write anything! (especially the really twisted ones, I'm noticing..... any reason for that? xP)
Link to the original "first kisses" meme here

Ratings for all probably hover around PG13, but we'll put them at 'R' for some of the "themes"

#1- for betterthanlegos
Warnings: Slash (Sylar/Mohinder), spoilers for 1x23 "How to Stop an Exploding Man"

Set following the finale, in Mohinder's apartment.
_____________________________________

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

A bloody grin, lips stained and cracked.

“You should know, Mohinder. I don’t die so easily.”

Mohinder swallowed nervously.

“I saw it. They killed you; Hiro Nakamura ran a sword through you!”

Sylar grabbed his shoulder and Mohinder flinched reflexively, gritting his teeth as the murderer sidled closer, staring arrogantly from under hooded brows.

“You, of all people, know appearances can be deceiving.”

They stood in silence, waiting. Watching.

“Why are you here?” Mohinder whispered hoarsely, and Sylar smirked.

“Don’t play dumb Mohinder. We both know why.”

He glared defensively.

“You’re a monster.” The smirk widened.

“And you’re a scientist. Aren’t you tired of that game yet?”

Fingers gestured carelessly and Mohinder couldn’t move, frozen as dirt-blackened hands pulled at his hair, yanking his head back. He watched Sylar’s attention move to the side for a moment, unfocused, before his gaze was returned with a leer.

“I have an experiment for you, professor.”

Hot breath huffed over his face and Mohinder closed his eyes in an effort to still his churning innards and erratic heartbeat, swallowing the last of his saliva as a low laugh tickled his lips.

“I hope you’re paying attention.” The words whispered mockingly before rough lips pressed against his own, a tongue that tasted of salt and copper sliding between them slickly as fingers twisted in his hair, hard. The power that held him vanished, but still he couldn't move, caught in a moment that he should've ended, but couldn't

He was trapped. And he always had been.
____________________________________________________________

#2- for c_quinn

Warning: Slash (Sylar/Peter), AU end to 1x18 "Parasite"

Set in Mohinder's apartment, the end of "Parasite"
______________________________________

“You’re like me, aren’t you?”

Sylar can see fear in the wide whites of Peter’s eyes, can hear terror in his heartbeat and the scrabble of desperate fingers over the thin paint of Mohinder’s apartment. He turns Peter’s head to one side, then the other, more to prolong the moment than out of necessity- he already knows what this power is.

“I’d like to see how that works.”

He raises a hand and watches his victim try to seep into the wall in anticipation of the pain, his grin growing as his every move draws another flinch and he hasn’t even started yet.

He lowers his hand and sneers.

“You disappoint me Peter Petrelli. I expected more of a challenge. Something fantastic even. All those powers locked inside your brain, waiting to be used, and here you are, pinned and twitching. You’re just like the rest of them. Insignificant. You don’t deserve that gift.”

Peter spits at him. Sylar watches the effort fall to the rough floorboards fruitlessly and laughs.

“Is that the best you can do? I can do better.”

“You’re a murderer.”

He sneers, stepping close enough to smell the lingering scent of blood on Peter’s face.

“I’m the next step in evolution, and once I absorb your ability no one will be able to stop me.”

He tugs on those too-long bangs mockingly, flashes a grin with too many teeth to be anything other than predatory, and Peter squirms.

“Get away from me.” The words growled, low and menacing, and Sylar just moves closer, until he can feel every aborted movement as Peter tries to break free.

“Make me.” He whispers it, taunting.

Peter struggles as Sylar edges nearer, too close now to look anywhere but each other’s faces. And Sylar smiles as he leans even closer and presses their lips together, biting hard enough to draw blood and licking it away, squeezing Peter’s jaw to force his mouth open and nearly gagging him with his tongue.

He’s won now.

Peter can never take this back from him.
_______________________________________

#3- for tju_tju_tju_tju

Warnings: erm.. fluff? Not really slash (I couldn't pass up the opportunity to do young!Peter and Nathan).

December 1980, the Petrelli household.
________________________________

Nathan was 19, home for Christmas, and Peter was 7, giddy with anticipation and too many candy canes. For a week after he got back to New York, all their parents talked about was Nathan’s time at college, asking how his classes had gone, how he thought he’d done on his finals, whether he was fitting in and meeting the ‘right kind of people.’

Peter’d gotten tired of it and started interrupting with stories of the boy in his class who always won the races at recess, and the girl who always read in class but still knew the answers. He talked about his teacher (whom they were informed was pregnant), and the Presidential physical fitness tests he could never get right because he couldn’t do enough pull-ups.

After Peter chattered about the first-grade kickball tournament for an entire meal their father banned him from the dinner table for a week. Nathan had never seen his brother so cowed, but his mother brushed it of as a stage he’d grow out of- Nathan had, after all.

When their parents decided they didn’t need Peter potentially interrupting Christmas Eve service, Nathan offered to stay with him. It’d give him a chance to catch up on the last four months, he insisted, and that way they could go to that party they’d been talking about all week too.

Peter was thrilled. As soon as the door closed he was begging for piggy-back rides and asking if they could have ice cream as a snack. He wanted to play video games and slide down the banister and pretend he was flying and watch movies until midnight. And when Nathan hesitated Peter grabbed his hand and tugged him willfully, chattering with every step, to the game room where he promptly shoved a controller in his older brother's lap.

As soon as Nathan figured out how the game worked and started winning he put in a movie- more to avoid a tantrum than any real desire to see Pete’s Dragon another time. Within half an hour Peter was dozing on his shoulder, though he moaned in protest when Nathan started gathering limp limbs to carry the boy to his room.

“Come on Pete, time for bed.”

Peter was quiet until they reached his bed, but when Nathan tried to move him to it he hung on stubbornly, twisting Nathan’s shirt in small hands.

“Peter you need to get some sleep, okay?”

Peter shook his head into Nathan’s chest.

“Come on. The sooner you go to bed the sooner Santa’ll come.”

“But I don’t need Santa.” The words were mumbled into the region of his sternum. Nathan raised his eyebrows.

“Why’s that?”

“ ’cause you’re here.”

Nathan chuckled softly.

“Is that right? Well how ‘bout this: If you go to bed right now, we can get waffles in the morning. How’s that?”

Peter’s grin glinted up at him in the dim light from the hall.

“You’re the best brother in the whole world!”

Thin arms wrapped around his neck and just as Nathan was about to try moving Peter to the bed again, a big wet kiss hit him straight on the lips.

He didn’t even have time to process it before Peter wriggled out of his lap and under the covers, pulling them up to his neck and closing his eyes in the pretense of sleep.

Nathan smiled, brushed Peter’s hair off his face, and delivered the more conventional kiss to the forehead.

“Goodnight Peter.”

________________________________________________________

#4- for indyhat

Warnings: Slash (Peter/Claude), mentions of abuse (in the usual Peter and Claude way), 1x12 "Unexpected" through 1x15 "Run!".

Set before "Unexpected" and after "Godsend," The Devaux roof.
_________________________________________________

It’s not part of the plan. The plan is to go to the roof with Claude and be hit with whatever’s handy until some ‘ability’ is knocked out of him. The plan is to stop from exploding and find a way to save the world.

The plan, Peter decides, has gone to hell. Because the sun hasn’t even risen yet and he’s being shoved into a wall, Claude’s fist digging into his neck uncomfortably as the man tries to force the supernatural out of Peter’s body while still unconsciously respecting the unwritten rule against loud noises before 6 am. And all Peter can think about is how close Claude is, and what he would do if Peter just- slipped- and their mouths landed together. Because Claude might be an arrogant bastard who treats him like an incompetent idiot, but he’s a fucking charismatic arrogant bastard, and being constantly in his presence for a week has begun to do strange things to Peter’s nerves.

Thirty minutes later and Peter’s decided that, since Claude’s already killed him a few times over, there really isn’t much of a risk.

But then it doesn’t matter, because Claude’s the one that’s tripped over backwards, pulling Peter with him, and after the jolt of hitting the ground Peter realizes his mouth is pressed uncomfortably against Claude’s cheekbone. It’s a small move to find the strange tickle of beard and trace it to lips ready to shout at him, if it was just an hour later. He dusts butterfly kisses over Claude’s mouth experimentally before pressing a soft kiss to those lips, and another, when the first fails to get any response- positive or negative. Then Claude shifts his head slightly and pulls Peter’s bottom lip between his own, and Peter closes his eyes and stops worrying as cold-chapped lips mingle with warm breath and wet mouths.

Peter only realizes he’s braced himself on Claude’s shoulders when hands brush against his ribs, cautious at first, and then warm anchors for a handful of seconds before he’s pushed up and away.

Claude stands and walks to the other side of the roof while Peter’s still reminding himself that his legs work. For a moment he’s afraid Claude’s leaving- that this latest mistake, no matter how well received, will lead to the end of their strange lessons.

But then Claude’s staring at him, brows arched condescendingly.

“C’mon Petrelli. Break time’s over, we’ve got work to do.”

And Peter smiles.
___________________________________________________________

#5 for fantasticpants

Warnings: a bit of crack, Primatech, and Mr. Nakamura (who deserves a warning all his own), not-really-slash (Bennet/Nakamura-san... because fantasticpants is insane.)

Primatech office party, Primatech Paper Company
_______________________________________

“Standard procedure rookie.”

Bennet stares.

“You’re joking.”

Claude shakes his head with a cocky grin.

“Nope.”

“You want me to go in there and-” He gestures vaguely and Claude claps a hand to his shoulder, turning him to the doorway.

“Yep.”

Bennet turns to Thompson, who simply regards him with the same mildly-pleased expression that seems eternally plastered to his face. He wonders for a moment whether that’s another Company policy, though if it is Claude isn’t complying.

“And you’ve both done this?”

Claude shrugs dismissively.

“Well, I got a bit lucky- they didn’t hire me until after Easter and there were plenty of new recruits between then and New Years to take the honor.”

He hesitates, stalling as he tries to determine whether his partner’s playing a joke, but Claude just stares smugly, challenging.

“You’re sure.”

“I c’n guarantee he won’t pull out a sword and chop you into tiny pieces, yeah.”

Bennet doesn’t trust the lingering smile on Claude’s face but the countdown to midnight’s about to start and he can’t waste any more time. He walks slowly towards the doorway, barely hearing Claude’s yell of “Just think of it as your first solo mission!”

Mission. That works.

Scan the room for the target. Locate. Approach cautiously. Engage in friendly conversation.

“Nakamura-san.” He bows; probably too low, probably too fast, but Nakamura just nods.

“Bennet.”

He tries to think of something to say- because this is usually Claude’s role, he’s barely met anyone else in the company the last month, and the countdown starts.

Four, three, two- deep breath-

“Happy New Years, Nakamura-san”

It’s barely a brush of lips before he pulls away hurriedly to catch the barest hint of a smile at the edges of Nakamura’s mouth.

“Welcome to Primatech Mr. Bennet.” He nods over Bennet’s shoulder.

“And tell your partner he’s no good to us if he asphyxiates himself, will you?”

Bennet turns to find Claude clutching a smiling Thompson’s shoulder as he wheezes with laughter. He scowls at them.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll tell him.”

__________________________________________________

~fin~

Meme: kisses

2007-05-24T21:04:46Z

Snagged from c_quinn who snagged it from betterthanlegos (and the list goes on, I'm sure)

Comment with two characters I write [or you think I could/should write], and I'll ~~tell you or~~ write a drabble about their first kiss.
Hopefully I will be able to retain 'drabble' status....

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