A/N Hey, thanks for checking out my story ). First off, a disclaimer. I don't own ANY of this, okay? Second, a few warnings before hand:
This has Peter/Claire NON AU. So that means cesty. I'm not gonna shove it down your throats, but I really don't want to see any flames about the pairing. I didn't create Paire, so don't come crying to me.
This might be pushing R. If you think it deserves an M rating instead of PG13, then review me and I will most certainly boost it. There are general dark themes in this story, but nothing too explicit, so I'm gonna try out T first. Some of the general murkiness will include alchohol, incest, character death, and references to sex and violence, even IF all are in pretty mild doses. You have been warned!
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Peter hugs her goodbye and tells her he loves her like any good uncle would. You may never see her again.
This time it comes true.
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She died two days ago, taking that strawberry scent to the grave, and Peter's almost afraid he's lost his mind for good. Like he knew what crazy really was at that point.He thinks he's mad to harbor a hunger to globetrot a la Sylar to find someone who could rouse the heartbeats of the dead.
Nah. He doesn't know what insanity is.
Yet.
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He's never had a 'type' in the first twenty six years of his life. Then it ran into him in the hallways of Union Wells. Peter's type is honey blonde waves and sunshine, sparkling blue eyes, and the healthy shape of a strong woman. His type is also nine years younger, related to him, and suffocating in a wooden box seventy two inches below his feet.
Fragile Niki would have to do.
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On their one year anniversary, they watch a romantic comedy, one of those two star chick flicks that little cheerleaders from Texas adore so much. Peter could go to sleep on the couch then and there, Niki's heart be damned, and he wishes he had. When a character named Claire Gallagher comes on screen, something snaps.
The next day, Niki grumbles and buys a new TV.
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They make love at 1:02am and it's the only time that she's really Niki Sanders. Peter reads her mind and scoffs. Like she could ever come close to being Her.
But it couldn't hurt to try.
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Peter takes the woman out to dinner because he has to, and takes pleasure in every little simple thing he can. She wants Carrabba's but he takes her to greasy spoons three times a week instead. The 500 calorie chocolate decadence is still sitting half-eaten on the table.
I'm full. You have it.
But it'll go straight to my thighs.
He lies back that no, no it won't, so she listens.
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It's a Sunday Morning and Niki's checking her reflection in the mirror. This time, no one's looking back except her recent size six curves.
I'm going on a diet.
Peter looks up. No, your body's perfect.
He smirks because he means it.
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She wonders why he doesn't want her, and he wonders how he ever could. For she's too hideous and he's too irate to really build anything on. There are things both could wish for, but the falling stars and lucky pennies play hooky. Niki needs love and Peter wants blindness and for his girlfriend to just talk goddamn Southern already.
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Niki goes to the dirty downtown Vegas salon on Labor Day for a half-off sale. Peter drives her there silently, as if threats of death aren't enough to keep that hair dyed golden and the ends curled.
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A sexy red and white cheerleader outfit was hanging from the rack at Bad Kitty.
It's always in the hamper.
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Niki's got a faux twang that's more like trailer trash then Southern bell. She's blonde like a dishwasher and blue-eyed with not enough color in those broken irises. She'll never even look like Her, let alone act like it.
Peter takes a swig of his sixth beer and finally, Claire starts to come into focus.
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He's got a drinking problem because of her and Her, yet Niki keeps pushing the love in a bottle across the bar. All her other boyfriends hit her when they were drunk, but this one in a million says 'I love you' and actually means it.
She doesn't even mind that he adds a 'Claire' on the end of it.
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Ignorance is bliss and Peter's accidentally-on-purpose stopped noticing when Niki disappears in the middle of the night. It's not her presence he misses. It's the warm skin, strawberry shampoo, and the game of make believe when he closes his eyes.
It's three o' clock in the morning, and somebody is kissing his Claire. He gets out of bed.
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The police never seemed to stalk Peter, just like they never really took notice of Sylar's beheadings. Good. Now all he has to deal with is Niki, who's sobbing in the shower over her mysteriously dismembered lover.
Shhh. What happened?
My f-f-friend…he was-s-s-…
It'll be okay, Claire. You've always got me…
Peter's breath doesn't smell like alchohol this time.
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He thought he knew what crazy was.
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fin