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FIC: Twilight [Chapter Seven] (Heroes)
Twilight
by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ashinae and linden_jay
Pairing: Nathan/Claire
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; prostitution, dub-con, mention and aftermath of rape (by original, not canon, characters).
**This chapter deals specifically with the aftermath of rape**
Spoilers: Up to the beginning of season 2. This would take place within the first few episodes, but doesn't follow the established plot.
Disclaimer: Not written for profit.
Summary: "I wasn't trolling for a hooker. I just happened to bump into one."
Note: This is a multi-part, but complete, story. This is not a work in progress.
Previous Parts: Teaser, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six
Twilight: Chapter Seven
They fell into a strange ritual. Claire slept later than Nathan; he woke, made breakfast, they ate. They spoke only of mundane things. He'd go for groceries, or she would, and he'd make dinner. Sometime during the night, she'd disappear, and he'd wait for her. He wouldn't drink. He'd be waiting for her when she returned, and he'd take her to the shower, and they'd fall into bed.
Peter's bed.
Nathan tried not to think too much about what they were doing.
It was strange that it wasn't stranger. Broken down into it's parts, every detail of their lives, of what they were doing, separately and together, was just so irrevocably fucked up. Nathan wasn't drinking any more, at least not as far as Claire could tell, and Claire was eating properly--those were both good things. Everything else though... it was strange that it had become so normal. Almost commonplace.
He knew it was all wrong, but he couldn't make himself stop. He couldn't make himself want to stop. It wasn't normal, and it wasn't right, but it was all he had. He grew anxious at night, waiting for her return, and he was always hard and aching for her by the time he heard the key in the door. He held her up against the wall in the shower and took her there, came immediately after she did, and not long after they curled up asleep in bed, not touching.
They never touched unless they were fucking.
Claire never thought of him when she was working, wouldn't let herself. Even though Nathan fucked her like the whore she was, she still wanted that one thing kept separate from the rest of her life. The one place where there might be pain, but there was always pleasure as well. Her hair grew longer, bangs hanging into her eyes, but she kept it dyed black, brushed it out dead straight. She didn't want to look in the mirror and see the girl she used to be.
The wine bottle stayed in the cupboard, unfinished, even though occasionally Nathan went in there to grab a can of something. Soup for lunch; broth for dinner. He enjoyed the cooking. Bought a few cookbooks, worried about possibly needing to either rob a bank or get an honest job.
And he still waited for her. She was all he had. He missed her blond hair; he wanted to know her smiles, her real smiles. He remembered the way she'd looked at Peter. He ached for Peter; he wondered if he ached for Peter the same way he ached for Claire. It was all lost and confused and jumbled in his mind.
She'd been lucky, and she knew it. Considering her size, considering what she was doing, and the risks that she took, Claire'd gotten away with only a few bad scares, and one or two tricks who'd fucked her without paying for it. She'd been hurt, but it never lasted long. The pain from getting fucked too hard would fade, a split lip or a brick wall scraped back, they healed quickly. Just going by the odds of the game she was playing, she was due.
They seemed to run on a schedule. Nathan wasn't telepathic or clairvoyant; the only way he knew something was wrong was because she was late. It was strange, but what wasn't? His anxiety to have her melted into worry; into anxiety about her not coming back this time.
It didn't hurt any more, but healing had taken a lot out of her, her steps slow and awkward, her feet bare. If she'd been thinking about it, she'd have wondered how she made it back to Peter's apartment without someone stopping her to at least ask if she was all right, considering that it was fully light out, and there were people everywhere.
Avoiding eye contact with anyone else, Claire stumbled into the apartment and down the hall, one hand holding her shirt together, the other one keeping her from falling down as she leaned heavily on the wall. Finally making it to the door, she leaned against it and started to look for her key, eyes closing as she fought back tears when she couldn't find it.
Nathan thought he heard something outside. He forced himself to his feet; his steps were heavy and slow, his eyes felt like they were full of sand. He opened the door without unlatching the chain and peered outside. His breath caught in his throat when he saw Claire, and quickly opened the door properly for her to let her in. He couldn't find his voice.
They'd stolen her shoes. She wasn't sure why they'd done it--if they'd thought they were worth something, if it had just been an extra bit of humiliation thrown in on top of it all, or if they'd thought it would slow her down, make it easier to find her again. She wasn't really sure. Claire's clothes were stained and shredded, barely hanging on her body they were so ripped, and there was dried blood all over her, her face, her arms, and all down the insides of her legs. "I lost my key." Her voice was so hoarse she was almost inaudible.
He closed the door. Locked it. Stared at her. He didn't have to ask. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to think. "Jesus," he whispered, eventually.
She hadn't looked at herself, but judging by Nathan's face, it had to be pretty bad. She turned away, not wanting him to have to look at her, and started making her own way to the shower. Everything she was wearing was ruined--there was no salvaging it, and that meant having to take money out of what she'd been saving to buy more things. The shoes especially were going to set her back.
"Claire." Nathan followed her. "Claire, I..." He had no idea what to say. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently tried to make her turn around.
Claire flinched when he touched her, but let him turn her around, looking up, but not looking at him. There were tear stains tracked through the bloodstains on her face. She never let Nathan see her cry.
He closed his eyes as he pulled her close. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered.
"You asked me that before," she reminded him, speaking against his chest, eyes closing. Of course, even then, she hadn't told him the whole truth.
"And you never answered," he said. "And you've been--Claire I--I should kill them."
She just shook her head, leaning against him a little more. "It doesn't matter," she whispered. "I can't be hurt." Even to herself, the words tasted of lies.
"You can be. And you feel pain until you heal. And you can't tell me that you can't be hurt in ways that aren't necessarily physical."
He wasn't wrong. Not even a little bit, and she flinched again, knowing that what Nathan was saying was true, and knowing that there wasn't much of anything she could do about it. "There were four of them. They..." she looked down, then tried to pull away from Nathan, too tired to make much of an effort. "You shouldn't touch me."
He wouldn't let her go, even though he tried to be gentle. "That's ridiculous," he said. "Just because..." He closed his eyes, shook his head. "God, Claire. I'm sorry."
She made one more attempt to get loose, then stopped trying, swaying in place and looking away from him. "They didn't use anything. You shouldn't touch me," she repeated, unable to look at him.
"Claire, stop. I'm not going to tell you it's okay now, but please, stop. Let's get you washed up and into bed. I... I won't... not tonight." He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
Claire was crying, nearly silent as tears slipped down her cheeks. She never cried, certainly never when Nathan could see her. She didn't say anything, just nodded very slightly.
He stroked her hair and held her just a little tighter. "I'm sorry, Claire," he said. "I'm so sorry. I... God, this shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."
She wanted to tell him to stop saying he was sorry--it wasn't his fault. She just couldn't find the words. "Can I have a shower? Please?" she whispered. The smell of her own blood wasn't something new to Claire, and it usually didn't bother her. This time though, she was only barely managing to hold back from being sick.
"Of course," he said, and, still holding her, led her to the bathroom. The shower was much like any of the others, but that sense of anticipation wasn't growing inside Nathan. He didn't rush; he took his time, careful and gentle and fighting back a growing sense of rage. He wanted to kill whoever had done this to her.
The tears kept falling, even though Claire still wasn't making any noise at all, her face practically blank as Nathan washed her clean. She kept from looking down, not wanting to see the pink-tinged water washing down the drain.
Nathan didn't know what he was doing. Evidence. Hospital. Charges. But he couldn't leave her like this, and besides--what evidence was there, now, of physical trauma, other than bloodstains? He had to hold back the rage. For now. And tell himself he wasn't already trying to figure out how to get revenge.
It had been ages since Claire'd tried to crank up the hot water in the shower after she'd come in from a night of work. She didn't even really register what she was doing as one hand reached behind her and started turning down the cold water, wanting to burn away every trace of the men who'd done this to her.
"Claire," Nathan said, sharply, drawing back against the far wall, "I don't recover from burns so well."
She lifted her head and looked blankly at him, needing a few seconds before she understood both what he was saying, and why. "I'm sorry," she whispered, reaching for the tap again and adjusting the temperature, making it colder than before. Once again, she went back to avoiding Nathan's eyes, her hands clenched at her sides.
"Don’t apologize," he said, quietly. He stepped forward again, and took his time washing her hair. When he was done, he reached around her to turn off the faucet, then he helped her from the shower. He got her dry, dressed her in Peter's shirt, and took her to bed in the dark.
Claire walked like she was already in a dream, letting herself be dried, dressed, and led to bed without helping or reacting much at all. How could she explain feeling like she was broken when she was indestructible? It didn't make sense.
Nathan wrapped his arms possessively, protectively, around her. He closed his eyes, but couldn't sleep, not for a long time. When he drifted off, his dreams were angry, disconnected visions of violence and blood. When he woke in the morning, he knew what he had to do.
She fell asleep surprisingly quickly, too exhausted to dream, too tired to think anything about the fact that Nathan was holding her, touching her, even though they weren't having sex.
*
by
ashinae and linden_jayPairing: Nathan/Claire
Rating/Warnings: NC-17; prostitution, dub-con, mention and aftermath of rape (by original, not canon, characters).
**This chapter deals specifically with the aftermath of rape**
Spoilers: Up to the beginning of season 2. This would take place within the first few episodes, but doesn't follow the established plot.
Disclaimer: Not written for profit.
Summary: "I wasn't trolling for a hooker. I just happened to bump into one."
Note: This is a multi-part, but complete, story. This is not a work in progress.
Previous Parts: Teaser, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six
They fell into a strange ritual. Claire slept later than Nathan; he woke, made breakfast, they ate. They spoke only of mundane things. He'd go for groceries, or she would, and he'd make dinner. Sometime during the night, she'd disappear, and he'd wait for her. He wouldn't drink. He'd be waiting for her when she returned, and he'd take her to the shower, and they'd fall into bed.
Peter's bed.
Nathan tried not to think too much about what they were doing.
It was strange that it wasn't stranger. Broken down into it's parts, every detail of their lives, of what they were doing, separately and together, was just so irrevocably fucked up. Nathan wasn't drinking any more, at least not as far as Claire could tell, and Claire was eating properly--those were both good things. Everything else though... it was strange that it had become so normal. Almost commonplace.
He knew it was all wrong, but he couldn't make himself stop. He couldn't make himself want to stop. It wasn't normal, and it wasn't right, but it was all he had. He grew anxious at night, waiting for her return, and he was always hard and aching for her by the time he heard the key in the door. He held her up against the wall in the shower and took her there, came immediately after she did, and not long after they curled up asleep in bed, not touching.
They never touched unless they were fucking.
Claire never thought of him when she was working, wouldn't let herself. Even though Nathan fucked her like the whore she was, she still wanted that one thing kept separate from the rest of her life. The one place where there might be pain, but there was always pleasure as well. Her hair grew longer, bangs hanging into her eyes, but she kept it dyed black, brushed it out dead straight. She didn't want to look in the mirror and see the girl she used to be.
The wine bottle stayed in the cupboard, unfinished, even though occasionally Nathan went in there to grab a can of something. Soup for lunch; broth for dinner. He enjoyed the cooking. Bought a few cookbooks, worried about possibly needing to either rob a bank or get an honest job.
And he still waited for her. She was all he had. He missed her blond hair; he wanted to know her smiles, her real smiles. He remembered the way she'd looked at Peter. He ached for Peter; he wondered if he ached for Peter the same way he ached for Claire. It was all lost and confused and jumbled in his mind.
She'd been lucky, and she knew it. Considering her size, considering what she was doing, and the risks that she took, Claire'd gotten away with only a few bad scares, and one or two tricks who'd fucked her without paying for it. She'd been hurt, but it never lasted long. The pain from getting fucked too hard would fade, a split lip or a brick wall scraped back, they healed quickly. Just going by the odds of the game she was playing, she was due.
They seemed to run on a schedule. Nathan wasn't telepathic or clairvoyant; the only way he knew something was wrong was because she was late. It was strange, but what wasn't? His anxiety to have her melted into worry; into anxiety about her not coming back this time.
It didn't hurt any more, but healing had taken a lot out of her, her steps slow and awkward, her feet bare. If she'd been thinking about it, she'd have wondered how she made it back to Peter's apartment without someone stopping her to at least ask if she was all right, considering that it was fully light out, and there were people everywhere.
Avoiding eye contact with anyone else, Claire stumbled into the apartment and down the hall, one hand holding her shirt together, the other one keeping her from falling down as she leaned heavily on the wall. Finally making it to the door, she leaned against it and started to look for her key, eyes closing as she fought back tears when she couldn't find it.
Nathan thought he heard something outside. He forced himself to his feet; his steps were heavy and slow, his eyes felt like they were full of sand. He opened the door without unlatching the chain and peered outside. His breath caught in his throat when he saw Claire, and quickly opened the door properly for her to let her in. He couldn't find his voice.
They'd stolen her shoes. She wasn't sure why they'd done it--if they'd thought they were worth something, if it had just been an extra bit of humiliation thrown in on top of it all, or if they'd thought it would slow her down, make it easier to find her again. She wasn't really sure. Claire's clothes were stained and shredded, barely hanging on her body they were so ripped, and there was dried blood all over her, her face, her arms, and all down the insides of her legs. "I lost my key." Her voice was so hoarse she was almost inaudible.
He closed the door. Locked it. Stared at her. He didn't have to ask. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to think. "Jesus," he whispered, eventually.
She hadn't looked at herself, but judging by Nathan's face, it had to be pretty bad. She turned away, not wanting him to have to look at her, and started making her own way to the shower. Everything she was wearing was ruined--there was no salvaging it, and that meant having to take money out of what she'd been saving to buy more things. The shoes especially were going to set her back.
"Claire." Nathan followed her. "Claire, I..." He had no idea what to say. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently tried to make her turn around.
Claire flinched when he touched her, but let him turn her around, looking up, but not looking at him. There were tear stains tracked through the bloodstains on her face. She never let Nathan see her cry.
He closed his eyes as he pulled her close. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered.
"You asked me that before," she reminded him, speaking against his chest, eyes closing. Of course, even then, she hadn't told him the whole truth.
"And you never answered," he said. "And you've been--Claire I--I should kill them."
She just shook her head, leaning against him a little more. "It doesn't matter," she whispered. "I can't be hurt." Even to herself, the words tasted of lies.
"You can be. And you feel pain until you heal. And you can't tell me that you can't be hurt in ways that aren't necessarily physical."
He wasn't wrong. Not even a little bit, and she flinched again, knowing that what Nathan was saying was true, and knowing that there wasn't much of anything she could do about it. "There were four of them. They..." she looked down, then tried to pull away from Nathan, too tired to make much of an effort. "You shouldn't touch me."
He wouldn't let her go, even though he tried to be gentle. "That's ridiculous," he said. "Just because..." He closed his eyes, shook his head. "God, Claire. I'm sorry."
She made one more attempt to get loose, then stopped trying, swaying in place and looking away from him. "They didn't use anything. You shouldn't touch me," she repeated, unable to look at him.
"Claire, stop. I'm not going to tell you it's okay now, but please, stop. Let's get you washed up and into bed. I... I won't... not tonight." He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
Claire was crying, nearly silent as tears slipped down her cheeks. She never cried, certainly never when Nathan could see her. She didn't say anything, just nodded very slightly.
He stroked her hair and held her just a little tighter. "I'm sorry, Claire," he said. "I'm so sorry. I... God, this shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."
She wanted to tell him to stop saying he was sorry--it wasn't his fault. She just couldn't find the words. "Can I have a shower? Please?" she whispered. The smell of her own blood wasn't something new to Claire, and it usually didn't bother her. This time though, she was only barely managing to hold back from being sick.
"Of course," he said, and, still holding her, led her to the bathroom. The shower was much like any of the others, but that sense of anticipation wasn't growing inside Nathan. He didn't rush; he took his time, careful and gentle and fighting back a growing sense of rage. He wanted to kill whoever had done this to her.
The tears kept falling, even though Claire still wasn't making any noise at all, her face practically blank as Nathan washed her clean. She kept from looking down, not wanting to see the pink-tinged water washing down the drain.
Nathan didn't know what he was doing. Evidence. Hospital. Charges. But he couldn't leave her like this, and besides--what evidence was there, now, of physical trauma, other than bloodstains? He had to hold back the rage. For now. And tell himself he wasn't already trying to figure out how to get revenge.
It had been ages since Claire'd tried to crank up the hot water in the shower after she'd come in from a night of work. She didn't even really register what she was doing as one hand reached behind her and started turning down the cold water, wanting to burn away every trace of the men who'd done this to her.
"Claire," Nathan said, sharply, drawing back against the far wall, "I don't recover from burns so well."
She lifted her head and looked blankly at him, needing a few seconds before she understood both what he was saying, and why. "I'm sorry," she whispered, reaching for the tap again and adjusting the temperature, making it colder than before. Once again, she went back to avoiding Nathan's eyes, her hands clenched at her sides.
"Don’t apologize," he said, quietly. He stepped forward again, and took his time washing her hair. When he was done, he reached around her to turn off the faucet, then he helped her from the shower. He got her dry, dressed her in Peter's shirt, and took her to bed in the dark.
Claire walked like she was already in a dream, letting herself be dried, dressed, and led to bed without helping or reacting much at all. How could she explain feeling like she was broken when she was indestructible? It didn't make sense.
Nathan wrapped his arms possessively, protectively, around her. He closed his eyes, but couldn't sleep, not for a long time. When he drifted off, his dreams were angry, disconnected visions of violence and blood. When he woke in the morning, he knew what he had to do.
She fell asleep surprisingly quickly, too exhausted to dream, too tired to think anything about the fact that Nathan was holding her, touching her, even though they weren't having sex.