A/N: I'm going to hell for this. Just when I thought I'd racked up my sins, here comes this story. This, especially this first segment of the storyline, is very different from anything I've done before. It's darker and a little twisted, as well as potentially uncomfortable to some readers, but at the same time, I hope I can keep the elements I see most in Paire- their trust in each other, and the love they hold.
I haven't done anything with Paire since Crossroads and Dance with a Stranger. This is a weird way to make a comeback, but if I'm going down, I might as well do it in style.
Warnings: Rated for sexual content, language, and obviously being mostly canon, incest. This chapter includes coercion toward sex from an outside party and mentioned voyeurism.
The room he was led to was nearly twice the size of the cell he normally occupied, immediately giving off an impression of cold sterility. His heart caught in his throat at the sight of the slender girl seated upon the bunk attached to the wall opposite of where he stood. She was huddled in upon herself, knees drawn to her chest, head lowered, tangled golden curls escaping her ponytail falling forward to shield her eyes from view.
She was fragile, delicate, painfully young and achingly beautiful. He grimaced as he spotted out of the corner of his eye the camera upon the wall, following their every move; the large tinted observation window taking up most of the wall seven feet above him. They were being watched, observed, and analyzed like lab-rats. His stomach rolled with sudden nausea as he remembered with startling clarity the exact reason he had been brought there.
Lab-rat indeed. He felt more like a servicing stallion put out to pasture. Nothing more than an animal.
God, he felt sick.
He exhaled sharply, shocking himself that he could even manage to choke out her name, "Claire."
Her head shot up with the hoarse whisper of his voice, green eyes wide and full of a strange array of emotion regarding him; wary trepidation, relief, hope and even resignation summoned at the sight of him.
…his gun-shy mare…
…more like a filly, so very young- God help him- she was little more than a child…
He felt sick again, aching and potent. He wondered idly if they'd allow him the bathroom if he couldn't keep down the oatmeal he managed to force down for breakfast- he'd refused lunch the moment they made their proposal of what exactly was expected of him that day.
"Have they hurt you?" her voice, soft and tentative, broke through the silence between them.
He numbly shook his head, feeling pained as he realized they had threatened her with the same inclination they had given him. "You?" he inquired throatily, palpable relief flooding through him as she slowly shook her head.
"Thank God," he breathed, daring to take a step forward, freezing immediately as she backed away in response.
Hurt- irrational as it may have been in their situation- clouded his expression, and Claire winced at her own reflexive reaction. "…it's not you, Peter…it's…it's this…thing they want from us…"
Peter nodded wordlessly, looking away. Claire watched him closely. She took in his bare feet- more than likely cold against the bare floor- lean legs encased in a faded pair of jeans, not the same pair he'd worn the day of their capture; she was surprised at the small courtesy. She had least when given a regular change of clothing; Peter had been stuck in the same grimy outfit every time she saw him. A thin wife-beater made no effort to hide the sinewy muscle of his body, not yet lost of its sleek build, despite the fact she knew he refused food on a regular basis.
The sight of his severely short hair was still one she was getting used to. They had forcefully taken an electric razor to his head the first day- making it easier, one guard had crudely remarked, to see the pain on his face when they beat him. She had been witness to three of those beatings so far, restrained back as they took clubs and feet and fists to a defenseless Peter, the bitter weight of the Haitian's power hanging relentlessly in the air around them.
The Haitian. She had caught a glimpse of the man who once tried to save her life, apparently back to being lapdog. Always…always did his power reverberate almost painfully through her, muting her awareness, tapping off the power ingrained into her very DNA. It was the same with Peter, closing off the power that had become so much a part of his being, taking away the healing that connected him to her.
Peter…he was like a ghost of himself without that power. He looked so pale, so tired, his face wearied and haggard with burdens beyond his years. Surprisingly, he'd even been allowed a clean shave, though the lack of beard shadow only worked to emphasis the purple bruise on his left cheek, a half-healed scar etched into his chin.
She stepped closer, tentatively laying her hand against the side of his face. Peter leaned into the touch, his eyes slowly closing as her fingertips stroked his cheek, traced along his jaw-line.
"Peter, can we really do this?"
Peter found himself remembering one of the more recent beatings he'd endured- one Claire was unfortunately present for. Peter had stupidly refused a direct order to simply return to his cell after being taken out to shower, unaware they were leading Claire out into the corridor for the same purpose as he mouthed off.
He fought back against the fist aimed for his abdomen, managing to ground his assailant. The sudden clicking of a trigger and he froze, the fighting leaving him immediately…at the sight of a .45 automatic being aimed at the back of Claire's head. Little hands trembling, clutching at her shirt, filled his memory, along with the wide, frightened green eyes that met his panicked gaze.
The same had been threatened if he didn't go through with what was demanded of him. They still knew little, very little of their kidnappers or their intention, but he obviously knew one thing now: they were at the mercy of a sickly perverted and blatantly voyeuristic individual.
He was to sleep with his own goddamned niece.
Peter Petrelli let his eyes close with resignation, horror and a dozen different feelings he could not even begin to define; images of those frightened eyes, the echoing click of a gun, the suffocating reminder of the Haitian's nullifying power weighed down on him.
He deeply inhaled. Slowly let it out. Let his eyes open. Framed her face in his hands. Whispered to her, "Do you trust me?"
"Completely," she did not hesitate for a moment in her response.
Slowly, gently, with the utmost care he had ever shown anything in his life…he kissed her.
Sitting in said man's campaign office, Matt Parkman watched re-election candidate Nathan Petrelli pace irritably across the floor, murmuring constantly under his breath. His frustration was a nearly tangible thing, culminating in every dead end the law enforcements and his personal connections reported back to him.
Detective Matt Parkman owed a lot to Nathan Petrelli- at Peter's prodding, it had been Petrelli connections had him hired to the New York police force at a time when his record had been anything but spotless, and his estranged but pregnant wife had been send him divorce papers.
But even without the debt to the congressman handing over his head, Matt still would have been first in line to give his all to the ongoing investigation- the reason lying in just who it was that was missing.
Five days since anyone had heard from or seen Peter Petrelli or Claire Bennet; three days, seven hours and forty minutes since Nathan had received the first threat from the kidnappers.
They were his friends, dear friends at that. Claire had only recently turned eighteen, such a sweet girl with a bright future ahead of her- sheer golden potential seemed to radiate from the girl these days. Peter was a good pal, a quiet and noble man Matt couldn't help but admire, with a heart nearly as big as the entire city of New York.
He watched as Nathan slammed his phone down onto his desk, collapsing into his chair, his eyes closing in pained resignation as powerful shoulders slumped forward, his face buried in his hands.
Sadly, it was the most human Matt had ever seen him.
Claire trembled against him and Peter's arms encircled her, holding her in a loose embrace she could break away from with ease if she so chose. But it was Claire who initiated the next kiss, firmer and more insistent than his own.
It was an unpracticed ardor she radiated, but one he intended to cultivate, as he splayed his hands against her back to pull her flush against him, responding with such a soft passion no other woman had stirred in him before.
"They're watching, aren't they?" she whispered sadly as they broke apart. She looked up at him, a hand pressed against his chest, his cradling the back of her neck.
A sidelong glance at the familiar cameras bolted to the ceiling and he offered her a bittersweet smile, leaning his head against her temple, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," she brushed her fingers against his cheek, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "I'm glad it's you."
"Me?" He took her hands, gazing at her quizzically.
She nodded, looking down at her hands as he held them, slowly entwining their fingers. "We're still…you know…but…I trust you, and I know you care about me. That you love me in the most basic sense of the word. That's what matters."
He looked at her much as he had one small moment two years before, as she stood at the door of a jail cell in Odessa and called him her hero, his eyes filled with such awe and appreciation, caring and warmth. She was sure she would never find another man on earth who could compare to Peter in that moment.
"You're amazing, Claire." With those quiet words, he kissed her again.
She slowly opened to him, deepening the contact, and she was pliant, warm and utterly alive against him. With gentle coaxing, she was wonderfully responsive as he lifted her to him, her arms linking around his neck and legs draping around his hips.
Breathless, he whispered to her then, settling her weight against him as he crossed the room. "Trust me on this, sweetheart. I'll take care of you, I promise."
Her heart warming both at his caring and the endearment, she shyly nodded against the crook of his neck, peppering chaste kisses against his face. He kissed her softly and then set her down on the bunk, frowning down at the cramped space. She watched silently as he stripped blankets and pillows, making up a makeshift bed on the floor, forming layers to ease discomfort against the harsh surface.
Peter stared bemusedly at the bedclothes, offering her a wan smile, "We'll need room," he softly explained, shrugging one shoulder, "Though we're a bit fortunate. You've got a lot more blankets."
She returned his smile, commenting wryly, "That's explainable. Those Neanderthals out there are so sure of my 'delicate female disposition'."
He gave her a crooked grin, reaching out to take her hands and help her to her feet. "Delicate, no. Female, yes," his voice lowered, "And a beautiful one at that…" She blushed.
His eyes followed her movements as she lay out against the bed, her gaze locked on his movements as he removed the wife-beater, unfastening and pulling down his jeans to bare himself down to his underwear, "Are you sure about this?"
"Do we have any other choice?"
He smiled sadly, lowering himself down to her level. "What we can choose, is to take this slow, take our time with this." He sifted his fingers through her hair, releasing the blinds of her ponytail, allowing the silken mass to tumble haphazardly around her shoulders.
His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck and she shivered, Peter leaning forward to press a kiss to her collarbone, pushing aside her collar to gain better access. Their eyes met once more, Peter searching for any discomfort at his ministrations.
As he pulled up the shirt and cast it aside, she ran her fingers through the coarse bristle of his hair, drawing him into another kiss, more a soft acknowledgement of what was to come than an act of passion.
"Your first time?" the intimacy of her question brushed against her ear and at her curt, embarrassed nod, Peter was silent.
He let his body do the talking for him.
Peter, above all things, proved himself to be a gentle lover, passionate in his kisses, careful and precise in his caresses, seeking not only to arouse her body but to comfort and soothe the fear her mind still possessed. He kept his hands and lips constantly at work, keeping that same slow, steady pace until she forgot anything and everything but him.
As he released the catch to her bra, he pulled a sheet up to drape over their torsos, at least offering cover to keep from the voyeurs their more intimate interactions as he lowered his head to explore her. Teeth scraped gently against her collarbone, Claire sucking in a quick breath of surprise at the new sensation.
His hand stroked her clothed hip, silently reassuring as he continued on, his lips a sweet burn against her skin as he trailed them to her chest. Soft, airy moans punctuated the air as his mouth closed over a breast, tongue circling a peppled nipple, gently suckling.
He delighted in the heightened pitch of her breath, the way she subtly arched her body into his, the way her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping at his scalp. She whispered his name, her voice thick and hazy, and the moment she rolled her hips against his, his mind almost stopped working all together.
He blinked, nuzzling her neck as he breathed in the sweet scent of her, sharply exhaling as the jumbled pieces of his brain fall back into place and realign. He reevaluated, feeling oddly numb as his actions took on a predestinated air, hands purposeful instead of caressing.
As if she felt the change, her eyes fluttered open to lock on his and Peter couldn't even try to smile as he hooked his fingers into the thin material of her bottoms, Claire's expression clouded but accepting as she allowed him to finally bare her down to nothing.
She was wet for him, but tense and taut as a bow beneath the press of his body as he slid his hands between her thighs. He nibbled at her shoulder, stroking nimble fingers against her sex, pressing the warmth of his palm against her inner thigh, subtly urging. She squirmed, obediently letting her legs fall open for him and he gently slid a finger into the heat of her.
He combed a hand through her hair, guiding her head to press against his neck, hiding that beautifully animated face. Giving the bastards watching them the satisfaction of watching her reactions as he stroked her into her first orgasm was not something he was going to allow. No way in hell would he subject her to that.
She whimpered against his neck, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he stroked and caressed, slow, rhythmic thrusts of his fingers the more her body relaxed to the intrusion, the tantalizing brush of his thumb as he found her clit.
She fell apart then and there.
Peter grunted at a sharp sensation at his shoulder, but he ignored it as he sought to comfortingly bring her down instead. She was trembling violently, clinging to him after he brought her to the pinnacle and beyond. She opened her eyes to be met by a splash of bloody crimson staining the olive skin of his shoulder. It was nothing serious, just a few stray droplets, but the wound was accompanied by the imbedded marks of her teeth and Claire released with a start just how hard she had bitten him in an effort to stifle her instinctual cry.
She apologetically pressed her mouth to his shoulder, his eyes darkly dilated as they clung to hers, focusing on the movements of her lips and tongue as she soothed the wound, the first time since they'd started that she had voluntarily touched him in such a way.
There was not really time to hesitate and Peter steadied himself with that sickening realization, shame he could not prolong this for her, give her the attention she really deserved. But their spectators weren't known for their patience, and Peter had finally gotten what he needed out her. She was as ready for him as they were going to get the chance for.
Feeling the weight of those cameras, the phantom eyes burning into his back, he wasn't sure if he could stomach really, really making love to her in this place, in this room, in this circumstance- the ugly reality of what he was about to do was enough to stifle any other thought from his mind.
His hands pressed to the back of her thighs, gently pushing her up to reposition himself. "Put your legs around me, Claire," were his only whispered instructions and she obeyed, slender limbs draping around his hips. He stared down at her as he rested himself between her legs, bracing his arms on either side of their entwined bodies.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered desperately into her ear, kissing cheeks he knew would soon be wet, at his fault.
He pushed forward, and their world was changed forever.
Her body still shivered with the aftermath of climax he had managed to coax her body into. Her core still throbbed with the taking of her hymen. Her heart still ached for so many reasons her brain was still too muddled to fully discern.
She focused on him, attempted to forget the red stain against the sheet he pulled out from under them and threw aside. She closed her eyes, feeling his soft touch as he reached between her legs, using what she had recognized as his discarded shirt to gently wipe away the evidence of what they'd done.
There was nothing to be said in the aftermath, Peter's hands gentle as ever as he slowly redressed her, guiding her back into his embrace as they lay together against the tangled blankets. She clung to him, nuzzling against his naked chest, trying her best to block out the lingering smell of sweat and sex. She tried to shut out the memory of him tearing into her and the healing she'd wished so fervently to return.
The pain had been inevitable- he had not forced, but slow and gentle meant nothing when she could not open to him in the discomfort of her surroundings. Faceless eyes on them, she couldn't relax, and all the more her hero, even Peter couldn't have saved her from the fear and pain of losing her virginity to her uncle in watched captivity.
She focused on the pounding of his heartbeat, remembered his face as he moved inside her in deep, steady strokes that deafened the pain and soothed her body into the friction of release it needed. She tried her hardest not to think of the way the beating echoed with the continual ache between her legs, tried instead to think of the tender way he had touched her.
He held her close, and she remembered the promise that he'd take care of her. His fingers combed through her hair, his lips brushed against her temple and his free hand gently stroked her hair. She knew he would do anything and everything to keep his word. Here, at least, in his arms, she was safe, and loved, if only for a few stolen moments.
She nestled closer to him, and wondered idly if she would even sleep that night without him nearby.