fic: Cry Until You Laugh
Title: Cry Until You Laugh.
Characters/Pairings: Nathan, Claire, Meredith and a bunch of other people.
Rating: PG-13 for crude language.
Warnings: Angst, AU like whoa, canon character death, swearing.
Spoiler alert: Vague spoilers for characters and plots present in season two.
Summary: When Nathan finds out that Meredith it pregnant, he decides to marry her. It doesn't turn out the way he thinks.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor pretend to have any claim over the characters I'm writing about. Don't sue!
Note: This sucker is long. I didn't set out to write epic!fic, but it didn't want to end until I hit over 9,000 words. There are some pairings in here, but the fic isn't about that, and I want to keep some of them a secret, since it's an AU and I've messed around with the charaters. Also, I'm considering putting together a soundtrack for it, because I listened to ton of music while writing this. And Bobby is totally the name of my oldest teddy bear.
*
You didn't think about the consequences, not really. Your mother told you to, but you were young, and you thought you were in love, and you thought that was enough.
It isn't enough.
This was never part of the plan. If there's one thing that Nathan knows it's that this was never supposed to happen. Not to him, not to a Petrelli, with all the money and education and prestige that goes with the name. There were a carefully constructed set of steps that he'd been meant to take, and somewhere along the line (the summer of 1989) he'd fallen away from that and he wonders if he'll ever found his way back there.
Meredith was a sweet girl, not a thing like anyone he knew. There was no barrier between what she thought and what she said, she wouldn't hold back to save your feelings, but she'd make you feel like just about the best person in world if she liked you. And she liked Nathan, not for his smooth-talking because he was clumsy and stupid around her, not for his handsome features, because he'd had a killer hangover when she'd poured him that first cup of thick black coffee, and not for his money, because he wasn't Nathan Petrelli with her, he was just Nathan. He doesn't know why she liked him, but he wants to think she saw something good in him; wants to think he is a good person, because he sure doesn't feel like one right now.
Meredith's feet hurt all the time now, she complains all the time now. When she collapses on to the bed, rubs a hand across her belly, takes his hand and tells him the baby is kicking, he tries to remember loving her. Everything was so good once, they were having a baby and he was thrilled, stupidly happy all the time and his tiny blonde daughter was gorgeous, looked so much her mother it made his eyes warm and prickly, and not even his ma could bring him down.
He doesn't know when that stopped, when he started feeling anxious and caged just looking at Meredith, but it was before she got pregnant again, so he can only blame himself, really.
“I'm going to stay up and watch some TV,” he tells her, forcing himself to bend down and kiss her forehead before fleeing the bedroom. He'd sleep on the couch every night, but for the fact that he doesn't think he could take the argument it would cause, doesn't think he could stop himself from saying the things that fill his head all the time.
In the kitchen, the paper is opened to the help wanted section, and it's probably hint on Meredith's part. His parents have cut him off, mortally offended by his small, stupid rebellion, and university's out of the question now, the money that used to go on law books now goes on diapers and tiny shoes and clothes that are grown out of in a matter of months.
He drinks more than he should, she points that out sometimes, when she tired and cranky and he's unresponsive and withdrawn. He drinks cheap crap, the stuff that smells really strong so there's no hiding it from her, and it doesn't help, it just makes him feel disconnected from the world, and that's no solution.
Can he really do this? He's not strong, not in this way. He might be mouthy and opinionated, but he's practically an emotional cripple, and the way his mother coddled him and told him how special he was, and how he was destined for greatness he was didn't help.
There's a bag in the hall closet, full of t-shirts and underwear, and a roll of bills that will get him so far. He opens the door every night and looks at it, thinks about his life, his two kids, his lack of a job. Tonight he goes as far as taking it out, testing the weight of it. He's already got his shoes on, he realises, he doesn't know when that happened. He wonders how much he's had to drink.
There's something different about tonight, he feels, something final, like it's now or never, and then he's at the door, and his shoes are still on and his coat is in his hand, and the woman on the TV is talking softly.
This is his only chance. If he goes home, his parents might accept him, might look after him, and then he wouldn't need to be this married man any more, he could pretend that he's young, free and single again.
His hand's on the door knob now. He's going to turn it now, and he's not going to look back, because that's the only way this is going to work.
“Daddy?” Her voice is so tiny, as quiet as the muffled TV, but the word repeats through his mind. Daddy. That little word says so much, and holds so much meaning for him in particular. He lets his head fall forward and touch the door as he hears her approach.
“Daddy?” she repeats, and he turns around, resting his back against the door, and slides down it till he sits with his knees drawn up, eye level with Claire. She holds a teddy bear, almost as big as her, tightly in her arms and stares at him intensely.
“Did you have a bad dream?” she asks seriously. “I did. There were clowns.”
He tries to smile reassuringly, but it feels like a grimace. “No, honey, I'm fine.” His voice cracks and breaks at the end, and is he really going to cry in front of his four year old daughter? Apparently he is, as his eyes prickle, and he ducks his head, taking deep breaths, willing himself to just stop fucking panicking. He feels her little hands rest on his knees, and he can't trust himself to look up.
“Have Bobby, he'll make you better.” She holds out the bear, and he risks a look. She looks so sure that this bear will make everything okay, it's as easy as that; no problem is so insurmountable that it can't be solved by a stuffed animal. He shifts, pulling his legs beneath him, and gathers both her and the bear up into his arms. He presses his wet cheek into her hair, and mumbles about how he's not going to leave her and how everything's going to be okay; all the things he wants someone else to tell him.
“Why have you got your shoes on in the house? Mommy says that gets dirt on the carpet.”
He laughs, a bitter, brittle sound, but at least he's not crying any more. “I don't know, sweetheart. Your dad's been a little silly tonight.” He lifts her up, walking down the hallway as quietly as he can, but Meredith still stirs, calling from the bed to ask what he's doing.
“Just putting Claire back to bed,” he tells her. “Don't worry.” Her eyes cloud over for a moment, then she smiles and turns over uncomfortably to sleep.
Claire wants him to read her book of fairy tales to her. All of them, if she can have it her way, and something about the way she asks makes him think she's trying to keep him there with her for as long as possible. But then maybe he's projecting.
He lies on her bed with her snuggled into his side and reads till his voice grows hoarse and she's sound asleep. The next day, he unpacks the bag, putting everything neatly back where it belongs. Meredith may never know it, but that night, it was Claire that saved their marriage.
*
It might have been six minutes or sixty years, you really can't tell at this point, because you're spending your life standing still. Your kids are taller, so you know something's different.
New York was too expensive, too large, too noisy; too much for them, and Meredith doesn't dream big, she got homesick and over the course of a week, they rent a van, pack up their furniture and clothes and set off back for Texas.
They're happier there, or at least Meredith is, and that makes other things easier to ignore. She starts waitressing at a diner, and he drifts from job to job, but without any qualifications there's nothing he's really capable of doing. There are night classes he could take, he could get his law degree, pass the bar and start earning money, but he's never got further than the front steps of the college. It's not Columbia, it doesn't excel in athletics, doesn't have a diverse campus, doesn't have anti-war protests. Simply put, it's not good enough for him. He knows he's a prick for thinking it, but you don't just stop being entitled, moneyed Petrelli.
There's some thing at the kids' school tonight, a science fair or an art fair or something and Meredith's caught the flu from her sleazy boss who Nathan fucking hates because he doesn't even pretend like he's not trying to get into her pants.
He drives them over to the school in their rust bucket fourth hand car, and the little school is lit up, people milling about the parking lot, idly chatting with their kids' friends' parents and generally being good little PTA members. Nathan's fingers involuntarily tighten around the wheel, and all he wants to do is turn around and drive home as fast as he can, because he's just too young for all of this, this crushing life of suburban mediocrity, but Claire's already out of the car and peering through his window questioningly, and Simon is struggling to undo his seatbelt.
When he walks the short distance to the school, carrying Simon because he doesn't want a full blown tantrum in front of an attentive crowd (he hates being clung to), Claire very carefully takes his hand and smiles up at him.
“They're not so bad, Daddy,” she says, swinging his arm a little. “Everyone's really friendly.”
He nods. “I'm sure they are, I'll play nice.”
She flashes him a blinding smile and runs off into the crowd before he can tell her to be good and not talk to strangers, which he knows he should do but she'll be okay, right? He wants to put Simon down, he tells him to go play with his little friends, but Simon gets sniffly and Nathan's this close to telling him to stop being such a baby, but he sucks it up, because he's neither his mother nor his father and his children don't need that special brand of trauma.
“First time?”
He turns at the question, meeting the gaze of an older man. “Excuse me?”
The guy shrugs. “You just look like you've been thrown to the wolves without your shotgun.”
Nathan manages a smile, because he never used to be a wallflower - there wasn't a chance to be in his childhood - and he's still capable of conversing with people like a regular human being. “Yes, a little, I suppose. We just moved a couple of months ago.”
The guy nods. “Lucky you.” He glances around, rolling an empty wine glass between his palms. Nathan wishes he hadn't driven there.
“See that woman,” the guy says, pointing to a woman dressed in a violent pink pant suit. “She'll flirt with anything, provided it's male and has a pulse, and if you get caught by her you'll wish you had a cyanide tablet handy.” He grins and, not feeling even a little at ease, Nathan smiles back weakly. “And that one over there, the matronly-looking woman in brown? She's hates men. Rumour has it that the last principal didn't like her style of teaching and then two weeks later, he mysteriously disappeared.”
Nathan stares, shifting Simon on his hip.
“That was a joke.”
“Oh.”
Pushing through the adults, Claire runs up to him. “Daddy! Come see my painting, my teacher put it up right in the middle of the display.” She latches on to his arm and tugs gently.
“Hello little miss,” the guy says, looking down at her, and Nathan notices how tall he is, a good four inches on him. Claire glances between the two of them, obviously unwilling to be waylaid by idle conversation, but polite enough not to say it out loud.
“Hi,” she says, shifting from foot to foot and giving Nathan a look that clearly says 'don't make me talk to him'. Firmly, he takes her hand.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He turns back to the guy, who is just too much on the side of creepy for his liking, and shrugs a 'you know how it is' shrug. The guy nods and glances to the side as a woman softly calls 'Noah' and waves him over.
*
You thought you had it down. You thought that you'd got used to life, to your suffocatingly small existence, but life has a way of throwing you a curve ball just when you've packed up your baseball bat.
They're in the kitchen, Meredith stirring pasta in the pan, Nathan skimming the paper for interesting articles, of which they are none because this town has low crime rates and boring politics and is generally nothing like New York. Five years, and he still hates it.
“Nathan.” Meredith turns and leans against the counter. “I have something I need to tell you.”
“Yeah?” He doesn't even glance up.
“Nathan,” she repeats, and he lifts his eyes. She vibrates with nervous energy, wringing her hands and picking at the ends of her sleeves. “I'm- I'm pregnant.”
He blinks, then blinks again, dropping the newspaper to the table. “What?”
“Pregnant, Nathan.” She smiles slightly, looking at her twisting fingers.
“I thought-” He swallows, keeping his voice level. “I thought you were on the pill.”
“Sometimes there are blips.”
“Blips?” The chair scrapes back horribly as he stands up. “Meredith, we can't afford another child. We can't afford the children we've already got!”
“We'll find a way, we always do.”
“A- a way? Oh, just like that! Because money just grows on fucking trees, doesn't it!” His lip curls and his voice steadily grows louder. “I can't believe you're doing this again!”
She narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Every time, Meredith. Every fucking time things get bad you have another baby!”
“What?” Her tone is dangerous, but he can't hear it over the roar of blood pounding in his ears.
He scrapes his hands through his hair, and something inside of him just breaks. Sixteen years and he cannot cope any more. “You trapped me into this marriage, Meredith,” he hisses.
“I trapped you? If I recall correctly you were the one who didn't want to wear a condom. Was the added sensation worth it, Nathan?”
He glares at her, standing between the kitchen table and her, not sure where he's supposed to go or what he's supposed to say, so he stammers out, “I- I never would have married you if it hadn't been for-”
There's a creak out in the hallway, and he already knows what it is, it's just so fucking typical of his life.
Claire doesn't look hurt, not really, just disappointed and nothing's ever hit him harder than that. She shakes her head and walks away quickly, unlatching the front door and stepping out, her hand tensing around the handle as she closes it quietly.
“Why didn't you tell me she was there?” he says quietly. Meredith crosses her arms over her chest,
“I think she deserves to know what her father's really like.”
He's completely at a loss for words, because she's right. Instead, he just shakes his head, and goes after his daughter.
*
She's standing not far from the gate, arms wrapped around her, staring at the tufty grass of their neighbour's yard across the road. He doesn't want to approach her, because he's scared of what she'll say. He's scared that... she'll reject him, the way he rejected her.
“Claire?”
She glances to the side, standing stock still. “Yeah?”
“What you heard, it was-”
“The truth,” she finishes. “For the first time.”
His throat feels like it's constricted, but he pushes past it. “Yes.” His voice comes out quiet, far weaker than he would have liked, but he knows she's heard because her shoulders tense up. “I'm sorry.”
She snorts. “Sorry is a useless word, Dad, you remember telling me that, don't you?
He shuts his eyes tight, trying to remember when he became that person; the one who says stupid, cynical stuff because he's angry and bitter, the one who's kids' listen to him because they're labouring under the misconception that he has any idea what he's talking about.
He has to approach her, has to reach out and lay his hand on her shoulder and ignore the shudder, because that person wouldn't. “I do love you Claire.”
She turns and faces him, and she's never looks more like him than when she's angry, when her eyes are bright and alive with repressed emotion. On the outside, she might look like her mother, but she's him on the inside. It scares him.
“I know you do.” She pauses. “But what about the boys? You're so distant.”
“It's... difficult, Claire, you have to understand that. Your grandma, she had mine and Peter's lives planned out for us from before we were out of diapers. I'm used to certainty.”
“And you've had sixteen years to get used to uncertainty. It's just life, okay? It's nothing special.”
He rubs a hand over his face and doesn't meet her eyes. “I know, I know. It's just... not what I thought. I'm sorry,” he repeats, and she sighs, uncrossing her arms and pushes herself up onto her toes, pulling him into a hug.
“I know.” Her fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, and he rests his chin of the top of her head, watching a lone car trundle down the road in the dying light. “I know.”
*
Meredith is balancing the phone between her ear and her shoulder, holding a pen at the ready over a notepad when they come back in. Her eyes flicker to him, and soften, with none of the fury of five minutes before. Something's wrong.
“Nathan, it's your brother.” She bites her lip. “Your father passed away.”
Peter talks in that soft calm voice that should put him at ease, but only makes him more anxious. He says that they would have called him, of course they would have, but it was sudden, that he never would have got there in time. He says that he's sorry, so sorry he hasn't been in contact for so long, so sorry that he has to do this over the phone. He says that the funeral's in five days time. He says that that they all love him and miss him, and won't he please come and stay with them?
Nathan mumbles something into the receiver, some kind of affirmative, and bolts for the bedroom, dragging out a bag (the bag) from under the bed and pulls open drawers, trying to work out what he needs to take.
“...Nathan. Nathan. Nathan!” He doesn't know how long she's been standing there, but he doesn't want to talk to her, so he turns away, groping around the wardrobe for a clean pair of jeans.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Packing.”
There's a pause, and he hopes that she'll let it drop, but when has she ever done that? “We need to talk.”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now.” She touches his arm and he wrenches it away, spinning to face her.
“I can't. I can't think about that now. I need to go and...” He trails off. “I just need to go.”
Out in the hall, he snatches the phone up and dials the number for the airport. Meredith slowly follows him, keeping her distance as she watches him fumble with the phone.
“Can I be put through to reservations, please? Yes, I'll hold.” He forces himself to not twist the cord around his fingers and stuffs his free hand into his pocket.
“What going on?” Claire asks softly, and now they're both watching him like a pathetic caged animal at a zoo.
“Your father,” Meredith can't keep the note of contempt out of her voice as she says it, “Is going to New York.”
Claire nods, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Okay. I'm going too.”
“What?” Meredith's attention shifts from him to her, and he lets the phone loosen slightly in his grip, frowning at her.
“You're not,” Meredith says. “What about school?”
Claire rolls her eyes. “What is it, one week? I'll catch up. He's my grandfather, I should be able to go to his funeral if I want to. Besides, he can't go alone.” She gestures to Nathan.
Meredith purses her lips, staring at him. “She's right, you're a wreck, you can't possibly go alone.”
He feels a little affronted, honestly. They're treating him like he's a child, like he's not capable of looking after himself, but on the other hand, he's self-aware enough to know that he is a wreck, that he might just completely freak out in the middle of Midland International if he's left unattended. The music on the other end of the line cuts off, and a perky voice asks for his booking.
“One adult, one child for New York, please.”
*
It's a long flight, with a couple of stops, and when they touch down at JFK, it's almost six thirty in the morning. He hasn't slept at all, and he suspects Claire hasn't either, because periodically he notices her opening an eye and looking at him, and when he gets twitchy she reaches out and takes his hand.
Once on the ground, he buys the largest cup of black coffee he can find, flags down a taxi, and they throw their bags in the back, setting off towards Hyde Park.
Even at the early hour, the house is lit up, the door partially open, people walking in and out. There's a van parked in the street, which is being loaded up with boxes of stuff. He pays the taxi driver and gets out, moving around to the other side to open the door for Claire. She kisses him on the cheek and pats his arm, pulling the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and gets out.
They edge past painters and decorators, and avoid bumping into improbably placed furniture.
“This is kind of weird,” Claire says, trying not to step on the paint drops on the floor. “Why are they decorating now?”
“Your grandmother defaults to cleaning tyrant when she's upset,” he replies with a wry smile. The whole house must have been remodelled when I married Meredith, he thinks bitterly.
As they draw closer to the first reception room, they can hear voices echo around the empty room.
“-tell him to wait. I'm kinda having a family emergency here, okay? Tell the senator what he needs to do is pay his prostitutes the money they ask for, then maybe they wouldn't threaten to go to the papers. Or better yet, attend sex-aholics anonymous, or whatever it's called.”
Claire smirks, and Nathan looks at her sideways. “I really should cover your ears,” he says loudly, “But I guess it's a little late for that.”
“Oh!” The cell is snapped closed, and Peter crosses the room, already starting to turn red. “I didn't think you'd get here this fast, bro!” He hugs Nathan forcefully, patting him on the back. “I'm glad you're here,” Peter mumbles into his ear.
Nathan doesn't know what to say. It should be 'me too' but the words don't want to come. He settles for a quiet 'yeah', instead.
“Claire!” Peter lets go, and looks at his niece. “You're bigger than I remember.”
“Well, we do tend to grow, Uncle Peter,” she says with a smile and gives him a brief squeeze.
“So, where're you hiding the rest of the family, Nate?”
Claire winces. Nathan rubs the back of his neck. “Meredith decided to stay at home with the boys.”
Peter's face is blank for a second. Then he smiles just a tad too widely. “Oh okay, cool. Do you want to, uh, dump your bags in your rooms? Ma's around here somewhere, too.”
And like she'd heard his words (like a demon summoned, Nathan nearly, almost thinks) her heels click click click on the hard wood floor, and she rounds on them.
“Nathan,” she says coldly, taking in his too-long, scruffy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the wrinkled shirt. He doesn't squirm under her gaze, though he wants to. “We didn't know if you'd come.”
Peter grimaces. “Ma, don't start this again.”
“He was my father, of course I came,” he snaps back. Claire watches them carefully. The last thing her mother had said as they'd hugged, just out of hearing range of Nathan, was: 'Don't let that old battle-axe push you around, you hear? Or your father, she'll take control of him if she gets the chance'.
“Dad.” She lays a hand on his back. “You look tired, maybe you should get some sleep.”
He strokes her hair back from her face and bites down on the hate building up inside him. “Yeah, you're right. I think I will.” He slips away from them, and Peter, sensing looming trouble, slings an arm around Claire's shoulders, drawing her away from Angela.
*
He comes downstairs to the sounds of rising and falling voices. It's past seven in the evening, he must have passed out cold when his head hit the pillow.
“...and of course he lost the ring,” a pretty, manicured woman finishes as he enters the room. Claire's curled up in a squashy armchair, laughing, and Peter looks flustered, sitting on the armrest next to the woman.
“It wasn't my fault! My best man got stinking drunk on the stag night,” he explains to Claire, “And he accidentally dropped it down the toilet. But he didn't remember anything the next morning. I spent three hours going through the dumpster looking for it! I looked like such an idiot when I finally made it to the church.” He smiles his crooked smile, shaking his head ruefully.
Nathan wonders if he could just back out before anyone notices him, but it's not to be, as the woman with Peter looks up and her eyes light up. She jumps up and comes over to him.
“Nathan! I've wanted to meet you forever! I'm Simone.” She holds her hand out, and he takes it, trying to remember exactly who she is. Simone... Ah, the wedding invite he never RSVP'd. Crap.
“Hello.”
She pulls him into the room. Claire twists in her chair and watches him with an expression of veiled concern, as does Peter. He hopes that just a shared family trait, and not because Claire's been spreading news of their family problems.
“I've just been telling Claire about how stupid your brother can be. To hear him tell it, he's never made a mistake in his whole life.”
Peter pouts. He hasn't change all that much, Nathan thinks, still using his natural talents to squirm around people. “Hey! I passed the bar, just how stupid can I-” He closes his mouth abruptly, eyes going wide. “Uh...”
“So,” Claire interrupts loudly, “What did you do for a ring, Peter?”
“Oh, well, have you seen 'Four Weddings and a', uh, 'Funeral'? Y'know at the beginning with the plastic rings? Yeah, that was pretty much what we did. Simone's had a little dinosaur on it.”
There's more chatter, most of which goes over Nathan's head as he tries to work out what's different about his brother. On the outside, yeah, he's different. His hair's cut short, his boyish features have become more defined, he's gained muscle, no longer Nathan's skinny little sidekick. But there are other things, like how he wears a shirt and tie now - loosened with the top three buttons undone now, but there was a time when he had to be bribed into dressing up like that - and how he talks, loudly, confidently, moving his hands to illustrate his point. And then there's the whole passing-the-bar thing. With a jolt, Nathan realises that Peter's what he would have become, if his life had stayed on track.
*
The next couple of days pass by in blur of funeral preparations; the right food, drink and colour coordinated décor are all key, according to his mother, and he doesn't even feel like the third wheel - more like the sixth - as Peter spends hours at a time yelling down the phone at any number of people (he switches so smoothly from dreamer to hard-nosed lawyer), Simone whisks Claire away to do some shopping, and his ma controls everything, screaming at the staff for any minor infraction and smashing some of the family's best china.
Nathan means to call home, he really does, but there's never time, and thankfully Claire doesn't push him on it when she calls her mother at night. He doesn't have a photo of his sons in his wallet. There's a crumpled picture of Claire from when she was the Sugar Plum Fairy in a school production of the Nutcracker years and years before, but that's all, there's no trace of Meredith either. He doesn't think it was a conscious choice on his part, but that doesn't make it much better.
Talking of pictures, they aren't an awful of his around the house. A couple of graduation photos, some of him and his ex (the one he left for Meredith. Why's his mother still got them up?) and some ancient baby photos. None of the kids - his parents only grandchildren - none of his wedding photos (he remembers vividly that Meredith sent his ma a couple just to spite her), but tons of Peter and Simone, studio shots that make Claire snigger and he can't quite bring himself to tell her off because they're just so god awful.
He spends his time looking through the junk in his old room. Toy planes hung from the ceiling, old school reports (“Has great potential”) and masses of pictures tacked onto the wall. His mother was appalled that he'd made holes in the wallpaper, and still more appalled by the dirty magazines that their traitorous cleaner had brought to her attention. He blushes even thinking about it; there he was, thirteen years old and being hauled in front of his father to have 'the talk', but his father was so despondent, going through one of his worse phases, that he was just sent away with the advice to hide his porn collection better.
Despondency must run in the family, he muses, as he hears excited voices downstairs. One of them is Claire's, and she sounds so bright and happy that he can't help but smile and follow the source of the noise.
*
“How much did you buy?” Peter asks, chewing on his bottom lip, surveying the mess of bags in front of Simone and Claire.
“Oh, lots,” Simone answers. “But don't worry, we used your credit card.”
He rolls his eyes. “I'm sure you did.”
“Do you know,” Simone says, taking Claire by the shoulders, “That this girl has never set foot inside a D&G store?”
“Well, we should just put you in a habit and dub you Sister Simone right now, shouldn't we?”
“And,” Claire pipes up excitedly, “We went to an art exhibition. Simone knew one of the artists. It was amazing.”
“Oh yeah?” Peter expression shifts almost imperceptibly into suspicion. “Which artist?”
“Uh, Mendez. Isaac, I think. I met him, he was really nice - a bit out of it, maybe.”
“Isaac,” Peter repeats, his dark eyes flickering over Simone. “You went to see Isaac?”
Nathan has a good sideways on view of the two of them, and he sees how Simone's jaw muscles clench. “We went to see an art exhibit, Peter.”
“Yeah, and you're an art dealer, surely there are better artists in this city than him.”
“I wanted to show Claire something interesting, something relevant.”
“Relevant,” Peter scoffs. “Yeah, well it sure is relevant to you, isn't it?”
Simone narrows her eyes, stepping over the bags and taking Peter's arm, pushing him further down the hallway. “Why don't you show Nathan what you got, while me and Peter have a chat?” she calls over her shoulder as she shoves him into the lounge and closes the door behind her.
Nathan and Claire share a look as the argument gets well and truly heated. Through the door they can hear something alone the lines of “-drug addict! If you're going to screw someone on the side, at least pick someone who you're not going catch something from!”
Then the conversation gets more muffled, as if they've moved further into the room, and god help him, but they both edge closer to the door.
“-only one!” Simone screams. “I know that brand of perfume on your jacket isn't mine! And the lipstick marks on your shirts? Also not mine!”
Then there's a thump, and a crash, and then a louder crash and outside the floor vibrates.
“Jesus, what's going on in there?” Claire asks.
“I don't know.” Nathan steps to the door, and turns the handle. Claire ducks in under his arm.
“Holy fu-”
“Language,” he chides, but it really is a 'holy fuck' situation. Peter's holding on tightly to Simone in one corner of the room, and they're both staring open-mouthed at the middle of the room, where a good deal of the upstairs bathroom now resides.
“Peter?” he asks. “What happened?”
Peter just shakes his head dumbly.
*
The damage to the ceiling is going to take weeks to repair. The contractor smiles widely at the hole, as another beam gives way and plaster floats down to coat their hair like dandruff. He scribbles down some notes in his little book, and tells them he'll get back to them within a week. Angela is utterly furious, and goes so far as to almost slap the PA who innocently asks just one too many questions. Nathan's never witnessed his mother break, but this is getting pretty damn close to it.
The funeral is in two days. Nathan still hasn't gone to see his father's body. He could if he wanted to, there were no outward injuries, so it wouldn't be overly scarring to see, but that's the thing, isn't it? Does he want to?
He always used to feel like the older brother. It wasn't hard, with Peter being so much younger, but it was more than that. He used to be sure of everything, of his place in life, of his relationships and when Peter wanted to know something, Nathan was the one to ask, because Nathan just knew.
Now, Peter comments on the latest guy running for Congress, makes a dig about so-and-so's lawyer who may win cases but that doesn't stop him from driving around at three in the morning dressed in women's clothing, and Nathan doesn't know. Nathan knows about school fairs, and math homework, the mayor's latest drive to stop kids loitering around the trailer parks and how to fix a leaking faucet by careful trial and error (turning it the wrong way and getting hit full in the face with gallons of gushing water). He thinks he covers it well enough, smiles along, doesn't try to change the subject suddenly because that's a sure fire to look suspicious. But the problem is he's not certain any more if he can even trust his own judgement. He'd remembered life in this house, this huge, lavishly decorated house, as good, full of opportunities and elaborate parties. Nights stumbling in drunk with a girl and never being questioned over it the next morning. His acceptance letter from Columbia on the doormat.
But hadn't he hated that? The pressure, the noise, the soullessness. Four people occupying a house capable of holding many more was lonely. That's why he'd run away with Meredith, nights spent in her tiny apartment, warm even in the winter, the freedom to as he wanted, act as stupidly as he wanted. The night she'd told him she was pregnant, eyes full of fear, he'd laughed and kissed her, proposed to her right then and there, his old life forgotten. He'd been perfectly happy.
Maybe neither was really real. That blurry snapshot of life was never going to last, but the grass certainly isn't greener further east.
Claire seems to thrive on it though. His mother carefully avoids contact, but Simone loves her, and it's nice to see her fussed over. For once she has new clothes, fashionable ones, and they suit her. The fact that his brother paid for them is horribly embarrassing, but Nathan is not so proud as to try to pay him back. He needs that money for things like food and bills.
Peter talks a lot. That much hasn't changed. He talks when he's got something to say and especially when he hasn't. He babbles on to cover the pauses, makes jokes when topics turn sour, asks inane question just to involve everyone, but he's saying nothing at all, really.
Nathan corners him in the kitchen the night before everyone's going to fly in, when the house will for once be buzzing with life. Because of death, ironically.
“Pete.”
His brother looks up from the counter he'd been leaning against, screws his eyes tightly shut, then opens them again. “Yeah?”
“How's everything going?”
“Fine as can be expected.” He rolls his shoulders and rubs his neck. Nathan hears the crack of his bones. “Some of my clients won't get off my back. You'd think they were children. What, they can't look after themselves for five days?” He laughs softly.
“That's not what I meant. I mean, 'everything' as in everything.”
“Everything? That's a pretty long history, bro, you might want to take notes.”
Nathan doesn't laugh like he's supposed to. “Let's start off small, then. Why did you go into law?”
Peter shrugs. “Why not?”
“Because you wanted to save people. Don't forget that I know your favourite toys were your cape and your stethoscope.”
“That was a long time ago, and I am helping people. I do as much pro bono work as I can.”
“I didn't say 'help', I said 'save', as in their lives, not their bank accounts or public images.” He leans forward on the other side of the counter, raising his eyebrows, waiting for the answer. Peter dithers, and it's familiar enough to get a smile tugging at his lips.
“I... had to. I mean, after you left- and I'm not blaming you okay? Because I get it, believe me. But after you left, Ma focussed a lot of effort on me. I guess you took all of that for me when you were around, but when you weren't, I was her new project. Someone had to take over dad's firm.”
She'd shaped Peter, it made sense. Maybe that was his problem, he'd been left half-finished. “I'm sorry.” He's been saying that a lot lately.
Peter shakes his head, holds up a hand. “Really, don't. Look, if I'd been strong enough, I could have left, but I didn't. That's no one's fault but mine.”
A bark of laughter escapes Nathan because he can shut it down. “You think I'm strong? You wouldn't think so if you could see me most of the time. It's not strength, it's being trapped.”
Peter's eyes go wide. “Wow, I didn't know.”
“I didn't tell you.”
“Yeah... Is it- What's trapping you?”
“What isn't?” Nathan replies bitterly. “Well, me and Meredith have basically broken up. I yelled at her and I hated her, and I don't feel sorry for it, so... I think it's over.”
Peter nods. “I kinda wondered. Takes one to know one.”
“You haven't even been married two years yet, what happened?”
“I couldn't keep it in my pants, and I couldn't trust her to, either.” Peter looks at him likes he's waiting for something.
“What?” Nathan says, “I've never cheated on my wife.”
“Really?”
“Hey! Don't be so surprised!” Nathan laughs as Peter's mouth slants down into a grin. He regrets not being around to see him grow into this man, as flawed a human being as everyone else, which had honestly never crossed his mind. Peter was always better than the rest of them, destined to be something more, something else. It's Nathan's fault that never happened; like Peter said, he was supposed to be the one to live up to all his parents' hopes and dreams.
Claire appears at the doorway, practically skips into the room, and wraps an arm around his waist, giving him a squeeze. He kisses the top of her head.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” they echo back as one, and she smiles at them, wrinkling her nose.
“There's some old movies being shown at an arthouse cinema around here, Simone thinks we should all go. You're old, Dad, it should be right up your street.”
Nathan mock-frowns at her and says to Peter, “You better watch out when you have children, suddenly you're old at thirty-six.”
Peter comes and joins them as the leave the room. “Well, you know man, that is kind of old.”
*
The house has never looked so clean. Every surface gleams from hours of polishing, everything is neatly ordered. There's not an item out of place, books have been rearranged in size order on the shelves, pictures hang so straight that they might have been measured with a spirit level. There's not a hair out of place on his mother's head, her black skirt suit is perfectly tailored and her make-up perfectly applied. Nathan feels tense just looking at her.
Claire wears a dress that reaches just below her knees, and he wears a suit that he did not pay for. They both look tidier than they possibly ever have in their whole lives. That's a good thing too, because Angela is ready to hang, draw and quarter anyone who doesn't fall into line.
They're ushered into a limo, not garish pink like the one he'd rented for Claire's freshmen dance, but black with tinted windows - the kind that get people on the street trying to peer in in case there's a celebrity inside.
There's not a wet eye in the house. His mother looks faintly angry throughout the last rites, Peter looks worried, Simone picks at her nails discreetly, Claire keeps her features studiously blank and Nathan just feels kind of empty. He never did see his father while he was lying in state, and as the casket is lowered into the ground, he knows it's too late, and he finds he doesn't really care.
The wake has to be the best attended function in New York that day. People from all over come to pay their respects. He recognises some of them from his childhood; Bob Bishop whose ear is constantly stuck to his cell, Linderman who's talking quietly to a nervous Peter, Kaito Nakamura who's always just been a little too familiar with his mother.
It's all a bit too much, and Claire stands in the corner, looking overwhelmed and holding a wine glass in her hand. Plucking it from her, he says, “No drinking for you, Miss.” before downing it in one gulp.
“Hypocrite.”
“That's a father's prerogative, honey.”
Peter disengages from Linderman and joins Simone as she wheels an older man through the crowd. Nathan can hear their conversation as they come closer.
“Really, Charles, you shouldn't be alone in that apartment. You're more than welcome to move in here with us, there's plenty of room.”
“Peter.” Charles twists in his chair and looks up at him. “I love you like a son, you know that, but if I lived here with your family, I will die even quicker than I am now.”
“Dad!” Simone exclaims as Nathan can't help but laugh.
“Simone, I'm an old man, I'm allowed to joke about death.” He glances over at Nathan who's clamped over his mouth. It wasn't that funny, but he can't seem to stop laughing. “Nathan Petrelli, I haven't seen you in a long time.”
Nathan clears his throat and swallows down a last snigger. “Do I know you?”
“I'm a friend of your parents. We met a couple of times when you were very young.”
“Oh yeah, I think I kind of remember you.”
Charles smiles, pushing away Simone's fussing hands as he wheels himself closer. “It's always nice to kind of remembered, son. Now, do you know where the alcohol is in this place? My daughter disapproves.”
Nathan points to a waiter flitting between guests and Charles sets off towards him as Simone pursues him, tutting. Peter slopes after her.
They people-watch for a couple more minutes, and he quietly tells Claire as many stories as he can remember about their various relatives; like the great-aunt who once climbed up onto the roof of their summer home in nothing more than her frilly underwear one night while she was sleep-walking, or the cousin who went skinny-dipping while on holiday in Italy and got arrested and spent two nights in the cells because even though the family's Italian, he couldn't speak a word of the language.
“Oh God,” he says, halfway through telling her some of Peter's deepest darkest secrets.
“What?”
He turns his head away, raising his hand as if to scratch his face. It's a fairly pathetic attempt to hide himself.
“Who are you avoiding?”
He risks a peek, and his eyes lock on the woman's. She waves and pushes her way over.
“Who is that?” Claire asks.
“My ex,” he mutters.
“The one you left for Mom?”
“How did you know that?”
She shrugs. “We do occasionally talk, you know.”
“Nathan!”
He pastes on the best smile he can. “Heidi,” he breathes.
She takes him by the shoulders, quickly air-kissing his cheeks. “I'm so sorry about your father, Nate, he was a good man.” She pushes him back a step and takes him in. “Damn, you look good. You get better with age, Nathan.” There's something predatory in her eye, and quickly he introduces Claire.
“This is my daughter, Claire.” They exchange hellos, and Heidi's eyes soften.
“It's good to see you. I missed you.”
He nods. “I missed you too.” He says it, but he's not sure if he means it or not. Other than Peter, he couldn't say that he'd truly missed anything about this world. Those old feelings of regret remain, though, and it's probably his only chance to offload it, so he does. “I'm sorry, Heidi. For... everything.”
She shakes her head. “It's okay. I forgave you years ago. You stood by the mother of your children, that's... admirable.”
“Thanks,” he replies, looking down at Claire. There are some things he'll never regret.
Even with that out in the open, the conversation is still incredibly awkward, and he's relieved when someone knocks a spoon against their glass and asks for quiet.
The orator, Daniel Linderman, smiles calmly at the attentive crowd. “We're all here today to say goodbye to a great man, a great friend, a great parent...” Nathan zones out on the actual words as mourner after mourner give their Hallmark-approved speech of the man, the myth, the legend, Arthur Petrelli; a kind, caring, funny man who loved everyone and would give his last cent to a person in need.
Nathan has absolutely no idea who that man is, certainly it's no one he's ever met. He frowns. “I'm going to say something.”
Claire raises an eyebrow. “How much have you had to drink?”
He regards the empty glass. “Too much, probably.”
She nods. “Try not to fall over.”
He joins Linderman in front of everyone. They stare and whisper to each other; you could never say that the New York crowd are subtle.
“Hi,” he starts. Faces turn to him, eager for him continue, eager for the gossip fodder that'll last for weeks. “I'm Nathan. You might not remember me, I disappeared to Texas about twelve years ago, and I didn't see my father for the last eight years of his life, but I think I knew him pretty well, as well as anyone could, anyway.” He takes a breath, ignores his mother furious face. This is not going to end well.
“He was a good man, I'm sure he was. I'm sure that he loved us, and that he was a good lawyer and friend, but... that's not what I remember. I remember him drinking too much, locking himself in his office for days at a time. I remember waiting at the hospital when I was seventeen as he had his stomach pumped. Just because he's dead doesn't mean history's been rewritten.”
“Nathan!” his mother shrieks, shoving several people out of the way in an effort to reach him.
“Stop pretending, Ma. He had depression for years. He did kill himself, didn't he?”
Peter coughs loudly, and several other people turn red. He ploughs on while he still has the opportunity. “It's fairly obvious that depression runs in the family.”
Charles starts gasping for breath, clutching his arm and bending forward. Simone crouches down in front of him, touching his face. “I think he's having a heart attack, oh God, call a doctor!”
Well, that certainly took the heat off Nathan. Peter comes and kneels next to his wife, placing a hand on Charles's shoulder. “Charles, just take deep breaths, slow and deep, okay? You'll be okay, we'll get an ambulance, we'll-”
Charles straightens abruptly. Slowly, his grip on his right arm loosens. “I feel... better.”
“Oh thank God,” Simone whispers. “I must have just been a-”
“No, no, I mean I feel better. I feel like I'm fifty again.” He eases himself out of the chair, waving off Peter who's trying to help support him. A look passes between Charles and Linderman, a look that speaks on many levels, if only you know how to decrypt it.
Claire comes to stand by Nathan's side. “Somehow, I don't think we're going to be welcome here for much longer.”
*
Simone gives Claire one of her Louis Vuitton suitcases, 'so you don't wrinkle your new clothes', she says, and won't hear of them sending it back to her.
“It's yours,” she says, giving her a hug. “From an aunt to a niece, okay? And anyone who can put a bug up Angela's ass is a firm friend of mine.” She smiles widely, turning and giving Nathan an unexpected squeeze and kiss on the cheek. “Don't hide away, Peter misses you. He needs his big brother to keep him in line.”
“I won't, I promise.” Claire laughs at how he blushes, and he just sighs dramatically at her.
“You know, everyone at your school is going to hate you, with all these new clothes.”
“I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I'm not,” she replies cheekily, sticking her tongue out and continues to fold clothes neatly. It didn't take long, he thinks, for Peter to ingratiate himself into her life. He should never have kept his two families separate, she needed this as much as he did.
“Aren't you going to miss it?” he asks suddenly.
She frowns. “Miss what?”
“The lifestyle, the money, the days out shopping. New York is a little more exciting than Midland.”
“Yeah...” She flips the lid of the case closed, zipping up the sides. “It was totally fun, the glitz and glamour and everything. Nice to not have to pay for anything, too, but this was a holiday. A completely screwed up and crazy one, but still. Home's home and here's... somewhere I can visit but I couldn't live here.” She pauses, watches as he stuff a shirt into his bag. Folding's not one of his talents. “What about you?”
He thinks about it. Home's a funny concept for him, since he's never really felt that sort of connection with any place he's been. When he was young, life moved too fast for him to notice the absence, and now it moves so slowly, he can't do anything but notice it. “Home's wherever you and the boys are, I guess.”
She pulls a face. “Oh my God, you did not just say that! That's so, so... sappy. I didn't think you had it in you, Dad!”
He holds his hands up in surrender, feeling relief at actually being able to laugh properly for once. “I know! When did I get so sentimental, huh?”
The taxi arrives for them at three in the afternoon, and the driver must be the most patient New York cabbie ever, because he doesn't honk his horn or even yell out of the window as they go through the extended process of saying goodbye.
“Take me with you,” Peter pleads, patting him on the back.
“Not a chance, Pete,” Nathan says. “Ma would have my head. But visit any time, I'll make room for you wherever I am.”
Peter glances nervously at his mother. “I might just be taking you up on that.”
Angela regards him coolly when he gets to her. Not far away, Peter's lifting Claire off the ground in a bear hug, but Nathan's pretty sure there's going to no such affection over here for him. His mother sighs, lifting a hand to fuss with his hair. Her nails scrape against his temples slightly harder than necessary.
“You need a haircut, Nathan,” is all she says, before she kisses him quickly on both cheeks and goes back into the house. But that's okay, because if she's fussing about his appearance, she can't be that angry at him and maybe for once he's not seeking her approval, or rebelling against her rule, he's just being him.
As they get into the cab, the first less than melodic strains of World War Three, Petrelli-style reach them, and Nathan slams the door shut firmly, as if someone's going to run over and drag him back to the house. “Let's get away from these crazy fucking people.”
“Language!” Claire admonishes, whacking him playfully on the arm.
“Where to?” The driver asks, who rather incongruously, Nathan feels, has an English accent.
“JFK, please. And step on it.”
You'll fight, and there'll be tears and accusations and some of them are going to be true and some of them less so, but you think it might just be okay. It's life, it's nothing special.
Characters/Pairings: Nathan, Claire, Meredith and a bunch of other people.
Rating: PG-13 for crude language.
Warnings: Angst, AU like whoa, canon character death, swearing.
Spoiler alert: Vague spoilers for characters and plots present in season two.
Summary: When Nathan finds out that Meredith it pregnant, he decides to marry her. It doesn't turn out the way he thinks.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor pretend to have any claim over the characters I'm writing about. Don't sue!
Note: This sucker is long. I didn't set out to write epic!fic, but it didn't want to end until I hit over 9,000 words. There are some pairings in here, but the fic isn't about that, and I want to keep some of them a secret, since it's an AU and I've messed around with the charaters. Also, I'm considering putting together a soundtrack for it, because I listened to ton of music while writing this. And Bobby is totally the name of my oldest teddy bear.
*
You didn't think about the consequences, not really. Your mother told you to, but you were young, and you thought you were in love, and you thought that was enough.
It isn't enough.
This was never part of the plan. If there's one thing that Nathan knows it's that this was never supposed to happen. Not to him, not to a Petrelli, with all the money and education and prestige that goes with the name. There were a carefully constructed set of steps that he'd been meant to take, and somewhere along the line (the summer of 1989) he'd fallen away from that and he wonders if he'll ever found his way back there.
Meredith was a sweet girl, not a thing like anyone he knew. There was no barrier between what she thought and what she said, she wouldn't hold back to save your feelings, but she'd make you feel like just about the best person in world if she liked you. And she liked Nathan, not for his smooth-talking because he was clumsy and stupid around her, not for his handsome features, because he'd had a killer hangover when she'd poured him that first cup of thick black coffee, and not for his money, because he wasn't Nathan Petrelli with her, he was just Nathan. He doesn't know why she liked him, but he wants to think she saw something good in him; wants to think he is a good person, because he sure doesn't feel like one right now.
Meredith's feet hurt all the time now, she complains all the time now. When she collapses on to the bed, rubs a hand across her belly, takes his hand and tells him the baby is kicking, he tries to remember loving her. Everything was so good once, they were having a baby and he was thrilled, stupidly happy all the time and his tiny blonde daughter was gorgeous, looked so much her mother it made his eyes warm and prickly, and not even his ma could bring him down.
He doesn't know when that stopped, when he started feeling anxious and caged just looking at Meredith, but it was before she got pregnant again, so he can only blame himself, really.
“I'm going to stay up and watch some TV,” he tells her, forcing himself to bend down and kiss her forehead before fleeing the bedroom. He'd sleep on the couch every night, but for the fact that he doesn't think he could take the argument it would cause, doesn't think he could stop himself from saying the things that fill his head all the time.
In the kitchen, the paper is opened to the help wanted section, and it's probably hint on Meredith's part. His parents have cut him off, mortally offended by his small, stupid rebellion, and university's out of the question now, the money that used to go on law books now goes on diapers and tiny shoes and clothes that are grown out of in a matter of months.
He drinks more than he should, she points that out sometimes, when she tired and cranky and he's unresponsive and withdrawn. He drinks cheap crap, the stuff that smells really strong so there's no hiding it from her, and it doesn't help, it just makes him feel disconnected from the world, and that's no solution.
Can he really do this? He's not strong, not in this way. He might be mouthy and opinionated, but he's practically an emotional cripple, and the way his mother coddled him and told him how special he was, and how he was destined for greatness he was didn't help.
There's a bag in the hall closet, full of t-shirts and underwear, and a roll of bills that will get him so far. He opens the door every night and looks at it, thinks about his life, his two kids, his lack of a job. Tonight he goes as far as taking it out, testing the weight of it. He's already got his shoes on, he realises, he doesn't know when that happened. He wonders how much he's had to drink.
There's something different about tonight, he feels, something final, like it's now or never, and then he's at the door, and his shoes are still on and his coat is in his hand, and the woman on the TV is talking softly.
This is his only chance. If he goes home, his parents might accept him, might look after him, and then he wouldn't need to be this married man any more, he could pretend that he's young, free and single again.
His hand's on the door knob now. He's going to turn it now, and he's not going to look back, because that's the only way this is going to work.
“Daddy?” Her voice is so tiny, as quiet as the muffled TV, but the word repeats through his mind. Daddy. That little word says so much, and holds so much meaning for him in particular. He lets his head fall forward and touch the door as he hears her approach.
“Daddy?” she repeats, and he turns around, resting his back against the door, and slides down it till he sits with his knees drawn up, eye level with Claire. She holds a teddy bear, almost as big as her, tightly in her arms and stares at him intensely.
“Did you have a bad dream?” she asks seriously. “I did. There were clowns.”
He tries to smile reassuringly, but it feels like a grimace. “No, honey, I'm fine.” His voice cracks and breaks at the end, and is he really going to cry in front of his four year old daughter? Apparently he is, as his eyes prickle, and he ducks his head, taking deep breaths, willing himself to just stop fucking panicking. He feels her little hands rest on his knees, and he can't trust himself to look up.
“Have Bobby, he'll make you better.” She holds out the bear, and he risks a look. She looks so sure that this bear will make everything okay, it's as easy as that; no problem is so insurmountable that it can't be solved by a stuffed animal. He shifts, pulling his legs beneath him, and gathers both her and the bear up into his arms. He presses his wet cheek into her hair, and mumbles about how he's not going to leave her and how everything's going to be okay; all the things he wants someone else to tell him.
“Why have you got your shoes on in the house? Mommy says that gets dirt on the carpet.”
He laughs, a bitter, brittle sound, but at least he's not crying any more. “I don't know, sweetheart. Your dad's been a little silly tonight.” He lifts her up, walking down the hallway as quietly as he can, but Meredith still stirs, calling from the bed to ask what he's doing.
“Just putting Claire back to bed,” he tells her. “Don't worry.” Her eyes cloud over for a moment, then she smiles and turns over uncomfortably to sleep.
Claire wants him to read her book of fairy tales to her. All of them, if she can have it her way, and something about the way she asks makes him think she's trying to keep him there with her for as long as possible. But then maybe he's projecting.
He lies on her bed with her snuggled into his side and reads till his voice grows hoarse and she's sound asleep. The next day, he unpacks the bag, putting everything neatly back where it belongs. Meredith may never know it, but that night, it was Claire that saved their marriage.
*
It might have been six minutes or sixty years, you really can't tell at this point, because you're spending your life standing still. Your kids are taller, so you know something's different.
New York was too expensive, too large, too noisy; too much for them, and Meredith doesn't dream big, she got homesick and over the course of a week, they rent a van, pack up their furniture and clothes and set off back for Texas.
They're happier there, or at least Meredith is, and that makes other things easier to ignore. She starts waitressing at a diner, and he drifts from job to job, but without any qualifications there's nothing he's really capable of doing. There are night classes he could take, he could get his law degree, pass the bar and start earning money, but he's never got further than the front steps of the college. It's not Columbia, it doesn't excel in athletics, doesn't have a diverse campus, doesn't have anti-war protests. Simply put, it's not good enough for him. He knows he's a prick for thinking it, but you don't just stop being entitled, moneyed Petrelli.
There's some thing at the kids' school tonight, a science fair or an art fair or something and Meredith's caught the flu from her sleazy boss who Nathan fucking hates because he doesn't even pretend like he's not trying to get into her pants.
He drives them over to the school in their rust bucket fourth hand car, and the little school is lit up, people milling about the parking lot, idly chatting with their kids' friends' parents and generally being good little PTA members. Nathan's fingers involuntarily tighten around the wheel, and all he wants to do is turn around and drive home as fast as he can, because he's just too young for all of this, this crushing life of suburban mediocrity, but Claire's already out of the car and peering through his window questioningly, and Simon is struggling to undo his seatbelt.
When he walks the short distance to the school, carrying Simon because he doesn't want a full blown tantrum in front of an attentive crowd (he hates being clung to), Claire very carefully takes his hand and smiles up at him.
“They're not so bad, Daddy,” she says, swinging his arm a little. “Everyone's really friendly.”
He nods. “I'm sure they are, I'll play nice.”
She flashes him a blinding smile and runs off into the crowd before he can tell her to be good and not talk to strangers, which he knows he should do but she'll be okay, right? He wants to put Simon down, he tells him to go play with his little friends, but Simon gets sniffly and Nathan's this close to telling him to stop being such a baby, but he sucks it up, because he's neither his mother nor his father and his children don't need that special brand of trauma.
“First time?”
He turns at the question, meeting the gaze of an older man. “Excuse me?”
The guy shrugs. “You just look like you've been thrown to the wolves without your shotgun.”
Nathan manages a smile, because he never used to be a wallflower - there wasn't a chance to be in his childhood - and he's still capable of conversing with people like a regular human being. “Yes, a little, I suppose. We just moved a couple of months ago.”
The guy nods. “Lucky you.” He glances around, rolling an empty wine glass between his palms. Nathan wishes he hadn't driven there.
“See that woman,” the guy says, pointing to a woman dressed in a violent pink pant suit. “She'll flirt with anything, provided it's male and has a pulse, and if you get caught by her you'll wish you had a cyanide tablet handy.” He grins and, not feeling even a little at ease, Nathan smiles back weakly. “And that one over there, the matronly-looking woman in brown? She's hates men. Rumour has it that the last principal didn't like her style of teaching and then two weeks later, he mysteriously disappeared.”
Nathan stares, shifting Simon on his hip.
“That was a joke.”
“Oh.”
Pushing through the adults, Claire runs up to him. “Daddy! Come see my painting, my teacher put it up right in the middle of the display.” She latches on to his arm and tugs gently.
“Hello little miss,” the guy says, looking down at her, and Nathan notices how tall he is, a good four inches on him. Claire glances between the two of them, obviously unwilling to be waylaid by idle conversation, but polite enough not to say it out loud.
“Hi,” she says, shifting from foot to foot and giving Nathan a look that clearly says 'don't make me talk to him'. Firmly, he takes her hand.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He turns back to the guy, who is just too much on the side of creepy for his liking, and shrugs a 'you know how it is' shrug. The guy nods and glances to the side as a woman softly calls 'Noah' and waves him over.
*
You thought you had it down. You thought that you'd got used to life, to your suffocatingly small existence, but life has a way of throwing you a curve ball just when you've packed up your baseball bat.
They're in the kitchen, Meredith stirring pasta in the pan, Nathan skimming the paper for interesting articles, of which they are none because this town has low crime rates and boring politics and is generally nothing like New York. Five years, and he still hates it.
“Nathan.” Meredith turns and leans against the counter. “I have something I need to tell you.”
“Yeah?” He doesn't even glance up.
“Nathan,” she repeats, and he lifts his eyes. She vibrates with nervous energy, wringing her hands and picking at the ends of her sleeves. “I'm- I'm pregnant.”
He blinks, then blinks again, dropping the newspaper to the table. “What?”
“Pregnant, Nathan.” She smiles slightly, looking at her twisting fingers.
“I thought-” He swallows, keeping his voice level. “I thought you were on the pill.”
“Sometimes there are blips.”
“Blips?” The chair scrapes back horribly as he stands up. “Meredith, we can't afford another child. We can't afford the children we've already got!”
“We'll find a way, we always do.”
“A- a way? Oh, just like that! Because money just grows on fucking trees, doesn't it!” His lip curls and his voice steadily grows louder. “I can't believe you're doing this again!”
She narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Every time, Meredith. Every fucking time things get bad you have another baby!”
“What?” Her tone is dangerous, but he can't hear it over the roar of blood pounding in his ears.
He scrapes his hands through his hair, and something inside of him just breaks. Sixteen years and he cannot cope any more. “You trapped me into this marriage, Meredith,” he hisses.
“I trapped you? If I recall correctly you were the one who didn't want to wear a condom. Was the added sensation worth it, Nathan?”
He glares at her, standing between the kitchen table and her, not sure where he's supposed to go or what he's supposed to say, so he stammers out, “I- I never would have married you if it hadn't been for-”
There's a creak out in the hallway, and he already knows what it is, it's just so fucking typical of his life.
Claire doesn't look hurt, not really, just disappointed and nothing's ever hit him harder than that. She shakes her head and walks away quickly, unlatching the front door and stepping out, her hand tensing around the handle as she closes it quietly.
“Why didn't you tell me she was there?” he says quietly. Meredith crosses her arms over her chest,
“I think she deserves to know what her father's really like.”
He's completely at a loss for words, because she's right. Instead, he just shakes his head, and goes after his daughter.
*
She's standing not far from the gate, arms wrapped around her, staring at the tufty grass of their neighbour's yard across the road. He doesn't want to approach her, because he's scared of what she'll say. He's scared that... she'll reject him, the way he rejected her.
“Claire?”
She glances to the side, standing stock still. “Yeah?”
“What you heard, it was-”
“The truth,” she finishes. “For the first time.”
His throat feels like it's constricted, but he pushes past it. “Yes.” His voice comes out quiet, far weaker than he would have liked, but he knows she's heard because her shoulders tense up. “I'm sorry.”
She snorts. “Sorry is a useless word, Dad, you remember telling me that, don't you?
He shuts his eyes tight, trying to remember when he became that person; the one who says stupid, cynical stuff because he's angry and bitter, the one who's kids' listen to him because they're labouring under the misconception that he has any idea what he's talking about.
He has to approach her, has to reach out and lay his hand on her shoulder and ignore the shudder, because that person wouldn't. “I do love you Claire.”
She turns and faces him, and she's never looks more like him than when she's angry, when her eyes are bright and alive with repressed emotion. On the outside, she might look like her mother, but she's him on the inside. It scares him.
“I know you do.” She pauses. “But what about the boys? You're so distant.”
“It's... difficult, Claire, you have to understand that. Your grandma, she had mine and Peter's lives planned out for us from before we were out of diapers. I'm used to certainty.”
“And you've had sixteen years to get used to uncertainty. It's just life, okay? It's nothing special.”
He rubs a hand over his face and doesn't meet her eyes. “I know, I know. It's just... not what I thought. I'm sorry,” he repeats, and she sighs, uncrossing her arms and pushes herself up onto her toes, pulling him into a hug.
“I know.” Her fingers clutch at the back of his shirt, and he rests his chin of the top of her head, watching a lone car trundle down the road in the dying light. “I know.”
*
Meredith is balancing the phone between her ear and her shoulder, holding a pen at the ready over a notepad when they come back in. Her eyes flicker to him, and soften, with none of the fury of five minutes before. Something's wrong.
“Nathan, it's your brother.” She bites her lip. “Your father passed away.”
Peter talks in that soft calm voice that should put him at ease, but only makes him more anxious. He says that they would have called him, of course they would have, but it was sudden, that he never would have got there in time. He says that he's sorry, so sorry he hasn't been in contact for so long, so sorry that he has to do this over the phone. He says that the funeral's in five days time. He says that that they all love him and miss him, and won't he please come and stay with them?
Nathan mumbles something into the receiver, some kind of affirmative, and bolts for the bedroom, dragging out a bag (the bag) from under the bed and pulls open drawers, trying to work out what he needs to take.
“...Nathan. Nathan. Nathan!” He doesn't know how long she's been standing there, but he doesn't want to talk to her, so he turns away, groping around the wardrobe for a clean pair of jeans.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Packing.”
There's a pause, and he hopes that she'll let it drop, but when has she ever done that? “We need to talk.”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now.” She touches his arm and he wrenches it away, spinning to face her.
“I can't. I can't think about that now. I need to go and...” He trails off. “I just need to go.”
Out in the hall, he snatches the phone up and dials the number for the airport. Meredith slowly follows him, keeping her distance as she watches him fumble with the phone.
“Can I be put through to reservations, please? Yes, I'll hold.” He forces himself to not twist the cord around his fingers and stuffs his free hand into his pocket.
“What going on?” Claire asks softly, and now they're both watching him like a pathetic caged animal at a zoo.
“Your father,” Meredith can't keep the note of contempt out of her voice as she says it, “Is going to New York.”
Claire nods, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Okay. I'm going too.”
“What?” Meredith's attention shifts from him to her, and he lets the phone loosen slightly in his grip, frowning at her.
“You're not,” Meredith says. “What about school?”
Claire rolls her eyes. “What is it, one week? I'll catch up. He's my grandfather, I should be able to go to his funeral if I want to. Besides, he can't go alone.” She gestures to Nathan.
Meredith purses her lips, staring at him. “She's right, you're a wreck, you can't possibly go alone.”
He feels a little affronted, honestly. They're treating him like he's a child, like he's not capable of looking after himself, but on the other hand, he's self-aware enough to know that he is a wreck, that he might just completely freak out in the middle of Midland International if he's left unattended. The music on the other end of the line cuts off, and a perky voice asks for his booking.
“One adult, one child for New York, please.”
*
It's a long flight, with a couple of stops, and when they touch down at JFK, it's almost six thirty in the morning. He hasn't slept at all, and he suspects Claire hasn't either, because periodically he notices her opening an eye and looking at him, and when he gets twitchy she reaches out and takes his hand.
Once on the ground, he buys the largest cup of black coffee he can find, flags down a taxi, and they throw their bags in the back, setting off towards Hyde Park.
Even at the early hour, the house is lit up, the door partially open, people walking in and out. There's a van parked in the street, which is being loaded up with boxes of stuff. He pays the taxi driver and gets out, moving around to the other side to open the door for Claire. She kisses him on the cheek and pats his arm, pulling the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and gets out.
They edge past painters and decorators, and avoid bumping into improbably placed furniture.
“This is kind of weird,” Claire says, trying not to step on the paint drops on the floor. “Why are they decorating now?”
“Your grandmother defaults to cleaning tyrant when she's upset,” he replies with a wry smile. The whole house must have been remodelled when I married Meredith, he thinks bitterly.
As they draw closer to the first reception room, they can hear voices echo around the empty room.
“-tell him to wait. I'm kinda having a family emergency here, okay? Tell the senator what he needs to do is pay his prostitutes the money they ask for, then maybe they wouldn't threaten to go to the papers. Or better yet, attend sex-aholics anonymous, or whatever it's called.”
Claire smirks, and Nathan looks at her sideways. “I really should cover your ears,” he says loudly, “But I guess it's a little late for that.”
“Oh!” The cell is snapped closed, and Peter crosses the room, already starting to turn red. “I didn't think you'd get here this fast, bro!” He hugs Nathan forcefully, patting him on the back. “I'm glad you're here,” Peter mumbles into his ear.
Nathan doesn't know what to say. It should be 'me too' but the words don't want to come. He settles for a quiet 'yeah', instead.
“Claire!” Peter lets go, and looks at his niece. “You're bigger than I remember.”
“Well, we do tend to grow, Uncle Peter,” she says with a smile and gives him a brief squeeze.
“So, where're you hiding the rest of the family, Nate?”
Claire winces. Nathan rubs the back of his neck. “Meredith decided to stay at home with the boys.”
Peter's face is blank for a second. Then he smiles just a tad too widely. “Oh okay, cool. Do you want to, uh, dump your bags in your rooms? Ma's around here somewhere, too.”
And like she'd heard his words (like a demon summoned, Nathan nearly, almost thinks) her heels click click click on the hard wood floor, and she rounds on them.
“Nathan,” she says coldly, taking in his too-long, scruffy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the wrinkled shirt. He doesn't squirm under her gaze, though he wants to. “We didn't know if you'd come.”
Peter grimaces. “Ma, don't start this again.”
“He was my father, of course I came,” he snaps back. Claire watches them carefully. The last thing her mother had said as they'd hugged, just out of hearing range of Nathan, was: 'Don't let that old battle-axe push you around, you hear? Or your father, she'll take control of him if she gets the chance'.
“Dad.” She lays a hand on his back. “You look tired, maybe you should get some sleep.”
He strokes her hair back from her face and bites down on the hate building up inside him. “Yeah, you're right. I think I will.” He slips away from them, and Peter, sensing looming trouble, slings an arm around Claire's shoulders, drawing her away from Angela.
*
He comes downstairs to the sounds of rising and falling voices. It's past seven in the evening, he must have passed out cold when his head hit the pillow.
“...and of course he lost the ring,” a pretty, manicured woman finishes as he enters the room. Claire's curled up in a squashy armchair, laughing, and Peter looks flustered, sitting on the armrest next to the woman.
“It wasn't my fault! My best man got stinking drunk on the stag night,” he explains to Claire, “And he accidentally dropped it down the toilet. But he didn't remember anything the next morning. I spent three hours going through the dumpster looking for it! I looked like such an idiot when I finally made it to the church.” He smiles his crooked smile, shaking his head ruefully.
Nathan wonders if he could just back out before anyone notices him, but it's not to be, as the woman with Peter looks up and her eyes light up. She jumps up and comes over to him.
“Nathan! I've wanted to meet you forever! I'm Simone.” She holds her hand out, and he takes it, trying to remember exactly who she is. Simone... Ah, the wedding invite he never RSVP'd. Crap.
“Hello.”
She pulls him into the room. Claire twists in her chair and watches him with an expression of veiled concern, as does Peter. He hopes that just a shared family trait, and not because Claire's been spreading news of their family problems.
“I've just been telling Claire about how stupid your brother can be. To hear him tell it, he's never made a mistake in his whole life.”
Peter pouts. He hasn't change all that much, Nathan thinks, still using his natural talents to squirm around people. “Hey! I passed the bar, just how stupid can I-” He closes his mouth abruptly, eyes going wide. “Uh...”
“So,” Claire interrupts loudly, “What did you do for a ring, Peter?”
“Oh, well, have you seen 'Four Weddings and a', uh, 'Funeral'? Y'know at the beginning with the plastic rings? Yeah, that was pretty much what we did. Simone's had a little dinosaur on it.”
There's more chatter, most of which goes over Nathan's head as he tries to work out what's different about his brother. On the outside, yeah, he's different. His hair's cut short, his boyish features have become more defined, he's gained muscle, no longer Nathan's skinny little sidekick. But there are other things, like how he wears a shirt and tie now - loosened with the top three buttons undone now, but there was a time when he had to be bribed into dressing up like that - and how he talks, loudly, confidently, moving his hands to illustrate his point. And then there's the whole passing-the-bar thing. With a jolt, Nathan realises that Peter's what he would have become, if his life had stayed on track.
*
The next couple of days pass by in blur of funeral preparations; the right food, drink and colour coordinated décor are all key, according to his mother, and he doesn't even feel like the third wheel - more like the sixth - as Peter spends hours at a time yelling down the phone at any number of people (he switches so smoothly from dreamer to hard-nosed lawyer), Simone whisks Claire away to do some shopping, and his ma controls everything, screaming at the staff for any minor infraction and smashing some of the family's best china.
Nathan means to call home, he really does, but there's never time, and thankfully Claire doesn't push him on it when she calls her mother at night. He doesn't have a photo of his sons in his wallet. There's a crumpled picture of Claire from when she was the Sugar Plum Fairy in a school production of the Nutcracker years and years before, but that's all, there's no trace of Meredith either. He doesn't think it was a conscious choice on his part, but that doesn't make it much better.
Talking of pictures, they aren't an awful of his around the house. A couple of graduation photos, some of him and his ex (the one he left for Meredith. Why's his mother still got them up?) and some ancient baby photos. None of the kids - his parents only grandchildren - none of his wedding photos (he remembers vividly that Meredith sent his ma a couple just to spite her), but tons of Peter and Simone, studio shots that make Claire snigger and he can't quite bring himself to tell her off because they're just so god awful.
He spends his time looking through the junk in his old room. Toy planes hung from the ceiling, old school reports (“Has great potential”) and masses of pictures tacked onto the wall. His mother was appalled that he'd made holes in the wallpaper, and still more appalled by the dirty magazines that their traitorous cleaner had brought to her attention. He blushes even thinking about it; there he was, thirteen years old and being hauled in front of his father to have 'the talk', but his father was so despondent, going through one of his worse phases, that he was just sent away with the advice to hide his porn collection better.
Despondency must run in the family, he muses, as he hears excited voices downstairs. One of them is Claire's, and she sounds so bright and happy that he can't help but smile and follow the source of the noise.
*
“How much did you buy?” Peter asks, chewing on his bottom lip, surveying the mess of bags in front of Simone and Claire.
“Oh, lots,” Simone answers. “But don't worry, we used your credit card.”
He rolls his eyes. “I'm sure you did.”
“Do you know,” Simone says, taking Claire by the shoulders, “That this girl has never set foot inside a D&G store?”
“Well, we should just put you in a habit and dub you Sister Simone right now, shouldn't we?”
“And,” Claire pipes up excitedly, “We went to an art exhibition. Simone knew one of the artists. It was amazing.”
“Oh yeah?” Peter expression shifts almost imperceptibly into suspicion. “Which artist?”
“Uh, Mendez. Isaac, I think. I met him, he was really nice - a bit out of it, maybe.”
“Isaac,” Peter repeats, his dark eyes flickering over Simone. “You went to see Isaac?”
Nathan has a good sideways on view of the two of them, and he sees how Simone's jaw muscles clench. “We went to see an art exhibit, Peter.”
“Yeah, and you're an art dealer, surely there are better artists in this city than him.”
“I wanted to show Claire something interesting, something relevant.”
“Relevant,” Peter scoffs. “Yeah, well it sure is relevant to you, isn't it?”
Simone narrows her eyes, stepping over the bags and taking Peter's arm, pushing him further down the hallway. “Why don't you show Nathan what you got, while me and Peter have a chat?” she calls over her shoulder as she shoves him into the lounge and closes the door behind her.
Nathan and Claire share a look as the argument gets well and truly heated. Through the door they can hear something alone the lines of “-drug addict! If you're going to screw someone on the side, at least pick someone who you're not going catch something from!”
Then the conversation gets more muffled, as if they've moved further into the room, and god help him, but they both edge closer to the door.
“-only one!” Simone screams. “I know that brand of perfume on your jacket isn't mine! And the lipstick marks on your shirts? Also not mine!”
Then there's a thump, and a crash, and then a louder crash and outside the floor vibrates.
“Jesus, what's going on in there?” Claire asks.
“I don't know.” Nathan steps to the door, and turns the handle. Claire ducks in under his arm.
“Holy fu-”
“Language,” he chides, but it really is a 'holy fuck' situation. Peter's holding on tightly to Simone in one corner of the room, and they're both staring open-mouthed at the middle of the room, where a good deal of the upstairs bathroom now resides.
“Peter?” he asks. “What happened?”
Peter just shakes his head dumbly.
*
The damage to the ceiling is going to take weeks to repair. The contractor smiles widely at the hole, as another beam gives way and plaster floats down to coat their hair like dandruff. He scribbles down some notes in his little book, and tells them he'll get back to them within a week. Angela is utterly furious, and goes so far as to almost slap the PA who innocently asks just one too many questions. Nathan's never witnessed his mother break, but this is getting pretty damn close to it.
The funeral is in two days. Nathan still hasn't gone to see his father's body. He could if he wanted to, there were no outward injuries, so it wouldn't be overly scarring to see, but that's the thing, isn't it? Does he want to?
He always used to feel like the older brother. It wasn't hard, with Peter being so much younger, but it was more than that. He used to be sure of everything, of his place in life, of his relationships and when Peter wanted to know something, Nathan was the one to ask, because Nathan just knew.
Now, Peter comments on the latest guy running for Congress, makes a dig about so-and-so's lawyer who may win cases but that doesn't stop him from driving around at three in the morning dressed in women's clothing, and Nathan doesn't know. Nathan knows about school fairs, and math homework, the mayor's latest drive to stop kids loitering around the trailer parks and how to fix a leaking faucet by careful trial and error (turning it the wrong way and getting hit full in the face with gallons of gushing water). He thinks he covers it well enough, smiles along, doesn't try to change the subject suddenly because that's a sure fire to look suspicious. But the problem is he's not certain any more if he can even trust his own judgement. He'd remembered life in this house, this huge, lavishly decorated house, as good, full of opportunities and elaborate parties. Nights stumbling in drunk with a girl and never being questioned over it the next morning. His acceptance letter from Columbia on the doormat.
But hadn't he hated that? The pressure, the noise, the soullessness. Four people occupying a house capable of holding many more was lonely. That's why he'd run away with Meredith, nights spent in her tiny apartment, warm even in the winter, the freedom to as he wanted, act as stupidly as he wanted. The night she'd told him she was pregnant, eyes full of fear, he'd laughed and kissed her, proposed to her right then and there, his old life forgotten. He'd been perfectly happy.
Maybe neither was really real. That blurry snapshot of life was never going to last, but the grass certainly isn't greener further east.
Claire seems to thrive on it though. His mother carefully avoids contact, but Simone loves her, and it's nice to see her fussed over. For once she has new clothes, fashionable ones, and they suit her. The fact that his brother paid for them is horribly embarrassing, but Nathan is not so proud as to try to pay him back. He needs that money for things like food and bills.
Peter talks a lot. That much hasn't changed. He talks when he's got something to say and especially when he hasn't. He babbles on to cover the pauses, makes jokes when topics turn sour, asks inane question just to involve everyone, but he's saying nothing at all, really.
Nathan corners him in the kitchen the night before everyone's going to fly in, when the house will for once be buzzing with life. Because of death, ironically.
“Pete.”
His brother looks up from the counter he'd been leaning against, screws his eyes tightly shut, then opens them again. “Yeah?”
“How's everything going?”
“Fine as can be expected.” He rolls his shoulders and rubs his neck. Nathan hears the crack of his bones. “Some of my clients won't get off my back. You'd think they were children. What, they can't look after themselves for five days?” He laughs softly.
“That's not what I meant. I mean, 'everything' as in everything.”
“Everything? That's a pretty long history, bro, you might want to take notes.”
Nathan doesn't laugh like he's supposed to. “Let's start off small, then. Why did you go into law?”
Peter shrugs. “Why not?”
“Because you wanted to save people. Don't forget that I know your favourite toys were your cape and your stethoscope.”
“That was a long time ago, and I am helping people. I do as much pro bono work as I can.”
“I didn't say 'help', I said 'save', as in their lives, not their bank accounts or public images.” He leans forward on the other side of the counter, raising his eyebrows, waiting for the answer. Peter dithers, and it's familiar enough to get a smile tugging at his lips.
“I... had to. I mean, after you left- and I'm not blaming you okay? Because I get it, believe me. But after you left, Ma focussed a lot of effort on me. I guess you took all of that for me when you were around, but when you weren't, I was her new project. Someone had to take over dad's firm.”
She'd shaped Peter, it made sense. Maybe that was his problem, he'd been left half-finished. “I'm sorry.” He's been saying that a lot lately.
Peter shakes his head, holds up a hand. “Really, don't. Look, if I'd been strong enough, I could have left, but I didn't. That's no one's fault but mine.”
A bark of laughter escapes Nathan because he can shut it down. “You think I'm strong? You wouldn't think so if you could see me most of the time. It's not strength, it's being trapped.”
Peter's eyes go wide. “Wow, I didn't know.”
“I didn't tell you.”
“Yeah... Is it- What's trapping you?”
“What isn't?” Nathan replies bitterly. “Well, me and Meredith have basically broken up. I yelled at her and I hated her, and I don't feel sorry for it, so... I think it's over.”
Peter nods. “I kinda wondered. Takes one to know one.”
“You haven't even been married two years yet, what happened?”
“I couldn't keep it in my pants, and I couldn't trust her to, either.” Peter looks at him likes he's waiting for something.
“What?” Nathan says, “I've never cheated on my wife.”
“Really?”
“Hey! Don't be so surprised!” Nathan laughs as Peter's mouth slants down into a grin. He regrets not being around to see him grow into this man, as flawed a human being as everyone else, which had honestly never crossed his mind. Peter was always better than the rest of them, destined to be something more, something else. It's Nathan's fault that never happened; like Peter said, he was supposed to be the one to live up to all his parents' hopes and dreams.
Claire appears at the doorway, practically skips into the room, and wraps an arm around his waist, giving him a squeeze. He kisses the top of her head.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” they echo back as one, and she smiles at them, wrinkling her nose.
“There's some old movies being shown at an arthouse cinema around here, Simone thinks we should all go. You're old, Dad, it should be right up your street.”
Nathan mock-frowns at her and says to Peter, “You better watch out when you have children, suddenly you're old at thirty-six.”
Peter comes and joins them as the leave the room. “Well, you know man, that is kind of old.”
*
The house has never looked so clean. Every surface gleams from hours of polishing, everything is neatly ordered. There's not an item out of place, books have been rearranged in size order on the shelves, pictures hang so straight that they might have been measured with a spirit level. There's not a hair out of place on his mother's head, her black skirt suit is perfectly tailored and her make-up perfectly applied. Nathan feels tense just looking at her.
Claire wears a dress that reaches just below her knees, and he wears a suit that he did not pay for. They both look tidier than they possibly ever have in their whole lives. That's a good thing too, because Angela is ready to hang, draw and quarter anyone who doesn't fall into line.
They're ushered into a limo, not garish pink like the one he'd rented for Claire's freshmen dance, but black with tinted windows - the kind that get people on the street trying to peer in in case there's a celebrity inside.
There's not a wet eye in the house. His mother looks faintly angry throughout the last rites, Peter looks worried, Simone picks at her nails discreetly, Claire keeps her features studiously blank and Nathan just feels kind of empty. He never did see his father while he was lying in state, and as the casket is lowered into the ground, he knows it's too late, and he finds he doesn't really care.
The wake has to be the best attended function in New York that day. People from all over come to pay their respects. He recognises some of them from his childhood; Bob Bishop whose ear is constantly stuck to his cell, Linderman who's talking quietly to a nervous Peter, Kaito Nakamura who's always just been a little too familiar with his mother.
It's all a bit too much, and Claire stands in the corner, looking overwhelmed and holding a wine glass in her hand. Plucking it from her, he says, “No drinking for you, Miss.” before downing it in one gulp.
“Hypocrite.”
“That's a father's prerogative, honey.”
Peter disengages from Linderman and joins Simone as she wheels an older man through the crowd. Nathan can hear their conversation as they come closer.
“Really, Charles, you shouldn't be alone in that apartment. You're more than welcome to move in here with us, there's plenty of room.”
“Peter.” Charles twists in his chair and looks up at him. “I love you like a son, you know that, but if I lived here with your family, I will die even quicker than I am now.”
“Dad!” Simone exclaims as Nathan can't help but laugh.
“Simone, I'm an old man, I'm allowed to joke about death.” He glances over at Nathan who's clamped over his mouth. It wasn't that funny, but he can't seem to stop laughing. “Nathan Petrelli, I haven't seen you in a long time.”
Nathan clears his throat and swallows down a last snigger. “Do I know you?”
“I'm a friend of your parents. We met a couple of times when you were very young.”
“Oh yeah, I think I kind of remember you.”
Charles smiles, pushing away Simone's fussing hands as he wheels himself closer. “It's always nice to kind of remembered, son. Now, do you know where the alcohol is in this place? My daughter disapproves.”
Nathan points to a waiter flitting between guests and Charles sets off towards him as Simone pursues him, tutting. Peter slopes after her.
They people-watch for a couple more minutes, and he quietly tells Claire as many stories as he can remember about their various relatives; like the great-aunt who once climbed up onto the roof of their summer home in nothing more than her frilly underwear one night while she was sleep-walking, or the cousin who went skinny-dipping while on holiday in Italy and got arrested and spent two nights in the cells because even though the family's Italian, he couldn't speak a word of the language.
“Oh God,” he says, halfway through telling her some of Peter's deepest darkest secrets.
“What?”
He turns his head away, raising his hand as if to scratch his face. It's a fairly pathetic attempt to hide himself.
“Who are you avoiding?”
He risks a peek, and his eyes lock on the woman's. She waves and pushes her way over.
“Who is that?” Claire asks.
“My ex,” he mutters.
“The one you left for Mom?”
“How did you know that?”
She shrugs. “We do occasionally talk, you know.”
“Nathan!”
He pastes on the best smile he can. “Heidi,” he breathes.
She takes him by the shoulders, quickly air-kissing his cheeks. “I'm so sorry about your father, Nate, he was a good man.” She pushes him back a step and takes him in. “Damn, you look good. You get better with age, Nathan.” There's something predatory in her eye, and quickly he introduces Claire.
“This is my daughter, Claire.” They exchange hellos, and Heidi's eyes soften.
“It's good to see you. I missed you.”
He nods. “I missed you too.” He says it, but he's not sure if he means it or not. Other than Peter, he couldn't say that he'd truly missed anything about this world. Those old feelings of regret remain, though, and it's probably his only chance to offload it, so he does. “I'm sorry, Heidi. For... everything.”
She shakes her head. “It's okay. I forgave you years ago. You stood by the mother of your children, that's... admirable.”
“Thanks,” he replies, looking down at Claire. There are some things he'll never regret.
Even with that out in the open, the conversation is still incredibly awkward, and he's relieved when someone knocks a spoon against their glass and asks for quiet.
The orator, Daniel Linderman, smiles calmly at the attentive crowd. “We're all here today to say goodbye to a great man, a great friend, a great parent...” Nathan zones out on the actual words as mourner after mourner give their Hallmark-approved speech of the man, the myth, the legend, Arthur Petrelli; a kind, caring, funny man who loved everyone and would give his last cent to a person in need.
Nathan has absolutely no idea who that man is, certainly it's no one he's ever met. He frowns. “I'm going to say something.”
Claire raises an eyebrow. “How much have you had to drink?”
He regards the empty glass. “Too much, probably.”
She nods. “Try not to fall over.”
He joins Linderman in front of everyone. They stare and whisper to each other; you could never say that the New York crowd are subtle.
“Hi,” he starts. Faces turn to him, eager for him continue, eager for the gossip fodder that'll last for weeks. “I'm Nathan. You might not remember me, I disappeared to Texas about twelve years ago, and I didn't see my father for the last eight years of his life, but I think I knew him pretty well, as well as anyone could, anyway.” He takes a breath, ignores his mother furious face. This is not going to end well.
“He was a good man, I'm sure he was. I'm sure that he loved us, and that he was a good lawyer and friend, but... that's not what I remember. I remember him drinking too much, locking himself in his office for days at a time. I remember waiting at the hospital when I was seventeen as he had his stomach pumped. Just because he's dead doesn't mean history's been rewritten.”
“Nathan!” his mother shrieks, shoving several people out of the way in an effort to reach him.
“Stop pretending, Ma. He had depression for years. He did kill himself, didn't he?”
Peter coughs loudly, and several other people turn red. He ploughs on while he still has the opportunity. “It's fairly obvious that depression runs in the family.”
Charles starts gasping for breath, clutching his arm and bending forward. Simone crouches down in front of him, touching his face. “I think he's having a heart attack, oh God, call a doctor!”
Well, that certainly took the heat off Nathan. Peter comes and kneels next to his wife, placing a hand on Charles's shoulder. “Charles, just take deep breaths, slow and deep, okay? You'll be okay, we'll get an ambulance, we'll-”
Charles straightens abruptly. Slowly, his grip on his right arm loosens. “I feel... better.”
“Oh thank God,” Simone whispers. “I must have just been a-”
“No, no, I mean I feel better. I feel like I'm fifty again.” He eases himself out of the chair, waving off Peter who's trying to help support him. A look passes between Charles and Linderman, a look that speaks on many levels, if only you know how to decrypt it.
Claire comes to stand by Nathan's side. “Somehow, I don't think we're going to be welcome here for much longer.”
*
Simone gives Claire one of her Louis Vuitton suitcases, 'so you don't wrinkle your new clothes', she says, and won't hear of them sending it back to her.
“It's yours,” she says, giving her a hug. “From an aunt to a niece, okay? And anyone who can put a bug up Angela's ass is a firm friend of mine.” She smiles widely, turning and giving Nathan an unexpected squeeze and kiss on the cheek. “Don't hide away, Peter misses you. He needs his big brother to keep him in line.”
“I won't, I promise.” Claire laughs at how he blushes, and he just sighs dramatically at her.
“You know, everyone at your school is going to hate you, with all these new clothes.”
“I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I'm not,” she replies cheekily, sticking her tongue out and continues to fold clothes neatly. It didn't take long, he thinks, for Peter to ingratiate himself into her life. He should never have kept his two families separate, she needed this as much as he did.
“Aren't you going to miss it?” he asks suddenly.
She frowns. “Miss what?”
“The lifestyle, the money, the days out shopping. New York is a little more exciting than Midland.”
“Yeah...” She flips the lid of the case closed, zipping up the sides. “It was totally fun, the glitz and glamour and everything. Nice to not have to pay for anything, too, but this was a holiday. A completely screwed up and crazy one, but still. Home's home and here's... somewhere I can visit but I couldn't live here.” She pauses, watches as he stuff a shirt into his bag. Folding's not one of his talents. “What about you?”
He thinks about it. Home's a funny concept for him, since he's never really felt that sort of connection with any place he's been. When he was young, life moved too fast for him to notice the absence, and now it moves so slowly, he can't do anything but notice it. “Home's wherever you and the boys are, I guess.”
She pulls a face. “Oh my God, you did not just say that! That's so, so... sappy. I didn't think you had it in you, Dad!”
He holds his hands up in surrender, feeling relief at actually being able to laugh properly for once. “I know! When did I get so sentimental, huh?”
The taxi arrives for them at three in the afternoon, and the driver must be the most patient New York cabbie ever, because he doesn't honk his horn or even yell out of the window as they go through the extended process of saying goodbye.
“Take me with you,” Peter pleads, patting him on the back.
“Not a chance, Pete,” Nathan says. “Ma would have my head. But visit any time, I'll make room for you wherever I am.”
Peter glances nervously at his mother. “I might just be taking you up on that.”
Angela regards him coolly when he gets to her. Not far away, Peter's lifting Claire off the ground in a bear hug, but Nathan's pretty sure there's going to no such affection over here for him. His mother sighs, lifting a hand to fuss with his hair. Her nails scrape against his temples slightly harder than necessary.
“You need a haircut, Nathan,” is all she says, before she kisses him quickly on both cheeks and goes back into the house. But that's okay, because if she's fussing about his appearance, she can't be that angry at him and maybe for once he's not seeking her approval, or rebelling against her rule, he's just being him.
As they get into the cab, the first less than melodic strains of World War Three, Petrelli-style reach them, and Nathan slams the door shut firmly, as if someone's going to run over and drag him back to the house. “Let's get away from these crazy fucking people.”
“Language!” Claire admonishes, whacking him playfully on the arm.
“Where to?” The driver asks, who rather incongruously, Nathan feels, has an English accent.
“JFK, please. And step on it.”
You'll fight, and there'll be tears and accusations and some of them are going to be true and some of them less so, but you think it might just be okay. It's life, it's nothing special.