Heroes: and fate as led you through it (Nathan/Peter, NC17)
Title: and fate has led you through it
Characters/Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating/Warnings: NC17, m/m incest
Word Count: 8492
Spoilers: speculation off previews for 1.19 and from the graphic novels.
Disclaimer: So very not mine.
Notes: Written for limmenel in the flyingpetrellis Spring Hiatus ficathon. It's ridiculously late, and I apologize. Life kicked me until I bled last month and I'm just, maybe, starting to catch up. It's not as tightly related to the prompt (at the end) as I originally intended, but I tried to hit what I thought you were looking for. Aya, hon, I hope you like it.
Summary: A Petrelli for Congress fundraiser at the Metropolitan Museum of Art becomes a proving ground for Nathan. And Nathan learns a few valuable lessons about his brother and himself.
and fate has led you through it
by technosage
It's October. In less than a month, the city may lie in ruins, but tonight Manhattan's elite rubs formally-attired elbows with marble Caesars and Senators in the Met's new galleries that Nathan knows will never be finished. He moves among them courting votes and disbursing political good will as though it matters. Over near the entrance to the sculpture atrium still under construction, his brother runs a thoughtful finger over the dedication plaque for a bust of the Roman god of gates and doorways, beginnings and endings. Janus looks into both the past and the future, and beneath his stern visage, Peter's expression slides into dreamy inattention.
It's just like Peter to escape from the exigencies of the present to the soft safety of daydreams. As Mr. Linderman no doubt intended by the donation, the dual-faced god reminds Nathan that he does not possess that luxury. Even more so now than when he'd been made privy to the plan, Nathan finds it heavy-handed, not to mention bitterly ironic.
Linderman, however, thinks it fitting. He'd listened to Nathan's protests and waved them aside with a jocular, "I'm sure you can work it into your speech, Nathan, and since I will be going to great lengths to establish you as both prescient and capable of learning from past mistakes, it will do rather nicely."
So, despite his association with lies and liars, Janus oversees the thousand dollar per plate fundraiser for Petrelli for Congress. And Nathan, as suggested, did manage to work both the identity of the god and his less savory connotations into his before dinner speech.
Politicians are often accused of being Janus-faced, and it's true, some are. There are people on the Hill who will tell you they're voting 'yes' on your bill and turn right around and tell the next guy they're voting 'no' on that same bill. But there are others in Congress who are Janus-faced in another, more classical sense, of seeing the past and future with equal clarity. When you elect me, I promise to avoid the former and do my best to learn from the past to see a brighter future.
Now, he eschews the Brunello he'd prefer - Never drink red at a political outing, Nathan. You'll look like a vampire, and with your luck, you'll spill, his mother's nasal voice reminds, the legacy of years of instruction - in favor of colorless Sambuca that will cleanse his palate and tastes vile enough he'll have to drink it slow. He sips, smiles when ancient Astrid Bloom catches his grimace and her wrinkles part enough he can see her eyes are cornflower blue. "It has quite a bite, doesn't it?"
"It's too sweet. I prefer Ouzo for anisette flavor, but if you're going to have a Roman theme, I suppose you must." She speaks with a tartness born of temperament rather than age. No wonder she gets along well with his mother.
"Mrs. Bloom." Peter's familiar voice, filled with genuine warmth obviates the necessity of response. The next moment, his brother lifts the woman's hand to his mouth, somehow ignoring the way the loose skin rolls back down her arm like an ill-fitting sleeve. "It's nice to see you. You won't mind, will you, if I borrow my brother for just a moment?"
She tolerates the gesture, even hints at a smile while snatching her hand away to study Peter. "Well. That scar hasn't done much for your looks, boy, but at least you've cut those dreadful bangs."
Before Nathan can defend him, Peter grins that crooked, irresistible child's grin. "It's all part of my secret plan to see Nathan take a seat in Congress. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse us?"
"Of course, of course." She bats Peter with her sequined black bag that looks, like its owner, as though it had seen its best days in the 40s. Before she turns away, she gives Nathan what would be a hard stare if he could see her eyes amidst drooping lids, bags and crow's feet. "I've never liked you, Nathan Petrelli, but the incumbent's a fool and this nation can't suffer any more of them. See you don't make me regret my vote."
Nathan inclines his head, smiles his politician smile. "I have every confidence you'll be pleased with your decision."
The ancient Mrs. Bloom harrumphs, Peter bites his lip, no doubt to keep from laughing, and Nathan pictures the Oval Office to keep from scowling at them both.
When the harridan returns to her dinner companions, Peter's smile slips. He reverts from the Petrelli elegance their mother browbeat into him for occasions like this to the hands-in-pockets, not-quite-meeting-your-eye slouch Nathan knows far better. "We need to talk."
They've had few opportunities since Sylar, Mohinder, and Claire, but now is not the time. "Can't it wait, Pete? Astrid Bloom's isn't the only vote I need to win tonight."
"You'll win the election." The thin red scar paralleling Peter's brow bears witness, accuses.
Great men are always misunderstood, Mr. Petrelli. But you must choose between humanity's adoration and its continuation. Though he dislikes how comfortably Linderman seems to have settled in beside his mother to direct his actions, Nathan squares his shoulders at the thought; Peter's censure is nothing new.
"It won't take long." Peter's chin levels, and it's so odd to look him in both eyes, Nathan blinks. "Nathan, it's important."
Despite the little-brother-in-trouble stance, Peter's not pleading or whining. Tongue pressed tight to his bottom teeth, Nathan closes his eyes, sighs. "All right, Pete, but not here. Meet me in the Etruscan gallery in ten minutes. Don't be seen."
With a nod, Peter moves off, merging into the crowd. Nathan tracks him to the men's bathroom. As he opens the door, Peter catches Nathan's eye, gives a cheeky wink then starts to shimmer.
When the door opens again thirty seconds later, no one comes out, and no one but Nathan notices.
<<<
Nathan looks up from the call to see Peter on his way into Nathan's campaign headquarters. His jaw tightens. He's doing this for Heidi and for his father; he'll give Linderman up to the FBI, but he wants this election. Needs it. But Peter will not understand, any of it.
"Mr. Linderman, I'm gonna have to call you back in five minutes, okay? Thank you."
As Peter sights him and rushes over, eyes wide and eager like a twelve year-old or a golden retriever with a stick, Nathan hangs up the phone. "I'm late. I've got a fundraiser and a drinks meeting."
Not deterred, Peter skips hello and launches straight into his most recent delusion. "It happened two more times. Sometimes I'm falling. Sometimes I'm flying. You're in them."
Jesus, Pete. Nathan doesn't make eye contact. It will only encourage him. Instead he grabs his briefcase and pushes around his brother to head for the door. "I don't have time for this now." He will never have time for this.
Peter bounds along after him, demanding his attention. "They're not just dreams, Nathan."
He treats Peter like he would any intern who didn't get the message he wasn't interested in their personal crusade. Thrusting his briefcase at him, he says, "Hold this," and Peter takes it without complaint.
"I thought they'd go away, but they're not."
Try ignoring them. But then again, it's not working with his brother. Suppressing an impatient sigh, he hands his speechwriter his notes for the fundraiser. "Tim, I need this by six, please."
Tim nods. Nathan doesn't respond, just slips on his jacket and keeps walking. Like any good New Yorker, Peter continues, as though the subway doors have closed and they are on the move in relative quiet again. "This morning, when I got out of bed, my foot hovered before it hit the ground."
Joanne, or Jocelyn, or Josie - he can't remember, and how would he, with his little brother trailing him in a cloud of crazy - hands him a clipboard with the recent polling numbers.
"Hovered for a split second." Shut up, Peter, Nathan wills, but to no effect. "Like I was - like I was floating. I'm telling you, Nathan, I think I can fly."
"These all undecideds?" he asks J-whomever, smiling with all the Petrelli charm he can muster.
She gives him a look he can't interpret. It's either sympathy or hurry up, go. I gotta leak this to the press. "Mm-hmm."
Nathan hands her back the clipboard already composing his rebuttal. My brother has a serious problem, ladies and gentleman of the press. This is no laughing matter. He suffers from manic depression and occasional dangerous delusions. He is not alone. Some X% of the population shares his malady. He'll have to check to see if either have been proven hereditary, since their father suffered from the same, and get Tim to look up the numbers.
When they're out of earshot again, Nathan glances sharply at Peter. "Tell you what. You think you can fly, why don't you jump off the Brooklyn Bridge? See what happens."
Peter's mouth twists. "Maybe I ought to start with something a little lower first. It's like learning to walk."
This, finally, is too much. He's actually starting to worry. "You're serious?"
They exit his campaign headquarters together, and his brother looks at him, in his eyes the familiar mixture of challenge and need that has been there since Peter turned fourteen. "Oh, I'm serious."
It's not that Nathan doesn't care, it's just he can't help wondering, why now? Peter almost seems to have a radar for the worst possible moment to flake out on him. He puts an arm around Peter's shoulders, mixes brotherly love with paternal authority in his voice. "You need to snap out of it, Peter. See a doctor. Get some drugs. But do not pull a Roger Clinton on me, man. I'm eight points down in the polls."
Hurt fills Peter's eyes, and Nathan feels like he kicked a puppy, but realities are realities. Peter needs to understand that. "This isn't about you, all right? Something's happening to me, and I have this feeling you're the only one who's gonna understand it."
The car careens toward the median. He is thrown hundreds of feet. "Why the hell would I understand that you think you can fly?" It threw him. He didn't fly.
His cell rings, and he almost hopes it is Linderman, because Peter will storm off in a huff.
Peter's face scrunches like he thinks Nathan's an idiot. "Because you're my brother."
It's not Linderman. It's their mother. "Mom, I can't talk-What?" Of course, she's been arrested. He glares accusingly at the phone, Peter, anyone within glaring radius. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
>>>
The balcony overlooking the sculpture court houses the world-famous Etruscan chariot, but the half-light of the empty space obscures its outlines, and those of his brother sitting beside it. Peter rises to his feet, but otherwise makes no move toward Nathan, and instead Nathan goes to him.
Shadows bleach the color from Peter's face, rendering his mouth a dark gash in a pale oval instead of a too-pink temptation to familiar sins. The same shadows hide his scar, too, and aside from the shorn bangs, he looks more like the man in Isaac's paintings than the overeager puppy of Nathan's recall.
"What's this about, Pete, and make it-"
"There's a woman downstairs who knows everything."
Peter doesn't sound like Peter. He sounds like the man in the painting. All sharp edges and angles, ominous, like the harbinger in the first act of a noir thriller. It lacks the pay attention to me energy of his usual presentation, and aside from the cryptic drama of it, Nathan appreciates the directness. "Define everything."
"Flying. Fucking. Fraud." Peter counts them off on his thumb and first two fingers, then shrugs, hands opening. "Everything."
He doesn't want to know which fucking Peter's talking about, them or the blondes he can't pretend are either Peter or Heidi. It doesn't matter. Either will cost him the election, and losing the election will cost them all their lives.
Assuming Linderman's not playing a deeper game, which is a ridiculous assumption and a dangerous one. Fine. "Insurance. For good behavior."
Peter shakes his head. "I don't think so."
"She approached you?"
"No."
"Then how do you-"
Peter taps a finger to his temple, deliberately grazing that damned scar like he's rubbing it in Nathan's face, what they are, what they can do.
Question. Answer. Question. Answer. All it needs is for Peter to salute across the scar and it'll be a goddamned military briefing. "Getting tired of twenty questions, Pete. Just tell me what she wants."
Mouth twisting, Peter rolls his shoulders like he's thinking about walking away. He flips his tongue in his mouth a minute longer, then finally stops sulking and answers. "To cause trouble. Lots of it. She's waiting for the optimal time to expose you."
Of course. "Out with it. How much does she want?"
Peter's lips thin again. "Jesus, Nathan. Don't you think--"
He hasn't got the patience for this, not today. He's got a walking time bomb downstairs, and he needs to defuse it. Now. "Everyone has a price. You read her mind. What's hers?"
"That's just it, Nathan. She doesn't have one."
Then it's a test. From Linderman, to see if he can do what has to be done. Nathan would bet the cost of one ancient bust of Janus on it. He'd known it would come to this eventually, but he'd been hoping eventually would come after he saved the damned world.
He's not ready for this. Doesn't want to be Linderman.
>>>
"…Nathan Petrelli, the other half of the brother-duo the press has dubbed 'The Flying Petrellis' remains sequestered in his Long Island home with his wife, Heidi, and their two sons, Simon and Monty, and is unavailable for comment.
"Seven months ago, Nathan and Heidi Petrelli survived a freak car crash that left Heidi paralyzed from the waist down. Miraculously, Nathan walked away from the accident with barely a scratch after being thrown several hundred feet from the vehicle - apparently before it hit the median.
"At the time, forensic specialists chalked Nathan's apparent pre-crash departure from the vehicle to up peculiarities in the data. I think we can now be reasonably certain that Nathan flew that awful night. Which leaves this reporter asking: what reason could Nathan have possibly had not to carry Heidi with him?"
Sharing the screen with smartly dressed Tad Bryant, there's a slideshow of images.
Peter reaching for Nathan's hand in front of the giraffe enclosure at the Zoo. Peter was ten, and he was seventeen. Their father had an incident, and his mother asked him to take Peter somewhere, anywhere, to keep it from him.
Peter's arms around Nathan's neck, their lips brushing through Peter's tears. Peter was twelve, he was nineteen and leaving to go back to college after Christmas break.
Nathan setting his dress cap on Peter's head, knuckles brushing his cheek. He was twenty-four, home from a tour of duty. Peter was seventeen and had been trying to convince Nathan to fuck him for two years already.
Nathan hugging Peter and whispering into his ear at Peter's graduation from college. Nathan was twenty-nine, Peter twenty two, and in that instance, the audio would've borne out the implication. He was asking Peter if he'd like to celebrate ass up or on his knees when some random cousin snapped the photo.
A close-up of male fingers tangled in Peter's hair.
Nathan's gut tightens as, Tad telestrates, circling a ring on the grainy telephoto image. Another picture slides in of Heidi, sitting in her wheelchair, Nathan's hand on her shoulder in support. Tad circles his wedding ring, and the two pictures are brought together.
It's clearly the same ring. Clearly Nathan's hand.
"Here to discuss that issue is psychologist Dr. Elsa Duran, specialist on adult survivors of rape and incestuous abuse. Dr. Elsa, I think we've all heard the allegations that Nathan and his brother Peter are involved in a bizarre, and sickening, sexual relationship. This picture would seem to confirm that. But pictures can be doctored. Can you shed some light on the subject?"
Tad flashes a Colgate smile complete with gleam! at the camera, then passes the microphone to Dr. Elsa, who looks more like the heroine of a Bond film than an abnormal psych shrink.
"Hello, Tad, yes, I've heard the allegations. But I'd like to stress, before we begin, that most incestuous relationships are the products of childhood abuse. While certainly, we as a nation have the right not to vote for Nathan Petrelli because of his unnatural feelings toward his brother, he is a victim, too, and deserves our compassion."
Tad laughs, and Nathan throws the remote at the screen just in time to see the picture change to Peter, flying. The image has clearly been manipulated to show him in green panties and tights, like Robin. "Peter Petrelli apparently suffers from delusions…"
<<<
The press would have a field day with all of it. Peter would ignore the sex scandal, swan around showing off his skills. All it would take would be one redneck homophobe with a hunting rifle for Peter to be as extinct as the dodo. And that, only if the government scientists didn't tag and bag first. If Sylar proved anything, it was that Peter could die.
He may not be ready to be Linderman, but he's even less ready to let his brother become a "specimen." "What's she wearing, Pete?"
Brows furrowing, Peter cocks his head. "What?"
"What's she wearing?" He'll call his guards to detain her and he'll figure out where to go from there after the fundraiser.
"Nathan. I--"
"You wanna be a hero? Tell me what she's wearing." Peter shakes his head, slow, and his disgust radiates so strongly it burns. Fine. His brother can hate him, but he's out of choices. "Describe-"
"I'll take care of it."
"You'll take - Do you even know what you're saying?" Nathan rolls his eyes. His hand comes up to massage his temples. "Of course you do. Pete, this isn't some kind of a joke. It's not some heroic quest. It's just something that has to be done."
For once, Peter's listening, not interrupting. He stands as cold and still as the statues in the court below. When Nathan's finished, Peter meets his gaze, eyes dark and chin level. "I can do this. Trust me."
<<<
Nathan grinds his teeth in irritation as the door shuts behind Agents Quesada and Alonzo. When he gets up and turns around to return to his desk, Peter is there, and quite obviously from his repose, has been there for some time. It doesn't improve his mood that his brother's new invisibility gig has been turned to spying on him.
"How long have you been working with the FBI?" Peter asks, and there's hurt, an accusation there: Why didn't you tell me?
This amateur spy and hero bullshit is exactly the reason. Now that he knows, Nathan needs him to understand he can't screw this up. "Since Heidi's accident. I'm gonna take Linderman down for a long time, Peter."
Peter makes no complaint, and it's so unlike him that when he stands, Nathan falls silent.
"I thought I could be a hero and save the world, instead I just killed-" His brother sobs, a choked sound Nathan hasn't heard since their father's funeral when Peter realized he'd never get a chance to make it right and Nathan held him through it.
Peter turns his head and there's blood on his cheek. Nathan's stomach drops into his wingtips. He wants to grab Peter, shake him, or maybe never let him go. Instead, Nathan constrains himself to the lawyer's tool, to words. "What's that? That's not your blood is it?"
"No. Simone… Isaac shot her. She's dead. She's dead." Pain in every line of his body, Peter pleads with his eyes,Make it stop, Nathan, please make it stop.
Images of Peter in prison-orange, bent over yellowed sinks and taking it, of camera flashes and microphones thrust in his face, of a million other nightmares crowd his mind. He shoves them back. Facts first. "Did you call the police?"
"No."
Good. He can fix this. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna make an anonymous phone call. Okay? You'll have had absolutely nothing to do with this."
His brother blinks damp eyes. "But I did. She's dead because of me. I don't - I don't know what to do."
"That's just it. You don't do anything." Jesus, Pete, please. "Do you understand? This is not the time for you to get noble. Okay? Just stay with me."
"I can't." Shoulders hunched, Peter turns away. "I can't. As long as I'm alive, everyone around me is in danger."
>>>
Trust him, Peter asks, and the entire conversation rearranges itself in his mind, like one of Monty's Transformers or the satirical sonnets Heidi wrote for him their first year in law school, the last two lines carving wicked humor into insight. He steps forward, clasps Peter's shoulder like he always does when Peter needs reassurance. "You don't have to this, Pete. There's nothing to prove, nothing to make up for. Just let me take care of it, buddy, okay?"
"I can do this, Nathan." Peter's hand comes up inside his arm, knocks it away to trace his scar in a sharp movement. "In here, I've probably got five different ways to take care of this without killing her. I didn't come to ask your permission. I came to tell you, just in case something went wrong."
Peter steps back, edging into shadow. Meaning shifts again, a black and white kaleidoscope: his brother becomes the man in Isaac's painting. Something in Nathan shifts, too. His jaw relaxes, but his fingers clench tighter. "I can't afford for this to get out." He studies this new Peter, wishing he could take a more accurate reading. "You're sure?"
"Yes." One word, a single nod, but Peter's bitterness floods Nathan's mouth. "I have enough lives on my conscience. I won't let you add another."
"I didn't ask for this, Pete." It's a lie, and they both know it. His entire life has been a quest for power, and he's always known it carried responsibilities, though not these. "But I can fly, you can do things I don't even have names for, and the men who know the future think it's up to us to save it. Maybe it's not fair or right." He shrugs the tension out of his shoulders. Squares them. "I can't risk you or Claire to spare some stranger who thinks she's going save the world from incestuous mutant freaks."
Peter's head dips and shadow-bangs hide his eyes. When he looks up again, his lips quirk; Nathan doesn't recognize the expression. "But I can," he says quietly, touches Nathan's shoulder and fades away.
>>>
"…in the Rose Garden at the White House, President Nathan Petrelli, flanked by his brother Peter and his recently revealed daughter Claire, prepares to sign the hotly contested Genetic Protection Act. The most notable provision, introduced by the president himself makes it illegal to discriminate against "meta-humans" in the dispensation of public services such as police protection.
"While the GPA falls short of the sweeping freedoms lobbied for by the World Meta-Human Protection Organization, it's a major step forward, or backward, depending on whose side your on.
"With me today to discuss the issue are WMHPO founder, geneticist Dr. Mohinder Suresh and outspoken anti-meta-human activist Daniel Kincaid…"
*
Peter's hand rests on his right shoulder, an innocent gesture of support, though his fingers curl intimately against the hidden mark Peter left the previous night during their celebratory fuck. Hair newly blonde again, curling over her shoulders and around her face like when he first met her, Claire stands off to his left. It's the first time since the assassination Peter's appearing with him in public, the first time ever for Claire, and it feels better than he could've imagined.
He's never been more proud of either of them, especially Peter, who has not only mastered his abilities, but begun teaching other meta-humans how to control theirs. Not even Kincaid's scowl and the certainty that this is only a temporary cease-fire in their already three year long war can dim Nathan's triumph or his pleasure at having Peter at his side, where he belongs.
Dipping the fountain pen into the ink provided, Nathan smiles and cameras flash recording this moment for posterity. "Fifty years ago, a man could refuse another man food or lodging based on the color of his skin. A woman could be made to give up her seat on the bus, or a child to drink from a specially designated water fountain.
"But then brave people like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. stood up to and for the American people and demanded we do what is right: treat all human beings equal in the eyes of law, regardless of the color of their skin.
"Today, we take another step on a path Rosa Parks and the good Reverend would approve, and decree that no government, federal, state, or local may discriminate against human beings on the basis of their genetic composition or any mental or physical manifestations thereof."
Nathan signs the bill with a flourish, lifts it to show to Peter and Claire. His daughter smiles so bright she puts the flashbulbs to shame. "Good job, dad," she whispers when she throws her arms around his neck.
Unstaged, the quick movement from a virtual unknown upsets Secret Service guardsmen still smarting from the assassination that gave him this job and none-too-sanguine about the new, unpredictable threats posed by meta-humans unhappy with Nathan exposing their existence. One grips Claire's arm, but before Nathan can reassure him, Peter's suggesting he remove his hand from the President's daughter. He lets go without a word.
More confident than a nineteen year-old has any right to be, Claire grins at the Serviceman, then moves off to go get her younger half-brothers from Heidi right on cue. Peter gives him a quiet smile. "This is the right thing, Nathan. It's a good thing."
Three and a half long years, and the battle's not even close to won, discrimination law notwithstanding. He can't remember the last time he did something unequivocally good, and it's been forever since Peter looked at him with the unalloyed approval that he shows now.
"We make a good team, little brother." Their relationship could be more orthodox, for certain, but then they wouldn't work together half as well.
<<<
Elegant eyebrows wing upward when a berry-red mouth is startled into a laugh at his assessment of the state of the Commerce Committee: half think the Internet is made of tubes, and the other half still believes in gold-backed currency.
"I'm not certain I'd share that view before the election results come in, Mr. Petrelli." But the glide of noticeably bare fingers through her long hair tells him that Cynthia Dukakis, granddaughter of the redoubtable Olympia Dukakis, not only agrees but finds him worthy to join the favored few who've gained her patronage - and if rumor serves, her bed as well.
Another time, he'd be pleased by the prospect. Right now, he wants news of his brother, certainty that the matter of their "agent provocateur" has been settled and Peter is unharmed. He has sufficient practice at this sort of multi-tasking that his gaze doesn't wander, but adrenaline laces his blood, setting him on edge.
Nathan smiles, leaning in the slightest bit - just as she expects. "Nor after, but with a select few."
"See that I'm among them. Nathan." Her lips curve around a purr, this time in express invitation, though one they both know he won't accept until after the election at least. As her fingertips slide over the thin wool on his left forearm, another, unseen hand curls around his palm, squeezes.
Peter.
Abruptly he cares even less about Cynthia Dukakis, her money, and her sexual appetites. Moving his hand to the small of his back, he flips it to grasp Peter's wrist and hold him there. "Consider it done," he tells her, ignoring the intimate warmth of Peter against his back.
"Nathan." She bows her head.
"Always a pleasure, Cynthia." He nods his own goodbye.
When she steps away, Peter leans up on tiptoe and whispers over his shoulder. "It's done."
Nathan tightens his fingers around Peter's invisible wrist, tries to draw him toward the stairs. He wants details, and to see his brother's face and make sure he's all right. Peter resists; Nathan can't do anything about it without causing a scene, and they've given the press enough delusional Petrellis, even if it wouldn't cost him the election.
Are you okay? What did you do to her? It turns his stomach, trying to use Peter's telepathy this way, but he needs to know and he can't ask. He doesn't even have a Bluetooth headset on he can pretend to be using.
"She forgot." Peter brushes his lips against Nathan's neck, and Nathan stiffens though no one can see.
What about you? Pete? Peter. But his brother is already moving past him, already out of voice range.
Walking the direction Peter seems to have gone, Nathan scans ahead of him, smiling and nodding his "excuse mes," "pleases," and "thank yous." He's distracted for a minute by an aide with a clipboard wanting to show him the numbers for the event. They're very good, but not spectacular. He'll have to hustle a few more Astrid Blooms if he wants to make the magic number.
When he glances up, Peter stands beside the dessert table already deep in conversation with Dr. Suresh, to whom Nathan has extended the invitation to network for research funds. Their gazes meet over Mohinder's shoulder and Peter winks.
>>>
"Get something for you?" Peter brushes past Nathan and drops something in his pocket on his way to the cash bar.
"No thanks, Pete. I'm good." Nathan waits until Peter's securely in line before he tucks his hand in his pocket. His fingers close around a small, slippery tube. He doesn't need to smell or taste his fingers to know it's lube, and he'd be pissed except they're only here because their mother insisted they needed to make an appearance.
They've made their appearance, now it's time for a little disappearance. Nathan smiles, then stalks Peter who's just paid for his drink. His brother raises the glass to his mouth, and Nathan wraps his hand around it and pulls it away. "Changed my mind." Gaze locked with Peter's, he takes a long sip off the single malt, which was for him anyway since Peter doesn't drink scotch. "Perfect for a walk around the pool."
Peter eyes darken at Nathan's attention. "Just let me get a drink and I'll meet you out there."
Years of practice make it seamless.
Nathan goes out to the pool, and when he spots Peter five minutes later, he retreats inside to find their mother. She's standing with a group of women who all eye him like grade-A steak when he kisses her cheek. "Have you seen Peter? He was going to meet me for a walk by the pool, but he's not there."
She gives him the long-suffering Angela Petrelli how would I know where your dreamy little brother is? eye roll. "He's probably off staring at the sunset somewhere." Patting him on the cheek, she sighs dramatically. "I suppose we should look for him."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll take care of it."
"Of course you will, Nathan." She pats him on the cheek again, and he restrains an eye roll of his own as he strides away "in search of Peter."
Nathan detours through the gardens, ostensibly checking to see if his brother got waylaid by fountains or flowers, before heading for the cabana where Peter waits. When he shuts the heavy wooden door, Peter is on him arms around his neck and licking deep kisses into his mouth before he can even latch it.
"Fuck me fuck me fuck me," he moans against Nathan's throat, while Nathan struggles with his belt. The back of his hand rubs against Peter's inseam and Peter arches and mews like a kitten.
"Jesus, Pete, take it easy. What'd you do, take Viagra or something?" Buckle clanking, his belt releases, and Nathan goes to work on the button of his trousers.
Peter watches with hungry eyes as his dress slacks fall. When shoves his boxers down and his cock bobs free, Peter smiles, sly. "Prepped already."
At that, Nathan growls, spins his brother around and rides him up against the wall. "Miss me?"
Cheek pressed to the wood, hands scrabbling to get his pants down, Peter groans. Then babbles, "God, oh god yes, Nathan. I hate when you're at school."
Careful, because torn trousers will be hard to explain, Nathan tugs Peter's down to his knees. Breathing hard against Peter's nape, Nathan thrusts between slick thighs. Forces himself not to bite while he finds the tube again and opens it.
It takes too long, too long for both of them, and they're panting by the time he gets lubed up. Peter's back burns him through his dress shirt. It was a mistake not to take it off, but he's not stopping now, can't stop, as he aligns his dick with his brother's ass and presses forward.
Peter shoves back, taking him all at once; Nathan shudders, grips Peter's hips so tight they'll bruise. "Move, Nathan, fuck me. Need you so much."
He wraps his hand around Peter's cock, works him fast and rough the way he likes it when they're together. "Got you, little brother, I'm right here."
There's nothing soft or easy about it. Just him slamming into Peter's ass, short sharp thrusts through tight, slick heat, and the hard length of Peter searing his palm. Peter reaches back to grab his hip, but his hand falls away, connects with the wall for support instead, while Nathan hammers into him.
A shudder works its way down Peter's spine. His head drops forward, snaps back on a bitten off moan. He tightens, and Nathan twists his wrist in time to catch Peter's release in the cup of his palm.
When he starts to pull out, to cover his cock in Peter's come and finish in his fist, Peter whines. "Please, please, need to feel you come in me. Please."
His balls tighten at the plea in Peter's tone. He wraps an arm around Peter's chest, holds him steady while he thrusts up into him. Hips rocking, ass flexing, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from being heard, Nathan gives Peter what he needs. Takes care of him, dick in ass and bodies flush, comes in a pounding rush of heat that leaves him shaking.
<<<
Nathan starts forward, but Peter shakes his head, inclines it toward Nathan's would-be patrons. Eyebrow up, Nathan purses his lips, but Peter's expression closes down, mulish, and he re-engages with Mohinder.
He's fine, he's telling Nathan. Everything's take care of, he doesn’t need anything and Nathan can do what he's here for.
Nathan's jaw clenches. Not just because Suresh smiles too much when he talks to Peter. Not just because they stand too close, and Suresh touches Peter's hands and arms while he talks. They're just friends, Peter says, close because of Sylar, and Nathan gets that. Peter's always needed people to talk to. It's only that up til now, Nathan has been the one.
But that's not why his shoulders tense as he turns around. Knowledge is power, and Peter's withholding or at least delaying Nathan's acquisition of facts potentially critical in planning for the future. He grits his teeth at the necessity of waiting, but he can't march over there and drag Peter off like an angry parent. The event is winding down, and the information will have to wait.
A sharp-faced middle-aged woman draped in an obscenely expensive sable fur - he knows, because he bought one for his mother two years ago - sets a hand on his arm. "Mr. Petrelli, I won't take up much of your time, but I need to tell you, it's such a pleasure to support a candidate who understands the relevance of the arts to today's problems. My husband and I feel very strongly about this, don't we, hon?"
The utterly incongruous Long Island accent juxtaposed with the love of the arts, the sable and the word "hon" spin Nathan's head just a little. It takes all kinds, but not usually in one person. He paints on a charming smile, eyelashes dipping the way his publicist says makes him look less threatening, and draws breath to speak when his cell phone rings. He lets out the breath and tilts his head apologetically. "I'm afraid I'll have to take that. Private number."
"Of course, we have kids of our own. So we understand, don't we, dear?" There's a mumbled "yes dear" from her husband who looks like he'd rather be sucking down beers in a sports bar anywhere than here, except for the smile when she meets his gaze. It really does take all kinds.
"Good night, Mr. and Mrs…?"
"Pearlman," the woman supplies. "Harvey and Ada."
"Schedule a call with my staff, Mrs. Pearlman. I'd be delighted to talk with you again on this subject."
She beams, he shakes his head quietly, and they move off. Nathan checks the display and recognizes Linderman's number. He's in no mood, but a deal's a deal and this one hasn't been completed. He picks it up before it can click over to voicemail. "Nathan speaking."
"Ah, Mr. Petrelli, how good of you to answer. I trust the fundraiser is going well?"
Nathan turns away, walks toward the sculpture court. "As well as you expected. We're a little short of the goal, but-"
You'll get there, have no fear. I understand congratulations are in order, however.
His blood turns to ice. Is there nothing Linderman doesn't know? "For?" The least he can do is play dumb and make Linderman spell it out.
"Finding and neutralizing a considerable threat to our plans, of course. Don't be coy, Mr. Petrelli, it doesn't suit you."
I'm not like you, Nathan wants to protest, but the memory of Peter's expression on the balcony calls the lie. "I take it I passed your test, then."
"That depends on what you imagine the 'test' to have been."
Nathan doesn't answer right away. Instead, he strolls, passing into the vestibule until he finds himself standing beside the bust of Janus. "Those who would survive the future must learn from the past," he reads from the dedication, mostly because he imagines it will piss off Linderman.
"That, it is true, is the ultimate test. However, not the one I had in mind today."
Palm going flat over the dedicatory plaque, Nathan's lip curls into a snarl. "You wanted to know if I had what it took to pull the trigger."
"Oh, no, Nathan. I've known that about you since the beginning. The test, was whether you had what it took not to."
A growl rises in the back of Nathan's throat. "Mr. Linderman."
"Good night, Nathan. Enjoy your stay at The Peninsula. It is quite my favorite New York hotel. Oh, and do say hello to Peter for me."
Linderman disconnects. Nathan tightens his fist around the phone. If he could break it with his bare hand, he would, and it's only decorum that keeps him from throwing it at the goddamned statue.
He needs to talk to Peter. Now. But when Nathan stalks back into the galleries, his brother is already gone.
<<<
"…hsst…this morning, Dole's Hawaiian plant stopped production for four hours while federal agents searched for a bomb called in. No word on whether they found anything. Homeland Security is keeping this one tightly under wraps.
"On the other side of the country sss-stickt-hsst, the Human League, a vocal anti meta-human organization, marched through the gridded streets of Skokie, Illinois, following the path laid down by the National Socialist Party of America nearly forty years ago. A group of children of meta-human parents threw rocks at the demonstrators, but the National Guard was able to maintain order.
"In the nation's Capitol, technicians scramble to deal with blown transformers from what they're calling a magnetokinetic ksst terrorist attack. The White House stickt-sst Press Secretary says there will be a statement from President Petrelli in the morning…"
In the Oval Office lit only by Nathan's reading lamp, it is dark. The White House remains unaffected by the rolling blackouts, and he could use the overheads, but Nathan's eyes still burn from the unexpected flash two days ago and lamplight is softer. He is reading yet another account of police brutality against meta-humans, and on the radio in the background, Tad Bryant reports on the state of meta-human affairs.
Eyes tearing, he sets the report atop the stack and reaches for the next. He's tired, so tired, but the empty apartment reminds him of everything he's lost. Without thinking, he reaches for the phone. It's been a year, but he still remembers the number.
"Petrelli residence, how may I help you?" The voice is rich, cultured, and even though five years have passed, the accent hasn't faded.
Nathan sighs. He shouldn't have expected differently; after all, Peter and Mohinder moving in together precipitated the break in the first place. Still, he'd hoped. "Hello, Mohinder. This is Nathan. I'd like to speak with Peter."
Mohinder covers the phone; Nathan hears the rustle-echo of his fingers against the receiver and the murmur of voices he can't make out. "Peter's not available."
"I can hear him. Just put him on-" Nathan scrubs a hand over his face. "Look, I'm tired and it's been a long year. I'm not interested in blame or guilt or screaming. I'd just like to speak with my brother."
More murmuring, then Mohinder returns. "I suggest you try emailing him, or give me some time to work on him. For what it's worth, Nathan, I am truly sorry. I will try."
"Thank you." Nathan manages to be polite, though he wants to slam the phone down. "Please tell him…" Tell him what, Nathan? That you're sorry? But are you really? "I…I'd really like to speak to him."
He hangs up the phone, and stares at the photograph on his desk. Of him and Peter, right after he won the election. Peter's wrapped around him in one of his ridiculous, far too intimate hugs, but he's hugging back, smiling broadly over Peter's shoulder.
"I miss you, Pete."
>>>
In his deluxe suite at The Peninsula, Nathan pours himself a glass of the Brunello di Montalcino he's wanted since dinner. There's no one to see him look like a vampire. No shirt to stain if he spills.
Sinking in to the oversized sand-colored leather armchair, Nathan holds up the goblet, swirls the crystal in his hand. Heavy with earth and minerals, the wine pulls from the top ring in legs that look like blood. Blood from a slice across his brother's forehead from which Nathan couldn't protect him.
But this new Peter, of edges and angles and stubborn dark eyes who sees the world without the softening shield of bangs doesn't seem to need Nathan's protection. Recalling his censure and gentle tones, and far too many nights of Peter's mouth around his dick, Nathan thinks maybe what Peter needs protection from is Nathan.
He lifts the glass of blood red wine to his lips, a hand curls around his. He freezes. "Pete?" His voice sounds ridiculously loud in the quiet room, but the blood pounding in his ears is louder.
His brother 'materializes', though that isn't the right word, since he's been here all along, and -- calm down, Nathan-- straddles his lap. Bare-assed naked, Peter tugs the glass toward him, sips, then bends to press their mouths together.
At first, he resists, but Peter doesn't back off, even parts his lips to drip wine onto Nathan's so he'll have to open or drool red. When he does, Peter surges forward, pressing him back against the chair, licking deep and sharing the wine between them. Hand coming up into Peter's hair, Nathan drinks, then kisses back harder, more urgent.
It's Peter who breaks the kiss, reaching for the goblet again. "You're not a monster."
He blinks. They're not talking about this. "Linderman called."
"I know."
Nathan takes the wine from Peter, drinks a long swallow, while caressing the length of Peter's spine. "I hate when you do that."
Peter rocks forward, rubbing his cock through the hole in Nathan's boxers. "Maybe it's me who's the monster. Reading minds, stealing memories, blowing up Manhattan."
He sets the glass down, pushes Peter off his lap. "Don't be stupid, Pete. His entire point was to see if I knew when to stop."
When he stands to turn away, his brother hovers in front of him, grasps the waistband of his boxers, and pulls them off as he settles to his knees. "Because someone would have to stop me, and you're the only one who can."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Nathan growls, but doesn't shove Peter away.
Peter nuzzles his cock, and even though Nathan would rather spank him than fuck him at the moment, it leaves a shiny trail across his lips and cheek. "I liked it, Nate, taking her memories away. I like all of it."
For the first time since Sylar, and Linderman, Peter's eyes go soft and damp, and Nathan's hand curves around his head by instinct. Peter leans his forehead against Nathan's hipbone. "He's afraid I'll turn out like Sylar, and he's right."
He tilts Peter's head up, thumbs over his bottom lip. "That's not going to happen. You're nothing like Sylar."
His brother swipes his tongue along Nathan's thumb, sucks soft against the heel of his hand. "Because I have you."
Peter's sweetness is too much. Nathan pulls away, sits again. Then he lifts the wine and forces himself to take another swallow past the tightness in his throat. "I don't know how you can say that, Pete." I would've killed her.
"Only because you thought there was no other choice." Peter shows not even the slightest hint of repentance for reading his thoughts, nor even a second's hesitation before rising off the floor to straddle Nathan's lap again.
"But there was, Pete, I just couldn't do it myself."
At that, his brother grins his lopsided little kid grin. "Right. Which is why it's a good thing you have me."
Careful not to touch Peter, Nathan rests his forearm on the armrest and holds the glass away from his brother with the other hand. He rolls his eyes and tries not to think about Peter being gone when he got off the phone with Linderman, about where he might've gone. "Right."
Curling his hand around Nathan's cock, Peter jerks him slow, firm, exactly how he likes it. "Don't be like that." Peter leans forward, drops a kiss on Nathan's throat. "Please. I'm here now."
When Nathan sets the glass down, Peter grabs his hand, drags it over the curve of his ass into the crack. His dick throbs in his brother's hand, and his breath catches when a probing finger finds his hole slick and open.
He sinks in to the first knuckle easily; Peter moans across his ear. "Need you, Nathan, please. Fuck me."
It's not a promise, Peter can't give him one any more than he can protect him from Sylar. But he can do this.
He slips another finger in beside the first, twists them up and in, until Peter hiccoughs, whines. "Nathan, Nathan, need you so much, always need you."
His chest seizes, then loosens again when Peter curls his forefinger behind the head of his cock and locks their gazes together. Nathan nods, and Peter smiles. Raises himself off Nathan's fingers and positions his wide open hole over Nathan's dick.
They've been fucking since Peter turned seventeen, but Nathan can probably count the number of times they've done it like this, Peter over his lap and facing him. Normally, he'd lift Peter to the ground, turn him face down over a couch, get him on his knees on the bed. It's not that Nathan can't be gentle, either, they just always seem to end up that way - in a hurry, desperately in need, Peter wanting his ass reamed and Nathan needing to do it.
But Nathan's always liked being able to see Peter's face when he works his dick up into him. He loves the moment when he breaches the first ring of muscle and the intense concentration and bitten lip gives way to an 'o' of surprise, then a soft sigh of pleasure.
It's different tonight. Not in some weird touchy-feely Peter sort of way, but Peter looks different above him. Without the bangs, Peter's eyes are bared to Nathan when he slides home into him. And along with the curved lips and quiet sigh, there's a blink, lust-dark eyes squeezing shut then opening and refocusing, that Nathan's never seen before.
Together, they spear Peter again and again, Nathan pulling him down and arching up, Peter using their shared gift of flight to lift up then releasing it and letting gravity carry him down. It's slow, sweaty, and just before he spills, Nathan whispers, "Need you, too." Peter moans and follows him, come striping over Nathan's hand and both of their abdomens.
For a few minutes, neither moves and there's nothing to say. Then the sheen of sweat draws Nathan's attention to the exertion-reddened scar on Peter's brow. He lifts his come-sticky hand and thumbs over it.
"What?"
Always awkward after the fact, Nathan shrugs. "You've changed. I thought I wanted that, but I'm not sure I like it."
Peter nods. "Better or worse, my eyes are open now." He nuzzles into Nathan's hand, and Nathan cups the back of his head, kisses him without closing his eyes.
"The world's different than it was six and a half months ago."
Nathan's a lawyer, he sees the past and builds from precedent. Peter's a visionary, he sees the future and works toward it. During war-time, Nathan recalls, the Romans left the gates to Janus's temple open so he could intervene. Their hind and foresight may not be as perfect as the god's, but Peter already saved the cheerleader, and now with both their eyes wide open, together maybe they can save the world.
Peter wraps his arms around Nathan's neck. Nathan tightens his around Peter's waist. Together they are Janus-faced.
Additional Notes: Prompt: Nathan both loves and hates Peter's scar.
The scene with Nathan and Peter at Nathan's campaign headquarters comes from 1.01 "Genesis"; dialogue borrowed, with extreme gratitude from the transcript archive at Shadow Anthology http://www.kilohoku.com/heroes.html. Likewise, the scene in Nathan's office comes from 1.18 "Parasite" same source.
The title comes from Sarah McLachlan's haunting, "Do What You Have to Do," particularly:
What ravages of spirit
conjured this temptuous rage
created you a monster
broken by the rules of love
and fate has lead you through it
you do what you have to do
and fate has led you through it
you do what you have to do ...
All hail linaerys for the challenge, patience, and understanding, not to mention organizational skills that defy logic. way2busymom provided handholding SO far above and beyond the call of duty and a wonderful beta besides. Thanks, B, this fic wouldn't have made it without you. All mistakes, and everything you didn't like? Mine.
Characters/Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating/Warnings: NC17, m/m incest
Word Count: 8492
Spoilers: speculation off previews for 1.19 and from the graphic novels.
Disclaimer: So very not mine.
Notes: Written for limmenel in the flyingpetrellis Spring Hiatus ficathon. It's ridiculously late, and I apologize. Life kicked me until I bled last month and I'm just, maybe, starting to catch up. It's not as tightly related to the prompt (at the end) as I originally intended, but I tried to hit what I thought you were looking for. Aya, hon, I hope you like it.
Summary: A Petrelli for Congress fundraiser at the Metropolitan Museum of Art becomes a proving ground for Nathan. And Nathan learns a few valuable lessons about his brother and himself.
and fate has led you through it
by technosage
It's October. In less than a month, the city may lie in ruins, but tonight Manhattan's elite rubs formally-attired elbows with marble Caesars and Senators in the Met's new galleries that Nathan knows will never be finished. He moves among them courting votes and disbursing political good will as though it matters. Over near the entrance to the sculpture atrium still under construction, his brother runs a thoughtful finger over the dedication plaque for a bust of the Roman god of gates and doorways, beginnings and endings. Janus looks into both the past and the future, and beneath his stern visage, Peter's expression slides into dreamy inattention.
It's just like Peter to escape from the exigencies of the present to the soft safety of daydreams. As Mr. Linderman no doubt intended by the donation, the dual-faced god reminds Nathan that he does not possess that luxury. Even more so now than when he'd been made privy to the plan, Nathan finds it heavy-handed, not to mention bitterly ironic.
Linderman, however, thinks it fitting. He'd listened to Nathan's protests and waved them aside with a jocular, "I'm sure you can work it into your speech, Nathan, and since I will be going to great lengths to establish you as both prescient and capable of learning from past mistakes, it will do rather nicely."
So, despite his association with lies and liars, Janus oversees the thousand dollar per plate fundraiser for Petrelli for Congress. And Nathan, as suggested, did manage to work both the identity of the god and his less savory connotations into his before dinner speech.
Politicians are often accused of being Janus-faced, and it's true, some are. There are people on the Hill who will tell you they're voting 'yes' on your bill and turn right around and tell the next guy they're voting 'no' on that same bill. But there are others in Congress who are Janus-faced in another, more classical sense, of seeing the past and future with equal clarity. When you elect me, I promise to avoid the former and do my best to learn from the past to see a brighter future.
Now, he eschews the Brunello he'd prefer - Never drink red at a political outing, Nathan. You'll look like a vampire, and with your luck, you'll spill, his mother's nasal voice reminds, the legacy of years of instruction - in favor of colorless Sambuca that will cleanse his palate and tastes vile enough he'll have to drink it slow. He sips, smiles when ancient Astrid Bloom catches his grimace and her wrinkles part enough he can see her eyes are cornflower blue. "It has quite a bite, doesn't it?"
"It's too sweet. I prefer Ouzo for anisette flavor, but if you're going to have a Roman theme, I suppose you must." She speaks with a tartness born of temperament rather than age. No wonder she gets along well with his mother.
"Mrs. Bloom." Peter's familiar voice, filled with genuine warmth obviates the necessity of response. The next moment, his brother lifts the woman's hand to his mouth, somehow ignoring the way the loose skin rolls back down her arm like an ill-fitting sleeve. "It's nice to see you. You won't mind, will you, if I borrow my brother for just a moment?"
She tolerates the gesture, even hints at a smile while snatching her hand away to study Peter. "Well. That scar hasn't done much for your looks, boy, but at least you've cut those dreadful bangs."
Before Nathan can defend him, Peter grins that crooked, irresistible child's grin. "It's all part of my secret plan to see Nathan take a seat in Congress. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse us?"
"Of course, of course." She bats Peter with her sequined black bag that looks, like its owner, as though it had seen its best days in the 40s. Before she turns away, she gives Nathan what would be a hard stare if he could see her eyes amidst drooping lids, bags and crow's feet. "I've never liked you, Nathan Petrelli, but the incumbent's a fool and this nation can't suffer any more of them. See you don't make me regret my vote."
Nathan inclines his head, smiles his politician smile. "I have every confidence you'll be pleased with your decision."
The ancient Mrs. Bloom harrumphs, Peter bites his lip, no doubt to keep from laughing, and Nathan pictures the Oval Office to keep from scowling at them both.
When the harridan returns to her dinner companions, Peter's smile slips. He reverts from the Petrelli elegance their mother browbeat into him for occasions like this to the hands-in-pockets, not-quite-meeting-your-eye slouch Nathan knows far better. "We need to talk."
They've had few opportunities since Sylar, Mohinder, and Claire, but now is not the time. "Can't it wait, Pete? Astrid Bloom's isn't the only vote I need to win tonight."
"You'll win the election." The thin red scar paralleling Peter's brow bears witness, accuses.
Great men are always misunderstood, Mr. Petrelli. But you must choose between humanity's adoration and its continuation. Though he dislikes how comfortably Linderman seems to have settled in beside his mother to direct his actions, Nathan squares his shoulders at the thought; Peter's censure is nothing new.
"It won't take long." Peter's chin levels, and it's so odd to look him in both eyes, Nathan blinks. "Nathan, it's important."
Despite the little-brother-in-trouble stance, Peter's not pleading or whining. Tongue pressed tight to his bottom teeth, Nathan closes his eyes, sighs. "All right, Pete, but not here. Meet me in the Etruscan gallery in ten minutes. Don't be seen."
With a nod, Peter moves off, merging into the crowd. Nathan tracks him to the men's bathroom. As he opens the door, Peter catches Nathan's eye, gives a cheeky wink then starts to shimmer.
When the door opens again thirty seconds later, no one comes out, and no one but Nathan notices.
<<<
Nathan looks up from the call to see Peter on his way into Nathan's campaign headquarters. His jaw tightens. He's doing this for Heidi and for his father; he'll give Linderman up to the FBI, but he wants this election. Needs it. But Peter will not understand, any of it.
"Mr. Linderman, I'm gonna have to call you back in five minutes, okay? Thank you."
As Peter sights him and rushes over, eyes wide and eager like a twelve year-old or a golden retriever with a stick, Nathan hangs up the phone. "I'm late. I've got a fundraiser and a drinks meeting."
Not deterred, Peter skips hello and launches straight into his most recent delusion. "It happened two more times. Sometimes I'm falling. Sometimes I'm flying. You're in them."
Jesus, Pete. Nathan doesn't make eye contact. It will only encourage him. Instead he grabs his briefcase and pushes around his brother to head for the door. "I don't have time for this now." He will never have time for this.
Peter bounds along after him, demanding his attention. "They're not just dreams, Nathan."
He treats Peter like he would any intern who didn't get the message he wasn't interested in their personal crusade. Thrusting his briefcase at him, he says, "Hold this," and Peter takes it without complaint.
"I thought they'd go away, but they're not."
Try ignoring them. But then again, it's not working with his brother. Suppressing an impatient sigh, he hands his speechwriter his notes for the fundraiser. "Tim, I need this by six, please."
Tim nods. Nathan doesn't respond, just slips on his jacket and keeps walking. Like any good New Yorker, Peter continues, as though the subway doors have closed and they are on the move in relative quiet again. "This morning, when I got out of bed, my foot hovered before it hit the ground."
Joanne, or Jocelyn, or Josie - he can't remember, and how would he, with his little brother trailing him in a cloud of crazy - hands him a clipboard with the recent polling numbers.
"Hovered for a split second." Shut up, Peter, Nathan wills, but to no effect. "Like I was - like I was floating. I'm telling you, Nathan, I think I can fly."
"These all undecideds?" he asks J-whomever, smiling with all the Petrelli charm he can muster.
She gives him a look he can't interpret. It's either sympathy or hurry up, go. I gotta leak this to the press. "Mm-hmm."
Nathan hands her back the clipboard already composing his rebuttal. My brother has a serious problem, ladies and gentleman of the press. This is no laughing matter. He suffers from manic depression and occasional dangerous delusions. He is not alone. Some X% of the population shares his malady. He'll have to check to see if either have been proven hereditary, since their father suffered from the same, and get Tim to look up the numbers.
When they're out of earshot again, Nathan glances sharply at Peter. "Tell you what. You think you can fly, why don't you jump off the Brooklyn Bridge? See what happens."
Peter's mouth twists. "Maybe I ought to start with something a little lower first. It's like learning to walk."
This, finally, is too much. He's actually starting to worry. "You're serious?"
They exit his campaign headquarters together, and his brother looks at him, in his eyes the familiar mixture of challenge and need that has been there since Peter turned fourteen. "Oh, I'm serious."
It's not that Nathan doesn't care, it's just he can't help wondering, why now? Peter almost seems to have a radar for the worst possible moment to flake out on him. He puts an arm around Peter's shoulders, mixes brotherly love with paternal authority in his voice. "You need to snap out of it, Peter. See a doctor. Get some drugs. But do not pull a Roger Clinton on me, man. I'm eight points down in the polls."
Hurt fills Peter's eyes, and Nathan feels like he kicked a puppy, but realities are realities. Peter needs to understand that. "This isn't about you, all right? Something's happening to me, and I have this feeling you're the only one who's gonna understand it."
The car careens toward the median. He is thrown hundreds of feet. "Why the hell would I understand that you think you can fly?" It threw him. He didn't fly.
His cell rings, and he almost hopes it is Linderman, because Peter will storm off in a huff.
Peter's face scrunches like he thinks Nathan's an idiot. "Because you're my brother."
It's not Linderman. It's their mother. "Mom, I can't talk-What?" Of course, she's been arrested. He glares accusingly at the phone, Peter, anyone within glaring radius. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
>>>
The balcony overlooking the sculpture court houses the world-famous Etruscan chariot, but the half-light of the empty space obscures its outlines, and those of his brother sitting beside it. Peter rises to his feet, but otherwise makes no move toward Nathan, and instead Nathan goes to him.
Shadows bleach the color from Peter's face, rendering his mouth a dark gash in a pale oval instead of a too-pink temptation to familiar sins. The same shadows hide his scar, too, and aside from the shorn bangs, he looks more like the man in Isaac's paintings than the overeager puppy of Nathan's recall.
"What's this about, Pete, and make it-"
"There's a woman downstairs who knows everything."
Peter doesn't sound like Peter. He sounds like the man in the painting. All sharp edges and angles, ominous, like the harbinger in the first act of a noir thriller. It lacks the pay attention to me energy of his usual presentation, and aside from the cryptic drama of it, Nathan appreciates the directness. "Define everything."
"Flying. Fucking. Fraud." Peter counts them off on his thumb and first two fingers, then shrugs, hands opening. "Everything."
He doesn't want to know which fucking Peter's talking about, them or the blondes he can't pretend are either Peter or Heidi. It doesn't matter. Either will cost him the election, and losing the election will cost them all their lives.
Assuming Linderman's not playing a deeper game, which is a ridiculous assumption and a dangerous one. Fine. "Insurance. For good behavior."
Peter shakes his head. "I don't think so."
"She approached you?"
"No."
"Then how do you-"
Peter taps a finger to his temple, deliberately grazing that damned scar like he's rubbing it in Nathan's face, what they are, what they can do.
Question. Answer. Question. Answer. All it needs is for Peter to salute across the scar and it'll be a goddamned military briefing. "Getting tired of twenty questions, Pete. Just tell me what she wants."
Mouth twisting, Peter rolls his shoulders like he's thinking about walking away. He flips his tongue in his mouth a minute longer, then finally stops sulking and answers. "To cause trouble. Lots of it. She's waiting for the optimal time to expose you."
Of course. "Out with it. How much does she want?"
Peter's lips thin again. "Jesus, Nathan. Don't you think--"
He hasn't got the patience for this, not today. He's got a walking time bomb downstairs, and he needs to defuse it. Now. "Everyone has a price. You read her mind. What's hers?"
"That's just it, Nathan. She doesn't have one."
Then it's a test. From Linderman, to see if he can do what has to be done. Nathan would bet the cost of one ancient bust of Janus on it. He'd known it would come to this eventually, but he'd been hoping eventually would come after he saved the damned world.
He's not ready for this. Doesn't want to be Linderman.
>>>
"…Nathan Petrelli, the other half of the brother-duo the press has dubbed 'The Flying Petrellis' remains sequestered in his Long Island home with his wife, Heidi, and their two sons, Simon and Monty, and is unavailable for comment.
"Seven months ago, Nathan and Heidi Petrelli survived a freak car crash that left Heidi paralyzed from the waist down. Miraculously, Nathan walked away from the accident with barely a scratch after being thrown several hundred feet from the vehicle - apparently before it hit the median.
"At the time, forensic specialists chalked Nathan's apparent pre-crash departure from the vehicle to up peculiarities in the data. I think we can now be reasonably certain that Nathan flew that awful night. Which leaves this reporter asking: what reason could Nathan have possibly had not to carry Heidi with him?"
Sharing the screen with smartly dressed Tad Bryant, there's a slideshow of images.
Peter reaching for Nathan's hand in front of the giraffe enclosure at the Zoo. Peter was ten, and he was seventeen. Their father had an incident, and his mother asked him to take Peter somewhere, anywhere, to keep it from him.
Peter's arms around Nathan's neck, their lips brushing through Peter's tears. Peter was twelve, he was nineteen and leaving to go back to college after Christmas break.
Nathan setting his dress cap on Peter's head, knuckles brushing his cheek. He was twenty-four, home from a tour of duty. Peter was seventeen and had been trying to convince Nathan to fuck him for two years already.
Nathan hugging Peter and whispering into his ear at Peter's graduation from college. Nathan was twenty-nine, Peter twenty two, and in that instance, the audio would've borne out the implication. He was asking Peter if he'd like to celebrate ass up or on his knees when some random cousin snapped the photo.
A close-up of male fingers tangled in Peter's hair.
Nathan's gut tightens as, Tad telestrates, circling a ring on the grainy telephoto image. Another picture slides in of Heidi, sitting in her wheelchair, Nathan's hand on her shoulder in support. Tad circles his wedding ring, and the two pictures are brought together.
It's clearly the same ring. Clearly Nathan's hand.
"Here to discuss that issue is psychologist Dr. Elsa Duran, specialist on adult survivors of rape and incestuous abuse. Dr. Elsa, I think we've all heard the allegations that Nathan and his brother Peter are involved in a bizarre, and sickening, sexual relationship. This picture would seem to confirm that. But pictures can be doctored. Can you shed some light on the subject?"
Tad flashes a Colgate smile complete with gleam! at the camera, then passes the microphone to Dr. Elsa, who looks more like the heroine of a Bond film than an abnormal psych shrink.
"Hello, Tad, yes, I've heard the allegations. But I'd like to stress, before we begin, that most incestuous relationships are the products of childhood abuse. While certainly, we as a nation have the right not to vote for Nathan Petrelli because of his unnatural feelings toward his brother, he is a victim, too, and deserves our compassion."
Tad laughs, and Nathan throws the remote at the screen just in time to see the picture change to Peter, flying. The image has clearly been manipulated to show him in green panties and tights, like Robin. "Peter Petrelli apparently suffers from delusions…"
<<<
The press would have a field day with all of it. Peter would ignore the sex scandal, swan around showing off his skills. All it would take would be one redneck homophobe with a hunting rifle for Peter to be as extinct as the dodo. And that, only if the government scientists didn't tag and bag first. If Sylar proved anything, it was that Peter could die.
He may not be ready to be Linderman, but he's even less ready to let his brother become a "specimen." "What's she wearing, Pete?"
Brows furrowing, Peter cocks his head. "What?"
"What's she wearing?" He'll call his guards to detain her and he'll figure out where to go from there after the fundraiser.
"Nathan. I--"
"You wanna be a hero? Tell me what she's wearing." Peter shakes his head, slow, and his disgust radiates so strongly it burns. Fine. His brother can hate him, but he's out of choices. "Describe-"
"I'll take care of it."
"You'll take - Do you even know what you're saying?" Nathan rolls his eyes. His hand comes up to massage his temples. "Of course you do. Pete, this isn't some kind of a joke. It's not some heroic quest. It's just something that has to be done."
For once, Peter's listening, not interrupting. He stands as cold and still as the statues in the court below. When Nathan's finished, Peter meets his gaze, eyes dark and chin level. "I can do this. Trust me."
<<<
Nathan grinds his teeth in irritation as the door shuts behind Agents Quesada and Alonzo. When he gets up and turns around to return to his desk, Peter is there, and quite obviously from his repose, has been there for some time. It doesn't improve his mood that his brother's new invisibility gig has been turned to spying on him.
"How long have you been working with the FBI?" Peter asks, and there's hurt, an accusation there: Why didn't you tell me?
This amateur spy and hero bullshit is exactly the reason. Now that he knows, Nathan needs him to understand he can't screw this up. "Since Heidi's accident. I'm gonna take Linderman down for a long time, Peter."
Peter makes no complaint, and it's so unlike him that when he stands, Nathan falls silent.
"I thought I could be a hero and save the world, instead I just killed-" His brother sobs, a choked sound Nathan hasn't heard since their father's funeral when Peter realized he'd never get a chance to make it right and Nathan held him through it.
Peter turns his head and there's blood on his cheek. Nathan's stomach drops into his wingtips. He wants to grab Peter, shake him, or maybe never let him go. Instead, Nathan constrains himself to the lawyer's tool, to words. "What's that? That's not your blood is it?"
"No. Simone… Isaac shot her. She's dead. She's dead." Pain in every line of his body, Peter pleads with his eyes,Make it stop, Nathan, please make it stop.
Images of Peter in prison-orange, bent over yellowed sinks and taking it, of camera flashes and microphones thrust in his face, of a million other nightmares crowd his mind. He shoves them back. Facts first. "Did you call the police?"
"No."
Good. He can fix this. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna make an anonymous phone call. Okay? You'll have had absolutely nothing to do with this."
His brother blinks damp eyes. "But I did. She's dead because of me. I don't - I don't know what to do."
"That's just it. You don't do anything." Jesus, Pete, please. "Do you understand? This is not the time for you to get noble. Okay? Just stay with me."
"I can't." Shoulders hunched, Peter turns away. "I can't. As long as I'm alive, everyone around me is in danger."
>>>
Trust him, Peter asks, and the entire conversation rearranges itself in his mind, like one of Monty's Transformers or the satirical sonnets Heidi wrote for him their first year in law school, the last two lines carving wicked humor into insight. He steps forward, clasps Peter's shoulder like he always does when Peter needs reassurance. "You don't have to this, Pete. There's nothing to prove, nothing to make up for. Just let me take care of it, buddy, okay?"
"I can do this, Nathan." Peter's hand comes up inside his arm, knocks it away to trace his scar in a sharp movement. "In here, I've probably got five different ways to take care of this without killing her. I didn't come to ask your permission. I came to tell you, just in case something went wrong."
Peter steps back, edging into shadow. Meaning shifts again, a black and white kaleidoscope: his brother becomes the man in Isaac's painting. Something in Nathan shifts, too. His jaw relaxes, but his fingers clench tighter. "I can't afford for this to get out." He studies this new Peter, wishing he could take a more accurate reading. "You're sure?"
"Yes." One word, a single nod, but Peter's bitterness floods Nathan's mouth. "I have enough lives on my conscience. I won't let you add another."
"I didn't ask for this, Pete." It's a lie, and they both know it. His entire life has been a quest for power, and he's always known it carried responsibilities, though not these. "But I can fly, you can do things I don't even have names for, and the men who know the future think it's up to us to save it. Maybe it's not fair or right." He shrugs the tension out of his shoulders. Squares them. "I can't risk you or Claire to spare some stranger who thinks she's going save the world from incestuous mutant freaks."
Peter's head dips and shadow-bangs hide his eyes. When he looks up again, his lips quirk; Nathan doesn't recognize the expression. "But I can," he says quietly, touches Nathan's shoulder and fades away.
>>>
"…in the Rose Garden at the White House, President Nathan Petrelli, flanked by his brother Peter and his recently revealed daughter Claire, prepares to sign the hotly contested Genetic Protection Act. The most notable provision, introduced by the president himself makes it illegal to discriminate against "meta-humans" in the dispensation of public services such as police protection.
"While the GPA falls short of the sweeping freedoms lobbied for by the World Meta-Human Protection Organization, it's a major step forward, or backward, depending on whose side your on.
"With me today to discuss the issue are WMHPO founder, geneticist Dr. Mohinder Suresh and outspoken anti-meta-human activist Daniel Kincaid…"
*
Peter's hand rests on his right shoulder, an innocent gesture of support, though his fingers curl intimately against the hidden mark Peter left the previous night during their celebratory fuck. Hair newly blonde again, curling over her shoulders and around her face like when he first met her, Claire stands off to his left. It's the first time since the assassination Peter's appearing with him in public, the first time ever for Claire, and it feels better than he could've imagined.
He's never been more proud of either of them, especially Peter, who has not only mastered his abilities, but begun teaching other meta-humans how to control theirs. Not even Kincaid's scowl and the certainty that this is only a temporary cease-fire in their already three year long war can dim Nathan's triumph or his pleasure at having Peter at his side, where he belongs.
Dipping the fountain pen into the ink provided, Nathan smiles and cameras flash recording this moment for posterity. "Fifty years ago, a man could refuse another man food or lodging based on the color of his skin. A woman could be made to give up her seat on the bus, or a child to drink from a specially designated water fountain.
"But then brave people like Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. stood up to and for the American people and demanded we do what is right: treat all human beings equal in the eyes of law, regardless of the color of their skin.
"Today, we take another step on a path Rosa Parks and the good Reverend would approve, and decree that no government, federal, state, or local may discriminate against human beings on the basis of their genetic composition or any mental or physical manifestations thereof."
Nathan signs the bill with a flourish, lifts it to show to Peter and Claire. His daughter smiles so bright she puts the flashbulbs to shame. "Good job, dad," she whispers when she throws her arms around his neck.
Unstaged, the quick movement from a virtual unknown upsets Secret Service guardsmen still smarting from the assassination that gave him this job and none-too-sanguine about the new, unpredictable threats posed by meta-humans unhappy with Nathan exposing their existence. One grips Claire's arm, but before Nathan can reassure him, Peter's suggesting he remove his hand from the President's daughter. He lets go without a word.
More confident than a nineteen year-old has any right to be, Claire grins at the Serviceman, then moves off to go get her younger half-brothers from Heidi right on cue. Peter gives him a quiet smile. "This is the right thing, Nathan. It's a good thing."
Three and a half long years, and the battle's not even close to won, discrimination law notwithstanding. He can't remember the last time he did something unequivocally good, and it's been forever since Peter looked at him with the unalloyed approval that he shows now.
"We make a good team, little brother." Their relationship could be more orthodox, for certain, but then they wouldn't work together half as well.
<<<
Elegant eyebrows wing upward when a berry-red mouth is startled into a laugh at his assessment of the state of the Commerce Committee: half think the Internet is made of tubes, and the other half still believes in gold-backed currency.
"I'm not certain I'd share that view before the election results come in, Mr. Petrelli." But the glide of noticeably bare fingers through her long hair tells him that Cynthia Dukakis, granddaughter of the redoubtable Olympia Dukakis, not only agrees but finds him worthy to join the favored few who've gained her patronage - and if rumor serves, her bed as well.
Another time, he'd be pleased by the prospect. Right now, he wants news of his brother, certainty that the matter of their "agent provocateur" has been settled and Peter is unharmed. He has sufficient practice at this sort of multi-tasking that his gaze doesn't wander, but adrenaline laces his blood, setting him on edge.
Nathan smiles, leaning in the slightest bit - just as she expects. "Nor after, but with a select few."
"See that I'm among them. Nathan." Her lips curve around a purr, this time in express invitation, though one they both know he won't accept until after the election at least. As her fingertips slide over the thin wool on his left forearm, another, unseen hand curls around his palm, squeezes.
Peter.
Abruptly he cares even less about Cynthia Dukakis, her money, and her sexual appetites. Moving his hand to the small of his back, he flips it to grasp Peter's wrist and hold him there. "Consider it done," he tells her, ignoring the intimate warmth of Peter against his back.
"Nathan." She bows her head.
"Always a pleasure, Cynthia." He nods his own goodbye.
When she steps away, Peter leans up on tiptoe and whispers over his shoulder. "It's done."
Nathan tightens his fingers around Peter's invisible wrist, tries to draw him toward the stairs. He wants details, and to see his brother's face and make sure he's all right. Peter resists; Nathan can't do anything about it without causing a scene, and they've given the press enough delusional Petrellis, even if it wouldn't cost him the election.
Are you okay? What did you do to her? It turns his stomach, trying to use Peter's telepathy this way, but he needs to know and he can't ask. He doesn't even have a Bluetooth headset on he can pretend to be using.
"She forgot." Peter brushes his lips against Nathan's neck, and Nathan stiffens though no one can see.
What about you? Pete? Peter. But his brother is already moving past him, already out of voice range.
Walking the direction Peter seems to have gone, Nathan scans ahead of him, smiling and nodding his "excuse mes," "pleases," and "thank yous." He's distracted for a minute by an aide with a clipboard wanting to show him the numbers for the event. They're very good, but not spectacular. He'll have to hustle a few more Astrid Blooms if he wants to make the magic number.
When he glances up, Peter stands beside the dessert table already deep in conversation with Dr. Suresh, to whom Nathan has extended the invitation to network for research funds. Their gazes meet over Mohinder's shoulder and Peter winks.
>>>
"Get something for you?" Peter brushes past Nathan and drops something in his pocket on his way to the cash bar.
"No thanks, Pete. I'm good." Nathan waits until Peter's securely in line before he tucks his hand in his pocket. His fingers close around a small, slippery tube. He doesn't need to smell or taste his fingers to know it's lube, and he'd be pissed except they're only here because their mother insisted they needed to make an appearance.
They've made their appearance, now it's time for a little disappearance. Nathan smiles, then stalks Peter who's just paid for his drink. His brother raises the glass to his mouth, and Nathan wraps his hand around it and pulls it away. "Changed my mind." Gaze locked with Peter's, he takes a long sip off the single malt, which was for him anyway since Peter doesn't drink scotch. "Perfect for a walk around the pool."
Peter eyes darken at Nathan's attention. "Just let me get a drink and I'll meet you out there."
Years of practice make it seamless.
Nathan goes out to the pool, and when he spots Peter five minutes later, he retreats inside to find their mother. She's standing with a group of women who all eye him like grade-A steak when he kisses her cheek. "Have you seen Peter? He was going to meet me for a walk by the pool, but he's not there."
She gives him the long-suffering Angela Petrelli how would I know where your dreamy little brother is? eye roll. "He's probably off staring at the sunset somewhere." Patting him on the cheek, she sighs dramatically. "I suppose we should look for him."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll take care of it."
"Of course you will, Nathan." She pats him on the cheek again, and he restrains an eye roll of his own as he strides away "in search of Peter."
Nathan detours through the gardens, ostensibly checking to see if his brother got waylaid by fountains or flowers, before heading for the cabana where Peter waits. When he shuts the heavy wooden door, Peter is on him arms around his neck and licking deep kisses into his mouth before he can even latch it.
"Fuck me fuck me fuck me," he moans against Nathan's throat, while Nathan struggles with his belt. The back of his hand rubs against Peter's inseam and Peter arches and mews like a kitten.
"Jesus, Pete, take it easy. What'd you do, take Viagra or something?" Buckle clanking, his belt releases, and Nathan goes to work on the button of his trousers.
Peter watches with hungry eyes as his dress slacks fall. When shoves his boxers down and his cock bobs free, Peter smiles, sly. "Prepped already."
At that, Nathan growls, spins his brother around and rides him up against the wall. "Miss me?"
Cheek pressed to the wood, hands scrabbling to get his pants down, Peter groans. Then babbles, "God, oh god yes, Nathan. I hate when you're at school."
Careful, because torn trousers will be hard to explain, Nathan tugs Peter's down to his knees. Breathing hard against Peter's nape, Nathan thrusts between slick thighs. Forces himself not to bite while he finds the tube again and opens it.
It takes too long, too long for both of them, and they're panting by the time he gets lubed up. Peter's back burns him through his dress shirt. It was a mistake not to take it off, but he's not stopping now, can't stop, as he aligns his dick with his brother's ass and presses forward.
Peter shoves back, taking him all at once; Nathan shudders, grips Peter's hips so tight they'll bruise. "Move, Nathan, fuck me. Need you so much."
He wraps his hand around Peter's cock, works him fast and rough the way he likes it when they're together. "Got you, little brother, I'm right here."
There's nothing soft or easy about it. Just him slamming into Peter's ass, short sharp thrusts through tight, slick heat, and the hard length of Peter searing his palm. Peter reaches back to grab his hip, but his hand falls away, connects with the wall for support instead, while Nathan hammers into him.
A shudder works its way down Peter's spine. His head drops forward, snaps back on a bitten off moan. He tightens, and Nathan twists his wrist in time to catch Peter's release in the cup of his palm.
When he starts to pull out, to cover his cock in Peter's come and finish in his fist, Peter whines. "Please, please, need to feel you come in me. Please."
His balls tighten at the plea in Peter's tone. He wraps an arm around Peter's chest, holds him steady while he thrusts up into him. Hips rocking, ass flexing, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from being heard, Nathan gives Peter what he needs. Takes care of him, dick in ass and bodies flush, comes in a pounding rush of heat that leaves him shaking.
<<<
Nathan starts forward, but Peter shakes his head, inclines it toward Nathan's would-be patrons. Eyebrow up, Nathan purses his lips, but Peter's expression closes down, mulish, and he re-engages with Mohinder.
He's fine, he's telling Nathan. Everything's take care of, he doesn’t need anything and Nathan can do what he's here for.
Nathan's jaw clenches. Not just because Suresh smiles too much when he talks to Peter. Not just because they stand too close, and Suresh touches Peter's hands and arms while he talks. They're just friends, Peter says, close because of Sylar, and Nathan gets that. Peter's always needed people to talk to. It's only that up til now, Nathan has been the one.
But that's not why his shoulders tense as he turns around. Knowledge is power, and Peter's withholding or at least delaying Nathan's acquisition of facts potentially critical in planning for the future. He grits his teeth at the necessity of waiting, but he can't march over there and drag Peter off like an angry parent. The event is winding down, and the information will have to wait.
A sharp-faced middle-aged woman draped in an obscenely expensive sable fur - he knows, because he bought one for his mother two years ago - sets a hand on his arm. "Mr. Petrelli, I won't take up much of your time, but I need to tell you, it's such a pleasure to support a candidate who understands the relevance of the arts to today's problems. My husband and I feel very strongly about this, don't we, hon?"
The utterly incongruous Long Island accent juxtaposed with the love of the arts, the sable and the word "hon" spin Nathan's head just a little. It takes all kinds, but not usually in one person. He paints on a charming smile, eyelashes dipping the way his publicist says makes him look less threatening, and draws breath to speak when his cell phone rings. He lets out the breath and tilts his head apologetically. "I'm afraid I'll have to take that. Private number."
"Of course, we have kids of our own. So we understand, don't we, dear?" There's a mumbled "yes dear" from her husband who looks like he'd rather be sucking down beers in a sports bar anywhere than here, except for the smile when she meets his gaze. It really does take all kinds.
"Good night, Mr. and Mrs…?"
"Pearlman," the woman supplies. "Harvey and Ada."
"Schedule a call with my staff, Mrs. Pearlman. I'd be delighted to talk with you again on this subject."
She beams, he shakes his head quietly, and they move off. Nathan checks the display and recognizes Linderman's number. He's in no mood, but a deal's a deal and this one hasn't been completed. He picks it up before it can click over to voicemail. "Nathan speaking."
"Ah, Mr. Petrelli, how good of you to answer. I trust the fundraiser is going well?"
Nathan turns away, walks toward the sculpture court. "As well as you expected. We're a little short of the goal, but-"
You'll get there, have no fear. I understand congratulations are in order, however.
His blood turns to ice. Is there nothing Linderman doesn't know? "For?" The least he can do is play dumb and make Linderman spell it out.
"Finding and neutralizing a considerable threat to our plans, of course. Don't be coy, Mr. Petrelli, it doesn't suit you."
I'm not like you, Nathan wants to protest, but the memory of Peter's expression on the balcony calls the lie. "I take it I passed your test, then."
"That depends on what you imagine the 'test' to have been."
Nathan doesn't answer right away. Instead, he strolls, passing into the vestibule until he finds himself standing beside the bust of Janus. "Those who would survive the future must learn from the past," he reads from the dedication, mostly because he imagines it will piss off Linderman.
"That, it is true, is the ultimate test. However, not the one I had in mind today."
Palm going flat over the dedicatory plaque, Nathan's lip curls into a snarl. "You wanted to know if I had what it took to pull the trigger."
"Oh, no, Nathan. I've known that about you since the beginning. The test, was whether you had what it took not to."
A growl rises in the back of Nathan's throat. "Mr. Linderman."
"Good night, Nathan. Enjoy your stay at The Peninsula. It is quite my favorite New York hotel. Oh, and do say hello to Peter for me."
Linderman disconnects. Nathan tightens his fist around the phone. If he could break it with his bare hand, he would, and it's only decorum that keeps him from throwing it at the goddamned statue.
He needs to talk to Peter. Now. But when Nathan stalks back into the galleries, his brother is already gone.
<<<
"…hsst…this morning, Dole's Hawaiian plant stopped production for four hours while federal agents searched for a bomb called in. No word on whether they found anything. Homeland Security is keeping this one tightly under wraps.
"On the other side of the country sss-stickt-hsst, the Human League, a vocal anti meta-human organization, marched through the gridded streets of Skokie, Illinois, following the path laid down by the National Socialist Party of America nearly forty years ago. A group of children of meta-human parents threw rocks at the demonstrators, but the National Guard was able to maintain order.
"In the nation's Capitol, technicians scramble to deal with blown transformers from what they're calling a magnetokinetic ksst terrorist attack. The White House stickt-sst Press Secretary says there will be a statement from President Petrelli in the morning…"
In the Oval Office lit only by Nathan's reading lamp, it is dark. The White House remains unaffected by the rolling blackouts, and he could use the overheads, but Nathan's eyes still burn from the unexpected flash two days ago and lamplight is softer. He is reading yet another account of police brutality against meta-humans, and on the radio in the background, Tad Bryant reports on the state of meta-human affairs.
Eyes tearing, he sets the report atop the stack and reaches for the next. He's tired, so tired, but the empty apartment reminds him of everything he's lost. Without thinking, he reaches for the phone. It's been a year, but he still remembers the number.
"Petrelli residence, how may I help you?" The voice is rich, cultured, and even though five years have passed, the accent hasn't faded.
Nathan sighs. He shouldn't have expected differently; after all, Peter and Mohinder moving in together precipitated the break in the first place. Still, he'd hoped. "Hello, Mohinder. This is Nathan. I'd like to speak with Peter."
Mohinder covers the phone; Nathan hears the rustle-echo of his fingers against the receiver and the murmur of voices he can't make out. "Peter's not available."
"I can hear him. Just put him on-" Nathan scrubs a hand over his face. "Look, I'm tired and it's been a long year. I'm not interested in blame or guilt or screaming. I'd just like to speak with my brother."
More murmuring, then Mohinder returns. "I suggest you try emailing him, or give me some time to work on him. For what it's worth, Nathan, I am truly sorry. I will try."
"Thank you." Nathan manages to be polite, though he wants to slam the phone down. "Please tell him…" Tell him what, Nathan? That you're sorry? But are you really? "I…I'd really like to speak to him."
He hangs up the phone, and stares at the photograph on his desk. Of him and Peter, right after he won the election. Peter's wrapped around him in one of his ridiculous, far too intimate hugs, but he's hugging back, smiling broadly over Peter's shoulder.
"I miss you, Pete."
>>>
In his deluxe suite at The Peninsula, Nathan pours himself a glass of the Brunello di Montalcino he's wanted since dinner. There's no one to see him look like a vampire. No shirt to stain if he spills.
Sinking in to the oversized sand-colored leather armchair, Nathan holds up the goblet, swirls the crystal in his hand. Heavy with earth and minerals, the wine pulls from the top ring in legs that look like blood. Blood from a slice across his brother's forehead from which Nathan couldn't protect him.
But this new Peter, of edges and angles and stubborn dark eyes who sees the world without the softening shield of bangs doesn't seem to need Nathan's protection. Recalling his censure and gentle tones, and far too many nights of Peter's mouth around his dick, Nathan thinks maybe what Peter needs protection from is Nathan.
He lifts the glass of blood red wine to his lips, a hand curls around his. He freezes. "Pete?" His voice sounds ridiculously loud in the quiet room, but the blood pounding in his ears is louder.
His brother 'materializes', though that isn't the right word, since he's been here all along, and -- calm down, Nathan-- straddles his lap. Bare-assed naked, Peter tugs the glass toward him, sips, then bends to press their mouths together.
At first, he resists, but Peter doesn't back off, even parts his lips to drip wine onto Nathan's so he'll have to open or drool red. When he does, Peter surges forward, pressing him back against the chair, licking deep and sharing the wine between them. Hand coming up into Peter's hair, Nathan drinks, then kisses back harder, more urgent.
It's Peter who breaks the kiss, reaching for the goblet again. "You're not a monster."
He blinks. They're not talking about this. "Linderman called."
"I know."
Nathan takes the wine from Peter, drinks a long swallow, while caressing the length of Peter's spine. "I hate when you do that."
Peter rocks forward, rubbing his cock through the hole in Nathan's boxers. "Maybe it's me who's the monster. Reading minds, stealing memories, blowing up Manhattan."
He sets the glass down, pushes Peter off his lap. "Don't be stupid, Pete. His entire point was to see if I knew when to stop."
When he stands to turn away, his brother hovers in front of him, grasps the waistband of his boxers, and pulls them off as he settles to his knees. "Because someone would have to stop me, and you're the only one who can."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Nathan growls, but doesn't shove Peter away.
Peter nuzzles his cock, and even though Nathan would rather spank him than fuck him at the moment, it leaves a shiny trail across his lips and cheek. "I liked it, Nate, taking her memories away. I like all of it."
For the first time since Sylar, and Linderman, Peter's eyes go soft and damp, and Nathan's hand curves around his head by instinct. Peter leans his forehead against Nathan's hipbone. "He's afraid I'll turn out like Sylar, and he's right."
He tilts Peter's head up, thumbs over his bottom lip. "That's not going to happen. You're nothing like Sylar."
His brother swipes his tongue along Nathan's thumb, sucks soft against the heel of his hand. "Because I have you."
Peter's sweetness is too much. Nathan pulls away, sits again. Then he lifts the wine and forces himself to take another swallow past the tightness in his throat. "I don't know how you can say that, Pete." I would've killed her.
"Only because you thought there was no other choice." Peter shows not even the slightest hint of repentance for reading his thoughts, nor even a second's hesitation before rising off the floor to straddle Nathan's lap again.
"But there was, Pete, I just couldn't do it myself."
At that, his brother grins his lopsided little kid grin. "Right. Which is why it's a good thing you have me."
Careful not to touch Peter, Nathan rests his forearm on the armrest and holds the glass away from his brother with the other hand. He rolls his eyes and tries not to think about Peter being gone when he got off the phone with Linderman, about where he might've gone. "Right."
Curling his hand around Nathan's cock, Peter jerks him slow, firm, exactly how he likes it. "Don't be like that." Peter leans forward, drops a kiss on Nathan's throat. "Please. I'm here now."
When Nathan sets the glass down, Peter grabs his hand, drags it over the curve of his ass into the crack. His dick throbs in his brother's hand, and his breath catches when a probing finger finds his hole slick and open.
He sinks in to the first knuckle easily; Peter moans across his ear. "Need you, Nathan, please. Fuck me."
It's not a promise, Peter can't give him one any more than he can protect him from Sylar. But he can do this.
He slips another finger in beside the first, twists them up and in, until Peter hiccoughs, whines. "Nathan, Nathan, need you so much, always need you."
His chest seizes, then loosens again when Peter curls his forefinger behind the head of his cock and locks their gazes together. Nathan nods, and Peter smiles. Raises himself off Nathan's fingers and positions his wide open hole over Nathan's dick.
They've been fucking since Peter turned seventeen, but Nathan can probably count the number of times they've done it like this, Peter over his lap and facing him. Normally, he'd lift Peter to the ground, turn him face down over a couch, get him on his knees on the bed. It's not that Nathan can't be gentle, either, they just always seem to end up that way - in a hurry, desperately in need, Peter wanting his ass reamed and Nathan needing to do it.
But Nathan's always liked being able to see Peter's face when he works his dick up into him. He loves the moment when he breaches the first ring of muscle and the intense concentration and bitten lip gives way to an 'o' of surprise, then a soft sigh of pleasure.
It's different tonight. Not in some weird touchy-feely Peter sort of way, but Peter looks different above him. Without the bangs, Peter's eyes are bared to Nathan when he slides home into him. And along with the curved lips and quiet sigh, there's a blink, lust-dark eyes squeezing shut then opening and refocusing, that Nathan's never seen before.
Together, they spear Peter again and again, Nathan pulling him down and arching up, Peter using their shared gift of flight to lift up then releasing it and letting gravity carry him down. It's slow, sweaty, and just before he spills, Nathan whispers, "Need you, too." Peter moans and follows him, come striping over Nathan's hand and both of their abdomens.
For a few minutes, neither moves and there's nothing to say. Then the sheen of sweat draws Nathan's attention to the exertion-reddened scar on Peter's brow. He lifts his come-sticky hand and thumbs over it.
"What?"
Always awkward after the fact, Nathan shrugs. "You've changed. I thought I wanted that, but I'm not sure I like it."
Peter nods. "Better or worse, my eyes are open now." He nuzzles into Nathan's hand, and Nathan cups the back of his head, kisses him without closing his eyes.
"The world's different than it was six and a half months ago."
Nathan's a lawyer, he sees the past and builds from precedent. Peter's a visionary, he sees the future and works toward it. During war-time, Nathan recalls, the Romans left the gates to Janus's temple open so he could intervene. Their hind and foresight may not be as perfect as the god's, but Peter already saved the cheerleader, and now with both their eyes wide open, together maybe they can save the world.
Peter wraps his arms around Nathan's neck. Nathan tightens his around Peter's waist. Together they are Janus-faced.
Additional Notes: Prompt: Nathan both loves and hates Peter's scar.
The scene with Nathan and Peter at Nathan's campaign headquarters comes from 1.01 "Genesis"; dialogue borrowed, with extreme gratitude from the transcript archive at Shadow Anthology http://www.kilohoku.com/heroes.html. Likewise, the scene in Nathan's office comes from 1.18 "Parasite" same source.
The title comes from Sarah McLachlan's haunting, "Do What You Have to Do," particularly:
What ravages of spirit
conjured this temptuous rage
created you a monster
broken by the rules of love
and fate has lead you through it
you do what you have to do
and fate has led you through it
you do what you have to do ...
All hail linaerys for the challenge, patience, and understanding, not to mention organizational skills that defy logic. way2busymom provided handholding SO far above and beyond the call of duty and a wonderful beta besides. Thanks, B, this fic wouldn't have made it without you. All mistakes, and everything you didn't like? Mine.