Fic: Ritual (44): Destiny and Desire (for heroes_bigboom)

[mystery_sock]

I am so, so, so sorry this is late - I can't explain what happened. anyway, voila!

Title: Destiny and Desire (Ritual 44)
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Other characters: Angela, Arthur, Heidi, various minor OCs
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: setting is pre-series; if you know who these characters are, you're good
Warnings: incest, slash, explicit sex
Word Count: about 10110 ^_^
Summary: Nathan looks toward an ambitious future, but taking care of Peter still comes first.
Done for the the 2008 Heroes Big Boom challenge! Accompanying illustration by slanted_edges - it's fantastic to open these images in a window next to this one; they so beautifully illustrate the story. Thanks to the mods and to slanted_edges!



Heroes does not belong to me, but to NBC.

JUNE 2003

LITCHFIELD COUNTY, CONNECTICUT

Nathan had to hand it to Linderman; for a reputed gangster, he certainly did have exquisite taste. A security gate with an armed guard sat a few yards off the nearest road, but it was still five minutes' drive down a tree-lined gravel path before Nathan reached the house itself. The sprawling building looked to have had its original Colonial-era farmhouse expanded at least five times, necessitating moving the carriage house several hundred yards away. The Petrellis occupied the outlying edifice which was modestly sized but beautiful, decorated with period antiques and expensive artwork from the 1960s. It was so well-suited to Angela's tastes that it might as well have been designed specifically for her.

After a few games of tennis, the older Petrellis rallying together against Nathan, they retired to the carriage house for lunch. Nathan looked around him as he sat down at the table. "So where's Mr. Linderman?" he asked.

His father drew out his mother's chair then sat down himself. "Taking care of business in Atlantic City," he said dryly, curling his lip slightly as he spread his napkin across his lap before pouring himself a glass from the pitcher of gin-and-tonic.

Nathan raised his eyebrows at Arthur's tone; yet another unpleasant matter that his father didn’t want to share with him. Nathan was used to it by now, and a part of him didn’t really want to know the gritty details of being on Linderman’s payroll. Arthur had been representing Linderman semi-exclusively for the last few years, and it was obvious that no matter how great the money was, it had begun to wear on him. "You don't sound too happy about it," he observed.

"Oh, it's not that. Linderman does what's necessary. So do I. For him." He frowned and sipped his cocktail. “And for you.”

Nathan poured a tumbler of gin-and-tonic for his mother, and one for himself, even though he didn't feel like drinking it: it was for symmetry's sake. Across the table, Angela was giving Arthur one of those tight smiles that promised an argument later. "Fortunately, we're not here to discuss Mr. Linderman," she said. Nathan blinked at her and took a steadying drink from his glass. "We're here to discuss you, and what’s necessary for you. And more importantly, what’s possible for you."

Nathan shrugged. "I'm on track for another promotion. In fact, right now, I'm just waiting for the word." He didn't need to mention the fact that his taking time away from his current caseload demonstrated his commitment to the family. "I've even got a case lined up that I can step into, once Larry Yan steps down. His retirement party's scheduled for next Friday."

Angela didn't seem ruffled; she took such commitment for granted. "Send him my regards." Her smile relaxed, became loving, and yet slightly predatory. "Have you ever considered running for Congress?"

Nathan stared at her for a moment, nonplussed, then glanced over at his father, who met his gaze calmly, but expectantly. No one moved, and silence stretched over the terrace; for a moment, no bird chirped and the gentle clanking of dishes in the kitchen paused. Nathan gave an abrupt sigh and shifted in his seat, breaking free from the smothering quiet. He scratched the back of his head. "Congress," he repeated. "In terms of public office, I'd been thinking about running for district attorney. Seems a little less high-intensity."

"Why would you ever worry about high-intensity?" Arthur asked, surprised. "You're a young man, moving into the prime of his life, with looks, intelligence, and military service to his advantage. The world is changing, Nathan. It's time for younger men to start taking positions now. This is the world you're going to inherit. Do you really want your grandfather's generation making decisions for your district?"

Angela laughed. "Oh, Arthur, you shouldn't put it like that. But, really, Nathan. A congressional campaign doesn't take place overnight. You could be working up to this for years. And do you really want to settle for D.A.? You could have more."

Nathan laughed as well, but like his sigh, it was just a sound. Something to break the silence, buy himself a moment to think. "Maybe I don’t want more," he said at last, but even as he said it, he realized that it wasn't true at all. Yes, he did want to hold a public office and something a little closer to the executive branch than being a district attorney, but he had planned to take it in slow, measured stages: D.A. first, then a little local government, start some successful business ventures, and then start examining his options for the Senate. The boys would be in college; Nathan would gain a few years earning the public's respect with effective and compassionate deeds; he and Heidi would be moving toward their autumn years with all of the wisdom of experience behind them. Perhaps a touch of gray in his hair, to give him gravitas. He didn't doubt that could have it all, but... to do it now?

Why not?

Arthur and Angela traded a knowing look, and Angela rolled her eyes. "Enough with the false modesty, Nathan; I can read you like a book. You've wanted to be President since you were a child. You want to talk 'high intensity'...well, that might not be something you want to tackle until the boys are a little bit older. But who knows?"

"So now I'm running for President!" Nathan said, grinning and shaking his head.

"No, now you're beginning to think about a congressional campaign. Try it for 2006; Chadwick's probably going to take it again next year, but that little scandal of his won't stay under the radar forever. Not if that information helps us." Angela lifted her chin, leveling her steel-blue eyes at Nathan, and added, "If you want it, you can make it work." Then she smiled lovingly, her eyes softening. "You have our full support."

"I couldn't make it without that," Nathan replied.

"You'd better believe it," Arthur added under his breath.

"I am gonna have to run it by Heidi," Nathan considered.

Angela looked up at the a duo of white-aproned kitchen staff bringing out the luncheon dishes from the kitchen. "I don't think Heidi will take much convincing," she said. "In fact, I think she'll be delighted. She's always been very civic-minded, and she could be invaluable to your campaign efforts. And the babies are perfect for photo ops."

Nathan laughed again. "Ma, you're something else," he said, shaking his head. "I'll think about it. I'll definitely think about it."

"Let's just get some plans in place," Angela proposed, "just in case you decide yes. And, of course, if Heidi gives her consent."

The rest of the afternoon was spent out on the terrace, listening to a laundry list of people that his parents knew would give him advice and support, and what they would expect in return. Nathan absorbed the information easily, knowing that if any details escaped him, they were just a phone call away. He didn't give his work back at the D.A.'s office any thought until he was on his way home, finding himself caught in Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic while he was still outside Yonkers.

He had been working under the foregone conclusion that by the end of summer, he'd be involved with a major corporate fraud case that would keep him busy and stimulated for the next year, while he also began assimilating the more complex politics of the district attorney's office. Fairly simple stuff, at least for him; a step back from his rapid ascension in order to settle himself fully and get used to the business of being a father and husband. But Congress! Serving in Washington! He absolutely could do that-he knew he was capable-and even if it didn't happen as quickly as his parents imagined, he could try again in another two years. 2008 was just as good, and an initial campaign could only be useful in teaching him what not to do.

Maybe it was meant to happen this way: a challenge, at last.

Traffic slowed to a crawl, then a complete standstill. Cursing faintly, Nathan switched on the car's little-used CD player, his usual preference being to listen to news radio on his daily commute into the office. The strident, but melodious tones of Diana Ross and the Supremes coming from his speakers took him by surprise. He'd forgotten that the last thing he'd put in there, or rather, Heidi had put in there, was a mix CD that Peter had made for him. Heidi liked that CD and seemed completely oblivious to the underlying messages in the music Peter chose.

It was mostly songs from the Sixties with a few contemporary tracks thrown in. But the selections! "Come See About Me;" "I'll Be Your Mirror;" "Close to You;" "Be My Baby;" "The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game," for heaven's sake. Certainly there was nothing about them that would give her any cause for concern; they were just good songs, that was all. The hidden lyrical subtext was only for Nathan to discover.

Peter... That was what Nathan had truly forgotten, not his career. Running for public office-with this whole thing with Peter going on? They'd been able to keep it a secret, as far as they knew, but Nathan thought of Congressman Chadwick and how they'd traced his connection to prostitution by tracking his phone calls.

On the other hand, so what if he called Peter all the time? They were family: brothers, and close-knit ones at that. There would be no problems regarding the frequency of their calls. As an added precaution, their conversations were so heavily coded that if anyone were ever to eavesdrop, nothing could be proven. Sometimes they got a little sloppy about tone of voice, but, again, really. It was dazzle camouflage. The very fact that they were brothers provided them the best cover they could ever hope for.

Still....

If you're lonely, c'mon boy, and see about me.

Nathan chewed his lip and looked outside at the inching traffic. There had to have been an accident on the highway; even during rush hour, traffic going into the city was never this bad. Sudden decision made, Nathan got out his cell phone and pressed #3 on the speed-dial.

His brother answered quickly. "Hey, Nathan."

"Hey, Pete. What's going on?"

"I'm listening to the radio, reading a book, chillin'- you know. I'm gonna go to a party tonight, though."

"Oh, yeah," Nathan remembered, "this is the end of finals week, isn't it?"

"I had my last final this morning, but yeah. I mean, practically a whole day off. I barely know what to do with myself." Peter laughed.

"Don't waste it," Nathan said. "Get something productive done before you go out and get tanked."

"Hey, resting is productive," Peter pointed out. "I'm still not quite a hundred percent. You're the one who told me I should take it easy." He chuckled pleasantly. "You know, Nate, I just can't thank you enough for helping me out. The only way I've gotten through this last couple of weeks is because I knew I didn't have to leave school and immediately turn around and go to work. I mean, I could immediately turn around and go home and study until my eyeballs fell out instead." Peter laughed again. He sounded much better than he had a month ago when fatigue and a lingering chest cold had reduced his voice to a rasp. "Seriously, thanks. That's like the nicest thing anyone's done for me in ages. I'm glad you're on my side."

"Ah, it's no big deal," Nathan replied. "Pocket change." He hadn't been able to stand seeing Peter sick and tired, never getting any better because he refused to slow down a little in order get over his cold. Peter was just so stubborn and proud sometimes, refusing to ask for help when he knew it would be so easily given. If only Peter had just gone along with the family's wishes for him; if he hadn't gone out of his way to antagonize his father, he wouldn't have had to be working his own way through school, and making himself ill to prove a point. He wouldn't take his father's money because he didn't like where it came from. Nathan knew that Peter was spoiled; Angela regularly tucked hundred-dollar bills into his coat pockets whenever he visited their house, and Peter's front room was always packed with boxes overflowing with clothes that she bought for him which he didn't want and that he'd give to charities. But the kid did work hard, and Nathan really couldn't think of anyone more loveable. Spoiled? Yes. Annoying, weird, and frustrating, too, but Peter was made to love and be loved.

"Five grand is pocket change to you?" Peter scoffed.

"It is," Nathan said. It was. Peter knew that. Nathan wished that Peter hadn't had to become so money-conscious; it made Nathan deeply uncomfortable whenever Peter brought up the subject.

Peter went on in a sonorous voice, "Alms, sir. Alms for the poor."

Nice that even over the phone Peter could sense Nathan's discomfort and make a stupid joke to lighten the mood. Nathan laughed, his chest aching with affection. "Shut up, Pete, you're not poor."

"Okay, no, I'm broke. I've given so much plasma they call me the Pincushion Boy down at the donation center. Let me tell you, I really appreciate the juice and cookies afterward. Hey, uh, by the way, didn't you mention that you were going to up to Connecticut to visit Mom and Dad today?"

"Yeah," Nathan replied, "I'm just on my way back now. I'm stuck in traffic." Nathan glanced into his rearview mirror, noting that the dense wall of cars behind him was equal to the one in front, and sighed. At least it was a beautiful day. "Nice place Mr. Linderman's got up there."

"I bet it is; he's got a lot of 'pocket change'," Peter drawled. "Do you think Mom and Dad are ever going to summer in the Hamptons again?"

"I don't think so," Nathan admitted. "It's kinda too bad. But that's probably just nostalgia speaking."

"I kinda miss it, too," Peter said. "Especially now. Not so much the house or the bugs, but the beach. I miss the ocean. I miss vacation. Anyway... what'd you guys do?"

"Linderman wasn't there, so that's good. We just played some tennis, and then we had lunch... that went on for a while. We just talked about what I'm going to do next. Guess what?" Nathan paused for effect. "I've decided that I'm going to make a run for Congress."

"Really?" Peter sounded astonished. "Seriously? When?"

"Right now. Well, by next month; there's still a lot of research and work to do, and I do still have my cases at the D.A.'s. But it's time to get started. I mean, it's going to take a couple of years. Trying for oh-six." Nathan couldn't help grinning. "I want it. I think it's the right time. I can make this work. It feels right to me."

"Wow... I mean, it's kind of exciting, but..." Peter asked, "What's Heidi gonna say? What about the kids?"

"They're part of it, too. They have to be. They're my family, and they're in it with me. I haven't told Heidi yet, exactly, but I can't understand why she'd have a problem with it. We've talked about it before, more than once. Just wishful thinking, coming up with campaign slogans and that sort of thing. She's pretty good at it. And she told me she'd love to be a political wife."

"She's crazy," Peter said. "Why anybody would choose that is beyond me. Imagine the whole world judging you on what you wear, and analyzing every single thing that you say. Always having to be perfect; the perfect wife, the perfect mom, the perfect whatever. And... you know, Nathan, you're going to have to stop fooling around."

"As a politician?" Nathan countered. "What planet are you from?"

They were both silent for a second before breaking out in shared laughter. "Oh, yeah, right," Peter said, "I forgot. That's part of the benefits package."

"Don't worry about me. I'll straighten up," Nathan promised.

"Not too much, I hope," Peter replied lightly.

Nathan decided to let that remark go; no sense in starting potential trouble. "Have fun at your party tonight," he said. "Traffic's starting to move."

"Okay, I will. Check you later."

"See you, Pete. Love you. Bye." He hung up and stowed the phone in the glove compartment, finally able to accelerate. He edged by the accident: a red truck and a small brown sedan that looked like they had hit each other nearly head-on, their front bumpers tangled together in a web of twisted metal. He barely spared it a glance as he sped away, heading back into the city that he'd decided to represent.

----
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

The party was in Coney Island, not very near the beach itself, but having much more of a flavor of south Brooklyn. Rather than being squeezed inside of a cramped student’s apartment, the boisterous group instead had taken over the building's crumbling courtyard and spilled onto the street. Peter was thrilled to be hanging out in a parking lot as the sun set, drinking a bottle of cold beer, watching some random guy expertly scratching records on a turntable. He didn't know anyone there other than his classmate Rick and Rick's girlfriend Wanda, but that was all right. He was free.

As much as he appreciated his studies and enjoyed the work he did at a couple of clinics, learning how to heal and repair and soothe, the combination of intensive college courses and almost forty hours of paid work a week had knocked the wind out of him. One night in April, he had noticed a lingering stiffness in his limbs and a sore throat that got worse as the night went on. He nearly fell asleep at his desk before shoving away the fatigue with some terrible office coffee. By the end of that week, his whole body quaked with near constant coughing fits and he was running a low-grade fever. He knew enough from his studies to determine that he had developed viral bronchitis. He fought it as hard as he could, despairing of losing any work or missing classes - it could be disastrous for him to skip even one at this point in the semester - until he actually did pass out at work one night, waking up in a hospital bed. Sure, it was down the hall from the administrative office where he worked, but it was never good to wake up on a gurney and be told that he'd suddenly toppled out of his chair. While waiting for him to regain consciousness, Peter's supervisor phoned Nathan, who was listed as his emergency contact. And Nathan had not been pleased or sympathetic. He'd picked Peter up and taken him home, called Peter a stupid, immature jackass with a martyr complex, and then put him to bed. When Peter woke up again, there was a check for five thousand dollars on his nightstand, anchored by a half-full bottle of cough syrup and a note that said Quit your jobs and just concentrate on school. And go to the doctor; you look like shit.

Somehow, to his credit, Peter hadn't missed any classes. He hated having to quit his jobs, though, even if they were more of a burden than anything else. He missed his co-workers and his sense of really taking care of himself: making his own decisions and his own money, for once. But this was also taking care of himself, the restructuring of his days to merely a couple of classes or a few hours of studying in the library, followed by so much sleep that he got sick of it. He recovered from the bronchitis within a week and the five grand took care of Peter's rent, bills, food, and books for a while; more than enough time to finish out the semester.

And a few nights off, before classes started again on Tuesday...

Peter joined in the dancing, thrilled by the music, his restored health, and the movements of the other people dancing somewhat in sync with him, but also following their own patterns, their unique details. Eye contact flashing out of brown faces; hips filling out cut-off short shorts; girls squealing happily and swinging their hair at him, winking, beckoning him with curled fingers. He could easily take any one of them home for a casual screw, but for the moment he was more interested in dancing. He forgot to drink anymore; he forgot to think anymore. He was nothing but rhythm, velocity, balance, freedom, and pleasure.

For a few hours, he was pure.

He danced until he was exhausted. Eventually he had to stagger off to the side, hoping to find a cooler with some bottled water or even a cupful of ice to crunch on, but the cooler from which he'd snagged his first beer was nowhere to be found. He was suddenly aware that the DJ had been replaced by a powerful boom box and that the population of the party had also changed; there were fewer of the flirty girls with whom he had been dancing, their absence replaced with posturing males, most of them young and rough-looking, sagging jeans cinched around the upper thigh, sporting tattoos on bulging dark arms. He caught the pungent scent of a smoking blunt somewhere nearby, and the sound of a breaking bottle made him look around sharply, suddenly apprehensive.

Everything had gotten darker while he'd been spinning around, blissed out on the beat. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it had to be long after midnight. He was far from home and out of his element: a lone skinny white boy wearing clothes that only looked cheap. New York City had never before seemed so huge.

Peter tried to shake off his tension, telling himself that just because he was surrounded by thirty or forty tough-looking guys, it didn't mean that he was in any danger. Rick and Wanda lived in this neighborhood; they wouldn't have asked him over if this was some kind of vicious gangland. But it wasn't the look the new dudes were sporting; it was the vibe they were giving off. They seemed to be gathering for a reason, and not a friendly one. There were no smiles, no more joking, and only a handful of drunk, oblivious girls still dancing to Trick Daddy.

His eye caught the glint of silver nickel-plating from the back of one guy's jeans, then the flash of another from someone else's. There were guns at this party. Not nice, civilized guns in velvet-lined cases, and no simple six-shooters held in cowboy holsters; jammed into waistbands that sagged under their weight, within easy reach of a sweeping hand.

Peter's heart pounded in his ears as nervous sweat trickled down his back; he froze in place, grateful that he wasn't drunk. There was still a chance that he could find his way back to Stillwell Ave. station; he could still get a D train out of here and back into Manhattan. But would it be right to just run away? Maybe he could defuse the situation? There was no point in being scared, but he couldn't help it. He wished he had brought his cell phone with him, but he'd wanted to be free of it for a change; to have a night out, to go a Brighton Beach dance party with just the clothes on his back and his MetroCard in his pocket. He didn't have any money for a taxi, if he could even find a taxi in this neighborhood... No, it would be better just to wait and find out what was going on. It would be cowardly and prejudiced to walk away. This was a different community, and he respected that.

His commitment to calm was shattered when a pop-pop-pop of gunfire erupted from the far side of the parking lot, and he startled so sharply that he wrenched a tendon in the back of his knee. He buckled over, bellowing, "Ow, fuck!" One of the dancing girls screamed and ran straight for him, knocking him over completely; she bolted on, oblivious to Peter and his pavement-skinned knees. Everyone was running, scattering, battering past him too quickly for him to catch his bearings. After the area cleared, he slowly stood, his tired legs wobbling like gelatin.

A sudden violent squeal of police sirens made him jump again. "Stop! Police!" came a bullhorn-amplified shout. Despite everything, Peter's instincts kicked in and he tried to run, only to fall down again. He didn't catch himself completely on his hands this time, and his face hit the ground, busting his lip against a jutting spike of broken concrete. Before he could even react to that, a strong, hard hand grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt and hauled him halfway to his feet. He felt a startling, icy cold band encircle first his left wrist, then his right one, his arms twisted behind his back.

"Hey! Wait! I didn't do anything!" he yelled desperately.

"You have the right to remain silent..."

Blood bubbled over his mouth, and though he hated himself for it, his eyes began to water, pouring saline into the cut on his upper lip and making it sting. He wasn't crying, dammit; he wasn't. And anyway, it was anger. "But I didn't do anything!"

He was roughly but thoroughly frisked, the pockets of his baggy khaki shorts and underneath his T-shirt invaded, and then made to kneel as the police made further arrests. It seemed to be mostly random-anybody they could catch-but they had nabbed a couple of the guys with guns, and across the street, where a man was cuffed and bent over the hood of a car, a stash of something or other had been located in the back seat. Peter strained to listen as hard as he could and paid attention to the scene in case he was asked about it later. But the cops didn't seem interested in anything he knew so he decided to keep his mouth shut and just cooperate. He had a hard time concentrating, between the throbbing wound in his face, the drying blood that was beginning to make his neck itch and the painful twanging from the back of his knee. He really just wanted to go home, take a cold shower, and go to sleep.

Being handcuffed hurt a lot more than he'd ever imagined. The tight metal cut off circulation to his fingers and pinched the skin of his wrists. It wasn't in the least bit erotic, and he was glad that in all of his years of kinky sex, none of his lovers had ever used handcuffs on him. He didn't think even Nathan could make this sexy...

Nathan. Peter let out a groan when he remembered his brother. He'd actually gone the whole night without thinking about him. Nathan was going to be furious, not to mention Mom and Dad, one of whom already thought Peter was a fuck-up. And with Nathan now planning to run for office... Worst timing ever. But this wasn't Peter's fault, and he hadn't actually done anything to be arrested for. Peter had never been cuffed before, even though he'd screamed nasty things at the police at all of the anti-war protests he'd gone to since he was just a kid, and skipped school to go be in the midst of a mob of people who believed in peace. Civil disobedience would have been something worthy; he'd be in the company of Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, and Rosa Parks. Instead he was being hauled off downtown just for going to the wrong party.

Nathan would not be pleased. But, once again, he was the only one who could help.
----
HYDE PARK, NEW YORK

Although Heidi didn't like it, Nathan slept with his cell phone on the beside table every night in closer reach than even the alarm clock, which required him to actually get out of bed to turn off. He did concede to her wish to keep the ring tone turned down to a low, but insistent electronic purr, so it wouldn't wake the babies.

When it rang, he was awakened more by Heidi, her body jerking in surprise, than by the sound. "Nathan," she groaned, "turn that off."

He lifted his arm from where it rested on her waist and turned over to pick up the phone. In the dove-gray gloom of the master bedroom, the subtle digits on the alarm clock couldn't be made out, but the tiny screen on his cell phone informed him that it was 2:48 A.M. and the caller ID said bklyn detention. "The fuck?" he muttered. He was an assistant D.A.; he had the number of every police station in the city, even the ones outside his own district, saved to his phone. But why the hell would a fairly remote Brooklyn neighborhood cop shop be calling him now? Had Trey Markov tried to make a run for it or shot somebody? The Russian heroin dealer at the center of Larry Yan's fraud case might have stumbled across something hot or ended up silenced before he could embarrass himself on the stand. Nathan knew all too well how this was done.

Flipping open the phone, he got out of bed, striding naked toward the hallway as he answered. "Nathan Petrelli," he said, "what can I do for you?"

"Nathan," came a strained, shaky, urgent voice. "It's Pete. Um... do you have some more pocket change? I... kinda need to make bail."

"What?" Nathan said, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. "Pete? It's three in the morning. If this is a joke, I'm gonna kill you-"

"It's not a joke, but you might want to kill me anyway. I'm in jail. Please come and get me. You know the whole phone call thing? This is it."

"You got arrested?" Nathan felt his voice rising, and continued down the hall so he wouldn't wake Heidi. "What the hell, Peter? Didn't I just tell you earlier-?! Is this what you think of me?"

Peter's voice was oddly garbled, though the tone was sharp. "No! No. It wasn't about you. It was a mistake, Nathan. I didn't do anything. There was, like, a drug bust or something at the party I went to. It happened really fast; really sudden. I just got caught up in the middle of it and they nabbed me. I was just minding my own business-"

"Save it. So you're at the Boerum Hill Detention Center? Peter, for Christ's sake."

"Yeah, I guess, okay? Yes. It's all just a-dude, would you just please come get me? Or whatever, give 'em you credit card number over the phone or something. Don't dirty your hands with it or anything. I know how much you hate mixing with police officers, let alone actual suspects. I can always just take the subway home." Peter's voice was raised too, tinged with his own particularly bitter nastiness. "It's a fine-or-jail situation. It's five thousand dollars. I'm sorry, okay? I'll pay you back. Or if you just don't feel like it, I guess I can spend the week in lockdown."

"Why'd they book you, if you weren't doing anything?" Nathan asked and then shook his head as he heard the rising wail of a crying baby. "Shit, shit, shit. Look, Monty's crying; let me get him back to sleep and then I'll come down. Just sit tight. I'll spring you on recognizance. And yeah, I am gonna to kill you." Nathan snapped his phone shut and went, cursing under his breath, into the nursery.

Monty yelled louder for a moment when Nathan picked him up, quickly quieting again as Nathan gently rocked him back and forth, shushing him long and slow, imitating the sea. It never failed. Monty could be a Navy man too, someday, maybe.

Once the baby had dropped back to sleep, Nathan settled him back into his crib then went back to the bedroom to check on Heidi. She was awake but not alert, not really conscious; she lay on her back with her eyes open, blinking slowly and insensibly at the ceiling. "The baby," she murmured. "Did you get him?"

"Yeah," whispered Nathan, bending down to kiss her forehead. "He's fine; he's not even wet. Honey, I... I gotta go out for a bit. I'll be back before you know it."

"Huh? What is it?" Heidi said, becoming more fully awake.

Nathan rolled his eyes. "I've, uh, got to bail Peter out of jail. In Brooklyn."

Heidi laughed softly. "Oh, that Peter," she said, relaxing. "Great timing, as usual. Is he okay?"

"I didn't ask," Nathan realized. "His voice sounded kind of funny. Oh well, he can talk, at least, and he was chewing me out, so I think he's fine. He's probably just drunk and got caught with his pants down somewhere." He laughed off his own unease, and patted her shoulder. "Anyway, be back soon."

Nathan dressed in jeans and a broadcloth shirt, verified that he did indeed have five thousand dollars in ready cash just in case (it wasn't quite pocket change, but it wasn't so unusual for him to have it), and headed out to the garage. The night was still hot and humid, even this late, and he turned on the car's air conditioning so that he wouldn't arrive at the station covered in sweat. It might prove beneficial to project a professional demeanor in case he needed to act as an attorney; he didn't put it past Peter to force him into that role, too.

Peter's mix CD was still in the stereo. Nathan considered yanking it out and just listening to the radio, or maybe even just silence, but a new, slow, poignantly beautiful song started before he could turn it off. It was one of those whisper-voiced singer-songwriter types that Peter sometimes got into; Nathan had no use for that sort of thing himself, but he had to admit that this was a lovely song: a haunting soundtrack for his long drive back into the city.

Just like the ocean, always in love with the moon,
it's overflowing now inside you.

Nathan relaxed despite himself. The mix CD was having its intended effect. Listening to this song was like having Peter touching him, having Peter sitting in his lap, like holding him, like feeling Peter's breath against his skin. The quiet plucked guitar notes were like Peter's eager little kisses. Nathan reached out as the song ended, skipped back, and listened to it again.

The drive didn't take as long as Nathan had feared, but it was still past 4 A.M. by the time he pulled up to the detention center. He parked in the surprisingly populated lot and went inside. The front hall was busy enough that Nathan wondered what it was like during the day. At the front desk, he walked up and asked for Peter with practiced ease. "I'm here to secure his release," he explained.

He spoke briefly to the sergeant who had organized the arrests, who agreed that Peter didn't seem to know anything useful and was free to go, but that he'd need to stay available for further questions later. Another staffer directed Nathan to a hideously dull waiting room. He sat on the hard, plastic bench and yawned; he could use a cup of coffee, but he knew better than to drink anything they might have here.

He had nearly dozed off again when the door at the far end of the room opened, and a uniformed guard escorted Peter out. "You can get your personal effects from the cashier," said the guard, not unkindly; it was obvious that Peter was no threat to anyone. And the kid looked like hell. His light-orange T-shirt and tan shorts were stained with what looked like wiped-off blood, the palms of his hands and his knees were badly skinned, and his upper lip was one big, swollen, dark bruise.

"Thank you," Peter answered politely, if tiredly. Spying Nathan, he limped across the room and hugged him desperately. "Oh, Nathan, God," he breathed. "Thank you." He clung tightly, his body suddenly shaking violently, his breath gasping in shudders. "Oh, God..."

Nathan reluctantly pulled Peter away from him. He wanted to hold his little brother until the shaking had passed, but with all of the people around, this wasn't the time or the place. "Now, calm down, that's enough. What the hell happened to you?" All of his residual anger had fled at the sight of that busted lip and the red-rimmed, panicky eyes, and the visual evidence of Peter’s trauma was ringing all of his protective alarms. He had to get Peter out of here before he broke down completely. "C'mon, let's go get your stuff."

"It's just my Metrocard; I didn't bring anything else with me," Peter said, walking alongside. He looked better than he had a moment ago; even a few seconds of being held had apparently calmed him. "I kinda don't even care; there's only five bucks left on it. I'll go get a new one. Let's just bounce. Oh hell, my keys..."

Eventually they got in the car, and Nathan soon shifted into third gear as he drove, racing the speeding service cars and taxis headed toward Manhattan. Beside him, Peter hugged himself tightly for a moment, then stretched out along his seat, his fingers touching the roof. "That was so fucked up," he breathed. "I was just dancing and then some bangers crashed the party. All I saw were guns, and I thought, 'What the fuck?'"

"Why didn't you take off? Call the cops?"

"It happened really fast, like I said. I didn't want to just run away. I didn't know what was going to happen; just because you see a gun doesn't mean it's going to get fired. Some of these guys just carry a piece because it looks intimidating-"

"And it looks intimidating because it's loaded and they'll use it if they get a chance. Peter, that was incredibly stupid. Incredibly stupid. You shouldn't get mixed up in shit like that."

"I didn't know I was, okay?” Peter grumbled."I didn't know that was gonna go down. I didn't know the cops were gonna come. I guess it's good, really; if the cops hadn't showed up right then, who knows. But if I hadn't pulled my knee, I might have gotten away." Suddenly he hissed in pain. "Fuck. This stupid lip. I need to close this up; it's bleeding again."

"Do you need stitches? I'll take you to the hospital," Nathan offered.

Peter actually grinned at Nathan, even though it made him wince. "Nathan, I'm a nurse; I know how to deal with it. No, we don't need to go to the hospital. Just take me home."

"You're not a nurse yet," Nathan pointed out.

"I'm on my way... Hey, you're listening to my CD," Peter noticed.

"Yeah, I, uh... Heidi stuck it in there."

"You like it?" Peter asked softly. His eyes glowed jade-and-copper in the golden streetlight, their light and beauty incongruous with his darkly stained, shadowed face.

"It's a good disk," Nathan said noncommittally. "I don't mind it." He didn't mind when Peter rested his head against his shoulder, either. Nathan reached over from the steering wheel and comfortingly patted Peter's arm, then stretched his arm around Peter's shoulders. Peter sighed softly, and his head got heavier, as though he had just breathed out all of his fears.

Nathan came up to Peter's apartment with him and joined Peter in the bathroom, looking over his injuries under the bright light of the bare lightbulb. It was hard to gauge how deep any of the wounds were through all of the dried blood and gray street filth. After a moment, Peter impatiently hissed, "Fuck this," and stripped off his dirty clothes. He jumped into the shower without bothering to close the shower curtain or warm up the water first. The cold spray made him gasp but, ignoring the inevitable shivers, he grabbed a cake of soap and began furiously sudsing himself. Nathan watched, bemused. "Man, jail is such a shithole," Peter remarked, groaning as he held his raw hands under the water. "The whole place reeks of piss, vomit, and bleach. And really bad men's cologne."

"If it were nice, people would want to go there," Nathan pointed out.

"I just hope none of this gets infected. I don't care how much this hurts; I am washing it out." He held his face under the water, spluttering so much that Nathan closed the shower curtain and went out to the bedroom, sitting on Peter's unmade bed.

Peter's bed always smelled so nice. It wasn't that it was clean or fresh-Nathan was used to freshly laundered bedsheets every morning-but Peter's sheets, which stayed on for at least a week, retained his unique spicy-sweet-sour smell. It should have reeked unpleasantly, but it didn't. Maybe the sheets were cleaner than usual. Or maybe Nathan was just sleepy. He pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. He wouldn't fall asleep; he had more discipline than that. But just resting for a moment would be nice...

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the sky outside had lightened to cobalt-blue, and that Peter was sitting naked and clean on the edge of the bed, watching him, gently stroking Nathan's hair with his fingertips. The split in his lip had been repaired somehow, the edges sealed tightly together, and his palms and knees sported bandages held on with spotless white gauze tape. He held an ice bag against the back of one leg with the other hand. Without rising, Nathan reached out and traced the air, just in front of Peter's still-swollen mouth. "How'd you fix that?"

"Super Glue," Peter explained. "It works good, just as good as stitches, if not better. You just have to be really careful when you apply it."

"You what?" Nathan laughed. He shook his head. "Pete," he added lovingly. Peter smiled tentatively. He looked beautiful in the sideways light coming from the bathroom, his hair casting shade across his face and spike-edged shadows on the surface of the bed.

"I wish I could kiss you," Nathan confessed.

"Yeah, you'd better not," Peter answered with a soft laugh. "Your mouth is a cesspool of germs."

Nathan smiled and didn't deny it. "Can I touch you, though?"

Peter just nodded.

Nathan sat up and hugged Peter lightly, then thought of how tentatively Peter had hugged him when he himself had been injured and how near-ticklish and insulting that had felt. Hugs should be solid and brave. He squeezed Peter good and tight, and Peter squeezed back, the gauze on his hands whispering against Nathan's shirt.

When he drew away, Peter frowned and pursed his lips, frustrated from the lack of a kiss. He compensated by kissing Peter on the cheek, close to the edge of his mouth, then on Peter's chin and neck. "It's all right now," Nathan whispered to him. "I'm going to take care of all of this. You're clean; I'll make sure this gets expunged from your record..."

"Because that's what you're good at," Peter completed the thought.

"Because you're my brother," Nathan asserted, "and you're innocent."

Peter's fingers tightened on Nathan's shirt, clenching it in his fingers. "I'm not innocent..." Peter whispered, chuckling, nuzzling his unshaven cheek against Nathan's. "I just didn't do anything I should get arrested for."

"Ssssh," Nathan purred soothingly, kissing Peter's shoulder. He rubbed the tips of their noses together. "I'll get it taken care of..."

They lay down together, still embracing, relaxing somewhat. Nathan trailed his fingers over Peter's chest and down his arms, taking a wrist in his fingers, examining the bandage on the palm. Peter had always been good at bandaging wounds, even as a kid. "Not a bad one-handed job," Nathan said approvingly.

Peter grunted quietly in reply, smiling a little. "I'm pretty good at one-handed jobs," he said, his voice low and drowsy. Or was it velvety? Sensual? It was so hard to tell sometimes. It aroused Nathan nonetheless.

Nathan kissed Peter's wrist and wrapped his lips around Peter's thumb, sucking it lightly, then moving on to the fingers. Peter's eyes drifted closed. "Sleepy?" Nathan murmured.

"Yeah," Peter whispered.

"Do you want me to leave you alone so you can get some rest?"

"Touch me first," Peter decided, opening his eyes again. "I need you."

Nathan kissed his chin. "Were you scared?" he asked softly. When Peter didn't reply immediately, Nathan smiled and rubbed his fingers against Peter's soft, flat nipples. "It's okay, you can tell me."

"You told me once," Peter said then, "that it's all right to be scared - fear is something that can be useful - but that you shouldn't run away if you don't have to. So I didn't run away."

"Well... maybe you should have run away in this case. Would have saved me a little money, anyway." Nathan kissed a nipple. It tightened against his lips, drawing the fine skin of Peter's chest inward with it, trying to hide itself. Nathan wouldn't let it hide; he sucked it, hard, grasping the nub between his teeth and pulling it out. Peter gasped faintly, and stroked Nathan's hair, encouraging him. When Nathan let go, he had drawn Peter's nipple out, but now he was lopsided so Nathan did the other one. Peter laughed quietly.

"Leave my poor tits alone," he playfully rebuked.

"Never," Nathan promised.

"They can't help being shy..."

"I want 'em to come out and play," Nathan whispered, pulling on them both at the same time. Peter sighed and shuddered. Still lying alongside Peter, Nathan glanced down to see Peter’s semi-erect penis lying there, seemingly in wait for the right set of fingers to help him out. Keeping one set of fingers on a nipple, Nathan reached down with his other hand and cupped Peter's genitals, circling the base of his cock and stroking the balls with his pinky finger. Peter sighed again, this time with mounting excitement. His gauze-wrapped hands slid desperately across the back of Nathan's shirt.

"Take your clothes off, maybe?" Peter suggested softly.

Nathan only said "Hmm," instead of replying, and made no move to undress. His hand tightened on Peter's cock, all fingers now, moving his fist up and down over the hardening length. Nathan ran his tongue around the inside of his own mouth, his lips tightening with desire. He had never wanted to kiss Peter so badly in his life... well, no, that wasn't true. There had been other times when he had wanted to kiss Peter, slide his tongue thick and undeniable into his mouth, and couldn't do it for whatever reason; sometimes because other people were there, and sometimes because he just didn't feel like he had the right to do that. Felt that it was wrong. But that was what other people thought, not him. Peter wanted him to, and that was all that really mattered. But right now, Peter didn't want him to; for once, it really was wrong because Peter didnt want it. It didn't make it any easier.

There were other things he could do, of course.

"Oh, man..." Peter moaned softly. "That feels good."

He shifted himself on the bed and kissed Peter's stomach. Under his lips, he felt the muscles tighten and relax, and in his hand, Peter's cock twitched hard, pulsing against Nathan's palm. Nathan groaned; he couldn't resist a signal like that, whether Peter had done it deliberately or not. Nathan shifted again and brought the smooth glans into his mouth, sucking slowly and firmly. Peter groaned too, with that same throaty, drowsy tone he'd had before. His bandaged hand stroked Nathan's hair, the edges of the gauze catching individual strands. Nathan took Peter's wrist in his hand and forced it away. "Stop it," Nathan commanded. "That feels weird." Peter gave a sulky sigh but left it alone. Instead he reached up to his own nipples and stroked them with his forefingers; they had tightened down again, but he made no move to draw them back out. Nathan went back to what he was doing.

So beautiful, this. The feeling of Peter's cock nearly filling his mouth, the musky-soapy scent of him, the involuntary gasps and moans that he could feel rising from Peter's belly before he heard them, the slippery salt of pre-come running over his tongue. All that pre-come reminded Nathan of Peter fucking him, well-lubed and yet still stinging and forcing and stretching, frightening Nathan with the intensity of the feeling. And yet so good; so good, Peter inside him. Peter's dick in his mouth, up his ass, Peter's fingers searching and stroking, trying to find a new way to get him off.

Nathan was hard now, too. Peter breathed deeply, desperately through his nose, the intake of air rushing back out in a moan that broke through his parted lips. "Ohhh, Jesus," Peter muttered. "Please take your clothes off. Please get on top of me."

Nathan raised his head. "I'm sucking you off."

"I want you to..." Peter's voice trailed off in a heavy sigh. He clasped Nathan's head between his hands to hold him still, arching his hips upward to fill Nathan's mouth, the gauze tape whispering against the stubble growing on Nathan's cheeks. The older man didn't move, trembling, relaxing his jaw, trying to remind himself how to take having his mouth fucked. He'd advised Peter on it so many times, but Peter usually wasn't the aggressor, not like this. It would be better if their bodily positions were reversed, but Peter didn't seem to be interested in altering anything. "Ah... ah... ah..." he moaned, "yeah, I'm gonna come, you feel that? Take it, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah... take it, take it, nnnnnnh!" His hips jerked so extensively that Nathan raised his head a little so that Peter's cock wouldn't rupture his throat as he caught the first tentative jet of semen against his lips. He opened his mouth and went down again, sucking out the rest, struggling to swallow fast enough to keep up. Peter didn't give out his usual orgasmic howl, only a heavy sigh of satisfaction, his thumb and forefinger stroking the base of his cock, milking out the last few drops.

As soon as Nathan could tell that Peter was finished ejaculating, he sat back, and unbuttoned his shirt. Peter lay in a relaxed puddle against his bedsheets, his purpled cock still hard but his eyes closed peacefully, a slight smile edging up the responsive corner of his mouth. The upper lip was bruising and swelling spectacularly now that the wound was closed. Nathan teasingly poked the bruise with his forefinger, waking Peter back up with a pained yelp. "You look like Raging Bull," Nathan said, standing up, shedding shirt, underwear, and jeans before folding them all together and placing them in a neat stack on Peter's desk chair.

"That fucking hurt, dude," Peter snapped.

"It didn't hurt that much. Man up, would you?" Nathan settled on top of Peter, holding Peter's arms up and away from his body, attacking his neck with come-sticky kisses and arching against him. "Are you strong? Are you a fighter and a fucker, huh?" At first, Peter glared at him, but quickly relaxed, raising his hips in response.

"I'm a lover and a fighter," he decided, laughing a little. "You're the fucker. Aren't you?" He rubbed his cock against Nathan's thigh, striping him with a trail of slick fluid. "Aren't you?" he added hopefully.

"I can't fuck you tonight," Nathan said. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay." Peter sighed, his face almost comically disappointed. He let his body go slack, sagging against the bed. "Do me a favor, okay?"

"What?" Nathan asked, licking Peter's ear and letting go of Peter's wrist momentarily to reach down and align their cocks together, positioning them side-by-side. He licked his hand and dampened their surfaces, then grabbed Peter's wrist again. "Haven't I done you enough favors tonight?"

Peter shook his head. "Don't tell Mom and Dad, okay?" he said.

Nathan wished Peter hadn't seen fit to bring up their parents while they were having sex, but it didn't really cool his desire. He reached down again and wiped the pre-come spilling from the tip of his own cock against Peter's, then slid them together again, the sensation so good, just so fucking good, that they moaned in unison. Peter's cock twitched hard against his, adding its own wetness. "They're... they're gonna find out anyway," Nathan said, when he could think again. "It's better that they hear it from... from you, in fact. I can get the charges removed, but-ahhh..." To hell with this pretense of sanity; they arched and rubbed together, belly to belly, collected sweat slickening their bodies. Peter opened his legs, but Nathan took his bandaged knees and brought them back together again. The temptation to drive into Peter's ass would just be too much to resist, and he couldn't fuck Peter tonight... he just couldn't... He had to get back to Heidi and she'd be able to tell...

To hell with that, too. He'd just take a shower. It had been a hot, sticky night and he'd been to the county jail. Nobody would begrudge him a shower... over at his brother's apartment... as a favor...

"Lube," Nathan said.

"Where it usually is," Peter replied, not able to keep the gleeful little smile from his face.

So he wouldn't get any more sleep tonight. Big deal. Already the cracks of sky visible through Peter's blinds was more golden than blue. He was a Navy man, hardened and conditioned, and it was Saturday; he could make it on what sleep he'd gotten earlier. "Do you want it?" Nathan thought to ask, gently fondling Peter's balls.

"Do you have to ask?"

"You always want it, huh?"

"Fuck me to sleep," Peter answered, smoothing his tousled hair away from his face, spreading his knees again, settling his weight up onto his shoulder blades. "But not too hard. Gently, okay?"

"You want to be fucked gently? This is a first." Nathan rolled over toward Peter's bedside table.

"I'm all banged up. I can't take it rough tonight."

"Poor baby. It's gonna be a little rough; I can't get you ready. Not with my fingers. You want to do it?"

Peter made a face, then hissed in pain as the sneer stretched the bruise. "Ugh... no... just go for it. Just a little bit inside me is fine. Whatever you want to do."

"A little bit deep inside you." Nathan kissed Peter's belly again. "I know that's what you like."

"Whatever... whatever feels good for you. Whatever you want."

"I want to fuck the living shit out of you for waking me up and making me go to Boerum Hill." Nathan dribbled lube straight from the bottle onto Peter's balls and asshole, then over his own cock, spreading it on with his hand.

Peter watched avidly. "Okay, so I owe you two."

"I won't tell the folks," Nathan said. "But you have to promise that you'll do it. And soon. Like, tomorrow. I mean, today." Before his brother could reply one way or the other, Nathan rubbed the head of his cock against Peter's slick entrance, found his angle, and pressed inside. Peter brokenly moaned in surprise, but opened his legs wider. That didn't help matters, so Nathan took Peter's knees in his hands again, lessening their angle, and when Peter's pelvis had decompressed enough, he used his hand to push his cock in further.

They had no choice but to go slowly and gently; Nathan would never subject Peter to the pain and terror of being penetrated before he was ready to take it. Fortunately, it was obvious that this felt good to him; he was writhing and arching so much that Nathan soothed him, "Now, just be cool. You know how to do this." The tight friction was intense and delicious, but it wasn't as though Peter had never been fucked before. But almost. Almost.

His beautiful, bruised face showed the strain of trying to relax and submit. "Yeah, yeah... just a little bit more..."

"All of it, when it's time." Nathan wasn't sure he was going to make it that long; already his cock was throbbing so hard he could feel it throughout his entire body. He wanted so much that he couldn't have-kisses, Peter's bare palms gripping his ass, to be able to slam hard into Peter's ass until he cried. He wished he could wring tears out of him and make him beg for mercy and promise to be a good boy, always with that glint in his eye that promised that he'd be a bad boy as soon as he could. He wanted to suck Peter's tongue and have him up on his knees with his ass in the air, begging for it.

He would have to settle for pulling out just in time to spurt thin streamers of semen across Peter's cock and pubes and belly; settle for taking Peter's cock in his hand, jerking it off, adding Peter's come to the drops already there.

When Peter was spent and quietly begging for mercy, Nathan rocked back onto his heels and admired his handiwork. Peter's torso had been well-decorated, the color of the semen not quite matching the immaculate white of the bandages on his hands and knees (Oh, his hands and knees! He'd better heal up soon, Nathan thought with obscene glee), and his blissed-out face sporting a cherry-red, mottled bruise the size of a fist. "There. That's better," Nathan said.

Peter opened his eyes for a moment and smiled, looking immensely satisfied. "That is better. Mmmm, thank you. Would you bring me a towel?" he yawned.

Nathan kissed Peter's stomach one last time, licking the commingled semen from his lips before going to the bathroom for his own well-deserved shower.

When he returned, Peter was asleep. Nathan finished drying his hair and used the damp towel to gently wipe Peter's stomach clean. Peter was so conked out that he didn't move, let alone wake up. He'd had a long day, no doubt... as had he, Nathan realized. Had it really only been that morning-well, yesterday morning-when he'd beaten his parents at tennis? Had it really been less than twenty-four hours ago that he had no plans to run for Congress, and Peter had a perfectly clean record?

Nathan dressed, and left the apartment. Before retrieving his car from the underground parking lot of Peter's building, he went around the corner to the deli and got an extra-large coffee. It was 6:15. Heidi would be up. When he got into the car and pulled out onto the street, he called home.

"Nathan?"

"Heidi, honey. I'm on my way home now."

"So what happened?" she asked.

"I just got Pete off to sleep," he said. "It took a little longer than I thought to get him sprung, and then I took him out for an early breakfast. He was pretty shaken up, but I think he's going to be fine. He just owes me big time, that's all. As usual. How are the boys?"

"Fine," Heidi replied. "Ilana's here, and she's taken them out for a walk in the stroller. So you won't be needing breakfast?"

"No, no, I will," Nathan assured her. "I just had a cup of coffee. Pete's the one with the post-prison appetite. I'm going to need breakfast when I get home. Just some toast and fruit, maybe a poached egg." He paused, wondering if he should apologize for having been out all night, but there was nothing, really, to apologize for. She knew good and well that Peter always came first. He had just done what was necessary, that was all. "I'll be there in an hour, okay? Love you, honey."

"Love you, too," Heidi said. "See you soon. Goodbye." Then she added teasingly, "Congressman Petrelli."

Nathan hung up and grinned. It looked like he really could have it all.

THE END

A/N: Thanks to my amazing beta madtheo and my fantastic artist slanted_edges for helping me out! This story contains song lyrics from "Come See About Me" by the Supremes and "Opened Once" by Jeff Buckley. Thanks!