Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know.

Fic: Mad World. Prologue.

2009-09-12T02:41:25Z

Prologue

“You flew! That wasn’t me; that was you!”

Peter flinched away from the fury in Nathan’s voice. His own anger had seeped away and the only feeling holding any power over him was exhaustion. He’d been moving non-stop for how long now? Weeks? And now Nathan was yelling and pushing and demanding answers.

“Because you’re my brother and I love you.”

Peter just wanted to sleep.

“That’s not what I would have done.”

A kick to the guts would have hurt less than those words. Peter watched Nathan disappear into the ebony sky and sank wearily to his knees. The woods smelt pleasant, cold and clean with leaves crunching under his hands. Just a few minutes rest and then he’d go…where? Peter hadn’t been home in months. Was his apartment even his own anymore?

Too many questions. He’d rest, go to his mother’s house and find some clothes then…

Leaves crushed by approaching feet. Peter raised his head dazedly, the world not quite in focus.

“Nathan…?”

But then a sickening wrench of power and Peter was somewhere else completely.

Fic: Mad World Masterlist

2009-09-07T05:05:14Z

Mad World (24,595)

Pairing: Sylar/Peter

Rating: NC-17
Author Notes: Huge thanks to rtwofanfor not only the delicious artwork below, but also for providing a fast and clean beta reading at the latest possible moment. This fic is way better because of her imput and advice. Thank you Michelle, it was a true pleasure working with you. Written for heroes_bigboom round three.
Summary: Peter is trapped five years in the future. If he can find his family after all this time, will they even be as he remembered? One man certainly is.

Art Link: Gorgeous banner, wallpaper and trailer by the awesome rtwofan. There are spoilers in the trailer for the story, so be warned if you go look at it first.

Prologue

“You flew! That wasn’t me; that was you!”

“Because you’re my brother and I love you.”

Peter just wanted to sleep.

“That’s not what I would have done.”

Too many questions. He’d rest, go to his mother’s house and find some clothes then…

Leaves crushed by approaching feet. Peter raised his head dazedly, the world not quite in focus.

“Nathan…?”

But then a sickening wrench of power and Peter was somewhere else completely.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Fic: Mad World 8/8

2009-09-07T04:51:47Z

Chapter 8.

Peter opened his eyes onto the truly lovely face of his niece. She lay beside him on his bed, her body a smaller mirror to his own, one arm tucked under her pillow, one curled over her chest. Deep green eyes that had mesmerized him the first time her ever saw them looked back into his with such relief that he almost wanted to weep.

Warmth surrounded Peter from the source at his back.

“Hey.” Claire’s voice was barely above a whisper in the quiet of the room.

“Hey.” A needle hurt as Peter’s voice rasped over a damaged throat.

The emerald gaze sharpened. “It’s been three days. We weren’t sure you were going to wake up.”

What could he answer to that? Apologize for worrying his family? The unconsciousness hadn’t been by choice.

“Is everyone okay?” Peter asked instead. He had to know what he’d done. They’d all come to his rescue, the people in the mansion. His family had led the cavalry but it had been all the heroes at that final battle.

Claire’s eyes dimmed. “Paolo and Regan were killed. There wasn’t much left of them. My blood brought back everyone else.”

Peter’s lids fell against the news. He’d spoken to both of them. Making lunch for everyone on Tuesday with Paolo, just chatting about nothing while they sliced and washed. The woman Regan he’d only encountered briefly, her viciously cropped red hair and angry mouth a reflection of damage Peter was out of his depth at healing.

Gentle fingers stroked his cheekbone.

“They would have wanted no other death. To have stopped…him…was all Regan wanted. All she really lived for at all. Paolo…” Claire hesitated.

“…shouldn’t have even been there.” Peter finished harshly. The man had been able to make plants do anything he asked them to. The magnificent Petrelli gardens had been his playground and a testament to his ability.

“He had as much right as Regan.” Claire countered voice still soft and made of compassion.

“Everyone had the right to fight for our freedom Peter. You didn’t kill them; you gave them the chance to fight for themselves.”

Peter looked into the endless green and choked. “He talked to roses. Why did he…?”

The soft, comforting touches never ceased. “Because you were in trouble. You were his friend Peter.” Her voice hardened a little. “That monster murdered his son. Paolo, of all of us, needed to be there in the end.”

Unable to counter her logic. Peter relaxed into the comfort of the mattress and placed his hand over the arms encircling his waist.

The body behind him was a long warm line of pressure that secured Peter to this place and muffled the pain of death and loss.

Claire smiled again, this time with a flash of wickedness.

“How long?” Peter asked, careful not to awaken the other man.

Her eyebrow canted in a familiar borrowed gesture. “Three days on and off. Angela kept prying him away for food and showers, everyone else got snarled at if they even suggested he leave.”

Affection and awe tumbled through Peter’s aching limbs. The soft breath between his shoulder blades a small indication of the deep passion he was now a part of.

“I love him.” Because it was Claire and even with five years of changes Peter still wanted to tell her everything.

Delighted tears rose in her gaze. “Oh Peter…that’s good. That’s so good because Gabriel has been…”

Claire’s jaw snapped shut and she took on an affronted look.

“Telling secrets Shugar?” Gabriel’s voice was low and velvet deep against the delicate skin beneath Peter’s ear. A shiver of desire began to chase away the aching residue of exhaustion and pain.

Reaching forward the former cheerleader flicked her fingers at Gabriel’s ear.

A huff of laughter and the telekinesis was released. Claire tested her jaw for a few seconds.

“As I was saying…” Peter could tell she was changing her intent given the wakefulness of her charge. “Gabriel has been worried sick about you, just like we all have.”

With a sly glance over Peter’s shoulder, Claire rose gracefully from the bed and walked to the door. “I’ll let everyone know you’re back. Nancy is awake and would like to meet you. Actually, be prepared for everyone to want a visit, starting with Nathan and Angela.”

The door closed quietly behind the blonde and they were alone in the soft stillness of Peter’s room.

“Last time you left without waking me.” The accusation wasn’t really as casual as it sounded.

Stilling in his lover’s arms, Peter wondered at that. After all the pain and betrayal, it was that one simple thing Gabriel chose to accuse him of.

“I couldn’t risk you.” He confessed to the empty room. This was easier when the midnight eyes didn’t sear into his soul. “You would have come with me and I couldn’t take the chance…”

“Do it again,” Gabriel interrupted hands beginning a slow roaming journey over Peter’s chest and hips. “Leave me to wake without you again and I’ll chain you to the bed every night.”

Arms tightened, bringing them closer until Peter was firmly wrapped in long arms and legs.

“Don’t leave me behind again.”

The inherent need in the voice warred with the words ‘every night’ within Peter. It was a declaration of intent that he hadn’t even let himself hope might be possible. It secured the thought Peter had been turning over in the back of his mind since he’d seen Claire’s face and felt the warmth at his back.

“I’ll stay.” Peter vowed, containing in the small statement everything he promised to the man behind him.

Gabriel’s grip became almost lethal. “Hiro has traveled to the past and future. Everything could change.”

Peter ran his fingers along the grasping hands that were so greedy for him to stay. He knew Hiro. There was little doubt in his mind the decision the Japanese man would have already made.

It was the same as Peter’s.

“I could go back and stop Arthur.” He couldn’t say ‘Dad’. Peter’s father had died long since from a heart attack. The Spider had been a monster that had lost all traces of its humanity years ago.

Gabriel went absolutely still.

“But I would remember everything. You wouldn’t be who you are. Claire wouldn’t have Noah. Everyone would be different. I…I don’t have the right to obliterate everyone here just to change a world that is finally starting to right itself.” Peter shuddered at the idea of this whole world, this life being…gone.

Long limbs held him close and warm lips nuzzled at his neck.

“So I don’t need to chain you to the bed?” Gabriel asked in that deep sexy voice laced liberally with amused disappointment.

Peter heard the sound of feet in the hallway and the murmur of voices coming closer. His family, changed as they were by this brave, new world.

Just as Peter was.

“Well...”

*****

finis

Fic: Mad World 7/8

2009-09-07T04:23:32Z

Chapter 7

Gabriel Gray woke to a cool breeze and the sense that he was alone. He’d been holding Peter tight against him as they fell asleep and the absence dug into him like an aching tooth. Abruptly sitting up, he scanned the room seeing the items taken by the nurse when he’d left. The dark grey pants that needed a belt or they’d sink sinfully low on sleek hips, black shoes, a cream wool sweater that would be too warm during the day for the hot-blooded Italians in the house and…

While dressing, a glance at the open window showed Gabriel it was well into the morning and Peter wasn’t in the room. Wasn’t with Gabriel where he could see him.

Long legs eating the stairs near three at a time had the killer striding into Nathan’s den projecting aggression that concealed something that was close to panic.

“Where’s Peter?” he asked the room at large. Several shocked expressions showed that those were the last words their owner’s had expected to hear after the fight on the tennis court. Gabriel ignored them for the sightless white orbs turned to him in worry.

“He was with you.” Angela pointed out in the coldest voice he had ever heard. Knowing that he’d likely never be forgiven for his heated words Gabriel forced away his emotional response to the loss of that relationship and continued to look at Parkman. Hiro moved into his eye line.

“Peter Petrelli is gone? When I went to his room to see if he was okay, I…” A glare that was all Sylar caused the smaller man’s explanation to trail off.

“I told them he was alright,” Parkman explained, still looking far into the distance. “Not in any danger and that you’d probably kill anyone who tried to open the door….or Peter might just collapse the house on us I wasn’t certain.”

Gabriel decided that he never, ever, wanted to discuss the act of nailing the youngest Petrelli heir with Angela in the room and grabbed a handful of Parkman’s shirt. “Where. Is. He?”

The hackles in the room rose to a ridiculous level.

“I’m looking now,” Parkman answered with a worried frown, completely ignoring Gabriel’s menacing presence. “He’s not in the house, or even New York. Molly…?”

His daughter stood up and glided to her father’s side. “Yes?”

“Please get your atlas dear,” Angela asked with a smattering of warmth.

“And the red folder of drawings, I think he’s in them.” Parkman added.

For the tenth time that week, Gabriel forced down the urge to tear open their heads and take what he needed. Relying on others was so…slow. But he released Parkman’s clothing and directed a sneer at the various people who visibly relaxed. Like they could have stopped him anyway.

The red folder flew into his hands the moment Molly returned. The young woman took this in stride, quickly sitting with a map of the US in her lap and a drawing pin held in her delicate fingers.

“If he sees Molly…” Mohinder warned. Everyone knew to whom he was referring.

“I’ll rip his eyes out.” Rifling through the images, Gabriel noticed one coherent thing. They were all drawings of Peter. The moment the man had walked through their front door, the fight yesterday afternoon and god help them, an unfamiliar place where Peter stood barefoot, a chain at one slim ankle, surrounded by dark figures that exuded lust and fear. Relegating that image to be deciphered and avenged later, Gabriel’s eyes fell on something so familiar he knew it had to be what Parkman was looking for.

“This one.” He dropped the sketch into the blind man’s hands and waited for confirmation, eyes on the girl.

“How do you know?” Nathan asked voice tight with worry. “That could be anytime…anywhere.”

Parkman ran his fingertips over the Braille embedded at the corner. “This is the one, he’s here.”

The sketch showed Peter, bleeding and injured, standing in a luxurious hotel room. To his left were the crumpled forms of men in paramilitary clothes, to his right a dozen more all with laser sights targeting the slender man. Directly in front of the nurse a shadowy, monstrous figure lurked, eight long arms seeming to reach forward intent on smothering Peter.

“That could be ten years from now. “ Nathan argued. Peter’s face wasn’t clear, only the hair and body giving away his unmistakable appearance.

“It’s happening today, soon.” Parkman promised.

“It’s now.” Gabriel agreed, staring a line of fire through the girl’s head. For once he didn’t care if his rage and terror began to show.

Nathan was still unconvinced. “But how can…”

“That…” Gabriel looked again at the sketch and drew one long finger lovingly down the beautiful man it depicted. “…is my coat.”

The one he had left draped across the chair in Peter’s bedroom.

No one said a word until the young woman stabbed sharply into the paper and sighed.

“He’s in Washington. The Clarion Hotel, Presidential Suite. 1654 Longreach. The Spider saw me and knows but he’s busy fighting…”

Gabriel’s fingers would leave marks on Hiro’s shoulder that would last for days.

“Can you?”

Hiro wouldn’t mind the bruise.

“Yes, as many as you want my friend.”

*****

Peter took a deep shuddering breath and forced open the door. All the damage his body had taken was starting to take a toll on him. Unlike his niece, Peter could still feel the pain of every wound inflicted upon him and the constant healing was exhausting. Not to mention the multiple use of his powers that up until now he hadn’t thought possible.

Two hours ago he’d landed in Washington. The Spider was based in the capital city, hidden in some clandestine place that was far removed from what was left of America’s government. Knowing where to start, Peter kept the warmth of Gabriel’s arms close to his heart and accosted the first FedMarshal he’d seen. Telekinesis had frozen the woman in the act of opening a door, telepathy had forced its way into her brain and sorted through her memories to see who her superior was. He’d been lucky. Davina Rourke was a senior Marshal and had made several direct reports to Danko at an office that looked somewhat like a library. Putting her to sleep in a comfortable chair, Peter had found the nearest trash can and was violently ill.

Now he could add mind-rape to the growing list of his sins.

Wiping his mouth, Peter had teleported to the library/office and faked his way to the commander’s presence. Another mental attack showed that the FedMarshals were in disarray after Gabriel’s killing of Danko and there were a dozen meetings and crisis talks scheduled for the rest of the week. One of them was with a man the commander only knew as Roberts. Roberts’ office was in Fairfax, less than ten minutes from the library.

Peter walked there to try and clear his head a little.

It didn’t work.

The delicious, needed, lustful passion he had left behind contrasted horribly with what he was doing and what he was planning to do. It bothered Peter so much that he hesitated out the front of Robert’s office. An old campaign building that reminded him of Nathan’s with such instant clarity that it felt like a punch to the gut. Swallowing hard Peter thought of Claire and baby Noah and Ethan and Luke and Lyle and Monica and Micah and Molly and….

Peter quietly opened the door and attacked the people within.

Roberts had never seen or met the Spider. But he’d once been in a FedMarshal car that dropped Danko off to high level talks. The limousine had rolled to halt in front of a hotel named The Clarion on Longreach Drive.

With a sorrowful glance at the sleeping forms around him, Peter concentrated on the image he’d stolen and ‘ported himself to the front door.

*****

The doorman had shot him three times with a hand gun. Cursing his own idiocy at appearing visibly, Peter had tossed the gun into the head of the first FedMarshal to burst into the street and tossed the doorman at the head of the second.

It had gone downhill from there.

The real problem was, Peter thought as he healed a hand shattered by a shotgun round, was that he didn’t want to kill anyone. Well. He wanted to kill the Spider, but the people who worked for him were meant for an all-but destroyed justice system and besides, Peter had enough blood on his conscience to last a lifetime.

None of it really mattered.

Keeping the humans alive was one thing, it was the bloody ‘specials’ that were really fucking up his plan. Had the Spider collected everyone with an energy power for god’s sake? Dodging and throwing most of it back at its sender was very risky. Most weren’t immune to their own powers and the look on that man’s face as poison gas surrounded him made Peter want to find a respirator and do what he’d been trained for all those years.

Stupid really, but then Peter had never stopped wanting to save people.

The hardest part was keeping track of the new abilities he was gaining. The gas was revolting and made his mouth taste like rotten eggs, while the fire reminded him too much of Ted Sprague and dying explosively at two thousand feet in the air.

In the end, none of it mattered.

Peter reached the thirtieth floor surrounded by red alarm klaxons and a sputtering electrical system, the tingle of the hard jolt he received still pinching his nerves like a bitch. He didn’t have time to put his shoulder back into its socket, but the ligaments weren’t screaming at him anymore. There was blood in his eyes, his mouth and he’d lost his shoes to that crazy superglue floor.

It didn’t matter.

Pulling the warm black coat tighter around him, Peter smiled at the feel of the rich red satin lining and threw Gabriel’s power at the door.

It shattered into a hundred pieces.

*****

“Ahhh, I knew it was you Peter.”

The voice that originated from the skeletal figure on the throne-like armchair brought bile to Peter’s throat.

‘Oh you bastard Claude’, he thought with a sick smile. ‘You knew all along.’ Daddy fucking long-legs indeed.

“Never could surprise you, could I Dad?” Peter asked Arthur Petrelli as he dropped three guards to the floor with a wave of Gabriel’s power.

Four bullets ripped into his back and buttocks, ruining the fine coat even more and drawing an involuntary grunt of agony from Peter. It was like a fucking Greek tragedy, his father for heaven’s sake. It all clicked into place, the footsteps in the woods, the power to force Peter forward in time, stolen from Hiro all those years ago. One of only three people in the world with multiple abilities plus a penchant for tyranny and destruction of his own kind.

It was his father. Angela and Nathan had been battling Arthur for five years and never even knew it was their own flesh and blood.

God, what a messed up family he had.

“I’d ask why, but you’d probably say it was for our own good and that’s bullshit.” Peter observed, no longer really feeling anything. He was too drained by the battles, the pain and the absolute shock of this last, awful revelation. Arthur, aged beyond human by death and madness raised a gnarled hand as if asking for Peter’s in friendship.

Elle’s electricity ripped into Peter, drawing a scream and forcing him to his knees.

Or it would have, but for the strong arm at his waist and the scent of pine and almonds that surrounded him.

“Gabriel.” Peter gasped into the warm skin at his lover’s neck.

“This is like the final battle in Star Wars.” Hiro Nakamura commented before vanishing to reappear with Monica and Mohinder at his side.

“Didn’t I kill you?” Gabriel accused. Bolts of raw energy spiralling towards the Spider as a telekinetic shield protected the couple from retaliation.

Peter could hear his friends engaging the rest of the FedMarshals in the room and as Hiro brought more and more heroes in, spectacular collisions began in the hallway between the renewed attacks of Arthur’s powered up followers.

“Yes, you did my traitorous Archangel. Fortunately Monroe’s power allowed me to heal the moment the bullet was removed.” The deep voice hadn’t changed at all, nor the spectacular control of abilities that Mohinder had likely only dreamed existed. It was taking everything in Gabriel and Peter combined to keep him at bay.

“God! Arthur.” Angela’s voice was stripped bare. Peter wondered at Hiro’s sanity for bringing her here, her power was to dream for fuck’s sake. But then the reason became obvious, the person who could affect his father the most, could throw him off his attacks for a critical moment was the small beautiful lady now walking towards the far end of the room.

“Ahh my love, you have come to join me at last.” The voice was that of a young suitor, not the undead dictator they all wanted destroyed. Peter glanced away from a sunburst of power, his eyes coming to rest on a slumped figure near Arthur’s chair.

“I thought my father was insane.” Gabriel muttered as he tossed a door at the mountain of a man who was trying to pound Monica into the floor.

“Get me closer,” Peter whispered into the warm skin at Gabriel’s throat. He was almost completely healed, the respite his friends had granted doing wonders. But the overtaxing of his powers was a wrenching drain that wouldn’t stop. Keeping a shield before Angela and throwing an occasional bolt to protect Claire as she bodily threw herself between gunfire and her grandmother was pulling at his dwindling reserves.

Drawing Peter closer to his lean, gorgeous form, Gabriel carefully walked them towards the armchair via the doorway to the now obliterated bathroom. Keeping his eyes on the body near the wall, Peter listened to his mother, listened to the battle and most of all listened to the pulse of the man at his side.

“You’ll have to let me go.” He instructed as they inched forward, hellfire and glory raging around them. Gabriel looked like he would object, but Peter cut him off. “Trust me?”

Long seconds as they reached the fallen ‘special’ Peter sought.

“Yeah.” It was a grudging sigh, but Peter would take what he could get.

“I love you.” He murmured into that magnificent hair, lips brushing against the stubbled skin.

Fingers grabbed at him, but for once, Peter was quicker, dropping sharply to press his hand to cooling dark skin. A power that wasn’t one flooded into him and he turned to look at the monster that had once been someone he loved.

Every single power that Arthur Petrelli had stolen over the years ceased to function.

Shock blossomed across the broken face before determination set in.

“Hurry,” Peter gasped. Oh yeah, the man at his feet had been dead on.

Arthur fought the Haitian’s ability like a shark pulling on a fishing line.

Gabriel had his hand raised but the pained expression he wore needed no explanation.

“Take it Gabriel,” Peter pleaded even though he knew it might kill off a little of his lover’s newly acquired soul. “Use it to free people from their powers, use it to make the world right. Please.”

But Gabriel Gray had stopped being a killer at a high price and this would dash all he had accomplished to dust,

Seeing the impasse, Hiro’s sword was drawn and Mohinder had broken off his current conflict to turn to the frozen tableau at the head of the room.

Arthur slipped the hook.

Three sharp shots rang out, taking Arthur through the forehead, throat and heart. Like pausing a film, everything in the room and hallway beyond came to a sudden standstill.

Pulling the trigger again, unloading the entire magazine, Nathan Petrelli obliterated his father’s face before he pulled a second clip from his pocket and reloaded.

“As next of kin and executor of his estate, I authorise you to harvest whatever parts of his body you require.” Nathan said to Gabriel in his senator’s voice. “For the greater good.”

Peter heart warmed to see his lover hesitate before giving a single nod.

Angela’s hands covered her mouth, Claire’s arm supporting her trembling shoulders.

“Stand down, stand down and you’ll be allowed to live!” Noah Bennet’s voice rang out in the shocked silence. The occasional rebellion instantly quashed. Arthur was dead and currently getting his brain adjusted. It made an impact on his followers.

Peter watched it all through a kind of haze. Nathan came to replace Gabriel in holding him upright and Peter rested his head on a shoulder at a now convenient height.

“Ma tried to kill him and you tried to kill him.” That unforgettable voice told him solemnly as they watched the world change around them. “I thought the third time would be the charm.”

Peter looked at Gabriel as the man wiped the faintest traces of red off his long fingers.

Finally it was all done, the reason he’d been brought here made plain and accomplished.

Now, finally, Peter could rest.

His brother’s sharp voice and the worry that crossed Gabriel’s face were the last things Peter saw as he succumbed to the warm embrace of darkness.

Fic: Mad World 6/8

2009-09-07T04:21:55Z

Chapter 6

Peter hovered amongst the clouds, knees drawn up to his middle, arms across his chest. It was bitterly cold this late in the evening with only a t-shirt, but he had other things to think about than frostbite. The giant childish sulk he currently indulged in was one, the stupid hurt he felt at his family’s betrayal was another and finally the worst, the unmistakable truth behind Sylar’s words.

He wanted to go home. Pitiful and sad as it sounded, Peter desperately wanted to go back to his own time. Even if it was to the hatred in Nathan’s eyes, cool manipulation from his mother and Claire’s youthful innocence slowly being tarnished by darkness. It was a terrible thing that his family were more loving here in an apocalyptic future than they’d ever been when Peter was around.

But the one way he could go back and make everything right was currently unavailable to him. Because of the god-damned Spider and his FedMarshal drones, Peter couldn’t time travel, couldn’t go back and fix his family. With the knowledge he had now, Peter could forestall Nathan’s deal with Danko, could stop the President from declaring them all terrorists and he could save Sylar. He’d drag the killer to Matt by his hair if he had to, to get the hunger stopped and allow the human being within to see the light.

He had to get Hiro’s power back. Peter had to end the Spider and fix this fucked-up place once and for all.

After several hours in the air, Peter’s eyes were itchy dry despite the moisture around him. All the wounds from the fight with Sylar long healed, except for the ones on his heart. They might take longer than a sabbatical in the clouds. As the last of the daylight bled into darkness, Peter determined his course of action and descended towards the mansion. He wanted to talk to Claire. She, of all his family, would tell him the straight unvarnished truth. Peter had looked down the barrel of a gun in her small hand and still trusted her.

Peter glided easily through his open bedroom window and quickly pulled off his shoes. He needed a hot shower, a conversation with his niece, five hours of sleep and then he’d leave. The illuminated lamp by his bedside stilled the fingers on his belt. The man seated in the armchair caused Peter’s spine to stiffen in caution.

“They’re worried.” The velvet voice was neutral, free of the hate and scorn that had infused it earlier.

Peter concentrated. In his mental and audible voice he said,

‘Matt, I’m back and fine. Please tell them to stay away.’

‘Matt, I’m back and fine. Please tell them to stay away.”

A pointed glare towards the seated man then the door while Peter pulled his black ‘mission’ clothes from his cupboard.

Chin cupped in his palm, long fingers curled up to his cheek, Sylar spoke casually, as if he hadn’t drilled an electric hole through Peter’s chest scant hours before.

“It’s been a hard lesson for me to understand how completely oblivious you actually are.” The velvet voice was oddly gentle, but Peter barely noticed it over the criticism. Peter hardly needed another set of insults to add to the damage his ego had already taken at this man’s hands.

“Sorry I’m such a failure.” He snarled.

Sylar seemed to repress an eye roll through sheer force of will.

“I meant, before you react like a snake and fang me to death, I realised today you don’t even have any kind of clue what you do to me.” A careless gesture with his free hand.

Blinking at the obscure statement, Peter shook his head to clear some emotional cobwebs.

“I didn’t do anything.” He responded quickly. “I just wanted you to stop being an asshole to the people who love you.”

A long-suffering sigh issued from that handsome mouth. Peter tried to divert himself from paying attention with his completely logical rage. It couldn’t quite take, what with Sylar rising to his feet and stalking over to Peter like a big, sexy hunting cat. Hands caught his shoulders, a strong grip that pulled them dangerously close together. A bump of groin to groin so Peter could feel the unmistakable evidence of the other’s arousal.

“This is what you do to me.” Lips lowered to hover light as gossamer just above his.

Peter was immediately torn. On one hand he wanted to punch the fucker in the face for all the emotional rings he’d been running Peter through, on the other hand Sylar was right there inches away, his body stealing the last of the night chill from Peter’s skin and those lips so very close…

“It doesn’t just fix everything between us by agreeing we want to fuck.” There was still an edge in Peter’s voice, one caused by the gutting pain he’d experienced at this man’s hands.

Lids lifted and the sudden heat in the midnight gaze almost stole the last of his resistance.

“No, but it’ll stop me wanting to burn little holes in your skin just so I can keep your attention fixed completely…” again the wicked mouth made a gentle pass, “…on me.”

With herculean effort, Peter pulled his face back fractionally. “Apologise for being an asshole.” He ordered, suppressing a primal urge to just drop and bare his neck.

A slight smile. “I’m sorry I was an asshole to everyone and I’m sorry…” the whispering mouth moved closer and this time Peter couldn’t even form a thought of denial. “…I took it out on you.”

The intrinsic fairness that was welded to his DNA had Peter saying softly, “It was much my fault as…”

The kiss that stole his words shook Peter to his very core. Such an indecent, talented mouth Sylar possessed and one intent on addicting Peter to it’s every move and push.

Reaching up to lace his fingers through the thick hair, Peter pulled Sylar in closer, pressing them together full length and arching his chest against that delicious body. Sylar 's sudden deep growl sent shivers down Peter's spine despite the warmth of the room. The sensuous mouth locked on his was firm and wet, sliding along Peter's so perfectly.

Their tongues duelled for several seconds, before allowing exploration of teeth and lips. Peter now felt like he was burning from the inside, going up in Ted’s flames and Sylar a solid island of cool to drown in. Not only was he solid, but that iron erection from earlier had now an eager companion in Peter’s denim covered groin. He had been half hard already just from the other’s presence in his room and the smoky velvet voice curling around him. Now Peter’s cock felt like iron inside the prison of his clothes. On and on the kisses continued, dragging the breath out of him, turning his bones to jelly and opening a deep yawning pit of need inside his heart and his body.

Peter never wanted to fuck so badly in his life.

It seemed Sylar agreed because just as Peter pressed in, trying to force himself closer, the other man curved two hands under Peter’s ass and lifted like he was a lightweight. Wrapping his legs around Sylar’s hips, Peter groaned into their locked mouths at the almost painful press of his erection against another. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew Sylar didn’t have superior strength and felt a definite buzz of heat at the human muscle his soon-to-be lover had just displayed.

Using his weight and a little bit of power, Peter pushed them backwards until the back of Sylar’s knees hit the bed. Hmmm. Exactly where he wanted to be, sitting astride Sylar’s lap, tousling that perfect hair while kissing so deep and needy that he thought he never may stop.

A few quick acrobatic movements had Sylar coatless and pressed back into the headboard, while Peter dislodged their shoes and removed shirts as quickly as possible. Sylar was hardly passive, drawing a gasp as Peter’s jaw and throat were tormented with lips and tongue, long fingers pulling at the buttons of his jeans then delving inside to curl and stroke the satin flesh within.

Telekinesis wielded by either of them or both, helpfully removed at the last of their clothes; the power an eager manifestation of their mutual desire to be absolutely, completely naked. Glorious skin finally glided against skin, so wickedly warm together that Peter could see a full body massage in the future somewhere. Just those fingers on him was turning Peter on so completely, he wanted to flat out beg Sylarl to take him any way he wanted. When his length was released he gave a great long shuddering sigh. One that quickly turned into a shudder of need as the hands crept around and delved gently at his ass. Their lips parted on a hiss of pleasure.

“Please…” the word was almost lost in Peter’s heightened breathing, but the want was plain and absolute.

He purred into that striking, handsome face, “If you don’t I may just have to force you.”

Sylar’s sudden sensual chuckle caused a new fizzle of arousal to hit Peter. He had never heard the man issue such a carefree and downright dirty sound before.

“One day.” The former killer vowed, passion laced through the dark promise of his voice.

With a clench of thigh muscles Peter sat higher, raking his hands once again through the thick chocolate hair that had flicked so teasingly at his skin during those bruise rending kisses. Smashing his lips almost clumsily against Sylar’s, Peter curled his hand around the length nudging at his buttocks, adoring its satin feel and size.

The first brush of Sylar's fingers across his opening sent tingles, like tiny electric shocks, up his spine from his ass to his skull. In retaliation Peter tightened his fingers around Sylar's sex and gently rubbed his palm across the silken head. He almost wanted to slide lower and swallow Sylar deep down into his throat, but another part of his body needed that hot hard shaft even more.

As Sylar's talented fingers moved and stretched him, Peter sunk his teeth into his lower lip to stifle the terribly uncontrolled moan threatening to escape him. Eventually the tormenting touches became too much and Peter pulled back and away from their sensual touch. He frankly didn't care if he was ready because he wanted Sylar in him. Right. Now.

Catching two handfuls of that thick hair, Peter pressed his body against Sylar’s in a blatant invitation.

“Now. Now. Inside me…” Peter didn't recognize the lust-filled burr that his voice had become.

Lips dropped light kisses across his jaw as if Peter’s erotic pleading never took place. But beneath his ragged begging, Peter heard the slight hitch in the other man’s breathing and knew that his soon-to-be lover was walking a knife edge of control even more volatile than his own. He wanted to look into those eyes as he came, watch the man's face when they made love for the first time.

The first press of Sylar's hardness inside him had Peter responding instinctively, exhaling and relaxing as he slowly surrendered his body. It burned a little and the ache was intense but Peter felt the friction turn to a riot of bliss as inch by solid inch pressed its way inside him. Peter arched his back and canted his hips to return the pressure. A hand tightened at the base of his skull and Peter could see the same fierce pleasure fill the midnight eyes that gazed with steady control into his own.

Letting gravity finally win, Peter sank all the way down, feeling Sylar slide in impossibly deeper. He gasped at the nascent burn, eyelids fluttering closed, biting his lip at the overwhelming pleasure. The flesh tormented by teeth only for a second as with a sharp pull forwards his lover broke the connection with his tongue, piercing Peter twice both ass and mouth, holding and owning.

Peter began a slow, sensual dance, the lift and pull of his hips drawing the hard flesh in and out of him. Rocking them together in a simply glide dictated by need and gasped murmurs of “yes…right there…you..”

Long seconds passed as Peter worked them closer to the edge, his gaze locked on the bitter chocolate ones that he’d never think of as cold again. Hands braced on Sylar’s shoulders for balance, Peter lost all thought to the pleasure beginning to course from his ass to his cock.

In one smooth motion his wrists were engulfed by Sylar’s longer hands. In a move reminiscent of battle, Peter saw the wall and ceiling spin by in a blur, then was bouncing slightly on the thick mattress, Sylar's taller, delicious body pressing him even deeper into the comfortable softness. Now Peter was caught between the hot, hard body of his lover, still buried deep inside him and the bed. Looking up into Sylar’s deep gaze, he couldn't help the challenge he threw up with only his eyes. Peter was in all kinds of luck as the challenge was answered, sweet, warm breath caressed his cheek and ear, sending wonderful shivers across the sensitive skin at his throat.

“You…are…” Sylar’s was like dark honey they way it curled and sashayed around them.

“Hmm...?” Peter’s gaze now as he looked at the handsome face, high cheekbones flushed, lips brilliant from desperate, needy kisses.

“Everything.” A single perfect thrust.

A full-body shudder had Peter’s eyes closing, his fingers scoring desperate nail marks down the smooth skin over Sylar’s back. When he had the breath to speak he rasped, “Please…” But the vital movements didn’t start, instead long fingers embedded in his hair and warm lips hovered butterfly soft over his own.

“Open your eyes.”

Peter looked into bitter chocolate touched by gold.

“Say my name.”

Lips moist from their duelling mouths, Peter tried to pull his brain online.

“Sy….”

A hard punishing kiss and the taste of copper on his tongue, fingers rough, collecting dark strands and small pulls of pain. Released after long seconds, Peter looked up again at saw the question repeated. For a foolish, lost moment he wondered at what he was supposed to say. But eventually he saw past the long, muscled form atop his own, past the handsome face, wicked mouth and beautiful hard cock pushed to the hilt in his body. A slow breath in and god help him, Peter had never been this obedient with anyone, not even his family, but…

Looking up through his lashes, he allowed the sheer eroticism of what they were doing, what was being done to him and by whom fill his gaze. A slow breath in and…

“Gabriel…” such a delicious name, “…Gabriel...” he played, changing the emphasis, “…Gabriel…” filling his voice with smoke and lust, “…Gab…”

This time the name cut off, not in anger, but in agonised, perfect worship.

Now Gabriel was fucking in and out of his body in a decadent wild rhythm. Nothing slow and sexy any more. All control lost, grasping hands, biting mouths, they pushed hard against each other in a desperate need to reach perfection.

Peter was burning up from inside and out. The fingers stroking his cock in time with the hard iron inside him, meant Peter was revelling in every single contact with Gabriel’s skin. His orgasm was bubbling up to his knee caps right about the time his lover started chanting his name. A hot, feverish hum of want, want, want. Peter gave a moment's thought, a moment was about as much as he was capable of in this position, to trying to suppress the wild exhilaration about to blow his head off. But he couldn't and didn’t want to suppress anything around Gabriel, not anymore.

Peter wasn't coherent enough to wonder if Gabriel was encouraged by his desperate, needy moans, he was too busy feeling and dying and letting that burn run from his thighs to his brain. The hard length slid into him again and again, stretching him, sending his nerves alight; Gabriel's hand stroked and caressed his cock until Peter's eyes rolled back in his head.

Peter almost stopped breathing. The wildfire had taken him over, stealing his voice and rendering him a creature of sensation. Peter’s climax bolted out of him, causing the muscles in his body to spasm to an almost painful degree. Desperately he held onto Gabriel's hair, locking his gaze with dark eyes almost inhuman at the moment of ecstasy. The growling, broken voice in his ear sending him to a white-hot room of instant blistering pleasure.

He had no voice, but his lips shaped one word.

Gabriel.

*****

Peter was just drifting. Kind of like flying or floating down from a cliff, light as a feather. Muscles that were almost but not quite sore, the sweet, peaceful lassitude engulfing him was better than any drug. He'd just had the best orgasm of his adult life.

Reality eventually penetrated Peter’s happy little zone out. Gabriel's name still on his lips and his lover still buried deep inside him.

Blinking slowly, Peter looked into the handsome face pressed into the pillow and registered the magnificent satisfaction that radiated outwards and seemed to haze the room around them. Gabriel had graced his jaw and neck with awesome, possessive kisses just five seconds ago, but Peter had been so high, his body had acquiesced while his mind hadn't really noticed.

Reaching languid arms up to bury his fingers in thick dark hair, Peter tugged until he could kiss his new lover back. Softly blending drugged kisses with shifting limbs they arranged themselves into a more comfortable position, legs entangled, Peter’s cheek resting on one broad smooth shoulder.

‘You’re forgiven.” He murmured cheekily, thinking off the small lamp and plunging them into darkness.

A low rumble of laughter deep within the chest pressed close. “I see…so the next time we fight, we make up in the same way?”

Sudden sadness took Peter’s breath momentarily, but he forced it away, enveloping himself with the rightness of the moment.

“Hmmm…agreed.” Closing his eyes, he breathed in that deeply enticing scent of pine and almonds.

“Peter?”

But between one breath and the next, Peter fell asleep.

*****

Tying his shoes, Peter took one last longing glance around his room and stood up. The mild fall weather was slowly declining towards a chilly winter and he’d need more than just a sweater where he was going. Stalled on his way to the wardrobe, Peter’s heart gave a sudden lurch as he saw Gabriel shift in his sleep.

Like some kind of erotic photograph that Peter had hidden under this same bed during high school, his new lover was a studied contrast of darkness and light. The crisp white sheets lay lovingly along long muscled limbs, lean, tanned back just begging to be touched and a darkly stubbled handsome face pressed comfortably into the pillows.

Walking closer, Peter took a mental snapshot and re-organised the list of his most treasured memories in the back of his mind. Waking up warm and loved with Gabriel was now the flat out best thing that had ever happened to him, beyond even the power that had both enhanced and ruined his life.

So gently as to take no risk of waking the other man, Peter traced one fingertip along the knuckles of lightly curled fingers.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

The room didn’t answer as Peter leapt into the sky.

Fic: Mad World 5/8

2009-09-07T04:19:54Z

Chapter 5

Massively awkward was the only way Peter could describe the following nine hours. His mother had seemed to know what they had done which brought up the possibility that she dreamed him almost making out with Sylar in the lab. Gaining an instant headache from the idea, Peter smiled in a completely unconvincing way and prayed she hadn’t mentioned anything to Nathan.

Fortunately or unfortunately his brother had other concerns. Namely the intelligence Micah and the team had recovered indicated that Danko had been conducting human testing with the serum for the last three days and there were already several ‘terminations’ listed in the reports. This information caused such a look of ice-cold rage to become Sylar’s permanent expression and immediately doused any idea of resuming where they had left off on the mission.

Refusing to admit he was disappointed and telling himself to get in the right head space, it was Peter who discovered they’d lost some lambs.

Near midnight had Peter taking his turn to collect coffee for everyone in Nathan’s den. It was a war council of sorts, partly planning the mission to rescue the test subjects, partly a continuous argument with no end in sight. Peter had been playing mediator, alternatively calming angry voices and soothing jangled nerves. Personally he thought they should just ask Molly to find any of the special’s they knew had been taken and then go rescue them.

It was never that easy apparently. Like Maury Parkman before him, the Spider could tell when Molly used her ability and had almost found the sanctuary several times in recent years. Thus the young woman’s gift was used only in times of dire emergency. Matt and Sylar were in the midst of a verbal battle defining whether this was a ‘dire’ enough situation.

Watching the hideously expensive coffee machine begin to chug and burble, Peter wandered into the lower lounge and saw Monica absorbed in an action movie. Surprised at the lack of youthful testosterone that usually flowed in the beautiful woman’s wake, the nurse climbed the stairs to the boys’ bedroom.

Not there.

Nor were they in the games room, other bedrooms, backyard, and garage or on the tennis court.

Coming back into the den with his heart racing and no coffee, Peter interrupted Noah’s words by asking in a voice close to panic.

“Has anyone seen Ethan, Luke or Lyle? They’re not in the house.”

“Lyle?” Claire sounded frightened in a way the invulnerable woman never was for herself.

“They went for food hours ago.” Angela told them, standing with her hands clutching each other white knuckled. “Did they come back?”

“No-one has seen them since.” Peter looked to Noah with sympathy. Lyle was his youngest child. The man had used a lifetime of worry over his magnificent daughter. It was God’s cruel joke to threaten the one that should have been easier to keep safe.

“Ethan’s angry.” Matt’s voice brought them to silence. “He’s somewhere familiar, it scares him and he hates it.”

Peter felt nausea twist in his gut. “They’ve been caught. Ethan knows the FedMarshal holding cells.”

Matt stood sharply and looked directly at Sylar as if his eyes could perceive the man.

“It’s Danko.” Not a flicker of emotion touched the strong handsome face of the man before him. “They’re still in New York. Luke’s seen Danko, he’s… he’s screaming in his head for Gabriel to help him.”

Sylar closed his eyes and took one long deep breath.

Nathan threw open a folder on his desk. “They must be at the main facility on Ellis Island. It’s impenetrable even if Hiro teleported…” His words tailed off as Sylar opened his eyes.

Even Peter took a breath at what he saw there.

Taking all his courage, Peter walked forward and caught the killer’s attention with a gentle hand to the shoulder. “I’ll take you.”

The dark eyes that looked down into his belonged to a murderer that had been dead for three years.

Blocking out the protestations around him, Peter concentrated on the times he’d seen Ellis from ferries and bridges.

Cool wind threw his hair into his eyes and raised a shiver down his spine. Sylar was unfazed by the chill, eyes on the buildings that covered the small island.

“Do you want me to get the others?” Peter raised his voice to be heard over the waves.

Sylar didn’t even glance at him, just started walking towards the high stone walls with determination a Sherman tank would envy.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Peter wrapped his arms around himself and trotted to keep up. He wanted to get Ethan out of this place. Away from the grey clinical walls, anonymous prison clothing and likely maiming by FedMarshal guards. The boys shouldn’t be here, they were too young to be part of the war yet. They should be at the mansion, eating Sandra’s cooking like they’re stomaches were bottomless pits and flirting badly with the pretty woman.

Not subject to needles that could render them ‘terminated’ by their own fucking government.

Sylar’s plan seemed to be ‘destroy anything or anyone between them and the boys’. Peter was fine with that as long as no one got killed just for being there.

“I need you.” Sylar gritted out, the velvet voice almost ice-cold with rage.

Peter didn’t even think of misunderstanding that statement. He simply drew on his most powerful memories of Sylar, looked directly into the man’s handsome, determined face and joined his telekinesis to its true master.

Combined, their power was earth shattering.

An eight foot area of the concrete walls bowed out for a split second and then exploded. Within the resultant shower of dust, they could hear the beginning of an alarm that pierced their ears with its sharp call. Two guards fell from the nearest tower, their descent only slowed from deadly to fractures at the last moment by Peter’s quick reflexes. Making it his mission to shove away and knock out the guards that came near them so they wouldn’t be ripped apart or melted, Peter kept to Gabriel’s heels and hoped they’d get to the cells before they saw Danko.

No such luck.

They were all in the same place. A huge aircraft hanger of some kind with the left sectioned off into wire cells and the right a large medical area with gurneys and white coated technicians.

“They had already finished it.” Peter realised as he saw the vials of serum filling shelf after shelf of freezer units.

Sylar suddenly grinned. “They kept the security with the serum. We were distracted by the lab so we wouldn’t notice they were rounding up even more people.” A wave of his hand and a dozen vials exploded.

Peter flinched, his eyes falling on the cells and the cowering people within.

“Get them out Peter, get them home.” Angry eyes found a figure at the centre of the massing guards. A short, slight man, balding with deep-set insomniac eyes. “I’m going to be having some Me time.”

Peter hesitated for a moment. Sylar had committed himself to his sentence with one hundred percent devotion. This would undo a lot of the ground he’d gained with the others. But some small part of Peter understood. The man ordering the hail of gunfire that showered them but failed to touch had imprisoned Gabriel in a facility just like this. Had tortured him until the killer had thrown himself on the dubious mercy of his enemies rather than go on living another day.

Justice might finally be served today.

Peter walked over to the cages. His telekinesis was so intertwined with Sylar’s that the few pushes he could manage wouldn’t be enough to free the prisoners. So with a combination of Mohinder’s strength and Ethan’s acid tongue Peter destroyed every door he could see.

“Fucking A, I knew you’d come!” Ethan yelled over the chaos shattering the building around them. “I told that asshole ‘Peter and Gabriel are going to fry this place when they get here.’ I knew you’d both come.”

Peter herded all the captives together and started to lead them in a group to the walls and beach beyond. He would likely sprain something teleporting them all to the mansion, and Sylar would loose the extra boost Peter was giving him, but at least they’d be….

“Dad!” Lyle yelled in exultation, eyes on a helicopter that roared over the shattered walls.

‘How in hell did Noah get a helicopter so fast?’ Peter wondered incredulously, before pushing the boys towards it.

Hiro was suddenly at his side, a warm smile on his kind face before he took the hands of two prisoners and vanished.

His mission now in the hands of others, Peter ran back towards the building where Sylar was making a mess of the military. It no longer had a roof and the walls were going to meet the earth in a matter of minutes.

Realising that he hadn’t seen Luke amongst the prisoners, Peter scanned the battlefield and found the boy, crouched behind Sylar. Completely protected by the strongest telekinetic on the planet. Continuing to merge that same power, although used with less finesse, with its owner’s, the nurse reached their side and grabbed Luke’s hand.

“We have to go!” he yelled over the conflagration around them.

Luke violently shook his head. “Not until that fucker is dead!” he screamed back.

Peter leaned around Sylar to see Danko, somehow still alive amidst the killer’s fury and wondered at the protections that layered the FedMarshal leader.

“This is boring.” Sylar said calmly, his voice audible amongst the din. “Time for you to die.”

With a suddenness that was likely planned, every man surrounding Danko dropped their guns and began writhing in pain at his feet. A raised weapon and several more rounds bounced off Sylar’s shield.

“You should have joined me Gray; we could have ruled the world by now.” The FedMarshal shouted unafraid.

Peter was impressed despite himself.

Sylar cocked his head to one side as if considering the proposal now.

“Not in this reality.” He answered before a line a blood appeared on the high forehead and Danko died.

“Rot in hell Mutherfucker.” Luke hissed as the man who’d murdered his mother and kept him prisoner for two years finally fell.

Only the three of them were left standing as the sound of the helicopter departed.

Sylar turned to Peter, the rage gone but also any passion he’d once shown now buried under the aftermath of what he’d done.

“Home,” Peter said before taking their hands and suiting action to words.

*****

They had the children back, but everything between Peter and Sylar had gone all difficult again. Peter mourned for those first tentative steps to friendship, let alone the insane chance of something sexual between them. He couldn’t tell if it had been the merging of their power or Danko’s death, but Sylar had turned into a first class bastard and this time, it wasn’t Peter’s fault.

The former killer snarled at everyone, even the protected Molly wasn’t immune to Sylar’s bad humour. During conversations where missions were discussed, he would disparage Nathan’s plans, insult Bennet until the man was ready empty a clip into his head and mock Hiro so much he’d leave shrouded in puzzled hurt. Peter suspected that Sylar was just pissed off with the world because they had all been played. Some of the most powerful and versatile ‘specials’ in existence and they had missed Danko’s sinister plan, the deaths of everyone in custody the result of their arrogance.

But still, it wasn’t really anyone’s fault, not Nathan’s, not Bennet’s and certainly not Sylar’s. Trying to break the icy disdain that now radiated from his almost-friend, Peter found himself becoming just as short of patience as the killer nearly two weeks after the rescue from Ellis Island.

It all came to a head when Sylar brought Monica to tears in the training ring. The critique was actually reasonable, their leader pointing out the flaw Peter himself had discovered in their first fight together. It was the vicious, clever turn of phrase that struck too close to the bone and placed a last straw on Peter’s back.

Sylar stood, arms folded, an elegant sneer in place. From his neat black shirt and dress trousers to his impeccable hair, the killer radiated confidence and a pitiless disappointment in everything around him...and everyone.

“…like a robot with bad programming. Do you think the FedMarshals haven’t run sims on battling you? They had you for ten months Monica, they know you better than you know yourself. You have to think to fight, not just go through the motions like a battle Barbie with an empty skull…”

“Hey, enough.” Peter was standing too close, the scent of the killer’s pine aftershave a memory of lust that was too distracting. Flicking a gaze at Monica’s dejected figure, Peter stoked his anger and forced out all what-might-have-beens.

The icy-dead glare turned its full power on the nurse. “As I’m leader of the combat team Petrelli, I decide when it’s enough.” The glare became dismissive. “You can fuck off.”

That’s it asshole. Peter came to a mental resolution. He was fitting in to this time, no longer a lost soul and he wouldn’t have his opinion disparaged. Not by anyone…certainly not by Sylar.

“You can leave her out of your bitch-fest Sylar.” Peter countered, voice becoming hotter in inversion to the ice in his adversary’s. “Monica did her job that day. Stop taking your anger out on everyone else.”

A brilliant gleam entered the dark gaze as the frozen anger finally began to thaw. “Maybe I should take it out on you Petrelli? As I remember you pushed to continue the hospital raid, all the while the boys were being tasered and loaded into vans…”

“I couldn’t have known,” Peter defended. He’d worked himself over for that decision enough times that Sylar couldn’t find a weakness there. “No-one could. The lab was the viable target, Claude was right…”

Strong fingers closed into a fist in Peter’s shirt. “When you see your invisible lover again, tell him he’s on my angry-list as well. The intelligence was so badly flawed we should never have trusted him to begin with. Something else you are responsible for I might add.” The threat against Claude was useless as Peter hadn’t had contact with his mentor in days. But it still served to pull Peter over the brink into fury.

“Stop saying he’s my lover. Stop blaming other people for the mistake,” pinching into the nerves in the killer’s wrist, Peter broke the hold on his shirt and pushed Sylar backwards with a hard, human-strength shove.

Catching himself easily, Sylar smiled a cruel mirthless grin. “Sorry Petrelli,” he said with no trace of regret. “I’m just having trouble keeping track of how many members of the house you are sleeping with. What did Raines do to get kicked out of your bed? Or hasn’t he left and is still hovering round like a…”

Peter’s fist connected with that gorgeous jaw. The sudden shock at his action couldn’t cover the satisfaction of shutting up the lewd accusations and the bloom of red on the fine, lightly tanned skin. Instant healing removed all trace of bruising, but that didn’t halt two long-fingered hands from catching Peter on the chest and shoving him out the door of the garage. A telekinetic burst causing Peter to land on his back by the tennis court.

Ribs clicking back into place, Peter stood quickly as Sylar stalked towards him like his rage-filled angelic namesake.

“Stop it guys. C’mon…” But Monica’s plea was lost in the rivalry of anger and power.

“You’re not really angry with anyone else,” Peter accused in a low, dark voice.

Sylar scoffed, his hands flickering to life with a current once belonging to a woman named Elle. “I’m pretty fucking angry with you right now Petrelli.”

“Ditto with you Sylar.” Dimly aware they had drawn a crowd from the mansion, Peter ignored the small shocks that reached him from the killer’s position less that a yard away and allowed his own hands to become blisteringly cold. A small puff of frigid breathe issued from his lips as Tracy’s power manifested. “But I meant, the man you are really pissed off at, the man you know fucked up and are punishing as much as you can is…”

The bolt of lightening caught Peter in the guts and pushed him once again to the ground.

“Enough, both of you!” Angela might well not have spoken for all the attention she was paid.

“Spare me the empathic psychoanalysis.” Sylar laughed without humour as Peter rose. “You have no idea what I’m feeling.”

“Most of the time, apart from anger,” Peter shot out as darts of ice sliced open the skin on Sylar’s high cheekbone and temple. A small private blizzard surrounded the taller man. “I don’t think you feel anything at all.”

Sudden hurt crossed the other’s face that had nothing to do with blood, but Peter was relentless in his rage. “Everyone here accepted you even after you were found guilty of all those murders.” Peter shot a meaningful glance at the blue-white electricity dancing in Sylar’s fingers.

The handsome face paled and the power vanished from sight.

“Peter, no.” Claire this time and Peter hesitated. Would have stopped if not for the sudden humanity he saw once again in the other’s face. “You’re so angry at yourself Sylar, but you’re taking it out on those that care about you now. Stop it before you do something they won’t forgive.”

Peter’s plea made an impact like his punch never had, but Gabriel Gray was never the kind of man who could easily accept his feelings. As Sylar his rage was manifest, no-one had ever shown him how to understand guilt.

“They barely forgive me as it is Petrelli, you should know that.” Sylar left himself powerless in the face of the ice storm around him, his words a weapon all on their own. “They never forgave you for destroying Pinehearst you know…”

“Gabriel!” Nathan’s voice held something like fear, but Peter was transfixed by his adversary’s words.

“You said you were kidnapped the night the building exploded?” Sylar asked as they were having a genteel conversation and not in the middle of a magnificent brawl.

“Yes.” Peter’s lips were going numb from the cold.

“Funny that your precious, loving family, the ones you say I should watch my tongue around,” Sylar stepped out of the dying ice storm and spoke clearly into Peter’s face. “Funny that they didn’t even wonder where you were.”

Peter couldn’t form a word, a cold that had nothing to do with Tracy taking his limbs in paralysis.

“They thought you’d simply run off in your typical adolescent way. No-one even looked for you…” the velvet voice rasped deep into Peter’s soul.

“No, don’t.”

Peter didn’t recognise the voice and didn’t really care.

“…it took them six months to realise you weren’t just hiding somewhere being a child. Six months. Such an impression you have on people, Peter, that they don’t even care whether you live or die.”

It was too much. Peter could fight with powers, could battle with words about anything else. But his own worth? For three long months he’d kept his inner self safe amongst the degradation and hate of the compound. Had staved off the hard skin and ruthlessness that threatened to overcome him.

This…this just wasn’t something Peter could deal with. God, they always found new ways to hurt him.

Stepping back, Peter easily avoided the hand that reached out to him and stared directly into his brother’s guilt-ridden eyes.

He shot into the air like a rocket.

For a long, long time he considered never coming down.

Fic: Mad World 4/8

2009-09-07T04:16:18Z

Chapter 4.

Peter approached the picnic table with caution. Sylar was dressed in such a casual manner that the nurse knew he was intruding into ‘personal time’, but found no other option. The few times he had seen the other man had been during group meetings or at meals. Hardly the time to broach such a complicated subject. Even now it seemed impossible with Sylar barefoot in black jeans and a blue, long-sleeved t-shirt, the antique marble mantle clock from the dinning room spread across the fine linen tablecloth.

Why his mother used such niceties in the back garden was anyone’s guess.

Sitting across from the neatly ordered rows of parts, Peter watched quietly for several minutes.

“Claire told me why you’re here.” He kept his voice low and neutral. The clock had never kept correct time Peter’s entire life.

A sharp intake of breath. “Claire would give you Noah if you asked her.” Bitterness marred the deep voice, eyes on the task before them.

Peter caught the sharp retort on the tip of his tongue and reminded himself he was here to make peace.

“Why are you so angry with me?” He assured himself the question wasn’t really as pathetic as it sounded. But there was a little too much hurt in there he knew. Sylar was, if not friends, then at least allies with everyone in the house.

Except Peter.

Sylar placed the small tool he had been using neatly with its companions.

“You look at me with such hate in those eyes, how can I not retaliate?” For the first time since he had walked into the mansion, there was no hint of dislike or contempt in the velvet voice. Peter’s brain hiccuped at ‘those eyes’ and stalled as the truth smote him.

“I…I didn’t mean…” But he had, hadn’t he? The moment he’d seen the killer standing on the stairs Peter’s defences had gone into overdrive and they hadn’t slowed down since. He’d been reacting to threats for so very long. Primatech, Adam, Jesse, Pinehearst and finally the Internment Centre had all contributed to Peter’s empathy retreating so far inside him that he’d missed everyone’s emotional responses to Sylar. Claire was his parole officer for god’s sake, not his lover. When had Peter become so blind to the people around him?

Peter coughed to regain his voice.

“Her name was Shun-hua.” He volunteered out of no-where, eyes and the tips of his fingers on a small golden screw. From his view, Peter could just catch Sylar’s hands as they became suddenly still. “Her father could write just by thinking the words at the paper. She told me his calligraphy had sold for thousands before they were ‘detained’.”

Peter gently pushed the screw in small circles, the tip marking an almost imperceptible gouge in the white linen.

“My first night in the compound some of the long-timers, men who had been there longest and lost most of their humanity in the process, thought they’d initiate the new guy so to speak.”

A long hissing breath came to his ears, but Peter was too focussed on his memory to decipher it.

“Shun-hua saved me by breaking bones and scaring the living hell out of six men that would have been four times her body weight. I have no idea why she did it.”

A snort of disbelief had Peter glancing up briefly into a dark chocolate gaze that seemed to access Peter’s every word.

“Strength ability?” the question was a quiet diversion, almost a whisper.

Peter shook his head. “They were all drugged remember. Like you must have been in the ‘medical facility’.” An occasional prisoner had been removed to those places…they’d never come back. But Sylar didn’t need to be reminded of his own incarceration. “No, Shun-hua’s ability was to decompose paper, to break it down into its component parts…wood pulp, water, bleach etc.”

The screw continued its circular carnival ride.

“The reason she could beat the crap out of anyone she chose was a couple of black belts in some vicious martial arts her father and grandmother had taught her. She’d been a self-defence instructor and done some government work with the army before her DNA had sent up a flare in the system. Then they locked her and her dad in the compound with fifty odd hard-timers, some of whom decided that the women prisoners were there just for entertainment. Shun-hua proved them wrong.”

“How did she die?” The question in that velvet voice was so gently perceptive that it almost brought tears to Peter’s eyes.

“Her father died the first week I was there. I did everything I could but…he’d been shot during their arrest and the wound had festered….” Peter struggled to keep his voice even. “A month after he passed, Shun-hua was going to be shipped to a medical facility. She would never have let that happen. I think she only stayed around after her father died because of me.”

The screw came to a sudden halt as Peter pressed the pad of his finger hard into the edge of the head.

“Shun-hua killed four FedMarshals before they killed her, it caused a riot.”

His story told, Peter wondered why he’d even started the tale to begin with.

A long deep breath from the man on the other side of the table.

“Two conditions. You may be able to fight like a demon and have every power under the sun, but you have no experience with what we do. You will obey every one of my orders or I’ll have Hiro ‘port you into the basement.”

Peter looked up into midnight eyes in astonishment.

“And he’ll do it too because he’s more afraid of me than in love with you right now. Two,” Sylar’s lips took on a peeved twist. “You’ll get your invisible boyfriend to give us the exact location of the underground lab and the access codes.”

Peter blinked.

“Claude?” He knew he sounded about as intelligent as a retarded daisy but… ”Claude isn’t my…okay yes fine agreed.” Peter accepted before Sylar could change that mercurial mind of his. “I promise I’ll do everything you say and stay out of trouble, etcetera.”

“Good.” His former enemy’s expression became something that on anyone else Peter might have labelled a leer. Sylar stood and leaned a little so that delicious pine tinted almond scent washed over Peter. “We’re leaving tomorrow at six pm, wear something tight and black.” A flash of heat in the deadly gaze and then he was gone, the perfectly repaired mantle clock and tools with him.

Peter couldn’t even come up with an appropriate response to that last comment.

*****

Claude radiated ‘pissed off English guy’ but he’d agreed to give them the information. After Peter had threatened him with Angela’s disapproval, Sylar’s violence and a hug from Peter himself, the invisible man had caved.

“It’s one of them ‘medical clinics’ downtown. Empty now, but one of the lifts still working and will take ya down to the lowest level, sub5 I’m remembering. Danko has his office next to the computer room and there’ll be at least twenty FedMarshals on duty. Some lab technicians too but they don’t get guns. Or so the two blokes I stalked at the local pub seemed to think. Door code is 4667777. One plonker had it written on his hand so he wouldn’t forget. Idiot.”

*****

Peter took Hiro’s hand.

Then they were standing by a painted brick wall, graffiti scrawl and the smell of garbage an unpleasant contrast to the designer room they had just left. Peter looked up at the building in front of them.

Hiro’s breath hissed through his teeth.

“Get Sylar.” Peter ordered without any authority. The other man has been doing this for how long? Years? While not quite the hardened veteran of battle that Peter once met on a train, Hiro was still a big game player while Peter just came off the bench so…

Hiro nodded once, and then disappeared.

He could imagine it, Hiro appearing alone in the den, the surprised looks at Peter’s absence, startled questions likely ignored as Hiro takes their leader by the shoulder and closes his eyes as if in pain.

The warm pine scent and the 6’1 of shade now protecting his cheek from the sun caused a responsive flare of heat in his middle but Peter kept his gaze where it has been since he and Hiro first arrived.

“It is a hospital.” Hiro stated the obvious. Peter mentally forgave him as he continued to count the number of patients being admitted to the emergency room in one of the few surviving major metropolitan hospitals.

“Fuck.” Sylar sounded like someone with a massive headache. “Fuck.”

“Change of plan,” Peter offered. “Destroying the building isn’t an option anymore so we need to get inside and…”

Sylar turned sharply and punched his fist into the nearby brick wall. A circle of spirals concertinaed out and several large chunks of brick hit the ground. It startled Peter into a shiver. Since arriving he’d only seen the low burn of the famous temper under a controlled exterior. This was something more than just a foiled plan.

“We’re not going anywhere. You…” A hard glance at Peter while the skin of Sylar’s hand changed from a marbled blue to flesh colour. “...are going home. We’re going to take a look then come back to prepare for another mission with the correct intel.”

Peter knew it was a jab at Claude, but refused to bristle on his friend’s behalf. He was too busy bristling for another reason.

“No, you can’t. Danko will only be here for another day at the most.” Looking up into Sylar’s furious eyes, he saw that arguing would achieve nothing. “Wait here, I have an idea.”

“Peter get your ass back…..” But Sylar’s harsh command was lost in the distance as Peter clothed himself in nothing and darted into the hospital. It took only a few minutes to navigate the semi-familiar layout and find the door he needed. Once inside he snatched the best sizes he could find and raced back out. They might have left already, thinking Peter would have no choice but to follow. In that case Peter would go back in himself. He was invisible, he had the code, and he could find the lab and destroy the serum. Danko would probably be able to escape, but Peter was going to destroy the poison they were making, even if he had to do it alone.

Fortunately he wouldn’t have to. Mohinder was arguing fiercely with Sylar who looked like he wanted to cut someone’s head open, while Monica nervously clutched her elbows and hid beside Hiro. Peter dropped the pile of clothing onto the ground amongst them.

“Medical scrubs,” he stated coming into the visible spectrum. “We can get down to the lab…”

The rest of his plan was cut off by a telekinetic grip at his throat and the brick wall digging needles into his shoulder blades. Feet suspended a foot off the ground, Peter willed himself not to fight back and glared at Sylar over the other’s raised hand.

“Don’t you ever…”

Like a similar situation from long ago, Mohinder stepped in to help Peter.

“It’s a good plan Gabriel. Peter is a nurse, I have some medical training. We can at least get past the innocent people and find the lab in the lower levels as Raines directed. Gabriel.” A hand the colour of scantily milked coffee came to tug at Sylar’s arm. “Gabriel, let Peter go.”

Thoughts whirled and connected behind Sylar’s eyes. Mohinder was relying on the fact that the watchmaker’s intelligence could overrule his rage at Peter. Not sure he could do the same; Peter dragged in a hard breath through his almost closed larynx and thought a small ‘push’ at Sylar’s chest.

Suddenly dropped to his feet, Peter decided that being smug about his apparent win would likely start something again and reached for a set of scrubs.

“No Petrelli, not you.” Sylar grabbed Peter’s coat and pulled him backwards. “You, go back to the mansion and let them know the change of plans.” Before he could even voice a protest, cool fingers jerked his chin up so that their faces were less than an inch apart. “You broke your promise.”

Thrown into turmoil by the sudden guilt that hit him and the sheer impact of Sylar’s nearness, Peter shut his eyes and teleported home.

Nathan looked up with concern.

“It’s fine.” Peter regained his equilibrium after a couple of even breathes and waved an unconcerned hand. “Change of plans, we’re going in undercover instead of seek and destroy. I’ll let you know.”

Nathan opened his mouth to ask something, but Peter ‘ported back to the street.

Snagging a set of scrubs he shrugged off his coat and pulled on a top before toeing off his shoes.

The ominous silence in the semi-alley was telling.

“Either I come with you now, or I follow you. Your choice,” he told the drawstring of his pants.

Warmth near his ear, but Peter kept his eyes down. “You stay with me Petrelli. Disobey again and I’ll break every bone in your body.” His breath chilled in his throat. “It’ll take at least an half an hour for you to heal every one and by then we’ll be gone so…”

Peter nodded his acquiesce and finished getting them ready.

A sudden punch from Monica to Hiro had the Japanese man dripping blood into a proffered handkerchief, while Sylar feigned a convincing stagger with an arm over Peter’s shoulders.

Desperately ignoring the long line of masculine beauty that was draped against him. Peter hooked a finger into his leader’s belt and walked them into emergency.

*****

Sitting cross-legged on one of the pristine steel lab tables, Peter saw passion infuse Mohinder Suresh for the first time since he’d landed in this god-forsaken future. Unlike his own rampage alongside Flint in the Primatech lab, the geneticist was methodical about the destruction of someone’s hard hours of labour. Methodical, precise and downright scary Peter amended.

It had seemed too easy. The trio involved in a domestic love spat accompanied by a couple of harried orderlies making their way through the overcrowded ER and into the lifts. At least Claude’s information had been correct in this instance. The government lab concealed three floors beneath the hospital morgue, the lift door refusing to open until Mohinder ripped it apart with his fingernails.

The codes for all the keypads were perfect. Not a single hitch.

Peter had been worried that Sylar would be the fanatic on this mission, what with the whole torture by the guy running the operation thing. But Danko wasn’t here, the FedMarshal leader having departed for Washington a day early according to a terrified guard. The rage had cooled from the killer’s demeanour, allowing Suresh’s enthusiasm to dominate the rest of the mission.

The devastation had left the geneticist’s eyes, to be relaced by grim satisfaction as Monica, Peter and Hiro subdued the guards and Sylar terrified the techs into submission with barely a raised eyebrow. With the staff locked away in a storage closet by a cheerful Hiro, the lab was now empty and vulnerable to Mohinder’s revenge.

Watching the geneticist bring another batch of test tubes to Sylar to have them irradiated, Peter waited until he’d moved off before asking sotto voce, “Having a little bit too much fun with this isn’t he?”

As promised Peter had stuck close to his leader, not exactly a hardship except for the ridiculously long legs that he had to race to keep up with, and was now at his current perch not four feet from where the killer was standing looking over some of the documents they’d recovered.

“The serum is based on one developed six years ago from a strain of the Shanti Virus.” Eyes still on the reports in his hands, Sylar answered just as quietly. “The drug that inhibits abilities and allows them to keep us prisoner…”

“…was invented by Mohinder.” Peter finished the sentence, a sudden wave of sympathy washing over him. Looking at his old friend with new eyes, the nurse now understood why the other man had forbidden Sylar from levelling the lab and gone for a more methodical approach.

“None of it survives,” Suresh had sworn. “No chance of a thumb-stick or print out with even the beginning of the formula.” Pointing at the refrigerators, he had nodded Monica forward. “Start there, everything exposed to radiation by Gabriel then we’ll get onto the computers.”

Twenty minutes later and Peter was now not only sympathetic but also impressed. Mohinder must have been planning this assault for a while given the thorough job he had just done of destroying even the theoretical concept of the serum.

“Finish all those please Gabriel; we’re going to the IT lab to meet Micah online.” The lab now forgotten for the rest of his victim, Suresh lead Monica down the hallway and into the last of half a dozen doors it contained.

Sylar waved a glowing red hand over another tray of ampoules and handed Peter the final few documents.

Peter thought for a second then watched the paper slowly decompose into its base elements.

“Thank you for letting me come.” His quiet words were clear in the silence of the stripped lab.

Fingers still faintly glowing red, Sylar turned on his heel to face Peter. Whatever he saw Peter couldn’t guess, but two long strides had Sylar within inches of him, causing the nurse to straighten his back and raise his chin to the taller man. Long-fingered hands came to rest on the bench by Peter’s knees and the alluring; pine almond scent of the killer began to flood his senses.

Handsome mouth only a small chasm away, Sylar smiled with a hint of the predator. “That is the nicest thing you’ve said to me since you arrived.”

True, but Peter hadn’t known that he was supposed to be nice to the other man till two days ago.

Licking his lips at the sudden parched air of the lab he answered, “Really? I’m sure I can do better than that…” words lingering flirtatiously. Part of Peter’s brain was screaming whatthefuckareyoudoing? While another part growled yesgrabhimgrabhimgrabhim.

Sudden heat flared in the midnight eyes and hands caught his calves, unlacing his ankles and drawing Peter’s backside closer to the edge of the lab table.

Closer to Sylar.

Lean hips now pressed to the length of Peter’s spread thighs, only a scant inch of steel bench keeping their groins from touching, Sylar returned his hands to the table palm down beside the seated man. Effectively trapping Peter in that position.

“Do better.” The velvet voice was infused with raw lust, causing an answering flare to race up Peter’s spine.

His mind spun. “You saved my life three times at Primatech. It might be years for you, but it’s only months for me. I never said thank you for those.” Peter leaned fractionally closer, his lips almost but not quite touching Sylar’s. In this position their height difference was almost negated and Peter revelled in looking directly into the now-burning gaze.

“The prisoners are resigned to their fate…oh…”

Peter snapped his head backwards at Hiro’s words, feeling his cheeks began to burn. The Japanese man stared at them with a dumbfounded expression. Sylar, with his fucking cool as ice face, didn’t even look surprised at the interruption.

“The others are in the last room on the right, when they’re done take them home. I’ll finish up here.” He left very little doubt what he was going to be finishing.

And Peter had thought that Sylar wasn’t all badass egomaniac.

Drawing back a fist to punch the arrogance out of that handsome face, Peter knew Hiro had left the room because Sylar crowded right back in to his personal space. Peter was forced to catch himself on his elbows with the other man nearly climbing over him. It was damn sexy. This unfairly gorgeous no-longer arch enemy, all broad shoulders and wicked expressions that curled Peter’s toes and made his cock hard.

Hard just like the one pressed against his thigh.

Fucking hell, they hadn’t even kissed and Peter was more turned on than he’d been in years. Particularly with Sylar avoiding his lips, choosing to breathe in a long slow intake of air beneath Peter’s ear.

“You were saying?”

Completely unable to stop the low moan that the contact summoned, Peter gave up any flimsy pretence of passivity and leaned his face over to nuzzle at the jaw so close to him. Like some feline offering affection up to the dominant animal, Peter indulged his addiction to skin contact by dragging his lips, cheekbone and forehead across Sylar’s light stubble.

God, Peter wanted to lick him, he smelled so good.

Long fingers curled at the back of Peter’s neck for a single, perfect moment. Then snarling a handful of hair Sylar pulled his head back so that they could once again lock eyes. Startled from his ardour, Peter saw the brilliant gaze now almost wild with need, the low panting breaths from Sylar forcing him to rock hardness and bringing forth another suppressed moan.

“Jesus.” The benediction was drenched with the unholy sin of lust. “Peter.”

Ready to move on to making that sin a reality, Peter’s skull thumped painfully back on the lab bench as the fingers supporting it disappeared and the body he was clinging to reared back to the floor.

Peter stared at the fluorescent lights overhead wondering if maybe that had just been an awesome wet dream he’d just been woken from. Still sprawled on his back, legs parted wantonly, Peter turned his head to see Sylar thirty feet across the room looking like he was one mad impulse away from doing Peter serious harm.

Or seriously doing something else to him, Peter wasn’t entirely sure which.

“No,” the velvet voice was cold despite the expression in the chameleon eyes. “No.”

Head cocked to one side like a bird, Sylar kept his eyes on Peter as the nurse sat up and adjusted his clothing.

Amongst other things.

“The others are done, take us home.” The mission leader was back, wiping away the lust-shrouded predator like he’d never been.

Peter walked over and carefully took Sylar’s coat-sleeve in his hand.

“Yes, Boss.” It was playful, sarcastic and if Peter read the look in the killer’s eyes correctly, the most dangerous thing he’d done all day.

Sylar didn’t get a chance to retaliate as the next thing they saw was the study at the mansion and Angela Petrelli’s formidable glare.

Fic: Mad World 3/8

2009-09-07T04:14:21Z

Chapter 3

Three days had passed since Peter found his family again. Three long days of recuperation and frustration as he failed to corner Sylar anywhere in the halls of the Petrelli mansion. In fact, had Peter not been regularly speaking with Claude about everything he’d missed in the last five years, he might have suspected the killer of murdering his mentor for his ability.

He’d been nervous and jumpy that first twenty-four hours in the mansion. Convinced the FedMarshal’s had followed him to New York, were ready to storm the mansion any second and arrest his people. He’d woken from a nightmare of Claire and baby Noah in the compound that first night, sweaty and trembling at the possibility.

It had been Noah, the elder one, who’d realised Peter’s fear and explained that there really wasn’t any need. In the basement, now Mohinder’s research lab, laid an elderly woman with serene sleeping features.

“Nancy was with the Company for ten years. She is the only known occurrence of her talent we have ever seen.” Bennet explained with a fond expression.

“And what is that?” Peter asked, eyes professionally scanning Nancy’s monitors and the devices that kept her alive.

“Nancy can make people forget something existed by simply willing it to be so. She was a jewel thief when my predecessors discovered her and made her an agent. The entire building lasts no longer than two seconds in anyone’s memory. Nancy even learned to erase paper and electronic medium as well.” The former Company seemed quite proud of Nancy’s skill.

Relief tinged with concern, Peter wondered, “Why is she in a coma?”

“A battle with the Spider years ago left her like this. We suspect he has telepathy similar to Parkman and reduced Nancy to this while she was protecting the house. We can still come and go as we please, none of the residents are affected by her power. Even asleep she still keeps us safe.”

*****

Peter was more confident than ever that he needed to be on the mission to find this ‘Danko’ and the Spider who controlled him. Freeing Nancy was just one of the many reasons to end the tyranny they all lived under.

Still searching for a moment to try and talk Sylar into letting him join, Peter entered his father’s three car garage and watched a young woman beat the crap out of a punching bag.

No expensive vehicles now adorned this space; instead a fully-equipped gym and state of the art security and computer system. Beside a raised platform that served as a boxing ring a bank of massive flat-screen monitors played various movie fight scenes one after the other. From Bruce Lee to John Wayne with a touch of Tarantino, the endless images of physical violence were rather unsettling.

Even more so to Peter was the woman watching the monitors with rapt attention. Toeing off his shoes, Peter dropped a towel and bottle of water on a nearby chair and cautiously approached the ring. A scene of Bruce Lee leaping and kicking finished as the woman stretched carefully then turned and attacked the punching bag.

It took him a couple of minutes to realise she was duplicating the fight she had just watched. Exactly. Not just copying the moves, but perfectly replicating every form and turn like she had been the actor in question.

Watching the impressive display, Peter began to notice the fatal flaw in her otherwise powerful ability. If she allowed him to use it, he would have to work on…

“Hey there.” If her ability was wonderful, her smile was just gorgeous. “I’m Monica, you’re the new guy huh?”

Returning the smile, Peter approached the ring. “Peter.”

“Yeah, the famous baby brother who can get chemistry going with any other ‘special’ on the planet.”

Peter’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Sorry?”

But the sweet expression on Monica’s face had already darkened with embarrassment before the word was completed.

“I mean your power! Your power.” She blushed even harder if possible. “Mohinder says you have a chemical reaction to other people with powers and can copy their abilities, so it’s chemistry, but not…you know…chemistry…although you are really…umm…” Her words trailed away into nothing.

Peter regathered his thoughts and decided once again that he had no idea what went on in women’s mind’s most of time. Dragging the conversation to something he could understand, Peter gestured to the ring.

“You’re really good. Care to show me a few moves?”

The woman paled a little, but caught her composure and bounced back from the single rope surrounding the canvas square. “Sure, c’mon in.”

Warming up quickly, Peter stripped down to his sweat pants and t-shirt and relaxed his body. He was barefoot, as he had been on the first day his life had been ripped askew once again.

“You’ll be dead in a week if you don’t learn something quick. I’ll show you, but it’s not on me if you mess up and die anyway.”

They engaged cautiously at first, working out boundaries, getting comfortable being in each other’s personal space. Minutes went by as Peter slowly delved into the training he’d been given and showed its edge in this non-deadly environment. Back and forth, punch and kick. Few blows landed, mostly just sparring. When Monica was put to the mats, Peter helped her up. When Peter lost balance, she ducked back to give him a moment.

Body warming to the exercise Peter began to enjoy himself in a way he could never have last time he used these skills.

“They don’t want to kill you straight up, just get you on your knees or on your face in the ground, so use that. Be prepared to kill them and they’ll stop trying to catch you out.”

It happened rather quickly. The fight escalated from friendly sparring to an actual test of skills and then to something else. Maybe it was Monica realising his head wasn’t all there, maybe Peter regressed back to the compound, but suddenly the punches weren’t being pulled.

“Everything else I teach you means nothing if you don’t keep moving. Best way to win a fight is to not be there.”

Ducking a high kick, Peter dropped to scoop her legs out from under and caught a hard foot on the shoulder. He nearly broke her ankle, but Monica flipped backwards just in time and spun back for his exposed head. He ducked again and caught her wrist a glancing blow, then her sternum a not-so glancing one. Breathe ‘oofed’ from her lungs, but didn’t stop a punch that missed his jaw by less than an inch.

“You’re fast enough to keep away from those kinds of swings, it’s the ones who’re just as fast and stronger that’ll be the problem.”

The battle was now in earnest, back and forth with no quarter asked or given. This woman had the moves of a hundred fights programmed into her body, every move perfectly replicated down to the last detail. If this went on much longer Monica would probably snap Peter’s neck, her repertoire was just that massive. She’d eventually find a style that would win.

He had to use the flaw he’d seen when he’s first observed her. Peter was a good fighter, he’d had to be. But this was a ‘power’ Monica was using, it was next to impossible to defeat.

So…

Peter dropped out of the sequence they were exchanging and slipped to her left; she turned then shot out a kick to counter the feint. He wasn’t there. Every time Monica tried to complete a move, Peter did something unexpected, like dropping to the floor or turning a martial art punch into a boxing uppercut. It was almost cheating, but Peter knew if it worked it meant her power had a limit. She’d need to know that if she was on the mission. Peter wouldn’t kill her. FedMarshal’s weren’t so kind.

His shoulders hit the canvas mat after a particularly nasty strike, so Peter tumbled back and tried a semi-circle kick. As expected, Monica ducked. She didn’t really have a choice; her body was running this battle, not her mind.

Monica ducked right into Peter’s elbow.

He pulled the blow at the last second, if he hadn’t it would have shattered her cheekbone. Instead she’d have a spectacular bruise and Peter a guilty knot to add to the ones already twisting his soul up.

“Sorry.” He dropped to his knees beside her prone form and gently checked her head and neck for any other injuries. God, he’d hit her so hard.

“Its fine,” Monica panted, hand to her face, looking up at the lights above them. “That was awesome.”

A laugh bubbled up from Peter’s throat. She wasn’t angry, she was happy.

“I have never…never…had it so good.” Monica looked into his eyes and winked at her own innuendo. Intended this time.

Continuing to chuckle, Peter’s head startled up as the dark youth he knew as Micah, the techno-sweet-talker who had rigged up the entire system, reached Monica’s other side.

“Are you okay? Can you feel your feet?” The sudden angry glare he received stole Peter’s laugh away.

“Stop it,” Monica slapped her cousin’s leg lightly. “Peter just showed me my ass for the first time in years. You should thank him for taking my ego down a notch or two.”

“Years?” Peter asked quietly.

“Oh yes,” a dense velvet voice confirmed. Peter looked over to see Sylar, Claire and a half-dozen other of the sanctuary’s younger residents standing just outside the ring. Most of the teenagers were talking and noisily laughing, pretending to mock punch one another in imitation of Peter and Monica.

“She’s undefeated champion,” Sylar continued. “Till now.”

Peter stood and offered a hand to Monica who accepted, groaning.

“A power?” Sylar asked, his eyes knowing the answer.

“No.” Perversely pleased at the shock on his antagonists face, Peter smiled with what he was sure were bloodied lips. “Prison.”

Eyes locked with bitter chocolate ones, Peter didn’t notice the young man offering him his towel and water, till he felt a nudge at his side. Breaking that heated gaze, Peter thanked the no-longer sour faced Luke for the courtesy and received an excited smile in return.

“No one can believe you took Monica down. That rocked so hard. I though she was going to kill you man, and then wham! She’s eating the mats.” About to call the boy on his enthusiasm for seeing an ally defeated, Peter didn’t get the chance.

“Shut the fuck up Luke.” The woman warrior shot in a friendly tone, “you didn’t have the guts to get in here with me because you know I’d splatter you all over the place.” Peter didn’t miss the almost divine desire for this to occur displayed on Micah’s face. “Peter did and he won, but that doesn’t mean balls make you better. Asshole.” She finished with a sweet giggle just to top off the obscenity.

“Yeah, well Ethan says Peter was like a ninja-god in that compound, every one of the prisoners was scared shitless of him so that means balls are better than tits any…”

Peter interrupted the bizarrely crude and sexist argument with the truth. “I was taught by a woman Luke.”

Betrayed, the youth stared in shock. “Dude, no.”

“Obviously,” Monica gloated, before leaving the ring to commiseration from the assembled onlookers.

Peter looked up to find Sylar still watching him, Claire nowhere to be seen. Dark eyes rested on the youth almost vibrating with excitement beside Peter and once again became filled with anger.

He hadn’t even touched the kid and Sylar wanted to tear Peter’s fingers off.

Pissed off and running on adrenalin, Peter jumped down to the floor. He put as much of the predator as he could into his walk towards the other man. A hush fell over the teenagers.

“Take me on the mission to get the serum.”

But Peter had forgotten in the rush of battle just who he was stalking. Death met him halfway and looked over his flushed, sweat-dewed form with something like hunger in his eyes.

There was no greater predator in the entire world than Gabriel Gray.

“Again. No.”

*****

Peter sunk to the ground beside Claire on the tennis court where the children where playing an impromptu game of touch football. Noah was clambering back and forth into and out of his mother’s lap. Peter smiled at the lovely scene and thought of all the paintings and statues he’d seen of the Madonna, with child. Claire was hardly the divine mother, instead she was earthy and gorgeous and real.

“Tell me about Sylar.” It sounded like a command, but Peter knew Claire would understand his tone. Her green eyes looked at him without surprise.

“Gabriel,” the correction was clear but not judgemental. “Gabriel was nearly dead when Nathan and Hiro found him. Danko had been trying to persuade him to join the FedMarshal’s ‘special’ unit. Gabriel declined and was repeatedly punished for it. Danko would almost kill him in some horrific way and then force the serum anti-viral through his system until my power returned and he healed.” Despite how Sylar had acquired it, Claire’s lips were tight with loathing and sorrow at her own ability being abused in such a way.

“When we got him here with Monica and Luke, Gabriel healed again and then…” A pause while she visibly collected her thoughts. “…he handed himself over to us for judgement.”

“Judgement?” Peter repeated, mind racing.

“He asked that twelve of his peers, those with abilities, stand in judgement on his crimes and decide his fate. He admitted every one of his murders.” Another pause, this one caused Claire’s voice to become tinged with anger. “Thirty-two people.” God, Peter couldn’t even comprehend and he’d suffered the hunger that Sylar’s ability fuelled. Thirty-two?

“Thirty-three if you include me, thirty-four if we include you.” Her hand reached over to lace fingers with his. “Sylar was found guilty on all counts.” This time the emphasis on the name was deliberate. “We couldn’t decide on his punishment. Mohinder, Dad and I voted immediate death, yeah,” Claire corrected at Peter’s surprised look. “Sylar asked for Dad to be on the jury even without a power. The plan was to stake his head and then burn him on a pyre where no-one would ever look again.”

A gruesome sentence that Peter could completely understand, he’d have voted with them had he been on the jury.

“It was Angela who offered an alternative. She argued that we had all committed crimes because of our abilities and that Sylar was the least responsible as his power is what urged him to murder. He had no choice.”

Peter forcibly shut away memory of cutting open his brother’s skull because he was so desperate to understand…to know.

“Matt said he could put a block in Sylar’s mind so that the hunger was suppressed. He could be allowed to live, to help in the war to…”

“Make amends?” Peter offered.

Green eyes looked at him with approval. “Exactly. We objected but…it was the only humane thing to do. We didn’t really have the right to put him down like a mad dog, particularly as Matt had suggested a cure of sorts. The problem was Sylar…well Gabriel after the block went in and the killer was tamed. Gabriel didn’t want to live; he’d hoped we’d find him guilty and kill him. The block also added to his…pain.”

The sorrow and care in Claire’s tone surprised him, although really, baby Noah was evidence that the affection between Peter’s niece and her arch-enemy had changed dramatically.

“His personality hadn’t changed, you’ve seen that.” Claire’s lips twitched. “But without the hunger Gabriel’s urge to kill was gone and he’s actually a pretty amazing human being. When you get to know him. That human being didn’t want to keep living after what he’d done. He begged me…” Tears stood suddenly in Claire’s eyes. “He begged me to kill him, but I couldn’t…not now he was a person. Do you know he used to fix watches? No-one did. So…so I made myself the keeper of his tally. Sort of a parole officer. For every life Gabriel saves, I forgive him a death that he caused.”

A small proud smile rose onto her lovely face. “He’s closed the tally ten times over in the last three years, but it’ll never be enough I know. He can barely bring himself to speak to Molly; her presence insures Gabriel will be punished for his crimes until the day he dies. I’ll see to it myself, I promised him I would.”

For several minutes Peter processed everything he had just heard while they watched the children get more and more amped up on adrenaline.

“I think my mother may have been the more harsh a judge,” he offered thoughtfully. “It would have been much kinder to just put him out of his misery.”

“Yes, you’re right there. Angela wasn’t being kind that day, not at all.” Claire agreed, wise beyond her years.

“When did you two fall in love?” Peter asked as casually as someone who was desperately trying to be casual.

Claire seemed to choke on her tongue. “What?! We aren’t. Not at all. Why would you think….?”

Peter couldn’t help the incredulous look he threw at the child in her lap. Dark winged brows frowning close in intense concentration as Noah tried to unzip his mother’s boots.

“Noah, but he’s…oh yes well. I guess there is a resemblance…a little,” Claire, composure reacquired, looked thoughtfully down at her baby. “His father’s name is Alex. I helped him escape the FedMarshal’s during the war and he found me again after a year or so in hiding.” Her smile became decidedly naughty. “He’s in Canada right now helping with the underground we’ve set up and he’ll kick your ass for suggesting I did it with Gabriel. Although…” Claire look towards Peter was assessing. “...maybe not, but he’d try.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologised his thoughts in a whirl. If Sylar wasn’t the baby’s father and wasn’t with Claire then… “Noah just looks like you both.”

“Wait till you meet Alex,” Claire smiled. “He is very tall, dark hair with dark eyes and eyebrows. So yes, I can see where you might think Noah was Gabriel’s, but no. His attention has just about always been fixed elsewhere, it’s kinda cute actually.”

“Really?” Peter asked distractedly. His whole world view was completely upside down after this conversation. Sylar wasn’t really Sylar anymore? How weird and shattering that thought was. Because if Sylar wasn’t a psycho killer, wasn’t a bloodthirsty maniac that Peter was dedicated to stopping then…

If Gabriel Gray was the man everyone in the mansion thought he was then Peter needed to be very, very careful indeed.

That kind of man was more dangerous to Peter than a hundred Sylars.

Fic: Mad World 2/8

2009-09-07T04:12:31Z

Chapter 2.

There were fine lines bracketing Nathan’s eyes, furrowed there by time and weariness. Claire was twenty-one with a full, lush figure that pulled a red-faced stare from Ethan and a sharp glare from her hovering father Noah. Matt Parkman looked to have aged a decade rather than half that, while Mohinder was barely different. Only his eyes showed the reality of the world they live in.

They were the same people he left behind, yet the differences were stark and painful. Very few have improved over the past five years, only Claire and maybe Hiro seem to be more than they were in Peter’s time.

Ushered into the comfortable lounge that his father once used as an office, Peter was quickly pressed into a chair and on the receiving end of so many demanding looks that he closed his eyes against them.

Ethan had been ready to run from the confronting mass of people in the Petrelli mansion, but fortunately Sandra Bennet had stepped in. Taking one look at the emotional wreck of a sixteen year old boy, she had unleashed her substantial mothering instincts and taken the youth directly to the kitchen. A clear yell had stirred her own son Lyle and another sullen faced young man Peter didn’t know to go with her.

Relief at having Ethan’s trauma momentarily removed from his mind, Peter accepted the hot coffee Sandra sent in via the youth named Luke and sat back to organise his thoughts.

In the past three months he had never let himself hope that any of his loved-ones had survived the government purges. Every inmate in the compound had a story of a ‘special’ dying spectacularly in a hail of FedMarshal gunfire and Peter knew that his people would have been fighting in that war. Over four years since the last battles took place, rarely had new ‘specials’ appeared. Peter being the most recent before Ethan had been discovered.

And now this. An enclave of people with abilities run from his childhood home and led, apparently, by his mother and Noah Bennet.

“Peter?” Nathan’s voice. Peter heard the strain his brother was experiencing keeping his impatience in check.

Opening his eyes, the nurse found his gaze not on Nathan, but on Sylar. The killer rested easily in a large leather chair on the far side of the room, booted feet on a small end table. His midnight eyes fixed on Peter’s face. Sending him an angry disbelieving glare, Peter turned to Angela and took a deep breath.

“Last thing I remember from 2007 was the explosion at Pinehearst. I destroyed the formula and got Nathan to safety when Flint set the fire. He flew away, then…” Peter frowned and tried once again to catch the elusive memory. “…I heard something…someone…but I can’t…” Shaking his head to clear the fog, Peter jumped ahead. “I was suddenly somewhere in Arizona, at an old town I think,” Peter saw shock enter his mother’s eyes and wondered at it.

“You travelled in time?” Hiro asked keenly.

“Yeah, must have. But it didn’t feel the same as when you and I did it, more painful for one.” He grimaced. “I started to fly east, but some helicopters decided to chase me and I got shot down.” Looking over at Nathan, Peter shook his head, “Not something I would recommend. I was tranquilised and transported to the Northern Internment Station where they kept me for three months till Ethan arrived and we escaped. Then I came here.”

Looking at the assembled faces, Peter could see something hidden amongst them. “What?”

“Peter,” Angela took his hand and placed it on her knee, patting it compulsively as she spoke. “You vanished five years ago. Nathan looked everywhere but you were just gone. When the President announced our existence and the restrictions that we’d be placed under, some fought back and the wars began. We thought…” His mother’s eyes became suspiciously wet.

“We concluded you’d died in the wars Pete.” Nathan said grimly.

Peter nodded his understanding, but was distracted from answering by the derisive snort from the leather arm-chair. Sylar was looking at the ceiling now, but his jaw and throat exuded contempt at them all.

“You don’t have to be here Gabriel.” Nathan said with a hard familiarity.

An elegant wave of the hand. “Wouldn’t miss it Nathan.” An emphasis on his brother’s name that had little to do with manners and more with scorn.

Knowing that the multitude of questions he wanted answered would have to wait until they could talk at length, Peter looked to Hiro.

“What’s stopping you from going back and fixing all this Hiro? You’ve done it before.”

The small Japanese man stood quickly and made a neat, formal bow. “Peter Petrelli, I have made a vow never to tamper with the past. Nothing good can come of it.” Ando, sitting in the next chair rolled his eyes at the statement.

“Also, he can’t.” Sylar drawled.

Peter kept his eyes on Hiro. “Why not?”

Deflating his proud stance, Hiro sighed. “Despite my vow I tried to go back. To stop the President of America from telling the world about us. But my power does not work, something is stopping it. I cannot travel back in time.” Sitting down again he looked so dejected that Peter leaned forward in sympathy.

“It’s not your fault Hiro. Your power is very difficult to use…I remember.” Smiling to show he understood, Peter was pleased to see the other man brighten a little and accept the small comfort.

“Well, it’ll be useful to have everyone feel better about themselves. I can’t believe we went so long without that talent in our arsenal.” The sarcasm dripped viciously from every word Sylar spoke.

Peter slowly stood up. He’d dealt with any number of aggressive, murderous felons in the compound. Sylar couldn’t generate fear in him anymore, no matter the gleam in his dark eyes. Remaining seated the killer raised his eyes to Peter’s face and grinned.

“Gabriel, go away,” Claire ordered from the doorway.

Sylar didn’t move. “Oh no Darlin.” Faked Texas honey infused the velvet voice. “I’m all astir to see what the brat prince can do these days. Ain’t you curious too?”

“He’s only been home for an hour Gabriel. Give Peter a chance...” Claire didn’t bat an eyelid at the mockery.

“Its fine Claire,” Peter interrupted gently. “At first I thought I could only fly because Nathan was the last person I was near. But then I touched one of the other prisoners and copied her ability to decompose paper. I thought I’d lost the flight for a while till old techniques came back to me and I used it again.” Peter resolutely did not think about seventeen feet of chain. He walked right up to Sylar’s chair and leaned forward. “So your answer Sylar, is I can do anything you can do…” dropping his hand to the killer’s, Peter felt the warm rush of his ability manifesting before the brief contact was harshly ended by the other man. “…better.”

Looking into furious dark eyes, Peter called his coffee cup to hand with telekinesis and took a sip.

Sylar rose sharply and loomed over him with a thunderous expression on his face. Peter, his confidence faded somewhat, backed away as he remembered the nature of the man he had just baited.

“Then given how very gifted you are Petrelli, why don’t you take Nakamura’s power and go back to save us all from this terrible place.” The challenge was unmistakable.

Claire stepped between them with Nathan just behind her. “No!”

But Peter couldn’t give in now. He had no excuse, no reason to linger when he could do what Sylar suggested and make things right at long last. Avoiding Claire’s desperate grip he moved to Hiro and touched his hand. Feeling another ability curl into his being, Peter concentrated on the smell and sounds of the woods at night.

The power rose like wave and came crashing down like a battering ram.

Agony split Peter’s brain and stopped his heart, something wet on his lip and chaos all around. Shouting and fear and if they could all be quiet he might be able to…

Peter only just felt the strong arms that caught him before he tumbled head-first into darkness.

*****

The persistent throb of a headache was too painful to avoid anymore. Peter rolled to his side and contemplated being violently ill for several long minutes.

“There’s a basin on the floor if you think your innards are about to have a bit o’ song and dance.” The accent was English, the words a taunt.

Peter cracked open one eye.

“Of the nine most idiotic things you could have chosen to do Poodle, that was number three.”

Peter wondered if opening his other eye would put a beard back where it was supposed to be.

“Claude.” Well, that had been what Peter intended to say, instead the name had issued from his raw, strained throat as something closer to a wheeze. A raised eyebrow was all he received in response as his mentor and not-quite friend pointed at a glass of water on the nightstand.

“You’ve just learned the hard way why time travel is impossible, it’s being blocked but no-one knows why.” Claude’s lecturer tone hadn’t changed, even if his facial hair had. “Oh…and the Justice League is downstairs having lunch and a conversation about their prodigal son.” Standing from his position lounging on the side of Peter’s bed, Claude tugged his coat into place (a different one, it had to be, because no-one could have kept the remains of that other tattered garment together for five years) and disappeared.

Peter looked longingly at the glass and had almost mustered the energy to move when he felt gentle fingers riffle through his hair.

“Glad you showed your face at last, Pup.”

The door opened and closed.

Groaning, Peter rolled to a sitting position and inhaled the water. The throbbing in his head marginally reduced, he staggered to the bathroom and under the hottest water his skin could tolerate. In the compound they’d been allowed access to a shower three times a week. Due to his chain, Peter had been given sole admittance with a phalanx of guards after all the other inmates had bathed.

He hadn’t had a shower hotter than lukewarm in ninety-two, no...ninety-seven days. God what a luxury he once took for granted.

Scrubbing what felt like an epidermis of dust and sweat from his skin, Peter took in his surroundings and realised that nothing had changed. Nothing. In five years of war and oppression, his bedroom in the family mansion was exactly as he’d last seen it. Wondering at his mother’s mental state that she would keep everything so exact, Peter searched his wardrobe for clothing. Simple dark pants and a grey cotton Henley - that felt a little tight but at least fit - had Peter feeling about a million times more human.

The only thing left to find was food. Claude had said lunch, hadn’t he?

*****

Peter had seen the wreck that was left of North America when flying with Ethan. The ravaged countryside, devastated communities and broken lives. But if the lunch on the patio was any indication, Peter wouldn’t have believed his own eyes. After being greeted by his mother who almost wanted to envelope him in her tiny frame and his brother looking like he wanted to order Peter back to his room, he’d finally snagged a seat and a plate of food. While the ingredients were basic, the cooking was excellent and Peter made note to seek Sandra out and thank her for her mad cooking skills.

Finishing his meal, Peter sipped from a glass of ice tea while he watched the people scattered around the patio and wondered how they had all come to be here. He had so many questions.

Why were Matt’s eyes permanently like Isaac’s had been and was he as completely blind as he seemed? Who was the young woman sitting so attentively at his right hand and what did the presence of the blonde speed-woman mean?

Mohinder looked like his soul had been torn out even as his devastated gaze watched over several small children cavorting around the back garden. A beautiful dark-haired youth spoke gently with a woman who had to be Tracy Strauss but lacked her hard-edged expressions and sad mouth.

It was when Peter’s gaze came to rest on the lounge near the wall that his heart leapt into his throat. Claire had just sat down with a baby in her arms. Guessing the age at about sixth months from the way the boy was snarling her long hair in his chubby fist, Peter saw the instant resemblance to his parents. Sandy blond hair and green eyes under striking brows and a jaw that would be compelling when the softness gave way.

He’d seen this child before. In another future that smelled of fresh orange juice and contained the words ‘Uncle Peter’ and ‘my son Noah’.

Claire and Sylar?

Swallowing hard around the obstruction in his throat, Peter made the necessary mental leaps and came to the conclusion that he really, really didn’t want to think about it. He rested his aching forehead on the cool chill of the glass and took a deep breath.

Wrenching his mind from the wrongness of that situation, Peter asked quietly, “Who is the Spider?”

Conversation stuttered to a halt.

Nathan, the natural speaker, answered. “When the President declared a state of emergency and issued warrants of arrest for everyone with the ‘special’ genetic code, he placed a military assassin called Danko in charge of the Federal Marshals. He’s responsible for nearly fifty deaths during those first weeks.” A roughness coloured Nathan’s voice, but Peter couldn’t decipher its cause.

Noah Bennet stepped in, his hand stroking gently over his namesake’s forehead as the baby was freed to crawl across the rug. “Danko made a deal with one of the ‘specials’ and used that individual’s abilities to hunt down and recruit or murder anyone else on their list. Now that almost everyone is dead or in hiding, he and Danko run things in what’s left of Washington.” Bennet took off his glasses and began to polish them on a handkerchief. “The President rules the Americas in name only. The Spider is the true power now. We believe even Danko is his pawn and not the other way around.”

Peter gave that some thought. “You haven’t been able to stop him.” With that truth obvious he looked directly at Sylar for the first time since realising Noah’s parentage. “You haven’t killed him.”

“We’ve tried,” Nathan gritted out. “Every damn week Gabriel leads a team out to put an end to him or one of his followers…”

“But he’s never there when we arrive.” Sylar finished, anger scouring the deep voice in red fury.

A small hand to the killer’s arm and the rage subsided slightly, although it glittered in the brilliant eyes as they glared at Peter.

“Gabriel, Luke and Monica were imprisoned by the Spider for months before we could rescue anyone. All of them have tried to kill him, but we can’t ever get there in time. He must have a pre-cog in his group of toadies.” Claire’s eyes softened at they looked at her husband? Partner? “We don’t even know what he looks like or what his power is.”

From his silent seat at the far end of the table Claude made a ‘you are all stupid’ face.

Peter narrowed his eyes at his mentor. “Why haven’t you gone to find him Claude?”

All air in the garden was suddenly inhaled into astonished lungs.

Sylar was instantly on his feet, lightening curling around his hand as Peter heard the metallic slide of a katana being drawn to his left.

All for nought as Noah Bennet pulled the safety on a gun aimed directly at Claude’s invisible head.

Of course, up until that moment Peter hadn’t realised Claude was invisible to everyone but him.

“Thanks a bunch Poodle, now I’ll miss all the good gossip.” The soft gasp from Claire and the black-haired youth meant that his mentor must now be visible.

“How long have you been spying on us Raines?” Bennet looked ready to fire no matter what the answer.

Peter rose to his feet and slowly edged forward.

Claude looked totally unconcerned by the three certain deaths hovering around him.

“’Bout six months give or take a week. Since you found that girl with the nails and her demented mother.” Claude’s still strangely beardless face grinned recklessly up at his adversary. “You really should learn to close those lorry doors a bit quicker yeah? I taught you better than that Yank. Anyone coulda’ snuck aboard and you’d be none the wiser.”

Keeping the two power-houses at his back, Peter placed an extremely cautious hand on Bennet’s forearm. “I don’t think he means anyone harm Noah,” he said soothingly. A flicked glance from beneath the horn-rimmed glasses, then the blue gaze was back on target. “Claude stayed knowing I could see him. He isn’t hiding from you any more.” Calm and gentle voiced, Peter coaxed the dangerously lethal man to lower his gun.

The invisible asshat snorted in contempt. “Wasn’t hidin’ in the first place Pup, just loitering to get the skinny on where the next mission is.”

A strong arm suddenly encircled Peter’s waist as he was lifted bodily around and down next to Claire. Stunned, he looked at Sylar’s broad back.

“I don’t know you and Noah wants to shoot you, so…” Sylar flung a burst of electricity across the eight feet between them and narrowly missed as Claude threw himself from his soon-to-be smouldering rattan chair.

“Bloody hell, you psycho!” Raines moved to put Bennet between him and his attacker. ‘What the fuck…”

“Gabriel.” The name in that commanding voice was enough to prevent a second burst. Angela Petrelli walked slowly round the table to confront the intruder. “Matthew told me you visited on occasion. I allowed it because he says you were actually helping us. Is that true or should I ask Gabriel to continue what he started?”

He may have been an asshole and mostly a bastard, but Peter knew without a doubt Claude Raines wasn’t a fool. Straightening his coat, the tall man looked down at the indomitable woman before him for several long seconds. A glance at the still seated Parkman was decidedly pissed off.

“Daddy Long-Legs in Washington has sent Danko here to try and flush you out. I know the layout of the building he’s using as headquarters.” Something of the sarcasm slid back in.” That enough to keep me alive then?”

“No.” Angela turned on her heel.

“Mom!” Peter grabbed at Sylar’s arm, spinning the killer around and found himself engulfed in a heady pine-almond scent underlying a shiver of ozone. Looking up into burning dark eyes, Peter blamed the rush of blood through his system on fear of an impending fight.

A sudden wicked grin crossed the handsome features so close to his.

For a moment Peter was dazzled as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud and belted him in the eyes, but he was saved from further action by his mentor’s English-accented vowels.

“The drug!” Claude called, now sounding a fraction worried.

Angela stopped walking away. Sylar’s smile took on a lethal edge as he leaned fractionally closer to Peter, who held his ground.

Just.

“He’s at the lab.” This caught Mohinder’s attention, devastated eyes alight with interest, “The one where they’re making the drug that suppresses abilities.” The invisible man continued in a disgusted voice. “The brains think they’re ready to test a new batch. Think it’ll keep powers down for weeks rather than hours, gonna try it on some test subjects they’re keeping under lock and key.”

Sylar’s smile vanished. “Subjects?” He growled at Claude, although his proximity to Peter didn’t change one iota.

“You can stay.” Angela allowed in the same cool tone she had used during the entire confrontation. Peter remembered that voice; it was often used on various house-staff and some of his tutors when they didn’t achieve his mother’s impossibly high standards.

“I know the security codes,” Claude bargained. “Your ‘path can’t go with you if I understand those eyes of his. So…”

Angela didn’t pause in her journey back into the house. “That is Gabriel’s decision; he leads our people out there.” A negligent hand wave towards the devastation beyond her high walls. “To join a mission you talk to him.”

Claude looked like he’d rather garrotte himself with a shoe-lace.

Peter gazed up into midnight eyes and took a deep breath of that delicious scent.

“No.” Sylar ground out with absolute conviction.

Fic: Mad World 1/8

2009-09-07T03:28:41Z

Chapter 1

Nimble fingers dipped the greying cloth into the cracked cup of water and soaked up a bare thimbleful. With trained care the cloth was applied to the rough grazes and scratches that encircled Peter’s ankle. He’d shifted the thick chain loop along his calf to reveal the wounds and was now completing his daily ritual of cleaning and treatment. It could almost be a fruitless gesture. He had managed to get the cuts to scab over half a dozen times in the last few weeks, but without fail something would cause Peter to move in just the wrong way to re-open the injuries.

Two days ago it had been another fight.

Difficult to defend yourself without moving your feet. Particularly when one of them was chained to the ground.

Placing the cloth back into the plastic dish that kept it relatively germ-free, Peter looked up through his fringe and made note of the other men’s locations.

There were sixty-seven inmates in the facility. As anonymous as possible in black cotton sleep pants and long-sleeved t-shirts, the prisoners had attempted individuality through hair and body art. Peter hadn’t needed to do anything to stand out; the fact that he was chained to the fucking ground kept him well-known. And easy to identify.

No-one was close enough to worry about, so Peter checked his other bruises to make sure everything was getting better and not worse. He’d tended a man dying from wounds gone sceptic not six days after he’d been brought here. It hadn’t really made much difference, probably only prolonged the poor bastard’s life by a few days. But Peter had held his hand and been witness to the death. That much he could still do chained and impoverished.

“Pretty Pretty! I’ve got somethin’ for ya...wanna see it?” The guttural voice taunted from across the yard. Peter didn’t look up. He didn’t need to see the other prisoner, likely jacking off seventeen feet from where Peter sat. Other voices joined in, yelling crude suggestions or calls to ‘shut the fuck up and put it away’.

Choosing three pieces of gravel from the small pile near his bare toes, Peter weighed them thoughtfully in his hand.

“C’mon Pretty Pretty! I’m watchin’ ya while I’m fucking my hand Pretty Pretty. Thinking of ya on ya knees for me.” The commentary was punctuated by grunts and the too-familiar sound of flesh on flesh. “Bring me that mouth of yours and I’ll give ya me rations tonight.” The request garnered several supporting votes from the masses.

Peter stood up.

Silence descended from all but the main orator.

“Yeah Pretty, that’s it. Come here Pretty…”

Shoulder muscled into fluid obedience by necessity; Peter pulled his arm back with startling speed and aimed at just below waist height. Dead on.

“Arghh…fuckin’ sonofabitch!! Shit me, shit me!” The words issued in a hoarse voice from the ball of misery now lying on the ground. “You’ll get yours Fucker. You’ll get yours.”

Peter looked around the compound to see if anyone was going to try anything. No. They knew better. Shaking his head wearily he also saw that no-one was moving to help the distressed man. Even had he been inclined Peter couldn’t do anything. The man had been careful not to come closer than seventeen feet.

The length of Peter’s chain.

*****

The grinding of gears woke Peter from a cautious slumber. Sunlight crawled gently across the compound as the great roof retracted. Once a sports stadium, the building now housed the most dangerous threats to humanity. A single, massive prison cell and exercise yard rolled into one. Turning to lie on his back, Peter squinted into a cool fall sky and wished for the ninety-eighth time that he could fly away from this hell.

A small movement to his left. Reflexes honed by weeks of living under direct threat had Peter rolling quickly to his feet, an edged piece of rock he’d painstakingly unearthed in hand.

It was just a kid. Maybe thirteen or so, crouched near the iron stake pinning Peter’s chain, arms wrapped around his knees and a face showing nothing but desperation. How the hell he’d managed to get inside Peter’s perimeter without him waking was terrifying, but for the moment the youth looked harmless. Pivoting, Peter scanned the compound for any of his usual antagonists, but they were all still asleep or grumbling at the sudden glare of sunlight.

Weapon at the ready, Peter stalked towards the boy with a clink of metal and revised his estimate. More like sixteen, the faintest of fair stubble on unmarked cheeks, large feet and hands, long limbs that had yet to be grown into. He’d be a tall, well-built man by the time he reached twenty…if he lived that long.

“You’re new.” Surprised at the scratchy sound his voice had become in three months, Peter swallowed and tried again. “What’s your name?”

The youth tried to shrink further down into his shoulders. “Ethan…I…they…they killed my mom and dad. It’s all my fault they’re dead.”

Oh Jesus.

Peter could just imagine the heart-breaking story. The son demonstrates some fantastic ability; the parents try to conceal him from the government, maybe plan to escape to Europe. They get caught. The parents die protecting their son; the kid is sent to the internment station with dozens of other super-powered humans. Many of the prisoners, locked together in this bastardised arena, were slowly spiralling into inhumanity and madness.

Except Peter. Holding onto his sanity the main focus of existence in recent times.

Dropping down to the patchy grass beside the boy, Peter hid his shiv under some debris and wondered what he was supposed to say to a young man whose life had been destroyed all because he could understand his dog or something.

“I’m so sorry Ethan. I really am.” His voice not so raw now, it was getting a small work-out. “You’re wrong though. None of this is because of you. In fact, I don’t think anyone deserves to be here.”

Ethan’s eyes lost some of his horror and took on a whirl of surprise.

“But everyone knows they’re all terrorists! It’s on the broadcasts all the time, how the specials destroyed the cities and killed the President. How they’re kept locked away to keep us all safe.” Soft blue eyes looked around the arena at the clusters of black-clad forms. “...how we’re locked away.” He corrected.

“When did you come in? Last night?” Peter asked gently.

Ethan nodded into his knees. “I could barely see, but I didn’t want to go anywhere near them.” His chin pushed in the direction of the other prisoners.

Peter let the silence ask his question.

A shrug. “They were all sleeping away from you, so I figured you were either a mass murderer they were scared of and I could run away fast enough. Or you were the only safe place in the area.” Another adolescent shrug. “Are you?”

Peter’s lips quirked at the stone-like feel in his gut at that question. Was Peter Petrelli safe to be around? God knows. He stood again to the gentle clink that filled his waking and sleeping hours.

“Well, I won’t kill or rape you so that’s a start. But you might want to move somewhere else even then.” Peter spotted the main door open and the four-wheel motorbike began to putter through. “I’m sort of a target here; you might get caught in the crossfire.”

“How?” Ethan stood up and yeah, well over six feet in the next year or so. Peter resisted the urge to stand on tip-toe. “They inject us every day to suppress our powers, how can there be a fight?”

Peter smiled grimly as he took up his place at the edge of his perimeter.

“We don’t need powers to fight, Ethan.” Watching a FedMarshal lift a plastic box from the pile on his trailer and approach them, Peter folded his arms and asked. “So, what ability did you have anyway?”

Ethan hunched his shoulders and looked curiously at the white box placed just out of the chain’s reach. “I can spit acid. It melted my dad’s car door. Doesn’t hurt my mouth though….” The youth’s words tumbled into nothing as Peter spun sharply and seized his elbow in a firm grip.

Peter looked long into the boy’s eyes to make sure there was no deceit, before looking behind them. Looking along the length of chain tethering Peter to the ground.

Chain made of steel.

*****

He had to pick his moment. After three months of survival and waiting Peter had found a chance. But he couldn’t be too impatient to escape or he’d make a critical error and be shot down in seconds. Determinedly ignoring the chain, Peter looked at the two plastic boxes five feet away and tried not to grind his teeth. Beside him Ethan looked confused, glancing at the chain and then back to Peter’s face with a questioning expression.

“Why…?” the youth began to ask.

“Ethan, could you please get the boxes?” Peter interrupted in a low voice.

The boy’s soft blue eyes now slid from the boxes to Peter and back. Good. The chain was being ignored.

“Err, sure.” Taking those three steps beyond Peter’s circle of protection, the young man collected up the boxes and turned back. Unfortunately the movement was unusual enough to garner the attention of their fellow inmates. Drawing in a deep breath Peter guided Ethan to the wall at their left. Sitting he opened a box and began eating the food within.

“Found a friend Fly-boy?” Peter ignored the drawling suggestion and spoke quietly to Ethan between bites.

“I can get us out of here.”

Blue eyed widened. “How?”

Peter looked anywhere but at his ankle. “Why do you think they have me chained to the ground?”

“Um...I dunno.” Connections made between the catcalls now floating towards them and the chain. “You can fly? They chained you down so you can’t escape. But, they give us the shots, to stop abilities.” Ethan stared now at the chain in serious doubt. “Why would they chain you if you get the shots?”

Peter finished his food and carefully collected together everything of value he possessed.

“Because the serum doesn’t work on me. I took a similar drug a while ago and now I’ve developed immunity.” Standing again Peter did some quick stretches and looked around the compound. He’d have maybe a five second window to get out of gun range. Plenty of time even with a passenger. It would be getting past the roof without too many inmates noticing that would be the challenge.

He’d need a distraction.

“So you have your power…you can fly?”

“Hmmmm…yeah.” Peter watched his most vile antagonist look over at them, curiosity and twisted lust colouring the gaunt features. Averting his gaze, the former nurse waited until the inevitable fight began. It would be over food as always. One man taking another’s apple could lead to death in the North Internment Station.

“But I don’t. I can’t melt the chain without my power.” Ethan stood at Peter’s side.

“You don’t need to Ethan. The serum is only active for twenty-four hours, and then it starts to break down. That’s why you’re due another injection soon. They come at the same time every day. Right.” Peter’s words slowed as he watched a punch get thrown on the far side of the arena. “After.” Four prisoners waded into the fray. “Breakfast.”

Looking up into the boy’s worried gaze, Peter smiled for what felt like the first time in months. No, years.

“You can’t use your power Ethan,” he acknowledged. “But I can.”

Peter took Ethan’s wrist and felt once again the brilliant rush of an ability flowing into him.

Crouching quickly, Peter lifted the chain until it was bare inches from his lips. He softly kissed the link and let the saliva on his tongue coat the cool metal. A faint puff of sour eggs and then Peter could see the acid begin to work. Inexorably the steel dissolved, bubbling and steaming until the link was completely gone.

Only a foot of chain now trailed from Peter’s wounded ankle.

He wasn’t tethered anymore.

“Hold onto me.” Peter ordered. Ethan complied immediately, arms circling his waist and chest in a reverse bear hug.

‘Hey Pretty!!” The hated voice called too close for comfort. “You letting that string-bean have ya? He’s just a fuckin’ kid, ya wanna see what a man can do for ya?”

Wishing he had the time to absorb a destructive power and fry the bastard with it, Peter sent his enemy a crooked grin and committed to memory the look of absolute shock that flowed over his face.

Looking into the sky Peter called up his memories of Nathan, the great and the terrible.

Then he flew again.

*****

Ethan wouldn’t let Peter take him home. With his parents gone there was only his little sister staying with their grandparents and the boy was loath to bring any danger to his surviving family. Peter couldn’t help but agree, unfortunately that left him with a sixteen year old passenger that he had little doubt he’d be able to protect if the FedMarshals managed to corner them. Fortunately, Ethan demonstrated his immediate usefulness by stealing some food and showing Peter how to shop-lift new clothes.

Obviously Peter had a far more sheltered upbringing than he’d thought.

It took them three days flying due east with stops for sleep and for Peter to rest. Flying wasn’t tiring at all; carrying a human weighing half again his body weight was going to dislocate Peter’s shoulders if he didn’t land every few hours.

It was near ten at night when they arrived in New York, the remains of the once glittering city still under marshal law. They would be shot on sight if spotted out after curfew. Keeping as much in the dark as possible, Peter led Ethan on foot through the deserted streets feeling his heart sink at the sight of burned-out cars and the litter-strewn side walk. This city was a duplicate of another horror New York he’d once seen. Only minutes to see it before he’d been stolen away and smothered with words like Shanti, Nathan, virus and ninety-three-percent-dead. That world had faded into nothing, along with a lilt-voiced girl and the possibility of another Peter.

There was now only his broken city, the catastrophe that had caused it and Peter; once again, trying to stop something before it even began.

Ethan stayed quiet as they stopped in front of large, imposing gates. The massive fence hadn’t been here the last time he’d seen it, or the barbed wire. Peter took a deep steadying breath and stiffened his shoulders before opening the gate. In the eerie gloom of a silent New York, the gate shrieked from its un-oiled hinges and allowed them to enter. The front gardens were overgrown, abundant roses gone as wild as their blackberry cousins. Dodging vicious thorns, they approached the front doors, Peter breathing a sigh of either relief or fear at the lights he could spot upstairs.

Someone lived here.

Shuffling his hands into the pocket of his stolen coat, Peter found one of the few items he’d managed to hold onto the last three months.

Fitting his key into the lock, Peter pushed open the door and walked into the house he’d grown up in.

It felt a little like watching Dorothy open her door onto the technicolour glory of Oz. The shabby, dilapidated outside a mask over the gleaming excellence of the Petrelli mansion. A foyer empty save for the marble statues his mother had gamely protected from two young sons and the warm glow of the ostentatious chandelier two floors above.

Breathing in the scent of wood polish and roses, Peter tensed as he heard footsteps along the upper landing and Ethan’s awestruck gasp behind him.

He looked up into the astonished face of his niece.

“Peter?” Almost silently Claire mouthed his name before she visibly inhaled and then, “PETER!”

Quiet thumps as she belted down the stairs and he was moving too, unconsciously getting closer to this beloved girl, his friend and family all wrapped up together in the sweet-faced young woman in his arms. Claire was crying and laughing and saying his name over and over like a mantra.

“You’re alive, you’re alive…Peter, Peter, Peter…”

The smell of her hair, tiny form bouncing and hugging and the wet salt of tears on his neck had Peter feeling like he could wake up now because he was home and Claire was here. Familiar face in a world gone mad for three months.

God, he’d missed her.

Small fists bunched into the lapels of Peter’s coat as Claire pulled away to look up at him with eyes drowning green in her lovely face. Other sounds penetrated Peter’s relief; footfalls clinking on marble, doors opening and a slow-rising babble of voices.

“Where have you been?” she asked, but before he could answer…

“Peter! Peter…” He looked over to see his mother push past people he knows and loves, her hair liberally streaked with grey, her face wearing the same expression she’d worn when he had just woken from a coma all those long months ago. The desperate love he saw there had him gently pulling away from Claire and accepting another much-longed for embrace.

Hands rose furiously to push through his hair as Angela reassured herself that her youngest son was really there. Kisses rained across his cheeks and touched his eyelids like a prayer. A smothered sob escaped Peter at the care inherent in her touch. Then other arms around him, across his shoulders and lips against his temple.

“Pete.” Breathed into his hair, the anger and hurt forgotten or forgiven in that moment as Nathan pulled him and their mother tighter together. Dainty fingers thread through his, others held his upper arm where it lay around Angela’s waist.

Words echoed around them, questions and exclamation. His name repeated a dozen times in shock and speculation.

“How do we know that’s really him?” The voice was deep and rich as velvet, unmistakable and unbelievable to Peter’s ears. It dominated the other sounds in the foyer until silence won the battle.

Nathan pulled back sharply from the hug and looked angrily across at the tall figure on the stairs.

“I know my brother.” Confident voice that swayed millions to his cause.

“How do we know Nathan? It could be a shape-shifter sent by the Spider to finally flush us out.” Arms crossed, broad shoulders leaned nonchalantly against the wall. “He knows someone with that face could walk right in and kill us while we sleep.”

Peter stared with furious eyes at his questioner.

“Sylar.” He snarled into the bitter chocolate gaze. “I’m Peter and you can…”

“It’s him, it’s Peter.” Matt Parkman reached the bottom of the other stairs, white irises focused unseeingly on Peter’s face; hand on the shoulder of a young woman with straight brown hair. Peter felt polite mental fingers filter through his thoughts and responded to the familiar touch with his own greeting. “Definitely Peter….but there’s something…”

Nathan’s hand, still resting on Peter’s lower back went still.

“He’s not from now…” Matt frowned. “You’re too young to be our Peter…where are you from?”

Knowing all eyes were on him, Peter looked at the long-sought faces of his family and friends, hoping he didn’t have to brace himself for disappointment.

“From what I can tell,” for some reason Peter shot his gaze to the man still lingering above them all on the far stairs. “I’m from five years in the past.”

A stunned silence once again seeped into the foyer.

“Oh shit,” Hiro Nakamura said with a wince.

Fic: Green-Eyed.

2009-06-21T11:50:01Z

For the Anon Kink_Meme and Heroes_Slash. I did commentfic - wowjesus.

Title: Green-eyed.
Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1714
Spoilers: All of everything.
Warnings: Rude words.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
A/N: Commentfic so not betad.

Summary: Peter didn't really get what the problem was. He's a little oblivious like that.

Green-Eyed.

“Bourbon? No? Whiskey?” The friendly business man had taken to listing each bottle of liquor that he could see beyond the bar. He had snared the seat beside Peter nearly twenty minutes ago and was intent on buying the nurse-slash-saviour of humanity a drink. Despite being gently turned down at least seven times, the older man was persistent and actually rather charming. With sparkling blue eyes and sandy grey hair, he had a sort of Robert Redford thing going on. If Redford starting wearing thousand dollar suits and had haircuts that cost more than Peter earned in a month. This is what Nathan will be like in fifteen years. Peter smiled and shook his head at the offer of a “Sambuca on ice?”

“Really, I don’t need another. Thanks.” Tapping a finger against the chilled glass still in front of him, Peter glanced searchingly around the large room. The bar was packed to the polished wood beams with professional types crowding in for desperate Friday after-work alcohol.

“C’mon, cut me some slack here? Just one drink?” The blue eyes really were delightful. “You never know babe, I could be your one and only! Let me buy you a drink and we can find out. I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything. Scout’s honour.” Hand over heart and absolute honesty on the rugged, handsome features.

A gurgle of laughter bubbled from Peter, quickly smothered by the rim of the empty glass pressed against his lips. About to reply, the tumbler was stolen from his fingers by a dark-clad figure that loomed over the seated pair.

“Pity. He only dates people with balls enough to brutally slaughter any rivals and play cat’s cradle with their entrails.” The deep, drawling voice penetrated the chaotic noise around them, causing a shiver at the back of Peter’s neck like ice frosting his stolen glass.

The business man looked up into Sylar’s cool, emotionless face and flinched at what he found there. Peter saw the flirtatious laughter drain from the blue eyes as the expected ‘just joking’ never eventuated from Sylar. A glance at Peter who was putting his payment on the bar and the nurse could see the decision being reached behind that look. Weighing up any chance at Peter over the not-very-subtle threat emanating from Sylar. Not really surprised that any minor charms he possessed being unable to balance the silent “Yes I will kill you and really, really, really enjoy it” vibe that Sylar was exuding, the business man sighed theatrically and looked around for another potential bed mate.

Standing, Peter turned towards his lover and raised an enquiring eyebrow at the murderous flame still burning in the midnight eyes.

“What?”

Because he was after all, Peter.

Empathy didn’t mean you were necessarily quick on the uptake. Particularly when you didn’t notice you were being hit on until you realised that your thigh was being stroked in a way that might not be as casual as you first thought.

Murderous becoming even more deadly if that were possible, long fingers encircled his wrist and Peter was being lead through the crowd towards the exit. The people parted like the red sea at Sylar’s silent direction. It was either telekinesis or just force of personality, but Peter spotted several suits yelping and rubbing their shoulders so decided it must be option A.

The crisp air cooled cheeks slightly flushed from the press of humanity inside as Sylar picked up speed, until Peter had to dance a little to keep up or have his hand pulled off.

“What is it?” he asked as the turned down the next alley. “Sylar, I barely said a word to him.” Explanations falling on deaf ears, Peter started to get angry with the silent, boorish mood his lover was in. It had been weeks since they last met, neither man having time from their rebellion against the government sanctions to even be in the same city, let alone spend it together. Now Sylar was being an asshole and they should be checking into a hotel for athletic sex rather then having a snarling match in a filthy alley.

Digging in his heels, Peter yanked back on Sylar’s grip and wished he’d copied Mohinder’s strength before he left the stronghold rather than Claire’s power.

“Don’t be a…” But the sentence was never finished as Sylar turned sharply and crowded Peter backwards until he was pressed into the graffiti swirled brick behind him. Long fingers slid up into his hair and a hot, wet kiss punished Peter’s lips. Anger still simmering but overshadowed by lust, Peter burrowed his hands under Sylar’s coat and grabbed onto the belt loops at his lover’s lean hips.

He barely got a chance to return the kiss, however, as the hands cradling his head roughly pushed his face to one side, exposing Peter’s neck to the chill night air and the hard bite of Sylar’s teeth.

“Hey...ow!!” The small wound healed quickly, but that was hardly a play-nip. A second bite sent Peter up on his toes in both pain and the sudden rush of pleasure that hit his cock. A third bite that almost immediately healed. A torrent of swearing issued from Sylar’s normally articulate tongue.

“God dammed cheerleader, all over you to taker her power to keep you ‘safe’ I’m fucking sure…”

Bristling at the abuse aimed at his lovely niece, Peter wrenched his head away from the grasping hands.

“What the hell is wrong with…?”

“Take one of mine…now.” The order was unmistakable, but Peter had spent his entire life being commanded by men with egos bigger than Texas and he hadn’t ducked his head to either of them either.

“Fuck off.”

Barely five inches between them, but Peter felt it widen to a chasm as he watched a riot of emotions cross the normally ice-perfect face of his dangerous lover. Genuinely lost as to the cause of this blow up, Peter crushed some of his anger down and looked at Sylar clearly for the first time that night.

Anger. Frustration. Desire. Exhaustion. Passion.

And shadowing all the others with its fierce, green tinted glint.

Oh.

Reaching out, Peter brushed his finger-tips across that neat, sinful mouth. In a shimmer of power he gained the ability to turn lead into gold. Leaning back against the wall with a carelessness he didn’t feel, Peter bit the corner of his lip in a way that he know drover his lover mad and said,

“He was kind of cute actually. I wonder if he’d buy me a drink if I went back inside.” It was exactly the wrong thing to say…or the right one if you knew what would happen.

An old metal rubbish can flew violently from one side of the alley to the other and then crumpled into something close to the size of a soda can.

As understanding dawned in bitter chocolate eyes, Peter tilted his head invitingly.

“Knock yourself out.”

Sylar pounced, grabby hands curving under Peter’s ass and lifting him onto his toes while a hard leg pressed between his thighs. An even harder erection ground against Peter’s own, causing a sound to issue from him that was most likely a long wanton moan.

Of course the bites this time nearly broke the skin and Peter would look like he’d been mauled by a dog tomorrow, but it was worth it. Worth it to feel his lover crush them so close together, to have their bodies thrust and push in a perfect rhythm that wasn’t nearly enough.

So lost was he in the sensation of touch and being touched, that Peter didn’t realise what he was hearing for several seconds. No more swearing, just one word over and over. Chanted into the skin of his neck and shoulder, across his cheekbone and slipped into his mouth.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine…..”

Something that felt like pain but was probably love curled in Peter’s middle and he sucked sudden in air to his paralysed lungs in one painful sob. Twisting around, he deftly unbuckled his belt and then jeans, shoving the material down low enough to expose his ass and burning hard cock to the air.

“Fuck me, please…” he spoke the harsh sounds into the dirty bricks and spread his fingers against the wall for balance. “Prove it Gabriel, prove it. I want you, please. Fuck me, show me…”

Only seconds pass, Peter’s voice desperate and slutty in the muted darkness of the alley. He keeps begging, keeps demanding. Then a warm, damp finger at his ass and his lover’s mouth once again painting possession into Peter’s throat with bruises.

Finally ready after long hot seconds, the relentless press of Sylar’s iron shaft into his body. No finesse, just a long, hard ache of flesh that breaks Peter’s voice and replaces it with the hard grind of fucking and love.

“Mine, only for me, only mine.” The dusky chant changes as Sylar fucks Peter open, only the wall to prevent him from collapse at the pleasure darting around his body.

“For me, you’re mine…never let you go…kill us first…kill them all first…keep you for me…I won you…never giving you back….mine…kill them for you…kill them all…kill the world for you…mine….mine…”

That is just too much for Peter to comprehend. Rational thought went out the window when he begged for Sylar to fuck him and dealing with the level of obsession he’s hearing is well beyond him right now.

Now is about the silken slide of his lover in his ass, the hot breath in his ear and the fingers around his own rock-hard erection and the orgasm he can feel…about…to…take…him…apart.

Coming in wet, hard shudders, Peter feels Sylar go rigid and nearly tear a jugular in his passion.

Minutes later they are still slumped there. Peter almost invisible under his taller lover and the great black coat that keeps the cold at bay.

A long sighing breath and Sylar nuzzles gently at Peter’s decorated skin. Calm now, the rage dissipated in teeth, sweat and cum.

“So,” Peter offers as he tips his head back to rest on one broad shoulder. “No more smiling at strangers in bars right?”

A soft chuckle in that beloved voice.

“Not if you want them alive the next morning…no.”

finis

jadedoll @ 2009-06-21T21:40:00

2009-06-21T11:41:13Z

A little thing for the delightful new people on my flist. *hugs*

YOU'RE ON MY FRIENDS LIST, I want to know 28 things about you. I don't care if we've never talked, never really clicked, or if we already know everything about each other. I really don't. You are obviously on my flist, so let me know with whom I'm friends!

1. Your Middle Name:
2. Age:
3. Single or Taken:
4. Favorite Movie:
5. Favorite Song or Album:
6. Favorite Band/Artist:
7. Dirty or Clean:
8. Tattoos and/or Piercings:
9. Do we know each other outside of LJ?
10. What's your philosophy on life?
11. Is the bottle half-full or half-empty?
12. Would you keep a secret from me if you thought it was in my best interest?
13. What is your favorite memory of us?
14. What is your favorite guilty pleasure?
15. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you:
16. You can have three wishes (for yourself, so forget all the 'world peace etc' malarky) - what are they?
17. Can we get together and make a cake?
18. Which country is your spiritual home?
19. What is your big weakness?
20. Do you think I'm a good person?
21. What was your best/favorite subject at school?
22. Describe your accent
23. If you could change anything about me, would you?
24. What do you wear to sleep?
25. Trousers or skirts?
26. Cigarettes or alcohol?
27. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together? (If you have no idea, just say something crazy, it'll entertain me!)
28. Will you repost this so I can fill it out for you?

Fic: Friday On My Mind.

2009-05-28T11:27:33Z

My very first Heroes fic. *is proud* For the heroes_exchange comm.

Title: Friday On My Mind
Recipient: blueskypenguin
Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 8287
Spoilers: Up to Duel, Clear and Present Danger, Shades of Grey
Warnings: Rude words and mild violence. Slash
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
A/N: Many thanks to CelsieRan for the great Beta. She is not a net girl or even a Heroes fan. But a more vicious grammar queen has never been born. Anything left is my fault alone as I couldn't stop tweaking til the very end. Thanks Cel.

Summary: Peter tries to understand why Sylar keeps breaking into his apartment. Sylar would like to know as well.

Friday On My Mind.

Peter un-wrapped the blood-pressure cuff from around his patient’s arm and offered a reassuring smile to her worried husband. This close to Christmas the mall was filled to bursting with shoppers all exuding seasonal cheer as they tried to ram their shopping carts into spaces far too small to accommodate them. Helen had been caught between a frantic family of six and a pile of discount DVD players when she’d collapsed with an angina attack. David, her husband had called for help and now Peter was checking to make sure Helen could be with her family for Christmas. She has three daughters in Tulsa and does Peter have a number she can contact him on? Just in case her heart starts acting up again?

“You can call emergency anytime Helen,” Peter assures her gently. Fingers ghosting over the equipment in his kit, counting and checking to make sure he isn’t leaving something dangerous behind. Deliberately ignoring Mitchell’s wide grin, Peter chats a little more about big family Christmas dinners that need to be cooked and how rude everyone is this time of year before being engulfed in a warm, coffee smelling hug.

Mitchell is vibrating with laughter as they head back to their bus, the multitude moving out of their way in an unconscious respect for their uniforms.

“Stop it,” Peter orders with a faint blush.

“She would have proposed right there on the floor if her husband wasn’t standing behind you.” The bulky red-head teases, opening the ambulance door and climbing in. “Although I think he was just as smitten, maybe they wouldn’t introduce you to their daughters after all…”

“You are so funny Mitch, I’m gonna need to give myself a shot just to calm down.” Peter swings into the driver’s seat and contemplates leaving Mitchell behind in the vehicular push and shove of the car park.

The red-head settles in beside Peter. “You’re just too nice you know Petey-Pete? They tell you all about their lives and you eat it up like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. You got to keep some distance you know? You’ll burn out from feeling too much otherwise.”

“Maybe.” But Peter is non-committal. He genuinely likes talking to people, hearing their stories, getting to know them. After the crazed drama that has been his life for the past year, it’s a nice change to relate to normal people with normal lives.

As for burning out…been there, done that.

******

For Peter, Friday afternoon shift finishes at 8pm, allowing just enough time to get home, find something to eat and crash into bed. He has Saturdays off for the next six months and usually gets up early to make the most of his free time. Flicking his locks into place as he checks the mail, Peter tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter and opens the fridge. Eyeing some left-over pizza dubiously, Peter thinks he should call Clair to see what she is doing while visiting his mother, they could have dinner at….

Very, very slowly Peter closed the fridge door, his heart beginning to pound like poor Helen’s.

“Hello Peter.”

Deep velvet voice that causes a shiver of both excitement and fear to race along his nerves.

Turning carefully, Peter looks searchingly around the living room of his apartment until he spots a pocket of shadows beside the door to his bedroom. Something glints in the light from the kitchen.

“Sylar,” he breathes.

The shadows move and he can see black clad shoulders, some kind of long coat, and the slightly paler black of skin at around face height. Peter glances at his door, how many feet is it from where he’s standing…or maybe…?

“You’ll never make it.” Staggering confidence.

Peter bristles; he’s fought the killer to standstill and kicked his ass again at Primatech.

But that was before.

Taking a long breath, Peter breaks and runs. All his fear and adrenaline channelled into a desperate sprint. But not for the door…for the window.

He almost makes it. Shoulders curled in to take the impact of the glass, Peter sees a splash of yellow from headlights in the street below, just as a telekinetic band encircles his waist and he is wrenched backwards. Flat on the floor, Peter pushes and twists but he knows it’s hopeless. The casual strength of Sylar’s favourite power is horribly familiar to him, an almost citrus flavour to the press and crush of a killer’s will.

Refusing to fight anymore, he lays still and concentrates on keeping his fear under control.

Ominous footsteps across his polished floorboards and then Gabriel Grey looms over him, his height magnified by Peter’s supine position. Expecting either a razor pain on his forehead or a full body teke press, Peter is surprised when Sylar sinks down to sit cross-legged beside him, resting elbows on knees and giving the pinned nurse a once-over.

“Claire stabbed me in the head with a piece of glass…I thought of you.”

The light from the kitchen reveals Sylar’s compelling face, strong brow currently furrowed in thought, black stubbled jaw and a wide neat mouth that under any other circumstances Peter would have considered intensely attractive. Of course ‘other circumstances’ also assumes that the face’s owner isn’t about to butcher him on his new rug.

“She mentioned it.” Not glass, anything but glass. What do you do with something that killed you? Peter didn’t want to die at all, but having shards of glass near him during his work is beyond uncomfortable, glass and Sylar in the same room is terrifying. “How did you..?”

“Fire melted it; lovely feeling it was too, healing fourth degree burns. But you know what that’s like don’t you Peter?” Sylar always laces his name with a resonant curl, like he tastes it every time he shapes the letters with his lips.

Wondering why he is asking questions of the psycho killer, Peter notices for the first time that he isn’t held to the floor by a huge palm of power but more like a bug skewered by a needle. Only his hips and back are anchored; arms, legs and shoulders are free to move. Peter keeps himself as still as possible despite this as he isn’t sure if the lack of pressure is deliberate or an oversight on the other’s part.

“Why did you run toward the window Peter?”

Gaze locking with Sylar’s bitter chocolate eyes, Peter bites his tongue.

“Because your fire escape isn’t the most secure in the world,” Sylar continues thoughtfully. “Why wouldn’t you try for the door? Hmmm, and you were running so fast….Peter?” A sing-song lilt has entered the velvet voice as thoughts whirl and connect behind the killer’s eyes.

“Were you going to fly Peter?”

Shit, shit, shit. Should have gone for the door. Peter thinks desperately, “Only one lock on the…”

“You’re ly-ing.” Now the telekinesis crawls up his chest to gently encircle his throat. “You have a power, you can fly can’t you Peter?” Unmistakable glee.

Now Peter begins to fight, kicking and pushing against the invisible force, reaching for Sylar. If he can just touch…

“Now don’t be like that Peter.” Sylar leans forward and whispers so close to Peter’s ear he wonders if he can copy a power by that minimal contact. “I would love to fly, but I don’t want to take the risk. I didn’t come to kill you and now that you’re back among us with gifts well...” a pause while Peter fights an involuntary shiver at the warm breath caressing the sensitive skin near his hairline. “…I’m still not going to kill you. Good bye Peter.”

Standing in one long graceful movement, Gabriel Grey walks to the window, heavy boots reverberating to where Peter lays trapped on the floor.

“You should eat more. Svelte is perfect on you, skinny is not.”

Peter watches for long seconds after the window closes behind the killer, slowly sitting up when the telekinetic hold finally disappears.

“The fuck?”

*****

The following Friday is foretelling a particularly nasty winter ahead. Grey skies and a chill wind serve to throw everyone’s karma into chaos, causing more brawls and accidents in one day than in the last month combined. Peter finishes dressing after a long hot shower and is wandering towards his kitchen when he notices a shadow on his fire escape. Holding still, he looks harder and determines that yes, indeed, there is a man sitting on his fire escape landing.

In October.

In the cold.

Wishing he could be the kind of person to just drop the blinds and go on with his evening, Peter slides up the glass and leans against the white window frame. Chances are better for him exposed to the open sky anyway and it’s not as if the guy couldn’t have just barged in like he had the previous week.

“Should I even ask?” He questions as goose bumps not entirely from the cold pebble his skin.

In the light from Peter’s apartment, Sylar looks relaxed, elbows on raised knees, head resting comfortably against the cold iron of the hand rail. A polite smile graces the serial killer’s lips as midnight eyes wander over Peter’s form.

“You were a little bit upset last time I came in without an invitation, so…” The smile takes on a taunting edge as Peter processes the concept of being ‘a little bit upset’ about last week’s home invasion.

“So you decided to linger outside my window in the freezing cold instead?” He can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice, because there is no way in hell Sylar is actually being considerate of Peter’s personal space.

Sylar shrugs with an inherent grace Peter is suddenly fiercely envious of. How dare such an attractive creature be such a monster? If his heart-rate wasn’t climbing with slow-crawling fear, it would likely being doing it from proximity to the dark clad man anyway. Crossing his arms, Peter starts to rub them to create some warmth and to banish the chill of fear as well as desire.

Dark eyes watch the movement, long fingers flick suddenly and Peter stiffens in surprise. But the citrus caress of power doesn’t touch him; instead he feels a gentle thump as his winter coat, discarded onto his sofa earlier lands across his shoulders.

“In or out Peter, you’re letting the warmth go, hovering there like a nervous colt.” The smile is gone and dark eyes look away from Peter, down the alley towards the lights of the traffic beyond.

Pushing his arms into the sleeves, Peter climbs through the window. Unable to hide his caution he avoids being too close and settles down with his back against the brick of his building, sock-clad feet near Sylar’s big boots but not touching. Crossing his arms tightly he feels the cold creep into the fabric of his jeans and wonders what the hell is going on.

In a frightening display of intuition that Peter would suspect is telepathy if Matt hadn’t called him this morning, Sylar answers Peter’s thought.

“When Angela told me I was your brother I thought I had finally found a reason for being.” The words are clear; unemotional even delivered in velvet beauty. “A family to be a part of, parents I could respect, brothers to share the world with.”

Peter clenches his teeth against a sudden burst of disgust. His mother had certainly used a very powerful weapon against the man next to him, the lure of family to control someone who is essentially uncontrollable.

“A family that spends more time fighting than sharing Sylar.” He corrects sharply, unwilling to hear praise of the flawed ensemble. “We yell and snipe, insult and interfere in each others lives. Petrelli is Italian for manipulate you know. You met my father.”

‘And killed him with me.’ Peter’s conscience supplies ruthlessly.

Sylar looks back at the bitterness lacing Peter’s words. “I would have fit right in then, wouldn’t I?”

Peter ignores the question. “I never thought you were my brother. Mom could rival Lindeman for pulling strings, but she is ferociously protective of us. She keeps trying to steal Claire away to Europe to keep her safe.” A fond smile rises to his lips at the thought of his adored niece. “There is no way she would let Dad take away a child of hers...no way.”

Looking over, Peter catches Sylar staring at his mouth and ducks his head self-consciously. Lately he’s rarely bothered with his appearance and it’s unsettling to feel aware like this with Sylar the Crazed Murderer for God’s sake. Sternly ordering himself to get a grip, Peter sneaks a glance and finds another smile crossing the strong handsome features.

“I’m glad now that we’re not brothers Peter.” The velvet voice goes a seductive tone deeper. “Let’s just say that brotherly feelings would have been a poor substitute for what’s between us.”

Peter blinked. “Blood, death and violence you mean?”

Gabriel Gray laughs out loud. A gorgeous shock of sound that moves blood from Peter’s extremities to other vital areas and echoes delightfully down to the street below.

“Maybe,” chuckling, Sylar rises to his feet in one fluid movement and Peter scrambles up so that he can’t be loomed over. Not anymore than normal anyway. A warm hand catches his elbow and steadies him. Stunned Peter doesn’t even think to flinch away.

“But not anymore, I haven’t wanted to kill you in, well…it’s been months Peter.”

It has been. Peter was the one responsible for most of the aggression in their recent encounters.

“Going to fly?” The question seems innocent, until Peter looks into midnight eyes seeing a feral light deep within.

“I never said I could fly.”

Fingers dropping from Peter’s arm, Gabriel steps back, face suddenly closed, eyes going hard.

Peter regrets the words, but…

“It’s too cold anyway.” He confesses, looking back into the warmth of his apartment, then glancing up to see triumph light the taller man’s features.

“Stay warm Peter.” A hand reaches forward and Peter holds still as long, strong fingers twitch the collar of his coat into place then caress down his arm and wrist.

Peter sways forward at the touch, only to find Sylar rising up, the scent of citrus in the air as powerful telekinesis lifts him up to the roof and away.

Shivering from a combination of cold and several other feelings, Peter climbs back in his window. Everything Sylar said was twined with some other meaning that Peter will review again and again until he can understand what is going through the killer’s mind.

Why was he visiting Peter without intention of violence? Why linger in his home, then the next week hover outside his window in the chill of late fall?

What is going on?

*****

Waking slowly to the delicious feel of cool clean sheets, Peter sighs in the bliss a shift-worker feels when realising he doesn’t have to go back to work for hours yet. Thursday evening is assigned as apartment cleaning time and fresh laundered linen rustles gently as Peter stretches and curls his toes in smooth cotton. Cracking an eyelid he notices that it’s well past sunrise and he should probably be doing something useful before his shift, but given he had two fatalities in the last 36 hours he decides that he deserves to be lazy for a change.

Rolling onto his stomach, Peter rubs a pesky itch on his nose into the pillow before settling in for another long sleep. Opening his eyes to check the time on his alarm clock, Peter’s breathe freezes in his throat with sudden agonising fright as he sees Sylar lying beside him on the bed.

Sylar lying beside him on the bed.

Gabriel Grey, clothed in his typical midnight attire, booted feet crossed at the ankles, chin in hand as he causally watches Peter die of shock right in front of him.

Sylar in his bed.

Sylar. In. His. Fucking. Bed!!

With an sharp indrawn breath that scalds his throat, Peter rears back from the serial killer in his bed, and stumbles to the floor then to the wall before regaining full control of his limbs and accelerated heart rate.

“What the…? You can’t just…Get out you maniac!” Ignoring in the fact that he sounds hysterical, Peter manages to summon a truly massive glare and aims it directly at his unwelcome visitor.

What can only be described as a smirk graces Sylar’s lips, dark eyes wandering from Peter’s naked feet, up his pyjama clad legs and bare chest to the tangled mess of his hair. If Peter didn’t know any better he would swear the killer had just checked him out. A shiver trails down his spine at the idea.

“You just run through every emotion on high speed don’t you Peter?” Sylar does the complete opposite of Peter’s demand and sprawls across the bed, head on the pillow Peter just vacated, feet almost reaching over the far edge. Resting his cheek on the slightly dented cotton, Gabriel sends a wicked look at Peter through his lashes as he takes a long deep breath in through his nose.

In a re-run of last week’s emotional shock, Peter realises he can’t force Sylar to do anything. Standing three feet away and giving orders is about as effective as stamping his foot and probably just as humiliating. Turning on his heel Peter snatches a long-sleeved t-shirt off his cabinet and heads for the kitchen. Sylar may get his kicks out of invading other people’s privacy, doesn’t mean Peter has to stand here and watch him.

Only a few minutes later, Peter is staring thoughtfully at two mugs on his kitchen counter as footsteps precede his guest into the kitchen. Not even looking away from the boiling kettle, Peter asks,

“Are you going to kill me?”

The scrape of one of his chairs being pulled out from the breakfast nook.

“Not today Peter.” Sylar’s dark velvet voice is magnified in its beauty by Peter being unable to see the man.

“Hurt or threaten me? Wreck my stuff? Make me late for work?”

“No Peter. Should I promise?” A thread of amusement sprinkled through the velvet now. Peter suppresses an answering smile. Turning around he gestures to the steaming mugs in front of him.

“Coffee then?” He knows he sounds wary and why not? He’s entertaining a murderer.

Something that could only be called surprise crosses Sylar’s strong features, brows arched suddenly, lips parting in a way that Peter argues with himself isn’t as appealing as it looks.

“Yes. Thank you.” Manners that must have been ingrained since birth come to the fore and Peter winces at the courtesy shown him.

This is getting just a bit surreal.

A bit?

Taking a long drink of his own wickedly black coffee, Peter watches the other man as colliding emotions finally come to an accord. Sylar isn’t going to hurt him. Hasn’t laid a finger on him in their last half-dozen or so meetings and actively helped him during the chaos of Pinehurst. So what the fuck does that mean? Peter just can’t really maintain fear of the man anymore and that is likely a dangerous, dangerous thing.

Sylar coughs uncomfortably and Peter realises he must have been staring at the man’s mouth while he was drinking. Hoping to God his cheeks aren’t colouring, Peter drags his eyes upwards and sees Sylar looking away, gazing out the window as he toys with the small chip in the mug’s handle.

What the hell was Gabriel Grey doing here? That he would break in and ruthlessly impose himself, then feel uncomfortable with basic hospitality?

Peter has to find out.

“Please understand I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassures Sylar, setting his cup aside and straightening from a slouch on the bench.

“What?” Head snapping back to him, Sylar’s gaze becomes sharp, standing so quickly the cup spins a moment on the counter. “You can’t hurt me Peter; I thought we’d established that.”

Somehow he holds his ground when Sylar steps closer, using his height to loom in a way that Peter, now his fear has abated, finds really, really irritating. Tossing his head a little to keep the hair out of his eyes, Peter looks up those few important inches and replies,

“I know it won’t last, but I remember when I had Claire’s ability and I’ve got a few hours at least…” words cut off as long fingers grab his upper arms in a crushing grip that will leave bruises later no doubt.

“What won’t last Peter? What have you…?” That ferocious intelligence clinks into place, bitter chocolate eyes find the coffee mug on the breakfast nook and return to Peter full of accusation. For some reason he can’t explain, Peter’s gut churns with guilt.

“I’m sorry, but I have to know what’s going on with you….”

Fingers gone from his skin, Sylar turns too fast and stumbles against the door frame as he makes for the living room.

“I promise I won’t let you be hurt.” Peter vows as he follows the staggering villain. “I promise.”

When Sylar finally collapses just shy of the front door, Peter crouches down beside him and carefully checks his pulse. Strong and steady. Not entirely confident he has as many hours as he would like, Peter snatches up the phone and wonders how he’s going to get the bigger man off his floor.

*****

Two hours later, Peter has clean teeth, neat hair, an ex-cop and a geneticist in his living room.

Oh and a drugged up serial killer.

“Peter I cannot tell you how dangerous this is. We should call Noah and let him take care of everything.” Mohinder reminds him with his gentle intensity. It’s fairly decent of the man to even be helping them considering the immense hatred the scientist feels for Sylar.

“I know Mohinder, but there is something going on with Sylar and I need to know what it is.” Peter had called in his reinforcements as soon as he was sure the killer was out cold. Matt had agreed in a heartbeat, Mohinder tagging along because if it involved Gabriel Grey then it involved him. “Besides, Bennet is retired, doesn’t even have anywhere to keep him now. I don’t even know if anyone can hold Sylar with all the powers he has.”

“You caught him,” Matt tells Peter, adjusting and checking the weapons, all but one of which will be useless if everything doesn’t go according to plan.

“Yeah.” Peter can’t even explain why he feels so bad about that. Maybe the expression on Sylar’s face when Peter had offered the coffee, like he’d never had anyone make him a drink before.

Shoving his feelings aside to be examined at excruciating length later, Peter takes his position just behind Matt’s shoulder and readies the syringe in his hand. Mohinder stands behind the chair Peter has hauled the killer into, long-bladed hunting knife inches from Sylar’s skull, ready in case everything goes to hell.

As it probably will.

“Okay, in I go.” Matt declares and sits forward in his seat directly in front of Sylar. It’s a credit to his immense courage that when Peter asked him to telepathically enter a serial killer’s mind there was only three seconds of hesitation. That and the promise of a tranquiliser in the bicep if Matt starts freaking out and trying to kill anyone.

For Peter it only takes about ten minutes. His own experience with Matt’s power is one of simple influence rather than scanning so he has no idea how much time passes for Matt and Sylar, but from the way Matt keeps leaning forward and Sylar’s occasional jolts, it isn’t quick or pleasant.

“Peter?” Mohinder’s knuckles have gone white around the knife handle.

“Just a little more time Mohinder, Matt said he’d come out and give us an update, just wait till then. Please?” What would he do if Mohinder tried to stab Sylar…stop him? God Peter what the fuck have got yourself into?

“Whoa, that hurts,” Matt growls, leaning back and releasing Sylar from his mental attack.

“Matt?” Mohinder’s voice reveals his stress.

“No, no Mohinder I’m fine. Don’t do it yet.” Rubbing his face hard with both hands, Matt looks up at Peter. ”You’re right, there is something very wrong in his mind, but I don’t know if it’s a new kind of wrong or if he’s always been this way.”

“Can you heal it?” Peter keeps his emotions firmly under wraps.

“I don’t know...maybe.” Matt looks thoughtfully back at the slumped figure in front of him.

Mohinder shakes his head in the negative. “It’s too risky. This whole idea is insane.”

“I know Mohinder,” Peter agrees, it isn’t Matt he has to convince, it’s the doctor. “But right now we only have one way of stopping him, “ a gesture towards the huge blade in Mohinder’s hand. “If Matt can do anything to heal Sylar from the inside, then stabbing a man in the head isn’t necessary.”

“He killed you.” The words are stark in their truth.

Peter tastes the memory of blood in his mouth. “I know.”

“I watched him do it. I carried your body to your mother and witnessed her face when she saw you. He killed my father and over a dozen others, he doesn’t deserve to be helped Peter.”

No, he doesn’t. “You’re right…I…”

“I’ll do it.” Matt takes the argument away from them both.

“Matt please...” Mohinder begins.

But the stocky policeman holds up his hand. “I saw more of his victims than either of you and I know what he did to each and every one of them. I have a chance to fix this, to repair whatever damaged this man and I’m going to take it.” Even Mohinder closes his mouth at the tone of promise coming from Matt. “But keep those ready just in case.”

A last lingering look into Mohinder’s eyes and then Matt puts his concentration squarely into the battle for a man’s sanity.

Only a moment or two later Sylar starts to jerk, his whole body reacting to Matt’s attempt at healing.

“Come back here Gabriel, don’t run.” Matt mutters under his breath. “You don’t need to fix them all, you know how they work now.”

“Get out.” Slurred from the unconscious man’s lips.

“Matt, he’s waking up.” Peter warns, finger’s tightening on the needle.

“You already know why…not your parents, you didn’t need to…it isn’t broken.” Matt’s one sided conversation continues.

Long fingers, once relaxed, suddenly fist and all the books in Peter’s apartment fall to the floor.

“I know he’s not broken…you can’t…ahhh, there it is…almost….but it’s so simple Gabriel you could…”

A full-body flinch and doors rip off their hinges, hang suspended in midair like balloons.

“…Gabriel…you only get to have him if you fix the problem…the hunger is the problem….”

Sylar’s head lifts, his eyes open and fix on Matt’s face.

Mohinder pulls his arm back, blade catching the sunlight and refracting a thousand times across the room.

“…Gabriel it’s broken…FIX IT!” Matt’s command echoes through all their heads as Sylar stands up, eyes blazing with fury. Matt, returned to the present, is flung across the room, Mohinder pressed with equal force to the wall behind him.

A single flick of the hand and the hypodermic in Peter’s fingers is embedded in a nearby floating door. The citrus thrill of Sylar’s telekinesis catches his throat and lifts him with careless ease. Tugged up and forward until they are nose to nose, Peter claws at his strangled neck.

“Oh I’m going to punish you for this Peter.” The once-velvet voice is raw with murderous intent.

Peter gasps in enough air for a few words. “Did…you… do… it? Fix…it?”

A slight head tilt as the killer looks inwardly for a moment. Midnight eyes widen.

“What did you do?” But the invisible grip had robbed Peter of air; the world goes smudgy around the edges.

“Whatever you did, I’m going to come back and make you pay. Very. Slowly.” The threat is whispered against his lips. Peter hears it just before the world goes grey and all is swallowed in the sound of shattering glass.

******

Four weeks later, Peter closes the door behind his guest and almost nervously crosses to his kitchen. Pulling down two coffee mugs he flicks on the kettle and pastes on a smile for the other man.

“Nice place Pete, you live here long?” Tom stands at ease near Peter’s book shelf, looking at the small items that make up one man’s life, probably wondering what they each represent.

Shrugging, Peter makes coffee and forces his mind away from the memory of the last time he’d made hot drinks for two. “A few years.”

Now that he has Tom back to his home, he feels unaccountably shy. The cop had asked him out months ago, but Peter hadn’t accepted till recently. Hadn’t even thought about seeing anyone while the threat of Sylar’s return lingered in his thoughts. The first Friday after what Peter now terms the Cosmic Matt Telepathy Fuck Up, he’d had Noah Bennet stationed on his couch with several deadly firearms and many, many sharp pieces of metal. It had come to nothing.

Sylar hadn’t showed.

Embarrassed but relieved, Peter had thanked a disappointed Bennet and then survived a fraught week of paranoia until the bespectacled man had returned unasked the following Thursday. Still no sign of the serial killer and Peter felt his fear recede. Now filled with more information about guns than he ever wants to know, Peter has resumed his normal schedule and accepted Tom the Cop’s invitation to dinner.

Sylar had probably lost whatever weird interest he’d had in the nurse anyway and was off terrorising some other part of the country. Of course that meant Peter is smote with guilt about letting the man go free when he could have ended him. But that guilt is useful in smothering a smaller one regarding certain hotly inappropriate thoughts about the touch of Sylar’s lips and the look of intent in his eyes during their last encounter.

Tom, funny, tall, blond and built, was a gorgeous alternative to Peter’s right hand and the fading scent of a serial killer on his pillow. An option that would move to an even better level of distraction if they could get through coffee without Peter freaking out or calling the other man Gabriel by accident.

Fingers tickling down his ribs knocks Peter from his thoughts, bringing him back to the very real, very nice man in his apartment.

“Show me your bedroom?” Gentle words whisper into his ear, lips touch Peter’s neck in small, soft kisses. “Please?”

Turning into the circle of the other man’s arms, Peter leans up and kisses Tom, eyes closing on the handsome friendly face.

The wrong face.

Just as Peter deepens the kiss, opening his mouth to a courteous tongue, Tom’s mouth is…gone. Hands that had been lingering on Peter’s ass pull away so violently he staggers forward with their momentum.

Shocked, Peter looks up into the brilliant midnight eyes of Sylar and feels his heart freeze in his chest.

“I’m going to kill him now Peter and you get to watch.” Smokey velvet voice promising horror as Peter throws himself in front of Sylar and catches sight of…god...no...Tom’s spread eagled form telekinetically pinned to his ceiling.

“You are not going to hurt him you nutcase.” Peter rages, stupidly jumping, trying to reach the poor man above him. Tom’s eyes are wide with terror and disbelief. “Let him down Sylar, he’s a fucking cop!”

Sylar stands unmoving, rage filled eyes on Peter.

“A cop? That just shows your appalling physiological need for an authority figure Peter. Why didn’t you fuck Parkman if you needed someone with a badge.” Scorn infuses every word, spilling into the room and staining Peter with its lash.

Giving up on the jumping as useless, Peter strides directly into Sylar’s space and snarls in his face.

“First, don’t even think about judging my emotional issues Mr Unbalanced Freak, second, who I fuck is so very much none of your business, third, Matt’s with Mohinder as if you didn’t know and fourth, let him the fuck down now before I…”

Tom shoots Sylar in the head.

Stunned and slightly deafened from the sound, Peter looks up from the killer’s body to see his almost-boyfriend come crashing to the floor, gun held in a sure grip. In a bizarre thought Peter realises that it would have to have been an awesome shot from the ceiling at that angle.

Helping the policeman to stand, he hurries, “You have to leave Tom, he’s going to get up in a minute.”

A warm hand cups Peter’s shoulder, “He’s dead Pete, he’s not getting up. I’ll call it in…” Concerned blue eyes, still touched by fear gaze into his, then widen comically as they look beyond him. Peter can sympathise, Claire’s gift is one hell of a showstopper.

He whirls around and faces Sylar directly, keeping his body between the two men. Hopefully Tom won’t panic and shoot him in the back by accident.

Gabriel spits out the bullet that had shattered his cheekbone and drops it on the floor.

“Cute.” Peter acknowledges sassily. “Now get out Sylar, before a million cops come to check that gunshot.”

Sylar straightens to his full height and glares at Tom. “No.”

The click of a safety causes a tingle between Peter’s shoulder-blades. Crap. This will get even bloodier if he doesn’t get rid of one of them. Turning he catches Tom’s gun hand and lowers it to point the weapon at the floor.

“What the fuck is he Pete…?” The tremble in the cop’s voice is very real and suddenly Peter feels like shit.

“Tom, please. He’s an old…friend, and he…just…you need to leave.” What the hell can he say to get a very noble, very decent man to leave him alone with an undead felon? “I can handle it, I promise, I…”

Sylar takes over Peter’s deteriorating argument.

“Go home Tom the Cop. Go home feeling drunk and nauseous and call in sick tomorrow.” The deep velvet of Sylar’s voice takes on a strange resonance that makes Peter’s teeth itch. “This night never happened, you never took Peter out, you never touched him and if you even look at him again I’ll remove your balls and force them down your throat.”

Peter blinks at Tom’s dreamy blue eyes and slack mouth. “What are…?”

“Okay.” The blond nods helpfully before holstering his weapon and turning to the door.

“Tom!” Peter calls, catching the other man by the arm and looking him in the eye. But Tom looks straight through him, eyes turning to Sylar with a slight wince. Letting go, Peter backs away and watches a good man leave his apartment without a backward glance.

Turning around he glares all his anger at someone who is in no way a good man.

“Who did you kill for that one?” He doesn’t own the disappointment that laces his voice. Ridiculous to have hoped that Matt was successful all those weeks ago, but still he had wanted to believe.

“My father.” Peter blinks in surprise. “Right after I pulled out the arrows he shot into me, I decided that killing him was good for society as well as for me.”

Appalled, Peter just stares at the other man before his anger comes rushing back like a hurricane.

“Get out.” He hisses.

Fury that equals his own rises into midnight eyes.

“Make me.” Sylar responds, something delicious and deadly in his tone.

“Fine.” Peter turns sharply on his heel and makes to follow Tom. Hand on the lock he is caught by the waist, spun and lifted, back forced hard to the door with a very tall, very angry Gabriel Grey pressed full length to his body. Fury fuelled now by instant desire, Peter draws in a sharp, painful breath and rakes his fingers through Sylar’s thick dark hair, pulling two harsh handfuls, nearly scalping the man.

Sylar retaliates, a strong hand grabbing the back of Peter’s neck, tilting his head to the left as the killer leans inexorably forward. Dark strands catch under Peter’s fingernails as he squirms, the small pain unnoticed by Sylar’s relentless intent. Soft lips trace along his collarbone and throat, leaving aching heat in their wake and Peter’s fingers relax their death grip. The beginning of a moan works its way from Peter’s lungs.

Then Gabriel bites down…hard.

Back arching at the sudden pain, Peter’s moan turns into a grunt and he rams a thumb into Sylar’s eye socket.

“That’s why I like you so much Peter,” Sylar grits out as his bruised and damaged eye quickly heals. “I want to kill you almost as much as I want to…”

This time the stiff fingers hit him in the larynx and Peter suddenly feels a burst of citrus energy as telekineses takes over holding him to the door, while long fingers claw at a useless windpipe. Gabriel still has denim clad thighs pressed between Peter’s legs and one hand on his hip, but the weight of his body has shifted backwards.

“I don’t care what you want.” Peter states, refusing to fight the teke, refusing to give Sylar the satisfaction of seeing him struggle.

“Liar.” It’s gasped and small, but clear.

Peter looks into pained midnight eyes and feels his anger boil over. Anger at this situation, anger at Tom for leaving, anger at Sylar for being a murderer and most of all anger at himself for almost not caring, for being hard as rock at the touch of Gabriel’s body on his. For the deep, entrenched passion he feels even though it shocks his soul every time. He wants, needs and lusts over the very antithesis of his being and Peter feels impossible rage at himself for being so weak.

Grabbing two handfuls of heavy black woollen coat, Peter pulls Sylar forward and forces a kiss. Angry, harsh he feels soft lips tear under his teeth, taste of copper on his tongue before the small wound closes. Peter lets his rage fuel the touch, sends all that passion forwards until his mind clears and he becomes aware of what he’s doing.

Sylar stands completely still, unresponsive.

Then…

…the smell of citrus. Telekinesis rising like a great wave, building around them until Peter can perceive it even with his eyes half-closed. Almost smothered by the weight of power, a pressing intent of such strength curling like a long sinuous ribbon around Peter’s hands and arms.

Sylar strikes.

Hands all over Peter, moving continuously from shoulder to flank, body crowding him further into the unrelenting wood of the door. And Sylar’s lips, not just returning the kiss but…owning Peter’s mouth, consuming him with heat and wet, tongue tracing his teeth until Peter feels the hot pulse of release begin to coarse from his chest to his toes and back up. The blood carrying fire to where his cock is trapped against an equally interested partner, denim and cloth unlovely friction as Sylar’s hips rock into his.

One roaming hand catches under Peter’s knee and lifts it high over Sylar’s hip, while the other slides down the back of his pants, helpfully unbuckling themselves to allow the movement. Long fingers curve over Peter’s ass, cupping and holding him in place.

Feeling the hard grind, Peter arches his back, meeting Sylar’s thrust and tightening his fingers on black lapels, holding on under the relentless adoration of Sylar’s passion.

The need rises faster as Peter wrenches his head back to gasp in a vital breath and Sylar descends to his neck biting again and again. Tipping his face to allow more, Peter looks up at his ceiling, craving more contact, more pressure on his cock, more heat, more touch, more everything.

Sudden blinding frisson of shock. Peter feels his body flood with power, nothing sexual in it at all.

He stares numbly at his bare hand curled once again in thick dark hair.

Gabriel has stopping moving; body a taut bowstring as realisation dawns. His head lifts and as midnight eyes lock onto Peter’s he knows that explanations just aren’t going to cut it.

“Sorry.” Peter gasps at last.

Sylar’s eyes widen from curiosity to abject disbelief as he is flung across the room and out the window. Stolen powers flare as the glass slams back into place, Peter lands on his feet and the bites on his neck begin to heal.

“Sorry.” Peter repeats quietly as he watches Elle’s electricity flicker across his fingers.

*****

Peter leans back against the door and lets his keys dangle from his fingers. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, driving home from work tonight. After last Friday’s encounter he felt sure that if Gabriel returned it would be as an aggressor rather than a suitor. Sylar was not the kind of man who would tolerate his powers being copied, particularly not by Peter.

So, the gentle clink of metal is the only sound in his apartment as Peter looks at the intruder on his couch. Long legs crossed at the ankle, head comfortably pillowed on a cushion braced against the sofa arm, Gabriel looks as relaxed as Peter has ever seen him.

It looks like he’s been there for hours.

“I talked to a friend of mine about you.” The reclining man offers as if they were continuing a conversation after only a moment’s pause rather than the seven day hiatus that had actually occurred.

Biting back a comment about Sylar even having a ‘friend’ as beneath him, Peter shrugs off his coat and edges slowly into the room. He knows that last week was a lone success, if it comes to a battle with Sylar’s abilities, Peter is confident in the other’s victory.

“You did?” Curious and uncertain of the killer’s mood.

Sylar, gaze on the ceiling, nods. Peter ignores the slight ruffle in the usually pristine hair style and his fingers itchy need to touch.

“He’s just a teenager, but he has a certain way of putting things that I can relate to.” The velvet voice is low and even, like he’s discussing the whether. Peter quietly puts his satchel and keys on the counter.

“His advice...and I quote “For a god-like superhero you are really fucked up. Does this dude you’re so fixated on even know you like him? I mean shit man, you have a strange idea of courting someone, you know. Try and ask him to the movies or something. Jesus.”

Peter makes a strangled sound that is somewhere between horror and laughter. Not only is it an uncanny impersonation of the average teenager, the words are just….

Sylar turns his head to look Peter dead in the eye for the first time since the nurse arrived home.

“Would you please come to the movies with me tonight Peter?” The words are fairly innocent, the hot, syrupy suggestion in the velvet voice is anything but.

Taking a deep breath, Peter summons his courage and walks over to the couch. Seeing his approach, Sylar sits up, booted feet hit the floor; head tipping back, hands open on his knees. Peter gently trails the back of his fingers down the smooth, handsome face before him from temple to jaw. He watches in stunned comprehension as Gabriel’s breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, the long throat issues what can only be described as a moan.

“This is a really, really bad idea.” Peter’s voice sounds alien to his own ears. Despite his words, his fingers continue to explore, tracing the strong brows and neat nose, long inky lashes and lovely mouth. Gabriel arches like a cat, pushing into Peter’s caress, searching for more while his own hands remain still.

“I know,” Sylar agrees, eyes closed. “Why do you think I force myself to stay away? I get to day six and then I have to come back.” A long low sigh. “I should just kill you.”

Peter brings his other hand up to steady himself on one broad shoulder.

“Please don’t.”

“Okay.” Instant agreement and suddenly Peter feels something within him shift. The battle he’s been fighting against this attraction has ended, a white flag of surrender offered. He wants this, wants this man and god help him…damn the consequences. Because boy, will there be consequences.

Leaning down, Peter presses his lips to Gabriel’s in a light, chaste kiss.

“Just to let you know, I don’t get naked on a first date.” He murmurs against the other’s mouth.

Lids fly open and midnight orbs look up into his, shock and joy waring with hilarious disappointment.

“Oh yes you do.” Strong hands catch Peter at the hips and pull him forward until the slighter man straddles Sylar’s lap. Wriggling forward until he can press his hard cock against Sylar’s, Peter let’s his knees sink deep into the couch cushions on either side of them and takes another nipping kiss.

“You’re right,” Peter agrees as he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it onto the floor behind him. “I really do.” Nimble fingers undo shirt buttons with incredible skill as citrus flavoured telekinesis joyfully unzips pants and unlaces shoes.

Sudden pain and Sylar’s long fingers grip Peter’s hips, nails digging in with iron control. Leaning his forehead against Peter’s collar bone, Sylar’s voice sounds like someone ground gravel into the velvet.

“I don’t know if I can… I need to…” there is both threat and desperate need in the words.

Holding still, Peter draws another white flag from within and offers it freely.

“You can Gabriel, I want you to…” his hands tug non-too gently at the thick hair. “Anything you want, it’s fine.”

With permission sought and granted, Sylar finally takes the lead.

They kiss like they've been lovers for a decade or more. Straight past the fumbling of a first time and well into 'I know what you like' territory. The press of Gabriel’s lips and the hot, push of his tongue finds Peter sighing, opening his mouth and letting Gabriel in. The sudden sweetness of it makes his heart ache. Inching even impossibly closer, Peter tries to occupy the same place in time and space as Gabriel, his body reacting to the instinct of passion and politely taking his mind along for the ride. Kissing the hot, sensual mouth back with the hunger he'd so easily surrendered, their tongues fight not for domination but to determine who could explore the other's mouth more hungrily.

Kisses that send shivers up Peter spine, greedy wicked hands that seem intent on touching every inch of his skin and bringing him to aching arousal. The shivers stop completely when Gabriel’s power tears their clothes into confetti and a long, nimble tongue laps at small beads of sweat collecting at the base of Peter’s throat.

Surrendering control, Peter offers only a passionate ‘yessss, yesss’ as he is manhandled over onto the couch with his forearms braced on the side. Spreading his legs in blatant invitation, Peter arches his spine into the touch of Gabriel’s mouth at his tailbone, a full-body shiver giving away any pretence he might have had of self-control. Head dipping in pleasure as Gabriel reaches beneath him to encircle his cock, palming the shaft and rubbing intently at the swollen head.

Peter’s brain thinks of trying to return the caress, but his flesh is another matter, it replies to Gabriel's hands and skin with a full body shudder and a needy thrust of his hips into that stroking touch. It occurs to him that this is really happening. He is actually here on his couch about to have what he is sure will be really amazing sex with Gabriel Grey. Mentally pleading that he isn't about to wake up sticky and broken-hearted, Peter’s lips curl into a lazy, sex-infused smile.

Then an intimate caress of both power and fingers and Peter relaxes into the sensation as Gabriel opens his body, stretching and twisting until he is panting with need.

"-Yes-" Peter's eyes almost close as Gabriel's fingers breach his body, the slippery silk of the touch sending his head forward once again to rest drunkenly on the cloth beneath him. A shift and play of long lean muscles behind him and Peter takes a long, deep breath.

The touch, the sensation of hard, swollen flash against his needy opening is too much of a temptation. Hands going white knuckled on the fabric beneath them, Peter nearly begs. Oh, he wants this. Wants Gabriel inside him so badly it feels like he is going to scream if he isn't taken, and taken fast.

Sylar responds to the desperation coming from Peter’s skin and with a hard, guttural sound pushes his long shaft deep into Peter in one controlled thrust. For a single teardrop moment, they hold still, both awash with the all-encompassing feeling of being possessed and possession.

Then Gabriel begins to move.

After that, for Peter everything begins to boil down to fleeting snatches of sensation. The pad of his Gabriel's thumb running over his left hipbone, the hot wisp of air behind the delicate shell of his ear raising goose bumps on his forearms, the hard, lean body rocking relentlessly into his. As Gabriel thrusts into him, over and over, Peter's body is pulled back and forth against his braced arms, knees bending so that he can push back and take even more, feel all of it, down to his soul.

And he keeps talking. Deadly, heart-breaking words that fuck Peter’s brain as his cock owns Peter’s body.

“Perfect…yes…only you…in my head all the time…beautiful…mine…Peter…only one…only you…love...”

The clench of desperate hands across the top of his thighs and Peter knows he is close. Gabriel is giving him everything in him, his passion, his voice and his magnificent cock bringing Peter up a high, blissful mountain. Tearing his hand from its ferocious grip on the couch, Peter strokes himself in time with his partner's thrusts, occasionally rasping the back of his fingers on the woven cloth. The small pain only serves to contrast with the brilliance taking place behind him.

The apartment is gone, the world gone; all that is left is Gabriel and the mountain disappearing out from under Peter.

A warm, pleasured scream curls up through Peter's lungs and is ready to burst from his lips. He is peripherally aware of the couch pounding over and over into the floor, but is too lost in the intense wash of electricity flooding through him to try and stifle his shout of ecstasy. Strong fingers now in his hair, mirrors to the pulsing heat invading and spiraling his body, pull his face around and Peter’s lips are smothered by the hot, sweet press of his lover's mouth. Gabriel is kissing him, fucking him, loving him. All around Peter, their bodies locked intimately together while he crests the barreling waves of climax sweeping through him. Intense. Mind-blowing.

For a fraction of an instant all is blinding white.

*****

Saturday morning.

Peter wakes with his head pillowed on a strongly muscled thigh and long fingers playing gently in his hair.

Blinking sleepily he watches as Gabriel changes the station of the television using telekinesis.

“Why would I want to cook something that looks like vomit? Stupid woman.”

The cooking show disappears.

“I don’t think he’s being faithful to you Jodie because that’s your sister backstage looking nervous”

The talk show stays on for nearly thirty seconds before being axed.

“Children wouldn’t understand this anymore than I do.”

The commentary is witty, vicious and brutally funny. The fingers that stroke his body are loving.

Smiling, Peter curls in closer and enjoys a sleep-in.

-END-

Fic: Path of Kham-sin.

2009-05-28T11:19:34Z

Title: Path of Kham-sin.

Rating: PG 13

Pairings: Set/Nephthys

Disclaimer: I did not create this mythology, that was a well before my time.

WARNINGS: None. Summary: A conversation about life, death and the desert.

Path of Kham-sin
The sandstorm comes upon the caravan less than an hour before the Chariot of Ra sank into the underworld. Long, gritty brown fingers of wind flow down nearby rock hills, tearing into the unprotected travelers, biting exposed skin of cheek and forehead. They try to run, but with the storm surrounding them till it blocks the horizon, there is no-where to go. Many hunker down, long desert robes pulled tight around children to keep out the scarring sand, others lie prostrate, only a pocket of air created by the forearm to provide life for many long minutes.
It is those less familiar with sand traveling, those with more ego than wisdom who are claimed by the storm. Running into the bitter cloud of razor cuts ends swiftly in confusion and bloodied wounds. If the face isn’t protected, choking death soon follows.
By the time the air clears, dusk is seeping purple haze onto the land and near half the caravan is lost. Some infants without air to breath, many elderly too slow under protective wraps and the foolish, un-recovered beneath new unblemished dunes. Unable to travel further while injuries are tended, the caravan makes a marginal camp. Simple meal of grain paste and dry fruit then the songs begin.
Mostly female, occasional male, voices rise into the suddenly peaceful night calling for benevolence from the unseen.
*****
Less than a league away, atop the rocky hill, a being greater than man watches the destruction below. Unbothered by the vicious dust storm, indeed he had reveled in it, Setekh now stands, powerful arms crossed over his chest and listens to the mourning cries of a dozen voices. If his unusual visage could smile, there might be a smirk across the equine-like features.
“You are cruel.”
Set doesn’t turn from his view of the devastated caravan, even though the words are addressed to him. Her lilting voice, hushed in the evening air holds pure contempt, tinged with sadness.
He knows full well the sadness is not for him.
“Yes.” His agreement prompts a small sigh of frustration from the woman, his long ears flicker slightly as she walks across the sand to linger at his side. From the corner of his eyes Set absorbs the sight of her. Rich midnight hair that only the most priceless of Pharaoh’s wigs could hope to imitate, coal dark eyes in an aristocratic, lovely face. Lapis trimmed gossamer gown barely clothing long limbs of deep, golden skin and brilliant blue-green feather wings, falling like water from her shoulder blades.
She had come to this rocky hill not for conversation with him, but because the songs below are for her. For Nephthys. They call to their lady of compassion, the guardian of death that she might prepare their fallen loved ones for the underworld. And because she is Nephthys, sister of Isis and protector of the dead, she answered their call.
“So many lost,” the censure in her voice digs at him, but Set does not flinch. “You brought down that storm for your own pleasure. For no other gain than to watch them panic and flee. You are cruel my Husband.”
He snorts through the elongated snout his form displays and lifts a marble pale finger towards the north. With preternatural sight no human can match, she follows the gesture and spies the dim oil-fueled lights of an oasis campsite.
“For nine hours the signs were clear,” he doesn’t raise his voice beyond a murmur, she could read his thoughts if he allowed her, but they agreed many centuries ago to permit each other that privacy. For their sanity if nothing else. The curling lilt in her words non-existent in his unusual voice, its exotic cadence both disconcerting and attractive in its strangeness. “Many hundreds read the warning and stayed by the oasis. They,” the pale hand forms a dismissive flare of fingers at the battered encampment below, “thought they could outrun a desert and arrive at the market a day earlier than their rivals. They dared me Sister-Wife, so I called their dare and thus…they loose.”
Lips tightening, Nephthys acknowledges his point with a grudging nod, satin hair slipping forwards over her shoulder. Once he would have ventured to comb it back with his fingers. But not for many years.
She steps closer to the rocky edge of the mound on which they stand and raises her arms and wings to the balmy night air. Set feels the currents of her power swirl towards the woman before him and cannot quell, has never been able to do so, a rise of admiration at the strength she wields.
Often seen as the forgotten sibling to her bright and clever sister Isis and their staunch, noble bother, Nephthys displays her glory not in acts of miraculous benevolence but in unknown compassion and care. Her affection for the people of the desert is unquestioned and the seriousness with which she conducts her duties unparalleled.
As her power flows into the broken hearts below and guides the spirits of the dead towards the barge of the underworld, the cries of grief ease and the songs of mourning soon soften to an end. He should remain silent in the poignancy of the silence she has created. But he is Set after all and certainly no lord of peace.
“Ahh, how they love you my sister.” It’s snide and petty, but it takes her attention from the suffering on the sand.
“And how they hate you my brother.” The verbal shot is obvious, but he takes the jab for the truth that it is.
“But they respect our beautiful desert Nephthys.” He strolls closer to her, knowing how his form irritates and sends her calm off balance. “They do not take it lightly or try to bend it to their will. They may indeed hate me, the children of this land, but they fear and respect me even more. You will not see another caravan be so dismissive of my warnings for many months to come.”
Once again he is right and how she hates it. The tension in her back a sign of his success in annoying her.
Nephthys turns suddenly, wings a swirl of colour in the darkness. Her face hard, voice like the metal from beneath the sand.
“This wasn’t just a statement of respect Set. You have been deliberately harming the people of these tribes for years. We have seen the pattern in the spirits of those in the barge and we notice that you aren’t punishing the disrespect of the Dendaren or Nubtanite…your favorites.”
“We?” It is a ridiculous response. Set knows exactly to whom she refers, but he wants her to say it, to confirm finally what his whole divine family knows. Exactly where Nephthys’ loyalties lie.
She turns her face away; the innate honesty in her divine soul still pricks her for her choices. But Nephthys, of all their quartet, is the one to suffer her conscience the most. Irony of their immortal lives that it the soft-hearted youngest who is put to the test so often, between adored, beloved sister and true-bonded husband.
“You are a cunning creature Husband, none of us can rival you in that power,” Nephthys ignores his query to reveal her siblings names, “but we are not so touched by Ra’s sun as you might hope. Our sister watches every move you make, as does our brother.” It’s a veiled threat, or a warning. Even after centuries of marriage he cannot read her when she chooses to hide her emotions.
A threat maybe, but one he easily ignores. Cunning is a rightful title for Set, he will not challenge his bother and sister while they are united on the throne of their realm. Not overtly.
“And you Wife?” He toys with his name for her as she does, one moment emphasizing their marriage, another their family bond. “Do you watch every move I make?” Once again he closes the gap between them, this time lowering his arms to trail fingers across her fine, linen gown. “I thought I was barred from your presence some decades ago. Have you changed your mind?”
Her breath hisses in between small white teeth at his actions and the blatant sexuality he allows to flow between them. There is another power his siblings cannot rival him for, although his choices of target are a very select group. But Nephthys of all his conquests has stronger resistance than any other. She holds still at his delicate touch, unresponsive and cold.
“I watch Brother, what you have become,” there is some amount of despair in her words and Set stops the gentle movement of his fingers at the tone. Raising her own hand, Nephthy rests the palm on his animal countenance, cheekbone strange and inhuman under her hand. “These creatures are not understood and feared, yet you have taken them into your very body. You know what it means to us that your power is used so ruthlessly on the desert people. Deliberate in your cruelty, you plot and plan all the time now Husband. What have you become, what do I look upon?”
Tossing his equine head back from her sweet touch, he reaches into the core of his power and lets his form become fluid, to flow into the crocodile, the hippopotamus, the mule and the scorpion, before becoming human once again. This time with the face he was born with, the face of her brother. Marble pale, auburn-red hair brushing his shoulder-blades, tall and strongly built like no desert dweller.
It is the face and body of the man she married, of the brother she once clung to, the being she loved before he become something twisted that could achieve his ends…whatever they were.
“Your dshr-haired lover Nephthys? Your foreign born bastard who could never have come from Nut’s sacred womb?” The sneer on the handsome face is horrible in that he is still beautiful while reeking of contempt and hate. “Would you prefer to look on this?”
He gives her no time to answer, tangling strong fingers in her midnight hair and pulling her face to his for a bruising, powerful melding of lips. Nephthys doesn’t fight him, instead curling close, hands brushing the night-cool skin of his bared torso, catching on the warm gold of his jewelry. His anger cools somewhat by her free-given passion, the kiss ends gently, bodies close, human faces now inches apart.
“I miss my brother, my husband Setehk.” Her words are mere puffs of breath on his lips. “Yes, I want my family united again. I want you to join us at Heliopolis, to stand at our brother’s side and to welcome you into my bed.”
For a moment she thinks he might agree, might repair the damage and ask for forgiveness for his actions.
But looking into her lover’s face, Nephthys forgets exactly whom she is talking to. That Set, Setekh is not only the lord of the desert and master of storms…he is also chaos and pride incarnate.
Pushed back by his powerful arms, she almost stumbles, her unearthly grace gone in the presence of her husband.
“You mean fawn at our brother’s feet? No.” The white skinned human face is gone, replaced by that of a myriad animal that has no name, only the magnificent red hair remains. Voice mean and prideful, Set continues, “He does not deserve his throne or the crown he wears, I will not pretend otherwise.” As she gathers her composure he looks on from behind the mask of his face. “But thank you Sister-Wife, now I know where your loyalties lie…where they always have.”
He turns back to the rocky drop and looks down on the quiet caravan. White-shrouded forms the only indication of his wrath. Set considers killing them all, drawing the fluid from their bodies, leaving desiccated remains a parting gift for his estranged wife.
“My loyalty has been with our sister since she held my hand as I walked my first step, I have never said otherwise.” Nephthys sounds almost mortal in her weariness. Maybe he won’t kill them for her after all.
“It wasn’t loyalty I was offering Husband.”
The moment is caught by time and frozen.
Set does not move.
He feels her power coil within her and braces slightly in case she means to attack, but then…nothing. Only the swoop of wings and a grief-filled cry as a falcon, wing tips coloured lapis blue, ascends into the night sky.
The sandstorm is gone. It’s passion and destruction over until more foolish desert-walkers believe they can defy Setekh of the Red Sands.
Her voice was sweet, a touch of something he had not sampled in many years. But it was an indulgence that could not, ultimately, be allowed. A fair offer, a chance at redemption for one who perhaps did not deserve it and was thus rejected for stronger reasons, for another purpose.
A purpose greater than even the Gods of Egypt might understand.
A legend to come.

Fic: It's Always A Car Wreck.

2009-05-28T11:06:25Z

Title: It’s Always A Car Wreck.

Rating: PG 13

Pairings: Jericho/Triple H

Disclaimer: Titan owns the wrestlers. I just play with them and make not a single cent from it.

WARNINGS: Nope, very tame for me. Maybe some swearing.

Summary: The worst thing about this match has to be the body contact.

It's Always A Car Wreck.

Fully Loaded 23^rd July 2000.

This was one of the best and worst matches he’d ever worked. First time on pay-per-view wrestling the man lifting a high knee into his apparently cracked ribs and then with a sickening thump his back and hips are planted hard into the canvas. Big warm body pressing into his own, but with all that weight held up on an elbow and knee, he can easily breath and even more easily lift first his hips then his shoulders off the mat. Normally the move would only garner a two count. No way was he going down for a high knee lift, had to be at least a finishing maneuver…or in this case at least three finishing maneuvers, because this match wasn’t going to be decided by a one-two-three. Instead, the counting was going to continue to ten.

‘Only the second Last Man Standing match in WWF history.”

Unless Jericho or the Game got to their feet first.

‘Jericho’s springboard dropkick taking the Game outside the ring.”

The worst thing about this match has to be the body contact. Stupid thing to bitch about when his entire career is based on getting a hell of a lot of contact with other men’s bodies, but of course when it came to this man and this much contact, his expression becomes wry as he idly contemplates another occupation. Professional worker he might be, but he was only human and every time they collided with something less than extreme violence, he forgot his own name.

‘Triple H has got Jericho’s body opened up there in an Abdominal Stretch.’

Body contact like this was the problem, stealing his focus from his work, taking his mind off the next twenty minutes and replaying seconds of touch over and over in his head. His body honed to respond to the prompts, to create his own and perform physical feats that seem so commonplace now but once would have dragged impressed gasps from the nearby horde.

‘This kid’s not gonna die as he scores with a Spinning Heel Kick.”

A woman’s piercing shriek rips across the ring. Identification unnecessary as no-one who knows her could forget that voice. Moments later, after a series of moves and counters that are almost painful in their intimacy, he comes to rest across the crowd barrier, head wrenched back by his enemy’s fingers, backside presented to the man in a such a fashion to cause a snort of irony to issue from his throat. But it isn’t the man the attention is on now. Instead, as delicate fingers turn his check from pale gold to brilliant red, the woman begins her strut, the crowd roars its hatred and he has a moment to regain control.

‘Okay, ya made yer point there Mrs. Helmsley.”

“Irish whip, elbow, ropes, sleeper with body scissors.” Strands of dark, blond hair catch in his eyelashes, strong jaw encased in hot skin and close trimmed beard press against his closed eyelid. He nods imperceptibly. “Cool.” Fingers tugging in his hair, forcing him to his feet, then hands lock around forearms and air whistles past his skin as he is hurled, cannon-like into the corner of the ring. Then the worst of the match rears its head again as massive arms wrap around his neck and skull, sweat-slick skin slides against his back.

Sheer torture, to have this man hold him in such an embrace. To have it indicate hate instead of something else. Falling to the mat, caught tight, cradled so there is no harm to him. Legs lift behind his hips, powerful thighs surrounding him, controlling him, presenting the world with a furious hateful passion.

“Body Scissors from the Game, around the injured ribs of Jericho, along with the sleeper.”

“You okay?” Warm breath murmurs, lips tickling the fine shell of his ear. “You’re pretty quiet tonight.”

God. Casual conversation while wrapped together like lovers, but the concern in his enemy’s voice is blatant and understandable. Normally a raucous and verbal performer, happy to improvise and discuss the match in the secret code of the ring, he’s barely spoken to the man in the last ten minutes, most of the plan doesn’t require it and his subdued behavior is more obvious than he’s thought. He’s clinging to the edges of his control right now, forcing his body to do as instructed, to play his part and celebrate his craft, while fighting the urge to press his hips back into the hot flesh he can feel at his lower back.

“S’nothing.” He replies through clenched teeth, heavy forearm under his chin. “Fuckin’ tired. It’s all good.”

For a moment the arms tighten, almost a hug. He freezes, body once pliant now on a thousand edges of tension. Then the limbs are gone, a broad palm in his back pushes him away and he sprawls like a broken doll in the centre of the ring.

“Stay down kid. Just stay down, it ain’t worth it.”

This time, the long count works. Face to the mat, mantra of control repeated over and over. He needs a diversion and sudden inspiration comes. A ribald comment from back-stage springs to mind, the coarse humour bringing a smile to his lips and some element of relaxation to his frayed nerves. For the next ten minutes, he manages to cope by telling himself dirty jokes.

It lasts near to the end of the bout. Lip swollen from the woman’s blow, hair a mess from rough fingers, he pulls himself to his feet and makes a beautiful show of nearly falling.

“Fine from here.” The black and white mutters low under his breath, orders received and passed on.

Timing now is everything. They have been cut loose, allowed to wrap things up as they see fit, only the finale set in stone. His enemy has scarlet across his face, a macabre mask that’s contradicted by the furious excitement in the whiskey coloured eyes.

Another clash, more performed pain for everyone to enjoy.

“Triple H has reached the ropes but Jericho doesn’t have to break the walls.”

Less body contact now. Higher impact, greater thrills. He can do this, there isn’t much more time to fill. Balance now. Standing on the high table, arms locked together for safety as much as position.

“Oh no. God in Heaven, this is like a car wreck.”

He can hear the man in the hat, he stands not far away. It is always like a car wreck…without any cars of course.

Looking through crazy strands, he watches the other man from three feet away. Timing has had its tribute and he does not need to move again, only to watch through lidded eyes and listen to the numbers. To gaze at his opponent, his enemy and maybe, for at least a little while, indulge what can never be.

******

The striped shirt is dry and cool against his shoulder, arm around his waist an unrequired assist, but his agony must be seen, his vulnerability displayed and applauded. Or is it his strength?

“Hey CJ. Match looked great.” New voice and he opens his eyes to be surrounded by black. Curtains, t-shirts and clipboards. “You guys worked that like a bitch, can’t believe that’s your first Pay together.” Straightening he offers his thanks to his human crutch and rakes a hand through his hair to pull it away from the perspiration on his forehead. The stage-manager stands back to let him pass, a small corridor amongst the talent and crew waiting backstage. He has no ego about where the opening came from; it had already been made for the man who preceded him from the ring.

Impact. But nothing like before. This time the hands mean not to bruise but to clutch, pretty, sparkling eyes filled with excitement rather than loathing. Her sequin top catches on his skin.

“Fantastic Chris. Best. Match. Ever. Hunter practically tore off the door to the dressing room he’s so pumped.” Octaves reaching violin range, he hugs her again, she is used to the sweat and blood.

“Really?” He leans back from her to gauge the truth in lovely brown eyes. “Good. Thinking we nailed it and hearing we nailed it are two different things Steph.” The talking pulls at his lip, bringing a slight wince as the torn flesh protested the punishment.

The excited eyes turned quickly upset. “Damn Chris. I’m never doing that again...” He shakes his head to cut her off but she barrels over his interruption. “…no seriously. You all tell me to just hit you boys and I know it’s nothing compared to other stuff, but I hate it. I can slap you without breaking the skin at least…one of the girls will show me how.”

Mutinous, defiant, she kisses him hard on his bruised mouth and pulls free. Ridiculously high heels snapping as she heads towards the other side of back-stage. Rolling his eyes, he probes one finger at his newly-smarting wound and rewinds his way back to the dressing rooms. Various congratulations and back-slaps adorn his parade, moments of acknowledgement that he keeps close, words bolstering not inconsiderable confidence. ‘Yes, you can do this thing. You are very, very good at it.’

Destination in site, locker and shower. Then a hand around his arm, frisson of pleasure at the touch, identification completed by body before even razor sharp brain can catch up. Silent tug into room empty save for the two of them. His own form responding to the tactic like it had in the ring; he feels the press of hard plaster against his back and is intimately conscious of the small distance between his skin and that of his enemy.

Arms crossed over his chest, Hunter begins a slow perusal, starting at wild hair, ending with black lacing. It makes him want to gasp, to run, to do anything but stand still and endue that gaze, to come up with something, anything to stop those eyes and his body’s primal response.

“I think we hit….”

“So did you really hate it as much as you seemed to or am I just completely paranoid around you these days?” The interruption does more than stop his words; they completely derail his thought process.

“What? No, it was fine…I just…” Paranoid? The man who exudes such confidence that people feel better about themselves just knowing he’s in the same room, is paranoid? Around him?

But he was cut off again, big arms unfolding, one of Hunter’s hands resting palm flat against the wall by his face.

“Because I thought that was one of the nastiest matches I’ve ever pulled off. We got the moves in amongst all the brutal shit and you, you mouthy, smart-assed little brat,” Hunt moves closer, stealing away the desperate inches, nearly naked body close enough to caress, mouth just moments from his own. “...you barely…said…a…word.”

And he couldn’t now. There wasn’t the slightest puff of air in his lungs; it had all been stolen away by his reactions to Hunter. He clenches his hands into fists and presses the knuckles back into the wall, to stop them from exploring the territory so perfectly presented. Lowering his face, he closes his eyes, licking his lips to encourage some words to come…anything so he wasn’t rendered silent by this man.

Him, rendered silent? No wonder Hunter thought something was wrong.

“Said I was tired Hunt. Nothing’s wrong…big match environment…”

Once again cut off before the sentences could get any more foolish.

“That better be a lie Christopher, because you’ve got one chance to tell me what I did to make you like that or I’m gonna do something else that’ll probably get me sued.” The words were harsh now, an indication of anger or frustration he couldn’t tell. But they still made no sense, each component translated but the meaning of the sentence a mystery.

That did it. The idea that he would ask for Hunter’s money for anything, shot a spear of inappropriate amusement through him, curling his lips and raising his gaze to the concerned?...concerned one just above his own. A laugh smothered by his hand, the wall no longer in danger from his tense fingers, he shakes his head, bright blue eyes lighting at the thought of court-rooms and lawyers.

“What? What?” Expression perplexed, but at least no longer concerned, Hunter moved impossible closer. “Fucking hell, Jericho you’re unpredictable! What in…”

Hands rising up to equally chaotic hair, he rolls his eyes at his own cluelessness and this time interrupts the other man’s words, his lips pressing quickly against Hunt’s astonished ones, a snatched flick of tongue along his rival’s. Lowering back down off his toes, he grins into an expression he was certain no-one else had ever witnessed.

“That is what I had an issue about Hunt.” Letting go completely, he leans back against the wall and crosses arms over chest in a perfect reversal of their previous postures. “Now did someone say something about being sued?”

Because there was still the smallest, infinitesimal chance that he was wrong.

As a deep-throated snarl echoes in the room, lips and tongue mauled by a ferocious kiss, his head bumped gently back into the wall, body lifted high and hard in a ring-like move, Jericho resolved that no…he wasn’t even close to being wrong.

Fic: Cravings - Nougat or Honeycomb?

2009-05-27T13:06:29Z

Title: Cravings: Nougat or Honeycomb?
E-mail: jadedoll75@yahoo.com.au
Rating: R
Pairings: Christian/Tomko (yes really), Austin/Jericho
Disclaimer: Like I own anything?????
Summary: What about the secondary characters??
Dedication: For Fae. She who is responsible for this ‘cos she mentioned Tomko’s hotness level.

Nougat or Honeycomb?

Chris Jericho was feeling remarkably relaxed as he wandered back to his dressing room. Remarkable because Chris wasn’t exactly what you would call an easy-going guy. Maybe it was fate, good vibes from the crowd or just that he seemed to have, against all expectations found happiness, maybe he was just in a good mood. Nevertheless, tonight he felt relaxed. Which was a shame because he only had a moment to brace himself as Christian barreled intently down the hallway towards him.

“Man Chris I gotta tell you something!” Chris’ friend Christian, tall, slim and incredibly gregarious. A man whom despite Chris best efforts, actually seemed to genuinely like him.

Go figure.

It was a measure of Jericho’s fondness for the other Canadian that he allowed Christian to physically push him into his dressing room. Like someone from a lame spy thriller Christian checked the hallway before turning to the other occupant of the room. With a big sigh, he sank onto Chris’ couch and stared morosely at the floor.

“I’m in big trouble Chris.” The slimmer man confessed.

Leaning back against a bench beneath the mirror, Jericho examined his friend. Jay’s perennial good mood seemed genuinely gone today. No bright grin, corny joke or wild hyperactivity. Chris felt a flicker of worry.

“Trouble?” Chris prompted.

“I ran into Adam at lunch and……” Christian bit his lower lip.

Chris waited expectantly.

“…we had COFFEE!” the slim man blurted out at last.

Chris couldn’t help but laugh.

“God Jay! I thought you were going to say you were pregnant!”

Christian leapt up. “Chris come on!” There was an edge of real distress in the man’s voice, causing Chris to crush his amusement. Moving to the just vacated couch he sat and said, “Okay. Sorry, so what’s so bad about getting coffee together?”

Jay began to pace. “Because it’s Adam and we used to be...you know…?” Turning pale blue eyes on his friend. “You did know, right?”

Chris controlled his expression with determined willpower.

“Yes Jay. I don’t think many people exist who didn’t know.” He informed him.

“Oh yeah...well...” rubbing a hand through his short hair, Christian resumed his pacing. “We kinda ended a while back. It was mutual and all cool and everything. Then he got hurt and I got hurt and we didn’t see each other and now he’s back and we had coffee.” As if that explained everything, Christian dropped to the couch next to Chris.

“So the coffee means your back together?” he hazarded a guess.

“No,” another sigh. “Just that it...you know…kinda rekindled the fires I guess.”

Chris studied his friend curiously. “And that’s a bad thing…?” Letting his question linger in the air.

A third sigh, this time bigger than the others.

“Because I…well…..I kinda like someone else.” He finished in a rush.

This apparently wasn’t news to Jericho either.

“And….?”

“Well it’s not like he knows I like him or anything. I haven’t like, asked him out and the thing is if I start seeing Adam again then I may miss out on things with….err...this other person. If he even likes me, which he doesn’t.” Jay turned to look beseechingly into Chris’ bright sapphire eyes.

“Help?” He begged.

Oh brilliant! Chris cursed internally. Chris fuckin’ Jericho, master of nearly destroying his own life, giving advice to the love lorn. Jesus, the guy should have asked Randy or one of the girls. Chris turned his reputedly sharp intellect to targeting the most obvious problem.

“Who do you want?” It seamed a reasonable question.

“I don’t know!” Christian wailed.

Not so reasonable. Okay.

“You have to decide what you want more. Nougat or honeycomb.” Chris pointed out.

Jay’s look of incomprehension was almost comic.

“Both are desirable,” Jericho explained. “But if you had to choose just one for the rest of your life. The only dessert you would ever have, which would you choose?”

Christian though for a second. “Can I taste each one?”

“Not what I want to think about Jay!!” Chris complained getting to his feet. “But yeah, you know how one tastes and you like it. But you haven’t even tried the other, so how can you know if you like it?”

Jay nodded his head eagerly. “Or if it likes me?”

Chris smiled. The weird road of food being a metaphor for lovers had been, admittedly, his fault, but for his own sanity he better divert Jay.

“You have a match in twenty.” He reminded the seated man.

That seemed to bring Jay back to the present.

“Oh yeah. Thanks Chris. Man you are the best friend I ever had you know.” Jumping up Christian threw his arms around the smaller man in a big hug. Chris tensed instinctively but quashed the reaction quickly and gently disentangled himself from Jay’s embrace.

Christian banged out of his door the way he did everything, with lots of energy and very little dexterity.

Jericho listened to the sound of what he thought was Jay skipping…skipping?...down the hall. Shaking his head Chris’ lips quirked into a soft smile. No matter what, Jay was his friend.

The blond though himself a fortunate man.

********

Jay loitered just inside the men’s locker room, feeling a little like some kind of pervert, waiting for his friend, FRIEND, Tyson to emerge. It was late and the arena almost empty. It was a run-through, tonight and he and Tyson were last with Shawn and Chris. The two blondes leaving earlier, Tyson having to remain to do some work with the trainer on a sore shoulder. The last ones in the locker room, Christian fiddled with his gym bag strap and tried not to imagine his friend, F.R.I.E.N.D. naked…in the shower.

It had begun when they’d been introduced. The huge man, Tyson, intimidating and mean looking. A great heel look from the get go. Not a master of the ring in any imagination, but ready to lean and to work, which is more than can be said for some out the back. Jay had literally had his breath stolen when he’d shaken the man’s hand, unable to stop his eyes caressing the broad, muscled shoulders and awesome tribal tattoos on his bare arms. Instantly curious to know if they were all over the big man’s body.

“Call me Ty,” A deep gravelly voice and definite twinkle of humour in the dark chocolate eyes.

“Err…Jay...just Jay. Like the letter,” Christian had stammered like a teenage girl. Fuckhead! He cursed himself. Talk like a grown up for Christ’s sake!

“Jay, like the letter.” Ty had repeated. Tasting the name on his tongue as if it was a fine wine or something. “Pleased to be working with you Jay.”

Christian had fallen, then and there. Hook, basket and eggs.

For the next few months working the programme with Chris and Trish had been fantastic and awful at the same time. Fantastic because it was Chris and working with him was always ace. Trish was a bud and Tyson, well; having a big mean bodyguard...sorry…Problem Solver…was a cool arc. And having the sexy 6’6’ devil bearded, tattooed, black wife beater wearing Tyson Tomko as said bodyguard was the icing on the cake.

But it was awful for Jay’s nerves and hormones. Every day Christian talked himself into asking the big man out. “Wanna get a coffee? A drink? Dinner? Can I blow you?” AAARGH. The problem was every time he worked up the courage to approach the man, after a show, during a break in rehearsal, Tyson’s nearness would completely throw him off his stride. He’d get tongue tied and blushy, reverting to talking about work as a cover.

He suspected, hoped really, that maybe, just maybe Ty had liked him back. Only talking when needed and revealing a dry, sardonic sense of humour when he did, Ty was the definition of the strong silent type. His silences seemed to balance Jay’s endless prattle about life, the universe and everything.

Sometimes he’d catch the big man watching him, the chocolate orbs warm and amused. It could be ‘interest’. It could also be ‘brotherly affection’.

And now Adam was back.

His Adam.

EdgeandChristian.

AdamandJay.

It’s practically fucking sacred around here.

Seemed pretty sacred back then too.

Then coffee the other day. Looking at Adam, all gorgeous and healthy again. Long hair tied back so neat, he’d chucked a fit at seeing Jay’s shorn locks, all long limbs and wicked smile. His Adam.

They’d even shared a look. One of Those Looks ™ that Meant Something ™. It had sent him running to Chris, his head spinning, trying to figure out what to do. His best buddy Chris, who had such a great life now all that shit with Goldberg was over, had set him straight. Jay knew Chris was a hell of a lot smarter than he was and was in a real, actual relationship. Something that Jay hadn’t had since Adam. Jay had needed Chris and the blonde was there to help him, now all he had to do was work up the guts to ask Tyson out so he could ‘sample the dessert’ as Chris put it.

Jay was shaken out of his soon-to-be pornographic thoughts by a sudden pop and fizzle above his head. The bare light bulb blew out, followed by the other three in the locker room, ending with a loud BZZZZZT from the switch by the door. Then the room was plunged into darkness.

The shower stopped.

A luminescent glow from the upper windows lent enough light to see, so Jay began to make his careful way to the door.

“Ty? Something’s blown out the power.” He called reaching out to flick the light switch back on.

A strong hand grabbed his wrist violently an inch from the switch.

“Yarghh!” Jay yelped in fear and surprise.

Gasping for the breath that had left his lungs in shock he stared up at the man holding his slender wrist in a vice like grip. “Ty? You scared the fucking shit outta me!” he accused, then paused taking in the sight of the other man.

Tyson was naked underneath a dark blue towel slung hastily around his hips, of that Jay was certain. Droplets of water still danced from the strong muscled shoulders down a firm chest, towards the towel. Unable to help himself Jay’s eyes fastened to a droplet, flooded with an inexplicable jealously for the small amount of H2O. Pain emanating from his clasped wrist dragged Christian’s eyes back to Ty’s face. Brown eyes were locked onto his hand; fear the dominant emotion present, quickly being drowned by anger. Turning to the soft blue gaze of his captive, Ty shut his eyes, inhaling deeply, filling the large torso and threatening the loosely tied towel. Christian watched, heart beating like a hummingbird, as the big man once more looked at him.

“Ty?” He managed, mind awhirl from the big man’s closeness.

Gently, almost reverently, Tyson lifted Christian’s still imprisoned hand towards his mouth. All though fled from the Canadian’s brain as the softest of kisses was placed into his palm.

“…don’t ever...” Tyson’s words a desperate whisper.

Almost choking with a mixture of pleasure and surprise, the blond moaned as Tyson slowly rubbed the back of Jay’s hand against his cheek.

“God Ty…would you…” Jay tried to form a sentence, to beg the big man to continue with his caress.

With incredible care, Tomko released the slender wrist and slid his hands around Jay’s waist, pulling the smaller man into a tight embrace. Snuggling against the defined chest, Jay began to plant small kisses onto smooth tanned skin. Loosening his arms slightly, Tyson looked down at the man in his arms, resting his forehead against Jay’s. His words were low.

“Can I….”

Christian held his breath.

“…have you?”

Ty felt the long lean body in his arms tense, as if readying for battle.

He staggered slightly as Jay literally leapt into his arms, long legs entwining around his waist. As Tyson’s towel lost it’s heroic battle with gravity, Christian revealed his answer.

“Fuck yeah!”

******

Ty secured his hands under Jay’s butt as the blonde wriggled in his embrace. His mouth sought and received contact with the warm pink lips finally at the same level as his own. A deep delicious kiss ensued, tongues duelling in erotic combat. Breaking the lip lock after several long minutes, Tomko dragged his eyes off the flushed beauty in his arms and assessed the surrounding area.

“Fuck me Ty.” Christian ordered, locking his arms around Tomko’s muscled neck.

Seeming without effort Ty carried Jay across the locker room, one long arm releasing its embrace momentarily to swipe a large pile of blue towels onto the floor.

Laying his writhing partner onto the soft cloth, Ty lowered his naked body onto Jay’s. Long legs once again wrapped around his hips as the blonde undulated upwards, trying to gain friction.

“Yes! Do me on the floor. Baby please fuck me. I want you soo bad.” Jay continued to breathe a litany of encouragement and sex talk into his ear, causing Ty’s control to be sorely tested.

Willing to obey Jay’s demands, Tyson had just gotten one shoe off when the blonde sat up suddenly. One hand at the back of his neck pulling him down into a deep kiss, the other wrapping itself around his burning erection. Groaning the big man gently leaned Jay back into the nest of blue, his fingers going to the oh-so-tempting leather laces at the front of the tight jeans. Tearing his mouth away from Ty’s, Jay struggled to help with the task.

“Yes. I wanna be naked. I want you to fuck me Baby!” Jay implored.

Arching his back in a move more often seen in the ring, Christian pulled his shirt over his head, flinging it away into darkness across the room. Reversing the arch the blond raised his hips, shimmying out of the now-unlaced pants.

“Now Baby. Now!” Impatiently.

Slowly and with great attention to detail, Tyson kissed the newly revealed pink nipples. Using the tip of his fingernail to lightly scrape the sensitive surface.

“I want you in me so much.” Christian declared, breath coming in gasps.

With his control almost slipping, Ty focussed on torturing the cream skinned chest beneath him. Jay twisted grabbing at his gym bag near the benches, hand desperately seeking his massage oil. Trying to ignore, without success Ty’s lips and tongue on his stomach and throat. Struggling with the bottle cap, Jay poured the lotion onto his fingers and groped for the cock so temptingly close to his own. Drenching the rock hard shaft in ylang ylang, Christian tugged firmly, trying to convey a definite message.

“Ty, come on.”

“Don’t rush my Sweet,” Tyson gently soothed his frantic lover. “It’s okay.”

Light blue eyes burning with intensity and long held desire locked onto chocolate orbs.

“Ty, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m gonna go out and jump the first man I see!” He challenged.

Tomko lost his barely-there control. “Don’t you DARE!” he growled possessively. Large hands snagged long pale thighs, yanking Jay towards him, forcing their naked cocks into glorious, burning contact. Victorious, Christian once again palmed the huge rosy erection lifting his hips in blatant, lewd invitation.

“Damn you,” Ty cursed under his breath as he lined up his cock with the small pink hole Jay was so wantonly offering. “I wanted it to be perfect….”

“Yes!” Jay arced once more off the floor as Ty’s shaft penetrated him. The burning pain from lack of preparation fading into riotous pleasure as his prostate was grazed.

“….dinner….”

“…mmmmnnn…”

“…cotton sheets…”

“…ohhhh…”

Ty gave up trying to make his point. His lover was lost to sensation, blue eyes drugged and lusty. The big man knew he would be lost himself in a moment, his adoration of the beautiful creature in his arms leading him into ecstasy.

“Yes!” Jay hissed again as Tyson slid strong fingers around his weeping shaft. Pulling and tugging on the straining member in time with Ty’s trusts.

“God!” Panting, the blonde felt the electric burst of orgasm flow into his cock. “Yes!” Teeth clenched Jay screamed his passion into the air.

“JAY!” Ty joined in the vocal celebration, his own climax shooting stars before his eyes, pumping his seed into the delicious body beneath him.

For several minutes the only sound in the abandoned room was the harsh breathing of two exhausted lungs.

“Ty?”

“Jay?”

“We can get dinner now.” Jay allowed drowsily, completely satisfied.

Ty groaned theatrically and smoothly withdraw from the warm, tight heat he’s been lost in. Leaning on one elbow Ty’s intense stare bore into Christian’s face.

“Sweetheart?” he’s asked.

“Hmmmm,” Jay was reluctant to rise from the sleepy afterglow.

Ty nuzzled his new lover’s nose with his own.

“Now I’ve had you, can I keep you?”

A gentle snore was his reply.

*******

Jay was supposed to have more time.

He’d planned it.

The hour he’d woken up on the floor of the locker room, a fully dressed Ty watching him sleep. He’s sat up, ignoring the pain in his well-used ass and crawled across the floor to rest his chin on Ty’s knee.

“What?” He’d asked.

The big man had heaved a sigh and then smiled.

“Nothing Sweetheart.” Indicating the small pile of Jay’s folded clothes. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

Frowning slightly, Christian complied, mind dopey and helter-skelter. Not an uncommon state for his mind to be in, but nevertheless.

And they’d gone back to their room. Snuggled down in Tyson’s arms, ready to allow sleep to overcome him, Jay had made plans. Plans to spend time making Tyson fall in love with him. He’d show the big guy such a wild time, they’d make Chris and Steve look like an old married couple.

Imagining more public displays of affection, Jay drifted asleep.

For the second time missing Ty’s soft plea.

But it was only the next day when his plans crumbled to dust.

Arriving at the arena they’d strolled into the locker room, grinning secretly at the re-stacked towels and sharing a loaded look. It had been great.

Then Adam saw them.

Surprising for such a large group of men to become so silent all at the same time.

Jay could read Adam like is own hand. The problem was Adam could return the favour. His ex could see the temporary lessening of manic behaviour, the undeniable glow of satisfaction and the really fucking obvious hickey on the side of his neck.

Momentarily speechless Christian stared at Edge, not sure what he was conveying, just…

Adam took his eyes off Jay and glared at the big man standing behind him for a several long seconds. Then, with a stifled curse he turned and stomped into the showers.

“Adam…” Jay moved after his friend, trying the form the words to stop the pain he’s seen in that once-beloved face.

A strong hand encircled his wrist, tugging him back around.

For a moment Tyson stared down into Jay’s worried eyes. The worry increased as Ty’s eyes went from warm brown to flints of stone in less that a moment.

“Better go after him.” Ty suggested coldly, releasing Jay’s hand. He too then turned on his heel and exited the locker room.

“Ty…” Christian stared numbly at the empty door, then swung his gaze towards the showers. Ignoring the stares of the other wrestlers, Jay lifted his head proudly and walked slowly out the third exit, towards the star dressing rooms.

After he’d cleared the doorway, he broke into a dead run.

******

“Chris!”

Jay pounded on the locked door to his friend’s dressing room.

“Chris!”

The door swung inwards, revealing a half naked Jericho, hair wet, eyes curious.

“I fucked up!” Jay admitted.

Stepping back to invite the other man in, Chris shut and locked the door.

“How?” Not even asking what Jay was referring to.

Jay explained in, what was for Chris excruciating, detail. The liason from the night before and his subsequent emotional fuck up five minutes ago.

Towelling his hair dry, Jericho advised, “You’ve got to decide Jay or you might loose them both.”

“I know,” the sigh was the biggest yet.

Chris asked the same question he’d put a week ago.

“So….which one?”

Jay just stared at the wall, lost in thought.

*****

This time Jay’s knock on the hotel room door was polite and even. His fingers stretched nervously at his sides as he waited.

As the door opened Jay forced his expression into calm confidence.

“Hey.” He shifted nervously, belying the aura of cool. “Can we talk?”

He was studied for a long moment.

“Sure,” Edge turned back into the room.

Standing now in Adam’s room, Jay’s carefully prepared speech went out the window.

Instead Jay found himself drowning in another Look ™ . This time more than just sexual interest was conveyed, this time it was the past that filled Christian’s gaze.

Suddenly like dropping a heavy bag, Adam straightened and smiled into his ex’s startled expression.

“Can I get a hug here?” He asked, eyes twinkling.

Shaken from his daze, Jay stepped forward and into Adam’s arms. It was familiar and warm. Like hugging your brother…or your best friend.

“God we were so fucking young weren’t we?” Christian mumbled, forehead on Adam’s shoulder.

A slow hand stroked across Jay’s lower back.

“Yep.” Adam agreed. “We were good though?” He asked.

Jay smiled with remembered bliss.

“Damn good.”

Leaning back Edge caught Jay’s eyes again.

“Not gonna shut me out now are you?” The simple questions worked well to convey strong emotions.

“Never.” Jay vowed.

After all, EdgeandChristian. Fucking sacred.

AdamandJay.

Best friends and brothers.

*****

Leaning against the doorframe to the men’s locker room, Chris Jericho watched Jay pacing nervously. Between them other wrestlers unpacked gear, taped wrists and chatted about the night’s work. His overall relaxation was undisturbed by the strong arms snaking around his waist from behind, a face nuzzling his neck. But then again, it depended on whom the arms belonged to.

“So ‘Mr General Manger’,” Austin said, teeth tugging at the collar of Chris’ burgundy shirt. “Wanna fuck?”

Tilting his head slightly to give his lover greater access.

“Yes.” Jericho replied.

A low growl was his response, the arms tightening, tipping him slightly off balance.

“…in about ten minutes."

Sapphire eyes remained on the bundle of stress across the room.

“Do ya know how fuckable ya look in this outfit?” the bald man asked.

“I’m beginning to get an idea.”

Austin gently pressed his groin against Chris’ backside.

“Steve..!” the protest was almost serious.

The growl softened somewhat.

“Well, ya come in wearing a suit for Christ’s sake!” Austin defended himself. “I’m only human, ya know.”

Jericho replied with a small snort.

Stone Cold’s teeth grazed the silver band at Chris’ neck.

“Like the collar by the way.”

“Necklace.” Chris corrected.

“Yeah right.” Austin scoffed. “….collar…” he murmured.

“Whatcha’ looking at?” he said to cover his comment.

Jericho’s eyes sharpened as Tyson Tomko entered the locker room from the far door.

“A decision.”

“Hmmmmm.” Austin continued to mark Chris’ neck with small red bites.

Tomko had stopped in the doorway the moment he’d seen Jay, he was on the verge of turning around when the Canadian spotted him. Dashing over to Ty, Christian grabbed at the bigger man’s bag and began to tug him over to the lockers, gesturing and speaking extremely quickly from what Chris could tell.

Hunter Hearst Helmsley stopped beside Chris and Steve, catching sight of the other couple.

“What is it with you Canadians and the psycho bald guys?” His asked eyeing Stone Cold.

Face calm, Chris locked eyes with Hunter.

“They have HUGE cocks.”

Austin’s muffled laughter caused a shudder down Jericho’s spine, but he kept his gaze firmly on the other blonde. It was fascinating watching Hunter’s struggle, his brain desperately trying to tell his eyes NOT to look at Steve’s crotch.

“Jee—zus Chris! Like I needed that much information!” the World Champion complained as he stormed into the locker room.

“Yer a bastard.” His lover complimented, goatee hairs tickling Chris’ over sensitized skin. “Now he’ll spend all night trying not to think about my dick.” Austin chuckled.

Melting back into Steve’s embrace, Chris looked once more to the drama unfolding before him.

“I have to.” He shrugged. “So can he.”

Steve smiled again and went to work on the other side of Chris’ collar.

*****

Jay was so scared his teeth were almost chattering. Pacing back and forth from the benches to the lockers he ignored the curious stares and whispered comments.

The tingling on the back of his neck alerted him to Ty’s presence in the locker room door. Staring, Christian waited for Tomko to join him at their space. When it seemed Ty was going to leave, Jay sprang into action.

Darting over he grabbed the other strap of Tyson’s bag, praying the big man wouldn’t just let go.

“Please Ty,” he unashamedly begged. “At least let me explain?”

Tugging on the bag, he lured Tomko over to the benches. Without saying a word, Ty nodded, dropped the bag and sat, straddling the bench. Jay copied the move. Facing Ty across a foot of plastic seating he took a deep breath.

“Its over between Adam and me. Has been for two years now. But he’s...well….he’s Adam and….and…I’ve known him forever and he’s like my Best Friend Ty…Well except for Chris…but Adam well, he’s more than that….Not like THAT, not anymore, but he’s more than Chris….like a brother and he was…”

Gentle fingers rested on Jay’s lips, stilling the flow of panicked explanation.

Ty took a deep breath and looked at his love.

“Now that I’ve had you, can I keep you?” He asked quietly.

Heart blossoming into wildfire, Jay grinned.

“Yes.”

Ty found an even better way to keep his lover quiet.

*****

Across the room, Chris smiled.

finis

Fic: Snakes, Lions, Dogs and Dragons.

2009-05-24T09:33:19Z

Title: Snakes, Lions, Dogs, Dragons.

E-mail: jadedoll75@yahoo.com.au

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Austin/Jericho

Disclaimer: I don’t own them. OBVIOUSLY.

WARNINGS: Slash, oblique mention of attempted suicide.

Summary: A Monday.

Dedication: For Raising Kane who tossed the PWP back into my MusiLand and Fae who described a wet CJ to me. Thanks gals.

Snakes, Lions, Dogs, Dragons.

Leaning in close to his subject, the blond let his fingers glide over warm tanned skin. Starting at the rounded summit of the shoulder, heading west. The fingertips stopped. A small freckle was examined, the size of a pinhead. It was granted a kiss. The fingers continued. Across the arch of the neck down to the sudden rise of a shoulder blade. A slow smile spread across the blond’s handsome face. One neat fingernail slipped underneath the tiny piece of coloured plastic and lifted it onto a fingertip. It shivered there for a moment. Then the blond blew a gentle gust of breath, causing the shiny plastic to spin, uncontrolled and fluttering to the white cotton expanse below. Blue eyes the colour of sapphires looked down at the broad span of muscle and skin beneath them. Another kiss. A slight shudder in response. Fingers resumed their course, turning east towards the corrugated nubs of the backbone. Crossing this low dip the light touch ascended up a smooth, muscled dune. A third brush of soft lips. A second piece of gold plastic sent into the great beyond. Head tilted the blond slowly walked his fingers back up the spine and to the east. This time, the fingertips trailed steadily south before gracefully curving west, once more passing the spine, then tilting slightly north before loosing contact completely with a small flourish. Several more plastic victims were removed.

“Was that yer initials?” Austin asked, face buried in his pillow.

“Mmm..hmm.” Chris acknowledged, now stroking his lover’s back in a firm massage. From his position astride Austin’s back Chris examined their hotel room. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the cleaning lady. He and Austin really did a number on various rooms across the country. They’d checked in at 7pm last night and had barely left the bed since. At dawn after room service of pancakes and chocolate cake, Austin had handed Chris his present. The Canadian had raised a mocking eyebrow at the screw top can but had opened it. They and the bed were engulfed in a cloud of a thousand tiny golden plastic hearts. Laughing with unbridled joy, Chris had dug into the can to reveal a small gold pendent.

An oriental symbol.

At Chris’ enquiry Austin had grinned, pleased he had stumped his oh-so-intelligent lover.

“Year of the Dog, Darlin’.” He’d explained. “That’s yer birth year. Mine’s Year of the Dragon.” Austin had jerked a thumb at their bags. “I got ‘em in Hong Kong. So...do ya like it?” the Texan had asked, although he had no doubt, seeing the look of pleasure on Jericho’s stunning face. Still it was pretty freakin’ nice to be thanked in all the ways Chris knew.

His own gift had left him with a dry throat and no words.

Set into a wide black wristband, a watch. Expensive and cool, it was a style the Texan favoured over shiny metal bands. But the watch hadn’t caused Austin’ sudden stillness. He’d gazed, stunned, at the face of the time-piece, seemingly fashioned from five tiny, broken pieces of mirror. The effect was strange and deeply compelling.

Austin knew the significance of the mirror and thanked every god there was, that these shards of glass hadn’t been successful in their gory mission. Fragments of a broken mirror. From long ago

His eyes having never left his lover’s face, Chris had slowly released the breath he’d been holding.

“A woman in Canada with too much time on her hands sent me the pieces.” Jericho’s eyes had worn an expression at once sad and pleased. “She said they weren’t hers anymore.”

Austin had immediately strapped the watch to his wrist. “No, they’re mine.” He’d vowed.

They’d made love so softly after that, Austin almost hadn’t recognized them. But it had proven to him one valuable truth. Chris had given himself heart and soul into Steve’s care.

Tangling his fist in golden, honey hair, Austin had fallen asleep.

To be oh-so wonderfully woken by delicate exploring fingers. It was now Monday afternoon and they would have to leave in an hour to get to the arena. But not before he showed Chris one last time, what ninety-nine percent of his brain was concerned with.

Shifting restlessly under the teasing hands, Austin rolled over, causing Jericho to rise up like a ship on a wave, before settling back down. His slowly hardening member now trapped under Chris, Austin lay back, letting himself admire his lover for a long moment. With wild blond hair, sleepy eyes and kiss-bruised lips Jericho, to put it bluntly, looked incredibly well-fucked. Giving himself a mental pat on the back for achieving such a wonderful thing, Austin reached up and tapped a finger against the bruises and shallow bite marks on Chris’ neck.

“I should be more careful.” He admonished himself.

“If you are, I’ll have to provoke you.” Chris promised, fingertips now dancing across Steve’s hardened nipples.

Austin raised his own version of Dwayne’s trademark. “Ya do realize ya work without a shirt?” he cautioned.

The teasing sensation on his nipples stopped.

Chris looked down at him with an amused expression. “You do realize we work with 17 women and two make-up people?”

Well, that makes sense.

“So, the gals cover them over huh?” Genuine curiosity this time. To his relief the soft finger teasing resumed.

Sapphire eyes now focused on the task at hand, Jericho nodded. “After prying for details on how I get them. Yes.”

Austin’s shock of laughter echoed around the room.

“Brighten up their day Darlin’” he teased, his own hands reaching around Chris to grip twin globes of curved flesh. He bucked up slightly into the man above him, relishing the searing contact.

“Love…” the blond’s hiss was low and sweet. “…just thinking about how I get them brightens my day.”

Long arm reaching out, Austin snagged the half empty bottle of lube, squeezing some onto his fingers.

Chris watched the manouvre with loving eyes. “Not a bad trick…one handed,” he complimented.

Returning his hand to the younger man’s ass, Steve grinned wickedly as he prepared his lover. “Ya should know there’s many things I can do one handed.”

“Mmm..hmm..” Chris agreed, eyes closed, lost to sensation.

Gripping the younger man’s hips, Austin gently forced Chris up, lifting his weight off their groins. Groaning at the loss of contact, the Texan scooted down the bed between golden legs and turned around. Now behind the blond, he urged Chris closer to the head of the bed. At the smooth change of position a small chuckle escaped Jericho.

“No headboard Love.” Chris’ voice was roughened with a husky undertone, guaranteed to cause wild behaviour in his partner.

Catching Chris’ wrists, Austin lifted them up till his hands rested, palms flat, on the wall behind the bed.

“No need.” He whispered into the delicate shell of an ear.

Sliding his right hand up the blond’s arm, he mirrored Chris’ earlier actions, trailing his fingertips over sensitive skin, occasionally flicking a small heart into the air. The hand continued its journey across golden shoulders, down restlessly expanding ribs and around, to return to the warm tight entrance to his beloved’s body. Catching his engorged shaft, Austin pressed the head into Chris, entering slow and deep. His shuddering moan, echoed by a sighing exhalation from his lover. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, the bigger man replaced his hand at the wall. Strong arms extended, fingers curled through Chris’.

Beginning a slow almost agonizing rythmn, Austin withdrew, then, inch by inch pushed back inside Chris’ warm, slick heat. Almost strangled moans accompanied each torturous thrust. His head lowered so he could enjoy the sinful sight of his hard cock sliding in and out of its favourite place, Austin barely heard Jericho’s words.

“Love?”

“Hmmm…” Steve responded absently, eyes still on the glorious act occurring between them.

“Steve?” The husky tone was barely a whisper.

Regretfully, Austin dragged his gaze upwards to stare at Chris’ ear.

“Yes Darlin’?” His body’s relentless pace never faltered.

“Steve?” He could only tell the blond had spoken from slight puff of air from his lips.

“Chris?” Leaning his chin onto Chris’ shoulder, he strained to catch his lover’s words.

“I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t sit down for a week.”

Seemed a reasonable request to Steve.

“Okay.”

Once more sliding out his shaft Austin snapped his hips forward with such force the bed shook and slid away from the wall an inch or two. Repeating the move, Steve quickly lost himself to his body’s harsh demands. And his lover, who had been passively indulging his own sensations, reared back onto each invasion. Head tossing like a hyperactive pony, Chris writhed and squirmed trying to encourage the Texan to bigger and better things. Steve would have been lost just there. Being inside Jericho was his own version of heaven, but Chris had upped the ante.

From his lips poured a stream of husky, dirty sex talk.

“…yes…fuck me…harder you bastard….make me feel it…more….”

Knowing his lover was deliberately pushing his buttons, Austin gave in and let himself be pushed. Pulling his hands from the wall, he grabbed slim hips in a bruising grip. Stealing Chris’ ability to move, he continued to pound into him. Mute at the roaring sensations, Steve just growled his love, his lust into his lover’s back.

The change in position shut Jericho up and after two strokes, his back arched till Austin thought it would break as his orgasm overwhelmed him. The feeling of Chris’ body contracting around him, was enough to trigger Steve’s climax. One final thrust, he continued to push himself into the blond, grinding his hips into Chris’, riding wave after wave of pleasure.

Returning to his senses Austin reached for Chris’ hands again. Lifting them from the wall, he sat back on his knees, pulling his lover onto his lap, wrapping both their arms around Chris in a tight embrace.

Gently kissing the bruised neck, Steve muttered, “Ya killed me again Darlin’.”

“We’re both dead then.” Chris said, voice now tired and sated.

Austin cuddled his lover in a way he would never have thought possible before Chris.

Jericho sighed. “Better shower.”

“Mmmphff.”

Austin could hear the smirk in Chris’s voice. “Well we could go like this, but Paul would have a heart attack.”

“Let ‘im.”

“Okay.”

*****

Forty-seven minutes later, Austin finished packing their bags. Waiting for Jericho to finish in the shower he cast one last mournful look at the wrecked bed.

“There’s always tonight.” Chris promised as he exited the bathroom, slicking his hair into a neat, wet ponytail.

“I’ll hold ya to that.” Tossing the blond their key card Austin spotted the Chinese symbol, suspended on a woven leather cord, resting at the base of Chris’ throat.

“By the way Darlin’,” the Texan commented as he wrapped an arm around Chris’ waist. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Chris’ soft laughter followed them out the door.

finis

Fic: Crave Part 11.

2009-05-23T13:03:20Z

Epilogue

“My truck.”

a soft chuckle

“If you like.”

“The hood of my truck.”

snort.

“You’ll have to let the tires down.”

“We’ll manage.”

“Ah the romance of a man and his truck.”

snigger.

“I wanna nail ya on Vince’s desk, how’s that for romantic?”

muffled groan

********

“With that viking helmet ya wore when the kids were around.”

“That’s just weird. And almost perverse.”

“No it isn’t. I wanted to fuck ya right then and there.”

“Ok, damn I know I’ll regret this…why?”

“Ya looked very sexy. Like Thor.”

hysterical laughter

“Remind me to pinch Paul’s hammer.”

full body contact

“I got a hammer right here Darlin’.”

gasp

“You certainly have.”

prolonged movement

“Damn ya look so fuckin’ beautiful when yer ridin’ me.”

bedsprings getting a workout

“View’s pretty good from here too Babe.”

growl

“Oh god yeah. Yeah. That’s it, right there. ”

“Love you, love you, love you….”

mutual cries

“Never lettin’ ya go Darlin’.”

“Don’t wanna go.”

snore

“Rattlesnake? More like a big Labrador.”

snuggle down

purr

********

“So, your turn Darlin’.”

“Hmmm. I just had my turn don’t you think?”

“C’mon.”

rustle of sheets

“Tell.”

gurgle of laughter

“No. Stop it.”

“Yer ticklish? Oh baby….”

mayhem and violence

“If you ever….I’m going to….kill…..fucking…..dead….”

“Yeah, yeah, ya’ll kick my ass all over the bedroom. Bring it on Blondy.”

a small movement.

“Agghhh. Fuck that fuckin’ hurts...”

“Bring it on Baldy.”

********

“Ya gotta give me one at least. I got hundreds.”

choke

“Hundreds?”

“Well whenever I look at ya…”

“I get the idea……I love the idea by the way.”

“Good.”

restful quiet

“I want to know if you can hold an open can of beer in each hand while I suck you off.”

stunned silence

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

“I thought you might.”

********

“So Darlin’?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“Where are yer glasses?”

sleepy blinking

“My what?”

finis

Fic: Crave Part 10.

2009-05-23T13:00:36Z

I really, really love my truck. Not as much as I love Chris, but it’s pretty high on my list of things I care about. I’m pretty fuckin’ in love with my truck right now as I lean against the driver door with Chris Jericho on his knees in front of me. He’s nuzzling at my crotch like a cat, hot breath reaching skin through the fly of my jeans and if it weren’t for my truck I’d be flat on my back in the car park of the hotel. The warm metal of the door contrasts with the cold air around us…..

Shhhhiiiittt!!! He just unzipped me with his teeth!!

Oh baby. He’s wrapping his tongue around the button and I know as soon as he gets it open there’s gonna be no stopping me. Chris. Blowjob. Car park.

Car park?

After winning a Herculean battle of mind over dick, I reach down and haul Chris back up by the shoulders. His eyes are wicked and knowing.

“What?” the mockery is plain.

“In a bed Darlin’.” I grit out as I carefully zip up and head to the lifts.

Jericho slides into the small space and grins.

“Or at least a couch?” The tempting little bastard moves his lips near my ear. I stare resolutely at the no. 5 button.

“Up against the door?” Warm breath in my ear shoots straight to my cock.

Ping. Hallway. Door. Card key. Open.

I know I’ve crapped on about how fast Chris is, but I’m not exactly dead either.

“Ooomph.” Did I mention I love that he’s shorter than me? Held hard against the hotel room door, toes about 4 inches off the ground, he’s kinda squirming to regain some balance.

I angle my hips between long legs and take his weight on my groin, sliding my hands under that soon to be fucked ass, holding him in place. My hard-on making small talk with an equally interested partner.

“You are a cock tease.” I growl into his neck, gently thrusting into the apex of his thighs.

Chris moans, writhing in my grip, lips press to my ear.

“Says the sonofabitch dry humping me against a door,” his breath is hot and ticklish.

I let him slide down slightly till his toes touch the floor, keeping the connection at our groins tight. I mention I love trapping him against solid objects? Walls, doors…it’s all good.

Separating our chests by only an inch, Chris pulls my t-shirt over my head.

Cool hands. Hot skin. Oh yeah.

My head snaps longingly to the bed, then back to the blonde minx tickling my nipples with his tongue.

Bed. With sheets and pillows. Lube in the bed stand and a headboard for Chris to hold onto.

Door. Trapped Chris. My cock pressing against his. Seems ready to go for it right now.

I tangle my fists into honey blond silk and pull backwards till the pleasure shooting from my chest to my groin stops. I focus intently on the wood grain in the door for three seconds and then begin to breathe. Slowly.

In, out. In, out. In, out…?

Don’t think that!!

Bringing my gaze back to Chris’ upturned face, I smile to remove the worry beginning to colour the blue.

“Bed.” Fuck. Back to one syllable. Well, you try to form coherent sentences with an arm full of gorgeous.

Keeping my arm around Chris’ waist I demonstrate a previously unknown ability to dance as I waltz us towards the bed. The look in my baby’s eyes is hilarious as he tries to come to terms with my skills.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks.

Bastard.

“Dancing ya little shit.” I say bitterly. “I was bein’ romantic.”

I so love to see laughter in his eyes.

“Oh, sorry.” He isn’t ya know. “Go right ahead. Don’t let me interrupt.” His smile’s so beautiful I’m gonna fall in love all over again. In instant response to this sappy feeling, I grab two shoulders and shove. I may not be 6’10’ but I know how to get a guy where I want him.

Does this cute little bounce on the bed as he lands too.

I toe off my sneakers and unbuckle my belt, eyeing the delectable body, currently stretching like a big ole pussycat on the covers.

He’s just watching me now.

Making no move to remove his gear or touch me. Just watching me move, like he’s indulging in somethin’ he never let himself do before. I relish that look. Knowin’ it’s all for me and me alone. He ain’t let himself love anyone else but me. Me. My damaged, fallen, golden angel. Yeah..MY Angel. Never his. God, I’m gonna blush in a second.

I reach out a hand, he IS real, and grab hold of an ankle, dragging him slightly towards the edge of the bed, I get to work on his boot.

“I dreamed this once.” Chris comments. His eyes have never left my face. “That you were here, touching me like this.” Blue eyes cloud momentarily. “But it was a dream.”

“I ain’t no dream Doll,” I intend to prove that in spades, as soon as I get his FUCKIN’ shoes off!

Triumphantly I finish unlacing his second boot and toss it over my shoulder, smiling rakishly at my victim.

The room suddenly becomes a lot darker.

Damn.

“You do have a hatred of hotel rooms don’t you?” I can make out Chris’ grin in the glow from the window.

“That was the light wasn’t it?” I don’t wanna take my eyes off him.

Chris wriggles closer to the edge of the bed. Hands reaching up to grab my ass.

“That light had it coming.” He soothes.

Sliding my palms along the strong planes of Chris’ chest I fist the edges of the see-through black shirt and pull Jericho up till we’re nose to nose.

“Smart ass.” I grin then plant another kiss. He squirms a bit then long fingers are undoin’ my fly and trying to remove my shorts. “Good luck Love.” I murmur between kisses. I toss his shirt onto the floor careful not to wreck any other furniture. ‘Cept the bed.

“Fuck!” Chris cussin’ is a definite turn on. “Austin, do you…oomph…paint these on?”

“I thought you liked my tight shorts?” I tease then groan as he finally releases my straining cock from its prison.

“I do. They leave very little to the imagination.” More swearing. He’s got ‘em to my knees now, which is better than I can do after 10 seconds. Talented fingers.

“You been imaginin’?” I ask, planning my next assault as the shorts hit my feet.

“Oh yes.” He breathes, sapphire orbs locked onto my cock. That note, that sexy husky tone he just used, banishes all playfulness from my mind. Right here, right now, I have Chris.

Without pause, my hands go to the buttons on Chris’ pants and I wrench the vinyl down and off with one strong pull. Now he’s lying before me like an offering. A temple all of my own to worship. Smooth golden skin, strong muscle, warm breath and honey hair.

Chris.

Leaning down I slowly trail a spiraling pattern up one long leg with my tongue, till I reach the junction where the skin dips in just before his hipbone. Silky skin against my tongue, solid muscle lying directly underneath. I nibble a bit, like I’m tasting a new dish. Snort. Certainly a dish at that. I lick some more and am rewarded with an erotic moan of pleasure. I continue upwards, hands pressing undulating hips into the bed when I reach the defined muscle of Chris’s groin. Ya’ll saw those really low vinyl pants he wore with the matching shirt? I nearly came in my jeans when I saw that outfit. Can think of a better place to come right now though.

Chris is twisting beneath me, eyes closed, a blissful expression on that amazing face, his head resting in the crook of one arm. His fingers are digging into my hips as I slowly curl my hand around his beautiful, hard cock.

Mmmmm. Let’s see if I can get that little noise again.

There, yeah Honey. That’s right, I gotcha now.

I can feel the pleasure building along my nerves now, a hot heavy pressure between my legs that’s soon gonna take me over. Reaching out to the bed stand I snag the bottle of oil I got weeks ago and pop the cap. The small sound causes my lover to open dazed sapphire eyes. Eyes that widen and fill with glory as I gently sink one finger deep into his body.

His face. Oh god. I could come just from looking at the expression on that achingly perfect face.

So hot. Tight.

How could I think he was cold?

I can hear the freaky feral growl start in me as I work a second finger into that tight, hot little hole.

“Austin..love...” the low luscious whisper nearly kills me. “Please…”…nearly just.. “Austin please…baby...please,”..begging me.. “…please baby.…oh god….please….Steve!”

My name.

I don’t even recognize the possessive roar that comes from me as I hold his lean hips in place in what I know is gonna be a bruising grip and sink into Chris’ burning body.

Heaven.

I was right.

I rock in, deeper and deeper, growling in satisfaction as I am finally, finally, fully sheathed within that clinging channel.

Oh Jesus!

Chris is moving his hips, rolling himself further down onto me.

Hooking my arm under his bent knee, I lift a long golden leg and twist my hips in a deep grinding thrust that nearly lifts us both off the mattress.

“Yes.” Like he’s won something. “Just like that Love.”

I agree.

“More.”

Yep.

“Now.”

Thrust. “Bossy.” Thrust. “Little”. Thrust. “Thing”. Thrust.

That I can talk is a miracle.

Arms flung back, bracing his body against the headboard, Chris meets my thrusts eagerly.

Hot, spicy breath brushes my mouth as I leaned down to taste Chris’ parted lips, dipping my tongue into the sweet wetness within, growling again as my love retaliates with equal passion. We move together into perfection. Building, rising, pounding harder and faster. I shift angles, pistoning my cock in and out of Chris’ body, jolting the bed with the strength of our strokes.

I can feel the pressure inside of me, low in my stomach, my thighs. The white heat, the fierce pleasure. I can still hear my own voice, hoarse and growling. It twists with Chris’ moans and demands. A tangle of sounds that mirror the tangle of our bodies. Our minds.

Leaning down I curl my arm under the small of Chris’ back, lifting his hips off the bed, controlling the position so I can watch his face as he comes, my hand on his burning flesh telling me it will be soon.

His voice husky, words barely formed.

Sapphire eyes glazed and wild, inhuman with intense pleasure, head fallen back to the pillow in a tangle of honey fire.

Nearly.

There.

Chris’ back arches, fingernails dig into the wooden headboard.

Exquisite.

With a guttural roar I pour my release deep into that slick channel, my cock pulsing endlessly as I yell my beloved’s name.

My eyes fixed on him.

******

I think I’m dead.

I’m collapsed across Chris, sprawled like a big Texan blanket. His heartbeat is at about 150mph but slowly decelerating. Lazily I nuzzle at his neck, tasting sweat and skin. Then I lift up slightly, resting my forearms on either side of his Chris’ head and watch him come back down to earth.

Big sigh. Small little frown and then eyes flutter and open. Like he’s waking from a dream.

Still deeply embedded in his body, I rock forward slightly.

“I’m real Darlin’,” I whisper, eyes locked onto his.

Chris retaliates with a slight clenching of muscles that send my eyeballs rolling back into my skull.

“So I see,” he whispers back. Contented smile beginning to brighten his lovely face.

“Ahh, yep,” I try to refocus. “An’ I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.” It’s a lifetime, but fuck it all. I mean it.

Jericho’s smile could shame the sun.

“I’ll hold you to that.” He promises. With a surge he rolls us over changing positions so he’s straddling me. My hands automatically grope the round globes of his ass as he begins to slowly start up the band.

“Want to prove it to me?” He asks, hair a halo, eyes wicked, smile like sin. Fallen angel indeed.

“Every single day Darlin.” I vow.

Just lust?

Well, a hell of a lot more than that. It’s also a heap of other stuff that’s going take us our whole lives to enjoy. Can’t wait. I’ve discovered somethin’ else though, as I watch my golden Chris writhe and moan.

Sometimes, when ya get a taste of what you’ve been wanting, ya just crave it all the more.

Fic: Crave Part 9.

2009-05-23T12:57:52Z

I stay away from him for another two days. I’m watching him, planning my moment, knowin’ I’ll have one chance if I’m lucky and I better not waste it. After a Raw taping I stand outside his dressing room, rolling my shoulders to relax them. I feel like I’m going into the match of my life, maybe I am. If I loose this, I loose him, and that’s everything.

Knowing he won’t let me in if I knock I grab the handle and, praying it isn’t locked, throw open the door. Ignoring his startled hiss I turn and lock the door behind me.

“Get the fuck out Austin, I’m sick of the sight of you.” I see beyond the harsh words now to the intent. Get away from me for your own good.

“Not a chance Darlin’” His surprise at the endearment is obvious, but only for a split second before icy disdain takes him. He turns from me and resumes packing.

“Get out Austin. You bore me.” Yeah, sure I do. That’s why you’re doing your damndest to get me away from you.

“It’s not gonna work Babe. I’m not leaving till I’ve had my say.” I walk over to him, letting my gaze travel down the curve of his spine, so clear through the black shiny shirt. Sensing my proximity my love moves out of range, backing towards the wall next to the door. Ah-hah. He is affected by my closeness. Right now I’ll take any weapon I can get.

“Fine. Whatever. Piss and moan about yourself for the millionth time then Get. The Fuck. Out.” Each word is loaded with icy anger. Water off a duck Darlin’. I take a deep breath.

“All I gotta say is this. You were right. We were a terrible couple and I’m glad you ended it.” I’m watching him closely so I catch the split-second of surprise and pain as it flicks across his face. That more than anything reassures me I’m going in the right direction.

“Good, now Fu...”

I interrupt. “Not finished so shut up.” I glare hotly into his frozen eyes and see the despair hidden beneath the surface. I can’t believe I couldn’t see it before.

“I mean really, why the fuck should I waste my time with you? Huh?” His head snaps up at this like I just hit him. Mentally stomping on the regret that rises in me I continue on. “I gotta give it to ya Babe your sure are one hell of a looker but that’s worth only so much huh?” I keep my eyes glued to his as I rip into him like I never would’ve risked before.

Distain fills those gorgeous sapphire eyes and Chris smiles, a terrible twisted smile.

“Good thing you’ve finally realized it.” His agreement is pure sarcasm.

“Oh yeah. Definitely good for me. Now I don’t have to deal with all your shit I can have a nice normal life right? Not some melodramatic fucked-up version of reality out of a fuckin’ movie. Right?”

He’s dead white now staring at me like he doesn’t know who I am.

“I mean every time ya get within five fuckin’ feet of someone they wanna kick your ass or fuck it.” And damn me if it isn’t true. “I know which side I was on. ‘Cos that’s all a guy like me would be interested in right? A pretty face, a nice ass? You don’t really got much else to grab a guy like me right? Nothing worthwhile apart from ya looks.”

There! The ice is gone, replaced by something close to pain.

“Charming Aus…”

“SHUT UP!” I pretty much snarl at this point. Stay in control.

“Ya can’t even help those dumb kids you like to watch over. Didn’t keep Jeff safe from them bastards did ya?” I have to do this, I have to, I have to.

The expression in Chris’ eyes is terrible.

Such agony.

“Everyone knows the best thing you were made for right?”

“Enough, go.” His voice is too controlled, his face could be cut from marble.

“But all that attitude and god dammed moodiness annoys the shit outta me. I had a ball checking you out Babe, but the real you, well. I find I like the outside packaging a bit more appealing than the delivery inside.” There’s no stopping now. “Sure you’re skin’s so smooth and soft it’s sooo touchable that I couldn’t help myself from wanting to caress it and your hair. Like spun-gold and so silky. It felt like I was stroking a cat when I tangled my fingers in it.”

“Be quiet.” Barely a whisper.

“Yeah, your voice. Very sexy that. The roughness ya get when ya yelling or excited. When I used to touch ya I’d hear that note and know you liked it Babe, am I right?” I don’t wait for an answer. “It’s obvious why anyone would want ya Darlin’. You move so well, you look so good. But the best part of ya, the only part worth anything really, well that’s gotta be your face Honey.” I take a step closer. Only a few feet separate us now. Not close enough to touch but I can hear his ragged breathing. He’s turned that beloved face from me now, lids lowered in pain, lashes resting on high cheekbones.

“Please be quiet.” A broken whisper.

Be strong. I command myself.

“But why Darlin’. What do ya care what I say?” No response. “So where was I? Yeah ya face. I think that’s ya best feature, obviously. Those lips that make a man or woman crazy just to taste ‘em, yer skin so soft, that cute little dimple ya get when ya really laugh out loud. Well and then there’s ya eyes. What fuckin’ colour are they anyway? Blue just isn’t enough. Sapphire is the closest I can get. Like my Mom’s engagement ring, pure deep Sapphire. I could gaze into them forever.” I’m almost touching him now. My hands on my hips, our bodies mere inches apart. I stare down into his averted face.

“Please…” not even a whisper, just his mouth forming the word.

I continue on relentlessly. “With that hair, that face and that body you are to die for Sweetheart, no question about it. Made to be adored, made to be loved, made to be fucked. Goldberg knew, didn’t he?”

A sound, almost like a sob reaches my ears. My heart is clenching like a vice. I ignore it.

“’cos that’s all I wanted really. Just to fuck that glorious body. I mean, with all this to enjoy why would I care about the rest of ya?” His eyes fly open and at long last I’m in. Past all the ice, the attitude and the pain. Ok this is it. Now or never.

“I wouldn’t want to hear ya laugh at one of my stupid jokes. Wouldn’t want to see ya being all protective around the Boyos when some dumbass thinks he can make a name for himself on one of their backs. I couldn’t possibly want to hear about ya work in Japan and WCW or meet ya Mom and see pictures of ya as a kid. Wouldn’t want to know why ya hate Cauliflower but eat Broccoli when they are exactly the fuckin’ same. Wouldn’t want to watch ya play with the kids when they visit and hear them squeal ‘cos Chrissy has some insane idea to cause trouble. Wouldn’t want to watch ya loose yourself in that damn music when ya think no-ones looking and wonder at the power it has over ya. Wouldn’t want to watch ya grow old and see that sparkle in yer eyes at sixty when we’ll sit out back and tell all the new Boyos how it was in our heyday. I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life telling ya I adore ya and thanking any fuckin’ god there is that ya feel half as much for me as I feel for you.” I pause and take a deep breath.

“ It’s not like there is much beneath the surface really is there? When the package is so distracting why would I even bother to look?” I finish with all my heart it my eyes. God dammit Love, believe me please.

Nothing. No response.

Moments pass.

I turn from that agonized face and reach out an unsteady hand to turn the lock.

“Why…..”

I look back. Chris’ face is turned towards me, his head tilted back to rest on the wall. As I stare a single tear slips from those fair lashes and runs from his cheekbone into his hair.

“Why would you bother?” His tone is uncertain, truly curious.

My heart is beating a hundred miles an hour. I’m so desperate to have him back.

“Because yer worth loving. Because when Sym hurt ya he made ya hate yerself and that was the worst crime he could of committed. Because it wasn’t something ya did. It was him, not you, that made it happen. Because despite being hurt so bad, ya stayed in this business and became great. Because I want to be in yer life and have ya in mine. Because I love ya Chris. Because I love YOU Chris. Because I love YOU. I love you….”

His arms wrap around my middle.

His face buries itself in my neck.

Oh God. Please be real.

The muffled sounds tear at my heart. I wrap myself around my love, holding him too tightly for comfort but we don’t care. We need this.

“She made me promise. I kept my word. But it was too much to think I would destroy you as well.” Chris mumbles faintly into my neck. “You could do so much better Austin.”

“Yeah right. Not possible Darlin’” I’m confident of that now, more than ever. I can guess who She was. I stay still, breathing deeply of his rare tears, hoping I’ll not see them again for a very long time.

“Do you forgive me?” He pulls back, tossing his hair out of his eyes like the lion he so reminds people of. The rain-drenched eyes meet mine pleadingly. He feels everything so deeply I realize stunned. Of course you need defenses when you are so vulnerable to your emotions. The tragedy was that he turned his passion inwards, into self-hate and nearly destroyed himself with it.

“Maybe,” my lips curl into a seductive smirk as his eyes widen in surprise. “But you’ll have to make it up to me.” Now that he’s back I’m taking advantage for all I’m worth.

The surprised sapphire eyes become calculating in an instant.

“Oh yes. That seems fair.” His smile is so much sexier than I’ve ever witnessed, my temperature just shot up into the hundreds.

“Hold that thought.” I command as I grab his bag in one hand and his bicep in the other. I take us out of the hallway at record speed, the sound of Chris’ laughter surrounding me.

At long last, I’ve won.

Fic: Crave Part 8.

2009-05-23T12:53:29Z

Christian is kinda sexy. I wanna fuck him.

I may be on my seventh can but I know when I’m being hit on dammit! We’re in the hotel bar and he just slides in next to me and buys me beer. Already in there, Baby. Christian starts leaning close and talking to me about how stressful work is right now and how Francois taught him this really great massage and how he’d like to give me one sometime. My cock starts to tingle at this offer so I turn to check out the scenery. Tight jeans with those thin cotton shirts he wears. Nice. I imagine untying those porn star laces he’s got on his pants. I like fair skin, obviously, and he’s got pretty eyes, a cute mouth. Shame about the hair though. I liked it when it was longer, but at least I can rub my face on his pale neck without getting silk in my mouth.

Fuck.

I refocus on the fingers in my lap and the beer in my hand till that thought is locked in the black box inside my heart with all the rest. A box with a big fuckin’ padlock on it and the letters C J branded into the lid.

There.

Now I’m only thinkin’ about possible futures with the young babe currently trying to crawl into my jeans.

“What brought this on?” I ask, sliding my hand under Christian’s shirt tails, feelin’ soft skin.

He licks his lips and smiles nervously. “Well, you’ve been pretty great in the ring lately and we’ve been doin’ some stuff together. So I thought I’d try to generate a little tension.”

I grab his hand back and place in on my cock. “Ya succeeded there Baby.”

We grope some more as I drunkenly review this week, when yes my brain starts. The kid’s been flirting’ with me most times we’ve been together. I’ve been totally uninterested in anythin’ like sex lately and missed all his little hints. So the kid climbs into my lap.

Gotta respect that.

Despite Dwayne’s urgings to get over it, I’ve been sulkin’. Keepin’ myself to myself too much. Why not live a little?

“Austin?” The slim Canadian’s breath tickles my ear. “Want to come up to my room so I can give you that massage?

“Hmmm.” I murmur back, lips caressing the milky skin. “Sound’s nice.”

I’m about to slide off the bar stool when I see through the glass wall of the bar, someone walk across the foyer to reception.

My gut clenches as I watch him move.

It’s been two months. He hasn’t changed at all since I walked from that hotel room. Still a cold, vicious bastard with a mouth on him like a razor. Cold with everybody, even the Boyos. Although he’s still nicer to them than anyone else. But that’s not saying much.

Goldberg’s history. Even Vince realized that with the less than enthusiastic crowd reactions he’s getting now and the possibility of his death if he ever sets foot in a WWE locker room, the guy was more trouble than he was worth. Asshole’s contracted for two more appearances though, including Wrestlemania.

With me.

Can’t wait. Then the soon-to-be-bleeding Goldberg’s gone. For good. Finally.

All thoughts of Christian dribble from my skull as I absently push the kid away and head after Jericho.

I can tell he’s aware of me. Chris’ shoulders tense just ever so slightly as I approach him and lean on the reception counter. Getting an eyeful, I slowly gaze at him from boots to hair. Taking his key he smiles at the receptionist who nods back, slightly stunned.

Uh, ah. Don’t try and run away Pretty Boy. I follow quickly and step into the lift just before the doors close.

Leaning against the wall, I stare at his profile, tracing the lovely bone structure, the curved brow and all that golden…

“If you’re doing that to piss me off, it’s working.” His honey voice has its typical ‘bite me’ tone.

“Good.” I sneer.

He spins around and faces me, crossing his arms he smiles nastily.

“Still torturing yourself?” Those frosty eyes scan me from head to toe. It’s not pleasant. “Kinda pathetic don’t you agree?”

I bark a shout of laughter.

“Ya just don’t get it do ya?” I ask stepping close to invade his personal space.

“Get what Austin?” He doesn’t even flinch at my nearness. Prick. “That you’re so enamoured of yourself that you can’t get over me seeing some sense?”

“No. Ya dumb little shit,” I abuse right back. “Ya don’t get that ya fucked up something that could’a been forever!”

“Yeah right. And what colour is the sky in your world Austin?” Chris questions sarcastically as the lift doors open.

“Sapphire…” I murmur to his back as the lift doors close, leaving me alone. “Bright sapphire blue.”

*****

I walk with my usual swagger from Vince’s office, at long last finally feeling good for more than ten seconds. Dwayne is right, I’m moping like a stupid teenager with a crush over a guy not worth my time. As far as CJ is concerned, he’s the one who missed out. Too much bloody trouble dealing with someone else’s issues, Christian is stable and I like him. It’s not like it would have gone anywhere. We’re so different and lets face it, he didn’t care two cents for me. I don’t need that kinda attitude, if I wanna be treated like dirt I’ll call Debra. He did us both a favour. I’m glad it never began.

Yeah, right.

Ignoring the little box in my heart, I head to Christian’s locker room with a grin on my face. Tonight I’m gonna seduce him. He’s already given me the go ahead but I wasn’t ready. God I sound like a virgin. Me, not ready for sex! Blame the little blonde prick with the ego the size of Canada. I swing through the showers connected to the locker room and smile as I hear Christian say my name. Slowing I prepare to surprise him by jumping out from hiding.

“Austin likes medium-well steak? Cool. I’ll order it from room service.” Christian sounds like he’s writing something down.

“It’s not that hard to remember Christian.” My heart stops beating at the sound of Jericho’s voice. “Order wine as well, something well flavoured and not too sweet.”

Oh God.

“Wine? C’mon you’re kidding me. Austin?” My boyfriend is incredulous.

“Only with steak. Medium-well steak, mushroom sauce is his favorite but if you can’t get that try peppercorn but nothing creamy.” Chris’ voice is firm and confident, but there is the hint of something…

There isn’t any air.

“Awesome, thanks Chris. Man you know I owe you big time for all of this. I’m gonna pay you back somehow.” Christian says chirpily. Chirpy, he’s chirpy?

“I’ve told you don’t worry about it Christian. You two are made for each other.” He sounds tired.

I can’t seem to breathe.

“Yeah sure. But if you hadn’t, you know, pushed me at him I would never have flirted with him like that or anything. I never even thought he was interested till you told me to go for it.” Movement as Christian packs up his gear. I slide down the wall till my butt hits the tiles.

I hear Jericho get up and walk across the room, “Just do everything we talked about and you’ll be fine. You are perfect for him.”

Why can’t I breathe?

“Whoa Chris I don’t know about that. This is gonna be our first night together and then we’ll see how it goes.” Christian chuckles goofily. Goofy?

“No you will not!” Chris is angry, but there is no ice in his voice. “This is the best chance you will ever get understand? You will not fuck this up by being an adolescent. Austin is the most amazingly decent man you will ever meet and he will be happy, not fucked around by you!”

I wish I could breathe.

“Jeeze Chris okay I get it. Don’t fuck around with his feelings,” Christian is obviously thrown by Jericho’s outburst. “If you think he’s so incredible why don’t you go after him?”

Dead silence.

“Because he deserves better than the poison that is me.” Pure self-hatred in that beloved voice.

Oh God.

Uncomfortable silence as Chris opens the outer door.

“Just…be good to him ok?” I never thought I would hear such tenderness from him.

“Sure Chris. I’ll do everything you told me. Treat him like a prince and make him happy. I’ll take care of him for you, I promise.” Christian is sincere.

“Thanks.” I hear the outer door snick closed.

I can finally breathe, huge gasps of oxygen flow into my lungs as the reality of what I just heard sinks in. The box inside my heart is breaking, falling to bits inside me. It really shouldn’t hurt this much.

But it does. One thought revolves around and around in my head like a carousel.

I hear footsteps coming my way. I can’t move, the thought has me mesmerized.

A bag dropping to the floor, my boyfriend’s voice.

“Oh shit.”

I’m gonna kill the little bastard for doing this to us.

Then I’m gonna marry him.

*******

My fans would be stunned to see me like this. Sitting, chin on fist as I think about a problem rather than stomping a mudhole in someone. It’s fuckin’ weird actually. All the anger is gone, all the hurt and pain from the past eight weeks is gone now. I’m left with only…why? Part of it is obvious, Chris thinks he’s poison and, get this, is not good enough for me. Jesus! He’s fuckin’ mad. Guys like me kill to be with guys like him. So he breaks my heart and I hate his guts. Then the little fucker sets up his best friend to win me over, making Christian into the perfect guy for me. Only one catch, there is a perfect guy for me and it’s not Christian.

Kid took it well actually. After finding me on my ass in the showers, we go into his room and hash everything out. From what Goldberg did, to my relationship with Chris, to Christian thinking I’m ‘cool and all’ but how Chris and I are just ‘so into each other’. He’s seems kinda bummed that we didn’t work out but hardly heartbroken so I don’t feel that guilty. As to Jericho’s reasoning Christian has no idea but, “Chris is scary the way he thinks sometimes. I swear he doesn’t operate at the same speed as the rest of us. I’ve heard some stories from Stampede that would make you grow hair Austin, Jericho can be so twisted.”

So. I’m not gonna just go to Jericho’s room and beat the crap outta him. I’m not gonna even talk to him. Not till I find out…why? Something Christian said eats at me till I make a decision. Getting up from my ‘thinker’ pose I grab a six-pack and leave my room. Up one floor I knock on the door of the only person that may be able to give me some answers.

“Hey Austin. What’s up?”

“Hey Lance. I need ya help. I need to know about Jericho and Stampede.”

***********

It took some persuading, but I finally convince Lance Storm to confide in me about Chris. These guys were pretty close a while back and I know Jericho treats Lance better than just about anyone other than the Boyos. When I explain the whole situation to Storm, he goes red at some parts but finishes up pretty pale. He gets up from the couch and walks to the window. I give him a minute, ‘cos I got hours.

He turns back to me, takes big gulp of beer and asks, “Do you really CARE about him?”

I snort, “Why the fuck do ya think I’m here Lance? ‘Course I damn well care. I love the bastard but I don’t know what’s wrong!!!”

Lance thinks that one over.

“This never leaves this room because I swore to myself I wouldn’t tell stories about him to anyone, understand?”

“I’m not here to gossip, I want to know why?” I’m almost begging now.

Lance relents. “It was in Stampede. The people responsible don’t matter, what is important is that Chris was the brightest star rising in that company I think there ever was. We trained together and joined about the same time. We had a blast. Chris was wild, in and out of the ring he caused mayhem. I was along for the ride and it was hilarious.” Amusement laces Lance’s voice, but I know where he is going won’t be funny.

“You can imagine Chris on fire, all that charisma turned up to the max. Making us all adore him just like that. Making us want to be with him, party with him and have a ball.” Storm sighs. “Then there was Sym. 19 years old, 6’6’’ built like Dwayne, dark too and thick as a plank. Think of Booker with less brains and more hair. One of the ‘prospects’ from Alberta, but he could actually remember moves and bump like a champion. Nice kid.” Lance’s expression becomes introspective, then wry. “Oh, did I mention he adored a certain blonde loud-mouth we all know? Followed him around like a fuckin’ puppy, makes the Boyos look cold in comparison. And Chris was just too bloody soft to shut Sym down. Ha…” Lance shakes his head. “Chris soft. Hard to believe.”

“One night, after a show, we went to a club. Damn Austin, Jericho was just...I’d say hypnotizing, but that implies he does it deliberately, he doesn’t. Chris just...well…you know what he looks like and he was in a good mood so we were all in one too. I called it an early night because of a bad shoulder, but had trouble sleeping. About 3am I’m coming back from a drug store and I find Chris in the hall near my room. He was naked ‘cept for a sheet and could barely stand.” Lance’s face is like stone now. “Seems Sym decided to make his play while Chris was relaxed and drunk off his head. He managed to get Chris stripped and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So he got rough. Like I said Sym was built and fuck that kid was strong.”

The only reason I’m not being sick or killin’ someone is because I know there is more and I’m not moving till I have it all.

“Luckily, I guess, Chris wasn’t as drunk as he’d hoped. I think Jericho broke Sym’s arm and maybe his jaw before he managed to get to the door.” The nausea recedes slightly as it means the asshole wasn’t successful. “When I found him, he was half out of his mind. Sym wasn’t as dumb as he appeared and had drugged Chris’ drinks to make him more pliable. I cleaned him up and checked us out of the hotel. We drove for three hours till Jericho let me take him to a hospital.” Lance turns away from me again and sits on the end of the bed staring into his beer. “I got a call about dawn. The police had scraped Sym off the front of a Mack truck. My guess is he tried to find Chris, stole a car and tore onto the interstate at about 200miles an hour.

“The hospital kept Jericho overnight, because of a dislocated shoulder and cracked ribs. When he was released I took him back to my hotel and left to get some ice. When I got back...” Lance raises his head to look me in the eye for the first time since he began, ”…he had smashed the mirror in the bathroom and ripped through both wrists with it.”

I close my eyes against Lance’s words, but they continue relentlessly.

“He’d also cut his face from cheekbone to jaw. I think…I think he did his wrists first because the cuts to his face weren’t as deep, they didn’t scar.” I thought of the tape Jericho always wears on his wrists and wonder at the scars inflicted by Goldberg’s wire. “This time they wouldn’t release him to me so I called his mother. She...” Storm swallows hard, “I don’t know what she said but a week later they released him and she asked me to take him out of the country. The next morning I ended our contracts with Stampede and booked us on a tour of Japan. He’s been like this...well...cold...ever since. I don’t blame him.”

It’s my turn to stand and walk to the window. Staring numbly into the night I wonder if I can ever make the world right for Chris. I wonder if he’ll let me.

“About six months after it happened Chris and I were out drinking. A couple of guys tried to pick Jericho up…the look in his eyes. Austin I thought he was gonna kill them. I dragged him out of the place and got him drunk in my hotel room on whiskey. It’s the only alcohol he trusts because any drug would taint the taste he says. When he was pissed he told me what that stupid bastard in Canada had done.” Lance’s sigh is deep and long. “All the while he was stripping him, touching and kissing, getting rough and trying to...” Storm chokes and clears his throat. “Sym kept telling Chris how beautiful he was, how pretty. That he was made for fucking and that he was begging for it every time he moved. Sym thought he was seducing him.” Lance shook his head in remembered despair. “The kid told him he loved him, that he adored him. He tried to rape him because he thought he was in love.”

Finally Storm falls silent.

Cut his face from cheekbone to jaw.

The only sound is Lance’s alarm clock ticking on the bed stand.

Looking typically fuckable as always Angel.

It’s an old-fashioned clock that actually ticks.

The poison that is me.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

So. Now I know.

Fice: Crave Part 7.

2009-05-23T12:51:41Z

Chris Jericho has just finished buckling his belt, when there is a knock on his dressing room door. Frowning at the interruption and the throbbing pain from the mistimed kick to the head earlier in the show, he opens the door. In a split second he thinks of the one person in the arena he would like to see at his door while he is tired and hurt and the only one he wouldn’t want to see. Whatever higher powers there are obviously hate him, because Bill Goldberg’s fist slams into his gut and sends him staggering back into the room. ‘Typical’, Chris thinks as one of Goldberg’s bodyguards follow the large man in and shuts the door, leaning broad shoulders against it.

“Get out.” Jericho hisses, snatching his car keys from the bench, moving the pieces of jagged metal between each knuckle.

Goldberg grins at the improvised weapon, his gaze devouring the shirtless man in front of him. A light red mark appears on Jericho’s abdomen, the result of the initial punch. The big man’s smile widens. Marking his territory.

“Now don’t make me bruise up that pretty face Angel. I own your ass, so warm up a little and it may not hurt so much.” Goldberg signals his bodyguard to head to the right, while he moves left.

“Make no mistake. If you try this, I will kill you.” The blonde holds his ground, tracking the bodyguard, uncertain of the brute’s skill.

“Angel, you’re worth dying for.” Bill grunts like the boar he so often imitates and reaches for his prize.

The fight is short and mean. Chris uses all the illegal moves that would get him arrested in most states. When it comes to dirty fighting not many can top the sheer brutality of Canada’s bar bouncers. But even a part-time job that has you subduing three drunken psychos with knives can only help so much against two guys much bigger and with some training, particularly the fucking bodyguard. As Jericho feels his wrists pulled high behind his back, tied with something that cuts his skin, wire? he smiles grimly at the brute who has his knee pressed into the blonde’s lower back, his hand holding the torn ear where a large hoop once hung. He’d nearly lost an eye too, but Goldberg had managed to clip Chris on the exact spot of the earlier kick, momentarily dazing the Canadian. That moment was Chris’ undoing, too much weight used against him, too much strength.

He could only twist so much, they had overpowered him.

The bodyguard pulls Chris to his knees and forces his face up with a vicious wrench to his hair. Spitting out the blood from a cut lip, Jericho raises his eyes to stare at a man he loathes beyond all reason. Panting slightly from pain and exertion Goldberg is undoing his belt, sliding it from the loops and fingering the metal buckle.

Almost gently he slides the belt around Chris’ neck.

“Angel. You’re gonna be punished for all that. You nearly turned Mac here into Foley and he’s not happy. “The big man grabs Jericho’s chin and rubs the pad of his thumb along the kneeling man’s blooded lower lip. “So I’m gonna fuck your mouth and then your ass. Then I might let Mac have a go, ‘cos he’s like family to me.”

The brute leans against Chris’ back, licking his neck and breathing sour breath into his ear. “Thanks man.” The move has pulled some of Jericho’s hair back from his neck. Goldberg’s eyes slide along the golden skin to freeze on a small bruise on Chris’ pulse point.

“What the fuck is that?” Bill growls, leaning down to examine the mark. Receiving no answer he stares into sharp sapphire eyes. “Who the fuck did this, you slut?” Chris remains silent earning him a hard slap across the face, golden hair flying wildly as his head is turned sharply to the side by the blow.

Red now with fury and frustration Goldberg rants “You tease me constantly and won’t give it up, but you let some bastard touch you and leave his god dammed mark on your neck! Was it good Slut? Did you love it when he put his mouth on you? Huh? Huh?”

“Yes. It was divine.” Jericho deliberately taunts. “His mouth makes me want…”

Another hard slap, this time further opening the cut on his lip. More blood.

“and when he put his hand on my….”

Goldberg goes over the edge. “Fucking Whore! I’ll show you who’s your fucking master. He’ll never want to touch you again when I’m done with you.” Unzipping his jeans and pushing them down his hips, Bill pulls out his angry red cock and grabs Chris’ jaw again. “Open up Angel.”

“I’ll bite it off you motherfucker so just fucking try,” Chris threatens.

Another slap makes Jericho’s teeth rattle, “I feel teeth and I’ll break your legs.”

Chris looks up into the distorted face of his nemesis and lets his mind drift away from his body. Blue eyes going dull, he resolves that he’ll have to break his promise. If he can’t make Bill kill him, the bodyguard will. He almost laughs at the sheer irony of the situation. “Austin, you shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

The dressing room door opens as Stone Cold pushes his duffle into the room.

“Hey Gorgeous, can I leave this here? I gotta see Vince….” Austin stops dead as he takes in the scene before him. His boyfriend on his knees arms twisted behind his back by a panting stranger, Bill Goldberg dick in hand about to force it passed Chris’ bloodied lips. The big man’s other hand holding a belt, currently looped tightly around the Canadian’s neck.

He sees red.

Jericho doesn’t take his eyes off Goldberg as he hears Austin’s deep Texan accent fill the room. He doesn’t want to see his almost boyfriend’s face, can’t bare it. As hysterical laughter bubbles into his throat the only thing his dazed mind can comprehend is astonishment. Chris’ gaze changes from remote despair to curiosity as he watches Bill turn towards the intruder.

“He’s going to rape someone and he doesn’t lock the door?” Jericho thinks privately as all hell breaks loose around him.

*********

HE’S FUCKING DEAD! I’m gonna kill him, kill the fucking goddammed SON OF A BITCH. Kill him Fucking DEAD! Yeah, you FUCK, take my shoulder in your gut and gasp you BASTARD. Hit me again, c’mon, HIT ME so I can break your god dammed face. Touch my lover would you, YOU CUNT! Put your filthy hands on his perfect body, huh? Try and put your dick in him? I’m gonna rip your cock off and ram it down your FUCKING THROAT.!! Touch a fucking hair on his head? I’m gonna KILL YOU RIGHT NOW. Don’t curl up, don’t beg ‘cos your DEAD in a minute. You try and rape HIM?!! I LOVE HIM you asshole, he gave himself to me, ME and you don’t get to have him now! UNDERSTAND you MOTHERFUCKER. Before you DIE, understand HE IS MINE. You hurt him, you touch him, YOU DIE!!!

**********

Paul Levesque reaches CJ’s dressing room a split second before the rest of the locker room, roused by the noise from the hallway, mainly Stone Cold’s yelling. Taking in the scene in a glance his first thought is “Austin’s going to kill Goldberg.” Paul’s second thought is “who the fuck is the other guy?” Christian pushes passed him, dropping by Jericho’s kneeling form. Paul’s vaunted cerebral cortex kicks in ordering, ”Jesus. Mark, Test, Lance get Austin off him. Val and Helms grab that other guy.”

In the hubbub that follows, the room seems to fill with wrestlers all trying to hold various combatants apart and checking on injuries. Christian’s voice reaches Paul from across the room,

“Fuck! They tied his wrists with wire! The skin’s cut to ribbons.”

Another furious obscenity from Stone Cold and the trio of wrestlers holding the enraged Texan have to pull him back from the fallen Goldberg again. Bill is curled fetal position on the floor while Flair tries to check him for injuries. Paul can imagine the problem, he can see Goldberg’s jeans lowered to his hips and knows what part of his anatomy he is holding in pain, despite the blood from other wounds. Paul can’t really sympathize, he’d seen Jericho.

Flicking a glance at the man he now recognizes as one of Goldberg’s bodyguards, Paul wades through the throng to the circle of Boyos around the two fair-haired Canadians. That Randy and Maven are also being physically restrained from attacking Bill, does not ease tensions in the slightest.

“Jesus Christian, get the belt off his neck.” Matt Hardy’s voice is wavering between anger and pain. Fuck, they put a belt on him.

Austin must of heard Hardy because he breaks through the wall of bodies between him and Goldberg, planting a hard kick into the bigger man’s back. Once more hefted off his victim the frenzied man’s yelling sounds something like a bear’s growl. Other voices, some raised in anger, some trying to calm the noise, all rise to a cacophony of sound that rattles in Paul’s ears like an arena crowd.

A sharp voice rips into the insanity like a knife.

“LET HIM GO!”

Jericho staggers from the arms of his attendants towards Austin.

*********

Suddenly his arms and legs are released and he can see the FUCKING BASTARD who still isn’t DEAD! He takes a step towards his prey when he is impeded by someone. He looks down slightly, past blonde tangled hair into the eyes that sear his soul. The rage is gone, replaced by…Chris.

My hands are trembling as I lift them to cradle his beautiful bruised face. Those bastards hit him in the face. They made him bleed. I still feel like I wanna smash something but I don’t as I tug my love into my arms. Turning, Chris still in my embrace, I walk us out the door.

******

Sound of fabric tearing like nails on a blackboard.

Sharp crack as wood splinters in my hands.

Bottles impact and break into a million pieces.

The sharp shattering of a glass coffee table like a cry of pain.

Fuck.

My theme music starts with glass breaking.

*******

Didn’t know I had it in me. Kill someone? Yeah, I reckon I could kill. But this? Haven’t done anythin’ like this in my life. I sit on a stained cream carpet and survey what was once a suite in the Hotel Du Monde.

I took all the paintings off the walls.

And smashed them on the bar.

Then I threw the cushions off the couch, turned it over and kicked it into submission. I broke the glass coffee table with my foot, and ripped the curtains from their rod. I tore the couch to shreds with my fingernails and threw the contents of the bar fridge into the wall. Then I tossed the bar fridge onto the balcony. Without opening the glass door.

I don’t feel any better.

I nearly punched out the security guy who knocked on the door. Yelled every obscenity I could think of at him, shoved Vince’s card in his direction, then slammed the door into his face. Literally. I could feel the wood impact with his nose. Reckon he thought I was gonna kill him.

Kill someone? Yeah, I could. If I had to. I wanted to, so very badly. I wanted to watch Gol….him…bleed to death. I want him to suffer…hurt….

Not just because he tried to…

Anyway, that would be reason enough as far as I’m concerned. But I want him to die because I think he’s cost me everything. He’s cost me Chris.

******

He’s so still.

Like a shop mannequin waiting to be dressed.

Jesus. I want to touch him so badly but I’m afraid my hand will freeze if I try. After I got him out of that room, we came here, to my hotel. Christian followed us with our gear and then left. Smart boy. Chris took a shower for about three hours and is now curled on the floor in a fluffy white hotel robe, leaning back against the bedroom door frame.

Looking at me.

I can’t even begin to read him right now. He’s all over ice, like armour. Realisation begins to set in and I start to shake, from cold or anger I don’t know, but Jericho spots it and his eyes snap to my hands. Hands that trembled while I wrapped bandages around his wrists. Thick, stupid fingers that couldn’t hold still while I poured disinfectant onto the cuts. He didn’t flinch. Guess in comparison it was hardly that painful.

After long minutes he moves his eyes off me and surveys the wreck I made of the suite. Fine boned face still, eyes frozen and dead Chris takes stock of the damage.

I know what he’s gonna say. The moment we entered the hotel foyer, when he pulled himself from my arms, I knew. When we stood in the lift, my t-shirt tied around his wrists, I knew. The card sliding though the lock, door opening, Chris just walking towards the bathroom, I knew.

“I’ll wait.” I promise.

“Don’t.” Those glorious sapphire blue eyes lock with mine. There is nothing there anymore. Not for me.

“I’ll wait.” I repeat.

“I don’t want you too.”

“Tough.”

Jericho’s razor eyes just keep cutting into me.

“I don’t want you. Leave.” Anyone else would say his voice was nasty, mean. To me….agony.

We enter a staring contest. One I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I ain’t gonna win. It seems like hours but he doesn’t give up, doesn’t sigh and accept my promise. Just looks at me, like I’m nothing. I want to will him to change his mind. Make him believe I can do this, force him to trust me. But forcing anything out of Chris right now is impossible. And despicable.

I watch in frustrated anger as Chris Jericho goes hard as marble all over. Little by little I see him draw into himself, becoming self sufficient and completely isolated. One piece at a time he cuts me out of him, out of his heart and I can see it happening as if he was using a blade. I though he was cool before this all started. Now he isn’t even cold.

He’s ice.

He could be asking for directions, for all the emotion in his voice. “It was a nice idea Austin, but unrealistic. We should cut our losses and move on.”

Like I could?

“I can’t.”

“Then learn.” It’s flat, final and brutal.

What can I say? No you little bastard I’m not gonna let you push me away. I’m not gonna let you end us before we even began? All the arguments spring to my lips but looking at him I know they won’t work. Jericho isn’t gonna break down and cry in my arms. He’s not gonna deal with his feelings of humiliation and violation by leaning on me and making us strong.

It just doesn’t work that way.

I slowly stand feeling my age like never before and walk to the door. Why do all my conversations with Chris take place in hotel rooms? I feel bitterness rise in my gut. Anger that, given the circumstances is selfish and pathetic. God I’m a selfish prick. An asshole who won’t give his rape surviving boyfriend a chance to deal with anything. Selfish, stupid. I should stay. Should argue that I’ll stick around no matter what shit he’s dealing with. Weather he wants me or not.

But I’m leaving and I can’t stop my tongue.

“Nice idea? Huh? That all? Fuckin’ heaven to me!” I spit at him.

I slam the door as I leave.

******

Sapphire eyes stare silently into the darkness.

“Love you…Darlin’.”

Fic: Crave Part 6.

2009-05-23T12:49:15Z

My hotel room is all tidy because I just checked in and the bar fridge is full. I think I’m nervous. Wandering around the suite like a caged wolf. I think I’m very impatient as well. Where the hell is he?

I let my gaze linger on the bed, imagining all the fucking I would love to indulge in with Chris. Probably not tonight, I tell my cock. First date and all that. But I can wish can’t I? Wonder what it would feel like to have him under me, legs wrapped around my waist while I ease into his tight ass. Burying my face in his hair, hearing him gasp and beg while I fuck him long and slow. All night.

“Those bedspreads are truly hypnotizing I know.” His voice rips me from my almost wet dream.

I spin around to stare at the object of my lust lounging in my hotel room doorway. Hair across his shoulders, blue eyes a bit…cautious? I stare at him numbly.

His smile falters a little.

“The door was open. If you want to let this go I…”

Chris doesn’t even finish the sentence as I’m across the room sliding a hand around his waist to pull him inside, shutting the door behind him with the other. I look down into his eyes as I tighten the half-embrace in which he’s trapped. Very deliberately I lock the door. His eyebrows go up.

I realize he’s holding a six-pack.

Did I mention I love the little bastard?

“Do ya have any idea what it does to me to see ya, in my room, with beer?”

The sexy smile is back, blue eyes now bright with amusement.

“Why do you think I keep buying it for you?”

“Ha.” God I’m a fool. I lean forward to lightly nuzzle the golden curve of Chris’ neck. I feel his body melt, curving into mine like molasses. The air around us stills for a second then shifts as Chris draws in a deep breath and lets it out as a sigh. I try to hold on but he moves out of my arms. Dropping the beer onto the small kitchen counter Jericho walks to the other side of the couch.

“What?” If he changes his mind about this I’m gonna kick his ass across the room.

The sharp blue eyes look directly into mine.

“We met...what?...four years ago?” Chris enquires.

“’bout that. Why?” Kick it down the hallway too.

“We had a signing for the third music CD.” I’m lost and I let my expression show it. “You, me and Debra.” He finishes with eyebrows raised.

Whatthefuck?

“So?” I’m down to one syllable it seems.

The only sound in the room is the rustle of Chris’ shirt as he crosses his arms across his chest.

“So. You are Stone Cold Steve Austin. The Toughest SOB in the World Wrestling Federation. Austin 3:16 said I just kicked your ass. Etcetera, etcetera.” Might kick his ass down the stairs too.

“And?” Like pulling fuckin’ teeth this conversation.

“And…” Jericho’s look becomes even more intense. “You married Deb a month after that signing.”

A pause. “Married.”

Another pause. “A woman.”

To say I’m a bit thrown here would be like saying Goldberg is a bit of a bastard. “Yeah so?”

It’s like Chris suddenly drops the icy bitch attitude, letting his arms fall to the sides he begins to pace.

“I have never, in four years, seen you even look at another man Austin. I know Bradshaw tried to get into your pants, but rumour is you turned him down by breaking his nose.” He prowls the room like the big golden wildcat everyone compares him too.

“It was his jaw.” I correct absently.

Those long fingers ruffle through golden hair. He flicks me a blue sideways look, but stays silent.

Oh. I fuckin’ get it.

“Ya wanna know why I’ve switched sides?” I ask incredulously.

Jericho’s face stills then relaxes into a smile. “Guess so.”

I make like I’m seriously thinking about my answer.

“I haven’t.”

His smile freezes.

I can be a bastard too remember.

“I, as Debra the bitch wife from hell will attest to, will fuck any thing that moves.”

The smile warms again.

“And if it doesn’t move…I’ll push it.” I snigger.

A snort of laughter from Chris. “As long as it’s breathing,” he agrees.

“As long as it’s still warm.” I concur.

Jericho shakes his head in despair. “Such a romantic.”

“Romance? Fuck that! I tried romance with Debra and she’s still a complete bitch.” Better we settle this now than it comes back to bite me on the ass later. “Just ‘cos I never did anyone from the locker room, doesn’t mean I never go for guys.” I gesture between us. “Case in point Gorgeous.”

“And Bradshaw?” His eyes are curious now.

I stare at him in shock. “Would you fuck Bradshaw?”

He thinks that over for a second. “Ahh no.”

“So there ya are.” Grinning now I relax the grip my hands had unconsciously taken on the back of a chair.

Posture now more at ease, Chris leans a hip against the couch. “So here we are.”

“And this?” I gestures to the space between us.

“The couch?” He inquires.

“Nah ya Prick. I mean this!” I begin to stalk around the couch, ready to pounce on his cute Canadian ass.

He nimbly avoids me. “What? Our URST?”

Stunned I stop my hunt. “What?”

Hands once again on slim hips he looks disappointed that I’ve stopped moving.

“Unresolved Sexual Tension.” Like a professor or something.

“Unresolved SEXual Tension? Huh?” I begin the prowl again. Chris resumes his attempt to flee.

A smirk. “You would emphasis the middle.” He teases.

“Well the ‘Unresolved’ bit ain’t gonna be the case much longer.” I make a grab. “Now c’mere.”

I tackle Chris and we fall to the couch in a tangle of blonde hair and blue jeans.

I swear he tastes better each time.

After a couple of minutes of tangled tongues and me trying to unzip vinyl pants that I discover are button fly, we surface for air.

Deciding I can play cock tease with the best of them, I heft myself off my gorgeous new fuck-toy and wander into the little kitchen.

Pulling a beer from the ring I pop it open and look to my guest.

He blinks at me from sex dazed sapphire blue eyes and takes a second to focus.

Ha.

“Want one?” I offer generously.

“Definitely.” I toss him a can, which he catches easily. This sparks a memory as I settle back on the couch.

“I can’t believe ya dropped that beer.” I snicker at him.

Jericho rolls his eyes. “I didn’t. You throw like a girl. Actually the girls I know throw better than you.” He sits crossed legged next to me. In easy reach.

“No way. Ya missed the beer. Chris, I’m-So-Coordinated-A Tiger-Would-Be-Jealous, Jericho needed a kiddy throw to catch a can from five feet away.” I tease ruthlessly.

“You are delusional,” my soon to be lover insults me. “And ‘Drunk With Power’.” Chris smiles nastily.

“Any chance I can get Darlin’,” I bare my teeth at him.

His beer can thumps onto the coffee table as ”oomph” Chris launches himself onto me. Good thing we both like it when he’s on top. I collect two handfuls vinyl and start to growl like some freakin’ beast when….

….de, de dah, da, da dah, de, de dah, da, da, dah, de, de, dah, da, da, dah daa-daa….

All movement from the God of Sex stops as the music echoes through the room.

Sapphire eyes lock onto mine.

“You have Rawhide as your ring tone?” Chris asks.

“Yeah so?” Regretfully, I toss Jericho onto the floor and grab at my bag near the bed.

Lifting his crossed ankles to rest on the disordered couch, Chris watches upside down as I answer my cellular.

“What?”

I ignore the snort from the floor.

Fuck. It’s JR.

“Yeah.” I’m only half listening as Chris’ shirt has ridden up and I can see the tanned skin of his abdomen above the Sinful Pants.

“What? Now?!!” That registers. “Fine, I’ll be there in five.”

I hang up.

“So I’m dating a superstar and he’s never around.” With a move that uses far more back muscles than most people have, Chris twists to his feet.

Like I’m gonna cop that. “Says Mr-Can’t-Miss-A-House-Show-Or-The-World-Will-End.”

Jericho flips me the bird.

Adjusting his clothes, Chris walks to the door. “I’m flying out at 7am. You?”

“Same flight.” I grab my keys and follow him to the door. I cover his hand as it catches the handle. “Ever had a blow job in an airplane toilet?” I whisper into his neck. Yeah I gotta thing for necks, and asses, and hair, and eyes….

“Not that I remember.” Chris’ whisper has the sexy husky tone I just fuckin’ adore.

I twist the handle, exposing us to the world.

“Then I’ll see you at seven.” I promise.

I watch as Jericho wanders back to his room.

“Darlin’” His head shoots around but by then I’ve made it to the elevator.

Score one me.

Almost.

*******

7.13am

******

I wonder if I concentrate hard enough I can make Hunter’s head explode?

nnnnggghhhhnnnn

Damn.

Didn’t work.

Woulda been perfect. Hunter’s brain matter all over the airline upholstery and Chris, MY Chris, no longer caught by the World Heavyweight Champion’s need for a heart to heart four seats across. Chris in my lap while I do stuff that’ll freak out the stewardess.

Miss Itty Bitty Skirt, keeps checking him out.

Try again with the head thing.

Nnnngggghhhnnnnn

Think I’m all outta luck there.

Oh fer crying out loud….

Yes HONEY, they are both BLOND and gorgeous, but one’s married and the other’s MINE so piss off and get me a beer.

Yeah, I’m a sexist prick, but that’s her job.

There’s like two peanuts in this packet! How can a man survive on that?

Wonder what they’re saying.

I stare mournfully at the toilet, ignoring Kurt’s worried expression, and pray for Hunter to drop dead.

10.07am

*******

“What’s yer name kid?” I ask.

I really do like my fans. They kick ass all over anyone else’s because, well, they’re mine. Sometimes, though, I really, really wish I wasn’t who I was.

Like now. When nearly sixty people stand between me and the baggage area where my SOON TO BE NAILED IN THE BACKSEAT OF A TAXI, potential lover is leaning provocatively against his luggage trolley.

If you thought luggage trolleys weren’t sexy then ya haven’t seen Jericho within three feet of one.

“Sure I can. How do ya spell that?” Smiling I take the marker.

11.35am

*******

“I…I…just...just can’t seem to find the...the…booking Mr Austin.” The silly chit says in nervy voice.

I’d almost feel sorry for the receptionist except it’s my room she’s lost and I’m an angry, sexually frustrated pro wrestler who drinks too much with a bad reputation.

I’d be afraid of me, come to think of it.

“Listen Doll. I know yer doin yer best but I really, really have to have a room in this hotel. Do ya understand?” She stares at me numbly.

It’s now fifteen hours since I last had my hands on Jericho.

Cranky is not the word.

“I’ll…um…call the Day Supervisor.”

I blame Vince.

1.27pm

******

Ya know I’ve never realized how much of a turn on the Lionsault is.

I mean, I know it’s a blond guy doing a back flip off a big rubber band and all, but it’s really sexy watching him perform it. Even without someone to land on.

And let’s not fuckin’ talk about when he lands it on his feet!

If I wasn’t already in love, watching Jericho rehearse his moves is making me want to squeal like a fan girl.

Well, maybe not.

I think I’m going insane from MSB.

Massive Sperm Buildup.

5.23pm

******

I’ve decided Maven doesn’t have an off switch.

“...then Jaqueline literally rips the locker open with her fingernails and hands Randy the car keys….”

I could wrap my knee brace around his throat.

“…So he’s like, okay, I’m driving I guess…”

Could try the brain splatter thing.

8.04pm

******

Prepping thumb and forefinger I pinch that cute ass then duck as Chris instinctively swings around to take my head off.

“Christ Austin, you don’t like breathing much do you?” he snarls.

I grab Jericho’s wrist, leading him behind the blackout curtain.

“I’ve been achin’ to do that all day,” I inform the blonde as I try to back him up against a partition with ‘Employees only’ printed on it.

Resisting my not so gentle shove, Jericho takes hold of my ears and forces my face from his neck.

“Fight the ache Babe, we’re working,” but the blue eyes are warm and amused.

Grabbing Chris’ wrists I get back to work on the golden curve of neck, gently sinking in my teeth. The 200 odd pounds of muscle squirm enticingly against me so I bite a bit harder, leaving a red mark that’ll bruise by tonight.

I’m actually surprised it takes him as long as it does. By doing some weird Canadian shit with his ankle, Chris reverses our positions. Soft, pink lips hover an inch from mine.

“Austin?” The husky voice has its usual effect on my crotch.

“Darlin’?”

“We’ll deal with your aches later,” I knew he was as hot on the inside as he looks on the outside.

“’Bout, fuckin’ time!” I never meant a sentence more in my life.

******

Fic: Crave Part 5.

2009-05-23T12:46:44Z

All I can say as I drink my beer at the bar is “Damn. Paul’s a fuckin’ loser when he’s plastered.”

“Yeah. He’s only had a couple of shots of vodka.” Dwayne chimes in from the next stool.

Paul and Steph are getting married in three weeks. The entire male locker room, and most of Paul’s non-wrestler buddies, are inflicting a bachelor party on the groom that will soon become legendary. So far I’ve seen strippers, an on-stage girl on girl orgy, too much rich catered food and enough alcohol to leave even me blinking in wonder. Nearly a hundred of us have been to bars and clubs across NYC causing as much mayhem as our drunkenness can manage. We’ve finished up in the private ballroom of a top of the line hotel, with a free bar and more strippers. Paul is currently wank-dancing with a thong wearing cowgirl, a french maid and pink sequined twins, while his friends toss beer nuts and bottle tops at him.

“He’s not a very good dancer,” Kurt Angle comments critically.

“That’s dancing?” Dwayne asks curiously.

“I think so.” Kurt seems uncertain.

“Looks like a cat trying to hack up a fur ball.” I decide.

“Cat’s are more graceful.” Jericho wanders in our direction from a group of just conscious Boyos. Damn but I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s semi-formal like the rest of us, in gray pants and a pearly blue-green shirt. On me this look is kinda weird, on Jericho it’s cock hardening.

“Hey Chris. Is Maven ok?” Dwayne looks back towards the circle of young wrestlers.

The smaller man smirks. “He’ll regret the Chartreuse tomorrow. Right now, Matt’s shoes are not too happy about it either.”

Dwayne’s ‘photo perfect nose wrinkles in distaste. “Stupid kid. Did he do it on a dare?”

“No. He thought it was a pretty colour.” Chris leaned against the bar next to me. “He’d had about ten beers at the time.”

“He’s doing the Chicken Dance,” Kurt proclaimed.

Four pairs of eyes turned to the stage at the far end of the room.

A stunned silence settles across the bar.

“No. It’s the Moonwalk.” Dwayne tries to keep the laughter from his voice.

Kurt shakes his head in disagreement “The Chicken Dance. See, his arms are flapping like wings.”

“I think that’s to correct his balance.” Jericho tilts his head to one side.

I want to peel my eyes away from the stage but it’s like a watching a car wreck.

“Damn. That’s the worst dancing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I state honestly and turn back to the bar.

“Cowgirl nearly got taken out by a wing. She’s diving for cover.” Chris informs me after a moment or two.

“What is that?” Kurt sounds horrified.

“Illegal in some countries.” Even the icy Canadian’s voice is bubbling with laughter.

I don’t wanna see, I don’t wanna see, I don’t wanna see.

Chris begins a play by play as I stare fixedly at my beer bottle.

“Cowgirl has womanfully recovered from the near miss and has rejoined the group. Paul is still..er..trying to..”

“Hang himself with his tie,” Dwayne isn’t even trying to not chuckle.

“…take it off I think, but it’s twisted around the back…”

“He’s looks like my dog.” Kurt is entranced.

“…he’s given up on the tie and is going for his belt. The Twins are all for it but Maid is a bit dubious. She witnessed the tie incident so I don’t blame her…”

“I don’t want to see Paul half-naked.” I wonder at the offended tone in Kurt’s voice.

“…he’s found the buckle. Trust me it took a while...”

“You see Paul half naked every day.” I can’t help but point out to Kurt.

”…the Twins are sliding up and down his legs. Very sexy and quite good for the calves but not good for Paul’s center of gravity…”

“Yeah, but that’s work.” Kurt seems to see a difference.

“…the buckle’s open but he’s lost interest. Cowgirl did a spin and he caught sight of the thong…”

“Oh shit. He stepped on her foot.” Dwayne is starting to hiccup.

“…Cowgirl has had enough. She’s off to Texas to ride horses in a thong and sparkly nipple-things…

“Chris gimme a break,” I’m snorting with laughter now.

“…Maid is staying clear of Paul’s feet, but she’s hanging in there. The Twins are now kissing each other which seems wrong on one level…”

“Are they really sisters?” Kurt asks ingenuinely. “Because it looks hot, but that’s just weird.”

“…despite the hillbilly instincts of the Twins, Paul has decided to stop stripping…”

“Thank the Lord for that.” Dwayne gasps.

“…and is preparing to..uh…” Jericho straightens up from the bar. “Kurt, Dwayne…”

Whatever Jericho was going to say is lost in the loud cheering from the assembled onlookers. I resist the urge to turn around. I just don’t wanna see. “What?”

“Do you think he’s hurt?” Kurt sounds worried.

Dwayne has managed to get himself under control. “He wouldn’t feel it anyway.”

“Feel what?” I demand.

“Paul decided to stage dive onto the Dudley’s. It seems Bubba-Ray caught him but as he’s full of beer too, it got ugly.” Chris has resumed his relaxed posture against the bar. I wonder how much whiskey he’s had and if I can get him drunk maybe I can….

“Fuck Chris!” Exactly. “What did you teach Jindrak about arm wrestling?” Dwayne’s been watching an impromptu tough guy comp near the stage.

“Not to compete. Why?” Jericho follows Dwayne’s gaze.

“Because I think he’s just bet $50 he can beat Steiner.”

Chris’ leaves his drink near my arm and with a sigh heads over to the circle forming beneath the gyrating Twins.

The four of us spend the rest of the night near the bar. Around 4am Kurt starts to doze while Dwayne rambles incessantly about how much he misses us. He’s genuine I know but he doesn’t realize we don’t resent his movie success. My God, if I could pull in what he gets for a film and not fuck my body up at the same time you wouldn’t catch me apologizing to anyone.

Jericho’s based his drink with me as he keeps leaving to snag any wayward Boyos like a mother tiger with cubs. Moves like a cat too. Virtually emitting pheromones that say, “I’m gorgeous, but touch my fur and I’ll scratch you.” I’m getting nicely hammered here, thank you and fuck, he walks like a Fucking Cat OK?

My cock aches.

*1 hour later*

It’s Randy. Of course it’s fuckin’ Randy. He’s got a temper like a pit bull when he’s full and he’s been drinking like a fish since 10pm. I found out later one of the Smackdown newbies made some comment about Chris and Jeff. Randy, still riled up about Goldberg, got aggressive and shoved the dumb fuck into his mates. Now this kid happens to be a protégé of Eddie Guerrero, who is on edge tonight because of all the booze. I respect that he’s had problems with alcohol and tonight would be fuckin’ awful if I was on the wagon, but he then gets in Orton’s face and yells in Hispanic about Randy’s dad. Bad idea ‘cos the kid speaks the lingo and takes a shot at the crazy Latino.

I turn Jericho around by the shoulder as I see this, but by the time he’s halfway there it’s a free for all. Raw vs. Smackdown, wrestlers vs. non-wrestler, veteran vs. newbie they’re all going at it. Wading in, I’m glad I’m as drunk as everyone else because if there were any co-ordination in the room it would get nasty. Instead it’s wild haymakers, head butts that do more damage to the butt-er rather than the butt-ee and wrestle locks that don’t really get applied properly. Like the lust-sick fool that I am I try to protect Jericho as he tracks down various Boyos and pulls them out. But the Boyos are drunk, young and having fun, so as soon as Chris lets go of one they dive back into the melee.

“Let it go,” I yell as I unsteadily duck Glenn’s roundhouse at Rhyno. “They won’t be hurt that bad.”

He must have heard me because he begins to head out of the melee. Occasionally tripping someone who got on his nerves lately or helping a friend in trouble with a well placed jab.

The brawl is in full swing as we dart towards the stage. Jericho leaps up with that god damned cat DNA of his while my knees make me crawl up a like an old man. We dodge behind the heavy curtain to find the Maid, Cowgirl and Twins from Paul’s earlier performance cowering behind the sound system. Their ‘protection’ a large black guy in sunglasses, is worried because most of the guys in the brawl are bigger than he is. Chris bowls up to this dude and starts a hurried conversation while the girls begin to freak in case Jericho’s trying to buy ‘em or something.

“Cool. Thanks Kid.” The guy misses the surprised look on the Canadian’s face as he rounds up his charges and heads backstage towards what I guess is the kitchens.

“Kid?” I tease.

“He’s just happy to see someone shorter than him. Is ‘Taker actually trying to pick up Henry?” Chris has moved to the edge of the curtain and is watching the melee beneath us. It was true. As gone as the rest of us, Mark Calloway was hernia bound in his attempt to lift Henry without the big man’s help.

The Boyos seemed to be trying to take out the entire Smackdown Cruiserweight division but the quick little buggers are giving them a run for their money.

“Ya’d think people that spend all day practicing to hurt each other would be doing a better job of the real thing.” I’m almost tempted to wade back in, my duty as old man of the locker room coming to the fore. Then I see Batista get hit with a shoulder to the chest that makes me wince, so I resist temptation. I catch sight of Eddie Guerrero fall backwards into Rodney Mack’s arms.

I look down to see the gorgeous Canadian sitting crossed legged beside me on the stage. From somewhere Chris has found a pile of tennis balls and is pelting various wrestlers with the small green projectiles. Benoit, struck with pinpoint accuracy keels over and a half dozen wrestlers dive for cover as Paul Wright, not known for his balance looses his precarious footing. The impact causes a ripple across the dance floor. The domino effect continues as wrestlers drop, felled by the beautiful blond at my feet. I reach down and snatch a tennis ball from Chris’ lap and take aim.

“Whoops. That was Kurt,” Jericho’s voice is husky with laughter, the sound goes straight to my groin. “Go on. The one with the sideburns, he’s a frat buddy of Paul’s if ever there was one.”

The frat buddy went down, as did Eric Bischoff behind him and several other guys who’d pissed me off for one reason or another. Gurgling with laughter Chris jumps to his feet at the same time as several brawlers catch sight of us and decide to return us to the fun. Without really thinking I grab my partner’s wrist and run across the stage to the hallway previously taken by the fleeing strippers.

We’re heading towards an exit with Benoit, Rico and three of Paul’s friends in hot pursuit when Chris tugs on the arm I’m pulling him by, directing me into a utility stairwell. Managing to put four floors between our pursuers and us we stop, clutching our sides, gasping from laughter and lack of oxygen.

Chris looks up at me, flushed and smiling joyously. His eyes are sparkling with excitement and mirth. My body acts without consulting my brain.

“Fuck Chris. Why can’t ya be like this all the time?” I ask as I reach out to take what I have longed so very much for.

Tangling one hand in that wild honey hair, I slide the other around a slim waist to rest on his tailbone.

I close the distance between us.

His mouth, oh dear lord, is like heaven and hell.

Soft, silky lips and hot, spicy depths that I never want to stop exploring.

Hard body relaxing against mine as I trap him against the stairwell wall.

I tighten my fingers in Chris’ hair, tilting his head slightly so I can deepen the kiss.

My tongue flicks and curls around his.

So incredibly hot.

Someone’s growling like a wolf. I think it’s me.

I pull back slightly, breaking the kiss.

A surge of triumph rips through me as I look at his inhumanly beautiful face.

Eyelids flutter open. His eyes are huge, black nearly consuming the blue irises.

I moan as his tongue gently wets those incredible lips.

Pressing forward, I nuzzle at his mouth until once more I’m tasting heaven.

A slammed door and burst of laughter echoes around us. But unlike in the movies we don’t blushingly jump apart. I’m still kissing the man I’m pretty sure I’m in love with and no fuckin’ door is going to ruin it now. Our mouths break apart again but this time Chris is staring at me with an expression I, for the life of me, can’t read.

“That was a mistake.” No! Please God no ice, please!

“Not for me,” my voice is so low and husky I almost don’t recognize it. Chris hasn’t pulled out of my embrace. He could without a doubt do it in a second, but instead he’s politely waiting for me to let him go. Reluctantly I release his delectable body and step back to lean against the railing.

“I’m going to check on the kids to make sure there isn’t anything more than bruises.” Damn him he’s all Prince of Egypt icicle again.

But inside he burns.

“Sure.” I don’t move my eyes from those slightly flushed delicate cheekbones. My primitive side crows at him loosing composure because of me, ME!

Without another word he spins on one heel and heads downstairs to check on his Boyos. I fix my gaze on his cute Canadian ass as I let a broad smile cross my face.

He kissed me back.

*****

“Seen Jericho?” I ask.

“Yeah Austin, he’s grabbing a water.”

“In his dressing room.”

“If you see him you tell him from me that he can go to hell…”

“Why? What’s he done this time?”

“No, probably getting ready for his match.”

“Talking to Cade in the Locker room.”

“Haven’t seen him since his match.”

“With the trainer.”

I’ve been trying to track down the little bastard all week. I think he’s avoiding me. On Saturday by the time I got back to the “Brawl in the Ballroom” as it’s now known, Chris had checked on his Boyos and bolted back to his hotel. Shelving my plans to pour whiskey all over him and then lick it off, I caught a cab to my hotel and slept till noon.

At the house show I finally corner Chris in his dressing room after his match. I walk in without knocking, to find Jericho toweling his hair dry. Cursing that I missed my cute little blond all soapy and wet, I walk boldly into his personal space and slide my arms around his slim waist. Leaning my nose inches away from his I whisper, “Hit me.”

He blinks, probably in shock at my ballsiness, and freezes up in my arms. No way.

“No way Chris. Ya deck me or break my wrist or somethin’. Hit me or I ain’t letting go.”

Every muscle in Jericho’s body is tense. I can feel it. He seems to be weighing up his options. That he hasn’t handed me my head already sends happy little buzzes to my cock. That and the snug connection it has with Chris’s cotton clad stomach. Very slowly he puts those beautiful long-fingered hands on my biceps. Eyes of the most unusual shade of blue meet mine.

“Austin. This is the worst idea you have ever had. You were drunk. It’s forgotten.” He says carefully.

“Really?” I snort unimpressed. “Then I better remind ya.”

I close those tiny inches and run my tongue across his bottom lip. He jumps and tries to pull away, but I tighten my hold on him and deepen the kiss. Chris’ mouth is as delicious as I remember, so sweet and hot, that I could just stand here all day kissing him. I’m feelin’ the growl start in my chest again as our lips slide against each other and my cock springs to life in my too-tight jean shorts.

After about a year I pull back slightly. His eyes are shut again, his breathing uneven. I rub my cheek against his like a cat and murmur into his ear, “Hit me now or I never let go.” I mean it, he has one chance to get away from me, one. After this he’s mine.

His voice is husky with that slightly gravelly note in it that makes the girly fans scream.

“I don’t want to hit you.”

Mine.

**********

I’ve discovered the couch in Chris’ locker room is softer than the one I got. Maybe because I’ve never sat on mine with a gorgeous Canadian straddling my lap as I grab two handfuls of the finest ass I’ve ever encountered. His damp hair curtains our faces as we kiss. He’s an awesome kisser. Hot and wet with the right pressure, but mixed with sexy nibble pecks that have me hard as a rock. No pun Dwayne. My beautiful new boyfriend is also nicely turned on if the temperature of his skin and the erection pressing against my stomach is any indication.

“Fuck Baby yeah,” I’m growling non-stop now as he presses closer to me, knees sinking into the couch on either side of my hips.

“Hurry the fuck up Jericho, Vince is waiting.” Paul’s voice is a loud unwelcome intrusion, along with the banging of his hand on the door.

“Vince can bite me.” Chris murmurs against my lips.

“I’ll break his face if he tries,” I’m all possessive, Beast Man at the moment.

Chris giggles. Really.

He just giggled.

“My hero.” With a sigh my blonde babe lifts himself from my lap and tries to adjust his leather pants. His shirt’s been untucked by my groping hands and falls over his groin. I stay exactly where I am. Sprawled, hard-on obvious, legs parted, licking my lips as I watch him move around the room.

Chris unlocks the door, turning sapphire eyes on me.

“Can I call around to your room tonight?”

Oh hell yeah!

“Oh Hell Yeah!” I’m off the couch in a second, kissing him hard. “You better.” I threaten.

With a wink and a smirk Chris open the door, carefully shielding me from the hall while he leaves.

I fall back onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. Tonight.

******

Fic: Crave Part 4.

2009-05-23T12:41:32Z

“So I’ll leave you two to plan some ideas.” The owner of World Wrestling Entertainment heartily slaps our shoulders and departs, surrounded by minions.

Eric Bischoff stares at me from across our table in the private dining room of our hotel in New York. Vince had commandeered the room for his employees and ‘invited’ Eric and me to breakfast. As we lock eyes over scrambled eggs the other wrestlers filter in, looking for coffee.

“Can I tell you how much I hate this idea?” Eric asks.

I grab my fork ‘cause I’m starving. “What? Breakfast or being Co-General Managers?”

“Both.” He sighs and stares at his plate.

“Person’ly I like it.” I spear a bit of sausage and start chomping down.

Eric grimaces at me. “You would. You get to cause trouble, insult me, give me Stunners and drive trucks around the arena. I get to be an asshole.”

“You are an asshole Eric.” I point out.

Raw’s General Manager sighs again and covers his eyes with one hand.

“Why couldn’t I go to Smackdown?” he mumbles.

“’Cause Raw is the flagship and ya talents are needed here.” I parrot Vince’s motivational speech from ten minutes ago, using my fork to encompass the Raw roster now enjoying their caffeine infusions. “’sides with Vince going off the air I need someone to piss off and throw beer at.”

Eric looks at me from between his fingers. “I hate you.”

“Good.”

Temporary silence as Eric sulks and I eat.

“I do realize things haven’t been exactly easy going since I arrived here...” he begins.

“What?”

“..and so I accept that it would be good for ratings and the back stage status quo…”

“What?”

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“THAT?” Eric yells, causing several sets of eyes to turn to us.

“Just practicing,” I grin my biggest shit-eating grin at him.

“Well don’t.” Eric launches into an impressive argument about the business and how at WCW he was doing the best for the company etc, etc.

I give up paying attention after about two seconds because Jericho just walked in for breakfast. Using Eric as cover I grab an eyeful of the blonde. Starting at runners and bare golden legs, up over cut-off jeans and long sleeved tee-shirt, hair pulled back and gold rimmed glasses.

Aha.

Chris suffered from occasional migraines, causing vision problems for twenty-four hours afterwards. That would explain the casual clothes and the huge coffee he just grabbed.

Is it just me or are those glasses a real turn on? I have a fantasy of making him wear them while I drill him through the mattress.

“Vince hates me.” I return my attention to Eric as he flashes a nasty look at the door.

“Well yeah.” I agree.

At his dirty look I continue. “Ya see Eric, I understand what you were doing back in the day. I really do. Ya made business decisions based on the influence of powerful people. A lot of them were good decisions, but most of them totally sucked. Now ya have to deal with all those guys you pissed off and insulted. And ya know who the most insulted person was?” I ask.

“Vince.” Another sigh.

“No. Ya stupid prick. Vince’s balls are made of iron, he never gave a shit about anything you guys did, he just wanted to beat you in the ratings. No the person ya fucked with was Mick. Ya had yer guys put him down and make fun of his work at the peak of his career and that was a really shitty thing to do. Now ya are in the place Mick worked, with his friends and the guys ya fucked over at WCW are in the same locker room.” I gesture at him with my fork to make my point. “Ya gotta live with the consequences of being such a bastard.”

“Stop waving that sausage at me!” Eric demands a little too loudly. Conversation ceases in the dining room as all stop to look at us for a moment.

I grin at Eric again. “My point is, yer gonna have to take the humiliation and the shit till everyone sees ya suffered enough or until they just can’t be bothered laughing any more.”

“Oh brilliant. Thank you for your insight Oh Wise One. I accept that I’m not popular but this is a business and…” Bischoff begins

“Jesus Eric, I haven’t seen anyone get so many glares since Sable left.”

He’s gone a bit red now and I see that I’m probably just pissing him off and making him feel worse about things.

Good.

“I really hate you and I hate Vince. This is going to be awful.” Eric moans.

I burp, extremely satisfied with my lot in life.

“Just wait till Jericho gets involved.” I tease.

Eric literally shudders.

“Ya thought I was a pain in the ass. Ya have any idea how much that guy hates yer guts?”

He nods, checking his watch.

“I’m leaving.” He says pushing back his chair.

“Nice talking with ya Eric. I got some great ideas for our Pay Per View. How ya like the idea of a pie-eating contest?” I taunt.

Eric sighs for the hundredth time and leaves.

I push my chair back on its hind legs and savour the moment. Grinning I watch as Chris Jericho slides gracefully into the seat opposite me.

“That looked like fun.”

“It was.” I smirk. “Tell ya something Chris. I’m gonna be grinning all month if this goes the way I see it going.”

Jericho leans an elbow on the table, resting chin in hand. “Eric Bischoff harassed, humiliated and hopefully Stunnered by Stone Cold on a regular basis. Dreams can come true.”

I wish. I return Chris’s nasty smile, eyeing those glasses.

*******

Bad Blood

June 15, 2003.

I stomp towards the curtain to see Randy and Maven glaring angrily through it into the arena. They both move back as Jericho bursts through brutally ignoring the assistants and trainers that await him. Panting, sweaty and half-naked he’s something out my wet dreams but the solid ice in his eyes would shrivel any libido in its’ tracks. Randy’s about to speak when Jericho raises a hand for silence and continues on like a bullet to the locker room.

“Chris!” Only Vince’s voice is enough to halt the Canadian’s enraged stalk. Just.

“Vince.” That sexy voice is barely civil.

“That was an excellent match Chris. I realize this hasn’t been easy…” Vince begins to try and sooth his volatile employee.

“Vince.” Chris moves to stand nose to neck with his boss. “As of this moment the feud is finished. I will not continue it, even if it means my contract.” Jericho face is almost white with rage. “If I find myself alone with him in the ring again, I will not control my actions and I WILL hurt him. So you make it clear to him to stay out of my way.”

Even Vince acknowledges the seriousness of Chris’ threat and nods sternly in agreement.

“Of course. That’s it Chris I swear, he’ll feud with Paul now. Maybe only a tag or something that’s it.” Vince tries to appease the enraged blonde.

With an equally stern nod Jericho swings away from WWE’s owner and storms once more towards the locker room.

“Oh and if you could stop him from killing my fans I’d appreciate it.” The sarcastic comment floats back to us.

I just stand and glare at Vince until he looks at me.

“What?” He’s pissy now, cause Jericho handed him his balls.

“No-one is happy with this situation Vince. Chris may hurt him but if he doesn’t keep his fuckin’ hands to himself he’s going to loose them.” I snarl.

Vince blinks. “What? Was it that bad? I didn’t see anything.”

“Because ya ain’t wrestled the same moves for ten years and know the right place to hold a guy Vince. That could’a been goddammn sexual harassment out there if a lawyer knew what to look for.” I explain.

We’d all seen it as we’d watched backstage on the monitor. Hands that are supposed to be on hips on curved ass-cheeks. Arms around a waist for a rear bear hug that should have been a suplex. A pin applied with legs in the incorrect position. It was a perversion of our work and despite what many would say, in the ring we are all professionals. We have to be. Too dangerous to try to feel up a guy when you could snap your damn neck. And for Chris to have continued to execute a clean match while enduring all that shit was a credit to him.

No way I wouldn’t have kicked the guy in the balls first time he tried something.

“Right...well..” Vince coughs uncomfortably. “I’ll have a conversation with him. Tell him once and for all to let it go or there’ll be consequences.”

“Yeah Vince there will be.” I agree.

Because if he touches Jericho again, I’m gonna kill him.

*****