You’ll No Longer Burn by linaerys (NC-17)

[sandystarr88.livejournal.com]

Fandom: HEROES
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Length: ~11,000
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: Linaerys's Fan Fiction
Why this must be read:

Because this piece is an exploration of Peter's powers and the relationship between these two brothers, [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] does an amazing job showing the struggles Peter has trying to gain control of his abilities as well as figuring out where he stands with Nathan after everything that has happened. A very satisfying story, that everyone should read.

The first big storm came on Thanksgiving, whiting out the windows around the cabin. There was a small wall calendar in the cabin’s kitchenette, and Nathan crossed off the days there, saw when his birthday passed, let it go by without comment.

Forty should mean something, he thought, but up here it didn’t. In New York he might have thrown a big party, an opportunity for political networking, and shoring up alliances before the House was in session. An opportunity for Heidi to dance again, perhaps, for Simon and Monty to wear their kids’ tuxes, he thought, allowing himself the luxury of regret while Peter was out of the house, too far away to hear his thoughts.

“Happy Birthday,” Peter said. “Belated. Sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s okay,” said Nathan, after waiting a beat too long. He held Peter’s gaze for a moment before Peter looked away again.

Nathan had bought a turkey, the fixings for stuffing, some canned cranberry relish and a frozen Sara Lee pumpkin pie on his Sunday trip into town. It surprised him, the satisfaction he got out of these little, homey duties, the little successes like making a hot dinner, keeping the cabin warm, shoveling the snow from behind the truck’s wheels.

“Come home early today,” said Nathan when Peter went out into the woods to practice. Home, Nathan thought. No, it wasn’t that.

The flakes were falling thick when Peter came back that afternoon. “I was flying,” he said, a subdued note of wonder in his voice. He brushed the snow off his shoulders and hung up his canvas coat by the door. “What are you making?”

“Thanksgiving dinner,” said Nathan. “Flying?”

“Flying while invisible.”

Nathan nodded. “Multi-tasking.”

Peter walked over to the stove and stood next to Nathan, warming his hands over the pot of mashed potatoes. “It’s cold up there,” he said.

Nathan brushed some snow out of Peter’s hair. It fell on the hot stovetop and sputtered until it boiled away.

“Think we’ll get snowed in?” Peter asked.

“Not this time, but I’ve been stocking up on canned goods.” Nathan shook his head at that, at how narrow their lives had become.

The turkey came out charred on the outside and underdone near the bone. Peter, ever loyal, blamed the finicky oven, but Nathan knew his lack of talent in the kitchen probably had something to do with it. He was good at omelets—it had been the best food for a bachelor to know how to make—and had eventually expanded into waffles and pancakes after the boys came along, but dinner food was still hit-or-miss.

“When I get better at this I’ll cook it myself,” said Peter. He extended his index finger and let a trail of fire play along the edge.

Nathan raised his eyebrows. “Impressive,” he said.

“No radiation,” said Peter. “But I can only do it a couple times before . . .” He didn’t finish, but a flash of fear lit his eyes, and Nathan knew the rest.

“I’ll heat up the pie,” said Nathan.

“I’m stuffed,” said Peter, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his stomach.

“So you’ll sleep it off tomorrow; nothing else to do.”

The snow falling all around the cabin made it seem even quieter inside. Nathan could hear the small sounds the house made, the crackle of the wood burning in the wood stove fading into the insulation of the snow around the house. He put the pumpkin pie in the oven to warm up, and grabbed a second bottle of the Chianti he’d picked up in Fossmill. The bottle had been dusty, sitting on a back shelf for years before Nathan asked for it. They drank beer and whiskey up here.

They’d finished one bottle during dinner, and Nathan felt the pleasant warmth settle in his limbs more strongly than it used to when he drank at receptions and fundraisers every night.

“Want me to open another one?” asked Nathan. “They didn’t have any Beaujolais Nouveau.” He turned to look at Peter, who had a speculative look in his eyes. Peter glanced from Nathan’s hand, which cradled a glass of wine, up to Nathan’s face. Nathan swallowed. That wasn’t where this was supposed to be going.

Part of him wanted to be misreading Peter, to believe this feeling was residual, a side effect of the upwelling of warmth he felt now that Peter could finally look at him with his eyes full of trust.

“Sure,” said Peter. He licked his lips, and Nathan could see his throat work as he swallowed.

“The pie will be ready in fifteen minutes. And I have ice cream.”

“Decadent,” said Peter, with a little smile.

Sara Lee pie couldn’t touch the pies from Sarabeth Catering that Heidi used to buy during the holidays, but it still tasted good after days when dinner was nothing more than canned soup and the biscuits Nathan had learned to make from the recipe on the back of the baking powder box. After they were finished with dessert Nathan sat back in chair.

This was the first evening here that Peter didn’t fall asleep right after dinner, and sleep for twelve or fourteen hours. Nathan looked at his watch. Dinner had been early; it was only 5pm, but the light coming in through the windows was a deep, twilit gray, the snow blocking most of what little light was left.

“What now?” asked Peter.

“I should buy some board games next time I’m in town,” said Nathan, only half sarcastic.

“Have some more wine,” said Peter. “Tell me a story.”

“What?” asked Nathan.

“Tell me about . . . Claire’s mother,” said Peter, as if choosing the subject at random, but Nathan knew better.

“What’s to tell?” said Nathan, frowning. “She was a sweet Texas girl. She got pregnant; I got scared. Ma . . .”

Mrs. Petrelli gave her money to raise the child, to get out of Nathan’s life, and Meredith took it. “She didn’t even hesitate, Nathan,” Mrs. Petrelli had said. “Be glad you found out now.”

“Ma took care of it,” said Nathan.

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s just me, Nathan, and you still can’t . . .”

Nathan closed his eyes for a long moment then opened them and looked at Peter, waiting for the rest of Peter’s recriminations, but Peter sighed, drained his glass of wine, and then poured another.

“Guess we should get a board game,” said Peter.

“It’s water under the bridge, Pete.”

“Mom always managed everything, huh?” said Peter. “She knew about the explosion, too.”

Dangerous territory. “Yes, she did. She didn’t think it could be stopped.” Or should be stopped.

Peter wanted to ask more, Nathan could tell, to ask if that was why Nathan hadn’t tried to stop it. We didn’t think it could be stopped, Nathan wanted to say, but that wasn’t entirely true. It had been easier to believe it couldn’t be stopped than to face the alternative.

Peter nodded and reached across the table to put his hand over Nathan’s. “I never said thank you,” Peter said gravely.

Out of habit, Nathan wanted to pull his hand away, to try again to define the distance between them, but instead he sighed and left it there. Peter’s hand was cool, no hint of fire. “For what?” Nathan asked.

“For dinner,” said Peter. He made a face, but then grew serious again, eyes wide and sincere. “For saving me, for saving everyone. ”

“It wasn’t . . .” It had been selfish in its way: the realization that he couldn’t live with what killing all those people would do to Peter.

“It was more than that,” said Peter. “You lie to yourself a lot, Nathan.”

Nathan shrugged. “Everyone does.” He started stacking the plates in front of him.

“I guess I should help you clean up,” Peter said.

“You guess?” said Nathan, trying for levity. He looked over at the turkey carcass, still in the roasting pan on the stove. In the Petrelli household, Thanksgiving was always catered, and the turkey came to the table already carved. At least Heidi’s mother cooked their Thanksgiving dinners, and afterward the women gathered in the kitchen, picking apart the bird, eating bits of skin, and gossiping, while the men drank scotch and watched college football.

“Yeah, we can freeze some of this,” said Nathan. “You strip the bird. I’ll take care of everything else.”

The water that came out of the only sink was tepid at best, so Nathan filled a pot for cooking and rinsing water and put it on the woodstove to heat up. Peter waved off the carving knife when Nathan tried to hand it to him and instead used his fingers to pry all the meat off the bones.

Nathan was halfway finished washing dishes when Peter dumped the turkey bones into the trash can and declared he was done. His wrists were covered with grease and Nathan could see a shiny smudge on his cheek where Peter had touched his face.

Nathan watched, feeling helpless as Peter spread his hands and started licking off the small pieces of turkey meat still clinging. At first he did it unselfconsciously, but Nathan could see when Peter realized Nathan was looking. Peter ran his tongue over his thumb more slowly, and sucked hard enough on his fingers to make his cheeks hollow. Nathan couldn’t look away—this hadn’t changed, or been burned away like the rest of Nathan’s life—Peter could still do this to him.

Then Peter looked at Nathan, and it made his face heat.

“Do you miss it?” asked Peter, brazen.

“Don’t,” said Nathan, “we were past that. You agreed.” He could hear his voice go monotone: his trick to keep from betraying emotion, a habit so ingrained now that he couldn’t turn it off, like the habit of pushing Peter away. He didn’t know why he thought it mattered anymore.

Peter echoed his thoughts. “You don’t have to worry about your campaign anymore, Nathan.” That was selfish of Peter, Nathan thought. Peter forgot what he’d cost Nathan, what he still cost. “You want some turkey?” Peter asked.

Nathan shook his head slightly. “No.”

“Then let me wash my hands,” He came and stood next to Nathan and put his hands in the wash pot, his arm brushing against Nathan’s in the soapy water. He had a crumb of stuffing on his lower lip.

“You have a little . . .” said Nathan, motioning with his eyes.

Peter licked his lips but missed the crumb. “Is it still there?” he asked, a mocking, daring note in his voice. Peter was already standing close enough that their sides were touching and now he leaned in further.

“We’re not doing this,” said Nathan. He darted a glance at Peter, waiting for Peter to push Nathan just a little further. His anger at Peter didn’t make Peter any less attractive—more, probably, because now Nathan just wanted to push Peter down on the bed and fuck him hard, knowing it would hurt him, knowing Peter wanted it that way.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Peter, his face coloring a deeper pink, lips parted and wanton. “I can hear your thoughts.”

“Not the ones that matter,” said Nathan. He grabbed Peter’s shoulder to force some more distance between them. “You need to get these powers under control, and then help Bennet. Not use them to . . . whatever this is.”

“We need to help Bennet,” said Peter. “There’s nothing left for you in New York.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Nathan said. He pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. “I don’t blame you, Peter,” he said, holding up his hand. “Just . . . give me time to get used to it, okay?”

“Okay Nathan,” said Peter. He looked hurt. Nathan wanted to pull him close and kiss the lines of worry from his forehead.

“I’m going to take a walk,” said Nathan, pulling on his coat. “Or maybe fly.” That made Peter smile.

Nathan came back later, after a trip too close to the stars, feeling frozen through but more at peace. Peter was sleeping in the bed in the living room, but Nathan pushed him over and climbed in next to him. Peter could share his warmth. He owed Nathan that much.

You’ll No Longer Burn