The Wait
TITLE: The Wait
FANDOM: Heroes
PROMPT: See the young man sitting/In the old man's bar/Waiting for his turn to die (lyrics)
"Broadway," Goo Goo Dolls (Could be Peter or Adam, but also could be anyone)
SUMMARY: Peter finds himself at a bar, when he is approached by a strange man. A small conversation ensues.
CHARACTER(S): Peter Petrelli
GENRE: Comfort/Hurt
RATING: T
NOTE: Supernatural elements, no spoilers, set in the future (no time specified). Written for
heroes_fest. I didn't do a songfic, but the lyrics go very much hand in hand with this fic, which I actually liked how it turned out.
“You keep drinking like that, son, and you won’t get to see your children grow old.”
Peter shifts his eyes to the left, for him to take a sideways glance at the old man speaking to him. He’s as thin as a scarecrow, has white-ghost hair shaved to the shape of his head, and long fingers with bones sticking out. He wears a black T-shirt, underneath a plaid, faded farmer’s shirt, and faded Levi’s jeans to complete his look. He can’t be more than 60, but his fingers look frail, the wrinkles don’t compliment him much either, and the many spots of freckles only add to his strange character. The bony fingers actually remind him of that man in the long black coat.
Perhaps the dark, dim lights, the dusty liquor bottles off in the corner, and the 70 year old bartender are just adding to illusion, but he swears the entire bar is waiting for him to speak one word.
He takes the glass from his lips, sets it down softly on the bar, and cracks his neck.
“I’m watching the world get old--that’s more than enough,” he says as he catches the older-looking man’s gaze.
A sharp laugh leaves his mouth, and he waves a finger to the bartender. Quickly, the bartender serves two glasses of tequila, and leaves the bottle.
“Come here often?” Peter mocks the man’s relationship with the bartender.
“Just drop by every once in a while,” he says while gulping down the shot, and slowly adds,” whenever the job brings me here.”
He looks directly at Peter when he states that last line, and again the bar is adding to his illusions, because he feels a chilling gust pass through him.
Peter only nods, and returns to drinking.
“We don’t see too many young’ns around here, never any that pass Josie up,” he comments after awhile.
Peter almost laughs--he knew that Josie girl was one of those girls. The one that was swift and easy for any man under 45 that passed through the bar. Short, wavy, light brown hair, with green eyes and plump lips. A little on the short side--5’3 he ventured to guess--and a voice that always remained an even, soft tone.
“You’re not exactly old either,“ and Peter adds for good measure,” sir.”
The man laughs again, and quickly answers. “Oh, Josie’s no good for me. No one with a dead mother is,” he speaks those last words too morosely for Peter not to feel uncomfortable.
“We’re all motherless, here,” Peter whispers, almost murmurs, indifferent because he doesn’t care if anyone hears him here. No one worth really speaking to is here, or anywhere anymore.
“We all fatherless?”
But that man hears him, and ventures to ask him that one question.
Peter doesn’t answer, because it doesn’t matter. For him, it has always been the mother that really mattered. The nurturing, soft, tender one that cares for them from birth. And yes, his father had failed him, but his mother seemed to have failed him even more.
“Doesn’t matter, does it? ‘Cause they all get drunk, or get angry, or just let the mother take care of everything. You know, very few men have it in them to stick by their kids when life really piles up. Or when the wife is gone, and you have to get your shit together--how many men are that strong?”
It’s strange how the words rile him up, and he smashes the glass onto the counter. He stands from the barstool, and turns to the man. He grabs him by the collar, when the bartender yells,” Put him down, son!”
Peter turns to glare at the bartender, and sees the him holding a rifle up, pointed directly at Peter. Peter does laugh this time, even smirks. He shakes his head and lets the guy go.
He scrounges through his jeans pocket, grasps some bills, and slaps them on the table. Turning to leave, he hears the man talk to him one last time.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for thou are with me.”
Peter stops in his steps, and the fist at his side loosens. He inhales deeply, finding the words to be an excerpt of narration from his life, and closes his eyes for a moment, before continuing on outside. Once out of the door, he shivers at the cold night’s air, and sticks his hands in his pockets as a way to warm himself.
But when he reaches into his left pocket, rather than feel some crumpled up dollars, he feels the soft texture of a heavy object. Tentatively, he takes the object out to see it is a medium-sized, freckled brown pebble.
He furrows his brows in confusion, knowing he did not put that in there, and is confused at the words he sees etched in dark black ink.
Not your turn, yet.
He turns it in his hand, to examine it furthermore, and sees that on the opposite side there are more words to finish the thought.
But will your wait
Be in vain?
Confused even more, he turns around swiftly and throws the door to the bar open. But the seat where that man had been seated is now empty, and the bartender cocks an eyebrow at him.
“He’s gone, son. It’ll do you well to scurry off before he changes his mind.”
But Peter cannot let things go so easily, so in a breathy tone he asks ”Who is he?”
Shaking his head, the bartender exhales, and in a click of his tongue, says,” A mother’s worst nightmare.”
FANDOM: Heroes
PROMPT: See the young man sitting/In the old man's bar/Waiting for his turn to die (lyrics)
"Broadway," Goo Goo Dolls (Could be Peter or Adam, but also could be anyone)
SUMMARY: Peter finds himself at a bar, when he is approached by a strange man. A small conversation ensues.
CHARACTER(S): Peter Petrelli
GENRE: Comfort/Hurt
RATING: T
NOTE: Supernatural elements, no spoilers, set in the future (no time specified). Written for
heroes_fest. I didn't do a songfic, but the lyrics go very much hand in hand with this fic, which I actually liked how it turned out.
“You keep drinking like that, son, and you won’t get to see your children grow old.”
Peter shifts his eyes to the left, for him to take a sideways glance at the old man speaking to him. He’s as thin as a scarecrow, has white-ghost hair shaved to the shape of his head, and long fingers with bones sticking out. He wears a black T-shirt, underneath a plaid, faded farmer’s shirt, and faded Levi’s jeans to complete his look. He can’t be more than 60, but his fingers look frail, the wrinkles don’t compliment him much either, and the many spots of freckles only add to his strange character. The bony fingers actually remind him of that man in the long black coat.
Perhaps the dark, dim lights, the dusty liquor bottles off in the corner, and the 70 year old bartender are just adding to illusion, but he swears the entire bar is waiting for him to speak one word.
He takes the glass from his lips, sets it down softly on the bar, and cracks his neck.
“I’m watching the world get old--that’s more than enough,” he says as he catches the older-looking man’s gaze.
A sharp laugh leaves his mouth, and he waves a finger to the bartender. Quickly, the bartender serves two glasses of tequila, and leaves the bottle.
“Come here often?” Peter mocks the man’s relationship with the bartender.
“Just drop by every once in a while,” he says while gulping down the shot, and slowly adds,” whenever the job brings me here.”
He looks directly at Peter when he states that last line, and again the bar is adding to his illusions, because he feels a chilling gust pass through him.
Peter only nods, and returns to drinking.
“We don’t see too many young’ns around here, never any that pass Josie up,” he comments after awhile.
Peter almost laughs--he knew that Josie girl was one of those girls. The one that was swift and easy for any man under 45 that passed through the bar. Short, wavy, light brown hair, with green eyes and plump lips. A little on the short side--5’3 he ventured to guess--and a voice that always remained an even, soft tone.
“You’re not exactly old either,“ and Peter adds for good measure,” sir.”
The man laughs again, and quickly answers. “Oh, Josie’s no good for me. No one with a dead mother is,” he speaks those last words too morosely for Peter not to feel uncomfortable.
“We’re all motherless, here,” Peter whispers, almost murmurs, indifferent because he doesn’t care if anyone hears him here. No one worth really speaking to is here, or anywhere anymore.
“We all fatherless?”
But that man hears him, and ventures to ask him that one question.
Peter doesn’t answer, because it doesn’t matter. For him, it has always been the mother that really mattered. The nurturing, soft, tender one that cares for them from birth. And yes, his father had failed him, but his mother seemed to have failed him even more.
“Doesn’t matter, does it? ‘Cause they all get drunk, or get angry, or just let the mother take care of everything. You know, very few men have it in them to stick by their kids when life really piles up. Or when the wife is gone, and you have to get your shit together--how many men are that strong?”
It’s strange how the words rile him up, and he smashes the glass onto the counter. He stands from the barstool, and turns to the man. He grabs him by the collar, when the bartender yells,” Put him down, son!”
Peter turns to glare at the bartender, and sees the him holding a rifle up, pointed directly at Peter. Peter does laugh this time, even smirks. He shakes his head and lets the guy go.
He scrounges through his jeans pocket, grasps some bills, and slaps them on the table. Turning to leave, he hears the man talk to him one last time.
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for thou are with me.”
Peter stops in his steps, and the fist at his side loosens. He inhales deeply, finding the words to be an excerpt of narration from his life, and closes his eyes for a moment, before continuing on outside. Once out of the door, he shivers at the cold night’s air, and sticks his hands in his pockets as a way to warm himself.
But when he reaches into his left pocket, rather than feel some crumpled up dollars, he feels the soft texture of a heavy object. Tentatively, he takes the object out to see it is a medium-sized, freckled brown pebble.
He furrows his brows in confusion, knowing he did not put that in there, and is confused at the words he sees etched in dark black ink.
Not your turn, yet.
He turns it in his hand, to examine it furthermore, and sees that on the opposite side there are more words to finish the thought.
But will your wait
Be in vain?
Confused even more, he turns around swiftly and throws the door to the bar open. But the seat where that man had been seated is now empty, and the bartender cocks an eyebrow at him.
“He’s gone, son. It’ll do you well to scurry off before he changes his mind.”
But Peter cannot let things go so easily, so in a breathy tone he asks ”Who is he?”
Shaking his head, the bartender exhales, and in a click of his tongue, says,” A mother’s worst nightmare.”