Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2239770.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Heroes_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Claire_Bennet/Peter_Petrelli, Nathan_Petrelli/Peter_Petrelli, Claire
      Bennet/Nathan_Petrelli
  Character:
      Claire_Bennet, Nathan_Petrelli
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Sibling_Incest, Uncle/Niece_Incest, Implied/
      Referenced_Character_Death, Grief/Mourning, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without
      Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-03-17 Words: 3003
****** The Ghost Between Us ******
by poisontaster
Summary
     Maybe that's all that's left, when they go; apologies to the dead and
     the desperate grope for new connections to fill in the gaps of the
     old.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The coffee is bitter and too strong. Nathan smiles and sips it anyway. Claire
smiles back, reassured and sits down next to him on the couch.
"So…are you going to stay?" His voice gravels out over the words; he's sounded
wrecked for weeks. His publicist approves. His approval rating is up twenty
percent and it's all ashes, ashes, ashes.
Wrecked. Wrecked is his old car, snarled up and full of broken edges in a
junkyard somewhere rusting away the years.
Maybe wrecked is the right word, after all.
Claire looks around the apartment, her own mug cradled in her hands, knees and
ankles tucked tight. "I don't know. It feels…weird."
It does feel weird. Just being here makes him throb and ache like a rotting
tooth. He keeps expecting Peter to walk in and complain about Nathan inviting
himself in. Except Nathan didn't invite himself, this time. Nathan was invited.
And Peter's never going to walk through that door again.
"What will you do?" he asks through the rising lump in his throat. Claire may
be his daughter, but Nathan's had years of not falling apart in front of
anyone, not even his family.
"I don't know." Claire shrugs and the loose, oversized sweater falls off the
point of her shoulder. She drags it back up with absentminded resignation. "I
hadn't… I don't think…"
Used to thinking at least three steps ahead, he's bothered by how long it
occurs to him to offer: "If you need someplace to go…"
Claire shakes her head. "No. I mean… I've still got the money Meredith gave me
and stuff." She makes an apologetic grimace at him at the mention of the
money—his money. He waves it off. It doesn't sting. He would give her more,
lots more, if she would let him. If she were less a proud, stiff-necked
Petrelli, underneath all that blonde goldenness. "I'm okay. And I could stay
here if I wanted to. I just… With Peter gone…"
Yes. With Peter gone. Nathan's hand jags and a little of the coffee spills and
splashes on the cuff of his pants, his sock, his perfectly shined shoe. He
doesn't move, other than to put the mug down, and it's up to Claire to pull a
tissue from the box on the table and blot it with a soft noise of distress.
"You could stay with us," he says awkwardly, in case he hadn't been clear
enough before.
Claire's smile is wry when she straightens. "I think Heidi and I get along best
like we are," she says and it's true. Heidi is gracious and breezily pleasant
to Claire when their paths cross—Peter's wake and funeral, for example—and
Claire is polite in return. But the lines are thick and unbroken: no
illegitimate children here, thank you!
It hurts to think of her that way, this first, perilously recovered child. It's
no less than the truth, though and Nathan's bulldozed enough of his regrets
beneath the smooth parking lot of his ambition that the ache is only
rudimentary, vestigial.
Which brings him, one way or another, back to Peter again.
Peter's empty apartment, messy with the clutter of his preoccupied mind.
Peter's half-finished life, equally messy, equally preoccupied.
And Claire.
He doesn't feel startled when she inhales sharply, or when she puts her mug on
the coffee table in a sharp jitter of ceramic. The speed with which she moves,
with which she straddles him, is surprising, but not that she does it.
Nathan hasn't thought about it, but that's been a conscious effort on his part,
things he hasn't permitted himself to know. Nonetheless, those thoughts rested
uneasily in the back of his mind, crouched down and waiting for the wind to
change.
Like the fact that, although Claire's been living with Peter for six months,
there's still only the one bed in the apartment, sheets rumpled and not always
smelling of his brother. It's Claire walking around in Peter's old band T-
shirts from college and not much else. It's the closeness of their heads, light
and dark, as Peter whispers and Claire laughs.
It's his blood.
"Claire," he says. It's not a protest.
"Peter," she says in return and it's not a mistake, it's an answer. "He said…"
Her voice breaks and her weight settles back onto his thighs. "He said I should
take care of you, if anything happened to him. He said…" Her pupils blow wide,
turning her eyes dark as her fingers fidget in the lapels of his suit. "Peter
said you'd need me."
It hurts. It hurts so much, broken ends that lead only into empty space. But
Nathan doesn't let any of that show as he reaches up to smooth one stray, half-
curling lock from Claire's forehead. "I do."
Claire gasps again, like she didn't expect that. Then his hands are full of her
and her mouth is on his in frantic, stinging kisses. She kisses like Peter—like
Peter taught her—but she feels nothing like him. Nathan doesn't know which is
better, which is worse.
Claire slides down his thighs until her breasts press and flatten against his
chest. Nathan grabs her hips in hard, unyielding hands and thrusts up into the
delta of her thighs, lets her feel him. Claire's sigh is shivery—afraid,
relieved—but she rolls against his cock willingly, eagerly.
Nathan pushes up and twists, swinging Claire with him, pinning her under him on
the couch. She makes a little growl, knees nipping hard at his waist as they
tighten. "Claire," he says again and this time, it is a warning.
"Don't you think I miss him too?" Claire demands, bucking against his cock in
tight, furious bursts. She tugs his shirt from under his waistband, fumbles the
buttons. "I need this, Nathan. I do. I never asked you for anything."
No. She never has. Not even when he most wanted her to.
His fingers flirt with her thigh, so smooth and resilient. "You know how wrong
this is." But even as he says it, he's tugging at the side of her panties,
scratching the skin of her hip.
"As wrong as two brothers fucking?" Claire's voice has gone all husky; she
lifts her ass to let him drag her panties the rest of the way off. "As wrong as
an uncle that fucks his niece? Is it as wrong as that?"
"Shut up."
"Make me."
Her pubic hair crinkles dryly under the heel of his hand as he thrusts two
fingers into her, hard and without warning. Claire's eyes shut and her heels
dig into the cushion as she undulates up and then forward, grinding herself
down until his knuckles rub against her. Her wetness surges over his fingers,
juicy and clinging.
Nathan wonders how she and Peter did it. Whether it was hard and rough, like
this, or soft and sweet. He's seen Peter with girls. Sometimes Peter liked him
to watch. Nathan never knew if it was revenge or kink. It didn't really matter
either way. But with girls, Peter was usually tender.
On the other hand, Claire is a Petrelli. Nathan suspects that might change the
equation, just a little bit.
She opens his dress shirt, pushes the panels aside and rakes her nails brutally
down his skin, scoring from collar bones to belly. He wants to remind her that
his powers don't include her super-healing abilities or Peter's power to mimic
them. His marks will stay. At the same time, isn't that what he's come here
for? To have his grief imprinted? By this place? This girl?
Peter's girl. His girl. Now he guesses she's their girl.
Claire is left between them, a conduit, a bridge. And yet, he can't forget that
she's a person in her own right, barely old enough for the burdens that have
been laid on her. As much as this is about Peter, it isn't only about Peter.
Nathan pushes Claire up, toward the head of the couch, slides awkwardly down,
feet trailing off the edge. He spreads his fingers inside her and thrusts his
tongue into the gap. Claire's cry is surprised; if not for his shoulders
holding her apart, her trembling thighs would crush his head between them. "I'm
sorry," he whispers, too soft to be heard. He doesn't know to whom he's talking
before he swirls the tip of his tongue up, over and around her clit, producing
more of those choked, birdlike cries.
It's been a while since he's done this. But Heidi always said he was good at
it, before she lost the ability to feel it. He wants to be good for Claire.
"Please," she says. "I don't… I can't…"
She comes against his mouth in flooding sweet-salt warmth, sobbing like
something's been torn out of her. Between his legs, his cock throbs hard and
insistent. It sort of surprises him; before now, he hasn't thought of Claire
like this. Not consciously.
Because then he'd have to think about Claire with Peter. And Peter with someone
who isn't him.
Not that there haven't always been others. But none of them have been
Petrellis. None of them have been family.
It's sick and it's twisted, but it matters.
It matters.
Nathan doesn't let up, stroking his fingers deep inside where Claire throbs and
shakes, alternately laving and driving his tongue over the giving slickness of
her clit. Claire's fingers skate over his head like she's afraid to touch
before he reaches up, guides her hand into his hair. A ripple runs down
Claire's body, all the way to her spasming, painted toenails before she grips
hard, tugging.
"Nathan." She writhes up against his mouth; his lips burn with friction. "God,
Nathan, please…"
"Shhh," he slurs against her. He likes this, feeling a woman come apart,
feeling Claire come apart. He forgot how good it feels.
Her second orgasm is a triumph, sweet and thick, and Nathan surges up the
couch, tearing at the placket of his pants, pushing his boxers down his thighs.
"Wait," Claire protests, sitting up. "Wait." She fumbles between his legs
briefly before taking hold of his cock. "I want to touch you. Feel you."
Nathan eases back on his knees, lets her look at him, touch him. Her gaze
flicks between meeting his eyes and watching the response of his cock in her
hands. Her touch isn't exactly inexperienced—he has Peter to thank for that, no
doubt—but it's different; she's still young enough to be fascinated, to find it
all wonderful and miraculous. "Gentle," he says, when she hefts his balls,
caressing, "I'm more sensitive than Peter."
Claire nods. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah." He lets his heavy eyes slip closed for a second, rocking into her grip.
"Yeah, Claire. It's good. Real good." He reaches out from memory and flirts his
hand through her hair again, down to her neck where her pulse beats strong and
hot. Claire sighs happily.
Alive. Claire is so alive.
And suddenly Nathan feels like he's the uncertain one, the young one here.
"Claire…" He leans in to taste her mouth, fruity with gloss and underneath so
pliant and warm. "Claire, I want in you. Can we…? Are you?"
He doesn't know how to ask it. Not of his daughter, who he's about to fuck.
Nathan has his limits.
"I can't," she answers promptly. "I'm safe. It's safe. Mohinder thinks it's the
mutation. I want…" She sighs and chases his scar with delicate fingers. At the
same time, she traces the ridge of his cock, wet with the want of her. "I
want," she says again, simply.
He lifts her sweater off over her head, unclasps her bra. Her breasts are
surprisingly full, soft, heavy weight in his palms, hard, puckered nipples only
barely darker than her lips. He rolls them in his hands once then slips down
the smooth-hardness of her body to curve around her hips and ass and lift her
onto him.
Claire's head flings back, hair falling behind her to tickle his knees. Her
moan is deep and throaty, unexpected. It makes him piston up, deeper, her cunt
taking him grudgingly, tightly, but fully.
Peter, he thinks. God. Peter. "Claire," he murmurs against her tipped back
throat, nipping the skin until it reddens. It fades almost immediately. Nathan
fucks up into her again, even harder. Claire grunts and wraps her arms around
his neck, tightens her thighs, knees and calves.
"Oh." Her eyes are closed and Nathan doesn't let himself wonder what she sees
behind the lids. "Oh, yes. Like that. Yes, please."
Nathan's throat burns with something that's not lust. He pushes up again,
lifting them both, and slams Claire down. Her eyes startle open and she oofs,
legs scissoring even tighter. "Look at me," he grits out through the tightness.
"He's gone, Claire. Gone. And we don't get to pretend."
Claire's eyes darken and heat. She writhes around him, tightens low in her
belly. "I'm not pretending," she answers thinly. "I know exactly whose cock is
in me. Daddy."
He growls deep in his chest. Then he's unlocking her hands from around his neck
and pinning them to the couch. He's fucking into her hard and without kindness
and Claire only wraps her legs around his waist and locks her ankles, soft
noises spilling from her lips like music.
When Claire comes again, it's harder than the first two; she screams, clenching
and flexing and it's good, it's so good…but it's not enough. When she relaxes,
Nathan pulls out of her, still hard, glistening with her juices. It aches.
"Nathan?" Claire sits up, puts a hand on his thigh.
Nathan shakes his head. Under his skin, he's trembling. "I don't know."
"I…" She makes a slight bounce forward, sits back. "Is it me?"
"No." Another shake of his head. He can barely understand his own voice,
scratching its way out of him.
She tilts her head. It looks a lot like Meredith, a lifetime ago. He doesn't
want to think about that. Softer: "Is it because I'm not him?"
Nathan's breath sighs out. "I don't know."
Claire's mouth twists. "I know… Okay, so I'm not Peter." Her hand slides from
his thigh to his hands, fingers twining through his. "Does that mean I can't be
anything?"
"No, of course not."
Her hand squeezes his. "I have an idea," she says. She smiles, bright and
brilliant. "Let's try this another way."
Nathan doesn't understand until Claire shifts over, arranges herself on her
hands and knees. For a moment, he's frozen, staring at the long, beautiful line
of her back, the low spread of her hips, the gold and pink seashell of her
cunt. Then she looks over her shoulder, shy, hesitant. "It might help."
He wonders if Peter taught her that, too.
Nathan rises up on his knees and cups one hand across her flank in soft, gentle
circles. Claire's head drops on her neck and some tension goes out of her young
body as she spreads her thighs wider. "Come on," she says softly, doggedly.
"Ride ain't over 'til everybody gets some."
His erection hasn't flagged any; he guides it into her and she shivers,
reaching back for him. "Nathan…" She pauses and he doesn't, snugging in deeper
until he bottoms out inside her. "I do love you, you know."
He drops a kiss in the center of her spine and watches goose bumps radiate out
across her skin. Those don't fade nearly as fast. "I know. I love you too,
Claire."
Her breath is shaky. "Okay."
"Okay." He thrusts into her slow and easy, some of the urgency gone. Nathan
closes his eyes and tries to feel only her, only Claire, and not the ghost in
his mind. I'm sorry, Peter, he thinks. He remembers he'd thought the same—if
under different circumstances—when his father died. Maybe that's all that's
left, when they go; apologies to the dead and the desperate grope for new
connections to fill in the gaps of the old.
Claire's blunt fingernails dig into his skin, drawing him back out, into the
world again. "Nathan—" She sounds breathless. "Harder now. Please? God.
Harder."
"Yeah," Nathan says, and it tugs something low in his balls when she
asks—pleads—like that. "Yeah, okay, honey. Okay."
Claire whines, low and desperate and Nathan slips his hand up her shaking
belly, across the plush give of her breast to her shoulder, using it as
leverage to pull her onto him as he thrusts hard and deep.
"Dad," Claire says urgently. "Dad."
It doesn't take him long to come, emptying into her in scalding bursts and
Claire's fingers dig into the couch pillow hard enough that feathers burst out
around her nails. He's softening, but Nathan keeps driving into her, grinding
and swiveling until she ripples with orgasm a final time, her cry torn out of
her gritted teeth in a ragged sob.
They collapse in a tangle together and Claire worms around until they're face
to face. Her fingernail traces his nipple around and around, distracting, but
not unpleasant. "I miss him," she admits finally, eyes lowered so all he can
see is her gold-tipped lashes. "God, so much."
Nathan puts his arms around her and pulls her close. "Yeah. Me too."
"Do you think… Would he be okay with this?"
Nathan thinks about Peter, his unending generosity, the amazing breadth of his
love. Nathan had needed that from Peter, much as it galled him to admit that
sometimes; he'd have been a much colder, worse man otherwise. He's a little
afraid of who he might become without it.
Except now, maybe Claire. Who isn't Peter at all, any more than he can be Peter
for her. But maybe they can still be and salvage something from…all of this
wreckage.
"Yeah, honey." Nathan kisses her forehead, the way he'd kiss Peter's after one
of his nightmares. And she's not Peter and it's okay. "I think this is exactly
what he'd want."
End Notes
     Written for the
     [http://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/community.gif?v=556?v=119]
some_family prompt: [Claire/Nathan] Peter's dead.
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