Heroes drabble: "Persistent". Nathan-centric, 728 words.
Persistent. Nathan-centric drabble, 728 words. Major spoilers through "Fallout".
He’s sitting there by Peter’s bed, staring at the pattern of veins that lace across the back of his ashen hands, and the monitors are a steady, persistent beep that drills into his brain so deep, he can’t hear them until he realizes they’re gone. He’s been sitting there for hours now, hours that feel like days and God, all things considered, he should get back to the campaign, arrange for Peter to be transported away from East Nowhere, Texas and back to the civilized world of blue states and cutting-edge technology. He should be on the phone, getting poll data and seeing if the phone banking this week had any effect. He should call their mother. But he’s just sitting there, staring and his eyes hurt from the light coming in the window. It’s a private room, at least. No-one else’s suffering to interrupt their own. Just the noise of the machines and the television Nathan dimly realizes someone turned on, probably a nurse, and probably when he went to chase down a cup of whatever passes for coffee here and remind himself that his legs do, in fact, work. Sitting in the hard chair by the bed had cut off the circulation to his legs and made him walk funny, anyway, and it was hard to think in that moment that he could actually fly. He doesn’t think about that much. There’s no room for it. Not now. Maybe after the elections, he said to himself before. Now, maybe after Peter wakes up. Because he will. Because stupidity and accidents aren’t allowed to take anyone else from him, not if Nathan has anything to say about it, and he’s pretty sure if he has to go argue with the Almighty Himself about it, even the Lord will back down when faced with the scourge of the DA’s office. JAG tactics work even outside the military courtroom.
But he’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about how paper-thin Peter’s skin seems. He’s thinking about Christmas, three months away and he’s thinking about it. He’s thinking about the way Peter used light up when given a candy cane, delighting in licking it, drawing out the treat. He’s thinking about hot chocolate and snow days. He’s thinking about when they were brothers, just brothers, Peter tagging along everywhere he went. He’s thinking about the times he told Peter to get lost, to find his own friends, to quit following him. He’s thinking about the time he told Peter all of that, and Peter made up his mind to hide in the cold snow fort they’d built up in the Hamptons so long everyone thought he had frozen to death. Nathan had, even at a very self-aware twelve, cried when they brought Peter in and warmed him up. He’d promised not to steal the candy canes from that point onwards, and not to leave him alone when he was hurting. He’d made a promise to nobody but himself and here he was, trying to figure out how to make good on it.
“I’ll be a shitty politician, Pete, just between you and me. Can’t even break a promise that you never knew I made,” Nathan murmurs, and, foolishly, looks up at Peter’s face, as if his eyes might open, as if he might ask Nathan what he was talking about, or say something about being a hero, a mantra Nathan would give his left foot to hear right now, just because it would mean the “persistent vegetative state” wasn’t so persistent.
There’s no response, of course, and Nathan rubs his face with his hand, sighing. He gets up again, shaking his feet, first one then the other, trying to encourage circulation. “Won’t be gone too long, promise. Just need something to drink. So if you’re going to wake up, don’t do it until I get back. Listen to me for once, okay?”
It’s a one-sided dialogue and Nathan walks out before he imagines what Peter might say in reply. Persistent means he’s going to have to get used to this. Nathan just can’t get used to it yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after the election. Maybe after Christmas. If he keeps putting it off, maybe Peter will do what he’s told and wake up before Nathan does actually get used to a world without his baby brother in it.
He’s sitting there by Peter’s bed, staring at the pattern of veins that lace across the back of his ashen hands, and the monitors are a steady, persistent beep that drills into his brain so deep, he can’t hear them until he realizes they’re gone. He’s been sitting there for hours now, hours that feel like days and God, all things considered, he should get back to the campaign, arrange for Peter to be transported away from East Nowhere, Texas and back to the civilized world of blue states and cutting-edge technology. He should be on the phone, getting poll data and seeing if the phone banking this week had any effect. He should call their mother. But he’s just sitting there, staring and his eyes hurt from the light coming in the window. It’s a private room, at least. No-one else’s suffering to interrupt their own. Just the noise of the machines and the television Nathan dimly realizes someone turned on, probably a nurse, and probably when he went to chase down a cup of whatever passes for coffee here and remind himself that his legs do, in fact, work. Sitting in the hard chair by the bed had cut off the circulation to his legs and made him walk funny, anyway, and it was hard to think in that moment that he could actually fly. He doesn’t think about that much. There’s no room for it. Not now. Maybe after the elections, he said to himself before. Now, maybe after Peter wakes up. Because he will. Because stupidity and accidents aren’t allowed to take anyone else from him, not if Nathan has anything to say about it, and he’s pretty sure if he has to go argue with the Almighty Himself about it, even the Lord will back down when faced with the scourge of the DA’s office. JAG tactics work even outside the military courtroom.
But he’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about how paper-thin Peter’s skin seems. He’s thinking about Christmas, three months away and he’s thinking about it. He’s thinking about the way Peter used light up when given a candy cane, delighting in licking it, drawing out the treat. He’s thinking about hot chocolate and snow days. He’s thinking about when they were brothers, just brothers, Peter tagging along everywhere he went. He’s thinking about the times he told Peter to get lost, to find his own friends, to quit following him. He’s thinking about the time he told Peter all of that, and Peter made up his mind to hide in the cold snow fort they’d built up in the Hamptons so long everyone thought he had frozen to death. Nathan had, even at a very self-aware twelve, cried when they brought Peter in and warmed him up. He’d promised not to steal the candy canes from that point onwards, and not to leave him alone when he was hurting. He’d made a promise to nobody but himself and here he was, trying to figure out how to make good on it.
“I’ll be a shitty politician, Pete, just between you and me. Can’t even break a promise that you never knew I made,” Nathan murmurs, and, foolishly, looks up at Peter’s face, as if his eyes might open, as if he might ask Nathan what he was talking about, or say something about being a hero, a mantra Nathan would give his left foot to hear right now, just because it would mean the “persistent vegetative state” wasn’t so persistent.
There’s no response, of course, and Nathan rubs his face with his hand, sighing. He gets up again, shaking his feet, first one then the other, trying to encourage circulation. “Won’t be gone too long, promise. Just need something to drink. So if you’re going to wake up, don’t do it until I get back. Listen to me for once, okay?”
It’s a one-sided dialogue and Nathan walks out before he imagines what Peter might say in reply. Persistent means he’s going to have to get used to this. Nathan just can’t get used to it yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after the election. Maybe after Christmas. If he keeps putting it off, maybe Peter will do what he’s told and wake up before Nathan does actually get used to a world without his baby brother in it.