understood
Sep. 8th, 2019 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hennessysTitle: understood
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Miranda doesn't understand why Peter loves her.
Notes: I have no idea why all the Hennessys except Isobel have self-esteem issues.
Peter was still sleeping when she left the bed, flat on his back with one arm flung wide and the other resting across his chest. Miranda watched him sleep for a moment, then shrugged on his discarded shirt from the night before, went to the kitchen, and turned the kettle on.
She wondered, absently, if Peter would ever know how much he terrified her.
It wasn't Peter exactly—in and of himself he was wonderful. He understood her in a way that no one else did, and more than that, he wanted to understand her, wanted to know her and be with her, wanted her.
No one had ever really wanted her before.
He was such a good man, her Peter. He rescued innocents from the vicissitudes of the world, shepherded them to safe harbor, and she had helped him do that, of course she had. She hadn't been able to resist the chance to do something good, instead of helping another corporate executive dodge the terms of another ill-considered contract.
He'd asked her out after that. She should have said no, she knew she should have, but she said yes and she went on saying yes, yes, yes, until he'd combed his fingers through her hair and told her that he loved her.
Miranda still shuddered a little, every time he said it. That someone as good as he was could love her...
Self-knowledge was her family's particular curse. Her father, so aware of his own failings thanks to his parents—Miranda had always been grateful that her paternal grandfather had died before she was born. Her mother, compulsively counting costs. Her brother, picking at his flaws over and over, her sister never able to discount her own skin color. And Miranda...
She had never thought it a curse before she met Peter. She was her family's protector; she had to be ruthless to guard them. If that made her a bad person, she was willing to be that. Someone had to do it.
Peter made her want to be good, for him. To be worthy.
She knew she never would be worthy, so she left him.
The kettle whistled, and she jumped, startled from her thoughts. Peter picked it up off the base, blinked at it, and then looked at her. "Oh, there you are. Good morning."
Miranda smiled at him, a little uneasily, and lifted her face for a kiss. "Morning," she said.
Peter kissed her again, and set the kettle back on the base. "You're looking gloomy," he said. "Tea?"
"Please." She watched him move, getting the tea, pouring and stirring, yawning, stretching, shuffling, cursing when he banged his elbow on the cabinet door. She loved him so much it hurt.
He set a mug of tea in front of her and sat across the table, slouched back in his chair and held his own mug against his breastbone. "So," he said. "Penny for your thoughts."
She laughed, suddenly. "I charge quite a bit more for my time than that."
Peter grinned. "So you do, I just pay you a little differently." He waggled his eyebrows at her, and made her laugh again. "Seriously, though, you looked glum. Share the burden?"
Miranda shrugged one shoulder and looked down, away from him. "I don't... it was pointless. I was only thinking that I don't understand why you love me."
He wrinkled his nose. "Why wouldn't I?"
She shrugged again, traced a finger over the lip of her mug.
Peter was quiet a moment, then he set his mug down, got up and rounded the table, and knelt beside her chair. He brushed her hair away from her neck and set his lips there, not quite a kiss.
"Why I love you," he said, his breath ghosting warm over her skin. She shivered, involuntarily. "I love you because you're so fierce in defense of everyone you love. I love you because you don't give in. I love you because you love the world, because you—" He paused, and kissed her neck, barely more than a caress. "I wish you could see all this in yourself."
Miranda closed her eyes. "I don't know how," she said, and meant so much more than that.
"I know." He reached up, ran a hand through her hair. "I know. But I love you. Do you believe that?"
"Yes," she said, and she did, completely.
"Then that's enough for now." He kissed her neck again, open-mouthed, a little more fiercely. "You trust me. Believe me."
She turned her head blindly; his hair brushed over her chin. "Yes. I do."
"And don't leave me again," he added, catching her chin with one hand. "Not unless you really don't love me. I won’t go through that again."
Miranda opened her eyes and gave him a wan little smile. "I'll hurt you, you know. That's why I left. I'm not nearly as—I knew I would hurt you."
"Love hurts," Peter said, and shrugged. "I know who you are, Miranda, I'm not fooling myself. I love who you are. If who you are hurts me sometimes, I'm prepared to put up with that." He smiled back at her, sincere. "It's not as if I haven't hurt you."
"I suppose not." She put a hand on his mouth, and he smiled more broadly. "I love you, you know. I hope you know."
"You're just as good as me," he said, lips moving soft under her fingers. "Better in some ways. Remember that."
She leaned down to kiss him instead of answering. She didn't believe him, not really, and it would be hard to remember something she didn't believe, but... but she believed he believed himself, and that could be enough.
Maybe it was enough. Just for him to believe that.
"I love you," Peter said, firmly, and she smiled at him, warm.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Miranda doesn't understand why Peter loves her.
Notes: I have no idea why all the Hennessys except Isobel have self-esteem issues.
Peter was still sleeping when she left the bed, flat on his back with one arm flung wide and the other resting across his chest. Miranda watched him sleep for a moment, then shrugged on his discarded shirt from the night before, went to the kitchen, and turned the kettle on.
She wondered, absently, if Peter would ever know how much he terrified her.
It wasn't Peter exactly—in and of himself he was wonderful. He understood her in a way that no one else did, and more than that, he wanted to understand her, wanted to know her and be with her, wanted her.
No one had ever really wanted her before.
He was such a good man, her Peter. He rescued innocents from the vicissitudes of the world, shepherded them to safe harbor, and she had helped him do that, of course she had. She hadn't been able to resist the chance to do something good, instead of helping another corporate executive dodge the terms of another ill-considered contract.
He'd asked her out after that. She should have said no, she knew she should have, but she said yes and she went on saying yes, yes, yes, until he'd combed his fingers through her hair and told her that he loved her.
Miranda still shuddered a little, every time he said it. That someone as good as he was could love her...
Self-knowledge was her family's particular curse. Her father, so aware of his own failings thanks to his parents—Miranda had always been grateful that her paternal grandfather had died before she was born. Her mother, compulsively counting costs. Her brother, picking at his flaws over and over, her sister never able to discount her own skin color. And Miranda...
She had never thought it a curse before she met Peter. She was her family's protector; she had to be ruthless to guard them. If that made her a bad person, she was willing to be that. Someone had to do it.
Peter made her want to be good, for him. To be worthy.
She knew she never would be worthy, so she left him.
The kettle whistled, and she jumped, startled from her thoughts. Peter picked it up off the base, blinked at it, and then looked at her. "Oh, there you are. Good morning."
Miranda smiled at him, a little uneasily, and lifted her face for a kiss. "Morning," she said.
Peter kissed her again, and set the kettle back on the base. "You're looking gloomy," he said. "Tea?"
"Please." She watched him move, getting the tea, pouring and stirring, yawning, stretching, shuffling, cursing when he banged his elbow on the cabinet door. She loved him so much it hurt.
He set a mug of tea in front of her and sat across the table, slouched back in his chair and held his own mug against his breastbone. "So," he said. "Penny for your thoughts."
She laughed, suddenly. "I charge quite a bit more for my time than that."
Peter grinned. "So you do, I just pay you a little differently." He waggled his eyebrows at her, and made her laugh again. "Seriously, though, you looked glum. Share the burden?"
Miranda shrugged one shoulder and looked down, away from him. "I don't... it was pointless. I was only thinking that I don't understand why you love me."
He wrinkled his nose. "Why wouldn't I?"
She shrugged again, traced a finger over the lip of her mug.
Peter was quiet a moment, then he set his mug down, got up and rounded the table, and knelt beside her chair. He brushed her hair away from her neck and set his lips there, not quite a kiss.
"Why I love you," he said, his breath ghosting warm over her skin. She shivered, involuntarily. "I love you because you're so fierce in defense of everyone you love. I love you because you don't give in. I love you because you love the world, because you—" He paused, and kissed her neck, barely more than a caress. "I wish you could see all this in yourself."
Miranda closed her eyes. "I don't know how," she said, and meant so much more than that.
"I know." He reached up, ran a hand through her hair. "I know. But I love you. Do you believe that?"
"Yes," she said, and she did, completely.
"Then that's enough for now." He kissed her neck again, open-mouthed, a little more fiercely. "You trust me. Believe me."
She turned her head blindly; his hair brushed over her chin. "Yes. I do."
"And don't leave me again," he added, catching her chin with one hand. "Not unless you really don't love me. I won’t go through that again."
Miranda opened her eyes and gave him a wan little smile. "I'll hurt you, you know. That's why I left. I'm not nearly as—I knew I would hurt you."
"Love hurts," Peter said, and shrugged. "I know who you are, Miranda, I'm not fooling myself. I love who you are. If who you are hurts me sometimes, I'm prepared to put up with that." He smiled back at her, sincere. "It's not as if I haven't hurt you."
"I suppose not." She put a hand on his mouth, and he smiled more broadly. "I love you, you know. I hope you know."
"You're just as good as me," he said, lips moving soft under her fingers. "Better in some ways. Remember that."
She leaned down to kiss him instead of answering. She didn't believe him, not really, and it would be hard to remember something she didn't believe, but... but she believed he believed himself, and that could be enough.
Maybe it was enough. Just for him to believe that.
"I love you," Peter said, firmly, and she smiled at him, warm.
