A Month of Stolen Time

Warnings: Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.
Set: Post 2nd Volume finale.
Songlist: Dépêche Mode

There'll be times
When my crimes
Will seem almost unforgivable
I give in to sin
Because you have to make this life livable
But when you think I've had enough
From your sea of love
I'll take more than another river full
And I'll make it all worthwhile
I'll make your heart smile

- Strangelove, Depeche Mode

Day 1
Hiro

It’s been at least a month since Hiro’s last been here, but nothing’s changed. The grave is still undisturbed; the lazy patterns Hiro drew in the loose layer of earth three months back still visible and somehow unsettling to look at. Hiro shakes his head. This vantage point is odd too; he is usually on his knees at this point, getting closer to the ground the closer he gets to the unmarked headstone.

It’s late in the afternoon now, and much colder than Hiro anticipated. His coat is poor protection against the wind, and he sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling very Westernized by the action. After a moment of silence, Hiro turns around to warn his companion evenly: “I’m stopping time now.”

Peter looks tense as he meets Hiro’s gaze. “You know I won’t be affected,” he answers tightly, and Hiro nods and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t suppose there’s any use in me trying to talk you out of this?”

Hiro looks away, at the grave, and allows Peter’s question to really sink in. The hands in his pockets burrow deeper into the material.

“I think you have already given that attempt your best effort, Peter Petrelli,” he admits after a moment, apologetically. It’s entirely true, and Hiro only feels the barest flicker of doubt before he squeezes his eyes shut.

Exhuming Adam Monroe is predictably easier than interring him, but not by much. Peter hovers by the sidelines, looking wary and disgusted as Hiro digs his way methodically down deeper to the coffin, using what he has come to think of as his sword. They don’t talk; Hiro is far too tense for that, and Peter has redefined the word by standing with electricity cupped in his palm, eyes narrowed and fixed determinedly on the patch of earth Hiro is working away at.

Eventually, a thump sound breaks the silence. Hiro’s sword has connected with something beneath the earth.

“You’re a talented grave robber,” Peter quips in that dark way of his, and not for the first time, Hiro silently laments the loss of the Peter he once knew. Aloud, he says, “Come help.” Peter shakes his head and moves further back. The blue spark in his palm brightens.

Hiro is left alone to brush away the last layer of earth and try to pry the cypress wood lid off using Kensei’s sword as leverage. It’s surprisingly hard, and Hiro is surprisingly thankful as the blade refuses to cooperate, repeatedly missing the groove. Eventually Hiro is forced to set it aside and try with his fingernails, kneeling in the pit he has created. At this point, any delay at all comes as a relief.

“You should have buried him with that.”

It is an odd comment for Peter to make, tinged with accusation, but Hiro supposes he could be imagining that. After all, every look the Italian throws his way feels like an accusation these days.

“I’m sorry,” Hiro finds himself muttering through thick lips, and Peter frowns, misunderstanding him.

“Don’t be. He deserved it.” One hand still incandescent, Peter stops pacing, and glances downwards. His gaze lingers on the casket a moment too long, even though time has technically stopped and no one but Hiro’s counting. “Give him his sword and bury him again, Hiro. Don’t repeat your mistake of trusting him. And don’t ask me to repeat mine.”

About this Hiro is adamant. “I need you.”

“No, you don’t,” Peter protests flatly, pacing again, if the sound of soft footfalls is anything to go by. “You can stop time. You don’t need me –”

“I do,” Hiro interrupts. His fingernails catch something; Hiro nudges his fingers under the groove, concentrating, and it takes him a moment to find his thread again. “Kensei’s powers may be limited to regeneration, but he has overpowered me before.”

There are so many holes in this reasoning Hiro’s surprised and relieved when Peter simply laughs disbelievingly and leaves it alone. It’s a mercy not to have to voice the truth aloud: Hiro doesn’t trust himself, and if Kensei’s anything like the man he was 400 years ago, he can play him like a grand piano.

For the moment, though, Hiro sets this reality aside and tries to focus. This is his last chance to turn back and leave well enough alone, and he has become jaded enough to turn the option over in his mind completely and logically before deciding to discard it. But his decision is quick. Gaze averted, Hiro scrambles to his feet and pushes the heavy lid of the coffin aside.

At first he can’t bear to look. Peter’s ominous silence and stillness fill his mind completely and Hiro stands eyes clenched shut for long minutes of dread before he finally dares to blink them open. And when he does, he sees that he is right to be worried: Kensei may have regenerative powers, but thinness is not a disease and Kensei cannot cure it. That painfully familiar face, pillowed by the silk lining of the casket, has gone from angular to distinctly pointy, just shy of gaunt. His skin is also paler than Hiro remembers; there are lines around his mouth and across his forehead that Hiro would wager weren’t there before, and dirt streaks across both smooth cheeks. Kensei might heal from any wound inflicted, but he still feels pain, and this fact, illustrated so clearly by his tightly-knit brow and ashen hue, is like a knife in Hiro’s stomach.

Behind him, Peter is less impressionable. He is sitting on the edge of the shallow ditch, waist-level, and he reaches out to place a hand on Hiro’s arm, tightlipped. It is not a comforting gesture, and Hiro, mouth still in an o, jumps. “Let’s go.”

Belatedly, Hiro obeys, reaching mechanically for Kensei’s wrist and squeezing his eyes shut. He is distracted, and his teleportation is sluggish and slow, but when he next opens his eyes, the graveyard is far away, and the Haitian is watching him warily.

Hiro lets Peter do the talking, too preoccupied by the warmth against his fingers.

“Now?”

“Before he wakes up, preferably.”

“How much?”

Hiro almost stops him. Kensei is sprawled on the floor, chest rising and falling, pulse beating erratically under his thumb, and Hiro almost intercedes. Instead he kneels there, staring at Kensei’s face, the strange femininity of his thin lips, the slightly sallow skin, the crease in the corner of his mouth, forever mocking, as Peter says, far above him, “All of it.”

He knows he will regret this, all of it, but right now, with that steady quiver of movement under his fingers, Hiro can’t bring himself to care.

A/N: I’m ridiculously pleased with this. But I’m sure that’s just the 2 AM and the Dépêche Mode on repeat talking. Uhm. I took quite a few liberties with this one, but oh well. Again, graveyard! fic. I don’t know why I’m always writing Hiro angst there. Not to mention I’m pretty sure Adam’s grave doesn’t have a headstone. But indulge me and just go with it.