Fic: Ritual (40): A Mother Always Knows
Title: Ritual (40): A Mother Always Knows
Author: mystery_sock
Pairing/Characters: Peter/Nathan, Arthur, Angela
Rating: R
Spoilers: season 2 all
Word Count: about 7550
Warnings: language, implied incest, angst
Summary: Does Angela know about Peter and Nathan? How long has she known? Why hasn't she stopped them? Does she even want to?... Feedback and concrit welcome!
• Ritual Reader's Guide - all Ritual stories in chronological order •
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. Characters used without permission. No revenue is generated or accepted by the author of this story for its publication on the internet.
This story is working from the assumption of the TOTALLY WRONG early speculations about Angela and Arthur's powers - touch-based telepathic persuasion and probability manipulation.
1981
One of Peter's very first words was "love." Nathan taught it to him, thinking that it was funny. For the first few days after Nathan went back to school at the end of the summer, Peter, if set down to toddle around on his own, would always crawl to the front door and wait there with a hopeful smile on his face.
Whenever Angela caught him doing this, she would hoist Peter up onto his feet, and hold his hand to guide him along, step by shaky step, until he could walk by himself. After that, to her relief, Peter seemed to forget all about Nathan-that is, until the next time he came home.
-----
1986
In the evening after Peter's very first day of proper school, Angela decided to make him a frittata for his dinner.
Angela almost never prepared the family's meals herself anymore, but now and again she did, and her cheese-and-toast frittata was Peter's favorite food that wasn't some variation on candy or ice cream. Peter liked to putter around her while she cooked, the way she had with her own mother. It was good to have moments of ordinary togetherness, or mother-child bonding, or whatever they were calling it these days.
She had been worried about how her sensitive, easily overwhelmed younger son would handle staying in a classroom all day, but apparently he had enjoyed it, and when class was over, the teacher had made a point of telling Angela that Peter was a bright and delightful child. To Angela's surprise, she had missed him terribly on that long day, missed his smile and his frequent kisses and hugs, even the constant barrage of questions and tantrums which usually drove her up the wall. She was a mother, and he was her baby, no matter how difficult he could be. He was six; he was growing up. That day, for the first time, she realized that someday she would lose him.
But not yet. Peter, standing on a chair beside Angela at the stove, chattered happily about everything that he had done at school, and Angela encouraged him with occasional asides, only half listening to him as she carefully tended to her skillet. "An' there was a fish tank with a teeny tiny crab at the bottom, an' a whole bunch of fish! Nine fish. I counted 'em and the teacher asked me if I could count up to twenty, and I could! An' I drew a Superman for Nathan," he said for the third time, forgetting that he had already showed her the scrawl, a stick figure in red and blue at the top of a sheet of paper. "An' I put my name on it. 'Peter'. P-E-T-E-R. Two E's. Not P-E-T-R. Teacher showed me how to do it. An' then, I wrote Nathan's name, too. N-A-T..." Peter lost his place, and hummed to himself instead, staring distractedly at the eggs bubbling in the skillet. He burst out suddenly, "I love Nathan best of anything ever best in the-the whole world!"
"Oh?" Angela replied, a little startled, turning her attention onto him. "Why is that?"
"Because he's big and strong and he's nice and he's pretty."
Angela hesitated for a moment, restraining laughter, before saying, "Peter, you're not supposed to say that other boys are pretty. You can say that girls are pretty, or that ladies are pretty, but you can't say that about boys."
"Why not?" Peter asked. "He is. He's my handsome brother. You said so. And 'handsome' means the same thing as 'pretty'. Miss Kiparsky said so."
"Yes, Peter, but I'm a lady. I can say that. Also, I'm his mother. Boys don't say that other boys are pretty."
"I guess so," Peter said. He looked back at the skillet, fascinated by the wisps of steam rising from the surface. "I love him best of everything, best of ever," he sang to himself.
"Better even than me?" Angela asked gently.
"Well... no," Peter said reluctantly. "I love you best of all of everything, too. And Daddy. But..." He broke off and smiled. "I love Nathan the best. When is he coming home?"
Angela was glad that she had to keep her eyes on the pan, and the plate held in her other hand, so she didn't have to look at him. Peter was a loving child, and this kind of hero worship wasn't uncommon at this age. "I'm afraid Nathan isn't coming home for a little while, Peter," she said. "It's only September, and his school just started last week. He will be here for Thanksgiving, which is in November. So how many months is that?"
Peter's eyes went wide with panic. "I don't know. Forever. Nathan won't be home forever!"
"Peter, that isn't true. September, October, November. That's three," she said lightly. "And months have four weeks. So that means Nathan will be here in twelve weeks." It was hard on her, too, having Nathan away, even if it had been that way since before Peter was born. She didn't like the fact that her older son had had to be shipped hundreds of miles away for his own safety; it was only good luck that Nathan loved boarding school, too, where his relentless drive to excel could progress and be rewarded. Nathan was clearly exceptional. And he was pretty; Peter was just plain right about that. But she couldn't let him grow up thinking that saying something like that was appropriate until he was at least in his 20s. She had no desire to raise that kind of son; not if she could help it.
"How long is twelve weeks?" Peter asked.
"Not very long," Angela said reassuringly. "It will be over before you know it. And I'm sure he will like your Superman picture. He'll appreciate that. If you'd like to write him a letter and tell him all about the little crab in the fish tank, I will put it out with tomorrow's mail. Now, look, Peter, watch me. I was your age when I started learning how to do this. You put the plate over the skillet, and you flip it over. It's easy, but you have to flip it just right." She expertly tossed the fritatta over onto the plate, then slid it back into the pan before the eggs had a chance to stick.
Peter blinked at her like she'd just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. "Oooh," he breathed.
She liked being on the receiving end of that look; it was one of the best things about having a child. "It gets easier once you've done it a few times. Do you want me to show you how?"
"I'm gonna go write to Nathan!" he decided suddenly, and ran out of the kitchen before she had a chance to protest. So much for impressing Peter with her culinary skills. Angela sighed, put the spatula down, and went after him to insist that he eat dinner first, and that Nathan could wait. She steeled herself against tonight's bedtime tantrum, which promised to be one for the record books.
-----
1991
When he was a small child, Peter usually woke up on his own, around six in the morning, but recently he had been sleeping later and later. Increasingly, he needed to be roused, and was grouchy and disoriented before he'd had his face-washing and breakfast. He was already becoming an adolescent, even if he still looked like a skinny, bow-legged child.
That was fine with Angela. It was almost as if he had picked up on her desire to have him not grow up too fast. She was worried about what the world would do to him.
On a cloudy November morning, Arthur and Angela sat at the kitchen table over coffee, muffins, and the morning newspapers. She loved these mornings, before Peter got up, alone together with her husband in the peaceful quiet. It seemed like breakfast was the only time they saw each other alone anymore. Their lives were full of pressures and distractions, and while they both loved Peter, these days the child was more of an aggravation than otherwise. He was moody and difficult, and he seemed to take personally every minor injustice he perceived. And their happy home, even a little more than the rest of the world, didn't often play by the rules of fairness. Sometimes Angela regretted not sending him away to school the way she had done to Nathan, but she had never been one to back down from a challenge. So he was difficult; he wouldn't break her. Angela Petrelli didn't break.
Angela would have been happy to just sit at the kitchen table with her husband all day, enjoying the relaxation and normality, but once he'd finished his second coffee, Arthur set down the newspaper and looked at his watch. "Where is that boy?" he muttered, frowning. "It's almost seven."
"Hm," Angela replied mildly, raising her eyebrows. "Sleeping in again. I'll go get him myself." She hadn't gotten around to telling Arthur that she'd fired the latest nanny for spending more time mooning after him than looking after Peter.
"Why can't that boy can't set an alarm clock?" Arthur scoffed. "Have you got to do that for him, too?"
"If need be," Angela said, rising from the table, tucking the folded newspaper neatly under her saucer. She bent down and kissed Arthur on the cheek, half warning, half affection. It made him smile, as she knew it would do.
She went upstairs and headed toward Peter's bedroom, arching her eyebrow at the new housemaid heading toward the master bedroom with an armload of fresh bedding. The housemaid gave Angela an uncertain nod, horribly intimidated. That made Angela smile. Every little feeling and signal of superiority helped, and she knew that she genuinely was superior. The girl was as ordinary and as necessary as dirt. All she needed to do was handle the linens, get paid entirely too much, and keep her mouth shut, and let those above her get on with what they were doing.
Angela let herself in to Peter's bedroom, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, making a mental note to get Peter some sheer curtains, to allow some light in. No wonder he seemed depressed. A Peter-sized lump lay diagonally across the bed. She drew in her breath to call his name and wake him, but as she saw more clearly, her voice died on her lips.
Peter lay twitching, face down, tossing and turning, most of the bedcovers kicked away from him. He was naked, his pajamas flung halfway across the room, clutching his pillow between his legs. Periodically he would relax and fall completely still, only to resume his restless movements. The depth and pattern of his breathing left no doubt that he was actually asleep. He half turned over, the pillow clenched between his knees, mumbling. Talking in his sleep.
"I'm in the air," he breathed. "Nathan...? I'm flying, Nathan... I...."
He fell still again, and lapsed into faint snoring. Angela just stared, overwhelmed with curiosity. Momentarily he began squirming once more, pushing himself against the pillow, rubbing himself against it. "Nathan..." he whispered. "I'm falling..." He smiled briefly and mechanically, as though his face merely needed to test its ability to do so; relaxed again, took some deep breaths, and rolled over onto his back. The pillowcase was rumpled, wet, and sticky. Angela drew back sharply and grimaced with disgust, then shook her head and gazed down at her little boy, his biology, his strange psychology.
He was such a loving child, a normal, healthy, growing boy... He was going to be fine. She would never tell him what she'd seen in a million years; never tell anyone. He was just an ordinary boy who loved his brother, who had sexual feelings he couldn't even name, feelings he didn't even know he had.
But still. But still. Nathan? She was glad she hadn't sent him to boarding school, after all. She needed to keep an eye on this one. He was the wild card. He was never supposed to exist in the first place. Then again, everything-and everyone-happened for a reason. He was an accident; a gift. Maybe he was... one of them, even if she hadn't envisioned it that way, nor had anyone else. But he was so young yet. There was no way to know until there was no way not to know. She had no idea what he was meant to do, no idea if he was destructive or harmless. She supposed every mother wondered about her son like that.
She loved him so much it hurt, and sometimes she wished she didn't.
Angela shook herself again. There was no use in getting maudlin and paranoid over some random sounds mumbled during a wet dream; it was repulsive, but perfectly normal, an involuntary bodily function (so much like some other things she knew well). The situation was just new to her as a mother, that was all. She left the room and silently closed the door again, then raised her fist and knocked loudly, calling, "Peter? Peter, get up! You're going to be late for school!"
-----
"Do you like girls, Peter?"
Peter walked along beside Angela, lagging behind, scuffing the soles of his new Christmas boots through the snow. They were buying new school uniform slacks for him, as he had suddenly outgrown the ones in which he'd started the school year. He had been quiet and apathetic since the end of the holidays, since Nathan had gone back to college. It happened like that almost every time; as if Nathan stole away Peter's voice. He didn't get difficult about it as much anymore, as if he'd finally accepted that Nathan just wasn't ever going to be around very often, and his heart was broken. He was so young yet, but this was the age when it began to happen, and this was far from the last time. The best cure for that state of mind, Angela had long ago determined, was shopping.
She asked the question gently, conversationally, somewhere in public so that he wouldn't feel on the spot. Arthur's advice; she hoped that it would pay off. Peter didn't break stride. "Sure," he replied. "As long as they're not bitches."
"Peter, language," Angela said mildly, then took a deep breath. "Do you like any of them in particular? Who's the prettiest girl in your class?"
When she glanced back at him, she caught him staring and frowning at her suspiciously. "Why?" he asked.
"I'm just curious," she said. "You haven't really mentioned the girls in your class this year. Are there any that you hope will be in your class this semester, too? Or ones that you wish weren't leaving?"
Peter was quiet for a second, genuinely considering. Angela couldn't resist a brief smile of satisfaction. "Well... um... Danielle Mebberson is definitely the prettiest. That's pretty much definite; I don't think anybody would say she wasn't. I mean, she's a model and stuff. It's her job to be pretty. But I hope that Rehka's going to be in my class again, because she's my friend. And Adela and Heather."
"Are they pretty?"
"I guess," Peter shrugged. "Heather gives me her milk at lunchtime because she hates it and her mom totally won't listen and keeps packing it for her." Angela listened to this and rolled her eyes; the mystery of Peter's miracle growth explained! "I don't know. They're just girls."
"You don't like any of them especially?"
"Like for a girlfriend?" Peter made a little scoffing sound. "No. I don't have time for that stuff. Besides, they're kinda dumb. They like horses and N'Sync and stupid stuff like that."
"Do you like boys?" Angela said in the same conversational tone.
"Like... you mean like... oh." Peter made a face of disgust and confusion. "No."
"It's all right if you do," said Angela.
"I don't," Peter said with a laugh. He took a few extra steps and took her gloved hand in his. "You're cool, Mom," he said, giving her the first genuine smile she'd seen in days. "If I'm gay, I'll tell you. Promise, okay?"
"You're just way too grown up," she teased him, squeezing his hand. "You watch too much cable."
"I just think anybody should be able to like anybody they want," he added. "But... don't worry. I don't like guys." He gave a dreamy sigh. "I like women."
Angela did not laugh, though she had to stretch her eyelids so far up into her head that it hurt to keep from doing so. "Good policy," she said.
-----
1993
"God, it's just so good to hear your voice, Ma. I can't believe how much I miss you. Anyway, I gotta go, but I have a favor to ask."
If she had known what she looked like, she would have been embarrassed. Angela lay on her bed, cradling the phone receiver in her arms as if it were a baby. It was as close as she could get to the sensation of holding Nathan, holding her baby, keeping him safe and warm, tiny head tucked under her chin so that he could feel her pulse and know that as long as she lived, she would never let him go.
Except that she had let go. She had lost that battle with Arthur, begging him to find some other way for Nathan to prove his manhood than to join a military conflict. Nathan wanted to go and put a stop to a senseless genocide, and of course Arthur swelled with pride to have his elder son follow in his footsteps as an officer. This was not the path to glory that Angela had imagined, and she remembered all too well how disillusioned Arthur had been when he returned. She didn't want to see that happen to Nathan. And it was all too dangerous. If anything happened to Nathan, she didn't know if she could go on; all of her plans would be shattered, and worse, she would never have a chance to see her baby again.
"Anything," she replied, her voice quivering, smiling through the salty film of her tears.
After a moment of transatlantic signal delay, Nathan's voice came again. "Could you send me one of Peter's most recent class pictures? I asked him to send me one, but he won't do it. He says he's too ugly." Nathan laughed freely. He might have been weeping too; he usually didn't laugh so much. "I mean, it's ridiculous. He's the prettiest kid I've ever seen. Or, at least, he was. He can't have changed that much."
Angela laughed too much, too. "He is growing like wildfire... he has changed a bit since you last saw him. And his pictures are fine. He's maybe a little spotty. Of course, you can imagine that's a major source of drama. And he's got the collar of his shirt turned up, for some reason. I don't know why he did that-that's been out of fashion for ten years."
"You know Pete," Nathan countered, and by his voice she could tell he was rolling his eyes. She had a sudden clear image of his face, and she stifled a gasp of longing. She had to get herself back together. She had to trust that he was going to be fine. It was like the faith of walking, of trusting the ground to be there to catch her next footstep. Without that faith, she had nothing.
"He misses you," she murmured.
Nathan's voice came quiet and gravelly. "I know. I miss him too... I like having his picture. Makes it a little bit easier to be over here. It reminds me of... a different way of thinking. Of seeing the world, y'know?"
"I do," Angela sighed. "Yes, all right. I'll send it out in tomorrow's mail-is your APO still the same?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Ma. I'll give you a call next time I have a chance. Might be a little while; it's looking pretty busy around here for the next couple of weeks. I'll write when I can. Okay? I love you."
"I love you too, Nathan. Please stay safe."
"I will. Bye."
Angela hung up the phone, and immediately busied herself putting together an envelope of keepsakes. She enclosed a copy of Peter's most recent report card (straight A's, across the board, which hadn't happened in a long time), a program from a play she'd seen the week before, a few old Polaroid candids of the family, and a 5"x7" print of Peter's class photo.
She made a point of not telling Peter that she'd spoken to Nathan, or sent him a picture. He'd be furious. He'd had private conversations with Nathan that she knew nothing about; she hadn't known that the two of them had spoken recently, let alone more recently than she herself had. As jealous as she was of that fact, Peter would flip his lid if he knew they'd talked, and she had plenty enough to worry about with one son. And if photographs of Peter brought Nathan happiness, she would make sure that he got them. She needed him back in one piece.
----
1996
"There really isn't much stuff," Nathan said. "I've got it all in one carload."
Angela watched him and nodded, having given up on trying to get him to take more furniture, books, dishware. He didn't need it; he was more than capable of acquiring his own, and indeed already had most of it bought and assembled in the new place. It was strange to realize that he had never really moved out before, only went away for a while. Before, he was always packed and ready to be shipped off to school with his trunk and suitcases, fresh-scrubbed and eager to return to his real home, with the other boys and the rules and regs; and then he was off to college, with hardly a ripple on the surface of the household. After the time that he was seven years old, she and Arthur hadn't really let him be a part of this household; he had never really wanted to be.
And now, he never would be. He was an adult, in charge of his own life from now on. She thought at first, for the first time; but truly Nathan had always really been in charge of his own life. He just let other people do the cooking and the laundry.
"Are you feeling all right?" she asked him again. "Any fatigue?"
Nathan gave her a reassuring smile, and gently patted her arm. "I'm fine, Ma," he said. "I've been at work for a week. Don't worry, okay?"
"I can't help it," Angela said, waving him off. "It feels like you just got home." Just five weeks since he'd come home from the military hospital, and he'd spent most of his time with Peter. "Peter, help your brother with that last box, would you?"
Peter had been standing in the corner, hoping to be helpful; he had already carried most of the boxes and cases out to Nathan's new Mercedes. He suddenly seemed to realize that this was the last box, and after that, Nathan would be gone. Over the last two weeks, since he had known Nathan was moving on and getting his own apartment, Peter had been pathologically cheerful and enthusiastic, helping Nathan research locations and look at spaces, helping Nathan pack, excited about the paperwork and the transactions. He was trying so hard, even all of his enthusiasm was a sham obvious to anyone over the age of fifteen. Angela didn't point it out. Maybe Peter actually could do the mature thing, and smile through the pain. God knows she had done enough of that herself; it was time for him to learn how.
"Yeah, ummm..." Peter replied, his voice breaking a little. "Uh, is it cool if I stay over there tonight?"
Angela squinted at her younger son. "No," she said. Was he kidding?
"Please, Ma?" he wheedled. Apparently not. "Nathan's cool with it, right?" He looked to Nathan, who shrugged and blinked innocently, apparently knowing nothing about this. "See, he doesn't mind. It's a Friday night. Can I stay?"
"Absolutely not," Angela said. "Leave Nathan alone; let him settle in. He needs a night of rest."
"I could help him unpack?" Peter begged. "Please?"
"No, Peter, and that's final."
"But Ma-!"
"That's enough!" Angela shouted. She flung out her arm, pointing toward the stairs. "Go to your room. You're not going anywhere this weekend, do you understand me?"
"Goddamn it!" Peter yelled back, clenching his fists in frustration. His face turned bright red.
"The week," Angela upped the ante, her voice cool, but knife-edged. "School and straight home. No practice. If you get kicked off the wrestling team, that's your own fault. Don't curse at me. Now, go to your room and stay there. No TV. Go."
Peter gave her one last desperate stare, his expression wavering, then crumbling. He turned and noisily galloped up the stairs. Angela sighed with disgust. Peter was a thousand times more emotional than Angela had been at that age, and she had been a sentimental fool who wanted to be Annette Funicello. But at least she knew better than to quarrel with her mother. He was lucky that he had been too many steps away to slap.
Nathan watched him go, then looked at her, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. His "delicately judgmental" look. She frowned back at him. "Ah, Ma, go easy on him," Nathan said mildly. "He's just overattached. He just got me back."
"He's being irrational," she replied. "A brat. It's immature. He knows he shouldn't talk back when I tell him something. When I ground him. He brought that on himself."
"I don't think your grounding him is unreasonable," Nathan backtracked, "it's just... you know. Understand what he's going through."
"I do understand. But Peter has to grow up and stop whining when he doesn't get what he wants."
Nathan lowered his eyes, and seemed lost in thought for a while. He did that sometimes; just went quiet, turned his gaze inward. It fulfilled her in a way, to see how sensitive and cerebral he could be, but in this case, she wasn't sure what would have brought on his sudden state of contemplation. He seemed... disappointed, perhaps? Maybe he actually wanted to have his obnoxious little brother stay over, on his first night in his new co-op apartment? How could that possibly be the case?
It was nonsense. Had to be.
But she had seen them together, watched them trading secret in-jokes and silly faces over the dinner table, and the evenings usually concluded with one of them in the other's room, working together on Peter's homework, going through Peter's book collection. Peter nursing Nathan's injuries and taking him out for ice cream and pizza "to fatten him up". Nathan relaxing on Peter's bed listening patiently as Peter played him dozens of different kinds of new music, trading gazes, eyes shining with love. Sometimes, the door would be closed, and later, one of them would slink out, glancing around, as if checking that the coast was clear.
If it had been anyone other than her two sons, the obvious answer to the mystery would be "drugs". But she knew that wasn't the case. When they were together, they did look slightly high, but not on pot.
They looked lovestruck.
Angela remembered Peter's wet dream that she had unwittingly encountered, and prayed to herself that Nathan just wouldn't. Peter was a kid; love and sexuality were new to him, floating around waiting to attach to something, and it was more than likely that he'd make terrible mistakes at this point. But Nathan wouldn't take an interest in that, would he? Nathan would have the good grace to be disgusted at the thought, even if it came from his beloved baby brother? Nathan wouldn't respond to it, would he?
Nathan looked up at her finally, smiling. "I guess I'll get the last box myself," he said. "It'll be good for me. I need the exercise."
"Oh, Nathan, are you sure?"
He laughed. "Don't baby me, Ma," he said. "I got it." He easily lifted the heavy box, full of books and picture frames, eased it into the crook of his arm, and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the corner of her mouth. "Thanks for everything, Ma. Thanks for putting me up. Tell Dad to call me when he gets back home, would you?"
"I will," she said.
"And don't be too hard on Pete, okay? He's..." Nathan hesitated before finishing his sentence. "He's going through some stuff. He's not having the easiest time of things. He might be kind of testy this week."
"Oh, I imagined so," Angela replied airily. "It's not as though I'm not used to his tantrums. I'm hoping that a week of alone time might be just what he needs to remind him who his mother is. He'll be just fine as soon as he cools off. You should spend time with him next Friday-maybe takeout at your new place."
Nathan's smile became exceptionally strange; a peculiar combination of excitement and anxiety. "Sounds like an idea," he said. He gave her one more kiss, and left. Angela went upstairs to the topmost floor, so that she could watch him get into his heavy-loaded car and drive away, thoughts and suspicions swirling around in her head. It was too much to bear. She needed to talk to her son, to reassure herself about him.
She went to Peter's room and knocked on the door. "Peter? I want to talk to you," she called, turning the doorknob and letting herself in. Peter sat on the floor, back to the wall under the windowsill, staring at her. "Look, sweetheart, I'm going to miss him, too," she offered.
Peter shook his head a little, all the fight going out of him. "No, it's okay," he said resignedly. "I'm sorry. You're right. He needs to rest. I've been bugging him all this time, I... it's just good to see him."
Angela caught sight of a white slip of paper peeking out from underneath Peter's crossed ankles; when she focused her eyes on it, by the tiniest sliver of the image she could see, she knew it was the photograph of Nathan which usually sat in a frame on Peter's desk. Tucked away, hidden so that she wouldn't see it. Why would he ever need to hide that from her? What significance could that picture possibly have?
She was momentarily shocked into silence, but as soon as the realization took shape in her mind, shock was replaced by calm. It was harmless. Peter would get over it and Nathan was no fool. This was ugly and complicated, but not the end of the world. She had seen and encountered stranger and harsher knowledge than this in her life, and conquered it or made peace with it, without exception. Angela Petrelli did not break, and she did not place over-much importance on infatuations. She had had plenty of those in her own past, too, and mostly they had been mistakes (sometimes, terrible ones). But in that world of strange, harsh knowledge, nothing compared to having a warm pair of arms surround you, or a loving voice in your ear, whispering desire. She had been there. She knew. It was Peter's turn to learn the hard way. God, how she wanted to hold him, to lock him up someplace safe, away from the chaotic, heartless world.
What would happen when Nathan broke Peter's heart?
Raising her head, she said only, "Dinner is in one hour. Do me a favor, and comb your hair," then turned and left the room.
----
1999
Peter's high school graduation was a grand affair of ninety-seven fresh-faced teenagers in navy-blue caps and gowns, marching up one by one to recieve their diplomas and make assorted gestures of triumph. Angela wore a calm smile of pride, seated between Arthur, completely distracted, and Nathan, his face shining with happiness. As soon as Peter mounted the podium, took his diploma and readjusted the tassel on his cap with a handsomely crooked grin, Nathan squeezed Angela's hand. "Gotta go," he said. "Tell Pete I'll see him tomorrow at dinner, okay?"
Angela gave him a parting kiss, then looked over at Arthur, who wasn't even looking at the podium. "Did you get a picture?" she asked him. He shrugged vaguely, grimacing like his stomach ached. "Did you even see it?"
"We can buy pictures afterward," he said. "There's a staff photographer."
"What's the matter?" she murmured.
"I'll tell you later," he replied uncomfortably. "Just enjoy the event for now."
She considered persuading him to tell her right then and there, but his nervousness seemed genuine, and if they were in danger, he'd tell her. It was some kind of bad news that he wasn't eager to share. She decided to let it go for now; the last time she had massaged the truth out of him, it was the fact that he'd wanted her to have an abortion.
After forty more names were announced, caps were tossed, and the ceremony was finally over. Arthur all but leapt from his seat. "I've got to make a call; I'll be right back," he explained to her. "Meet you over by the photo set up in fifteen minutes?"
"I hope I can drag Peter away from his friends that quickly," Angela said.
"If need be, we can leave him here. I'm sure he can get a ride back with someone." Before Angela could protest, Arthur had darted away, already brandishing his mobile phone.
Gradually she wound her way through the crowd, greeting fellow parents who she knew, and located Peter. He was standing stock-still in the middle of the room, his eyes wide and fixed and a little hysterical. "Congratulations, darling," Angela said, taking him in her arms and giving him a big hug, then a kiss on both cheeks. Peter's body felt like a bundle of wires, and he wavered after she let him go, as though he'd been roughed up. "Now what's wrong?" she asked, laughing a little. "Relax. You did it. You're a high school graduate."
Peter said nothing, and hadn't responded to the touch. His eyes began to dart back and forth, his expression growing more haunted and anguished by the second. Angela was getting sick of having to pump her family members for information. "Peter, what is it?" she asked sharply.
"She dumped me," he murmured, sounding confused, lost. "She. Dumped me. Just now."
"What? Who, your girlfriend?" Angela rolled her eyes. "If you ask me, not a moment too soon."
"I loved her," he said.
"Just think, Peter, you're on the cusp of adulthood. You don't want to be tied down to some girl right now; there's a whole world of girls out there, and you could have any one of them you wanted. That girl was a bad influence on you, anyway. You should concentrate on having fun."
"Having fun with who? She told all our friends that I'm a date rapist," Peter muttered.
Angela scoffed. "You're not, are you?"
"Mom!"
"So there you are. You know you're not, and as long as they're not setting you up, they can't prove anything. It's just high school gossip. You're better off without them."
"But they're my friends," Peter moaned, his mood changing instantly to crushing sadness. "They were. God, I thought they'd been acting weird around me lately. I just thought it was everybody being freaked out over finals..."
"If they were really your friends, they'd believe you."
"Where's Nathan," he said dully. "I need to... talk to Nathan."
"He only stayed to watch you get your diploma. You know that. Now come on, let's go get your portrait taken. Your father acts like he's got ants in his pants."
Peter had no more facial expression than a bar of soap for his portrait sitting. Arthur came up as the photographer was trying another angle, trying to somehow make Peter look less zombie-like, and gave Angela a furiously impatient look. "Fine," she snapped at the photographer. "Choose the best shot and send thirty standard prints to the address listed in Peter's class notes. Let's go." She grabbed Peter's wrist and dragged him along behind her, following Arthur's hasty retreat.
At home, the table was set for formal afternoon tea, and the house staff stood by ready to give Peter congratulations; but Peter walked past all of it without seeing, making straight for his bedroom, and closing the door quietly. Angela watched him go, feeling helpless. Arthur went into the dining room, and sat down heavily at the head of the table. As she followed, Arthur called out, "Please bring the bottle of Cragganmore fifteen-year, please."
She served herself tea, sandwiches, and cakes. Arthur received his bottle of Scotch from the maid and half-filled two cups, sliding one over to her.
"That bad, huh?" she asked.
Arthur took a mouthful and grimaced it down. He wasn't looking at her. "We can't summer in the Hamptons this year," he said.
"What do you mean?" Angela sipped at the Scotch in the teacup, chasing it with real tea. It was a pleasing, soothing combination. She began eating the sandwiches before she got too distracted.
"Agent Lee was, uh, killed this morning," Arthur replied. "As you know, he was our covert protective detail." He sighed heavily. "This alone would be cause for some concern, except that a member of Linderman's detail was also killed this morning, in Las Vegas. Identical brain hemorrages. We've got an undocumented on the loose, with a lethal ability, and a bone to pick with Linderman and me. Linderman suggests that we be a little bit more difficult to find this summer, and I have to say I agree with him. I'm reasonably confident that we're fine here until next week, but that's the limit; and we are still expected at our house in Montauk. His team is working on locating the rogue."
"And ours?" Angela asked. She drained her teacup.
Arthur nodded a little. "It's in the works," he said. "Trying to establish motive and connection is the next step. I'm going to make sure that there's a team at the house in Montauk, to see if we receive any unexpected visitors. Linderman and I are sharing intelligence on this one, because he's got a head start. He's been able to work on this problem all day, and he's got his best people on it. I've got some calls in, but we haven't really got a good seeker in our ranks right now."
"What about Maury?"
Arthur groaned faintly. "For all I know, this is Maury," he said. "Maybe he's got a grudge. I think he's capable."
"Nonsense. He works in illusions; he can't make your cranial veins explode. We should be looking for a telekinetic. No, call him. I know you don't like him, but this is a matter of personal safety. If he could be useful, he should be used."
"I think that's what Kaito said about you," Arthur murmured, a soft, dry, joking tone in his voice.
"I used him," Angela corrected. She was tempted to add, And nowhere near as thoroughly as Linderman continues to use you, but she took a sip of tea and smiled instead. "So where will we go, if not the Hamptons?"
"I did a little research. There's a summer rental up in Vermont, fairly isolated, and facing a lake. It's very rural, according to my maps. I'm going to drive up tomorrow and check it out. If it suffices, it will suffice. I'm afraid there'll be more fishing and berry-picking than society brunches this summer." Arthur seemed to be vastly relieved now that he'd told her.
"If this threat can be contained or eliminated over the summer, it will be worth it," Angela said. "It'll be a vacation, won't it? Imagine that."
"Imagine that," Arthur agreed.
"I believe in you," she said.
Arthur nodded and almost smiled, finally meeting her eyes. "I believe in you, too," he countered.
"Peter," she added thoughtfully. Arthur made as if to pour her more Scotch, but she put her hand over her cup. "Arthur, really."
"Sorry; I just thought you could use it. I guess he's going to have to come, too," he said.
"He is your son, by the way. Of course he'll have to come, unless you want to leave him unsupervised here."
"God, no, might as well burn the place down and take the insurance money."
"Arthur, really!"
"Oh, come on, I'm kidding. He's not even here right now."
"Yeah, but his mother's right here," she reminded him. She glanced at the doorway. "I ought to go talk to him," she decided, "he's having a very bad day. Poor baby. The latest in a string of teenage whores has broken his heart. And now he won't be able to go back to Montauk to take more surfing lessons... he did so enjoy that, even if he did hurt himself right off the bat. That boy." She stood up and placed a small hill of sandwiches and cakes onto a plate. "I'll see if I can get him to eat something. He's the one that wanted watercress sandwiches and cherry tarts."
The knock on Peter's door went unanswered, as she had expected. She quietly let herself into the room, and closed the door behind her. Peter lay on his bed, fully clothed, but divested of his graduation robe and shoes, staring at the ceiling. He glanced over at Angela incuriously, then closed his eyes so wearily that it made her feel tired just looking at him. Once again, his photo of Nathan was out of its frame, face-up on his bedside table, along with a more recent snapshot taken on the deck of the Ellis Island ferry. It was a great picture; Nathan in a white windbreaker and sky-blue shirt, leaning his arms against the railing, the wind ruffling his wavy hair, eyes narrowed against the damp wind, a slight but blissful smile on his parted lips. Peter had taken the photo; she recognized the pose and setting, as Peter had shown her all of the other pictures he'd taken on that trip. But he had saved that one, kept it secret. She set down the plate of tea snacks and picked up the photo. On the back of it, in Nathan's handwriting, very simply,
"I love you too."
She set the picture back down. Peter didn't move. She sighed. She could stand in the way all she liked, but this bond between them was stronger than sense, or logic, or morals. What would happen, would happen. She could not bear to see Peter like this, flattened out by the unkind words of some spoiled, lying little bitch. He deserved a chance to experience the kind of love that endured, was meaningful, solid, and permanent. And exciting and dangerous and wrong and thrilling, the kind of love that made you feel alive, even if it was mostly because you spent your life vacillating between terror and consuming, thoughtless lust. Yes, she had been there. These experiences had saved her life, even as it veered dangerously close to destroying it. Such things had made her. It would either make Peter, or destroy him. It had not been forseen, but then again, neither had Peter. He was a wild card, an anomaly, a gift, she realized, for Nathan, as well as for her.
So be it.
"It looks like we're going to spend the summer in Vermont," she announced to him. "I'll see if I can get Nathan to spend some time there, too."
Peter opened his eyes then, and blinked at her. "Why Vermont?"
"Change of pace," Angela said, her voice slightly strangled with the effort of keeping cheerful. "It'll just be nice to get away. Don't you think?" She tidied up some crooked books on Peter's shelf, wiped imaginary dust from the surface of the desk. "We can talk it through at dinner tomorrow. How does that sound?" Peter didn't respond with the wild enthusiasm she had been hoping for, so she continued, "I brought you some snacks; if you'd like tea, there's some hot downstairs. It's going to be all right, Peter. I promise."
"Thanks, Mom," Peter answered slowly and mechanically. "I just want to be alone right now."
"All right, dear. I love you," she reminded him, and gently stroked his forehead, since hugging him was impossible. If she ever felt that her ability to convince was needed, this was the time. "Always remember that I love you."
Peter relaxed under her touch. "Okay," he agreed. He even smiled, but it didn't last long, as he dozed off as surely as if she had commanded him to sleep. Angela took a deep breath, bent down and kissed his forehead, and left him alone.
END (40)
A/N: This seems incomplete to me, so maybe this is part 1 of a two-part story. We'll see. Those looking forward to more tales of Angela will be happy to know that she plays a large-ish part in Ritual (41) as well, though not as central as here. Thanks for reading!
Author: mystery_sock
Pairing/Characters: Peter/Nathan, Arthur, Angela
Rating: R
Spoilers: season 2 all
Word Count: about 7550
Warnings: language, implied incest, angst
Summary: Does Angela know about Peter and Nathan? How long has she known? Why hasn't she stopped them? Does she even want to?... Feedback and concrit welcome!
• Ritual Reader's Guide - all Ritual stories in chronological order •
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Productions. Characters used without permission. No revenue is generated or accepted by the author of this story for its publication on the internet.
This story is working from the assumption of the TOTALLY WRONG early speculations about Angela and Arthur's powers - touch-based telepathic persuasion and probability manipulation.
1981
One of Peter's very first words was "love." Nathan taught it to him, thinking that it was funny. For the first few days after Nathan went back to school at the end of the summer, Peter, if set down to toddle around on his own, would always crawl to the front door and wait there with a hopeful smile on his face.
Whenever Angela caught him doing this, she would hoist Peter up onto his feet, and hold his hand to guide him along, step by shaky step, until he could walk by himself. After that, to her relief, Peter seemed to forget all about Nathan-that is, until the next time he came home.
-----
1986
In the evening after Peter's very first day of proper school, Angela decided to make him a frittata for his dinner.
Angela almost never prepared the family's meals herself anymore, but now and again she did, and her cheese-and-toast frittata was Peter's favorite food that wasn't some variation on candy or ice cream. Peter liked to putter around her while she cooked, the way she had with her own mother. It was good to have moments of ordinary togetherness, or mother-child bonding, or whatever they were calling it these days.
She had been worried about how her sensitive, easily overwhelmed younger son would handle staying in a classroom all day, but apparently he had enjoyed it, and when class was over, the teacher had made a point of telling Angela that Peter was a bright and delightful child. To Angela's surprise, she had missed him terribly on that long day, missed his smile and his frequent kisses and hugs, even the constant barrage of questions and tantrums which usually drove her up the wall. She was a mother, and he was her baby, no matter how difficult he could be. He was six; he was growing up. That day, for the first time, she realized that someday she would lose him.
But not yet. Peter, standing on a chair beside Angela at the stove, chattered happily about everything that he had done at school, and Angela encouraged him with occasional asides, only half listening to him as she carefully tended to her skillet. "An' there was a fish tank with a teeny tiny crab at the bottom, an' a whole bunch of fish! Nine fish. I counted 'em and the teacher asked me if I could count up to twenty, and I could! An' I drew a Superman for Nathan," he said for the third time, forgetting that he had already showed her the scrawl, a stick figure in red and blue at the top of a sheet of paper. "An' I put my name on it. 'Peter'. P-E-T-E-R. Two E's. Not P-E-T-R. Teacher showed me how to do it. An' then, I wrote Nathan's name, too. N-A-T..." Peter lost his place, and hummed to himself instead, staring distractedly at the eggs bubbling in the skillet. He burst out suddenly, "I love Nathan best of anything ever best in the-the whole world!"
"Oh?" Angela replied, a little startled, turning her attention onto him. "Why is that?"
"Because he's big and strong and he's nice and he's pretty."
Angela hesitated for a moment, restraining laughter, before saying, "Peter, you're not supposed to say that other boys are pretty. You can say that girls are pretty, or that ladies are pretty, but you can't say that about boys."
"Why not?" Peter asked. "He is. He's my handsome brother. You said so. And 'handsome' means the same thing as 'pretty'. Miss Kiparsky said so."
"Yes, Peter, but I'm a lady. I can say that. Also, I'm his mother. Boys don't say that other boys are pretty."
"I guess so," Peter said. He looked back at the skillet, fascinated by the wisps of steam rising from the surface. "I love him best of everything, best of ever," he sang to himself.
"Better even than me?" Angela asked gently.
"Well... no," Peter said reluctantly. "I love you best of all of everything, too. And Daddy. But..." He broke off and smiled. "I love Nathan the best. When is he coming home?"
Angela was glad that she had to keep her eyes on the pan, and the plate held in her other hand, so she didn't have to look at him. Peter was a loving child, and this kind of hero worship wasn't uncommon at this age. "I'm afraid Nathan isn't coming home for a little while, Peter," she said. "It's only September, and his school just started last week. He will be here for Thanksgiving, which is in November. So how many months is that?"
Peter's eyes went wide with panic. "I don't know. Forever. Nathan won't be home forever!"
"Peter, that isn't true. September, October, November. That's three," she said lightly. "And months have four weeks. So that means Nathan will be here in twelve weeks." It was hard on her, too, having Nathan away, even if it had been that way since before Peter was born. She didn't like the fact that her older son had had to be shipped hundreds of miles away for his own safety; it was only good luck that Nathan loved boarding school, too, where his relentless drive to excel could progress and be rewarded. Nathan was clearly exceptional. And he was pretty; Peter was just plain right about that. But she couldn't let him grow up thinking that saying something like that was appropriate until he was at least in his 20s. She had no desire to raise that kind of son; not if she could help it.
"How long is twelve weeks?" Peter asked.
"Not very long," Angela said reassuringly. "It will be over before you know it. And I'm sure he will like your Superman picture. He'll appreciate that. If you'd like to write him a letter and tell him all about the little crab in the fish tank, I will put it out with tomorrow's mail. Now, look, Peter, watch me. I was your age when I started learning how to do this. You put the plate over the skillet, and you flip it over. It's easy, but you have to flip it just right." She expertly tossed the fritatta over onto the plate, then slid it back into the pan before the eggs had a chance to stick.
Peter blinked at her like she'd just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. "Oooh," he breathed.
She liked being on the receiving end of that look; it was one of the best things about having a child. "It gets easier once you've done it a few times. Do you want me to show you how?"
"I'm gonna go write to Nathan!" he decided suddenly, and ran out of the kitchen before she had a chance to protest. So much for impressing Peter with her culinary skills. Angela sighed, put the spatula down, and went after him to insist that he eat dinner first, and that Nathan could wait. She steeled herself against tonight's bedtime tantrum, which promised to be one for the record books.
-----
1991
When he was a small child, Peter usually woke up on his own, around six in the morning, but recently he had been sleeping later and later. Increasingly, he needed to be roused, and was grouchy and disoriented before he'd had his face-washing and breakfast. He was already becoming an adolescent, even if he still looked like a skinny, bow-legged child.
That was fine with Angela. It was almost as if he had picked up on her desire to have him not grow up too fast. She was worried about what the world would do to him.
On a cloudy November morning, Arthur and Angela sat at the kitchen table over coffee, muffins, and the morning newspapers. She loved these mornings, before Peter got up, alone together with her husband in the peaceful quiet. It seemed like breakfast was the only time they saw each other alone anymore. Their lives were full of pressures and distractions, and while they both loved Peter, these days the child was more of an aggravation than otherwise. He was moody and difficult, and he seemed to take personally every minor injustice he perceived. And their happy home, even a little more than the rest of the world, didn't often play by the rules of fairness. Sometimes Angela regretted not sending him away to school the way she had done to Nathan, but she had never been one to back down from a challenge. So he was difficult; he wouldn't break her. Angela Petrelli didn't break.
Angela would have been happy to just sit at the kitchen table with her husband all day, enjoying the relaxation and normality, but once he'd finished his second coffee, Arthur set down the newspaper and looked at his watch. "Where is that boy?" he muttered, frowning. "It's almost seven."
"Hm," Angela replied mildly, raising her eyebrows. "Sleeping in again. I'll go get him myself." She hadn't gotten around to telling Arthur that she'd fired the latest nanny for spending more time mooning after him than looking after Peter.
"Why can't that boy can't set an alarm clock?" Arthur scoffed. "Have you got to do that for him, too?"
"If need be," Angela said, rising from the table, tucking the folded newspaper neatly under her saucer. She bent down and kissed Arthur on the cheek, half warning, half affection. It made him smile, as she knew it would do.
She went upstairs and headed toward Peter's bedroom, arching her eyebrow at the new housemaid heading toward the master bedroom with an armload of fresh bedding. The housemaid gave Angela an uncertain nod, horribly intimidated. That made Angela smile. Every little feeling and signal of superiority helped, and she knew that she genuinely was superior. The girl was as ordinary and as necessary as dirt. All she needed to do was handle the linens, get paid entirely too much, and keep her mouth shut, and let those above her get on with what they were doing.
Angela let herself in to Peter's bedroom, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, making a mental note to get Peter some sheer curtains, to allow some light in. No wonder he seemed depressed. A Peter-sized lump lay diagonally across the bed. She drew in her breath to call his name and wake him, but as she saw more clearly, her voice died on her lips.
Peter lay twitching, face down, tossing and turning, most of the bedcovers kicked away from him. He was naked, his pajamas flung halfway across the room, clutching his pillow between his legs. Periodically he would relax and fall completely still, only to resume his restless movements. The depth and pattern of his breathing left no doubt that he was actually asleep. He half turned over, the pillow clenched between his knees, mumbling. Talking in his sleep.
"I'm in the air," he breathed. "Nathan...? I'm flying, Nathan... I...."
He fell still again, and lapsed into faint snoring. Angela just stared, overwhelmed with curiosity. Momentarily he began squirming once more, pushing himself against the pillow, rubbing himself against it. "Nathan..." he whispered. "I'm falling..." He smiled briefly and mechanically, as though his face merely needed to test its ability to do so; relaxed again, took some deep breaths, and rolled over onto his back. The pillowcase was rumpled, wet, and sticky. Angela drew back sharply and grimaced with disgust, then shook her head and gazed down at her little boy, his biology, his strange psychology.
He was such a loving child, a normal, healthy, growing boy... He was going to be fine. She would never tell him what she'd seen in a million years; never tell anyone. He was just an ordinary boy who loved his brother, who had sexual feelings he couldn't even name, feelings he didn't even know he had.
But still. But still. Nathan? She was glad she hadn't sent him to boarding school, after all. She needed to keep an eye on this one. He was the wild card. He was never supposed to exist in the first place. Then again, everything-and everyone-happened for a reason. He was an accident; a gift. Maybe he was... one of them, even if she hadn't envisioned it that way, nor had anyone else. But he was so young yet. There was no way to know until there was no way not to know. She had no idea what he was meant to do, no idea if he was destructive or harmless. She supposed every mother wondered about her son like that.
She loved him so much it hurt, and sometimes she wished she didn't.
Angela shook herself again. There was no use in getting maudlin and paranoid over some random sounds mumbled during a wet dream; it was repulsive, but perfectly normal, an involuntary bodily function (so much like some other things she knew well). The situation was just new to her as a mother, that was all. She left the room and silently closed the door again, then raised her fist and knocked loudly, calling, "Peter? Peter, get up! You're going to be late for school!"
-----
"Do you like girls, Peter?"
Peter walked along beside Angela, lagging behind, scuffing the soles of his new Christmas boots through the snow. They were buying new school uniform slacks for him, as he had suddenly outgrown the ones in which he'd started the school year. He had been quiet and apathetic since the end of the holidays, since Nathan had gone back to college. It happened like that almost every time; as if Nathan stole away Peter's voice. He didn't get difficult about it as much anymore, as if he'd finally accepted that Nathan just wasn't ever going to be around very often, and his heart was broken. He was so young yet, but this was the age when it began to happen, and this was far from the last time. The best cure for that state of mind, Angela had long ago determined, was shopping.
She asked the question gently, conversationally, somewhere in public so that he wouldn't feel on the spot. Arthur's advice; she hoped that it would pay off. Peter didn't break stride. "Sure," he replied. "As long as they're not bitches."
"Peter, language," Angela said mildly, then took a deep breath. "Do you like any of them in particular? Who's the prettiest girl in your class?"
When she glanced back at him, she caught him staring and frowning at her suspiciously. "Why?" he asked.
"I'm just curious," she said. "You haven't really mentioned the girls in your class this year. Are there any that you hope will be in your class this semester, too? Or ones that you wish weren't leaving?"
Peter was quiet for a second, genuinely considering. Angela couldn't resist a brief smile of satisfaction. "Well... um... Danielle Mebberson is definitely the prettiest. That's pretty much definite; I don't think anybody would say she wasn't. I mean, she's a model and stuff. It's her job to be pretty. But I hope that Rehka's going to be in my class again, because she's my friend. And Adela and Heather."
"Are they pretty?"
"I guess," Peter shrugged. "Heather gives me her milk at lunchtime because she hates it and her mom totally won't listen and keeps packing it for her." Angela listened to this and rolled her eyes; the mystery of Peter's miracle growth explained! "I don't know. They're just girls."
"You don't like any of them especially?"
"Like for a girlfriend?" Peter made a little scoffing sound. "No. I don't have time for that stuff. Besides, they're kinda dumb. They like horses and N'Sync and stupid stuff like that."
"Do you like boys?" Angela said in the same conversational tone.
"Like... you mean like... oh." Peter made a face of disgust and confusion. "No."
"It's all right if you do," said Angela.
"I don't," Peter said with a laugh. He took a few extra steps and took her gloved hand in his. "You're cool, Mom," he said, giving her the first genuine smile she'd seen in days. "If I'm gay, I'll tell you. Promise, okay?"
"You're just way too grown up," she teased him, squeezing his hand. "You watch too much cable."
"I just think anybody should be able to like anybody they want," he added. "But... don't worry. I don't like guys." He gave a dreamy sigh. "I like women."
Angela did not laugh, though she had to stretch her eyelids so far up into her head that it hurt to keep from doing so. "Good policy," she said.
-----
1993
"God, it's just so good to hear your voice, Ma. I can't believe how much I miss you. Anyway, I gotta go, but I have a favor to ask."
If she had known what she looked like, she would have been embarrassed. Angela lay on her bed, cradling the phone receiver in her arms as if it were a baby. It was as close as she could get to the sensation of holding Nathan, holding her baby, keeping him safe and warm, tiny head tucked under her chin so that he could feel her pulse and know that as long as she lived, she would never let him go.
Except that she had let go. She had lost that battle with Arthur, begging him to find some other way for Nathan to prove his manhood than to join a military conflict. Nathan wanted to go and put a stop to a senseless genocide, and of course Arthur swelled with pride to have his elder son follow in his footsteps as an officer. This was not the path to glory that Angela had imagined, and she remembered all too well how disillusioned Arthur had been when he returned. She didn't want to see that happen to Nathan. And it was all too dangerous. If anything happened to Nathan, she didn't know if she could go on; all of her plans would be shattered, and worse, she would never have a chance to see her baby again.
"Anything," she replied, her voice quivering, smiling through the salty film of her tears.
After a moment of transatlantic signal delay, Nathan's voice came again. "Could you send me one of Peter's most recent class pictures? I asked him to send me one, but he won't do it. He says he's too ugly." Nathan laughed freely. He might have been weeping too; he usually didn't laugh so much. "I mean, it's ridiculous. He's the prettiest kid I've ever seen. Or, at least, he was. He can't have changed that much."
Angela laughed too much, too. "He is growing like wildfire... he has changed a bit since you last saw him. And his pictures are fine. He's maybe a little spotty. Of course, you can imagine that's a major source of drama. And he's got the collar of his shirt turned up, for some reason. I don't know why he did that-that's been out of fashion for ten years."
"You know Pete," Nathan countered, and by his voice she could tell he was rolling his eyes. She had a sudden clear image of his face, and she stifled a gasp of longing. She had to get herself back together. She had to trust that he was going to be fine. It was like the faith of walking, of trusting the ground to be there to catch her next footstep. Without that faith, she had nothing.
"He misses you," she murmured.
Nathan's voice came quiet and gravelly. "I know. I miss him too... I like having his picture. Makes it a little bit easier to be over here. It reminds me of... a different way of thinking. Of seeing the world, y'know?"
"I do," Angela sighed. "Yes, all right. I'll send it out in tomorrow's mail-is your APO still the same?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Ma. I'll give you a call next time I have a chance. Might be a little while; it's looking pretty busy around here for the next couple of weeks. I'll write when I can. Okay? I love you."
"I love you too, Nathan. Please stay safe."
"I will. Bye."
Angela hung up the phone, and immediately busied herself putting together an envelope of keepsakes. She enclosed a copy of Peter's most recent report card (straight A's, across the board, which hadn't happened in a long time), a program from a play she'd seen the week before, a few old Polaroid candids of the family, and a 5"x7" print of Peter's class photo.
She made a point of not telling Peter that she'd spoken to Nathan, or sent him a picture. He'd be furious. He'd had private conversations with Nathan that she knew nothing about; she hadn't known that the two of them had spoken recently, let alone more recently than she herself had. As jealous as she was of that fact, Peter would flip his lid if he knew they'd talked, and she had plenty enough to worry about with one son. And if photographs of Peter brought Nathan happiness, she would make sure that he got them. She needed him back in one piece.
----
1996
"There really isn't much stuff," Nathan said. "I've got it all in one carload."
Angela watched him and nodded, having given up on trying to get him to take more furniture, books, dishware. He didn't need it; he was more than capable of acquiring his own, and indeed already had most of it bought and assembled in the new place. It was strange to realize that he had never really moved out before, only went away for a while. Before, he was always packed and ready to be shipped off to school with his trunk and suitcases, fresh-scrubbed and eager to return to his real home, with the other boys and the rules and regs; and then he was off to college, with hardly a ripple on the surface of the household. After the time that he was seven years old, she and Arthur hadn't really let him be a part of this household; he had never really wanted to be.
And now, he never would be. He was an adult, in charge of his own life from now on. She thought at first, for the first time; but truly Nathan had always really been in charge of his own life. He just let other people do the cooking and the laundry.
"Are you feeling all right?" she asked him again. "Any fatigue?"
Nathan gave her a reassuring smile, and gently patted her arm. "I'm fine, Ma," he said. "I've been at work for a week. Don't worry, okay?"
"I can't help it," Angela said, waving him off. "It feels like you just got home." Just five weeks since he'd come home from the military hospital, and he'd spent most of his time with Peter. "Peter, help your brother with that last box, would you?"
Peter had been standing in the corner, hoping to be helpful; he had already carried most of the boxes and cases out to Nathan's new Mercedes. He suddenly seemed to realize that this was the last box, and after that, Nathan would be gone. Over the last two weeks, since he had known Nathan was moving on and getting his own apartment, Peter had been pathologically cheerful and enthusiastic, helping Nathan research locations and look at spaces, helping Nathan pack, excited about the paperwork and the transactions. He was trying so hard, even all of his enthusiasm was a sham obvious to anyone over the age of fifteen. Angela didn't point it out. Maybe Peter actually could do the mature thing, and smile through the pain. God knows she had done enough of that herself; it was time for him to learn how.
"Yeah, ummm..." Peter replied, his voice breaking a little. "Uh, is it cool if I stay over there tonight?"
Angela squinted at her younger son. "No," she said. Was he kidding?
"Please, Ma?" he wheedled. Apparently not. "Nathan's cool with it, right?" He looked to Nathan, who shrugged and blinked innocently, apparently knowing nothing about this. "See, he doesn't mind. It's a Friday night. Can I stay?"
"Absolutely not," Angela said. "Leave Nathan alone; let him settle in. He needs a night of rest."
"I could help him unpack?" Peter begged. "Please?"
"No, Peter, and that's final."
"But Ma-!"
"That's enough!" Angela shouted. She flung out her arm, pointing toward the stairs. "Go to your room. You're not going anywhere this weekend, do you understand me?"
"Goddamn it!" Peter yelled back, clenching his fists in frustration. His face turned bright red.
"The week," Angela upped the ante, her voice cool, but knife-edged. "School and straight home. No practice. If you get kicked off the wrestling team, that's your own fault. Don't curse at me. Now, go to your room and stay there. No TV. Go."
Peter gave her one last desperate stare, his expression wavering, then crumbling. He turned and noisily galloped up the stairs. Angela sighed with disgust. Peter was a thousand times more emotional than Angela had been at that age, and she had been a sentimental fool who wanted to be Annette Funicello. But at least she knew better than to quarrel with her mother. He was lucky that he had been too many steps away to slap.
Nathan watched him go, then looked at her, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. His "delicately judgmental" look. She frowned back at him. "Ah, Ma, go easy on him," Nathan said mildly. "He's just overattached. He just got me back."
"He's being irrational," she replied. "A brat. It's immature. He knows he shouldn't talk back when I tell him something. When I ground him. He brought that on himself."
"I don't think your grounding him is unreasonable," Nathan backtracked, "it's just... you know. Understand what he's going through."
"I do understand. But Peter has to grow up and stop whining when he doesn't get what he wants."
Nathan lowered his eyes, and seemed lost in thought for a while. He did that sometimes; just went quiet, turned his gaze inward. It fulfilled her in a way, to see how sensitive and cerebral he could be, but in this case, she wasn't sure what would have brought on his sudden state of contemplation. He seemed... disappointed, perhaps? Maybe he actually wanted to have his obnoxious little brother stay over, on his first night in his new co-op apartment? How could that possibly be the case?
It was nonsense. Had to be.
But she had seen them together, watched them trading secret in-jokes and silly faces over the dinner table, and the evenings usually concluded with one of them in the other's room, working together on Peter's homework, going through Peter's book collection. Peter nursing Nathan's injuries and taking him out for ice cream and pizza "to fatten him up". Nathan relaxing on Peter's bed listening patiently as Peter played him dozens of different kinds of new music, trading gazes, eyes shining with love. Sometimes, the door would be closed, and later, one of them would slink out, glancing around, as if checking that the coast was clear.
If it had been anyone other than her two sons, the obvious answer to the mystery would be "drugs". But she knew that wasn't the case. When they were together, they did look slightly high, but not on pot.
They looked lovestruck.
Angela remembered Peter's wet dream that she had unwittingly encountered, and prayed to herself that Nathan just wouldn't. Peter was a kid; love and sexuality were new to him, floating around waiting to attach to something, and it was more than likely that he'd make terrible mistakes at this point. But Nathan wouldn't take an interest in that, would he? Nathan would have the good grace to be disgusted at the thought, even if it came from his beloved baby brother? Nathan wouldn't respond to it, would he?
Nathan looked up at her finally, smiling. "I guess I'll get the last box myself," he said. "It'll be good for me. I need the exercise."
"Oh, Nathan, are you sure?"
He laughed. "Don't baby me, Ma," he said. "I got it." He easily lifted the heavy box, full of books and picture frames, eased it into the crook of his arm, and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the corner of her mouth. "Thanks for everything, Ma. Thanks for putting me up. Tell Dad to call me when he gets back home, would you?"
"I will," she said.
"And don't be too hard on Pete, okay? He's..." Nathan hesitated before finishing his sentence. "He's going through some stuff. He's not having the easiest time of things. He might be kind of testy this week."
"Oh, I imagined so," Angela replied airily. "It's not as though I'm not used to his tantrums. I'm hoping that a week of alone time might be just what he needs to remind him who his mother is. He'll be just fine as soon as he cools off. You should spend time with him next Friday-maybe takeout at your new place."
Nathan's smile became exceptionally strange; a peculiar combination of excitement and anxiety. "Sounds like an idea," he said. He gave her one more kiss, and left. Angela went upstairs to the topmost floor, so that she could watch him get into his heavy-loaded car and drive away, thoughts and suspicions swirling around in her head. It was too much to bear. She needed to talk to her son, to reassure herself about him.
She went to Peter's room and knocked on the door. "Peter? I want to talk to you," she called, turning the doorknob and letting herself in. Peter sat on the floor, back to the wall under the windowsill, staring at her. "Look, sweetheart, I'm going to miss him, too," she offered.
Peter shook his head a little, all the fight going out of him. "No, it's okay," he said resignedly. "I'm sorry. You're right. He needs to rest. I've been bugging him all this time, I... it's just good to see him."
Angela caught sight of a white slip of paper peeking out from underneath Peter's crossed ankles; when she focused her eyes on it, by the tiniest sliver of the image she could see, she knew it was the photograph of Nathan which usually sat in a frame on Peter's desk. Tucked away, hidden so that she wouldn't see it. Why would he ever need to hide that from her? What significance could that picture possibly have?
She was momentarily shocked into silence, but as soon as the realization took shape in her mind, shock was replaced by calm. It was harmless. Peter would get over it and Nathan was no fool. This was ugly and complicated, but not the end of the world. She had seen and encountered stranger and harsher knowledge than this in her life, and conquered it or made peace with it, without exception. Angela Petrelli did not break, and she did not place over-much importance on infatuations. She had had plenty of those in her own past, too, and mostly they had been mistakes (sometimes, terrible ones). But in that world of strange, harsh knowledge, nothing compared to having a warm pair of arms surround you, or a loving voice in your ear, whispering desire. She had been there. She knew. It was Peter's turn to learn the hard way. God, how she wanted to hold him, to lock him up someplace safe, away from the chaotic, heartless world.
What would happen when Nathan broke Peter's heart?
Raising her head, she said only, "Dinner is in one hour. Do me a favor, and comb your hair," then turned and left the room.
----
1999
Peter's high school graduation was a grand affair of ninety-seven fresh-faced teenagers in navy-blue caps and gowns, marching up one by one to recieve their diplomas and make assorted gestures of triumph. Angela wore a calm smile of pride, seated between Arthur, completely distracted, and Nathan, his face shining with happiness. As soon as Peter mounted the podium, took his diploma and readjusted the tassel on his cap with a handsomely crooked grin, Nathan squeezed Angela's hand. "Gotta go," he said. "Tell Pete I'll see him tomorrow at dinner, okay?"
Angela gave him a parting kiss, then looked over at Arthur, who wasn't even looking at the podium. "Did you get a picture?" she asked him. He shrugged vaguely, grimacing like his stomach ached. "Did you even see it?"
"We can buy pictures afterward," he said. "There's a staff photographer."
"What's the matter?" she murmured.
"I'll tell you later," he replied uncomfortably. "Just enjoy the event for now."
She considered persuading him to tell her right then and there, but his nervousness seemed genuine, and if they were in danger, he'd tell her. It was some kind of bad news that he wasn't eager to share. She decided to let it go for now; the last time she had massaged the truth out of him, it was the fact that he'd wanted her to have an abortion.
After forty more names were announced, caps were tossed, and the ceremony was finally over. Arthur all but leapt from his seat. "I've got to make a call; I'll be right back," he explained to her. "Meet you over by the photo set up in fifteen minutes?"
"I hope I can drag Peter away from his friends that quickly," Angela said.
"If need be, we can leave him here. I'm sure he can get a ride back with someone." Before Angela could protest, Arthur had darted away, already brandishing his mobile phone.
Gradually she wound her way through the crowd, greeting fellow parents who she knew, and located Peter. He was standing stock-still in the middle of the room, his eyes wide and fixed and a little hysterical. "Congratulations, darling," Angela said, taking him in her arms and giving him a big hug, then a kiss on both cheeks. Peter's body felt like a bundle of wires, and he wavered after she let him go, as though he'd been roughed up. "Now what's wrong?" she asked, laughing a little. "Relax. You did it. You're a high school graduate."
Peter said nothing, and hadn't responded to the touch. His eyes began to dart back and forth, his expression growing more haunted and anguished by the second. Angela was getting sick of having to pump her family members for information. "Peter, what is it?" she asked sharply.
"She dumped me," he murmured, sounding confused, lost. "She. Dumped me. Just now."
"What? Who, your girlfriend?" Angela rolled her eyes. "If you ask me, not a moment too soon."
"I loved her," he said.
"Just think, Peter, you're on the cusp of adulthood. You don't want to be tied down to some girl right now; there's a whole world of girls out there, and you could have any one of them you wanted. That girl was a bad influence on you, anyway. You should concentrate on having fun."
"Having fun with who? She told all our friends that I'm a date rapist," Peter muttered.
Angela scoffed. "You're not, are you?"
"Mom!"
"So there you are. You know you're not, and as long as they're not setting you up, they can't prove anything. It's just high school gossip. You're better off without them."
"But they're my friends," Peter moaned, his mood changing instantly to crushing sadness. "They were. God, I thought they'd been acting weird around me lately. I just thought it was everybody being freaked out over finals..."
"If they were really your friends, they'd believe you."
"Where's Nathan," he said dully. "I need to... talk to Nathan."
"He only stayed to watch you get your diploma. You know that. Now come on, let's go get your portrait taken. Your father acts like he's got ants in his pants."
Peter had no more facial expression than a bar of soap for his portrait sitting. Arthur came up as the photographer was trying another angle, trying to somehow make Peter look less zombie-like, and gave Angela a furiously impatient look. "Fine," she snapped at the photographer. "Choose the best shot and send thirty standard prints to the address listed in Peter's class notes. Let's go." She grabbed Peter's wrist and dragged him along behind her, following Arthur's hasty retreat.
At home, the table was set for formal afternoon tea, and the house staff stood by ready to give Peter congratulations; but Peter walked past all of it without seeing, making straight for his bedroom, and closing the door quietly. Angela watched him go, feeling helpless. Arthur went into the dining room, and sat down heavily at the head of the table. As she followed, Arthur called out, "Please bring the bottle of Cragganmore fifteen-year, please."
She served herself tea, sandwiches, and cakes. Arthur received his bottle of Scotch from the maid and half-filled two cups, sliding one over to her.
"That bad, huh?" she asked.
Arthur took a mouthful and grimaced it down. He wasn't looking at her. "We can't summer in the Hamptons this year," he said.
"What do you mean?" Angela sipped at the Scotch in the teacup, chasing it with real tea. It was a pleasing, soothing combination. She began eating the sandwiches before she got too distracted.
"Agent Lee was, uh, killed this morning," Arthur replied. "As you know, he was our covert protective detail." He sighed heavily. "This alone would be cause for some concern, except that a member of Linderman's detail was also killed this morning, in Las Vegas. Identical brain hemorrages. We've got an undocumented on the loose, with a lethal ability, and a bone to pick with Linderman and me. Linderman suggests that we be a little bit more difficult to find this summer, and I have to say I agree with him. I'm reasonably confident that we're fine here until next week, but that's the limit; and we are still expected at our house in Montauk. His team is working on locating the rogue."
"And ours?" Angela asked. She drained her teacup.
Arthur nodded a little. "It's in the works," he said. "Trying to establish motive and connection is the next step. I'm going to make sure that there's a team at the house in Montauk, to see if we receive any unexpected visitors. Linderman and I are sharing intelligence on this one, because he's got a head start. He's been able to work on this problem all day, and he's got his best people on it. I've got some calls in, but we haven't really got a good seeker in our ranks right now."
"What about Maury?"
Arthur groaned faintly. "For all I know, this is Maury," he said. "Maybe he's got a grudge. I think he's capable."
"Nonsense. He works in illusions; he can't make your cranial veins explode. We should be looking for a telekinetic. No, call him. I know you don't like him, but this is a matter of personal safety. If he could be useful, he should be used."
"I think that's what Kaito said about you," Arthur murmured, a soft, dry, joking tone in his voice.
"I used him," Angela corrected. She was tempted to add, And nowhere near as thoroughly as Linderman continues to use you, but she took a sip of tea and smiled instead. "So where will we go, if not the Hamptons?"
"I did a little research. There's a summer rental up in Vermont, fairly isolated, and facing a lake. It's very rural, according to my maps. I'm going to drive up tomorrow and check it out. If it suffices, it will suffice. I'm afraid there'll be more fishing and berry-picking than society brunches this summer." Arthur seemed to be vastly relieved now that he'd told her.
"If this threat can be contained or eliminated over the summer, it will be worth it," Angela said. "It'll be a vacation, won't it? Imagine that."
"Imagine that," Arthur agreed.
"I believe in you," she said.
Arthur nodded and almost smiled, finally meeting her eyes. "I believe in you, too," he countered.
"Peter," she added thoughtfully. Arthur made as if to pour her more Scotch, but she put her hand over her cup. "Arthur, really."
"Sorry; I just thought you could use it. I guess he's going to have to come, too," he said.
"He is your son, by the way. Of course he'll have to come, unless you want to leave him unsupervised here."
"God, no, might as well burn the place down and take the insurance money."
"Arthur, really!"
"Oh, come on, I'm kidding. He's not even here right now."
"Yeah, but his mother's right here," she reminded him. She glanced at the doorway. "I ought to go talk to him," she decided, "he's having a very bad day. Poor baby. The latest in a string of teenage whores has broken his heart. And now he won't be able to go back to Montauk to take more surfing lessons... he did so enjoy that, even if he did hurt himself right off the bat. That boy." She stood up and placed a small hill of sandwiches and cakes onto a plate. "I'll see if I can get him to eat something. He's the one that wanted watercress sandwiches and cherry tarts."
The knock on Peter's door went unanswered, as she had expected. She quietly let herself into the room, and closed the door behind her. Peter lay on his bed, fully clothed, but divested of his graduation robe and shoes, staring at the ceiling. He glanced over at Angela incuriously, then closed his eyes so wearily that it made her feel tired just looking at him. Once again, his photo of Nathan was out of its frame, face-up on his bedside table, along with a more recent snapshot taken on the deck of the Ellis Island ferry. It was a great picture; Nathan in a white windbreaker and sky-blue shirt, leaning his arms against the railing, the wind ruffling his wavy hair, eyes narrowed against the damp wind, a slight but blissful smile on his parted lips. Peter had taken the photo; she recognized the pose and setting, as Peter had shown her all of the other pictures he'd taken on that trip. But he had saved that one, kept it secret. She set down the plate of tea snacks and picked up the photo. On the back of it, in Nathan's handwriting, very simply,
"I love you too."
She set the picture back down. Peter didn't move. She sighed. She could stand in the way all she liked, but this bond between them was stronger than sense, or logic, or morals. What would happen, would happen. She could not bear to see Peter like this, flattened out by the unkind words of some spoiled, lying little bitch. He deserved a chance to experience the kind of love that endured, was meaningful, solid, and permanent. And exciting and dangerous and wrong and thrilling, the kind of love that made you feel alive, even if it was mostly because you spent your life vacillating between terror and consuming, thoughtless lust. Yes, she had been there. These experiences had saved her life, even as it veered dangerously close to destroying it. Such things had made her. It would either make Peter, or destroy him. It had not been forseen, but then again, neither had Peter. He was a wild card, an anomaly, a gift, she realized, for Nathan, as well as for her.
So be it.
"It looks like we're going to spend the summer in Vermont," she announced to him. "I'll see if I can get Nathan to spend some time there, too."
Peter opened his eyes then, and blinked at her. "Why Vermont?"
"Change of pace," Angela said, her voice slightly strangled with the effort of keeping cheerful. "It'll just be nice to get away. Don't you think?" She tidied up some crooked books on Peter's shelf, wiped imaginary dust from the surface of the desk. "We can talk it through at dinner tomorrow. How does that sound?" Peter didn't respond with the wild enthusiasm she had been hoping for, so she continued, "I brought you some snacks; if you'd like tea, there's some hot downstairs. It's going to be all right, Peter. I promise."
"Thanks, Mom," Peter answered slowly and mechanically. "I just want to be alone right now."
"All right, dear. I love you," she reminded him, and gently stroked his forehead, since hugging him was impossible. If she ever felt that her ability to convince was needed, this was the time. "Always remember that I love you."
Peter relaxed under her touch. "Okay," he agreed. He even smiled, but it didn't last long, as he dozed off as surely as if she had commanded him to sleep. Angela took a deep breath, bent down and kissed his forehead, and left him alone.
END (40)
A/N: This seems incomplete to me, so maybe this is part 1 of a two-part story. We'll see. Those looking forward to more tales of Angela will be happy to know that she plays a large-ish part in Ritual (41) as well, though not as central as here. Thanks for reading!