fic: Easy Money, 4/7
Title: Easy Money.
Rating: PG.
Characters/Pairings: Nathan, Claire, Matt, Peter/Simone + a cast of thousands.
Word count: ~32,000.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Nathan is a conman with a habit of getting in too deep, and this time is no different. While he's recklessly trying to reach the prize before anyone else, Claire attempts to keep him safe from the gangsters that are always two steps behind them, Matt tries to get the upper hand on Nathan, and Peter just wants to get married in peace.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
The Archbishop has been out on the Pacific Ocean for the past week, packed with food and magazines and sunscreen; the owners' neighbours in the small town of Maunaloa don't expect them back for at least one more week - and they're glad. So, so glad.
A shrill cry goes up, echoing across the water, scaring the fish. “Adam! Help me put sunscreen on!”
“I'm busy, love,” he calls back. He has been floating on his back for five hours straight - his record is two days, so he has a way to go. “Why don't you have a swim? The water's lovely.”
There's a beat, and he opens his eyes to the blue blue sky; the sun hurts for a minute, but his vision adjusts, just as an empty sunscreen sails past and lands with a splash, droplets hitting his face.
“You know I can't swim!” Elle shouts, “Don't be cruel.”
“I'm sorry,” he dead pans, “can you ever forgive me?”
She, in response, shrieks. Not exactly what he was expecting, really.
“We have a stowaway! A pirate!” she shouts. Her feet hit the deck with two thumps and a chorus of yelling and fighting. Leisurely, Adam swims back to the boat and climbs the first two rungs of the ladder to watch. Electricity arcs out of her fingers at their intruder, a dark-haired man who flees Elle below deck - a bad move. Still, it amuses Adam, and piques his interest. He climbs aboard.
“Elle, leave off. Elle!”
She glares at him, curling her fingers into her fist, zinc cream cutting a line across her face. “He hasn't got an invite. That's just rude.”
“I know, I know, I just want to talk to him a moment.” He walks around the railing and jumps down to the lower deck, scrutinising the man. He holds his hand out. “I hope she didn't hurt you too badly.”
The man takes Adam's hand and allows himself to be pulled up. Blood drips down from his forehead, more congeals at his lip. He presses a hand to the gash on his head and squints at Adam.
“Adam Monroe?”
The way he says it gives Adam pause. He pulls the man's hand from his face and takes hold of his chin, turning his head from side to side. The guy looks, politely put, perturbed. More like he's considering punching Adam, really.
“Nathan Petrelli. You're the spit of your father.”
“You knew my father?”
“And your dear old ma.”
Nathan stares. And pouts a little as he thinks. So very much like his father. “Uh. Okay. I guess there's more going on here than I know about.”
“There often is.” He moves his hand to Nathan's shoulder, and pats it in what he thinks is a fatherly manner. Nathan looks uncomfortable. “Why are you here, Nathan? Has the old gang got back together? Are we having a reunion?”
“What? No. I'm looking for something.”
Adam lets his head fall back as he laughs, then jumps up the staircase two at a time and spins around on the deck. Nathan watches with open confusion. “They really need to let it go and move on.”
Nathan follows at a slower pace, a frown marring his forehead. “I'm looking for a piece of paper.”
“No, you're not. You might think you are, but what she's really got you looking for is a sword. Kensei's sword. It's worth... a little bit.” It's quite thrilling, actually, to talk about the sword again. It's been so long since he's played that particular game. Elle sits on her sun lounger and watches the show.
“So what's the piece of paper?”
“I couldn't tell you, but I'm certain that if your mother is looking for something, it's that sword. Let me show you something.” He skips back down to the lower deck, into the bedroom, and to his chest. This chest, at the risk of being cliché, holds everything that's important to him. Just looking in it excites him. He digs to the bottom, feeling around until he finds his leather bound photo album. So many memories.
“This might interest you, Nathan Arthur Petrelli,” he calls up as he tucks it under his arm.
Elle is glaring at Nathan, flicking electricity from her fingernails, and he has gone from perturbed to scared. Adam pulls him away and gives Elle the 'don't make trouble' look.
“The gang,” he says, opening the album to the middle. He holds it up.
“Is that...?” Nathan steps closer and leans in.
Adam turns the album back to him, steps beside Nathan. He points to a picture. “Your mother, your father, my good self. And you.”
“I remember this. I think?”
“Christmas of '72. You were five. Your mother got rather drunk, as I remember.”
Nathan runs his fingertips over the picture. “Can I take this?”
“Go ahead.”
Nathan pries the picture from the album and stares at it. “You haven't aged much. Or, at all.”
“Mm. Well, you should talk to your mother about all of that. I wouldn't like to spoil all of her secrets.”
Nathan tucks the photo in his pocket and takes a step back. “How do I know that I can trust you? I have it some authority that you're a liar.”
“Oh yes, that.” He did leave under something of a cloud. “You really can't. I am a criminal, after all. But then, in your life, who can you trust?”
“Are you staying for tea?” Elle cuts in, bouncing up off her lounger. She grins at Nathan.
“Maybe some other time.” Nathan frowns some more, seeming dissatisfied. “Thanks for this, I guess,” he says. He kicks off with his feet and shoots into the air. In a second, all that remains is a puff of cloud. Interesting. Adam makes a mental note of it.
“What just happened?” Elle asks.
“I believe my old friends are up to some shenanigans. And it's been an awful long time since I have. How do you feel about doing a little business?”
Elle claps her hands.
-
“I'm not talking to you,” is the first thing out of Claire's mouth when Nathan comes into his bedroom - it's almost midnight, and she's still irritable about not going to Hawaii. And she isn't talking because she doesn't want to tell him what happened; all he'll do is try to be a hero. Then she sees the blood. “Oh God, what happened to you this time?” She ducks into the bathroom to wet a cloth with some iodine. How can they have already found him?
“Crazy fucking blonde.”
Her nerves calm at the answer: just the normal kind of tangle that he always gets into.
“Oh Nathan, you know your track record with blondes.” She returns to find him laid out on his bed, eyes closed. The bed dips as she sits down beside him. He flinches as she cleans the cuts; she grips his shoulder. “Quit it.”
“So you were right. About Ma.” He screws his face up and hisses when she wipes the cloth over his lip.
“Of course I was. In what way?”
“She knows more than she's saying.” He rolls onto his side and sits up. “Look at this,” he says, producing a photograph from his pocket. It's a group shot of eight people, plus a child held awkwardly in Angela's arms, all wearing really tragic seventies sweaters. “This is Ma, Dad, Adam Monroe, Kaito Nakamura - that's Hiro's father, Charles Deveaux, Daniel Linderman, and I'm not sure who the other two are, but they certainly look like they're pretty close, huh?”
“That's you,” she says, aware that she's missing the point. “You were cute.”
“Thank you very much. Adam Monroe gave me this, and told me that Ma's looking for a sword. I got the feeling that he was involved with its disappearance.”
“And the piece of paper?”
“Said he didn't know anything about it. Not that I necessarily believe that.”
Claire is all at once very grateful that she hid all her important things away from Angela's sticky fingers. “What do we do now? This is getting into complicated territory. And 'complicated' is code for 'dangerous'.”
Nathan gets that look, that stupid look that he gets when he thinks he's been ever so sly. “Monroe said the sword was worth 'a little bit' of money. It would be nice not to go back to that motel when this is all done.” He raises his eyebrows. “We dig. Tomorrow, we visit Charles's daughter.”
-
Tomorrow
Simone has had ten phone calls this morning, and it's only ten am; she has a show tonight and a glut of pre-orders on the paintings. One buyer wants Picasso's Le pigeon aux petits pois2 by tonight, so she needs to get her ass in gear, or Isaac's, really. She dragged his out of bed at four this morning to get him working. She told Peter that someone had tried to break into her father's house.
She takes inventory, wipes the paintings down, and packs them in their padded boxes for transport; sometimes she wishes she could get a dogsbody, instead of being her own. If only.
“Simone Deveaux, it's been a while.”
She drops a boxed painting onto the stack, lines it up perfectly, straightens her skirt, turns around.
“Nathan,” she says, schools her voice, smiles. “I'd heard you were back. I trust you're well. Aside from your face.” She indicates vaguely to his cuts. He licks his lip.
“I'm doing okay. I see you haven't changed a bit. As stunning as ever.” His daughter - Claire, she believes her name is - gets a far away, bored look in her eyes.
Simone doesn't fall for his flattery, she knows the dance well, but boy, he does have a way with women - it's nice, if you pretend he means a word he says. And he hasn't changed either. He's a little more tan, a little buffer than when they used to run into each other, but he's still got that killer look about him, like he could take you down with a word and a smile.
Damn, but she has a weakness for Petrelli men.
“Why are you here? I have... business I need to take care of.”
“I'm sure you do. Nice paintings, very authentic.” He quirks an eyebrow, and pulls something from his pocket. “I need to ask you some questions about your dad.”
He gives her a photograph. Her dad and his parents, and Nakamura's dad, and that bastard Linderman. “Did your father ever tell you anything about a guy called Adam Monroe?”
She keeps looking at the photo. She misses her dad, he was always there for her, always knew what to do, would have helped her figure out what to do about Peter; probably would have had a chat with him and made him okay about everything, without all the lying and double crossing.
She lifts her head. “He might have, I suppose, but I don't recall-”
Past Nathan and Claire, she sees the gallery door open, a large bouquet of flowers, and then,
“I took my break early to see how you're doing,” Peter calls, that sweet, happy smile on his face.
Nathan turns his head. Simone feebly responds, “Hi, honey.”
“Nathan.” Peter drops the flowers on the nearest table, and takes the stairs two at a time. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Nathan's putting the pieces together, she can tell. She covers her face with her hand. The girl catches the movement.
“I'm just here to ask Miss Deveaux something,” Nathan says slowly.
Peter steps forward. “What are you doing, Nate? What have you said to her? God, I'm out. Out is out, okay? Don't drag my fiancé into it.”
“Your...?” Nathan glances between them. Claire eyes widen.
“Oh, wow,” she mutters.
“Oh, Jesus,” Simone mumbles.
“Oh, Pete,” Nathan says, “you don't even know who your fiancé is, do you?”
Peter speaks through clenched teeth. “Don't use your mind games on me.”
Nathan disregards him. “Simone Deveaux is famous in certain circles. She is a master at what she does.” He walks to one of the paintings still hung on the wall. “This one, Portrait of a Young Man3 by Raphael, has been missing for decades, and yet here it is, in pristine condition. Would I be correct in assuming that the con is selling forgeries of 'recovered' paintings to the rich and famous, and of course since it's a stolen item, the buyer can't tell anyone or show it off, which lessens the chances that you get caught? Would I be correct in thinking that, Simone?”
Oh, she hates him so much. He is even more of a bastard than when she knew him. “That would pretty much be it, yes, Nathan.”
“You've been lying to me all this time?” Peter's voice is so soft, and his eyes are so wide and earnest; God, it just breaks her heart.
“Peter, please.” She reaches out to touch his arm, but he jerks away. “Peter.”
“You- you-” He takes a deep breath. “You knew all this time, about my family. You let me go on thinking that I was... I was lying to you, and that you'd be horrified if you, if you knew the truth.”
“I just wanted you to have that normal life that you wanted. I didn't want to hurt you.”
He laughs, although it's more like a sob. “Yeah, well. There goes that plan.” He turns on his heel and leave, pausing for a second to look at the flowers. “I guess nobody did break into your house last night, huh?”
He slams the door behind him.
“Well,” Nathan says. “Fun for all the family.”
“Get out,” she snaps. “Get. Out. I have an art show to prepare for.”
“Yeah, this can probably wait. I suppose I'm not invited to the wedding.”
“Get out,” she says, more calmly this time.
Claire pats her on the arm before they go. “I'm sorry my dad ruined everything for you. You seem cool.”
They leave her in her cold, empty gallery. It's these times that she misses her father the most.
-
In a way, Peter isn't that surprised. Not because he suspected anything - he never does - but because this is always the way it goes. He has something good, Nathan arrives, Nathan destroys it; it's the story of his life. Like the time that they went on a rare family holiday to Italy, and he met a girl that he liked, and Nathan got into it with a bunch of drug runners.
Of which she was one; perhaps the experience was prophetic.
He gets back to the hospital by eleven. Hesam isn't at the station, even though he should be because he was covering for Peter and now Peter will probably get in trouble for leaving early and then he'll be fired.
Restless, he paces the halls of the hospital, waiting for something to happen, something to distract him. What he wouldn't give for a call out right now. Then he feels bad wishing for someone to get hurt to alleviate his anxiety.
“Are you okay?” a woman asks him. He's seen her around the hospital.
He rubs his face. “I'm fine,” he murmurs.
“I'm sorry, could you-” She touches his arm. He drops his hands from his face. “Could you repeat that, I'm deaf.”
“Oh, fuck, sorry-- uh. Sorry. I'm fine.” Jesus, this is a really great day for him.
She laughs at his stumbling. “You just seemed a little upset.”
“I really am okay, don't worry. But thanks for asking.” She's... cute. He really shouldn't be thinking about the relative cuteness of girls right now.
“I've seen you around. I'm Emma, I work in the filing department.”
He shakes her hand. “Peter. I'm a paramedic, as you can probably tell.”
She smiles. It's a nice smile. Then she glances down and pats her pocket. “I have to go, see you around, Peter.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, thrown by her brush off. Not that he should be thrown, because he shouldn't be thinking about whether women are brushing him off, or not. He stuffs his left hand in his pocket, hiding that damn engagement ring. That's the last thing he wants to think about.
“Yo, Pete.” Hesam slaps him on the back as he passes. “Got a call, come on.”
-
Matt lives in real dump. Nathan assumes it's to cover up that he probably has millions in bribes locked away somewhere, but the fact remains that his building is awful and likely infested with rats. Does the man have no dignity?
“We lived in a motel for four years,” Claire says.
“But we had aspirations to better things,” he replies. She mutters 'whatever' under her breath.
This morning didn't go so well, he'll be the first to hold his hands up to that. He could have been a little more diplomatic, and maybe could have not blown Simone's secrets, but his pious little brother, dating a white collar criminal. It's classic. It didn't help him with finding out about the sword, though, so now he needs to find these guys through other means.
The door to the building opens before he can press the buzzer. The door opener collides with them as he tries to run down the steps. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, winding his scarf tighter around his neck.
Claire catches the door before it closes. “I'm a strong believer in fate,” she says.
They climb the stairs to the third floor. It's a Sunday, so he assumes Molly, if not Matt, will be at home. It would be better if Matt wasn't there, really. So, of course, he is, and opens the door holding a spatula and wearing a 'kiss the cook' apron.
“Pass,” Nathan says.
“What do you want, Petrelli?”
“Your kid here? I've got a picture I need to show her.” He flashes the picture at Matt, and they slip past him into the apartment. There's a lot of paisley furniture in there.
“Molly!” Nathan shouts.
“Hey, hey.” Matt drops the spatula and spins Nathan around by the shoulder. “Don't do that. Don't come in here and act like we're your mother's staff. Do you want to get arrested right now?”
“I just want to ask her to find a couple of the guys in this picture.” He holds up the photo again.
Matt takes a step closer, looking intently at it. Then he snatches it from Nathan's fingers. “You aren't showing this to her.”
“Any reason, or is this one of your arbitrary decisions?”
“This-” Matt taps the face of one of the unknown men, “is my fucking father. He's dead, thankfully.”
That gives Nathan pause. The vehemency with which Matt says 'thankfully' makes Nathan think there's more going on here than he knows. Not that he really cares. “Okay, she can just find the other guy.”
Matt shoves the picture back at him. “No, she can't. She isn't Google. Get out.”
“Come on, Matt, throw me a bone here.”
“How about I throw you in a cop car?”
“Fine,” Nathan grumbles. “We'll go, don't get upset.”
Matt shepherds them out, closing the door the moment their feet hit the lobby floor. They get back down to the street in silence, both ruminating on their failures on several fronts. Claire has that look, like she's scheming about something. It's a little worrying when she does it, honestly.
“Give me that picture,” she says. He hands it to her, and she stops. “Look at this.” She points at Kaito Nakamura. “Dead.” Parkman's dad. “Dead.” His dad. “Dead.” Charles Deveaux. “Dead.” Linderman. “Dead, and I'd put some money down on the fact that this unnamed guy is dead too. The only people from this photo that are definitely still alive are you, Monroe, and Angela.”
He mulls this over for a minute as they continue walking. She's right; and somehow his mother is always in the centre of these schemes.
“Let's go find Ma.”
-
Ma.
“You're a dick, you know that?” Claire sits back on the couch next to him. They're awaiting the imminent arrival of his ma, have been for, oh, six hours, at least. No one's seen her all day. She left under the cover of darkness this morning.
“Yes?” Nathan stretches his arms over his head. “Are you referring to something in particular?”
“Oh, I don't know, how about Simone in particular? Was that really necessary?”
“Peter needed to know.” He shrugs and flips the channel over to some show he doesn't recognise.
“He didn't need to know like that. That was brutal.”
“Hey.” He points at her with the remote. “She deceived him, conned him. What am I going to do, just let that happen? He's my brother.” The girl on the TV4 is stealing a Fabergé egg. There's an idea.
“Sure.” Claire gets up and walks over to the window, twitching the curtains ever so slightly to peer out. She watches for a second, then sighs and turns back to him. “And it had nothing to do with your love of causing trouble.”
Now people are getting tased. He sympathises. That girl on the boat was nuts. “I don't love causing trouble.”
“At least sound convinced when you say it.”
“I'm watching... this.” He waves vaguely at the screen. “Isn't that that woman from that scifi show?”
Claire looks at him sadly and shakes her head.
“Is everyone waiting for me?” Ma stands in the door, handbag and heels in hand. She looks like she's had a long day. And she has a creepily silent walk.
Nathan shuts the TV off. “I think you know what we want to know, Ma.”
She steps into the room. “Such a disappointment. You should already know what you want to know. It's hardly impossible to find out.”
“We know we're looking for a sword,” Claire cuts into the conversation. “We know that it's worth a lot of money, we know that it was hidden, and we know that Adam Monroe was involved. We also know that you and him and my dead grandfather and Hiro's dead father, Detective Parkman's dead father, Simone Deveaux's dead father - and you could have mentioned that she was engaged to Peter, by the way - Linderman, who is dead, and a guy wearing tragic glasses were all friends, circa the early seventies. Why don't you fill in the rest?”
Nathan stares at her for a second, looks at his mother. “What she said.”
Angela tips her, conceding to the fact that they obviously know something. She places her bag and shoes on a coffee table and sits down. “Let me tell you a story,” she says.
Imagine a group of young, mostly attractive criminals, tearing it up in 1960s America. The original four meet at a reform camp in Arizona, sent there by their respective state's and country's legislature. Angela Shaw and her little sister grifted money out of people with big eyes and sad smiles, Daniel Linderman tried to blackmail a high profile MP in England, Bob Bishop stole things because just turning objects into gold wasn't exciting enough, and people just gave Charles Deveaux heir wallets when he asked.
Of course, they escaped, it was a simple enough job for them. As simple as walking out the front door, really. Only twenty people got hurt. By the mid-60s they'd built quite a reputation for themselves, enough to gain the attention of 'young' entrepreneur Adam Monroe. To the group he brought Kaito Nakamura and Arthur Petrelli, who in turn brought his creepy friend Maury.
And so the power couple of Angie and Artie was born, though nobody called either of them such names. They wouldn't dare. They had a son who grew from a fussy, demanding baby to a handsome, but not all that cute, child. And then another, who turned out to be a huge disappointment.
In the early seventies Adam told them about a priceless sword. Kensei's sword, he said, and Kaito immediately shot it down: it was just a myth, a children's story. But the seed was planted in their minds. A mythical sword worth untold amounts, that would have been a jewel in their collective crown.
They searched the world over, twice. Angela went back to Japan with Kaito to help look for it - and the less said about those few months, the better. Nothing. Shreds of a myth, scattered pieces of information, nothing that told them where.
Then, in 1977, Kaito and Adam found it. They called from Tokyo to say that they were bringing it back. From the plane stepped only Adam, conspicuously swordless.
“It was confiscated from me by customs at JFK,” he said, enjoying a cup of tea in their fake headquarters in Hartsdale. All the greats got taken down by the IRS, Angela would have none of that. “Very disappointing, but I suppose we should have realised that the New York Historical Society was also looking for it. Apparently it's going to be housed at the Museum of Natural History.”
“Why don't I believe you?” Arthur asked. He loomed large over Adam. He always his size to intimidate the others. Only Adam and Angela were immune, which was disappointing to him.
“Because you have a naturally suspicious nature, my friend.”
“Bob, you're going there on Monday to see if he's telling the truth,” Arthur growled.
Bob obediently went that Monday, bought an entrance pass, kept the receipt, came back to them, and said, “It's not fucking there.”
Adam had already left the country; he left them a note telling them he'd hidden the sword somewhere, and hidden the directions to said place somewhere else.
When called, Kaito told them that Adam had overpowered him and put him in the hospital.
On the receipt, Bob scratched, 'Adam Monroe is a liar' and stuck it on their corkboard of information, lest any of them forget.
-
Claire pronounces it a bad idea. A very, very bad, bad idea. His worst yet, even, including the stripper in Vegas.
“Teaming up with others doesn't work, Nathan, look at what Angela told us. It ends badly, it always does.”
They sit in an office of a deserted building in Hartsdale, awaiting the arrival of Parkman, Simone, Hiro, and Peter. Nathan left them all messages this morning, telling them to come to this address. The only way he's going to find this thing is if they're all involved. They all have a little part of puzzle, if they can only put it together, they might find it.
“It's not like I'm going to let any of them have it,” he says.
“And how are you going to stop them? Look at what happened to Mom. People will just screw you over.”
“Not if I screw them over first, sweetheart. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing.”
As if her mom hadn't.
Soon enough, Parkman kicks his way into the building. He glares at Nathan when Nathan says the door was, in fact, open and unlocked. Simone joins them quickly, huge sunglasses obscuring her face. She doesn't take them off.
“What am I doing here?” Parkman demands. He stakes the room out like a consummate cop, weapon drawn, checking every shadow.
“I guess no one else is coming,” he murmurs. “Kensei's sword.” He drops a photograph of it on the desk in front of him. “This is the only known picture of it in existence.”
“And I would care because?”
“People thought it was myth for hundreds of years, thought he was a myth,” Simone says. She picks up the photograph, slips her glasses down her nose to peer more closely at it. “It was lost for four hundred years. It was housed briefly at the Tokyo National Museum in Sakura in 1922. So briefly, in fact, that no one believed that it had really ever been there. It's worth... a lot, both monetarily and historically.”
“That's why you should care,” Nathan says.
“Do you have it?” Simone asks. Her tone is carefully measured. Very carefully.
“Not yet, but our parents almost did.” He shows them the group photograph, and talks them through what Angela said, liberally edited to remove certain parts, or plain make things up. Ten minutes into the grand story, Simone drags a chair from across the room to sit on, Matt holsters his gun. They listen with more than a faint interest to Nathan, who so obviously enjoys the attention focused on him. He puts his hands behind his head, rests his feet on the desk, and leans back.
“So, that's why we need to work together,” he finishes off. “We'll find it quicker together than apart.”
“And who, exactly, is going to keep it?” Matt asks. He rests his hand on his gun again, brushing the lapel of his jacket aside.
“Why don't we get to that when we get to that?”
“Perhaps I'll call you if anything comes up,” Simone says. She checks her phone, thumbs a few buttons, then turns on her heel and leaves.
“Hey, Simone,” Nathan calls. “How's Peter?”
She stabs at the bridge of her sunglasses, pushing them back up her nose. “I don't know, how is he?”
“Sorry about that.” Nathan shifts uncomfortably, removing his feet from the table.
Simone doesn't dignify him with an answer. Nathan watches her leave with an appreciative gaze. Parkman smacks the table with his palm.
“I might be in touch,” he says.
Claire waits for him to leave, going so far as to watch him disappear down the hall before closing the door gently. She turns back.
“This is a horrible idea,” she says darkly.
-
Charlie never expected to be working a casino, let alone be part-owner. When she was sixteen, her world went as far as the border of Midland and Odessa, and then her prince came in a pair of glasses and a Star Trek t-shirt. It's been fairytale all the way since, if fairytales involved the prince counting cards and the princess defrauding gameshows (which wasn't exactly the case, but they didn't see it that way).
“We've got trouble brewing.” Daphne's voice arrives before her body does, ruffling the papers in the office. “Everyone's talking about it.”
“What are they saying?”
“That's the problem, no one really knows what's going on, they're just all pretending like they do.” She sits down and begins to pull off her boots, unbuttons her jeans, and pulls her sweatshirt over her head. “But there's talk, and you know where there's talk there's every other crook thinking he's being left out. And you know who's right in the middle.”
Charlie opens the office's walk-in closet as Daphne strips off. She fears that she does know who would get themselves in the middle of an unknown-but-potentially-explosive scheme. “Nathan Petrelli,” she says, snagging a dress off the rack and picking up a pair of heels. She comes back out to hold them up to Daphne. “How about this?”
“Perfect,” she says. Charlie's papers flutter again as Daphne takes the clothes and dresses in seconds. She shrugs into a coat and they leave, walking through the empty halls to their private elevator - they have the entire top floor for themselves, but half the rooms are empty; workman are coming in a few days to install a home theatre. She won't get Hiro out of here after that.
The elevator takes them down to the ground floor in a matter of seconds, delivering them straight to the party.
Ando rounds on them almost immediately. He takes a moment to kiss and compliment Daphne, then asks, “Where's Hiro?”
“Star Trek convention,” Charlie replies, and Ando face darkens. He's worked for months to get this party together for their shareholders, and he used every threat in the book to get Hiro to come. The majority of these people are bad news, though, serious big hitters in the world's crime syndicates; Hiro tries to keep himself as removed from them as possible.
“What am I supposed to tell them?” he whispers angrily.
“What do you mean 'what am I supposed to tell them'?” Daphne squeezes his shoulder. “They're not here to look at you guys. Probably won't even notice Hiro's not here. Not once they see my legs.”
Ando concedes the point with his silence, arms crossed, glaring irritably at their guests. “Come on then, let's join the party.”
“Wait a minute-” Charlie catches his wrist. “I've got to ask you something.”
“What?”
“It's about Nathan.” Ando's face crumples almost immediately back into irritation. “Don't pull that face. I'm worried about the course of action he's taking. Danko knows he's back in the country.”
“He's always taking the wrong course of action, Charlie, it's, like, his signature thing. And him and Danko is his business, he got into that all by himself.”
He isn't wrong, she knows that. Nathan's a hot mess, and he always has been. He's a hot mess with a lucky streak a mile long, and friends who extend it a few more. “I know that, but Claire-”
“You've gotta stop picking up strays,” Daphne says. She wraps her arms around Charlie's shoulders. “I know you mean well, but we've already got ten cats in our apartment.”
“Plus, Claire's indestructible, so.” Ando shrugs. “She'll be fine.”
“Maybe physically she will, but with her mom and all, he's the only stable sorta thing she's got.”
Ando snags a glass of wine as it passes on its tray. He takes a sip. “So, what are you telling me?”
“Just... even the odds a little. Give him a chance?” She smiles. It's her winning smile, the one that got people to order the third milkshake at the café.
“Fine.” He tips his wine glass toward her in acquiescence. “You better use that smile on our shareholders, though.”
-
“Hey, man, do you want to talk about it?” Hesam picks at his tray of hospital cafeteria food, mixing the peas, mashed potatoes, and gravy into a green, white, brown mess. Then he puts a spoonful of it into his mouth. Peter wants to be sick.
“I've talked to my therapist. I'm all talked out.” He talked to Suresh for hours, about Simone, and his mom, and how much he hated Nathan. Suresh, for once, seemed interested; he put his notepad down and actually conversed with him. They talked about what Nathan had been doing for the past four years, the hit out on him by Danko, Simone and her fake paintings racket, Nathan and that fucking piece of paper, stuff Nathan did to him as a kid. A lot of stuff about Nathan, really. He felt like Suresh really listened to him for once.
“Fair enough. Did you watch the game last night?”
Last night Peter watched six episodes of Lost in a row, and finished off the rest of the ice cream. “What game?”
“The, uh, basketball. Hey, I'm going to go clear out the ambulance before we go back on.” Hesam gets up and takes his disgusting tray with him. Peter considers his soup and stale bread.
“I get my lunch from the place across the road.” Emma sits down across from him with a paper bag. “You should try it.”
“I like to torture myself,” he says. “It's a thing that I do.”
Emma laughs. She has her hair pulled back today. She has nice... ears. He presses his fist against his forehead. If he'd slept at all last night, he wouldn't feel like this right now.
“You can have one of my sandwiches,” Emma says, “it's pastrami on rye.”
He takes it gratefully, pushing his tray aside. “Huh, that's my favourite.”
She rolls the top of her bag down carefully, and tucks it into her satchel. “I guess we just have a lot in common.”
-
Matt spends the rest of his day at his desk at the station, doing paperwork. There's a small matter of twenty thousand dollars and change unaccounted for from their last drug raid. Some green new officer managed to log it before Matt re-purposed it, so now there's a discrepancy between what's in the evidence locker and what was logged at the scene. Which means it falls to him to amend the documentation, romance the evidence room guy with donuts, switch the report on file to the new one, and submit a recommendation to transfer Officer I'm So Good At My Job to another station.
His bosses have no idea how hard he works.
At a quarter to seven, he calls it a day and heads home. His commute takes him through NYU and over the Brooklyn Bridge. He gives up his seat for the first woman he sees, subtly intimidates other to do the same, and stands by the door, getting jostled every time they stop at a station. At the Financial District, he changes lines, colliding with a girl in a red tracksuit. She bounces back up as soon as she hits the floor, reflexes almost frighteningly fast.
“Are you okay?” she asks, briefly touching his arm.
“I'm fine, are you?” She's a tiny thing with a blinding smile and a Southern accent. Most people her size that collide with him are seriously hurt.
“Not a scratch. Are you getting this train here? It's about to pull out, you'd better hurry.” She gives him a gentle push in the right direction. “Sorry for running into you!” she shouts as she skips away.
He stares after her - such a chipper little thing, girls like that normally don't talk to him. But she's right, his train is about to leave. He runs for it, jumping on just before the doors close. Five minutes later he's in Brooklyn, walking home. He gets into the building, gets caught by the nice old lady downstairs, discusses the weather and the health of her cat, and makes it back into his apartment at twenty past seven.
Molly is lying on the couch with her laptop, headphones on, watching the TV. He lifts one headphone.
“Hey, munchkin, done your homework?”
“Hours ago,” she says, brushing his hand away.
“On your own?”
She stares resolutely at the computer screen. “Mm, I might have got a little help. Just a little, though, not enough to make a significant impact on my grade.”
“You sound like a lawyer, kid,” he teases, and replaces her headphone.
He strips his shirt and tie off in the bedroom, and pulls on his NYPD sweatshirt. “So, hey,” he calls to the other room. “Nathan finally gave it up about the sword. Apparently my dad and his parents and the Deveauxs were all involved in a scheme to get it back in the seventies. I can't believe Nathan just told me all that. I almost forgot how egotistical he was. Almost.” He pulls his gun from his holster and stores it in the lock box in the closet, before moving through the apartment to the kitchen.
“So, you're off the hook now,” he finishes.
“What? I've been making real headway with Peter recently.” Mohinder stands in the door of the kitchen with a bowl cradled in one arm, a whisk in the other hand, furiously whisking whatever's inside.
“Yeah, but, we've got what we need.” He leans in to look in the bowl. Mohinder retreats back to the kitchen with a tut. “We've got more important things to do now.”
“Well, I know.” Mohinder begins to pour the mixture into a cake tin, tutting again when Matt tries to sneak a taste. “But Peter has some real issues he needs to work through. With Nathan and Simone and his deep seated trauma caused by his parents, I'm worried for his psychological health without therapy.”
Matt doesn't understand, but then he never understands Mohinder. Mohinder confuses him, a mysterious man that came onto him in a bar one night, but of course he already knew Mohinder. Or more accurately he had a close personal relationship with 'Mr Ahmadi' through the many crime scenes that he'd been called to. Mr Ahmadi was the kind of guy who would lecture you on 14th Century architecture in one moment, and kneecap you in the next. No one who saw him ever lived to give a description.
“I like your work, Detective Parkman,” he'd whispered in Matt's ear, arms slung across his shoulders. “You're the only one who's ever got close to catching me.”
Matt, of course, had reacted by slipping his gun from his holster and pressing it to Mohinder's side. Only to feel a cold pressure against his neck.
“I believe we are at an impasse, Detective.” The way he said 'detective' sent tingles down Matt's spine. “I have someone I need you to see.”
Molly. Sitting in a car in the alley around the corner, the little blonde girl sat with a gun in her lap, reading a book. Crime and Punishment.
“I enjoy irony,” Mohinder had said. “I found her living on the streets, eating out of dumpsters like a rat. Just wasn't right.”
Molly had smiled when she saw Matt, put the book down and stowed the gun in the glovebox.
“I thought you were in foster care,” he had said. After the hit on her parents, he'd had to turn her over to the CPS, though it killed him to do so.
“Didn't like it there. I ran away. Mohinder's been looking after me.”
“Mohinder, huh?”
Mohinder had smiled beautifully, confidently. “Mohinder Suresh, pleased to meet you.”
Matt had taken the proffered hand. “You telling me your real name right now?”
“Indeed.” His grip was tight. “I have a proposition for you, Detective. It's time I settled down.”
Somehow, in some way that Matt will never fully understand, Mohinder and Molly moved in with him a month later.
“I guess you've got to do what you've got to do,” he tells Mohinder, half his mind already contemplating what kind of cake it's going to be.
-
After work, Emma takes Peter out for a drink. He doesn't talk much, she notices, just makes miserable, oblique references to things he won't explain, and asks her about herself. She doesn't really tell him anything either, not that he notices, wallowing as he is. She gets the text message at nine and leaves him. Hesam quickly takes her place, she notes.
She drives to the Financial District, waits only a couple of minutes before the door is opened.
They followed the detective, but I managed to get him on the train quick enough, Monica signs, before putting her seatbelt on. Did they follow Peter?
Not that I could tell. But he's got so many problems, she replies. He didn't tell me anything important, though.
Monica shrugs, snagging a chocolate bar off the dashboard. She holds it between her teeth. Doesn't matter, Nathan and Claire laid it all out. It really is quite a bad plan.
Emma turns onto Wall Street and drives as Monica sends an email from her Blackberry. Danko's stepping up his game now, going after associates of Nathan, and Nathan's family instead of Nathan directly. Micah's been doing his best covering Nathan's tracks, but everyone's talking - it's all she sees discussed when they spy on the competition - and there's nothing Micah can do about word of mouth. Danko's men have been following Claire around the city off and on for the past couple of weeks. Emma and Monica have only narrowly been able to throw them off Claire's trail. They're just biding their time, like everyone else.
So, all she and Monica have to do is keep everyone alive until one of them gets hold of that sword. Shouldn't be too hard.
It is, however, the hardest job they've had so far, and the first that's put her out in the field for this long. They've been increasingly in demand from the clientèle of Micah's 'consultancy' business, gaining a name for themselves as the most competent for-hire criminals in the game. Normally, she just does some cursory recon and Monica ninjas her way into people's homes and businesses and they're done - she's always thought it was ironic that she's the one who has to do the talking, when when she's inherently antisocial and snippy with people. Monica's one of the few who breezily puts up with all her sarcastic jibes with a smile and a laugh. Her mother used to, too, but they don't talk much any more, after Emma decided to work for someone else instead of take over the family business.
This job's different though; it started as a regular consultation job, but then Micah took a greater interest in it and sent them out here to observe. He didn't tell them why, though, just that he wanted the sword for himself, and it reminds Emma that she's still working for a thirteen year old boy who thinks having secrets makes him cool. Sometimes she can see why her mom is so pissed at her.
Part 5
Rating: PG.
Characters/Pairings: Nathan, Claire, Matt, Peter/Simone + a cast of thousands.
Word count: ~32,000.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Nathan is a conman with a habit of getting in too deep, and this time is no different. While he's recklessly trying to reach the prize before anyone else, Claire attempts to keep him safe from the gangsters that are always two steps behind them, Matt tries to get the upper hand on Nathan, and Peter just wants to get married in peace.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
The Archbishop has been out on the Pacific Ocean for the past week, packed with food and magazines and sunscreen; the owners' neighbours in the small town of Maunaloa don't expect them back for at least one more week - and they're glad. So, so glad.
A shrill cry goes up, echoing across the water, scaring the fish. “Adam! Help me put sunscreen on!”
“I'm busy, love,” he calls back. He has been floating on his back for five hours straight - his record is two days, so he has a way to go. “Why don't you have a swim? The water's lovely.”
There's a beat, and he opens his eyes to the blue blue sky; the sun hurts for a minute, but his vision adjusts, just as an empty sunscreen sails past and lands with a splash, droplets hitting his face.
“You know I can't swim!” Elle shouts, “Don't be cruel.”
“I'm sorry,” he dead pans, “can you ever forgive me?”
She, in response, shrieks. Not exactly what he was expecting, really.
“We have a stowaway! A pirate!” she shouts. Her feet hit the deck with two thumps and a chorus of yelling and fighting. Leisurely, Adam swims back to the boat and climbs the first two rungs of the ladder to watch. Electricity arcs out of her fingers at their intruder, a dark-haired man who flees Elle below deck - a bad move. Still, it amuses Adam, and piques his interest. He climbs aboard.
“Elle, leave off. Elle!”
She glares at him, curling her fingers into her fist, zinc cream cutting a line across her face. “He hasn't got an invite. That's just rude.”
“I know, I know, I just want to talk to him a moment.” He walks around the railing and jumps down to the lower deck, scrutinising the man. He holds his hand out. “I hope she didn't hurt you too badly.”
The man takes Adam's hand and allows himself to be pulled up. Blood drips down from his forehead, more congeals at his lip. He presses a hand to the gash on his head and squints at Adam.
“Adam Monroe?”
The way he says it gives Adam pause. He pulls the man's hand from his face and takes hold of his chin, turning his head from side to side. The guy looks, politely put, perturbed. More like he's considering punching Adam, really.
“Nathan Petrelli. You're the spit of your father.”
“You knew my father?”
“And your dear old ma.”
Nathan stares. And pouts a little as he thinks. So very much like his father. “Uh. Okay. I guess there's more going on here than I know about.”
“There often is.” He moves his hand to Nathan's shoulder, and pats it in what he thinks is a fatherly manner. Nathan looks uncomfortable. “Why are you here, Nathan? Has the old gang got back together? Are we having a reunion?”
“What? No. I'm looking for something.”
Adam lets his head fall back as he laughs, then jumps up the staircase two at a time and spins around on the deck. Nathan watches with open confusion. “They really need to let it go and move on.”
Nathan follows at a slower pace, a frown marring his forehead. “I'm looking for a piece of paper.”
“No, you're not. You might think you are, but what she's really got you looking for is a sword. Kensei's sword. It's worth... a little bit.” It's quite thrilling, actually, to talk about the sword again. It's been so long since he's played that particular game. Elle sits on her sun lounger and watches the show.
“So what's the piece of paper?”
“I couldn't tell you, but I'm certain that if your mother is looking for something, it's that sword. Let me show you something.” He skips back down to the lower deck, into the bedroom, and to his chest. This chest, at the risk of being cliché, holds everything that's important to him. Just looking in it excites him. He digs to the bottom, feeling around until he finds his leather bound photo album. So many memories.
“This might interest you, Nathan Arthur Petrelli,” he calls up as he tucks it under his arm.
Elle is glaring at Nathan, flicking electricity from her fingernails, and he has gone from perturbed to scared. Adam pulls him away and gives Elle the 'don't make trouble' look.
“The gang,” he says, opening the album to the middle. He holds it up.
“Is that...?” Nathan steps closer and leans in.
Adam turns the album back to him, steps beside Nathan. He points to a picture. “Your mother, your father, my good self. And you.”
“I remember this. I think?”
“Christmas of '72. You were five. Your mother got rather drunk, as I remember.”
Nathan runs his fingertips over the picture. “Can I take this?”
“Go ahead.”
Nathan pries the picture from the album and stares at it. “You haven't aged much. Or, at all.”
“Mm. Well, you should talk to your mother about all of that. I wouldn't like to spoil all of her secrets.”
Nathan tucks the photo in his pocket and takes a step back. “How do I know that I can trust you? I have it some authority that you're a liar.”
“Oh yes, that.” He did leave under something of a cloud. “You really can't. I am a criminal, after all. But then, in your life, who can you trust?”
“Are you staying for tea?” Elle cuts in, bouncing up off her lounger. She grins at Nathan.
“Maybe some other time.” Nathan frowns some more, seeming dissatisfied. “Thanks for this, I guess,” he says. He kicks off with his feet and shoots into the air. In a second, all that remains is a puff of cloud. Interesting. Adam makes a mental note of it.
“What just happened?” Elle asks.
“I believe my old friends are up to some shenanigans. And it's been an awful long time since I have. How do you feel about doing a little business?”
Elle claps her hands.
-
“I'm not talking to you,” is the first thing out of Claire's mouth when Nathan comes into his bedroom - it's almost midnight, and she's still irritable about not going to Hawaii. And she isn't talking because she doesn't want to tell him what happened; all he'll do is try to be a hero. Then she sees the blood. “Oh God, what happened to you this time?” She ducks into the bathroom to wet a cloth with some iodine. How can they have already found him?
“Crazy fucking blonde.”
Her nerves calm at the answer: just the normal kind of tangle that he always gets into.
“Oh Nathan, you know your track record with blondes.” She returns to find him laid out on his bed, eyes closed. The bed dips as she sits down beside him. He flinches as she cleans the cuts; she grips his shoulder. “Quit it.”
“So you were right. About Ma.” He screws his face up and hisses when she wipes the cloth over his lip.
“Of course I was. In what way?”
“She knows more than she's saying.” He rolls onto his side and sits up. “Look at this,” he says, producing a photograph from his pocket. It's a group shot of eight people, plus a child held awkwardly in Angela's arms, all wearing really tragic seventies sweaters. “This is Ma, Dad, Adam Monroe, Kaito Nakamura - that's Hiro's father, Charles Deveaux, Daniel Linderman, and I'm not sure who the other two are, but they certainly look like they're pretty close, huh?”
“That's you,” she says, aware that she's missing the point. “You were cute.”
“Thank you very much. Adam Monroe gave me this, and told me that Ma's looking for a sword. I got the feeling that he was involved with its disappearance.”
“And the piece of paper?”
“Said he didn't know anything about it. Not that I necessarily believe that.”
Claire is all at once very grateful that she hid all her important things away from Angela's sticky fingers. “What do we do now? This is getting into complicated territory. And 'complicated' is code for 'dangerous'.”
Nathan gets that look, that stupid look that he gets when he thinks he's been ever so sly. “Monroe said the sword was worth 'a little bit' of money. It would be nice not to go back to that motel when this is all done.” He raises his eyebrows. “We dig. Tomorrow, we visit Charles's daughter.”
-
Tomorrow
Simone has had ten phone calls this morning, and it's only ten am; she has a show tonight and a glut of pre-orders on the paintings. One buyer wants Picasso's Le pigeon aux petits pois2 by tonight, so she needs to get her ass in gear, or Isaac's, really. She dragged his out of bed at four this morning to get him working. She told Peter that someone had tried to break into her father's house.
She takes inventory, wipes the paintings down, and packs them in their padded boxes for transport; sometimes she wishes she could get a dogsbody, instead of being her own. If only.
“Simone Deveaux, it's been a while.”
She drops a boxed painting onto the stack, lines it up perfectly, straightens her skirt, turns around.
“Nathan,” she says, schools her voice, smiles. “I'd heard you were back. I trust you're well. Aside from your face.” She indicates vaguely to his cuts. He licks his lip.
“I'm doing okay. I see you haven't changed a bit. As stunning as ever.” His daughter - Claire, she believes her name is - gets a far away, bored look in her eyes.
Simone doesn't fall for his flattery, she knows the dance well, but boy, he does have a way with women - it's nice, if you pretend he means a word he says. And he hasn't changed either. He's a little more tan, a little buffer than when they used to run into each other, but he's still got that killer look about him, like he could take you down with a word and a smile.
Damn, but she has a weakness for Petrelli men.
“Why are you here? I have... business I need to take care of.”
“I'm sure you do. Nice paintings, very authentic.” He quirks an eyebrow, and pulls something from his pocket. “I need to ask you some questions about your dad.”
He gives her a photograph. Her dad and his parents, and Nakamura's dad, and that bastard Linderman. “Did your father ever tell you anything about a guy called Adam Monroe?”
She keeps looking at the photo. She misses her dad, he was always there for her, always knew what to do, would have helped her figure out what to do about Peter; probably would have had a chat with him and made him okay about everything, without all the lying and double crossing.
She lifts her head. “He might have, I suppose, but I don't recall-”
Past Nathan and Claire, she sees the gallery door open, a large bouquet of flowers, and then,
“I took my break early to see how you're doing,” Peter calls, that sweet, happy smile on his face.
Nathan turns his head. Simone feebly responds, “Hi, honey.”
“Nathan.” Peter drops the flowers on the nearest table, and takes the stairs two at a time. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Nathan's putting the pieces together, she can tell. She covers her face with her hand. The girl catches the movement.
“I'm just here to ask Miss Deveaux something,” Nathan says slowly.
Peter steps forward. “What are you doing, Nate? What have you said to her? God, I'm out. Out is out, okay? Don't drag my fiancé into it.”
“Your...?” Nathan glances between them. Claire eyes widen.
“Oh, wow,” she mutters.
“Oh, Jesus,” Simone mumbles.
“Oh, Pete,” Nathan says, “you don't even know who your fiancé is, do you?”
Peter speaks through clenched teeth. “Don't use your mind games on me.”
Nathan disregards him. “Simone Deveaux is famous in certain circles. She is a master at what she does.” He walks to one of the paintings still hung on the wall. “This one, Portrait of a Young Man3 by Raphael, has been missing for decades, and yet here it is, in pristine condition. Would I be correct in assuming that the con is selling forgeries of 'recovered' paintings to the rich and famous, and of course since it's a stolen item, the buyer can't tell anyone or show it off, which lessens the chances that you get caught? Would I be correct in thinking that, Simone?”
Oh, she hates him so much. He is even more of a bastard than when she knew him. “That would pretty much be it, yes, Nathan.”
“You've been lying to me all this time?” Peter's voice is so soft, and his eyes are so wide and earnest; God, it just breaks her heart.
“Peter, please.” She reaches out to touch his arm, but he jerks away. “Peter.”
“You- you-” He takes a deep breath. “You knew all this time, about my family. You let me go on thinking that I was... I was lying to you, and that you'd be horrified if you, if you knew the truth.”
“I just wanted you to have that normal life that you wanted. I didn't want to hurt you.”
He laughs, although it's more like a sob. “Yeah, well. There goes that plan.” He turns on his heel and leave, pausing for a second to look at the flowers. “I guess nobody did break into your house last night, huh?”
He slams the door behind him.
“Well,” Nathan says. “Fun for all the family.”
“Get out,” she snaps. “Get. Out. I have an art show to prepare for.”
“Yeah, this can probably wait. I suppose I'm not invited to the wedding.”
“Get out,” she says, more calmly this time.
Claire pats her on the arm before they go. “I'm sorry my dad ruined everything for you. You seem cool.”
They leave her in her cold, empty gallery. It's these times that she misses her father the most.
-
In a way, Peter isn't that surprised. Not because he suspected anything - he never does - but because this is always the way it goes. He has something good, Nathan arrives, Nathan destroys it; it's the story of his life. Like the time that they went on a rare family holiday to Italy, and he met a girl that he liked, and Nathan got into it with a bunch of drug runners.
Of which she was one; perhaps the experience was prophetic.
He gets back to the hospital by eleven. Hesam isn't at the station, even though he should be because he was covering for Peter and now Peter will probably get in trouble for leaving early and then he'll be fired.
Restless, he paces the halls of the hospital, waiting for something to happen, something to distract him. What he wouldn't give for a call out right now. Then he feels bad wishing for someone to get hurt to alleviate his anxiety.
“Are you okay?” a woman asks him. He's seen her around the hospital.
He rubs his face. “I'm fine,” he murmurs.
“I'm sorry, could you-” She touches his arm. He drops his hands from his face. “Could you repeat that, I'm deaf.”
“Oh, fuck, sorry-- uh. Sorry. I'm fine.” Jesus, this is a really great day for him.
She laughs at his stumbling. “You just seemed a little upset.”
“I really am okay, don't worry. But thanks for asking.” She's... cute. He really shouldn't be thinking about the relative cuteness of girls right now.
“I've seen you around. I'm Emma, I work in the filing department.”
He shakes her hand. “Peter. I'm a paramedic, as you can probably tell.”
She smiles. It's a nice smile. Then she glances down and pats her pocket. “I have to go, see you around, Peter.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, thrown by her brush off. Not that he should be thrown, because he shouldn't be thinking about whether women are brushing him off, or not. He stuffs his left hand in his pocket, hiding that damn engagement ring. That's the last thing he wants to think about.
“Yo, Pete.” Hesam slaps him on the back as he passes. “Got a call, come on.”
-
Matt lives in real dump. Nathan assumes it's to cover up that he probably has millions in bribes locked away somewhere, but the fact remains that his building is awful and likely infested with rats. Does the man have no dignity?
“We lived in a motel for four years,” Claire says.
“But we had aspirations to better things,” he replies. She mutters 'whatever' under her breath.
This morning didn't go so well, he'll be the first to hold his hands up to that. He could have been a little more diplomatic, and maybe could have not blown Simone's secrets, but his pious little brother, dating a white collar criminal. It's classic. It didn't help him with finding out about the sword, though, so now he needs to find these guys through other means.
The door to the building opens before he can press the buzzer. The door opener collides with them as he tries to run down the steps. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, winding his scarf tighter around his neck.
Claire catches the door before it closes. “I'm a strong believer in fate,” she says.
They climb the stairs to the third floor. It's a Sunday, so he assumes Molly, if not Matt, will be at home. It would be better if Matt wasn't there, really. So, of course, he is, and opens the door holding a spatula and wearing a 'kiss the cook' apron.
“Pass,” Nathan says.
“What do you want, Petrelli?”
“Your kid here? I've got a picture I need to show her.” He flashes the picture at Matt, and they slip past him into the apartment. There's a lot of paisley furniture in there.
“Molly!” Nathan shouts.
“Hey, hey.” Matt drops the spatula and spins Nathan around by the shoulder. “Don't do that. Don't come in here and act like we're your mother's staff. Do you want to get arrested right now?”
“I just want to ask her to find a couple of the guys in this picture.” He holds up the photo again.
Matt takes a step closer, looking intently at it. Then he snatches it from Nathan's fingers. “You aren't showing this to her.”
“Any reason, or is this one of your arbitrary decisions?”
“This-” Matt taps the face of one of the unknown men, “is my fucking father. He's dead, thankfully.”
That gives Nathan pause. The vehemency with which Matt says 'thankfully' makes Nathan think there's more going on here than he knows. Not that he really cares. “Okay, she can just find the other guy.”
Matt shoves the picture back at him. “No, she can't. She isn't Google. Get out.”
“Come on, Matt, throw me a bone here.”
“How about I throw you in a cop car?”
“Fine,” Nathan grumbles. “We'll go, don't get upset.”
Matt shepherds them out, closing the door the moment their feet hit the lobby floor. They get back down to the street in silence, both ruminating on their failures on several fronts. Claire has that look, like she's scheming about something. It's a little worrying when she does it, honestly.
“Give me that picture,” she says. He hands it to her, and she stops. “Look at this.” She points at Kaito Nakamura. “Dead.” Parkman's dad. “Dead.” His dad. “Dead.” Charles Deveaux. “Dead.” Linderman. “Dead, and I'd put some money down on the fact that this unnamed guy is dead too. The only people from this photo that are definitely still alive are you, Monroe, and Angela.”
He mulls this over for a minute as they continue walking. She's right; and somehow his mother is always in the centre of these schemes.
“Let's go find Ma.”
-
Ma.
“You're a dick, you know that?” Claire sits back on the couch next to him. They're awaiting the imminent arrival of his ma, have been for, oh, six hours, at least. No one's seen her all day. She left under the cover of darkness this morning.
“Yes?” Nathan stretches his arms over his head. “Are you referring to something in particular?”
“Oh, I don't know, how about Simone in particular? Was that really necessary?”
“Peter needed to know.” He shrugs and flips the channel over to some show he doesn't recognise.
“He didn't need to know like that. That was brutal.”
“Hey.” He points at her with the remote. “She deceived him, conned him. What am I going to do, just let that happen? He's my brother.” The girl on the TV4 is stealing a Fabergé egg. There's an idea.
“Sure.” Claire gets up and walks over to the window, twitching the curtains ever so slightly to peer out. She watches for a second, then sighs and turns back to him. “And it had nothing to do with your love of causing trouble.”
Now people are getting tased. He sympathises. That girl on the boat was nuts. “I don't love causing trouble.”
“At least sound convinced when you say it.”
“I'm watching... this.” He waves vaguely at the screen. “Isn't that that woman from that scifi show?”
Claire looks at him sadly and shakes her head.
“Is everyone waiting for me?” Ma stands in the door, handbag and heels in hand. She looks like she's had a long day. And she has a creepily silent walk.
Nathan shuts the TV off. “I think you know what we want to know, Ma.”
She steps into the room. “Such a disappointment. You should already know what you want to know. It's hardly impossible to find out.”
“We know we're looking for a sword,” Claire cuts into the conversation. “We know that it's worth a lot of money, we know that it was hidden, and we know that Adam Monroe was involved. We also know that you and him and my dead grandfather and Hiro's dead father, Detective Parkman's dead father, Simone Deveaux's dead father - and you could have mentioned that she was engaged to Peter, by the way - Linderman, who is dead, and a guy wearing tragic glasses were all friends, circa the early seventies. Why don't you fill in the rest?”
Nathan stares at her for a second, looks at his mother. “What she said.”
Angela tips her, conceding to the fact that they obviously know something. She places her bag and shoes on a coffee table and sits down. “Let me tell you a story,” she says.
Imagine a group of young, mostly attractive criminals, tearing it up in 1960s America. The original four meet at a reform camp in Arizona, sent there by their respective state's and country's legislature. Angela Shaw and her little sister grifted money out of people with big eyes and sad smiles, Daniel Linderman tried to blackmail a high profile MP in England, Bob Bishop stole things because just turning objects into gold wasn't exciting enough, and people just gave Charles Deveaux heir wallets when he asked.
Of course, they escaped, it was a simple enough job for them. As simple as walking out the front door, really. Only twenty people got hurt. By the mid-60s they'd built quite a reputation for themselves, enough to gain the attention of 'young' entrepreneur Adam Monroe. To the group he brought Kaito Nakamura and Arthur Petrelli, who in turn brought his creepy friend Maury.
And so the power couple of Angie and Artie was born, though nobody called either of them such names. They wouldn't dare. They had a son who grew from a fussy, demanding baby to a handsome, but not all that cute, child. And then another, who turned out to be a huge disappointment.
In the early seventies Adam told them about a priceless sword. Kensei's sword, he said, and Kaito immediately shot it down: it was just a myth, a children's story. But the seed was planted in their minds. A mythical sword worth untold amounts, that would have been a jewel in their collective crown.
They searched the world over, twice. Angela went back to Japan with Kaito to help look for it - and the less said about those few months, the better. Nothing. Shreds of a myth, scattered pieces of information, nothing that told them where.
Then, in 1977, Kaito and Adam found it. They called from Tokyo to say that they were bringing it back. From the plane stepped only Adam, conspicuously swordless.
“It was confiscated from me by customs at JFK,” he said, enjoying a cup of tea in their fake headquarters in Hartsdale. All the greats got taken down by the IRS, Angela would have none of that. “Very disappointing, but I suppose we should have realised that the New York Historical Society was also looking for it. Apparently it's going to be housed at the Museum of Natural History.”
“Why don't I believe you?” Arthur asked. He loomed large over Adam. He always his size to intimidate the others. Only Adam and Angela were immune, which was disappointing to him.
“Because you have a naturally suspicious nature, my friend.”
“Bob, you're going there on Monday to see if he's telling the truth,” Arthur growled.
Bob obediently went that Monday, bought an entrance pass, kept the receipt, came back to them, and said, “It's not fucking there.”
Adam had already left the country; he left them a note telling them he'd hidden the sword somewhere, and hidden the directions to said place somewhere else.
When called, Kaito told them that Adam had overpowered him and put him in the hospital.
On the receipt, Bob scratched, 'Adam Monroe is a liar' and stuck it on their corkboard of information, lest any of them forget.
-
Claire pronounces it a bad idea. A very, very bad, bad idea. His worst yet, even, including the stripper in Vegas.
“Teaming up with others doesn't work, Nathan, look at what Angela told us. It ends badly, it always does.”
They sit in an office of a deserted building in Hartsdale, awaiting the arrival of Parkman, Simone, Hiro, and Peter. Nathan left them all messages this morning, telling them to come to this address. The only way he's going to find this thing is if they're all involved. They all have a little part of puzzle, if they can only put it together, they might find it.
“It's not like I'm going to let any of them have it,” he says.
“And how are you going to stop them? Look at what happened to Mom. People will just screw you over.”
“Not if I screw them over first, sweetheart. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing.”
As if her mom hadn't.
Soon enough, Parkman kicks his way into the building. He glares at Nathan when Nathan says the door was, in fact, open and unlocked. Simone joins them quickly, huge sunglasses obscuring her face. She doesn't take them off.
“What am I doing here?” Parkman demands. He stakes the room out like a consummate cop, weapon drawn, checking every shadow.
“I guess no one else is coming,” he murmurs. “Kensei's sword.” He drops a photograph of it on the desk in front of him. “This is the only known picture of it in existence.”
“And I would care because?”
“People thought it was myth for hundreds of years, thought he was a myth,” Simone says. She picks up the photograph, slips her glasses down her nose to peer more closely at it. “It was lost for four hundred years. It was housed briefly at the Tokyo National Museum in Sakura in 1922. So briefly, in fact, that no one believed that it had really ever been there. It's worth... a lot, both monetarily and historically.”
“That's why you should care,” Nathan says.
“Do you have it?” Simone asks. Her tone is carefully measured. Very carefully.
“Not yet, but our parents almost did.” He shows them the group photograph, and talks them through what Angela said, liberally edited to remove certain parts, or plain make things up. Ten minutes into the grand story, Simone drags a chair from across the room to sit on, Matt holsters his gun. They listen with more than a faint interest to Nathan, who so obviously enjoys the attention focused on him. He puts his hands behind his head, rests his feet on the desk, and leans back.
“So, that's why we need to work together,” he finishes off. “We'll find it quicker together than apart.”
“And who, exactly, is going to keep it?” Matt asks. He rests his hand on his gun again, brushing the lapel of his jacket aside.
“Why don't we get to that when we get to that?”
“Perhaps I'll call you if anything comes up,” Simone says. She checks her phone, thumbs a few buttons, then turns on her heel and leaves.
“Hey, Simone,” Nathan calls. “How's Peter?”
She stabs at the bridge of her sunglasses, pushing them back up her nose. “I don't know, how is he?”
“Sorry about that.” Nathan shifts uncomfortably, removing his feet from the table.
Simone doesn't dignify him with an answer. Nathan watches her leave with an appreciative gaze. Parkman smacks the table with his palm.
“I might be in touch,” he says.
Claire waits for him to leave, going so far as to watch him disappear down the hall before closing the door gently. She turns back.
“This is a horrible idea,” she says darkly.
-
Charlie never expected to be working a casino, let alone be part-owner. When she was sixteen, her world went as far as the border of Midland and Odessa, and then her prince came in a pair of glasses and a Star Trek t-shirt. It's been fairytale all the way since, if fairytales involved the prince counting cards and the princess defrauding gameshows (which wasn't exactly the case, but they didn't see it that way).
“We've got trouble brewing.” Daphne's voice arrives before her body does, ruffling the papers in the office. “Everyone's talking about it.”
“What are they saying?”
“That's the problem, no one really knows what's going on, they're just all pretending like they do.” She sits down and begins to pull off her boots, unbuttons her jeans, and pulls her sweatshirt over her head. “But there's talk, and you know where there's talk there's every other crook thinking he's being left out. And you know who's right in the middle.”
Charlie opens the office's walk-in closet as Daphne strips off. She fears that she does know who would get themselves in the middle of an unknown-but-potentially-explosive scheme. “Nathan Petrelli,” she says, snagging a dress off the rack and picking up a pair of heels. She comes back out to hold them up to Daphne. “How about this?”
“Perfect,” she says. Charlie's papers flutter again as Daphne takes the clothes and dresses in seconds. She shrugs into a coat and they leave, walking through the empty halls to their private elevator - they have the entire top floor for themselves, but half the rooms are empty; workman are coming in a few days to install a home theatre. She won't get Hiro out of here after that.
The elevator takes them down to the ground floor in a matter of seconds, delivering them straight to the party.
Ando rounds on them almost immediately. He takes a moment to kiss and compliment Daphne, then asks, “Where's Hiro?”
“Star Trek convention,” Charlie replies, and Ando face darkens. He's worked for months to get this party together for their shareholders, and he used every threat in the book to get Hiro to come. The majority of these people are bad news, though, serious big hitters in the world's crime syndicates; Hiro tries to keep himself as removed from them as possible.
“What am I supposed to tell them?” he whispers angrily.
“What do you mean 'what am I supposed to tell them'?” Daphne squeezes his shoulder. “They're not here to look at you guys. Probably won't even notice Hiro's not here. Not once they see my legs.”
Ando concedes the point with his silence, arms crossed, glaring irritably at their guests. “Come on then, let's join the party.”
“Wait a minute-” Charlie catches his wrist. “I've got to ask you something.”
“What?”
“It's about Nathan.” Ando's face crumples almost immediately back into irritation. “Don't pull that face. I'm worried about the course of action he's taking. Danko knows he's back in the country.”
“He's always taking the wrong course of action, Charlie, it's, like, his signature thing. And him and Danko is his business, he got into that all by himself.”
He isn't wrong, she knows that. Nathan's a hot mess, and he always has been. He's a hot mess with a lucky streak a mile long, and friends who extend it a few more. “I know that, but Claire-”
“You've gotta stop picking up strays,” Daphne says. She wraps her arms around Charlie's shoulders. “I know you mean well, but we've already got ten cats in our apartment.”
“Plus, Claire's indestructible, so.” Ando shrugs. “She'll be fine.”
“Maybe physically she will, but with her mom and all, he's the only stable sorta thing she's got.”
Ando snags a glass of wine as it passes on its tray. He takes a sip. “So, what are you telling me?”
“Just... even the odds a little. Give him a chance?” She smiles. It's her winning smile, the one that got people to order the third milkshake at the café.
“Fine.” He tips his wine glass toward her in acquiescence. “You better use that smile on our shareholders, though.”
-
“Hey, man, do you want to talk about it?” Hesam picks at his tray of hospital cafeteria food, mixing the peas, mashed potatoes, and gravy into a green, white, brown mess. Then he puts a spoonful of it into his mouth. Peter wants to be sick.
“I've talked to my therapist. I'm all talked out.” He talked to Suresh for hours, about Simone, and his mom, and how much he hated Nathan. Suresh, for once, seemed interested; he put his notepad down and actually conversed with him. They talked about what Nathan had been doing for the past four years, the hit out on him by Danko, Simone and her fake paintings racket, Nathan and that fucking piece of paper, stuff Nathan did to him as a kid. A lot of stuff about Nathan, really. He felt like Suresh really listened to him for once.
“Fair enough. Did you watch the game last night?”
Last night Peter watched six episodes of Lost in a row, and finished off the rest of the ice cream. “What game?”
“The, uh, basketball. Hey, I'm going to go clear out the ambulance before we go back on.” Hesam gets up and takes his disgusting tray with him. Peter considers his soup and stale bread.
“I get my lunch from the place across the road.” Emma sits down across from him with a paper bag. “You should try it.”
“I like to torture myself,” he says. “It's a thing that I do.”
Emma laughs. She has her hair pulled back today. She has nice... ears. He presses his fist against his forehead. If he'd slept at all last night, he wouldn't feel like this right now.
“You can have one of my sandwiches,” Emma says, “it's pastrami on rye.”
He takes it gratefully, pushing his tray aside. “Huh, that's my favourite.”
She rolls the top of her bag down carefully, and tucks it into her satchel. “I guess we just have a lot in common.”
-
Matt spends the rest of his day at his desk at the station, doing paperwork. There's a small matter of twenty thousand dollars and change unaccounted for from their last drug raid. Some green new officer managed to log it before Matt re-purposed it, so now there's a discrepancy between what's in the evidence locker and what was logged at the scene. Which means it falls to him to amend the documentation, romance the evidence room guy with donuts, switch the report on file to the new one, and submit a recommendation to transfer Officer I'm So Good At My Job to another station.
His bosses have no idea how hard he works.
At a quarter to seven, he calls it a day and heads home. His commute takes him through NYU and over the Brooklyn Bridge. He gives up his seat for the first woman he sees, subtly intimidates other to do the same, and stands by the door, getting jostled every time they stop at a station. At the Financial District, he changes lines, colliding with a girl in a red tracksuit. She bounces back up as soon as she hits the floor, reflexes almost frighteningly fast.
“Are you okay?” she asks, briefly touching his arm.
“I'm fine, are you?” She's a tiny thing with a blinding smile and a Southern accent. Most people her size that collide with him are seriously hurt.
“Not a scratch. Are you getting this train here? It's about to pull out, you'd better hurry.” She gives him a gentle push in the right direction. “Sorry for running into you!” she shouts as she skips away.
He stares after her - such a chipper little thing, girls like that normally don't talk to him. But she's right, his train is about to leave. He runs for it, jumping on just before the doors close. Five minutes later he's in Brooklyn, walking home. He gets into the building, gets caught by the nice old lady downstairs, discusses the weather and the health of her cat, and makes it back into his apartment at twenty past seven.
Molly is lying on the couch with her laptop, headphones on, watching the TV. He lifts one headphone.
“Hey, munchkin, done your homework?”
“Hours ago,” she says, brushing his hand away.
“On your own?”
She stares resolutely at the computer screen. “Mm, I might have got a little help. Just a little, though, not enough to make a significant impact on my grade.”
“You sound like a lawyer, kid,” he teases, and replaces her headphone.
He strips his shirt and tie off in the bedroom, and pulls on his NYPD sweatshirt. “So, hey,” he calls to the other room. “Nathan finally gave it up about the sword. Apparently my dad and his parents and the Deveauxs were all involved in a scheme to get it back in the seventies. I can't believe Nathan just told me all that. I almost forgot how egotistical he was. Almost.” He pulls his gun from his holster and stores it in the lock box in the closet, before moving through the apartment to the kitchen.
“So, you're off the hook now,” he finishes.
“What? I've been making real headway with Peter recently.” Mohinder stands in the door of the kitchen with a bowl cradled in one arm, a whisk in the other hand, furiously whisking whatever's inside.
“Yeah, but, we've got what we need.” He leans in to look in the bowl. Mohinder retreats back to the kitchen with a tut. “We've got more important things to do now.”
“Well, I know.” Mohinder begins to pour the mixture into a cake tin, tutting again when Matt tries to sneak a taste. “But Peter has some real issues he needs to work through. With Nathan and Simone and his deep seated trauma caused by his parents, I'm worried for his psychological health without therapy.”
Matt doesn't understand, but then he never understands Mohinder. Mohinder confuses him, a mysterious man that came onto him in a bar one night, but of course he already knew Mohinder. Or more accurately he had a close personal relationship with 'Mr Ahmadi' through the many crime scenes that he'd been called to. Mr Ahmadi was the kind of guy who would lecture you on 14th Century architecture in one moment, and kneecap you in the next. No one who saw him ever lived to give a description.
“I like your work, Detective Parkman,” he'd whispered in Matt's ear, arms slung across his shoulders. “You're the only one who's ever got close to catching me.”
Matt, of course, had reacted by slipping his gun from his holster and pressing it to Mohinder's side. Only to feel a cold pressure against his neck.
“I believe we are at an impasse, Detective.” The way he said 'detective' sent tingles down Matt's spine. “I have someone I need you to see.”
Molly. Sitting in a car in the alley around the corner, the little blonde girl sat with a gun in her lap, reading a book. Crime and Punishment.
“I enjoy irony,” Mohinder had said. “I found her living on the streets, eating out of dumpsters like a rat. Just wasn't right.”
Molly had smiled when she saw Matt, put the book down and stowed the gun in the glovebox.
“I thought you were in foster care,” he had said. After the hit on her parents, he'd had to turn her over to the CPS, though it killed him to do so.
“Didn't like it there. I ran away. Mohinder's been looking after me.”
“Mohinder, huh?”
Mohinder had smiled beautifully, confidently. “Mohinder Suresh, pleased to meet you.”
Matt had taken the proffered hand. “You telling me your real name right now?”
“Indeed.” His grip was tight. “I have a proposition for you, Detective. It's time I settled down.”
Somehow, in some way that Matt will never fully understand, Mohinder and Molly moved in with him a month later.
“I guess you've got to do what you've got to do,” he tells Mohinder, half his mind already contemplating what kind of cake it's going to be.
-
After work, Emma takes Peter out for a drink. He doesn't talk much, she notices, just makes miserable, oblique references to things he won't explain, and asks her about herself. She doesn't really tell him anything either, not that he notices, wallowing as he is. She gets the text message at nine and leaves him. Hesam quickly takes her place, she notes.
She drives to the Financial District, waits only a couple of minutes before the door is opened.
They followed the detective, but I managed to get him on the train quick enough, Monica signs, before putting her seatbelt on. Did they follow Peter?
Not that I could tell. But he's got so many problems, she replies. He didn't tell me anything important, though.
Monica shrugs, snagging a chocolate bar off the dashboard. She holds it between her teeth. Doesn't matter, Nathan and Claire laid it all out. It really is quite a bad plan.
Emma turns onto Wall Street and drives as Monica sends an email from her Blackberry. Danko's stepping up his game now, going after associates of Nathan, and Nathan's family instead of Nathan directly. Micah's been doing his best covering Nathan's tracks, but everyone's talking - it's all she sees discussed when they spy on the competition - and there's nothing Micah can do about word of mouth. Danko's men have been following Claire around the city off and on for the past couple of weeks. Emma and Monica have only narrowly been able to throw them off Claire's trail. They're just biding their time, like everyone else.
So, all she and Monica have to do is keep everyone alive until one of them gets hold of that sword. Shouldn't be too hard.
It is, however, the hardest job they've had so far, and the first that's put her out in the field for this long. They've been increasingly in demand from the clientèle of Micah's 'consultancy' business, gaining a name for themselves as the most competent for-hire criminals in the game. Normally, she just does some cursory recon and Monica ninjas her way into people's homes and businesses and they're done - she's always thought it was ironic that she's the one who has to do the talking, when when she's inherently antisocial and snippy with people. Monica's one of the few who breezily puts up with all her sarcastic jibes with a smile and a laugh. Her mother used to, too, but they don't talk much any more, after Emma decided to work for someone else instead of take over the family business.
This job's different though; it started as a regular consultation job, but then Micah took a greater interest in it and sent them out here to observe. He didn't tell them why, though, just that he wanted the sword for himself, and it reminds Emma that she's still working for a thirteen year old boy who thinks having secrets makes him cool. Sometimes she can see why her mom is so pissed at her.
Part 5