Goldberry (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} goldie_girl) wrote,@ 2007-03-24 17:33:00 |
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Heroes fic!
Did I not warn you in my last post? I did! I am a woman of my word/warning! Here thar be crack.
Title: Protecting the Poodle
Author: Goldie_Girl
Rating: PG-13 (probably closer to a PG, but what the heck)
Characters: Peter/Claude, Sylar
Warnings: Crack, character death, and more cheese than anyone really needs in their fic-diet.
Summary: Claude is not happy about Peter’s new hair-cut, and Sylar has a bad day.
Author’s Notes: Inspired by a conversation withsesemperamabo. First thing I’ve written in a while, and it’ll probably be a while before I have a chance to write anything again (unless I get seriously, direly procrastinatory with my honours thesis – aaargh). Special mention to Arthur C. Clarke’s comments on very advanced technology.
It was when he saw the hair that Claude began to get annoyed.
“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, glaring.
Peter ducked his head self-consciously, tugging at his foreshortened bangs.
“Well,” he began hesitantly, “you remember the guy who I rescued that cheerleader from? I sort of ran into him again.”
“Budding hairstylist, is he?” sneered Claude.
“Actually, he cut off the top of my head.”
“He what?”
Claude strode forward, grabbing hold of Peter’s head and subjecting it to a thorough examination before the young man irritably shrugged him off.
“I got better!” he exclaimed defensively, “I guess hair just doesn’t regenerate like the rest of me.”
Claude’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening.
“Right,” he muttered.
Peter watched in confusion, and no little trepidation, as Claude turned and strode away.
“Where are you going?” he called after him.
“To pick up a few things I’ll need,” Claude replied, before disappearing from sight.
--
Sylar was not having a good day. First of all, he had found himself completely unable to absorb that pesky empath’s powers – the healing factor had just been too strong and he hadn’t had time to examine the brain before the skull healed over. Getting tossed out of Mohinder’s apartment by that scrawny kid was not his finest hour. Second, he was almost positive Mohinder wouldn’t be having sex with him any more – the yelling and shooting seemed like bad signs, though with Mohinder it was sometimes hard to tell. Third, and worst of all, he was having a devil of a time corralling a small young woman with the power to control shadows – she seemed to slip in and out of his sight whenever he came close to catching her. He was beginning to get frustrated. Just as he thought he was finally about to get her, he was distracted by a strange noise. “Vwoop, vwoop!” it went. “Vwoop, vwoop!” He turned towards it to see a strange blue box materialize, apparently out of thin air.
As he stared at it in confusion, a scruffy-looking, large-nosed man opened a door in its side and stepped out. He looked none-too-pleased. Sylar stared at him in confusion, his prey forgotten.
“You and I have a score to settle,” said the newcomer matter-of-factly, “Well, I say a score, but what I really mean is that I’m going to kill you.
Sylar smirked, sweeping his hand across in a gesture that should have sent the man flying, to land in a broken heap meters away. His smirk faded when the man stayed exactly where he was, grinning like a cat with a particularly juicy, slow-moving canary.
“Sorry mate; force shield. I’m the Doctor by the way, though some friends call me Claude. You won’t have time to call me either. I’d like to introduce you to one of my oldest friends; the sonic screwdriver.”
Claude pulled out a handy-looking silver device of sufficiently advanced technology as to be indistinguishable from magic. Pointing it at Sylar, he twisted it to setting 171- ♥ - ♠ ** 11, and switched it on.
“What’s that supposed to do?” Sylar demanded, before a wave of specially-designed, serial-killer-annihilating vibrations washed over him.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, “Ow ow ow! That is causing serious damage to my brain! And now I definitely won’t get to bang Mohinder again!”
He fell to the ground, his brain quickly, irreversibly, and fatally liquefying. The last words he heard before the last bits of it began to leak out his ears were;
“Let that be a lesson to you. Nobody messes with my poodle’s hair but me.”
--
By this point Peter was well and truly frantic. What if Claude didn’t come back? What if he went after Sylar? He’d be killed, and Peter hadn’t even given him a goodbye blowjob! He paced erratically, his worry only aggravated by the tragic shortness of his bangs.
His pacing was interrupted by a sudden noise: “Vwoop, vwoop! Vwoop, vwoop!” He turned, much as Sylar had, but with significantly less murderous intent, and saw a strange blue box materialize. He was still staring at it in befuddlement when Claude stuck his head out the front doors.
“Claude!” he cried, overjoyed to see his favourite misanthrope alive.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Doctor Claude, rolling his eyes, “Now are you going to get in here,or am I going to have to drag you?”
Peter stared at the small box doubtfully.
“I don’t think we’ll both fit,” he said.
“Don’t be daft,” said Claude, “This is the TARDIS. It travels through time and space, and it’s much roomier than it looks.”
Peter blinked.
“O…kay,” he said, “But what about the whole Exploding-Me scenario? And where are we going, anyway?”
“Well, the answer to the first question is that the TARDIS should be able to defuse you with very little trouble – this old girl takes good care of her occupants. And as for the second: Canada.”
“Canada? What’s in Canada?” asked Peter.
“Legalized same-sex marriage, even for non-citizens,” said Claude, “I intend to make an honest man of you, Peter Petrelli.”
And he did.
--End.
Did I not warn you in my last post? I did! I am a woman of my word/warning! Here thar be crack.
Title: Protecting the Poodle
Author: Goldie_Girl
Rating: PG-13 (probably closer to a PG, but what the heck)
Characters: Peter/Claude, Sylar
Warnings: Crack, character death, and more cheese than anyone really needs in their fic-diet.
Summary: Claude is not happy about Peter’s new hair-cut, and Sylar has a bad day.
Author’s Notes: Inspired by a conversation with
sesemperamabo. First thing I’ve written in a while, and it’ll probably be a while before I have a chance to write anything again (unless I get seriously, direly procrastinatory with my honours thesis – aaargh). Special mention to Arthur C. Clarke’s comments on very advanced technology.It was when he saw the hair that Claude began to get annoyed.
“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded, glaring.
Peter ducked his head self-consciously, tugging at his foreshortened bangs.
“Well,” he began hesitantly, “you remember the guy who I rescued that cheerleader from? I sort of ran into him again.”
“Budding hairstylist, is he?” sneered Claude.
“Actually, he cut off the top of my head.”
“He what?”
Claude strode forward, grabbing hold of Peter’s head and subjecting it to a thorough examination before the young man irritably shrugged him off.
“I got better!” he exclaimed defensively, “I guess hair just doesn’t regenerate like the rest of me.”
Claude’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening.
“Right,” he muttered.
Peter watched in confusion, and no little trepidation, as Claude turned and strode away.
“Where are you going?” he called after him.
“To pick up a few things I’ll need,” Claude replied, before disappearing from sight.
--
Sylar was not having a good day. First of all, he had found himself completely unable to absorb that pesky empath’s powers – the healing factor had just been too strong and he hadn’t had time to examine the brain before the skull healed over. Getting tossed out of Mohinder’s apartment by that scrawny kid was not his finest hour. Second, he was almost positive Mohinder wouldn’t be having sex with him any more – the yelling and shooting seemed like bad signs, though with Mohinder it was sometimes hard to tell. Third, and worst of all, he was having a devil of a time corralling a small young woman with the power to control shadows – she seemed to slip in and out of his sight whenever he came close to catching her. He was beginning to get frustrated. Just as he thought he was finally about to get her, he was distracted by a strange noise. “Vwoop, vwoop!” it went. “Vwoop, vwoop!” He turned towards it to see a strange blue box materialize, apparently out of thin air.
As he stared at it in confusion, a scruffy-looking, large-nosed man opened a door in its side and stepped out. He looked none-too-pleased. Sylar stared at him in confusion, his prey forgotten.
“You and I have a score to settle,” said the newcomer matter-of-factly, “Well, I say a score, but what I really mean is that I’m going to kill you.
Sylar smirked, sweeping his hand across in a gesture that should have sent the man flying, to land in a broken heap meters away. His smirk faded when the man stayed exactly where he was, grinning like a cat with a particularly juicy, slow-moving canary.
“Sorry mate; force shield. I’m the Doctor by the way, though some friends call me Claude. You won’t have time to call me either. I’d like to introduce you to one of my oldest friends; the sonic screwdriver.”
Claude pulled out a handy-looking silver device of sufficiently advanced technology as to be indistinguishable from magic. Pointing it at Sylar, he twisted it to setting 171- ♥ - ♠ ** 11, and switched it on.
“What’s that supposed to do?” Sylar demanded, before a wave of specially-designed, serial-killer-annihilating vibrations washed over him.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, “Ow ow ow! That is causing serious damage to my brain! And now I definitely won’t get to bang Mohinder again!”
He fell to the ground, his brain quickly, irreversibly, and fatally liquefying. The last words he heard before the last bits of it began to leak out his ears were;
“Let that be a lesson to you. Nobody messes with my poodle’s hair but me.”
--
By this point Peter was well and truly frantic. What if Claude didn’t come back? What if he went after Sylar? He’d be killed, and Peter hadn’t even given him a goodbye blowjob! He paced erratically, his worry only aggravated by the tragic shortness of his bangs.
His pacing was interrupted by a sudden noise: “Vwoop, vwoop! Vwoop, vwoop!” He turned, much as Sylar had, but with significantly less murderous intent, and saw a strange blue box materialize. He was still staring at it in befuddlement when Claude stuck his head out the front doors.
“Claude!” he cried, overjoyed to see his favourite misanthrope alive.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Doctor Claude, rolling his eyes, “Now are you going to get in here,or am I going to have to drag you?”
Peter stared at the small box doubtfully.
“I don’t think we’ll both fit,” he said.
“Don’t be daft,” said Claude, “This is the TARDIS. It travels through time and space, and it’s much roomier than it looks.”
Peter blinked.
“O…kay,” he said, “But what about the whole Exploding-Me scenario? And where are we going, anyway?”
“Well, the answer to the first question is that the TARDIS should be able to defuse you with very little trouble – this old girl takes good care of her occupants. And as for the second: Canada.”
“Canada? What’s in Canada?” asked Peter.
“Legalized same-sex marriage, even for non-citizens,” said Claude, “I intend to make an honest man of you, Peter Petrelli.”
And he did.
--End.
