with a violin and a song to sing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
origamiflowers) wrote2008-12-29 11:05 pm
origamiflowers) wrote2008-12-29 11:05 pm
Entry tags:
fic: Heroes: "In Jericho's Shadow" - Peter, Claire
Title: "In Jericho's Shadow"
Fandom: Heroes
Characters, Pairings: Peter, Claire
Genre: Gen, canon AU
Spoilers: 3x04, "I Am Become Death"
Rating: PG13 (swearing)
Word Count: 1679
Notes: For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
heroes_contest prompt "Biblical," and for the prompt "Faith" of my sacred_20 claim (full table here). Set in the alt!future of 3x04 "I Am Become Death." Peter circles Claire, waiting for her walls to tumble down.
"Gonna save the world, Peter?" she drawls.
She doesn't look at him the way she used to. She doesn't look at him like he's special, like he's one of the good guys, like he's totally her hero - not anymore.
Instead, the look in her eyes is edged with glass, sharp and broken. Look out for those edges, he thinks dumbly, remembering Nathan's words, when he was just a kid, when he broke something and all that happened was a scolding and a broom to sweep everything away.
"Peter, I can't believe you were so careless with this vase," Nathan tells him, holding up a ceramic shard from the gold-leafed lip of the vase, point-up. He looks like Peter's hero, all of twenty-two - freshly graduated from college - and all ten-year-old Peter can do is look to the ground, scuff his toe against the carpet rug, deep blue. It reminds him of the sky at night, when he looks at the stars and tries to name them all.
"Nathan, I was gonna fly," Peter whines, stamping one foot. He doesn't tell his parents stuff like this anymore, because he's learned that talking about flying will only get him in trouble with Ma and Dad, that he'll just hear "People can't fly, Peter," from one or the other or both of them and then they'll have hushed arguments behind closed doors. But Nathan's his brother. "I was gonna save you."
Nathan gives him a stern look. "Save me from what, Peter? I'm perfectly fine."
Nathan glances up at a sound and Peter turns quickly, anticipating one of their parents coming home. But it's just the nanny, and his brother's hand lands heavily on his shoulder. Peter always pays attention when Nathan talks.
"Buddy, you have to be more careful." Nathan passes a hand over his forehead, kneeling on the wood floor. "Look, I'm just gonna tell Ma it was the maid or something. If she notices it's gone. Just promise me you'll be more careful in the future, okay? Now we have to pay for another vase. Now help me clean up this mess, okay?"
("In the future" – it had held so much promise, then.)
Peter goes to step over the remains of the vase, and Nathan says, catching his elbow, "Peter, watch out for those edges. They're real sharp. You could get hurt."
Peter knows better now. Now he knows there's some situations that can't be paid for with crisp bills, fresh from the bank. Not everything that's broken can be fixed. And not every pain can be avoided.
But, he still hopes, some things can be made better, at least. It's the only thing that keeps him going these days. Maybe it won't be the Garden of fucking Eden, but it could be better than this shithole of a world.
"I don't know," he says, honestly. "I think so."
Her face darkens, tightens, lines drawn harsh. "That's what you think, Peter. Trust me, it's better this way."
"Better what way? Better like neighbors killing each other over lawn-gnome disputes? Better like multinational corporations in search of profit being the ones in charge of the scope of everyone's lives?"
She shakes her head, the gun steady in her hand. She's not a cheerleader anymore, he realizes. He knew that before, literally, but it is only now that he realizes who she is: a true-blue company girl. Not his Claire, bright and spilling over with adoration for her superhero uncle, not anymore. Maybe, though, maybe that hope is still there, hiding underneath her skin. It's his only chance to save her.
"Don't be stupid, Peter." Her voice trembles but her body doesn't. "You think things were better before? When random chance controlled who got powers and who didn't? That system produced Sylar, remember? Now, things are different. There's no more Sylars, anymore, Peter, don't you see? We're building a whole new system. It's gonna work better, this time around." Her voice twangs with the sound of Texas (tahm) when she gets upset – that, at least, hasn't changed.
He advances a step toward her, just one. He holds his hands up in the universal "surrender" position, even though it's just a charade. She knows he's not defenseless; they both know who's in control here. "I'm sorry for what Sylar did to you," he says quietly, and she looks away at the sight of his sympathy. "I'm sure it was awful."
"You don't know anything," she chokes out. But he can hear her thoughts, as she conjures up the memory of that day helplessly: how her skull was split open, how the blood streaming down her face was hot and sticky and tasted like newly minted pennies, how it hurt enough that she'd prayed for death, a mercy killing, an angel of the Lord to strike her down. How she never wants to feel helpless. How she never wants to wait for her salvation by a hero ever again.
He sees her shame, always threatening to rise in her throat like burning bile.
"Stop it!" she yells, waving the gun at him. "Stop reading my mind!"
"I'm not," he lies quickly. "I'm not. It's just - Claire, this isn't about you. Maybe evolution wasn't the best, but is the Company better? Is the Company choosing good people? Are they doing good in people's lives?"
She takes three steps, is only a few feet away. "They're doing better."
"What about Knox? I've seen you with him." He neglects to mention that this is due to the fact that he's been following her, invisible. "He a good guy, Claire? He saving the world?" He knows the answer is no, can see in her mind a memory rushing to the surface - Knox killing (she doesn't want to think the word murdering) a family of four, including a little kid (no more than eleven, Claire was sure, as she watched, her fear rendering her useless) - and her horror and revulsion as blood paints the staircase of a house he doesn't know with ragged red spatters. This, he knows, is his best chance. He latches onto it.
"The Company hurts innocent people. They don't care who gets in the way," he says quietly. "You know that, I know that, hell - the Company knows it."
Her mouth flattens into a thin line, her cheekbones sharp and prominent. (He wonders, briefly, how she's been eating.) "That's not true." But he can see doubt wavering in her ocean-blue eyes.
"The Company has its own agenda." He has to press his advantages while he still has them; he assumes a relaxed posture, like he's not defending himself from her, like they're not fighting. And he can see her relax in response, at least a minuscule amount. That's right. Just two rational adults having a normal discussion. That's all this is.
"They don't care about people. They're not interested in helping people or improving anything. I know you know that, Claire, deep down. When they've accomplished whatever they're trying to do, what do you think they're going to do with you? What do you think they'll do with you, Claire?" He softens his expression. "You're a danger to them."
"I'm no danger to them." She spits out the words, and he can see self-loathing clearly outlined on her face. "I'm just the girl who's gonna live forever. I have to take a gun with me everywhere." But she's not pointing it at him; she's lowered it to her side.
"I can't just keep watching, you know? I have to do something, Peter, do anything."
"Even if it's the wrong thing?" he asks softly.
She swallows, hard. "Anything," she repeats, "anything. It doesn't matter what side I'm on or who I'm working for or who I'm hunting down. All that matters is that I'm not anyone's victim anymore. I'm an agent."
"You're different than them. I know you." He cups her elbows gently, looks down into her face (not rosy anymore, just pale, lined by varying shades of night-blue). Her golden curls spill over the shoulders of her glossy, Company-issue uniform. "You were meant for something better than this. You're supposed to help people."
But this is the wrong thing to say. In the span of a second, her expression shifts from doubtful to something harder and more cynical. "I'm supposed to save the world, right? Like you?"
She doesn't want to be an idealist, doesn't want to be mistaken for the air-headed blonde believing the best of everyone, doesn't want to be seen as naïve. It's only another way for her to be taken advantage of (because everyone wants something from Claire - good or bad, it doesn't matter, everyone's always taking).
He sees intent forming in her mind and knows, even before it happens, that she's going to point her gun at his side and shoot him in the gut.
He lets her.
The gun cocks and fires, with a report unnaturally loud in the silence of the dim alley, and he feels pain blooming in his side. His fingers trace over the edge of the ragged wound - wine-dark blood spilling between his fingertips - as he falls to his knees in front of her, like a worshiper before the altar.
He looks up. On her face is an expression of savage triumph.
"You're pathetic, Peter." Her voice is hard.
But she can't kill him. At least, not yet. The knowledge passes between them silently, in their shared gazes.
He's no Christ, but he makes this sacrifice for her: he doesn't try to hurt her in retaliation, doesn't take an eye for an eye, even as he hears the bullet fall to the concrete with a clang and feels the wound knit itself up and the pain fade.
"This isn't over, Claire," and he knows his quiet voice carries to her even as she's walking away. "You're not one of them. You have a destiny."
Claire doesn't turn back, just calls over her shoulder in a tired voice, "There's no such thing as destiny."
Fandom: Heroes
Characters, Pairings: Peter, Claire
Genre: Gen, canon AU
Spoilers: 3x04, "I Am Become Death"
Rating: PG13 (swearing)
Word Count: 1679
Notes: For the
heroes_contest prompt "Biblical," and for the prompt "Faith" of my sacred_20 claim (full table here). Set in the alt!future of 3x04 "I Am Become Death." Peter circles Claire, waiting for her walls to tumble down."Gonna save the world, Peter?" she drawls.
She doesn't look at him the way she used to. She doesn't look at him like he's special, like he's one of the good guys, like he's totally her hero - not anymore.
Instead, the look in her eyes is edged with glass, sharp and broken. Look out for those edges, he thinks dumbly, remembering Nathan's words, when he was just a kid, when he broke something and all that happened was a scolding and a broom to sweep everything away.
"Peter, I can't believe you were so careless with this vase," Nathan tells him, holding up a ceramic shard from the gold-leafed lip of the vase, point-up. He looks like Peter's hero, all of twenty-two - freshly graduated from college - and all ten-year-old Peter can do is look to the ground, scuff his toe against the carpet rug, deep blue. It reminds him of the sky at night, when he looks at the stars and tries to name them all.
"Nathan, I was gonna fly," Peter whines, stamping one foot. He doesn't tell his parents stuff like this anymore, because he's learned that talking about flying will only get him in trouble with Ma and Dad, that he'll just hear "People can't fly, Peter," from one or the other or both of them and then they'll have hushed arguments behind closed doors. But Nathan's his brother. "I was gonna save you."
Nathan gives him a stern look. "Save me from what, Peter? I'm perfectly fine."
Nathan glances up at a sound and Peter turns quickly, anticipating one of their parents coming home. But it's just the nanny, and his brother's hand lands heavily on his shoulder. Peter always pays attention when Nathan talks.
"Buddy, you have to be more careful." Nathan passes a hand over his forehead, kneeling on the wood floor. "Look, I'm just gonna tell Ma it was the maid or something. If she notices it's gone. Just promise me you'll be more careful in the future, okay? Now we have to pay for another vase. Now help me clean up this mess, okay?"
("In the future" – it had held so much promise, then.)
Peter goes to step over the remains of the vase, and Nathan says, catching his elbow, "Peter, watch out for those edges. They're real sharp. You could get hurt."
Peter knows better now. Now he knows there's some situations that can't be paid for with crisp bills, fresh from the bank. Not everything that's broken can be fixed. And not every pain can be avoided.
But, he still hopes, some things can be made better, at least. It's the only thing that keeps him going these days. Maybe it won't be the Garden of fucking Eden, but it could be better than this shithole of a world.
"I don't know," he says, honestly. "I think so."
Her face darkens, tightens, lines drawn harsh. "That's what you think, Peter. Trust me, it's better this way."
"Better what way? Better like neighbors killing each other over lawn-gnome disputes? Better like multinational corporations in search of profit being the ones in charge of the scope of everyone's lives?"
She shakes her head, the gun steady in her hand. She's not a cheerleader anymore, he realizes. He knew that before, literally, but it is only now that he realizes who she is: a true-blue company girl. Not his Claire, bright and spilling over with adoration for her superhero uncle, not anymore. Maybe, though, maybe that hope is still there, hiding underneath her skin. It's his only chance to save her.
"Don't be stupid, Peter." Her voice trembles but her body doesn't. "You think things were better before? When random chance controlled who got powers and who didn't? That system produced Sylar, remember? Now, things are different. There's no more Sylars, anymore, Peter, don't you see? We're building a whole new system. It's gonna work better, this time around." Her voice twangs with the sound of Texas (tahm) when she gets upset – that, at least, hasn't changed.
He advances a step toward her, just one. He holds his hands up in the universal "surrender" position, even though it's just a charade. She knows he's not defenseless; they both know who's in control here. "I'm sorry for what Sylar did to you," he says quietly, and she looks away at the sight of his sympathy. "I'm sure it was awful."
"You don't know anything," she chokes out. But he can hear her thoughts, as she conjures up the memory of that day helplessly: how her skull was split open, how the blood streaming down her face was hot and sticky and tasted like newly minted pennies, how it hurt enough that she'd prayed for death, a mercy killing, an angel of the Lord to strike her down. How she never wants to feel helpless. How she never wants to wait for her salvation by a hero ever again.
He sees her shame, always threatening to rise in her throat like burning bile.
"Stop it!" she yells, waving the gun at him. "Stop reading my mind!"
"I'm not," he lies quickly. "I'm not. It's just - Claire, this isn't about you. Maybe evolution wasn't the best, but is the Company better? Is the Company choosing good people? Are they doing good in people's lives?"
She takes three steps, is only a few feet away. "They're doing better."
"What about Knox? I've seen you with him." He neglects to mention that this is due to the fact that he's been following her, invisible. "He a good guy, Claire? He saving the world?" He knows the answer is no, can see in her mind a memory rushing to the surface - Knox killing (she doesn't want to think the word murdering) a family of four, including a little kid (no more than eleven, Claire was sure, as she watched, her fear rendering her useless) - and her horror and revulsion as blood paints the staircase of a house he doesn't know with ragged red spatters. This, he knows, is his best chance. He latches onto it.
"The Company hurts innocent people. They don't care who gets in the way," he says quietly. "You know that, I know that, hell - the Company knows it."
Her mouth flattens into a thin line, her cheekbones sharp and prominent. (He wonders, briefly, how she's been eating.) "That's not true." But he can see doubt wavering in her ocean-blue eyes.
"The Company has its own agenda." He has to press his advantages while he still has them; he assumes a relaxed posture, like he's not defending himself from her, like they're not fighting. And he can see her relax in response, at least a minuscule amount. That's right. Just two rational adults having a normal discussion. That's all this is.
"They don't care about people. They're not interested in helping people or improving anything. I know you know that, Claire, deep down. When they've accomplished whatever they're trying to do, what do you think they're going to do with you? What do you think they'll do with you, Claire?" He softens his expression. "You're a danger to them."
"I'm no danger to them." She spits out the words, and he can see self-loathing clearly outlined on her face. "I'm just the girl who's gonna live forever. I have to take a gun with me everywhere." But she's not pointing it at him; she's lowered it to her side.
"I can't just keep watching, you know? I have to do something, Peter, do anything."
"Even if it's the wrong thing?" he asks softly.
She swallows, hard. "Anything," she repeats, "anything. It doesn't matter what side I'm on or who I'm working for or who I'm hunting down. All that matters is that I'm not anyone's victim anymore. I'm an agent."
"You're different than them. I know you." He cups her elbows gently, looks down into her face (not rosy anymore, just pale, lined by varying shades of night-blue). Her golden curls spill over the shoulders of her glossy, Company-issue uniform. "You were meant for something better than this. You're supposed to help people."
But this is the wrong thing to say. In the span of a second, her expression shifts from doubtful to something harder and more cynical. "I'm supposed to save the world, right? Like you?"
She doesn't want to be an idealist, doesn't want to be mistaken for the air-headed blonde believing the best of everyone, doesn't want to be seen as naïve. It's only another way for her to be taken advantage of (because everyone wants something from Claire - good or bad, it doesn't matter, everyone's always taking).
He sees intent forming in her mind and knows, even before it happens, that she's going to point her gun at his side and shoot him in the gut.
He lets her.
The gun cocks and fires, with a report unnaturally loud in the silence of the dim alley, and he feels pain blooming in his side. His fingers trace over the edge of the ragged wound - wine-dark blood spilling between his fingertips - as he falls to his knees in front of her, like a worshiper before the altar.
He looks up. On her face is an expression of savage triumph.
"You're pathetic, Peter." Her voice is hard.
But she can't kill him. At least, not yet. The knowledge passes between them silently, in their shared gazes.
He's no Christ, but he makes this sacrifice for her: he doesn't try to hurt her in retaliation, doesn't take an eye for an eye, even as he hears the bullet fall to the concrete with a clang and feels the wound knit itself up and the pain fade.
"This isn't over, Claire," and he knows his quiet voice carries to her even as she's walking away. "You're not one of them. You have a destiny."
Claire doesn't turn back, just calls over her shoulder in a tired voice, "There's no such thing as destiny."