cruiscin_lan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cruiscin_lan) wrote2008-12-21 07:57 pm
cruiscin_lan) wrote2008-12-21 07:57 pm
FIC: Things to be Broken
Title: Things to be Broken
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elle, Claire
Rating: G
Word Count: 1269
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or any of its characters.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers through "Eris Quod Sum," AU from the end of the episode
Summary: For the first time Peter was able to see her for what she really was - a toy, a doll, a porcelain doll, shattered and reassembled in a way that hid the cracks except upon close examination, but in a way that left her barely functional.
The last time he'd seen her, she'd been fading in and out of consciousness, lying on the cold concrete floor of Level Five. She was a broken thing, bleeding from the wound in her head, her skin cold and clammy as she recovered slowly from her own electrical trauma.
But he wasn't himself then, and he didn't know how to help her. Besides, he was afraid that this would be his only opportunity to get out, to try and make things right - it was more important that he find Nathan, stop his future self, get out of this stranger's body. Even so, it became a relentless regret, leaving her there and taking off with the other escapees.
The next time Peter saw her, he'd just been flung out the window of a building in Fort Lee, New Jersey. How fortunate he'd been that she and Claire had been there to help him, how fortunate that Elle didn't weigh her own needs against his and leave Claire alone to help Peter to safety. She had every right to leave him there, to abandon him, just as he'd done to her. They weren't anyone to each other, after all, but for some reason she stayed. Each woman draped one of his arms across their shoulders, wrapping their own arms around his waist, and helped him hobble back to the taxi they'd taken there from the airport in Newark. He could feel the electricity surging where his skin touched Elle's, but he didn't have the strength to comment or complain.
They found their way back to his apartment in Manhattan, where Claire tended his wounds and Elle stayed back in the shadows, illuminated by the occasional sizzle or spark that made her shudder and scowl. He almost forgot about Elle her entirely as he tried to convince his brother that their father was alive (Nathan and that blonde he brought ended up leaving in a huff), and then as he argued with Claire about the next move to make.
"We need to leave," Claire insisted.
"I'm going alone. I don't need my powers to protect myself."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"You need to stay innocent."
There was a knock on the door, an impatient banging, and Claire was suddenly barking out orders like her father. "Peter, take the fire escape! I'll distract them!"
Most of what followed was a blur - Claire flinging herself out of the window, fleeing into the sewers, realizing (almost too late) that they were after her, not him. After narrowly escaping, Peter convinced Claire that she'd be safer with his mother at Primatech, and together they boarded a Metro-North train to Hartsdale.
Satisfied that she would be safe there, Peter returned to his apartment the next day and was surprised to flickering blue light in the half-darkness; Elle was still there, crouched at his kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee, now cold. "I tried to fix your window," she said blankly, and Peter saw that she had duct-taped a trash bag across the opening to keep out a draft. "But I broke your coffee maker." Peter grimaced as he noticed the scorch mark that spread across the countertop and up the tile backsplash. She hadn't just broken it - she'd pulverized it.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked, his tiredness coming across gruffly.
Elle didn't look up; her eyes were still fixed on the half-empty mug before her. "Where else am I supposed to go? Your mother fired me, you just got thrown out of Pinehearst..."
"Anywhere," Peter interrupted. "You can go anywhere. Nothing's stopping you now."
"Yeah, nothing." A spark sizzled across her torso, the electricity hissing and spitting like a living thing. She clutched the ceramic mug even tighter, lowering her head so that Peter couldn't see her grimace. "I can't control it anymore," she whispered by way of explanation. "I can't eat, I can't sleep. I don't know what's wrong with me. I need help."
"And what do you expect me to do about it?" he told her, his voice flat. "I was nothing more than your toy."
"I don't know how else to treat people." Her tone was so unlike that of the Elle he thought he knew. There was no pretense - no seduction, no hidden intentions, no sarcasm - just sadness and sincerity. "I've never been anything to anybody, except a toy."
For the first time Peter was able to see her for what she really was - a toy, a doll, a porcelain doll, shattered and reassembled in a way that hid the cracks except upon close examination, but in a way that left her barely functional. He could have helped her - he should have helped her - when he had the chance, and the thought of it made his heart ache with remorse. At that moment she became his new mission. He'd already saved the cheerleader, and saved the world; now he was going to save Elle too.
"Your father..."
"Sylar killed him."
"I know. I was there that day, on Level Five. I saw you take him out."
He couldn't see her muddled expression, as her face was half-hidden by shadow, but her confusion was clear in her silence. Peter didn't know how to explain, so instead he moved on. "I'm sorry about your dad, I'm sure he... he would have been proud of you, at that moment."
She laughed a hollow laugh, her voice crackling like paper, and it was the saddest sound he'd ever heard her make. "You didn't know my father at all, if that's what you really believe." She paused, her thought punctuated by another surge of electricity crawling across her torso. She clenched her teeth and sucked in her breath, waiting for the painful feeling to pass. She seized up a moment more, frazzled and fragrant, like a spent firecracker.
Peter didn't need empathic superpowers to understand the subtext of what Elle was saying. He sighed, and said "I know what that can be like."
"You know what what can be like?" she hissed, as though there was electricity inherent in her voice.
"What it can be like to have a father who doesn't believe in you, who doesn't support you. It was like... it is like... like he enjoys being disappointed in you."
Elle choked and coughed, barely stifling a sob.
"You don't really miss him?" She didn't respond, but she didn't need to - her silence and stillness was all the response Peter needed. "You don't need to feel guilty about it. Sometimes the world is just better off without certain people in it. You don't have to live for him anymore - now you can live for yourself. You shouldn't feel bad about it."
"You've already given him all the mourning he deserves. Trust me. You've suffered enough. It's time for you to move on."
He took her hand in his, gritting his teeth at the electricity that shot through his arm. It was all he could do to keep from dropping her hand like a live wire, but he needed to hold on. He needed to do this.
And then, suddenly, it stopped.
"The pain - it's gone," Elle whispered breathlessly. She began laughing again, a genuine laughter this time, one that made her whole body shake. She laughed until she began to cry, and she cried until she placed her forehead against Peter's shoulders and sobbed. Peter leaned back until he found a way for them both to be comfortable, and reached up and stroked her hair. She sobbed until she fell asleep, reclined against him. It was the first time she'd slept in weeks, and, even without knowing that, Peter watched her shoulders rise and fall with each breath for hours.
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elle, Claire
Rating: G
Word Count: 1269
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or any of its characters.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers through "Eris Quod Sum," AU from the end of the episode
Summary: For the first time Peter was able to see her for what she really was - a toy, a doll, a porcelain doll, shattered and reassembled in a way that hid the cracks except upon close examination, but in a way that left her barely functional.
The last time he'd seen her, she'd been fading in and out of consciousness, lying on the cold concrete floor of Level Five. She was a broken thing, bleeding from the wound in her head, her skin cold and clammy as she recovered slowly from her own electrical trauma.
But he wasn't himself then, and he didn't know how to help her. Besides, he was afraid that this would be his only opportunity to get out, to try and make things right - it was more important that he find Nathan, stop his future self, get out of this stranger's body. Even so, it became a relentless regret, leaving her there and taking off with the other escapees.
The next time Peter saw her, he'd just been flung out the window of a building in Fort Lee, New Jersey. How fortunate he'd been that she and Claire had been there to help him, how fortunate that Elle didn't weigh her own needs against his and leave Claire alone to help Peter to safety. She had every right to leave him there, to abandon him, just as he'd done to her. They weren't anyone to each other, after all, but for some reason she stayed. Each woman draped one of his arms across their shoulders, wrapping their own arms around his waist, and helped him hobble back to the taxi they'd taken there from the airport in Newark. He could feel the electricity surging where his skin touched Elle's, but he didn't have the strength to comment or complain.
They found their way back to his apartment in Manhattan, where Claire tended his wounds and Elle stayed back in the shadows, illuminated by the occasional sizzle or spark that made her shudder and scowl. He almost forgot about Elle her entirely as he tried to convince his brother that their father was alive (Nathan and that blonde he brought ended up leaving in a huff), and then as he argued with Claire about the next move to make.
"We need to leave," Claire insisted.
"I'm going alone. I don't need my powers to protect myself."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"You need to stay innocent."
There was a knock on the door, an impatient banging, and Claire was suddenly barking out orders like her father. "Peter, take the fire escape! I'll distract them!"
Most of what followed was a blur - Claire flinging herself out of the window, fleeing into the sewers, realizing (almost too late) that they were after her, not him. After narrowly escaping, Peter convinced Claire that she'd be safer with his mother at Primatech, and together they boarded a Metro-North train to Hartsdale.
Satisfied that she would be safe there, Peter returned to his apartment the next day and was surprised to flickering blue light in the half-darkness; Elle was still there, crouched at his kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee, now cold. "I tried to fix your window," she said blankly, and Peter saw that she had duct-taped a trash bag across the opening to keep out a draft. "But I broke your coffee maker." Peter grimaced as he noticed the scorch mark that spread across the countertop and up the tile backsplash. She hadn't just broken it - she'd pulverized it.
"What are you still doing here?" he asked, his tiredness coming across gruffly.
Elle didn't look up; her eyes were still fixed on the half-empty mug before her. "Where else am I supposed to go? Your mother fired me, you just got thrown out of Pinehearst..."
"Anywhere," Peter interrupted. "You can go anywhere. Nothing's stopping you now."
"Yeah, nothing." A spark sizzled across her torso, the electricity hissing and spitting like a living thing. She clutched the ceramic mug even tighter, lowering her head so that Peter couldn't see her grimace. "I can't control it anymore," she whispered by way of explanation. "I can't eat, I can't sleep. I don't know what's wrong with me. I need help."
"And what do you expect me to do about it?" he told her, his voice flat. "I was nothing more than your toy."
"I don't know how else to treat people." Her tone was so unlike that of the Elle he thought he knew. There was no pretense - no seduction, no hidden intentions, no sarcasm - just sadness and sincerity. "I've never been anything to anybody, except a toy."
For the first time Peter was able to see her for what she really was - a toy, a doll, a porcelain doll, shattered and reassembled in a way that hid the cracks except upon close examination, but in a way that left her barely functional. He could have helped her - he should have helped her - when he had the chance, and the thought of it made his heart ache with remorse. At that moment she became his new mission. He'd already saved the cheerleader, and saved the world; now he was going to save Elle too.
"Your father..."
"Sylar killed him."
"I know. I was there that day, on Level Five. I saw you take him out."
He couldn't see her muddled expression, as her face was half-hidden by shadow, but her confusion was clear in her silence. Peter didn't know how to explain, so instead he moved on. "I'm sorry about your dad, I'm sure he... he would have been proud of you, at that moment."
She laughed a hollow laugh, her voice crackling like paper, and it was the saddest sound he'd ever heard her make. "You didn't know my father at all, if that's what you really believe." She paused, her thought punctuated by another surge of electricity crawling across her torso. She clenched her teeth and sucked in her breath, waiting for the painful feeling to pass. She seized up a moment more, frazzled and fragrant, like a spent firecracker.
Peter didn't need empathic superpowers to understand the subtext of what Elle was saying. He sighed, and said "I know what that can be like."
"You know what what can be like?" she hissed, as though there was electricity inherent in her voice.
"What it can be like to have a father who doesn't believe in you, who doesn't support you. It was like... it is like... like he enjoys being disappointed in you."
Elle choked and coughed, barely stifling a sob.
"You don't really miss him?" She didn't respond, but she didn't need to - her silence and stillness was all the response Peter needed. "You don't need to feel guilty about it. Sometimes the world is just better off without certain people in it. You don't have to live for him anymore - now you can live for yourself. You shouldn't feel bad about it."
"You've already given him all the mourning he deserves. Trust me. You've suffered enough. It's time for you to move on."
He took her hand in his, gritting his teeth at the electricity that shot through his arm. It was all he could do to keep from dropping her hand like a live wire, but he needed to hold on. He needed to do this.
And then, suddenly, it stopped.
"The pain - it's gone," Elle whispered breathlessly. She began laughing again, a genuine laughter this time, one that made her whole body shake. She laughed until she began to cry, and she cried until she placed her forehead against Peter's shoulders and sobbed. Peter leaned back until he found a way for them both to be comfortable, and reached up and stroked her hair. She sobbed until she fell asleep, reclined against him. It was the first time she'd slept in weeks, and, even without knowing that, Peter watched her shoulders rise and fall with each breath for hours.