Oof! Caspian stumbles back and drops none of his own belongings as they're all in his shoulder bag. Unlike his public school friends he doesn't use a typical backpack which would probably prove itself far more efficient than this thing, but it's regulation. Seeing the folders fall to the floor he doesn't even think twice about their implication before bending down to help this stranger pick them up.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going. Here," he offers a folder to Peter. "You should hurry too or we'll be late for class, unless you have a free period," the brunette nods, assuming this new face is running errands for a teacher. It occurs to him then that this other person is a new face in a small student body. Is he a transfer student too? Like himself? The prospect of making a friend is almost too shiny to resist and in that same moment he realizes how sort of pathetic it is to get so excited over someone else's misery wanting company. Nevertheless he does remark, "I haven't seen you in any of my classes, and I take many. I am Caspian."

Having picked up all that he can reach before the student who stops to help has gotten the rest, Peter takes those too, but he does so graciously with a mild thanks or something that sort of meanders off as he realizes what this person is saying to him. To his credit, he doesn't sigh, but he does make a sort of face, one that could say well no but might also say and how young do YOU think I am and so on. This is the third time today he has been mistaken for a member of the student body rather than the staff, and while he doesn't mind too much it still does make him wonder. Is it the clothes? He knows he's dressed too casually for this place, probably, only with a light blue button down and black slacks. No tie, no jacket, nothing else, and his shoes are...sneakers. Yes, well, whatever. If they want a nurse as badly as they claim to, Peter is quite sure they can deal with him opting for comfortable footwear. It's habit. About to make the correction, to inform this person of exactly why he has not been seen in any of his many classes, it seems that Caspian's warning does bear more immediate minding than he expected.

"Actually, I'm--"

The bell rings and he straightens, standing to look around at the now completely empty corridor.

"You should go," he points out and then, "Sorry again," and he makes a quick exit down the opposite wing, realizing only once he's gotten down that particular hall that...yes, he's going the wrong way.

"Yes you too," Caspian says as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder. He continues down the emptied hall only to turn slightly to address Peter again. "Maybe I'll see you in another class," he says in his bidding farewell, complete with an amiable wave. He is dressed peculiarly for a student, but if he was transferred in the middle of a term well that's certainly difficult. Likely he hasn't been fitted for a proper uniform yet. Caspian thinks to himself that if he does see that face again he will do his best to make him feel welcome. But first he has to get to class because dead boys don't make particularly efficient welcome parties.

Other than that most minor collision earlier the day has gone on without a hitch. With all the folders and files on students mostly kept in the office, Peter has only asked for copies of those who have made a slightly more notorious presence as far as his work is concerned. Most of these faces aren't familiar--yet--but he recognizes one as the boy he ran into earlier. Figures.

It seems he's only just gotten the room settled in a way he prefers it when a student comes in, not even giving his name, not signing the sheet, just sort of stands there with quite the impressive bruise forming over his left eye.

"Nice," Peter says and sets to work. There isn't a lot to be done for it other than examining to make sure it's just bruising, nothing broken beneath the skin or otherwise, and then ice, and a few words of reminding this boy that he's going to be fine. Rather than accept these encouragements, the boy is only inclined to complain, a lot and loudly, but Peter has dealt with worse--most of them adults and with less excuse for such behavior--so he just nods and smiles a bit wanly. Oh well.

"You'll live," he assures and pats the complaining one on the shoulder, telling him to kindly send in the other guy, supposing he's there too. Turning to the sink to wash his hands, he hopes it isn't too bad. What were you fighting about, he wonders, because there's always a reason, and whether or not other people think the reason is important, Peter always has.

What they were arguing about can be dissected for days. In the end it would still come down to a he said/he said sort of situation. One boy insulted another, however indirectly, then those insults became direct and the other boy could no longer abide by the rule of sticks and stones. In that case, he technically threw the first punch and for that he ought to be suspended, but the administration understood his situation, they understood his family's checkbook even better. A nice juicy tuition was worth a mouthy boy with a black eye. That student would live and this one would just take the heat for it outside of class, probably. Boys school rules, it's how they do things here. As long as no one had to go to the hospital and parents had no intention of suing who really cared? Aside from Peter Petrelli that is.

When Caspian enters the clinic he suffers a rough push from shoulder to shoulder by this other boy. It doesn't bother him much, he can still see clearly with both eyes, after all. His face bears less remarkable wounds, just a cut on his lip here, a bruise along his cheek, and bloody scrapes on his knuckles. Those are the wounds that require proper dressing, else he won't be able to participate in fencing today. Caspian's head hangs somewhat low but he still looks at the new nurse with some fair amount of defiance. He had every right to swing a fist at that boy. Don't tell him otherwise. Except when he sees who this nurse really is, his brown eyes go a little wide. He could not have expected this, but in retrospect he probably should have. The Telmarine clears his throat softly.

"Um. Hello again. This isn't a class..." Caspian jokes half humorously.

"Hi," the unexpected nurse smiles easily and waves Caspian over to one of the clinic beds, the simple paper covered things that rise only about three feet off the ground and sit on metal legs. "I don't think I'd be very good at teaching," he adds in response to the half humor, which he makes whole with half of his own and a short laugh.

If anything can be said about how Peter handles his job, whether he's caring for someone in their own home as they slowly pass on from this world or doing the more day-to-day job in a fast paced hospital or, in this case, in a school of boys who don't always play by the rules, it's that he does it because he wants to. He wouldn't be here if he didn't care and he thinks that people who don't care have no business being in medical work of any kind. That's debatable, as are most things, but he stands by it.

"So what happened?" he asks, not beating around the bush as he gets out the appropriate antiseptic and everything else--bandages, a shallow bowl of water, a cloth, and a smaller tool to dab at the smaller cuts, among other things. Sitting on the cot next to the one he directed the other offender to, he doesn't even look at Caspian's face for the moment, focusing on his hands. He'll need those healing first, whether it's for fencing or basic paperwork.

"Why is that," asks the brunette who has learned the art of redirecting focus, except grown ups seem to be much better at it or better at evading it than he is.

Either way, he takes a seat as directed on the low bed, not wanting to be rude to someone he was kind to much earlier in the same day. Not a student, definitely, maybe a graduate student? The answer to that hardly matters, it just keeps Caspian distracted from his other question which if the Telmarine wanted to be cheeky he could just say he got into a fight. Isn't that obvious, nurse? He doesn't even consider that sort of undeserved response and averts his gaze while offering his hands to Peter for inspection. The knuckles on both are cut and scraped as if he'd punched stone instead of another boy's face. This is partially true as both combatants had been fighting in one of the classically carved campus archways. One wonders how much money the administration spends on making the school look good.

"I hit him first," admits the young student to the young not!student. "I may get suspended," Caspian shrugs once, knowing this is only a quarter of a chance possible but it's something to acknowledge nonetheless.

"You won't be suspended," he shakes his head and rolls his eyes but then he smiles again, and everything is meant only to lighten the atmosphere, to present whoever comes through the door with as comfortable an environment as a clinic can be, which he knows, often, isn't very. Anyway, the first matter is to inspect for any bits of anything that might have gotten into said scrapes, and he does this, cleaning as he does so once discerning this is all as surface oriented as it looks.

Curious, he glances up now, brow slightly arched.

"Well why did you?" is the simple question that follows that. "He seemed a little whiny," he goes on briefly, starting with the antiseptic. "But I figure it was more than that."

The boy he met this morning doesn't punch people for no good reason, he's pretty sure.

"No, I suppose not..." Caspian concedes quietly. Talking, however inane the subject, takes away from the sting he feels along his knuckles when Peter begins cleaning them.

"They were being unkind about a friend of mine," a teacher to be exact, but the nurse doesn't need to know as much as Susan doesn't need to know. "I said they shouldn't talk like that, which they didn't like very much," and that doesn't come as any surprise to Caspian either. "So that boy," he nods to the door, indicating the one who just left, "said something particularly crude. Then I hit him."

"I see," he says, and he does. Public school isn't the same as private, all boy affairs, but they aren't necessarily any nicer. This is what Peter knows from hearsay of course, basing it more on that than his own experience, widely unimpressive and forgettable as it is. It's what he does now that is more important anyway.

"Well, I know I'm new and everything," he goes on because he sees nothing wrong with conversation. "But he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who listens to reason." A pause and a bit of a sympathetic look, not to be confused with pitying, pass here. "...that includes a black eye, even if it sounds like he deserved it." Bandages now, it's a simple task but he takes his time, because there's no point in making the healing process anymore uncomfortable than it probably is already. As paper cuts attest to, even small or seemingly minor injuries can sting, and often do worse than bigger gashes--those being the kind that often render one unconscious and so one isn't likely to feel any pain at all.

Hopefully this never comes to that level. Then the nurse might have to get involved himself, and how weird would that be. Right? Right.

From what he knows, all of it also hearsay from his friends at that school, a public institution has the same problems, just carried out in a different way. None of it any better than the other, really, and that's the kind of difference based on privilege, class, and several other things that can be argued for days and weeks, months and years even. Centuries too if one takes a close look at history. Whatever happened to Marius Romanus, he wonders. He admired that teacher very much even if all he taught were evening classes, then he disappeared without a trace. He was one of the two Caspian truly considered wonderful educators and good people to spend time with, now only Susan remains. He hopes she stays at least until his graduation, if he can make it to graduation day unscathed.

Peter's words don't go unnoticed and neither does his underlying meaning, that fighting won't resort things any better than an exchange of harsh words. Caspian just nods once.

"I know," he admits quietly, "I let my temper get the best of me. I hear it runs in my family." The Telmarine tries to smile and again, chooses to refocus. "Sorry, what was your name again," he asks curiously.

"Peter," be answers, and then because Peter is a common name, he adds, "Peter Petrelli, just got here...two weeks ago?" He laughs because he's honestly not sure of the precise date. Oh well. Just one other reason he's not a teacher.

"I'm not criticizing you," he clarifies because he doesn't want Caspian to mistake his meaning. Then again, it isn't as if they are friends, so how else might a person take that? He doesn't blame him for it in the least at any rate. Hands taken care of, he eyes the bruise and cut lip, frowning briefly before getting up, taking bowl and cloth and all else with him. To the side of the counter there is a short refrigeration unit, freezer too, and he takes out an ice pack, wrapping it in a small cloth so the sting of the cold isn't quite as severe. Then he hands it to Caspian, passing by him again to walk to his desk, finding his file.

"Like I said, he probably deserved it. I just..." he shakes his head again, slipping the folder back into the desk. "...well, I don't know," he laughs and then shrugs. "But I'm sort of a more than temporary-not-quite-permanent replacement, so, if I start seeing you here more often I'm going to have to ask for names." It's protocol, especially when the other boy fails to sign in.

Looking at the clock, he knows most of the students have probably left for the day, out to hang around town or to extra curricular activities and so on. It explains the comparative quiet from the hall.

What is it with likable men and the name Peter? Well, this one is far more outgoing than the other one, at least where first impressions are concerned. Honestly he hasn't known either of them long enough to judge, which is a pity considering how long he's noticed the other Peter. Anyway, Caspian nods and makes to offer his hand for a shake, except both hands have been bandaged so maybe it would be best not to undo Petrelli's work.

"Peter. I am Caspian, but you may already know that," he probably already knows he's a senior too. "I apologize, I didn't know you are the new nurse. You're not exactly what I expected," Caspian adds without attaching the impression his clothing and demeanor gave him, that and he thought he'd be older.

"No, but you are right," says the student who accepts the cloth covered ice pack. He holds it to the bruise, one that will swell nowhere near to the size of the other boy's, hah. "It's okay, I would rather not be dishonest. I don't come here frequently but I have been here more often than I should," Caspian admits while getting to his feet. "Is that all, then...?"

Nodding, he runs a hand through his hair, making a face as if to say yeah I get that a lot about the age, the clothes, the unexpectedness of it all.

"You don't need to apologize," he holds up a hand, placating. "And yeah, that's it," he confirms, but what he doesn't say is this time anyway. He has little doubt that he's likely to see this one again, but he only feels badly about it in the sense that Caspian seems kind and probably undeserving of idiotic handling that happens between boys who don't know how to use words or fists. Stupid, but it's the age or something, so they say. Peter doesn't really buy that either. He's seen plenty of adults make complete asses of themselves, and more than once, and quite a few are related to him. Swallowing an annoyed sigh at that thought, leaning at the side of his desk, he knows Nathan thinks what he does is a waste and his father even worse, but whatever. It's what he wants to do.

"I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but if today's any indication, it sounds like your trouble has to do with standing up for what you think is right--in which case, I can't really just tell you to stay out of trouble, can I?" he smiles again, glancing to the side. As it is, he never really knows what to say in these jobs. For people who he'll see more than once a week, things like goodbye seem silly.

Well, there's another variation.

"So I guess I'll stick with 'see you later'," he nods again as he sits at his desk, on which there isn't much, just a few photographs in frames--two of him and a certain niece, one of him and his brother--as well as some paperwork he has yet to finish and a sort of monstrous looking cup of coffee.