Ordinary People Are Not Like You and Me - Heroes AU, Peter/Nathan NC-17 (1/2)
For the last couple of weeks I've very much been wanting to write something for the convalescence of the most beloved scribblinlenore, which is a bit difficult when you've not written anything in two months. Hell, it's been so long since I've written anything I didn't even have anything for antheia's birthday, and it's a bit disgraceful when you've got nothing for one of your betas, so this is for her as well. ♥
Heroes
Peter/Nathan (NC-17)
Alternate Universe
Ordinary People Are Not Like You and Me
John Smith is having a bad day. He's lost his wife, his dog, he's been caught embezzling money from Peter's father and in about five seconds he's going to die.
Four.
Three.
The last words out of his mouth are, "No! Wait! I can explain!"
People are always telling Peter they can explain.
Peter's not interested.
It doesn't matter that John's a low-level thug with only the mildest aspirations of greatness. It doesn't matter that John's only taken $5,000.
Peter's father is very big on principles, and he's always telling his son that the key to good principles is knowing when to enforce them. Today John takes $5,000, tomorrow it's $500,000. Peter's father can't have that. Not that he's hard up for the money, but again, it's the principle of the thing.
Peter's father has passed on many of his principles to his son, and this is why, when Peter Linderman showed up on the doorstep of John Smith's home at three o'clock this afternoon, he suggested that John's wife leave her husband.
He suggested she take the dog too.
There was no point in the dog suffering because John Smith is an idiot. Was an idiot.
In Peter's line of work he comes across a lot of idiots. It's unfortunate but true. Most people are smart, but money tends to make them foolish. And when you combine that with fear, well, a fool and his money are soon parted. Generally by Peter's hand. Or in this case by the powers Peter is channeling through his hand. It's not a trick of the mind or the eyes, it's just this thing that Peter can do.
Peter can touch you without skin contact. Peter can smooth your hair in a club while he's in the bathroom taking a leak. Peter can snap your neck while his back is turned and he's eating cold chicken from your refrigerator.
Peter can do a lot of things: healing, telekinesis, super strength, walking through walls. Peter can run around the world in the time it takes a butterfly to flap its wings. Peter doesn't know how he can do these things, he just knows he can.
His father says Peter is special; he's destined for great things. He sends Peter out into the world to do great things. Peter's not sure how killing John Smith is a great thing, but he doesn't tend to question his father. No one questions a Linderman. Instead Peter acquires these abilities like most people collect coins or shoes: avidly and with great glee -- although mostly unknowingly. It's rare for Peter to meet people who are like him. Most of the time he doesn't even realize he's acquired a new gift, he just wakes up in the morning and he's got a new trick up his sleeve.
Most people Peter meets, though, are ordinary. A lot of the ordinary people Peter meets end up sprawled on the floor between their bed and their dresser like John Smith.
Peter sighs as he rifles through John's pockets for the money he took. John smells like too much cologne and stale cigarettes. He's wearing a fake gold chain around his neck. He could have been a lawyer or a doctor. He could have been a fireman or a nurse. John Smith could have done anything with his life, and instead he wasted it on $5,000 of Linderman money. It's such a disappointment, but then again, you can't expect much else from people. That's the sad part.
Most people want to be good and trust-worthy -- Peter truly believes this - it's just that it's so much easier to be bad. Peter should know. Just look at John Smith.
A part of him pauses half way out the door. The rest of him doesn't look back.
Candice Wilmer is a middle-aged black woman with perfectly coiffed hair and blood red nails that are always the same length and color. Peter has never seen Candice with a chipped nail or a hair out of place. It's an ability of one stripe or another, but Peter's not sure what. Peter figures he can do it too, he just doesn't know what it is. He figures that when the time comes his father will tell him, and when he wordlessly materializes outside his father's office, Candice doesn't even twitch. She's been his father's assistant for as long as Peter can recall, so he supposes nothing really phases her at this point.
Candice has read him bedtime stories and put Band-Aids on cuts that have disappeared the minute Peter's father found out about them. Candice has always treated Peter as though he were like anyone else. On one hand he adores her for it. On the other hand he is a Linderman.
"Peter, he's just finishing up a meeting," Candice says, glancing up from the flat screen monitor in front of her. The reading glasses perched on the end of her nose never seem to move an inch, and as far as Peter can tell Candice is the same age now as she was when he was six. "How's the weather outside?" she asks, reaching under her desk to find a bottle of water for Peter.
Peter smirks as he unfastens the cap. "It's hot," he says mildly
"It was hot yesterday," Candice says matter-of-factly.
Peter takes a swig of water. "It'll probably be hot tomorrow too."
Candice makes a hmming sound. "That's life in the desert."
Peter smirks. "Yeah, it is."
Candice has the most perfect posture Peter has ever seen, and yet under Peter's gaze she seems to sit up even straighter as though she's being pulled by an invisible string. Maybe it's just an optical illusion. "Your father is done now. You can go in."
Peter caps the bottle in his hand and sets it back on Candice desk. "You have crumbs on your collar," she remarks.
Peter brushes at food he can't see and smiles. "Thanks, Candice."
She smirks back. "Don't mention it," she says, reaching somewhere under her desk to hit the release for the office doors.
Peter's father's office is all clean lines and ascetic tastes. The marble is flawless, the mahogany desk has never seen a scratch. Even when Peter was little and used to play hide and seek under the desk, he never left a mark. Peter suspects the office will be the same long after everyone is dead and gone.
His father stands up as Peter walks the length of the room. "How are things today?" he asks, coming around his desk to clap his only son on the back in greeting. Peter's father has always been free with his physical affection; Peter wonders how other people survive without that sort of unmitigated love.
Peter's not stupid; he knows his father does some less than desirable things. He has Peter do less than desirable things, but Peter doesn’t doubt that his father loves him very much. He has to believe in him; Peter's built his entire life on the foundation that his father is right. That what he does is right. He can't start questioning everything at twenty-six. He did that at twenty-three and it almost killed him.
Peter shrugs as he withdraws the money from his jacket and sets it on his father's desk. "Quiet," he says pointedly.
His father nods. "That's a good sign," he says with a wink. "When things are noisy, then they're stressful, and stress is bad, especially for an old man like me."
Peter can't help but chuckle. His father is healthier than most men Peter's age. He runs five miles every morning and has been known to bench press the children of people who he does business with. "Dad, you're going to live forever."
Peter's father smirks. "If I stick around you I might." It's Peter's turn to chuckle and look down at his feet. There's something on the toe of his right loafer and he frowns. A tissue flies off of his father's desk and Peter can feel his forehead furrowing slightly as the tissue buffs away the stain.
When he glances back up, his father is watching him with open amusement. "Who knew I would raise such a fastidious son?"
Peter just raises an eyebrow. Candice says he gets that from his father. Jessica used to tell him that too. He doesn't miss her much anymore. Micah is better off with D.L. anyway. "I was thinking about taking the afternoon off and going to L.A. to see a friend."
Killing Jessica was not one of Peter's more pleasant jobs, and for the first time in his life, Peter told his father 'no'. Leaving Micah alive and with D.L. was their compromise. It's an open-secret that when Peter goes to Los Angeles he's going to check up on Micah; his father humors him because he's his father.
"Maybe you can put that off for a day or two," his dad says, his mouth thinning out just slightly. "There's something important I need you to do for me."
"Dad," Peter begins.
"Just for a day or two," his father holds up his hands placatingly. "I wouldn't stop you from doing something you really want to do, but this is important, which means you're the only one I trust to do it."
Peter sighs. "Fine. What is it?"
Peter's father leans back on his desk and flips open a red folder. Grabbing a glossy piece of paper, he sits back up and hands it to Peter. "I need this person taken care of."
Peter studies the photo for a moment. It's a standard photo. A man in a suit standing by a flag. The man has this strange plastic smile on his face; he looks as though he's had to practice this look a lot. He looks strangely familiar. A lot of people look familiar to Peter though. "Can I at least have lunch first?"
"There's a pot pie in the kitchen with your name on it."
Peter loves his dad's pot pies. "Where am I going?" he asks suspiciously.
"Manhattan."
Peter frowns. The city means people. Lots of people. If he's not careful he'll come home with wings or the ability to glow in the dark. "That's a lot of people," he says, not needing to point out the obvious.
His father nods. "I know, but this is important -- there's fried zucchini in it for you."
Peter chuckles. His dad has never been afraid of resorting to bribery to get Peter to do what he wants. "Fine. I'll go. You win."
Peter's dad claps him on the shoulder. "No, son. We win."
It's almost ten o'clock in the evening when Peter finally gets into the city. Manhattan is just as obnoxiously loud, bright and garish as Peter remembers. His head starts to ache the moment the taxi driver pulls up to Kirby Plaza, and it's all Peter can do not to beg him to turn around and take Peter back to JFK. As it stands, the taxi driver turns around when Peter doesn't immediately get out of the car.
"Are you okay?" he asks with a slight accent. Indian. English -- the United Kingdom version. He's got blindingly white teeth and glossy black hair.
Peter wonders what the man would say if Peter told him his father had sent him to the city to kill someone Peter has never met. Instead Peter glances out the window and sees a bus rolling past with the target's photo on it.
He's going to kill a congressional candidate for the greater good. Their greater good -- a world where people with abilities are the norm and not to be hidden away. A world where they don't need to be protected. "I'll be fine," Peter says. "I just need a minute."
The man nods. "I think the world would be a better place if more people learned to take a minute, don't you? Genetically, people favor their parents. If your parents are busy and hurried, you will be too. If your parents are lackadaisical or considerate, you will be too."
Peter has no idea why New York cab drivers always want to talk, and yet the man has a point. Peter's father tends to consider every move he makes. As for Peter's mother. Well. . . Peter doesn't know anything about his mother. His father never talks about her. Peter doesn't even have a photograph of her. His father says she chose someone else over them, another life. Peter doesn't understand how that's even possible. How could someone not choose him? Them. Their life isn't necessarily the most functional one, but what is functional anyway? Besides, they're family.
"There's no such thing as functional," the taxi driver says with a laugh. "Functionality is like normalcy. It's just a myth that's been created to make people feel like freaks. Normalcy and functionality are false constructs to make you feel discontent and make you think you need something outside of yourself. You don't. We are all complete in and of ourselves. Anything we get from other people is just superfluous."
For a moment Peter thinks the taxi driver is reading his mind, and then he realizes he's spoken aloud. "You're right," he agrees, leaning forward and handing the driver a fifty dollar bill. He glances at the driver's medallion. "Mohinder. You're absolutely right, Mohinder," he repeats, opening the door and sliding out.
"Hey, wait!" Mohinder calls after him. "Your change!"
"Keep it," Peter says. "Consider it a tip for the advice."
Mohinder shakes his head as Peter slams the door closed behind him, and after a moment he drives away. Peter looks after the taxi long after it's blended in with all the other evening traffic.
Peter stands on the sidewalk for a moment before a guy with too much facial hair and decidedly Cro-Magnon features knocks him off the curb. Peter gets a weird crackling sensation in his fingers, but it dies off so he dismisses it. He's working, after all.
The lights are still on at the Vote Petrelli headquarters, just like his father said they would be. Nathan Petrelli likes to burn the midnight oil now that he's been widowed. Peter didn't ask for details so his father didn't give them. Petrelli is dedicated though. He gives 110%. He just doesn't want to give it to Peter's father, which means he has to go. Beside Peter wouldn't do this there anyway. He needs to wait and see. His time will come. He just has to be patient.
So Peter waits.
And then he waits some more.
And in due course his time comes.
The lights go dark. The front door opens and out comes Peter's mark, along with an older woman with dark hair and two hulking figures that Peter assumes are bodyguards. The bodyguards are almost quaint. No one has ever been able to stop Peter from doing something his father wants done. No one.
Peter's hand goes up to hail a taxi the minute a Town Car slides up to the front of the campaign offices, but only the goons and the older lady get in the car.
This is interesting. It also might explain Petrelli's reticence to get in bed with Peter's father. Metaphorically speaking. Peter watches as his mark looks after the departing Town Car, and then Petrelli is on the move. He doesn't go far though, just down the block to a nondescript bar.
This is Peter's sign.
He's across the street and through the door, right behind Petrelli and inhaling his subtle aftershave -- the benefits of his abilities once again. Peter takes in the entire interior in less time than it takes for Nathan Petrelli to make his way to the bar. Two bartenders, four people at the bar, eight by the fireplace in the back, five at tables out front. Six women and thirteen men. No hats, no tourists, three plainclothes bodyguards, six men in ties, eight married people and at least two not wearing their wedding bands. Being fast has its privileges.
Peter breezes into the kitchen just as the bus boy comes out, and he makes a right turn into the storage locker. There's a long mirrored wall, and Peter takes a moment to pull himself together. His head is there, his body is there, but there's something off. There's an itch somewhere, everywhere: between his fingers, between his shoulder blades, the backs of his knees and behind his ears. Peter is tingling all over his body, and he growls under his breath. The olive green jacket he's wearing is classic Village thrift store, it's been washed a thousand times and shouldn't make him itch at all. He unfastens the jacket and lifts up his shirt. He knows its stupid, but he's going to check for wings or feathers or fur or who knows what he might have picked up suddenly.
Everything looks fine. He looks fine. But there's something off. Something weird.
He could call the job off. Return home and tell his father -- tell him what exactly?
That Peter got a feeling? That Peter got nervous? Lindermans don't have nerve issues. They don't have anxiety. Lindermans just do.
Peter scowls at himself in the mirror and takes off his jacket. The button down black shirt and dark jeans are much better for this job anyway. Balling up the jacket, Peter sticks it in a corner.
He's here to do a job. He's going to do it.
Nathan Petrelli doesn't belong at this bar. Not wearing that suit. Not looking the way he does. His posture is too good, his profile is too perfect. It's strange the way the other patrons seem to sense this and give him a wide berth. Peter would think that in New York every person with an opinion would be harassing the congressional candidate about immigration or tax reform or education or health care, but everyone seems content to leave him well alone. Well, everyone else.
Peter has never been like anyone else; that's what his father has always drummed into his head. So Peter sides up the bar right next to his mark. He's not here to be subtle, he's here to get the job done. He's here -
Jesus Christ.
Every nerve in Peter's body fires up when he brushes against Petrelli, taking the bar stool next to him, and then Peter gets it. Why he had to do this. Petrelli has a power. An ability. Something Peter's father wants Peter and Peter alone to have. It's never been like this before though. Even with Jessica.
Most powers are a faint itch or a strange yearning, with Petrelli it's like fireworks and pop rocks on his tongue and the anticipation of something great. Peter doesn't tend to anticipate anything, because anticipation always leads to disappointment. And yet, whatever Nathan Petrelli possesses, Peter wants. He's making Peter's hair stand on end like one of those giant static balls that they let the kids play with at the museum.
Petrelli doesn't seem to feel it though. He doesn't even glance at Peter, and something inside of Peter responds to that. More than whatever is happening to him physically, Peter wants Petrelli to feel it too. How can he not get it?
"What'll it be?" the bartender asks, and Peter puts his overactive brain on pause for the moment.
"I'll have whatever he's having," he says waving at Petrelli.
Peter watches wordlessly as the bartender liberally fills a glass with scotch. Peter hates scotch. He'd much rather have a beer or a nice glass of wine, still, he slides a fifty across the bar and tells the bartender, "keep 'em coming."
Peter wants to say something to Petrelli, but what's there to say? 'Hi, I'm here to kill you on the orders of my father.' Perhaps, 'I know you have some sort of ability, I don't know what it is, but you just gave it to me. Thanks for nothing. Unless it's something great like invisibility or flying.'
What if Nathan Petrelli can fly?
Peter can feel the laughter bubbling up in his throat, and that's certainly one way to get the mark out of the bar and into the street, let him think Peter's some crazy nutter.
Right now, Peter does feel a bit unhinged. But no. There will be none of that tonight or ever again. Peter is fine. Peter will always be fine in the end. He wonders if his mom was crazy and that's why she left them. He wonders if she's in an institution. Peter has been known to fill whole days with 'what if's' about his mother. He's tried to find out, but all ends have led him right back to his father. Eventually he realized he wasn't going to know anything his dad didn't want him to know. It rankles. Most days Peter is content. Some days not to so much so.
"Does your mother love you?" he blurts out.
It has to be the strangest opening line ever, but this is Peter. Peter was raised in a casino. His playmates have been bodyguards and blackjack dealers. He killed the woman he loved because she was going to kill his dad. He is nothing if not eccentric.
Petrelli shifts next to him; he's going to ignore Peter. Pretend that Peter's a loony. He's going to finish his drink and leave.
Except that that's not what happens. Instead Petrelli raises an eyebrow and eyes him curiously. It reminds Peter of his father. It reminds Peter of himself. "Most of my potential constituents want to talk about universal health care," Petrelli says.
Peter takes his opening. "I'm not your constituent."
"Potential," Petrelli corrects him.
"I live out west," Peter says vaguely.
Petrelli toasts Peter with his glass. "A bit far from home, aren't you?"
"I lost my ruby slippers, and had to settle for Ferragamo loafers," Peter kicks the bar softly, his knee knocking against Petrelli's briefly. "They don't get as much mileage."
Petrelli's face twists into something that's an almost smile. "That's a shame. You could save a lot on gas."
"I prefer to walk anyway," Peter concedes.
"They don't do a lot of walking out west though, do they?"
"They do where I come from," Peter lobbies back.
"And where's that?" Petrelli is fishing. Good for him.
"Seattle."
"It rains a lot there," Petrelli points out.
"It rains a lot here too. But we have fewer people. And better views." Peter's been to Seattle three times for a total of 132 hours.
"You don't sound impressed by New York."
Peter laughs. "I'm not impressed by most things. Amused yes, impressed no."
It's Petrelli's turn to laugh now. "I know what you mean. It's a shame you don't live here though, I could use you at my campaign headquarters as comedic relief."
"Well, if I could, I would," Peter offers. "I do know this awesome computer, ah, programmer though. He can do wonders with underdog candidates." Micah would love to play around with something like voting software. Last month Peter found out he'd been hacking the NSA for lunch money.
Petrelli cocks his head to the side. "A programmer, huh?"
Peter can feel that thing again. That frisson of something coming from Petrelli. Maybe he has the power of sexual magnetism. That doesn't make sense either though, because if that were true surely Peter would have to fight off the entire bar.
He must be quiet for too long though, because Petrelli's eyes narrow and something flickers there. "Can I get you another drink?" Peter diverts.
"And then I'll be known as the drunk congressional candidate," Petrelli offers.
Peter laughs. "Drunk, no -- lightweight, maybe." He finishes his scotch quickly and licks at an errant drop.
"I should at least know your name if you're going to sell me to the tabloids," Petrelli points out. His gaze is like fingers on Peter's face, but Peter hasn't let anyone besides his dad touch him in years. He already has his father's ability, and he prefers to pretend to have some control over what happens to him.
"Peter. My name's Peter. . . Wilmer." Candice has been privy to much worse.
Petrelli holds out his hand. "Nathan. Nathan Petrelli for Congress," and there's that plastic grin from Petrelli's -- Nathan's photo. Peter doesn't like it. It looks almost painful.
Peter doesn't even realize he's reaching out until his hand is almost to Nathan's shoulder -- it's so obvious they both see it -- and then Peter's turning on his stool to gesture for the bartender. Peter has never had self-control problems; he doesn't even know what he thought he was doing, and if that's not strictly true it doesn't matter anyway. He holds up two fingers and gestures between Nathan and himself.
This is a job and he's getting entirely too personal with the mark, except that he wants to know what Nathan Petrelli can do. And he wants to know why he can feel Nathan's breathing in his chest.
This is how he got in trouble last time, too.
"So," Peter starts again. Nathan's pulled his hand back, but now he's eying Peter much more closely. Peter's already engaged Nathan too much; he might as well go all the way.
"Why did you ask me about my mother?" Nathan prods. "That's a pretty personal question to ask someone you don’t know."
"I never knew my mom," Peter confesses, laying himself open for a moment. "She left my dad and I when I was just a baby. So whereas most people have dad issues, I have mom issues."
Nathan nods. "That's -- understandable. My mom -- she's my mom. I know it doesn't make much sense, but I'm an only child and that can make things stressful."
"Pretty much."
"I'm sure your dad is a good man."
"My dad is a great man," Peter corrects, taking the drinks the bartender places before them and handing one to Nathan. "Realizing you have a problem is the first step in AA," he says by way of toast.
"You're in AA?" Nathan's voice can't keep out the incredulous tone. Peter laughs, knocks back his drink and then nearly coughs up his lungs. When Nathan claps him on the back, Peter's toes curl and his dick gets hard. So it's not his imagination after all.
"No, I've never had a drinking problem in my life," Peter coughs out. "Except for the one just now where it went down the wrong pipe."
Nathan chuckles low in his throat and the smile he gives Peter almost seems like it might be the real thing. "Great, the lightweight congressional candidate and the alcoholic in denial. The Post is going to love this."
Peter isn't going to get a better shot than this. "If we get a taxi, at least you won't be seen staggering down the street with me." If he says no, Peter can still see him off and take care of things there; if they do go back to Peter's place, well.
Nathan blinks. "I'm flattered, but I'm running for Congress." He says it as though Peter should understand what he's trying to say, and Peter does, he just doesn't want to.
"Right," Peter says, getting to his feet. "Well, at least enjoy the drink on me." A glance around the bar confirms that nobody is looking at them. Him. Okay, Plan A it is. "Thanks for the conversation; I'm sure you're going to make a great congressman, Nathan."
Peter doesn't turn around. Peter never turns around. He can feel the connection sever when the door closes behind him though. It's like he just left an arm behind. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like this. He wants his dad. He wants Nathan. This is getting more fucked up every second, but he's already broken at least fifteen of his own rules: engagement, drinking, second thoughts, third thoughts, hitting on the mark, having bad dirty, fucking in the back alley thoughts about his mark.
In for a penny, in for the night.
He's standing on the curb with his hand in the air when all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, and he automatically turns to his left, meeting Nathan Petrelli, who is just entering his personal space.
"This is a very bad idea," Nathan points out calmly, his breath warming the side of Peter's face.
Peter shrugs; he father hates it when he shrugs. "All ideas are bad ideas. Except for the good ones. This is a good idea."
"I can't take you home," Nathan points out.
Peter can feel Nathan's eyes on his face, on his neck. It's late autumn; he's cold without his jacket, but he doesn't really care. "So come back to my place."
"You have a place?"
Peter claps Nathan on the back of the neck and watches Nathan as he darts his tongue over his bottom lip. "I have a lot of things," Peter promises in a low tone.
Continued here
Heroes
Peter/Nathan (NC-17)
Alternate Universe
Ordinary People Are Not Like You and Me
John Smith is having a bad day. He's lost his wife, his dog, he's been caught embezzling money from Peter's father and in about five seconds he's going to die.
Four.
Three.
The last words out of his mouth are, "No! Wait! I can explain!"
People are always telling Peter they can explain.
Peter's not interested.
It doesn't matter that John's a low-level thug with only the mildest aspirations of greatness. It doesn't matter that John's only taken $5,000.
Peter's father is very big on principles, and he's always telling his son that the key to good principles is knowing when to enforce them. Today John takes $5,000, tomorrow it's $500,000. Peter's father can't have that. Not that he's hard up for the money, but again, it's the principle of the thing.
Peter's father has passed on many of his principles to his son, and this is why, when Peter Linderman showed up on the doorstep of John Smith's home at three o'clock this afternoon, he suggested that John's wife leave her husband.
He suggested she take the dog too.
There was no point in the dog suffering because John Smith is an idiot. Was an idiot.
In Peter's line of work he comes across a lot of idiots. It's unfortunate but true. Most people are smart, but money tends to make them foolish. And when you combine that with fear, well, a fool and his money are soon parted. Generally by Peter's hand. Or in this case by the powers Peter is channeling through his hand. It's not a trick of the mind or the eyes, it's just this thing that Peter can do.
Peter can touch you without skin contact. Peter can smooth your hair in a club while he's in the bathroom taking a leak. Peter can snap your neck while his back is turned and he's eating cold chicken from your refrigerator.
Peter can do a lot of things: healing, telekinesis, super strength, walking through walls. Peter can run around the world in the time it takes a butterfly to flap its wings. Peter doesn't know how he can do these things, he just knows he can.
His father says Peter is special; he's destined for great things. He sends Peter out into the world to do great things. Peter's not sure how killing John Smith is a great thing, but he doesn't tend to question his father. No one questions a Linderman. Instead Peter acquires these abilities like most people collect coins or shoes: avidly and with great glee -- although mostly unknowingly. It's rare for Peter to meet people who are like him. Most of the time he doesn't even realize he's acquired a new gift, he just wakes up in the morning and he's got a new trick up his sleeve.
Most people Peter meets, though, are ordinary. A lot of the ordinary people Peter meets end up sprawled on the floor between their bed and their dresser like John Smith.
Peter sighs as he rifles through John's pockets for the money he took. John smells like too much cologne and stale cigarettes. He's wearing a fake gold chain around his neck. He could have been a lawyer or a doctor. He could have been a fireman or a nurse. John Smith could have done anything with his life, and instead he wasted it on $5,000 of Linderman money. It's such a disappointment, but then again, you can't expect much else from people. That's the sad part.
Most people want to be good and trust-worthy -- Peter truly believes this - it's just that it's so much easier to be bad. Peter should know. Just look at John Smith.
A part of him pauses half way out the door. The rest of him doesn't look back.
Candice Wilmer is a middle-aged black woman with perfectly coiffed hair and blood red nails that are always the same length and color. Peter has never seen Candice with a chipped nail or a hair out of place. It's an ability of one stripe or another, but Peter's not sure what. Peter figures he can do it too, he just doesn't know what it is. He figures that when the time comes his father will tell him, and when he wordlessly materializes outside his father's office, Candice doesn't even twitch. She's been his father's assistant for as long as Peter can recall, so he supposes nothing really phases her at this point.
Candice has read him bedtime stories and put Band-Aids on cuts that have disappeared the minute Peter's father found out about them. Candice has always treated Peter as though he were like anyone else. On one hand he adores her for it. On the other hand he is a Linderman.
"Peter, he's just finishing up a meeting," Candice says, glancing up from the flat screen monitor in front of her. The reading glasses perched on the end of her nose never seem to move an inch, and as far as Peter can tell Candice is the same age now as she was when he was six. "How's the weather outside?" she asks, reaching under her desk to find a bottle of water for Peter.
Peter smirks as he unfastens the cap. "It's hot," he says mildly
"It was hot yesterday," Candice says matter-of-factly.
Peter takes a swig of water. "It'll probably be hot tomorrow too."
Candice makes a hmming sound. "That's life in the desert."
Peter smirks. "Yeah, it is."
Candice has the most perfect posture Peter has ever seen, and yet under Peter's gaze she seems to sit up even straighter as though she's being pulled by an invisible string. Maybe it's just an optical illusion. "Your father is done now. You can go in."
Peter caps the bottle in his hand and sets it back on Candice desk. "You have crumbs on your collar," she remarks.
Peter brushes at food he can't see and smiles. "Thanks, Candice."
She smirks back. "Don't mention it," she says, reaching somewhere under her desk to hit the release for the office doors.
Peter's father's office is all clean lines and ascetic tastes. The marble is flawless, the mahogany desk has never seen a scratch. Even when Peter was little and used to play hide and seek under the desk, he never left a mark. Peter suspects the office will be the same long after everyone is dead and gone.
His father stands up as Peter walks the length of the room. "How are things today?" he asks, coming around his desk to clap his only son on the back in greeting. Peter's father has always been free with his physical affection; Peter wonders how other people survive without that sort of unmitigated love.
Peter's not stupid; he knows his father does some less than desirable things. He has Peter do less than desirable things, but Peter doesn’t doubt that his father loves him very much. He has to believe in him; Peter's built his entire life on the foundation that his father is right. That what he does is right. He can't start questioning everything at twenty-six. He did that at twenty-three and it almost killed him.
Peter shrugs as he withdraws the money from his jacket and sets it on his father's desk. "Quiet," he says pointedly.
His father nods. "That's a good sign," he says with a wink. "When things are noisy, then they're stressful, and stress is bad, especially for an old man like me."
Peter can't help but chuckle. His father is healthier than most men Peter's age. He runs five miles every morning and has been known to bench press the children of people who he does business with. "Dad, you're going to live forever."
Peter's father smirks. "If I stick around you I might." It's Peter's turn to chuckle and look down at his feet. There's something on the toe of his right loafer and he frowns. A tissue flies off of his father's desk and Peter can feel his forehead furrowing slightly as the tissue buffs away the stain.
When he glances back up, his father is watching him with open amusement. "Who knew I would raise such a fastidious son?"
Peter just raises an eyebrow. Candice says he gets that from his father. Jessica used to tell him that too. He doesn't miss her much anymore. Micah is better off with D.L. anyway. "I was thinking about taking the afternoon off and going to L.A. to see a friend."
Killing Jessica was not one of Peter's more pleasant jobs, and for the first time in his life, Peter told his father 'no'. Leaving Micah alive and with D.L. was their compromise. It's an open-secret that when Peter goes to Los Angeles he's going to check up on Micah; his father humors him because he's his father.
"Maybe you can put that off for a day or two," his dad says, his mouth thinning out just slightly. "There's something important I need you to do for me."
"Dad," Peter begins.
"Just for a day or two," his father holds up his hands placatingly. "I wouldn't stop you from doing something you really want to do, but this is important, which means you're the only one I trust to do it."
Peter sighs. "Fine. What is it?"
Peter's father leans back on his desk and flips open a red folder. Grabbing a glossy piece of paper, he sits back up and hands it to Peter. "I need this person taken care of."
Peter studies the photo for a moment. It's a standard photo. A man in a suit standing by a flag. The man has this strange plastic smile on his face; he looks as though he's had to practice this look a lot. He looks strangely familiar. A lot of people look familiar to Peter though. "Can I at least have lunch first?"
"There's a pot pie in the kitchen with your name on it."
Peter loves his dad's pot pies. "Where am I going?" he asks suspiciously.
"Manhattan."
Peter frowns. The city means people. Lots of people. If he's not careful he'll come home with wings or the ability to glow in the dark. "That's a lot of people," he says, not needing to point out the obvious.
His father nods. "I know, but this is important -- there's fried zucchini in it for you."
Peter chuckles. His dad has never been afraid of resorting to bribery to get Peter to do what he wants. "Fine. I'll go. You win."
Peter's dad claps him on the shoulder. "No, son. We win."
It's almost ten o'clock in the evening when Peter finally gets into the city. Manhattan is just as obnoxiously loud, bright and garish as Peter remembers. His head starts to ache the moment the taxi driver pulls up to Kirby Plaza, and it's all Peter can do not to beg him to turn around and take Peter back to JFK. As it stands, the taxi driver turns around when Peter doesn't immediately get out of the car.
"Are you okay?" he asks with a slight accent. Indian. English -- the United Kingdom version. He's got blindingly white teeth and glossy black hair.
Peter wonders what the man would say if Peter told him his father had sent him to the city to kill someone Peter has never met. Instead Peter glances out the window and sees a bus rolling past with the target's photo on it.
He's going to kill a congressional candidate for the greater good. Their greater good -- a world where people with abilities are the norm and not to be hidden away. A world where they don't need to be protected. "I'll be fine," Peter says. "I just need a minute."
The man nods. "I think the world would be a better place if more people learned to take a minute, don't you? Genetically, people favor their parents. If your parents are busy and hurried, you will be too. If your parents are lackadaisical or considerate, you will be too."
Peter has no idea why New York cab drivers always want to talk, and yet the man has a point. Peter's father tends to consider every move he makes. As for Peter's mother. Well. . . Peter doesn't know anything about his mother. His father never talks about her. Peter doesn't even have a photograph of her. His father says she chose someone else over them, another life. Peter doesn't understand how that's even possible. How could someone not choose him? Them. Their life isn't necessarily the most functional one, but what is functional anyway? Besides, they're family.
"There's no such thing as functional," the taxi driver says with a laugh. "Functionality is like normalcy. It's just a myth that's been created to make people feel like freaks. Normalcy and functionality are false constructs to make you feel discontent and make you think you need something outside of yourself. You don't. We are all complete in and of ourselves. Anything we get from other people is just superfluous."
For a moment Peter thinks the taxi driver is reading his mind, and then he realizes he's spoken aloud. "You're right," he agrees, leaning forward and handing the driver a fifty dollar bill. He glances at the driver's medallion. "Mohinder. You're absolutely right, Mohinder," he repeats, opening the door and sliding out.
"Hey, wait!" Mohinder calls after him. "Your change!"
"Keep it," Peter says. "Consider it a tip for the advice."
Mohinder shakes his head as Peter slams the door closed behind him, and after a moment he drives away. Peter looks after the taxi long after it's blended in with all the other evening traffic.
Peter stands on the sidewalk for a moment before a guy with too much facial hair and decidedly Cro-Magnon features knocks him off the curb. Peter gets a weird crackling sensation in his fingers, but it dies off so he dismisses it. He's working, after all.
The lights are still on at the Vote Petrelli headquarters, just like his father said they would be. Nathan Petrelli likes to burn the midnight oil now that he's been widowed. Peter didn't ask for details so his father didn't give them. Petrelli is dedicated though. He gives 110%. He just doesn't want to give it to Peter's father, which means he has to go. Beside Peter wouldn't do this there anyway. He needs to wait and see. His time will come. He just has to be patient.
So Peter waits.
And then he waits some more.
And in due course his time comes.
The lights go dark. The front door opens and out comes Peter's mark, along with an older woman with dark hair and two hulking figures that Peter assumes are bodyguards. The bodyguards are almost quaint. No one has ever been able to stop Peter from doing something his father wants done. No one.
Peter's hand goes up to hail a taxi the minute a Town Car slides up to the front of the campaign offices, but only the goons and the older lady get in the car.
This is interesting. It also might explain Petrelli's reticence to get in bed with Peter's father. Metaphorically speaking. Peter watches as his mark looks after the departing Town Car, and then Petrelli is on the move. He doesn't go far though, just down the block to a nondescript bar.
This is Peter's sign.
He's across the street and through the door, right behind Petrelli and inhaling his subtle aftershave -- the benefits of his abilities once again. Peter takes in the entire interior in less time than it takes for Nathan Petrelli to make his way to the bar. Two bartenders, four people at the bar, eight by the fireplace in the back, five at tables out front. Six women and thirteen men. No hats, no tourists, three plainclothes bodyguards, six men in ties, eight married people and at least two not wearing their wedding bands. Being fast has its privileges.
Peter breezes into the kitchen just as the bus boy comes out, and he makes a right turn into the storage locker. There's a long mirrored wall, and Peter takes a moment to pull himself together. His head is there, his body is there, but there's something off. There's an itch somewhere, everywhere: between his fingers, between his shoulder blades, the backs of his knees and behind his ears. Peter is tingling all over his body, and he growls under his breath. The olive green jacket he's wearing is classic Village thrift store, it's been washed a thousand times and shouldn't make him itch at all. He unfastens the jacket and lifts up his shirt. He knows its stupid, but he's going to check for wings or feathers or fur or who knows what he might have picked up suddenly.
Everything looks fine. He looks fine. But there's something off. Something weird.
He could call the job off. Return home and tell his father -- tell him what exactly?
That Peter got a feeling? That Peter got nervous? Lindermans don't have nerve issues. They don't have anxiety. Lindermans just do.
Peter scowls at himself in the mirror and takes off his jacket. The button down black shirt and dark jeans are much better for this job anyway. Balling up the jacket, Peter sticks it in a corner.
He's here to do a job. He's going to do it.
Nathan Petrelli doesn't belong at this bar. Not wearing that suit. Not looking the way he does. His posture is too good, his profile is too perfect. It's strange the way the other patrons seem to sense this and give him a wide berth. Peter would think that in New York every person with an opinion would be harassing the congressional candidate about immigration or tax reform or education or health care, but everyone seems content to leave him well alone. Well, everyone else.
Peter has never been like anyone else; that's what his father has always drummed into his head. So Peter sides up the bar right next to his mark. He's not here to be subtle, he's here to get the job done. He's here -
Jesus Christ.
Every nerve in Peter's body fires up when he brushes against Petrelli, taking the bar stool next to him, and then Peter gets it. Why he had to do this. Petrelli has a power. An ability. Something Peter's father wants Peter and Peter alone to have. It's never been like this before though. Even with Jessica.
Most powers are a faint itch or a strange yearning, with Petrelli it's like fireworks and pop rocks on his tongue and the anticipation of something great. Peter doesn't tend to anticipate anything, because anticipation always leads to disappointment. And yet, whatever Nathan Petrelli possesses, Peter wants. He's making Peter's hair stand on end like one of those giant static balls that they let the kids play with at the museum.
Petrelli doesn't seem to feel it though. He doesn't even glance at Peter, and something inside of Peter responds to that. More than whatever is happening to him physically, Peter wants Petrelli to feel it too. How can he not get it?
"What'll it be?" the bartender asks, and Peter puts his overactive brain on pause for the moment.
"I'll have whatever he's having," he says waving at Petrelli.
Peter watches wordlessly as the bartender liberally fills a glass with scotch. Peter hates scotch. He'd much rather have a beer or a nice glass of wine, still, he slides a fifty across the bar and tells the bartender, "keep 'em coming."
Peter wants to say something to Petrelli, but what's there to say? 'Hi, I'm here to kill you on the orders of my father.' Perhaps, 'I know you have some sort of ability, I don't know what it is, but you just gave it to me. Thanks for nothing. Unless it's something great like invisibility or flying.'
What if Nathan Petrelli can fly?
Peter can feel the laughter bubbling up in his throat, and that's certainly one way to get the mark out of the bar and into the street, let him think Peter's some crazy nutter.
Right now, Peter does feel a bit unhinged. But no. There will be none of that tonight or ever again. Peter is fine. Peter will always be fine in the end. He wonders if his mom was crazy and that's why she left them. He wonders if she's in an institution. Peter has been known to fill whole days with 'what if's' about his mother. He's tried to find out, but all ends have led him right back to his father. Eventually he realized he wasn't going to know anything his dad didn't want him to know. It rankles. Most days Peter is content. Some days not to so much so.
"Does your mother love you?" he blurts out.
It has to be the strangest opening line ever, but this is Peter. Peter was raised in a casino. His playmates have been bodyguards and blackjack dealers. He killed the woman he loved because she was going to kill his dad. He is nothing if not eccentric.
Petrelli shifts next to him; he's going to ignore Peter. Pretend that Peter's a loony. He's going to finish his drink and leave.
Except that that's not what happens. Instead Petrelli raises an eyebrow and eyes him curiously. It reminds Peter of his father. It reminds Peter of himself. "Most of my potential constituents want to talk about universal health care," Petrelli says.
Peter takes his opening. "I'm not your constituent."
"Potential," Petrelli corrects him.
"I live out west," Peter says vaguely.
Petrelli toasts Peter with his glass. "A bit far from home, aren't you?"
"I lost my ruby slippers, and had to settle for Ferragamo loafers," Peter kicks the bar softly, his knee knocking against Petrelli's briefly. "They don't get as much mileage."
Petrelli's face twists into something that's an almost smile. "That's a shame. You could save a lot on gas."
"I prefer to walk anyway," Peter concedes.
"They don't do a lot of walking out west though, do they?"
"They do where I come from," Peter lobbies back.
"And where's that?" Petrelli is fishing. Good for him.
"Seattle."
"It rains a lot there," Petrelli points out.
"It rains a lot here too. But we have fewer people. And better views." Peter's been to Seattle three times for a total of 132 hours.
"You don't sound impressed by New York."
Peter laughs. "I'm not impressed by most things. Amused yes, impressed no."
It's Petrelli's turn to laugh now. "I know what you mean. It's a shame you don't live here though, I could use you at my campaign headquarters as comedic relief."
"Well, if I could, I would," Peter offers. "I do know this awesome computer, ah, programmer though. He can do wonders with underdog candidates." Micah would love to play around with something like voting software. Last month Peter found out he'd been hacking the NSA for lunch money.
Petrelli cocks his head to the side. "A programmer, huh?"
Peter can feel that thing again. That frisson of something coming from Petrelli. Maybe he has the power of sexual magnetism. That doesn't make sense either though, because if that were true surely Peter would have to fight off the entire bar.
He must be quiet for too long though, because Petrelli's eyes narrow and something flickers there. "Can I get you another drink?" Peter diverts.
"And then I'll be known as the drunk congressional candidate," Petrelli offers.
Peter laughs. "Drunk, no -- lightweight, maybe." He finishes his scotch quickly and licks at an errant drop.
"I should at least know your name if you're going to sell me to the tabloids," Petrelli points out. His gaze is like fingers on Peter's face, but Peter hasn't let anyone besides his dad touch him in years. He already has his father's ability, and he prefers to pretend to have some control over what happens to him.
"Peter. My name's Peter. . . Wilmer." Candice has been privy to much worse.
Petrelli holds out his hand. "Nathan. Nathan Petrelli for Congress," and there's that plastic grin from Petrelli's -- Nathan's photo. Peter doesn't like it. It looks almost painful.
Peter doesn't even realize he's reaching out until his hand is almost to Nathan's shoulder -- it's so obvious they both see it -- and then Peter's turning on his stool to gesture for the bartender. Peter has never had self-control problems; he doesn't even know what he thought he was doing, and if that's not strictly true it doesn't matter anyway. He holds up two fingers and gestures between Nathan and himself.
This is a job and he's getting entirely too personal with the mark, except that he wants to know what Nathan Petrelli can do. And he wants to know why he can feel Nathan's breathing in his chest.
This is how he got in trouble last time, too.
"So," Peter starts again. Nathan's pulled his hand back, but now he's eying Peter much more closely. Peter's already engaged Nathan too much; he might as well go all the way.
"Why did you ask me about my mother?" Nathan prods. "That's a pretty personal question to ask someone you don’t know."
"I never knew my mom," Peter confesses, laying himself open for a moment. "She left my dad and I when I was just a baby. So whereas most people have dad issues, I have mom issues."
Nathan nods. "That's -- understandable. My mom -- she's my mom. I know it doesn't make much sense, but I'm an only child and that can make things stressful."
"Pretty much."
"I'm sure your dad is a good man."
"My dad is a great man," Peter corrects, taking the drinks the bartender places before them and handing one to Nathan. "Realizing you have a problem is the first step in AA," he says by way of toast.
"You're in AA?" Nathan's voice can't keep out the incredulous tone. Peter laughs, knocks back his drink and then nearly coughs up his lungs. When Nathan claps him on the back, Peter's toes curl and his dick gets hard. So it's not his imagination after all.
"No, I've never had a drinking problem in my life," Peter coughs out. "Except for the one just now where it went down the wrong pipe."
Nathan chuckles low in his throat and the smile he gives Peter almost seems like it might be the real thing. "Great, the lightweight congressional candidate and the alcoholic in denial. The Post is going to love this."
Peter isn't going to get a better shot than this. "If we get a taxi, at least you won't be seen staggering down the street with me." If he says no, Peter can still see him off and take care of things there; if they do go back to Peter's place, well.
Nathan blinks. "I'm flattered, but I'm running for Congress." He says it as though Peter should understand what he's trying to say, and Peter does, he just doesn't want to.
"Right," Peter says, getting to his feet. "Well, at least enjoy the drink on me." A glance around the bar confirms that nobody is looking at them. Him. Okay, Plan A it is. "Thanks for the conversation; I'm sure you're going to make a great congressman, Nathan."
Peter doesn't turn around. Peter never turns around. He can feel the connection sever when the door closes behind him though. It's like he just left an arm behind. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like this. He wants his dad. He wants Nathan. This is getting more fucked up every second, but he's already broken at least fifteen of his own rules: engagement, drinking, second thoughts, third thoughts, hitting on the mark, having bad dirty, fucking in the back alley thoughts about his mark.
In for a penny, in for the night.
He's standing on the curb with his hand in the air when all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, and he automatically turns to his left, meeting Nathan Petrelli, who is just entering his personal space.
"This is a very bad idea," Nathan points out calmly, his breath warming the side of Peter's face.
Peter shrugs; he father hates it when he shrugs. "All ideas are bad ideas. Except for the good ones. This is a good idea."
"I can't take you home," Nathan points out.
Peter can feel Nathan's eyes on his face, on his neck. It's late autumn; he's cold without his jacket, but he doesn't really care. "So come back to my place."
"You have a place?"
Peter claps Nathan on the back of the neck and watches Nathan as he darts his tongue over his bottom lip. "I have a lot of things," Peter promises in a low tone.
Continued here