Heroes - I'm Not the Man They Think I Am At Home (Peter/Nathan)
I was talking with serialkarma about my Nathan characterization this morning and she said suggested that, "if you can't put a spin on a character so that you approve of the way he behaves, you don't like the character." To which I thought for a moment and then replied, "Oh, I dunno, there are lots of characters I love on paper that I'd choke in real life: Ari for one..."
Ultimately, the characters I write about tend to fascinate me on a psychological level, so it may seem like I approve of what a character does or how he behaves when mostly I'm just like, "Dude, how are you justifying this shit in your brain? I must investigate this at once!"
Anyroad, I was listening to my precious iPod and Jason Mraz's cover of Rocket Man came on and I was all, that's so Nathan. I have to write Nathan right now. Only Peter wanted to talk instead. Oh Nathan and Peter, why couldn't you be BFF and not BROTHERS! Damn you. I could've done a whole Telegraph Avenue already -- now I just feel vaguely dirty.
Heroes
Peter/Nathan (PG -- if you ignore the whole incest thing)
General series spoilers
Dedicated to vylit and scribblinlenore.
I'm Not the Man They Think I Am At Home
"Petrelli, huh?"
"Yeah." Peter answered perfunctorily without looking up from where he was tracing figure eights on the linoleum with the toe of his ragged Chuck Taylors. His sneakers had left wet prints on the flooring, and he could feel the water dripping from his hair down the back of his shirt. His umbrella was probably back in that alley.
Peter's arresting officers hadn't seemed very interested in keeping him out of the current downpour, which made it all the more laughable that the desk sergeant at the precinct had been trying to start a conversation with Peter for the last twenty minutes. Actually, the entire precinct had become a lot more courteous in the last forty-five minutes -- and there was only one possible reason why.
Peter sighed; he really didn't want his dad coming down here and bailing him out. That would be some serious irony -- the criminal bailing out the innocent.
Ever since the officer at central booking had gotten a phone call and actually stopped in the middle of processing Peter, who was being arrested for solicitation, things had been weird and stilted.
The only question was how fucked up they were going to get.
Peter's arrest was a bit more complicated than mere solicitation of a prostitute, but of course nobody wanted to hear that. He'd been talking and she'd been selling, and that was enough for the two officers who'd arrested him.
Peter had tried to explain that he was in nursing school, that he was trying to save her, that he was trying to help her. But nobody was buying it, until now.
"Hey kid, you want some coffee or somethin'?"
It was late; Peter glanced up at the sergeant, but only to look at the clock over his right shoulder. It was well after two in the morning and the thought of coffee made his stomach turn. What he wanted was to go to sleep. What he really wanted was to make sure that poor girl was okay.
"You related to Gordon Petrelli?" the desk sergeant asked again. "The one who's in cahoots with that Linderman sleaze? That why you out here?"
Peter sighed and rolled his head on his neck. When he wiped his hair away from his forehead, it came away pink. He'd forgotten about the part where his face had met up with a brick wall.
Apparently, trying to explain that he wasn't a criminal was resisting arrest.
"Must be," the desk sergeant answered himself. "You know your old man is gonna get his one day, right? Can't run from the law forever."
The drunk at the other end of Peter's bench snorted in his sleep, but they both started a moment later as the door of the precinct didn't fly open as much as it just seemed to ricochet off the wall.
"Sorry, it's the wind," a very familiar voice said, "no disrespect to your house."
"It better not be," the sergeant snapped.
Peter took a deep breath and almost choked on it when Nathan stepped over the threshold and inside the police station. Peter could feel searching eyes on him, ghosting over his face like fingertips, as Nathan shook out his umbrella and crossed the room to the front desk.
There was a short conversation, Peter couldn't make out the words as he studied the set Nathan's shoulders, but the tone said everything. The desk sergeant was sharp and direct, Nathan's reply low and even, and then the sound of a chair scraping and the sergeant's voice booming right inside Peter's head. "You did right by the boys in the 21st," the sergeant said, on his feet and clapping Nathan on the shoulder. "You're welcome here anytime."
Peter exhaled a breath he'd forgotten he was holding. "Hey kid, why didn't you tell me your brother worked for the DA?" the sergeant called. "Kid's been sitting here like he's set for Riker's," the sergeant said to Nathan in what presumably were confidential tones.
Peter's sighed and used an arm to prop up his head. There was a band warming up in his skull and any minute they were going to start playing really loudly. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, which Peter knew was Nathan.
Nathan, there, and invading everything, like always.
"Let's go," Nathan's voice was soft but steely, and when Peter opened his eyes he could see the haste Nathan had been under. His suit looked immaculate underneath his raincoat, but his shirt was wrinkled like he'd put on yesterday's clothing.
Peter wondered briefly what excuse Nathan had given Heidi for his nighttime excursion, and then he found he didn't have the energy to care.
He sighed again, getting to his feet and wobbling slightly, only to find Nathan's hand on his elbow. Propping him up, again. "Are you okay?" Nathan's voice was flat, his hold on Peter tight. "Did they do this to you?"
Peter snorted softly. "I ran into the wall all on my own. You know how accident prone I am."
Nathan's mouth thinned into a tight line. "Home first, sarcasm later."
Peter smirked. "There's always room for sarcasm -- it's like Jell-o," he replied in a droll tenor.
Nathan shook his head. "C'mon, delinquent," he said, thanking the sergeant before leading Peter out of the police station, pausing only to put up his umbrella as they stepped out into the rainy night.
The inside of the car was warm and dry, blue light from the dashboard mixed with the greens and yellows and whites of streetlamps and traffic lights as they drove in the general direction of Peter's apartment. New York may have been the city that never slept, but at three o'clock on a rainy Wednesday morning it was certainly taking a break.
Peter watched the windshield wipers as they sluiced the rain away, counting the seconds as the car idled at a red light and something bland and inoffensive wafted softly from the car radio. The lull of the car engine slowly began to knit together some of Peter's fractured nerves as he waited for whatever was coming. He could feel Nathan's disappointment radiating off of him in crashing waves, which only seemed to exacerbate the aching in his head. He kept trying not to doze off and get blood on the doorframe of the car.
"Solicitation." Nathan's voice was flat when he spoke.
There was a pause as the light changed and Nathan focused on the road. "Solicitation, Peter -- what the hell were you thinking? Were you even thinking? How can you be so brilliant and so stupid!"
"It's not the way it sounds," Peter protested feebly. "I was trying to help her. She's a good kid; she just needed to get off the streets."
Peter sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He was mostly dry except for his shoes and the collar of his shirt. His toes were numb though, and he just wanted to sleep. On top of all of that he had class in six hours; he didn't think he had a concussion, but that would make a great story to his teachers. I'm sorry, I missed class because I got a concussion from the police when they caught me trying to convince a teenage prostitute to go to a shelter. Yeah, he could see how that sounded a little suspicious.
"Did you at least know this girl? Was she in one of your classes? Do you see why no one wanted you to go into nursing? Who are you associating with that you're picking up hookers?! Why her? You can't possibly be hard up for sex -- just look at you!" Nathan thundered.
There was a strained pause as they stopped at another light, and they both processed what Nathan had said. There was more than one way to take his last statement.
Peter could feel Nathan struggling with something, and he bowed his head slightly when Nathan's hand came to rest on the nape of his neck. The heat from Nathan's palm warmed his damp skin, and Peter found himself leaning into Nathan's touch. All Peter wanted was to curl into that heat and go to sleep.
The moment passed and Nathan pulled away.
"Some random junkie hooker is not your problem," Nathan said gruffly as the light changed again.
"Yes, she is!" Peter protested hotly. "Everyone is everyone else's problem, why don't you see that? We're all in this together!"
"We are not all in this together," Nathan slammed his hand on the steering wheel, making the horn blare briefly. "For the love of god stop acting like you're the second coming and take care of yourself!"
"So you don't have to," Peter said quietly. "Is that what you mean?"
"Peter," Nathan's voice strained. "Don't do this to me."
"It's not always about you, Nathan," Peter retorted.
They were both quiet again.
Peter glanced at Nathan, at the set of his jaw, and sighed. It wasn't always about Nathan; a lot of the time it was, but not all the time.
Peter rested his head on the doorframe for a few long seconds. At the next light he unfastened his seat belt and got out of the car. He wasn't that far from home; he'd rather walk than deal with anymore of Nathan's sanctimonious talk. He ignored Nathan calling his name as he cut across the road and down a one-way street so Nathan couldn't follow. He glanced back once, too wet to be shocked to see Nathan standing in the rain, watching him walk away.
Nathan was in Peter's apartment when he got home. He should've been surprised but he wasn't. It was almost four o'clock in the morning and he was cold and wet; he was too exhausted to be surprised by Nathan. He was too tired for pretty much anything. So when he walked in the front door and saw Nathan standing in the kitchen, he ignored him and leaned against the wall to yank off his wet shoes and socks. Afterwards he stripped out of his raincoat, dropped his jeans and sweatshirt in a heap on the floor and stalked directly past Nathan into the bathroom.
It took him a moment to realize the shower was already running and there was a set of pajamas resting on the lid of the toilet. He turned around to shut the door, closing it on Nathan, but Nathan pushed through anyway, which was pretty symbolic of their relationship.
"Are you still bleeding?" Nathan studied him carefully, dark eyes sweeping over Peter appraisingly. "Do you need anything?"
"So you can fix it like you fix everything else?" Peter retorted.
Nathan blinked. "Did you want to spend the night in jail?"
"I wanted to help," Peter griped.
"Well, help yourself first," Nathan retorted. "Or at least let me help you," he added.
"What are you going to do? Are you going to kiss it and make it better?" Peter snapped.
It wasn't a question, it was a demand. It was how they operated.
What Nathan demanded, Peter gave. What Peter demanded, Nathan moved the world to deliver.
Nathan blinked, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. Peter just shook his head and shut the door with numb fingers. Pushing his boxers over his hips, Peter avoided his reflection in the mirror and got in the shower. His body was pale and unresponsive as he washed perfunctorily, turning red in random splotches underneath the hot water. He needed to wash his hair but his arms were too heavy.
He paused at the knock on the door. It opened with a creak and gust of cool air, moments later it shut again.
Peter stood under the spray, waiting.
Eventually he pushed the shower curtain back, but he was the only one there. There was now a mug on top of his pajamas and a bottle of ibuprofen, but nothing else. Peter ignored the sharp stab of something that pushed against his ribs wanting out, and pulled the curtain shut again.
He emerged from his shower, dried himself off, pulled on the tee shirt and pajamas Nathan had left for him and popped two ibuprofen.
Hanging up his towel, Peter exhaled deeply, and opened the door to a dark apartment. The moon was out, casting droplet shadows through the still falling rain. As Peter padded to his bedroom he could see Nathan all over the apartment: dishes washed and drying on the sideboard, coats hanging up on pegs, magazines organized, shoes lined up by the door. The heat had been left on, and Peter paused outside his bedroom doors to turn down the thermostat. When he pushed open the door, his heart jumped feebly.
He hadn't wanted to think about it: Nathan leaving. Nathan not leaving.
Nathan glanced up briefly from where he was lounging against Peter's headboard, wearing a mismatched set of Peter's pajamas. His normally slicked back hair was standing up in random towel-dried spikes as he flipped through something that might've been National Geographic. "I thought you might've drowned in there," he said conversationally. "I was going to send in the Coast Guard."
Peter swallowed. "I thought they sent in the Navy for things like that," he said, setting his tea down on the dresser, his mind rewinding his walk from the bathroom. The coats hanging-up -- one of them hadn't been his. The same with the shoes. He hadn't even noticed.
"The navy is for war," Nathan paused in his reading, "you're important, but I don't think anyone is going to war over you."
Nathan's smile was small and intimate. "Well, not anyone else," he corrected.
Peter lowered his eyes to look at the floor when Nathan dropped the magazine carelessly over the side of the bed.
Nathan was meticulous about everything, only nerves made him sloppy. "I was going to drive back, but I'd only be back here checking up on you before work anyway," Nathan said easily.
Peter heard the mattress creak, and he watched Nathan's bare feet stride into view. He looked up at the warm weight of Nathan's hand on his shoulder.
"Your head okay?" Nathan's voice was light as he moved his hand from Peter's shoulder to his hairline, long fingers carefully tracing his face. Peter found himself nodding, not because he was okay, but because he wanted to be okay for Nathan.
"Good," Nathan said leaning forward and kissing Peter on the forehead. His lips lingered for several moments before he pulled away. Peter had once seen a movie that said forehead kissing was the most erotic non-sexual move you could make on someone without seeming forward.
The tingling in Peter's extremities agreed.
He looked up at Nathan, their eyes locking, a whole conversation happening without the benefit of sound. Peter leaned in but Nathan pulled back fractionally. "You should get some sleep," he said nodding towards the bed.
Peter made a grumbling noise, even as he climbed into a bed that, while unmade, was certainly tidier than it had been when he left for school that morning. He watched through his eyelashes as Nathan turned off the lights and then slid in beside him.
There were long minutes of them lying side-by-side like wooden planks and then Peter shifted onto his side, curling against Nathan and resting his forehead on Nathan's shoulder. Nathan was stiff for a moment and then he lifted his arm, allowing Peter to rest his head on Nathan's chest.
Peter began to drift off to Nathan's heartbeat, his own anxiety about the entire evening dying off with each stroke of Nathan's fingers carding through his hair. "You're killing me here," Nathan said softly, "you know that, right? You can't keep doing this."
Peter curled his arm around Nathan's waist, his fingers sliding under the hem of Nathan's shirt, seeking out warmth. "I'm trying to make the world a better place."
Nathan sighed. "I don't care about the world; I care about you."
Peter smiled against Nathan's collarbone. "I know."
-end-
Beta by the much harassed new auntie antheia. Remaning fuck-ups are mine.
Inspirational Post Secret-type art by issaro, who must be converted to the Petrelli side, and idea shamelessly stolen from scribblinlenore who does it better.
Title from 'Rocket Man' by Elton John and covered by Jason Mraz.
Ultimately, the characters I write about tend to fascinate me on a psychological level, so it may seem like I approve of what a character does or how he behaves when mostly I'm just like, "Dude, how are you justifying this shit in your brain? I must investigate this at once!"
Anyroad, I was listening to my precious iPod and Jason Mraz's cover of Rocket Man came on and I was all, that's so Nathan. I have to write Nathan right now. Only Peter wanted to talk instead. Oh Nathan and Peter, why couldn't you be BFF and not BROTHERS! Damn you. I could've done a whole Telegraph Avenue already -- now I just feel vaguely dirty.
Heroes
Peter/Nathan (PG -- if you ignore the whole incest thing)
General series spoilers
Dedicated to vylit and scribblinlenore.
I'm Not the Man They Think I Am At Home
"Petrelli, huh?"
"Yeah." Peter answered perfunctorily without looking up from where he was tracing figure eights on the linoleum with the toe of his ragged Chuck Taylors. His sneakers had left wet prints on the flooring, and he could feel the water dripping from his hair down the back of his shirt. His umbrella was probably back in that alley.
Peter's arresting officers hadn't seemed very interested in keeping him out of the current downpour, which made it all the more laughable that the desk sergeant at the precinct had been trying to start a conversation with Peter for the last twenty minutes. Actually, the entire precinct had become a lot more courteous in the last forty-five minutes -- and there was only one possible reason why.
Peter sighed; he really didn't want his dad coming down here and bailing him out. That would be some serious irony -- the criminal bailing out the innocent.
Ever since the officer at central booking had gotten a phone call and actually stopped in the middle of processing Peter, who was being arrested for solicitation, things had been weird and stilted.
The only question was how fucked up they were going to get.
Peter's arrest was a bit more complicated than mere solicitation of a prostitute, but of course nobody wanted to hear that. He'd been talking and she'd been selling, and that was enough for the two officers who'd arrested him.
Peter had tried to explain that he was in nursing school, that he was trying to save her, that he was trying to help her. But nobody was buying it, until now.
"Hey kid, you want some coffee or somethin'?"
It was late; Peter glanced up at the sergeant, but only to look at the clock over his right shoulder. It was well after two in the morning and the thought of coffee made his stomach turn. What he wanted was to go to sleep. What he really wanted was to make sure that poor girl was okay.
"You related to Gordon Petrelli?" the desk sergeant asked again. "The one who's in cahoots with that Linderman sleaze? That why you out here?"
Peter sighed and rolled his head on his neck. When he wiped his hair away from his forehead, it came away pink. He'd forgotten about the part where his face had met up with a brick wall.
Apparently, trying to explain that he wasn't a criminal was resisting arrest.
"Must be," the desk sergeant answered himself. "You know your old man is gonna get his one day, right? Can't run from the law forever."
The drunk at the other end of Peter's bench snorted in his sleep, but they both started a moment later as the door of the precinct didn't fly open as much as it just seemed to ricochet off the wall.
"Sorry, it's the wind," a very familiar voice said, "no disrespect to your house."
"It better not be," the sergeant snapped.
Peter took a deep breath and almost choked on it when Nathan stepped over the threshold and inside the police station. Peter could feel searching eyes on him, ghosting over his face like fingertips, as Nathan shook out his umbrella and crossed the room to the front desk.
There was a short conversation, Peter couldn't make out the words as he studied the set Nathan's shoulders, but the tone said everything. The desk sergeant was sharp and direct, Nathan's reply low and even, and then the sound of a chair scraping and the sergeant's voice booming right inside Peter's head. "You did right by the boys in the 21st," the sergeant said, on his feet and clapping Nathan on the shoulder. "You're welcome here anytime."
Peter exhaled a breath he'd forgotten he was holding. "Hey kid, why didn't you tell me your brother worked for the DA?" the sergeant called. "Kid's been sitting here like he's set for Riker's," the sergeant said to Nathan in what presumably were confidential tones.
Peter's sighed and used an arm to prop up his head. There was a band warming up in his skull and any minute they were going to start playing really loudly. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, which Peter knew was Nathan.
Nathan, there, and invading everything, like always.
"Let's go," Nathan's voice was soft but steely, and when Peter opened his eyes he could see the haste Nathan had been under. His suit looked immaculate underneath his raincoat, but his shirt was wrinkled like he'd put on yesterday's clothing.
Peter wondered briefly what excuse Nathan had given Heidi for his nighttime excursion, and then he found he didn't have the energy to care.
He sighed again, getting to his feet and wobbling slightly, only to find Nathan's hand on his elbow. Propping him up, again. "Are you okay?" Nathan's voice was flat, his hold on Peter tight. "Did they do this to you?"
Peter snorted softly. "I ran into the wall all on my own. You know how accident prone I am."
Nathan's mouth thinned into a tight line. "Home first, sarcasm later."
Peter smirked. "There's always room for sarcasm -- it's like Jell-o," he replied in a droll tenor.
Nathan shook his head. "C'mon, delinquent," he said, thanking the sergeant before leading Peter out of the police station, pausing only to put up his umbrella as they stepped out into the rainy night.
The inside of the car was warm and dry, blue light from the dashboard mixed with the greens and yellows and whites of streetlamps and traffic lights as they drove in the general direction of Peter's apartment. New York may have been the city that never slept, but at three o'clock on a rainy Wednesday morning it was certainly taking a break.
Peter watched the windshield wipers as they sluiced the rain away, counting the seconds as the car idled at a red light and something bland and inoffensive wafted softly from the car radio. The lull of the car engine slowly began to knit together some of Peter's fractured nerves as he waited for whatever was coming. He could feel Nathan's disappointment radiating off of him in crashing waves, which only seemed to exacerbate the aching in his head. He kept trying not to doze off and get blood on the doorframe of the car.
"Solicitation." Nathan's voice was flat when he spoke.
There was a pause as the light changed and Nathan focused on the road. "Solicitation, Peter -- what the hell were you thinking? Were you even thinking? How can you be so brilliant and so stupid!"
"It's not the way it sounds," Peter protested feebly. "I was trying to help her. She's a good kid; she just needed to get off the streets."
Peter sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He was mostly dry except for his shoes and the collar of his shirt. His toes were numb though, and he just wanted to sleep. On top of all of that he had class in six hours; he didn't think he had a concussion, but that would make a great story to his teachers. I'm sorry, I missed class because I got a concussion from the police when they caught me trying to convince a teenage prostitute to go to a shelter. Yeah, he could see how that sounded a little suspicious.
"Did you at least know this girl? Was she in one of your classes? Do you see why no one wanted you to go into nursing? Who are you associating with that you're picking up hookers?! Why her? You can't possibly be hard up for sex -- just look at you!" Nathan thundered.
There was a strained pause as they stopped at another light, and they both processed what Nathan had said. There was more than one way to take his last statement.
Peter could feel Nathan struggling with something, and he bowed his head slightly when Nathan's hand came to rest on the nape of his neck. The heat from Nathan's palm warmed his damp skin, and Peter found himself leaning into Nathan's touch. All Peter wanted was to curl into that heat and go to sleep.
The moment passed and Nathan pulled away.
"Some random junkie hooker is not your problem," Nathan said gruffly as the light changed again.
"Yes, she is!" Peter protested hotly. "Everyone is everyone else's problem, why don't you see that? We're all in this together!"
"We are not all in this together," Nathan slammed his hand on the steering wheel, making the horn blare briefly. "For the love of god stop acting like you're the second coming and take care of yourself!"
"So you don't have to," Peter said quietly. "Is that what you mean?"
"Peter," Nathan's voice strained. "Don't do this to me."
"It's not always about you, Nathan," Peter retorted.
They were both quiet again.
Peter glanced at Nathan, at the set of his jaw, and sighed. It wasn't always about Nathan; a lot of the time it was, but not all the time.
Peter rested his head on the doorframe for a few long seconds. At the next light he unfastened his seat belt and got out of the car. He wasn't that far from home; he'd rather walk than deal with anymore of Nathan's sanctimonious talk. He ignored Nathan calling his name as he cut across the road and down a one-way street so Nathan couldn't follow. He glanced back once, too wet to be shocked to see Nathan standing in the rain, watching him walk away.
Nathan was in Peter's apartment when he got home. He should've been surprised but he wasn't. It was almost four o'clock in the morning and he was cold and wet; he was too exhausted to be surprised by Nathan. He was too tired for pretty much anything. So when he walked in the front door and saw Nathan standing in the kitchen, he ignored him and leaned against the wall to yank off his wet shoes and socks. Afterwards he stripped out of his raincoat, dropped his jeans and sweatshirt in a heap on the floor and stalked directly past Nathan into the bathroom.
It took him a moment to realize the shower was already running and there was a set of pajamas resting on the lid of the toilet. He turned around to shut the door, closing it on Nathan, but Nathan pushed through anyway, which was pretty symbolic of their relationship.
"Are you still bleeding?" Nathan studied him carefully, dark eyes sweeping over Peter appraisingly. "Do you need anything?"
"So you can fix it like you fix everything else?" Peter retorted.
Nathan blinked. "Did you want to spend the night in jail?"
"I wanted to help," Peter griped.
"Well, help yourself first," Nathan retorted. "Or at least let me help you," he added.
"What are you going to do? Are you going to kiss it and make it better?" Peter snapped.
It wasn't a question, it was a demand. It was how they operated.
What Nathan demanded, Peter gave. What Peter demanded, Nathan moved the world to deliver.
Nathan blinked, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. Peter just shook his head and shut the door with numb fingers. Pushing his boxers over his hips, Peter avoided his reflection in the mirror and got in the shower. His body was pale and unresponsive as he washed perfunctorily, turning red in random splotches underneath the hot water. He needed to wash his hair but his arms were too heavy.
He paused at the knock on the door. It opened with a creak and gust of cool air, moments later it shut again.
Peter stood under the spray, waiting.
Eventually he pushed the shower curtain back, but he was the only one there. There was now a mug on top of his pajamas and a bottle of ibuprofen, but nothing else. Peter ignored the sharp stab of something that pushed against his ribs wanting out, and pulled the curtain shut again.
He emerged from his shower, dried himself off, pulled on the tee shirt and pajamas Nathan had left for him and popped two ibuprofen.
Hanging up his towel, Peter exhaled deeply, and opened the door to a dark apartment. The moon was out, casting droplet shadows through the still falling rain. As Peter padded to his bedroom he could see Nathan all over the apartment: dishes washed and drying on the sideboard, coats hanging up on pegs, magazines organized, shoes lined up by the door. The heat had been left on, and Peter paused outside his bedroom doors to turn down the thermostat. When he pushed open the door, his heart jumped feebly.
He hadn't wanted to think about it: Nathan leaving. Nathan not leaving.
Nathan glanced up briefly from where he was lounging against Peter's headboard, wearing a mismatched set of Peter's pajamas. His normally slicked back hair was standing up in random towel-dried spikes as he flipped through something that might've been National Geographic. "I thought you might've drowned in there," he said conversationally. "I was going to send in the Coast Guard."
Peter swallowed. "I thought they sent in the Navy for things like that," he said, setting his tea down on the dresser, his mind rewinding his walk from the bathroom. The coats hanging-up -- one of them hadn't been his. The same with the shoes. He hadn't even noticed.
"The navy is for war," Nathan paused in his reading, "you're important, but I don't think anyone is going to war over you."
Nathan's smile was small and intimate. "Well, not anyone else," he corrected.
Peter lowered his eyes to look at the floor when Nathan dropped the magazine carelessly over the side of the bed.
Nathan was meticulous about everything, only nerves made him sloppy. "I was going to drive back, but I'd only be back here checking up on you before work anyway," Nathan said easily.
Peter heard the mattress creak, and he watched Nathan's bare feet stride into view. He looked up at the warm weight of Nathan's hand on his shoulder.
"Your head okay?" Nathan's voice was light as he moved his hand from Peter's shoulder to his hairline, long fingers carefully tracing his face. Peter found himself nodding, not because he was okay, but because he wanted to be okay for Nathan.
"Good," Nathan said leaning forward and kissing Peter on the forehead. His lips lingered for several moments before he pulled away. Peter had once seen a movie that said forehead kissing was the most erotic non-sexual move you could make on someone without seeming forward.
The tingling in Peter's extremities agreed.
He looked up at Nathan, their eyes locking, a whole conversation happening without the benefit of sound. Peter leaned in but Nathan pulled back fractionally. "You should get some sleep," he said nodding towards the bed.
Peter made a grumbling noise, even as he climbed into a bed that, while unmade, was certainly tidier than it had been when he left for school that morning. He watched through his eyelashes as Nathan turned off the lights and then slid in beside him.
There were long minutes of them lying side-by-side like wooden planks and then Peter shifted onto his side, curling against Nathan and resting his forehead on Nathan's shoulder. Nathan was stiff for a moment and then he lifted his arm, allowing Peter to rest his head on Nathan's chest.
Peter began to drift off to Nathan's heartbeat, his own anxiety about the entire evening dying off with each stroke of Nathan's fingers carding through his hair. "You're killing me here," Nathan said softly, "you know that, right? You can't keep doing this."
Peter curled his arm around Nathan's waist, his fingers sliding under the hem of Nathan's shirt, seeking out warmth. "I'm trying to make the world a better place."
Nathan sighed. "I don't care about the world; I care about you."
Peter smiled against Nathan's collarbone. "I know."
-end-
Beta by the much harassed new auntie antheia. Remaning fuck-ups are mine.
Inspirational Post Secret-type art by issaro, who must be converted to the Petrelli side, and idea shamelessly stolen from scribblinlenore who does it better.
Title from 'Rocket Man' by Elton John and covered by Jason Mraz.