sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:53 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-14 12:53 am
Entry tags:
The Hiatus Continuations: Throwing Bricks At One Another
Title: The Hiatus Continuations: Throwing Bricks At One Another
Rating: light R for sexual situations (Peter/Simon)
Note: These scenes were not part of original canon, but I wrote them because I know there's some Peter/Claude shippers out there and the temptation was too great to resist. These fall within the "Six Months Later" time period of the epilogue.
Originally posted 4.20.07
Petrelli family dinners had not exactly been a standard part of life for Peter, until Claire came along. Then it seemed like every week there was some excuse or other for everyone to come together, or he would drift home to say hi to Nathan and find Claire already there, and Mom, and why not stay for dinner? It just seemed to happen. It wasn't like anyone cooked, they had a family chef for that, but there was something about it that meant family, something that hadn't been in place since Dad died -- maybe since long before. They talked about things. How Claire was doing in her new school in New York, and the crazy people Nathan and Heidi had to put up with in politics, and what Peter got up to at the Warehouse.
Claude -- it was still weird to think of him as Simon -- started showing up to talk business with Mom, or tagging along with Peter because they weren't done with work for the day. That was even weirder. Cl -- Simon got into arguments with Nathan, odd civil arguments that had both men gesturing wildly over their steaks or appealing to Mom or Heidi or him for final judgement. Heidi liked Simon with the sort of perversity that had endeared her to Peter in the first place.
So it was just there. It happened. And as often as not he and Simon would end up on the porch afterward, talking and finishing off a bottle of wine from dinner. Like ordinary human beings instead of two Empaths, one of whom had been dead for seven years and the other who set off a nuclear blast in the middle of New Mexico.
When Claire and Jack came back from Oregon it was painfully obvious that they weren't just friends anymore, and about time too, in Peter's opinion. The thing was, it was obvious to Nathan and Mom as well, who wanted a word with them both, and Heidi had to take the kids upstairs and get them washed and into bed, which left Simon and Peter the odd ones out.
Simon had been quiet over dinner anyway and now he sat on the railing of the porch, cradling a mostly-full glass of wine in his hands. Peter lounged against the wall, feeling warm and self-satisfied and not quite willing to restart their pre-dinner debate over international expansion.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said to Simon, who glanced sidelong at him.
"Work for them," he replied, and Peter tried to touch his mind, finding it open for once. Simon's barriers were always up, except for those rare times when they needed to speak silently. When they did, often Peter felt shoved back by the sheer strength of the pent-up emotion Simon kept tucked away.
You've been quiet, Peter said. It's not like you.
You could just call me a noisy bastard and have done, Simon replied.
That isn't what I meant. Are you worried about Jack and Claire?
I've enough to worry about without concernin' myself in the hormonal lives of two babes in arms, he said, but Peter caught some kind of trigger at Claire's name -- like a knot in smooth fabric, or a rough fingernail.
"Claire's upsetting you," he said aloud. Simon took a deep drink of wine. "And you never drink like that unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared, what are we, children?" Simon replied. In the half-light, the hollows of his cheeks fell in shadow, making him look sharp-edged and angular, and somewhat underfed.
Then what is it? Show me, Peter said.
Simon shut his eyes and leaned his head back against a pillar. What she said about us, this afternoon. Us fightin'. Is that what we're bound to do all our lives, pup? Throw bricks at one another?
You're the one who said we could never be friends. I believe you cited Darwin, Peter replied. He could taste memories in both their thoughts -- the memory of Claire scolding them this afternoon in Simon's thoughts, the memory of that night they'd gone drinking, almost a year ago now, in Simon's.
Law of the jungle, Simon agreed. Except we aren't animals. We're humans. And our stupid emotions get in the way.
Peter pushed away from the wall and came forward, leaning sideways against the pillar. This close, and with Simon uncharacteristically unguarded, he could almost touch the pensive, pessimistic fear Simon was feeling.
Do you like me at all? he asked Simon.
Stupid question.
Because the answer should be obvious? It isn't. Sometimes I think you do. Sometimes I hear you with Jack or one of the others and I think you never like any of us, you just have to feel something for us because you're our teacher.
It's been a long time since I've taught you anything you didn't know.
So are you my teacher, Claude? The name slipped out before he meant it to.
"No," Simon replied. "And that's not my name anymore."
"I didn't mean to say it," Peter shrugged. "But you were Claude to me first. Now you're Simon, but you're still the one who carried me out of New Mexico. You're still the one who taught me what I needed to know to stay alive."
"Then that's all I need."
"Is it all you want? To have been Peter's teacher?"
I don't want to fight with you.
Could have fooled me. You're always picking fights. Peter turned to face him, taking the glass of wine out of his hands and setting it aside. What do you want, Simon?
Telepaths didn't often see images, but intense links made it possible, and Peter had long ago come to understand that he would never have a link as intense as the one he had with Simon. Not even with Nathan, his own brother, or a trained telepath like Matt.
An image flashed through his mind of his bare shoulder, in some fight they'd had back when he was still training, when his shirt had been torn. And another, of the raised ridge of scar along his jaw. And a third --
Peter rocked back, his mind reeling with the intensity of emotion associated with what he was seeing. It was strange and bare and purely erotic, a composite of images that had never happened, of Simon touching his face and kissing the place where shoulder met throat and pressing him down on the sheets of his own bed, bodies together, skin slick with sweat.
He looked down at Simon, who was looking back at him with strangely empty eyes. He realised his own breathing was shallow, and he tried to contain it.
"I am not your teacher," Simon said. "And we are not friends. And if fighting's the only way I -- "
Whatever he was going to say was swallowed when Peter swayed forward and kissed him. Clumsily, almost sideways, certainly not a halmark as first kisses went. But it made sparks dance across his brain, and it shut Simon up, which was a first.
He felt the light touch of Simon's fingers on his scar, tracing the shape of it, and then Simon broke the kiss.
How long have you known? Peter asked.
Since your brother was shot. Hadn't anything left to teach you after that. I tried, I -- thought if I had a new student...
Jack.
He's just a student. They're all just students. I don't know why you couldn't just be a student too.
Peter touched Simon's lip with his thumb, exploring the curve of it, sliding down over his chin and throat. Simon held fear-still, trembling, something Peter had never seen before.
"From now on," Peter said, "I go where you go."
"Why?" Simon asked.
"Because I don't want to be left behind."
Simon's eyes darkened and the images flashed back again, but this time Peter caught and returned them in kind -- the time he'd seen Simon strip off a bloodstained shirt after a teaching session, the way his hands looked when he was writing or showing one of his other students how to turn thought into gesture and gesture into action. The way Peter's breath quickened when Simon touched him.
Simon stood and ducked his head and let Peter kiss him again, hands cupping either side of his face, eyes closed. Peter had once tripped into a feedback loop with Matt, back when everything was only beginning, and Simon had warned him about them since. Thoughts could echo and mount until someone got hurt, telepathy playing into itself dangerously. A link could form that was pure, dangerous fire. Even so, he felt the single unnamed emotion leap from him to Simon and back again, cycling around both until Simon moaned into his mouth and bowed his head over Peter's shoulder, breathing hard. It wasn't sex, not exactly -- it was much more powerful than that.
"Simon?" someone called, and Peter froze. Jack strolled out onto the porch, radiating amiable curiosity. "Peter? You out here?"
Peter realised they were invisible. And also floating six inches off the ground. Simon pressed his mouth against Peter's neck to muffle his breathing.
"I swore they were out here," he said, turning to Claire, standing in the doorway. "They must have just gone. Maybe they went around to the side door."
He's a Sector and we're standing right in front of him, Peter said. You're a lousy teacher, Simon.
Shut it, or I swear I'll throw you off a building, Simon replied. His mouth traveled up Peter's throat, and Peter bit his lip to stifle a sharp intake of breath.
"Probably off shouting at each other," Claire said. "Come on, you can find them later."
Jack, perplexed, swept the porch one last time, then shrugged and disappeared back into the house. Peter felt his feet touch ground again. Simon let him go, stepping back cautiously.
"I'd better go say bye..." Peter gestured inside.
"Course. And I have..." Simon tilted his head at the driveway.
"Work," Peter supplied helpfully.
"Yes."
"Those new lab reports Mohinder sent up."
"Yes, which I -- "
" -- need my thoughts on."
"Need, I wouldn't say need..."
"...but want, definitely."
Simon looked at him without a hint of cynicism or cruelty in his eyes, which was almost a first.
"Definitely," he said.
***
Peter woke slowly, in his own bed, not accustomed anymore to finding someone else in it. There'd been no time, and there were precious few who understood well enough; the last person who woke here was Simone Deveaux.
Simon was awake, he could sense that; not watching or thinking much, just lying with his body against Peter's, drowsing, arm flung over Peter's hip. At the tentative touch on his mind, his eyes opened and he smiled. Most of Simon's smiles were hard, cynical things -- teacherly pleasure was the most he ever expressed -- but this one was real and open, and it reached all the way to his eyes.
"G'morning," Peter mumbled, burrowing closer.
"Morning, pup. All right, then?" Simon asked, and Peter could feel his uncertainty.
"Better than all right," Peter replied. "Do we have to be anywhere today?"
"No. Bennet'll see to the office. I'll call in later." He bent his head slightly and kissed Peter's forehead, a gesture that could be taken as parental if they weren't naked together in bed. Peter was amazed they'd even taken the time to get all their clothes off -- especially the way Simon had teleported them straight to Peter's apartment and shoved him against the wall before Peter even had time to catch his breath.
He didn't particularly want to catch his breath.
As they kissed, the previous day rolled out in his mind -- Simon's anxiety, leaping from him to Peter, and an open bond that showed Peter precisely why. And the link deepening, spiralling around them until they'd managed to get alone and it seemed to Peter that the world shook.
There was still a hint of -- not anxiousness, more like concern, in Simon's mind. Peter inched delicately around it, studying it, and then he laughed.
"Seriously?" he said.
"Seriously what?" Simon asked.
"You thought I wouldn't be...satisfied? Happy?" Peter asked.
"Well, I...don't think that now, particularly," Simon replied, but he was fishing.
"You haven't done this in a while," Peter said, his face pressed against Simon's shoulder.
"I wasn't that bad," Simon retorted, snorting.
"No, that wasn't what I meant. This. Being with someone. It's been a long time for you. You were alone for years. Maybe longer. Last night you -- well, your walls were down."
Simon nodded, acknowledging the walls which Peter knew would always be there in some respect. That was all right. Simon had his barriers and Peter had his.
"When?" Peter asked. "How long has it been?"
"You don't want to hear about old loves."
"But I want to know. You have these holes in your life, things I don't know about. You can tell me those."
Simon snorted again. "You're a lousy therapist, pup."
Peter smiled into his skin. "I just want to know."
Simon's hand curled against his head, fingers separating out locks of short hair.
"Timothy," he said. "He was called Timothy. Might not've been his real name. Back when I was Claude."
"Who was he?" Peter asked, and felt Simon's pleasure that he hadn't asked what was he.
"My student."
"You make a habit of seducing your students, then?" Peter inquired.
"Not generally, no." Simon pressed his nose against Peter's forehead, inhaling. "I've mentioned him. The man with the perfect memory."
"The one who died."
"Yes."
Peter slid a hand up Simon's arm. "You don't have to -- "
"He was a university student. Not much younger'n me. Twenty-four, twenty-five, I must've been twenty-nine or so. I was twenty-one when they bagged me, this was later." Simon actually smiled. "He was doing some upper degree. History. He had a good head for dates, even before."
"What happened?"
A half-shrug against Peter's body. "I was teachin' him, learnin' how to do what he did. How does it ever happen. He was brilliant, he was."
Peter frowned.
"Sod it, I told you that you didn't want to hear this."
"No, I do. Am...I brilliant?"
"Do we want pettin', Petrelli?" Simon asked, tightening his arm around Peter's waist. "Different sorts. You shine brighter."
"That's okay, then," Peter said, nuzzling his shoulder.
"So glad to hear it."
"What happened to Timothy?"
"He saw somethin' he shouldn't've. Can't forget what you've seen if your memory's perfect. He wanted to leave, which isn't an option in a life like that. They..."
Simon was silent for a long time.
"They were goin' to take him apart, a piece at a time. Alive. He wasn't any more use to them. He was just a thing. They'd have tortured him. When I got to him they'd already driven him mad. So I killed him."
Peter stiffened.
"It was that or watch him die the kind of death no man wants," Simon continued. "I didn't hurt him. I'd've done the same for you."
Peter thought about the time Claude threw him off the roof. If it hadn't worked, he'd have defused the biggest bomb in history. Wasn't that what he'd said?
"Bennet knew, but he let it go the one time. I killed someone I loved. After that, things changed. I wouldn't let them use my students anymore. So Bennet killed me. And that's the end of storytime."
Peter tilted his head up and kissed Simon, relaxing against his body again.
"So your memory is perfect," he said.
"My memories are what they are. I remember Timothy. Every detail."
"Will you remember me?"
Simon slid his hand around, pressing it against Peter's chest. "Got no need. You'll be here."
"We can't know that."
He met Simon's eyes, uncharacteristically dark and open.
"I will remember you, Peter. You'll remember me. Timothy's dead an' I'm not Claude anymore. This is what matters."
Peter kissed him again, first his mouth and then his jaw with its raspy night's-growth of beard. He nipped at his throat and kissed his shoulder, fingers working down Simon's ribcage slowly.
"Pup," Simon said, and Peter stopped, nuzzling the point just below Simon's first bullet-wound scar. He breathed against his skin, waiting. "This, today and here. The only time we ever talk about him. Understood?"
"Understood," Peter said, working his way down to Simon's hip. He shoved gently and Simon moved, sliding onto his back, fingers threading through Peter's hair.
He rested his head on Simon's hip. The other man's erection, not quite full yet, lay tauntingly against his thigh, but Peter realised he'd never...done this yet. There had been a guy or two, when he was a teeanger, but they'd never quite got this far. He didn't want to screw it up.
Simon laughed. Got a few things to teach you yet, eh? Come here.
Peter looked up at him. Simon beckoned with his head, and he slid back up his body, kissing him.
We do have time, Simon said, echoing back the one time Peter had ever made Simon lose his composure. If you didn't count last night, anyway.
Peter shut his eyes and made the world stop.
"Yes we do," he said against Simon's mouth.
That's a pretty trick. I'll have that off you one day.
You can't do it now?
Not yet. Simon's hands slid up Peter's back delightfully. Peter arched his hips and Simon moaned.
"Right now," he said, interrupted by a sharp intake of breath as Peter kissed his jaw, "I think I'll just enjoy the moment. Peter."
Peter opened his mind and touched Simon's, feeling the walls crack and crumble again.
"Time," Peter said. "Yes."
Rating: light R for sexual situations (Peter/Simon)
Note: These scenes were not part of original canon, but I wrote them because I know there's some Peter/Claude shippers out there and the temptation was too great to resist. These fall within the "Six Months Later" time period of the epilogue.
Originally posted 4.20.07
Petrelli family dinners had not exactly been a standard part of life for Peter, until Claire came along. Then it seemed like every week there was some excuse or other for everyone to come together, or he would drift home to say hi to Nathan and find Claire already there, and Mom, and why not stay for dinner? It just seemed to happen. It wasn't like anyone cooked, they had a family chef for that, but there was something about it that meant family, something that hadn't been in place since Dad died -- maybe since long before. They talked about things. How Claire was doing in her new school in New York, and the crazy people Nathan and Heidi had to put up with in politics, and what Peter got up to at the Warehouse.
Claude -- it was still weird to think of him as Simon -- started showing up to talk business with Mom, or tagging along with Peter because they weren't done with work for the day. That was even weirder. Cl -- Simon got into arguments with Nathan, odd civil arguments that had both men gesturing wildly over their steaks or appealing to Mom or Heidi or him for final judgement. Heidi liked Simon with the sort of perversity that had endeared her to Peter in the first place.
So it was just there. It happened. And as often as not he and Simon would end up on the porch afterward, talking and finishing off a bottle of wine from dinner. Like ordinary human beings instead of two Empaths, one of whom had been dead for seven years and the other who set off a nuclear blast in the middle of New Mexico.
When Claire and Jack came back from Oregon it was painfully obvious that they weren't just friends anymore, and about time too, in Peter's opinion. The thing was, it was obvious to Nathan and Mom as well, who wanted a word with them both, and Heidi had to take the kids upstairs and get them washed and into bed, which left Simon and Peter the odd ones out.
Simon had been quiet over dinner anyway and now he sat on the railing of the porch, cradling a mostly-full glass of wine in his hands. Peter lounged against the wall, feeling warm and self-satisfied and not quite willing to restart their pre-dinner debate over international expansion.
"Penny for your thoughts," he said to Simon, who glanced sidelong at him.
"Work for them," he replied, and Peter tried to touch his mind, finding it open for once. Simon's barriers were always up, except for those rare times when they needed to speak silently. When they did, often Peter felt shoved back by the sheer strength of the pent-up emotion Simon kept tucked away.
You've been quiet, Peter said. It's not like you.
You could just call me a noisy bastard and have done, Simon replied.
That isn't what I meant. Are you worried about Jack and Claire?
I've enough to worry about without concernin' myself in the hormonal lives of two babes in arms, he said, but Peter caught some kind of trigger at Claire's name -- like a knot in smooth fabric, or a rough fingernail.
"Claire's upsetting you," he said aloud. Simon took a deep drink of wine. "And you never drink like that unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared, what are we, children?" Simon replied. In the half-light, the hollows of his cheeks fell in shadow, making him look sharp-edged and angular, and somewhat underfed.
Then what is it? Show me, Peter said.
Simon shut his eyes and leaned his head back against a pillar. What she said about us, this afternoon. Us fightin'. Is that what we're bound to do all our lives, pup? Throw bricks at one another?
You're the one who said we could never be friends. I believe you cited Darwin, Peter replied. He could taste memories in both their thoughts -- the memory of Claire scolding them this afternoon in Simon's thoughts, the memory of that night they'd gone drinking, almost a year ago now, in Simon's.
Law of the jungle, Simon agreed. Except we aren't animals. We're humans. And our stupid emotions get in the way.
Peter pushed away from the wall and came forward, leaning sideways against the pillar. This close, and with Simon uncharacteristically unguarded, he could almost touch the pensive, pessimistic fear Simon was feeling.
Do you like me at all? he asked Simon.
Stupid question.
Because the answer should be obvious? It isn't. Sometimes I think you do. Sometimes I hear you with Jack or one of the others and I think you never like any of us, you just have to feel something for us because you're our teacher.
It's been a long time since I've taught you anything you didn't know.
So are you my teacher, Claude? The name slipped out before he meant it to.
"No," Simon replied. "And that's not my name anymore."
"I didn't mean to say it," Peter shrugged. "But you were Claude to me first. Now you're Simon, but you're still the one who carried me out of New Mexico. You're still the one who taught me what I needed to know to stay alive."
"Then that's all I need."
"Is it all you want? To have been Peter's teacher?"
I don't want to fight with you.
Could have fooled me. You're always picking fights. Peter turned to face him, taking the glass of wine out of his hands and setting it aside. What do you want, Simon?
Telepaths didn't often see images, but intense links made it possible, and Peter had long ago come to understand that he would never have a link as intense as the one he had with Simon. Not even with Nathan, his own brother, or a trained telepath like Matt.
An image flashed through his mind of his bare shoulder, in some fight they'd had back when he was still training, when his shirt had been torn. And another, of the raised ridge of scar along his jaw. And a third --
Peter rocked back, his mind reeling with the intensity of emotion associated with what he was seeing. It was strange and bare and purely erotic, a composite of images that had never happened, of Simon touching his face and kissing the place where shoulder met throat and pressing him down on the sheets of his own bed, bodies together, skin slick with sweat.
He looked down at Simon, who was looking back at him with strangely empty eyes. He realised his own breathing was shallow, and he tried to contain it.
"I am not your teacher," Simon said. "And we are not friends. And if fighting's the only way I -- "
Whatever he was going to say was swallowed when Peter swayed forward and kissed him. Clumsily, almost sideways, certainly not a halmark as first kisses went. But it made sparks dance across his brain, and it shut Simon up, which was a first.
He felt the light touch of Simon's fingers on his scar, tracing the shape of it, and then Simon broke the kiss.
How long have you known? Peter asked.
Since your brother was shot. Hadn't anything left to teach you after that. I tried, I -- thought if I had a new student...
Jack.
He's just a student. They're all just students. I don't know why you couldn't just be a student too.
Peter touched Simon's lip with his thumb, exploring the curve of it, sliding down over his chin and throat. Simon held fear-still, trembling, something Peter had never seen before.
"From now on," Peter said, "I go where you go."
"Why?" Simon asked.
"Because I don't want to be left behind."
Simon's eyes darkened and the images flashed back again, but this time Peter caught and returned them in kind -- the time he'd seen Simon strip off a bloodstained shirt after a teaching session, the way his hands looked when he was writing or showing one of his other students how to turn thought into gesture and gesture into action. The way Peter's breath quickened when Simon touched him.
Simon stood and ducked his head and let Peter kiss him again, hands cupping either side of his face, eyes closed. Peter had once tripped into a feedback loop with Matt, back when everything was only beginning, and Simon had warned him about them since. Thoughts could echo and mount until someone got hurt, telepathy playing into itself dangerously. A link could form that was pure, dangerous fire. Even so, he felt the single unnamed emotion leap from him to Simon and back again, cycling around both until Simon moaned into his mouth and bowed his head over Peter's shoulder, breathing hard. It wasn't sex, not exactly -- it was much more powerful than that.
"Simon?" someone called, and Peter froze. Jack strolled out onto the porch, radiating amiable curiosity. "Peter? You out here?"
Peter realised they were invisible. And also floating six inches off the ground. Simon pressed his mouth against Peter's neck to muffle his breathing.
"I swore they were out here," he said, turning to Claire, standing in the doorway. "They must have just gone. Maybe they went around to the side door."
He's a Sector and we're standing right in front of him, Peter said. You're a lousy teacher, Simon.
Shut it, or I swear I'll throw you off a building, Simon replied. His mouth traveled up Peter's throat, and Peter bit his lip to stifle a sharp intake of breath.
"Probably off shouting at each other," Claire said. "Come on, you can find them later."
Jack, perplexed, swept the porch one last time, then shrugged and disappeared back into the house. Peter felt his feet touch ground again. Simon let him go, stepping back cautiously.
"I'd better go say bye..." Peter gestured inside.
"Course. And I have..." Simon tilted his head at the driveway.
"Work," Peter supplied helpfully.
"Yes."
"Those new lab reports Mohinder sent up."
"Yes, which I -- "
" -- need my thoughts on."
"Need, I wouldn't say need..."
"...but want, definitely."
Simon looked at him without a hint of cynicism or cruelty in his eyes, which was almost a first.
"Definitely," he said.
***
Peter woke slowly, in his own bed, not accustomed anymore to finding someone else in it. There'd been no time, and there were precious few who understood well enough; the last person who woke here was Simone Deveaux.
Simon was awake, he could sense that; not watching or thinking much, just lying with his body against Peter's, drowsing, arm flung over Peter's hip. At the tentative touch on his mind, his eyes opened and he smiled. Most of Simon's smiles were hard, cynical things -- teacherly pleasure was the most he ever expressed -- but this one was real and open, and it reached all the way to his eyes.
"G'morning," Peter mumbled, burrowing closer.
"Morning, pup. All right, then?" Simon asked, and Peter could feel his uncertainty.
"Better than all right," Peter replied. "Do we have to be anywhere today?"
"No. Bennet'll see to the office. I'll call in later." He bent his head slightly and kissed Peter's forehead, a gesture that could be taken as parental if they weren't naked together in bed. Peter was amazed they'd even taken the time to get all their clothes off -- especially the way Simon had teleported them straight to Peter's apartment and shoved him against the wall before Peter even had time to catch his breath.
He didn't particularly want to catch his breath.
As they kissed, the previous day rolled out in his mind -- Simon's anxiety, leaping from him to Peter, and an open bond that showed Peter precisely why. And the link deepening, spiralling around them until they'd managed to get alone and it seemed to Peter that the world shook.
There was still a hint of -- not anxiousness, more like concern, in Simon's mind. Peter inched delicately around it, studying it, and then he laughed.
"Seriously?" he said.
"Seriously what?" Simon asked.
"You thought I wouldn't be...satisfied? Happy?" Peter asked.
"Well, I...don't think that now, particularly," Simon replied, but he was fishing.
"You haven't done this in a while," Peter said, his face pressed against Simon's shoulder.
"I wasn't that bad," Simon retorted, snorting.
"No, that wasn't what I meant. This. Being with someone. It's been a long time for you. You were alone for years. Maybe longer. Last night you -- well, your walls were down."
Simon nodded, acknowledging the walls which Peter knew would always be there in some respect. That was all right. Simon had his barriers and Peter had his.
"When?" Peter asked. "How long has it been?"
"You don't want to hear about old loves."
"But I want to know. You have these holes in your life, things I don't know about. You can tell me those."
Simon snorted again. "You're a lousy therapist, pup."
Peter smiled into his skin. "I just want to know."
Simon's hand curled against his head, fingers separating out locks of short hair.
"Timothy," he said. "He was called Timothy. Might not've been his real name. Back when I was Claude."
"Who was he?" Peter asked, and felt Simon's pleasure that he hadn't asked what was he.
"My student."
"You make a habit of seducing your students, then?" Peter inquired.
"Not generally, no." Simon pressed his nose against Peter's forehead, inhaling. "I've mentioned him. The man with the perfect memory."
"The one who died."
"Yes."
Peter slid a hand up Simon's arm. "You don't have to -- "
"He was a university student. Not much younger'n me. Twenty-four, twenty-five, I must've been twenty-nine or so. I was twenty-one when they bagged me, this was later." Simon actually smiled. "He was doing some upper degree. History. He had a good head for dates, even before."
"What happened?"
A half-shrug against Peter's body. "I was teachin' him, learnin' how to do what he did. How does it ever happen. He was brilliant, he was."
Peter frowned.
"Sod it, I told you that you didn't want to hear this."
"No, I do. Am...I brilliant?"
"Do we want pettin', Petrelli?" Simon asked, tightening his arm around Peter's waist. "Different sorts. You shine brighter."
"That's okay, then," Peter said, nuzzling his shoulder.
"So glad to hear it."
"What happened to Timothy?"
"He saw somethin' he shouldn't've. Can't forget what you've seen if your memory's perfect. He wanted to leave, which isn't an option in a life like that. They..."
Simon was silent for a long time.
"They were goin' to take him apart, a piece at a time. Alive. He wasn't any more use to them. He was just a thing. They'd have tortured him. When I got to him they'd already driven him mad. So I killed him."
Peter stiffened.
"It was that or watch him die the kind of death no man wants," Simon continued. "I didn't hurt him. I'd've done the same for you."
Peter thought about the time Claude threw him off the roof. If it hadn't worked, he'd have defused the biggest bomb in history. Wasn't that what he'd said?
"Bennet knew, but he let it go the one time. I killed someone I loved. After that, things changed. I wouldn't let them use my students anymore. So Bennet killed me. And that's the end of storytime."
Peter tilted his head up and kissed Simon, relaxing against his body again.
"So your memory is perfect," he said.
"My memories are what they are. I remember Timothy. Every detail."
"Will you remember me?"
Simon slid his hand around, pressing it against Peter's chest. "Got no need. You'll be here."
"We can't know that."
He met Simon's eyes, uncharacteristically dark and open.
"I will remember you, Peter. You'll remember me. Timothy's dead an' I'm not Claude anymore. This is what matters."
Peter kissed him again, first his mouth and then his jaw with its raspy night's-growth of beard. He nipped at his throat and kissed his shoulder, fingers working down Simon's ribcage slowly.
"Pup," Simon said, and Peter stopped, nuzzling the point just below Simon's first bullet-wound scar. He breathed against his skin, waiting. "This, today and here. The only time we ever talk about him. Understood?"
"Understood," Peter said, working his way down to Simon's hip. He shoved gently and Simon moved, sliding onto his back, fingers threading through Peter's hair.
He rested his head on Simon's hip. The other man's erection, not quite full yet, lay tauntingly against his thigh, but Peter realised he'd never...done this yet. There had been a guy or two, when he was a teeanger, but they'd never quite got this far. He didn't want to screw it up.
Simon laughed. Got a few things to teach you yet, eh? Come here.
Peter looked up at him. Simon beckoned with his head, and he slid back up his body, kissing him.
We do have time, Simon said, echoing back the one time Peter had ever made Simon lose his composure. If you didn't count last night, anyway.
Peter shut his eyes and made the world stop.
"Yes we do," he said against Simon's mouth.
That's a pretty trick. I'll have that off you one day.
You can't do it now?
Not yet. Simon's hands slid up Peter's back delightfully. Peter arched his hips and Simon moaned.
"Right now," he said, interrupted by a sharp intake of breath as Peter kissed his jaw, "I think I'll just enjoy the moment. Peter."
Peter opened his mind and touched Simon's, feeling the walls crack and crumble again.
"Time," Peter said. "Yes."
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