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Fic: Immutable (Heroes, Peter/Claire)
Title: Immutable
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing(s): Peter/Claire
Word Count: 168
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They’re in a constant state of motion.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:19 - .07%. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fivebyfiction prompt “inertia.”
They’re in a constant state of motion.
Some people would call it habit; she calls it inertia.
It isn’t exactly love, or if it is, it’s the wrong kind. But it’s something; a force of nature, an immutable law of physics. Maybe it’s family.
They shoot each other looks over the dinner table. Hold hands when no-one else is around. She goes to him, or he comes to her. They move against each other, never resting, never staying still.
All it would take is one thing to get them to stop. Something small.
Nothing happens.
She says she can’t do this any more, or he tells her it’s wrong. It’s familiar, almost scripted. Like lines out of a play. The words don’t mean anything any more. Maybe they never did.
He relents, or she breaks down. He touches her hair.
Lather, rinse, repeat. It doesn’t matter what they call it, really.
The next night at dinner, he looks at her.
Inertia.
Nothing changes, and nothing stays the same.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing(s): Peter/Claire
Word Count: 168
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They’re in a constant state of motion.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 1:19 - .07%. Written for
fivebyfiction prompt “inertia.”They’re in a constant state of motion.
Some people would call it habit; she calls it inertia.
It isn’t exactly love, or if it is, it’s the wrong kind. But it’s something; a force of nature, an immutable law of physics. Maybe it’s family.
They shoot each other looks over the dinner table. Hold hands when no-one else is around. She goes to him, or he comes to her. They move against each other, never resting, never staying still.
All it would take is one thing to get them to stop. Something small.
Nothing happens.
She says she can’t do this any more, or he tells her it’s wrong. It’s familiar, almost scripted. Like lines out of a play. The words don’t mean anything any more. Maybe they never did.
He relents, or she breaks down. He touches her hair.
Lather, rinse, repeat. It doesn’t matter what they call it, really.
The next night at dinner, he looks at her.
Inertia.
Nothing changes, and nothing stays the same.