A.N: I have absolutely no idea where this came from. It's rather...long for a one-shot, but there you go, and, well, yeah. Basically it's sort of written...back to front? It'll make sense, I promise xD I wrote this listening to The Walk by Imogen Heap, which is a Paire song lykewhoah, so check it out ;)
Warning/Disclaimer: AU after S1, basically disregard anything that happened in S2 at all. Claire is 18 in this, Peter is 28, but it's canon, so yeah, incest. Also implications of sexual situations. And I don't own anything :) It all belongs to NBC and Tim Kring.
Feedback would be lovely!
--
Claire takes a deep breath and fiddles with the pendant dangling around her neck, daring to glance in the mirror at her reflection as she tries to calm herself down.
It's only brunch, she thinks, nothing to get worked up over.
Oh, but it is. After last night, everything's something to get worked up over. She's sure that as soon as she goes downstairs, everyone will stare and know, just by looking at her face.
And he'll be there as well, which makes it all the more difficult to keep up with this façade they've begun, as she knows that just one look from him is all it takes for her walls to collapse, and she'll have to tell everything.
A sharp rap on the door breaks her away from her thoughts, making her jump. She turns to see that it's only Heidi, dressed in her finest Sunday clothes.
"Just checking if you were ready," she explains, throwing a rare smile in Claire's direction, "The food will be served in about five minutes."
The girl swallows slowly and nods, "I'm ready."
Heidi seems satisfied with her answer, and leaves her to her thoughts once more, while Claire looks in the mirror again and wonders, am I really ready?
She hears footsteps pass the door, slightly ajar after her step-mother's visit. A quick glance reveals dark eyes and floppy, black hair, and Claire's whole body freezes.
A moment passes between the two, their eyes speaking more words than could ever get past their lips. After what seems an eternity to the small blonde, he smiles, the most delicate kind she's ever seen, and disappears down the stairs.
As if it's just given her a boost of confidence, Claire stands up a little straighter, casts a sideways look at her reflection once more, and follows.
--
It's night time, and Claire's never seen New York look more beautiful. From up on the roof of the Petrelli mansion, the city landscape stretches out for miles, the tips of the skyscrapers almost touching the smattering of stars that streak across the sky.
She turns to smile at the man who bought her here, only to find he is already staring at her, an unknown expression on his face.
"What?" She's puzzled; is something wrong?
Peter says nothing at first, but looks away and leans back against the roof, "I'm just remembering."
Claire relaxes, settling against the roof herself once she realises nothing's amiss.
"What'cha 'membring?" She asks lazily, her Texan drawl betraying her roots.
His eyes slide over to her once more, "You," he answers simply, "Just you."
She finds herself blushing and looking down at the patterned tiles spread out beneath her fingers, "Oh," she replies softly, pausing for a moment before asking, "Why?"
Peter sighs, sitting up, and Claire lets her eyes follow him curiously, "Have you – have you ever thought that when we met…that it was fated?"
"Tch, yeah," Claire answers, sarcasm lacing her voice, "The whole 'you going nuclear' thing, remember that?"
The man laughs, rolling his eyes, before pressing on with his statement adamantly, "You know what I mean."
She lets his words sink in, mulling them around in her head as she sits up, trying to adjust herself the best she can on the slants of the roof, "Well…yeah, I suppose. I mean, when I bumped into you, you kinda looked at me, and I felt –" she breaks off, "It's gonna sound silly, forget it."
"No, no," Peter turns fully towards her, lightly brushing his fingers with hers, "Go on."
His touch makes her shiver, though she'll never admit it to anyone, and she pushes down a wave of emotion before continuing, "I felt…home."
With that, she pulls her hand from his, sliding her knees up so she can wrap her arms around them. Her stomach churns ominously; she can't quite believe what she's just said, so she closes her eyes tightly and waits for his reply.
She hears him shuffling beside her, and the tension that's been created seems almost too unbearable for Claire. Then, she hears him speak, almost in a whisper.
"Me too."
Claire opens her eyes and lifts her head, finding Peter standing beside her, an arm outstretched and a certain smoulder in his eyes that spreads like fire through her body. She takes it without hesitation, and suddenly they're flying through the air, Peter holding her firmly to him.
They leave the Petrelli household as a distant blur, and circle round Peter's apartment block before hovering by the entrance, and it's then that she dares to look up at his face again.
He looks torn, and Claire knows the feeling, guesses the emotions running through him are the same as her own, that they have been since that fateful night so many Octobers ago.
"Can we do this?" He whispers hoarsely, eyes darting to her lips as she smiles softly up at him, "Can we really –?"
Claire silences him effectively by pressing her lips to his, feeling Peter hesitate only momentarily before he returns the kiss, and she winds her hands through his hair, claiming her hold on him.
He sets them both gently on the ground, although Claire is having trouble keeping upright as he showers her lips and neck with fevered kisses. She clings onto his neck and laughs as he picks her up, stopping his ministrations momentarily as she tenderly cups his face with her hands.
"It's ok," she says softly, as if she is the one who can read his thoughts, and doesn't want him to regret a single moment, not now.
She decided a long time ago that Peter was her home, the only one that could ever make her feel safe and, as he lays her gently on his bed, the moonlight casting hazy shadows across their naked forms, she revels in the knowledge that he feels the same.
No matter how else they are tied, by kinsman ship or blood, they are simply Peter and Claire tonight; two halves of the same whole, one bond that transcends all morals and beliefs, connecting them for eternity.
--
Images of the night before flash through the girl's mind, and she struggles to keep from blushing as she sits near the head of the Petrelli table, a melee of Angela's socialite companions and Nathan's political allies mixed around her.
Peter seems to notice her discomfort, though he doesn't pause in his conversation to the Head of the NYPD. Claire feels guilty, guilty that he can pull off such a convincing act while all she can do is sit and wonder who might catch on first.
She raises her glass of water and sips from it, willing her trembling hands to stop shaking and letting the cool liquid flowing down her throat calm her already churning stomach.
That's when she notices Angela at the head of the table. She hasn't said anything, but Claire can feel her eyes on her, and turns her head. The Petrelli matriarch raises one pristine eyebrow in response and the girl holds back a shudder, wondering how her grandmother can exert so much power without words.
She knows, Claire finds herself thinking, she knows everything.
It's then that she finds it difficult to breathe, and excuses herself from the table with a scrape of her chair across the expensive, wooden floorboards.
She almost feels as though she's having an out of body experience. She can hear her heels clacking across the floor, and her heart pounding in her ears, but she feels as if she's watching from a great distance, like she's some sort of spirit roaming the Earth.
Claire stops once she reaches the stairs, glancing back the way she came before slipping off her shoes and sitting on the bottom two steps, breathing heavily.
She never realised it would be so hard to keep a secret, to act like the perfect politician's daughter when, the night before…
You were screwing your uncle, a small, mean voice inside her head tells her.
As hard as they try, the words don't disgust her, merely the thought of the act being discovered, of losing Peter, of –
"You read like an open book, my dear."
Claire's head snaps up, strands of golden hair falling into her face as she stares at her grandmother, "I don't know what you're talking about," she retorts, determined to be defiant till the last.
The older woman purses her lips in a tight smile, resting a well manicured hand on the banister before leaning forward, "There are more secrets in this house than you can ever dream of. The mask we wear is all part of being a Petrelli, Claire. Soon, it will be second nature to you."
A would-be comforting hand on her shoulder does nothing to penetrate the shock that Angela's words have created, and Claire barely notices her grandmother's look of genuine concern before she moves back to the hubbub of the dining room, leaving her alone to her thoughts.
A couple of weeks later, as she's resting her head against Peter's bare chest, Angela's words resound in her head again, and a sense of nervous anticipation fills her. She turns away from her lover, who seems surprised at her sudden mood swing.
"Claire?"
She says nothing for a moment, biting her lip as Peter snakes his arms around her waist, placing a chaste kiss to her collarbone, "What's wrong?" He asks, and she can sense the frown on his face, "And don't tell me 'nothing', 'cause I know that's not true."
Claire sighs, not wanting to broach the topic, but knowing that Peter wouldn't give up on the subject that easily.
"What if," she begins hesitantly, "What if someone knew about us?"
She can feel him stiffen beside her, guessing that he wasn't expecting that kind of question, and inwardly chastises herself for even asking.
"I wouldn't care," he answers finally, gently turning her around so her eyes were locked on his, "I mean it, Claire, I wouldn't. As much as I can sit around and wait for me to be disgusted with myself, it never comes. This," he indicates to the two of them and presses a quick kiss to her lips, making her giggle in spite of herself, "is all I want, this is where I'm meant to be. I love you, Claire."
There's something about the way his eyes light up when he says those words that make Claire's heart melt, no matter how many times she's heard it. Peter's words of comfort reassure her to no end, and she relaxes into his embrace, pushing her grandmother's words out of her mind for the time being.
"I love you, too."
--
Eighteen years ago, Angela Petrelli stands in the living room of the Petrelli household, stony-faced, staring at her long-time friend, Charles Deveaux.
"You can't possibly be saying –" she begins, mouth pursed tightly.
"I'm telling you exactly what I saw, Angela," Charles answers calmly, watching as a ten year old Peter zooms around the living room, "And neither you nor Arthur will be able to stop it from happening."
The woman sighs heavily, sinking into a chair and rubbing a hand against her temples, "Thank you, Charles….thank you. Please, go."
She waves her free hand dismissively towards the door, and Charles nods his head slightly, calling out his goodbyes to the youngest Petrelli before leaving.
Peter runs over his mother, all of his ten year old self concerned for her well-being, "You ok, Ma?" He asks, tilting his head to one side, "You don't have those headaches again, do you?"
"No," Angela answers, smiling kindly at her youngest son, taking his hand, "You go and play."
The boy grins and scampers off again, leaving Angela to think of a way to deal with the situation at hand.
Her youngest son and Nathan's eldest daughter. Uncle and niece. If they met, as Charles prophesised, all their plans would be ruined.
She picks up the phone and dials a number, "Hello, Daniel? We have a small glitch in the plans…"
And Angela Petrelli would let nothing stand in the way of what she wanted.