Wine's been poured and thank the Lord I've had the napkins freshly pressed... [Party-Thread]

[cookiesandhugs]

Grant Park, on any other day, could be called just a nice little park (or EPIC PARK, seeing as how it appears to have eaten Chicago) where people see other people and other people exercise and some people from different universes fall into Chicago

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[weaponof_choice]

Peter arrives, lugging four of those reusable shopping bags, two slung over each shoulder. He makes his way to a table, sets them on the grass, and begins unpacking their contents: a total of eight one-gallon containers of milk.

(...It seemed to make sense, when he read the journal entry. Follow along:

Peter Petrelli was raised to believe that no matter what the invitation says, you never ever arrive for a party without bringing something either for the host or for the party as a whole. You're an ungracious guest otherwise, and if you'd ever dealt with Angela Petrelli, you'd live in fear of being seen as ungracious.

The invitation in Gladys' journal said, no alcohol please, killing Peter's usual fallback plan of bringing a bottle or three of good wine. He did see a mention of cookies. What goes better with cookies than milk?

So here's Peter, with enough milk to float a couple of party guests. And there you have it.)

Once the cartons are all up on the table, Peter packs three of the bags neatly inside the fourth, and shoves the bundle out of sight under the table. He gives a little flick of his head as he straightens up, tossing his bangs out of his eyes--

--and that's another weird thing, now that he thinks about it. Hadn't Elle given him a haircut, when he was at the Company? Where the hell did his old bangs come from?

--anyway. Peter gets his hair out of his face and turns to survey the scene, see who there is to talk to.

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys gapes for a minute as she watches Peter place the milk on the table. Then she runs up to him, once he's finished, pulls him into a hug and bursts into tears.

"Oh bless your heart," she says between small gasps. "I don't even know you, but thank you. Thank you."

She's a little overemotional. It might be exhaustion from baking for so long and not sleeping to set up. It might be from seeing people do nice things in Chicago. It just might be Gladys. The possibilities are endless.

[weaponof_choice]

"Hey, hey. You don't have to cry." Peter pats her back a bit awkwardly, doing his best to comfort her. "I haven't even spilled it yet, let's not start."

...Yeah, it's a lame joke, and he knows it. But he delivers it with an earnest tilt of his head, trying to catch Gladys' eye, and with no small amount of adorable--if entirely accidental--charm.

"And I'm Peter. Peter Petrelli. So now you do know me."

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys chuckles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Well, even if some of it does spill, we've got more than enough that it's not worth crying over." She smiles between the tears. "Thank you. Very much."

And then she giggles a little. "Well, Peter Peter Petrelli. I'm Gladys. And it's lovely to have you here. Have a cookie."

[weaponof_choice]

"There's just one Peter," Peter explains helpfully. "Sorry. Peter Shaw Petrelli. Not that anyone ever uses my middle name for anything. It's nice to meet you, Gladys. And hey! Happy birthday!"

He smiles and takes a cookie, murmuring polite thanks. He wolfs down half of it, and then he gallantly eases the tray away from Gladys, perching on the bench, motioning for her to sit beside him. "You can sit for a few minutes, right? I got this."

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys giggles. "I know," she says. "But that's a wonderful name! Peter Shaw Petrelli. And thank you! That's very kind of you."

She shakes her head. "This is my party, so you sit back and enjoy yourself, Peter," she says firmly. "I'm more than capable enough. Really."

[weaponof_choice]

"Thanks," Peter replies, ducking his head a bit. Which makes his bangs fall into his eyes, which makes him toss his head again to clear his field of vision. "Shaw was my mother's maiden name. I guess it's some prominent-family thing, you get your mom's maiden name as your middle name. Or I did. My older brother got my dad's name as his middle name."

Peter sighs, but he knows better than to argue with the birthday girl. He hands the tray back reluctantly, but he remains perched beside her on the bench.