Returning Home
OOC: Bendy-time back to before any RP's with hornrimmed, teleparkman, or vote4nathan, just posting to get it out there.
He doesn't want to admit why he's back here; tries to convince himself that it's just curiosity, or even the selfish desire to return to a city he called his home before the big dark eyes and floppy hair and the worry about it all blowing up. But that image on the news -- played in mosaic horror in the electronics aisle of a Target store in the 'burbs, screen after screen after screen showing the explosion in midair -- is burned into his memory. That image, and sometimes it's all he sees when he closes his eyes, even though he wants to see something -- someone -- else.
So he steals back into the city, remaining invisible the whole time now, and wishing he had a way to defeat the infrared goggles if they come after him again. He feels like every eye is on him, although he knows that's daft, and it takes him a day to get to the apartment building because he's being so careful now. He isn't even really sure why, just that something has him on edge. Something more than the explosion is wrong...
His suspicions are confirmed when he makes his way up to the apartment and sees the door cracked open. For a moment he's flooded with relief -- expects him to come walking out and lose control and shift into invisibility the moment he gets close enough -- and then reality does its level best to piss in his cornflakes again. The police officer is ushering the superintendent out and thanking him for letting him in -- there's only a moment where he can get past and into the apartment before the cop himself exits and shuts the door again. And then he's standing inside the apartment, and it looks the same, but it's different. It's different because Peter isn't there...
He looks around, and it's the same as he left it, and he knows that's wrong. If ridiculously sentimental Peter had fled, he'd have taken the framed photos and the picture album -- the one full of pictures of Nathan, and him, and Nathan and him, but very few of their parents. He'd have taken that ridiculous tin of expensive shampoo, and that massage bar thing, stuffed them in his messenger bag and at least had that much of his belongings with him.
On the other hand, if he'd lost it and blown up... well, he probably wouldn't've brought anything along...
There are voices in the corridor and Claude tenses in fear -- he's already invisible but he ducks into the bedroom anyway, steadfastly avoiding looking at the bed. The door opens again and he hears a man -- the cop again -- and a woman. His blood runs cold as he recognizes the voice. "How can he not be here?" she's asking, and he never expected that someone he despises would give him so much hope. If Peter were dead, she wouldn't be searching for him, after all...
And then she's standing in the bedroom doorway, peering into the dark, and he could swear she looks right at him. He's never held his breath so desperately before in his life, not even that day when he was clinging to the bridge railing and praying he could concentrate long enough for Bennet to just bloody leave already. Then her eyes rake over the room and she sighs. "He hasn't been back here at all. Where is he?"
"Don't know, Ma'am," the cop answers, and Claude memorizes his face and voice. There's one of New York's finest he'll never trust.
Finally she turns away and stalks back out to the living room, and Claude carefully breathes again, relieved to ease the pounding in his ears. "Lock it up and keep it as-is," she says, her voice cold and precise. "If he returns, we don't want him feeling uncomfortable and running again."
"Yes, Ma'am," the cop says, and Claude can hear her shoes tap-tap-tapping as she leaves the apartment. He's so relieved he nearly misses his chance to duck out; hides himself by the potted plant until they're both in the elevator and gone.
But he can't help wondering -- if she doesn't have Peter and it's obvious she thinks he's alive, then where is he?
He doesn't want to admit why he's back here; tries to convince himself that it's just curiosity, or even the selfish desire to return to a city he called his home before the big dark eyes and floppy hair and the worry about it all blowing up. But that image on the news -- played in mosaic horror in the electronics aisle of a Target store in the 'burbs, screen after screen after screen showing the explosion in midair -- is burned into his memory. That image, and sometimes it's all he sees when he closes his eyes, even though he wants to see something -- someone -- else.
So he steals back into the city, remaining invisible the whole time now, and wishing he had a way to defeat the infrared goggles if they come after him again. He feels like every eye is on him, although he knows that's daft, and it takes him a day to get to the apartment building because he's being so careful now. He isn't even really sure why, just that something has him on edge. Something more than the explosion is wrong...
His suspicions are confirmed when he makes his way up to the apartment and sees the door cracked open. For a moment he's flooded with relief -- expects him to come walking out and lose control and shift into invisibility the moment he gets close enough -- and then reality does its level best to piss in his cornflakes again. The police officer is ushering the superintendent out and thanking him for letting him in -- there's only a moment where he can get past and into the apartment before the cop himself exits and shuts the door again. And then he's standing inside the apartment, and it looks the same, but it's different. It's different because Peter isn't there...
He looks around, and it's the same as he left it, and he knows that's wrong. If ridiculously sentimental Peter had fled, he'd have taken the framed photos and the picture album -- the one full of pictures of Nathan, and him, and Nathan and him, but very few of their parents. He'd have taken that ridiculous tin of expensive shampoo, and that massage bar thing, stuffed them in his messenger bag and at least had that much of his belongings with him.
On the other hand, if he'd lost it and blown up... well, he probably wouldn't've brought anything along...
There are voices in the corridor and Claude tenses in fear -- he's already invisible but he ducks into the bedroom anyway, steadfastly avoiding looking at the bed. The door opens again and he hears a man -- the cop again -- and a woman. His blood runs cold as he recognizes the voice. "How can he not be here?" she's asking, and he never expected that someone he despises would give him so much hope. If Peter were dead, she wouldn't be searching for him, after all...
And then she's standing in the bedroom doorway, peering into the dark, and he could swear she looks right at him. He's never held his breath so desperately before in his life, not even that day when he was clinging to the bridge railing and praying he could concentrate long enough for Bennet to just bloody leave already. Then her eyes rake over the room and she sighs. "He hasn't been back here at all. Where is he?"
"Don't know, Ma'am," the cop answers, and Claude memorizes his face and voice. There's one of New York's finest he'll never trust.
Finally she turns away and stalks back out to the living room, and Claude carefully breathes again, relieved to ease the pounding in his ears. "Lock it up and keep it as-is," she says, her voice cold and precise. "If he returns, we don't want him feeling uncomfortable and running again."
"Yes, Ma'am," the cop says, and Claude can hear her shoes tap-tap-tapping as she leaves the apartment. He's so relieved he nearly misses his chance to duck out; hides himself by the potted plant until they're both in the elevator and gone.
But he can't help wondering -- if she doesn't have Peter and it's obvious she thinks he's alive, then where is he?