Hiding from you
Dsclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!!
Title: Hiding from You
Summary: Nathan and Peter get into another arguement during their Mother's funeral, upset and angry Peter gets shoulder butted by Cadice but then it begins, Peter absorbs her power, shocked he runs into a near by bar and tries to figure out his new power and how him and Nathan can reconcile they're latest breakdown.
Rating(s): PG-13 (NC-17 in later chapters)
Warning(s): Bad Language and Alcohol.
Spoiler(s): Slight spoiler for episode 23 on the first series
A/N: Super thank you to karathephantom for the fic idea and being my beta!
Chapter 1
000
Chapter 1
Standing in front of shiny glossed oak was like watching a film. He could see the back of his own head, his shoulders covered in endless black and feet clad in shoes that clicked against the wooden floor. Feeling the cold stab of heartache press against his chest, he pressed his fingernails into the palm of his hand, so just for a moment he could concentrate on that pain instead of the one that was lying in the casket.
Cancer. He'd always thought his mother would go out with a bang, but instead it was in a soft, expensive bed in a white, polished, and high class apartment in Paris, looking over the Eiffel Tower. It had all started with headaches that she seemed to cure with Ibruprofen and a G'n' T.
Now here he was, looking over her painted face. It was the Petrelli way to have an open coffin, but it just made him feel sick, like he was going to spill his guts over the expensive wood that was encasing his mother. He wanted to crush the perfectly white lillies in his hands, watch the stain of orange on his palms; even the smell of them made his stomach turn. He needed a drink; a big, stiff drink, the type that stripped paint and burned on the way down.
The service went in a blur, and the wake only consisted of dealing with people he didn't even know, people saying how sorry they were. Peter could have punched every one of them but he didn't, because standing next to him was the last member of his family, the one everyone knew was going to be the new head of the family, the one who would pull it off without a hitch. Nathan.
Standing strong and stable - dress clothes had always suited him - broad shoulders and hard jaw line, he was the one dealing with the people, not Peter. He couldn't handle the groping handshakes and false tears, it only pissed him off. So instead, he left Nathan to do what he did best, smile and lie through his teeth with well placed "thank you's" and the occasional tear.
So he sat at the bar ordering straight Vodka; his hair winning the battle against the gel that had held it back only hours before, but now it hid him from the prying, gossiping eyes. The curtain of glossy black covered his unshed tears and flushed cheeks.
People were starting to filter out, and Peter didn't even look over his shoulder as people patted it in an overly personal way, like they knew him, like they knew the pain he was going through. Peter knew what real pain was, it was having your skin grow back, or the burn of the first breath you took for the third time, or even growing your own body back from a nuclear explosion. That was real pain, and he hated everyone that thought they understood.
"Peter," came a soft timbre voice, pulling him from his vicious musing. The feel of a heavy palm and the pressure of an affectionate squeeze seemed to seep through the black; he knew who it was without having to even look. Nathan.
"What?" he asked, taking a sip from his glass with a wince. This was definitely paint stripper, it burned on the way down, and it tasted like hair spray. Perfect.
''How're you doing?" Nathan asked. Peter could feel him take the bar stool next to him, hearing him order scotch on the rocks made him grimace just thinking about it, made him take another drink of his own.
"I'm doing just great; I just buried my mother, and for all I know she probably knew she was dying and didn't even tell me, so yeah Nathan, I'm doing great." Bitter sarcasm lingered in the air as he put his glass down with a click, but after a minute or two Peter could feel something was wrong because Nathan hadn't said anything.
'Why hasn't he said anything...? No... No, they can't have done it. Not again!' Peter thought as it finally dawned on him.
"You knew!" He exclaimed. He turned to look at Nathan, and noticed that he wasn't even looking at him, but was staring into the rows of upside down bottles behind the bar.
"Knew what, Pete?" he scoffed, finally looking into his brother's eyes. 'There's that spark', Peter thought. He knew when Nathan was lying because of the slight glint in his eyes. Nathan had never been able to play poker with him without wearing sun glasses and that smile, that fake smile that Peter thought looked plastic and was plastered all over New York on peeling posters and 15 foot high billboards.
"You knew she was dying, and you didn't even tell me! It's dad all over again, you're lying to me again, after everything we've been through, you're lying to me again!" The stool clattered to the floor as he lept up from it, looming over Nathan, hurt and betrayal replaced by white hot anger.
"Peter, calm down. It's not what you think; after everything that happened we thought..." Nathan tried to explain but was cut off.
"Yeah, everything that happened! We thought...! We thought! You lying son of a bitch! Everything we went though, and you still ball faced lied to me! God damn you!" Peter shouted, trying to stop himself from hitting his brother square in the jaw, his hands shaking as they clenched and unclenched. The half moon cuts on his palms started to sting again but it didn't even register anymore.
"Gentlemen, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," They heard from the side of the room. The bartender must have heard everything.
"Don't worry, I'm gone," Peter spat, tearing his heated gaze away from his brother's.
Weaving through the New York crowds, Peter slowed his pace, taking angry strides and catching his breath. A woman in a school skirt ran into him, throwing him the finger and spewing a string of obscenities as she faded into the throng.
"What a bitch,"
Peter thought. Then he felt it. Hot lead seeping into his stomach, his veins felt like they were pumping electricity. He knew this feeling. He gasped as he ducked into what looked like a quiet bar, bolting for the bathroom and slamming the lock across the stall.
Gripping the rim of the toilet seat, his lungs burned as he drank in the air. He could feel his body adopting the new information, it felt like having insects crawling all over him, it tickled and made him feel sick all at the same time.
Then it stopped, the tickle and the electricity; all he was left with was his hammering heart. As he willed the rhythm to become normal, the patter against his chest slowed and his lungs inflated with ease.
All he could feel now was his own sweat cooling on his brow. Standing on shaky legs, he stumbled out into the rest of the bathroom and over to the sink, where he splashed cold water onto his face. Switching the faucet off, he grabbed a paper towel, wiped his face and hands, and looked into the mirror.
"Shit!" He pushed himself away from the sink, only to slip and fall with a thud onto his behind. Wincing as he rubbed his sore rear, he didn't even have the courage to look back into the mirror. But how could he resist the temptation? He pulled himself up, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the porcelain.
"This is not good." The statement echoed through the room as he stared at the reflection staring back at him. The same searching brown eyes he'd seen so many times.
But everything else was different, his dark, glossy hair replaced by a soft, mousy brown wave, thick and streaked with blond and black. His eyes drifted to his fuller peach-toned lips, his clean-shaven jaw.
Then he remembered. Her. That women in the school skirt, he must have gotten it from her! Just as she'd rammed into him, there had been a flash of light, it had rippled and bent as his shoulder connected into hers.
"She bends light," He muttered, trying to rid the pit of his stomach of the feeling. He saw the sink's form wobble, like a stone being dropped into water. The light bent and trembled, and as he focused his concentration, it bent back, returning gently to its stable form.
Shock and awe were painted across his new face, but then broke into an ecstatic smile, as he looked back at his image in the mirror.
"Cool!" he shouted like a giddy teenager. Smoothing a hand over his new face, Peter couldn't shake the grin that was plastered to it. He ran both hands over his still suit-clad body. Took inventory.
"Same body, different face, different hair, different voice!" He coughed and rubbed his Adam's apple, as he tested the new pitches and tones he could create. "Hello. He llo."
His new voice was smoother and slightly higher then his old one; it felt like silk over his skin just hearing himself speak aloud.
"I'd do me," he joked, looking appreciatively at himself. Then it dawned on him, the terrible realization striking like a bolt of ice.
"Can I change back?"
He thought, running his hand through new hair. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the feelings he'd felt; pulling together the anger, annoyance, outrage and pain. Opening his eyes, he saw the familiar black fringe and his five o-clock shadow. But as he examined his face, he noticed his feet weren't touching the ground. Looking down at his dangling feet, Peter could only think of one person.
"Nathan." He landed back on the ground, his knees nearly buckling as he thought about what had happened. He could feel the unshed tears burn as he thought about his brother's betrayal.
"How could he do this to me, to us?" Peter thought brokenheartedly.
"Peter!"
He knew that voice.
Chapter 2