The Lost Ones: Part II...
This fic is crazy long, so I had to divide it into two parts.
Title: The Lost Ones.
Author: Starvinbohemian.
Fandom: Heroes.
Pairing: Simon/Monty Petrelli.
Rating: R.
Summary: Petrellis keep their promises. Except when they don’t.
Continued from Part I.
Simon has a royal hangover when he wakes up the next day.
His body screams in protest as he rolls over and blinks blurry eyes around his bedroom. He doesn’t remember going to bed. He doesn’t remember much. Well, not much beyond the fact that he’s never going to see Sarah again.
Simon’s mouth tastes like wax and cotton, and it’s unpleasant enough to propel him out of bed, through a nasty cloud of vertigo, and into the bathroom. He’s scrubbing at his teeth with his toothbrush when he’s suddenly hit with the memory of warm hands on his face, kisses that seem to go on forever, and a sweet-flavored tongue that slides against his.
Simon chokes on his own spit. Panicked eyes meet his in the mirror above the sink. He didn’t think it was possible to feel sicker. Did he…?
No, he realizes. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. Simon is a lot of things, but he’s not… There’s no way. The pounding of his heart eases as his mind insists that it’s all too hazy to have been real. The alcohol messed with his head. A fever dream.
Simon rinses out his mouth and leaves the bathroom and his burgeoning panic attack behind. Unfortunately, he can’t leave the nausea behind, but that’s okay because he’s fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing has changed.
It’s probably that masochistic streak he supposedly doesn’t have that drives him to his bedroom window. He pulls back the curtain, wincing against the bright sunshine. It’s a nice day. And that black car is there again.
Maybe a little late, but it finally occurs to Simon that his house is being staked out. He doesn’t know why, but that black car has become a regular feature outside their home. He feels a paranoid, sinking sensation in his gut. This is it. Jimmy’s dad all over again. But this time they’ve come for Simon. He wouldn’t have thought himself important enough to warrant this-he’s still in high school for crissakes- but maybe he’s been naïve to think he can do whatever he wants without any repercussions. Oh, no, was he father actually right?
Simon sets the drapes back so that they’re covering his window and then he high-tails it out of his bedroom.
“Mom!” he yells, bursting into her bedroom with no real idea what he’s going to say. It turns out not to matter, because her room is empty. Simon backpedals and dashes downstairs to find her, but Heidi isn’t in the kitchen or the living room. She’s nowhere. Simon is starting to feel the onset of a panic attack when he hears a noise from upstairs.
He checks Monty’s room first, but he ultimately finds him in the computer room. Simon takes a moment to breathe through his unnamed panic- why shouldn’t his mother or Monty still be here?- before he realizes what his brother is doing.
Monty is looking at their father’s webpage. Simon had momentarily forgotten his hangover, but the full weight of it crushes down on him again, and he sags a little against the door. He doesn’t mean for his voice to go all quiet and menacing when he says, “What the hell are you doing?”
Monty jumps as if he’d screamed. “Um.”
For no real reason, Simon feels his hands clench at his sides.
“I was just wondering what he was doing,” his brother says, looking ashamed.
He should be ashamed, Simon thinks, feeling oddly betrayed. Looking at their dad’s political site for anything other than ammunition is pathetic. They shouldn’t have to browse websites to see their dad. Not to mention that it’s just weird that their family information is all over the internet.
Their family information is all over the internet. And just like that, his panic breathes life again. “Where’s Mom?” he demands.
Monty shrugs. “Store, I think.”
Is it still safe to go to the store? Would they even target her? Simon doesn’t know. He needs to talk to somebody. He needs help.
Nathan’s smiling face on the computer screen seems to be mocking him. See what you’ve done now, his visage says. Don’t you wish you could ask for my help?
Simon wants to smash the screen in and then he wants to make a follow-up of punching Monty for being this pathetic. Why doesn’t he understand that Nathan has ruined Simon’s life?
But standing here, near his brother, Simon starts to feel a little silly. So what if there’s a black car parked outside? Maybe one of the neighbors bought a new car. Why should he jump to the most paranoid conclusion just from that? He really isn’t so important that the government should want to kill him. Right?
“Are you mad?”
He is, but at the moment he’s more concerned with finding an anchor to reality. He isn’t really thinking as he shoves Monty over so that they’re sharing the computer chair. He just wants to feel the physical presence of another person to assure him that he’s not crazy. But as soon as Simon’s thigh presses against Monty’s, he remembers why this isn’t a good idea.
Monty stiffens in a way that Simon would think guilty if he weren’t so intent on denying that there’s anything for him to feel guilty about. But then there’s suddenly a flash of a memory of a thigh sliding between his, and Simon is instantly hard.
He freezes. No, no, no…
Not realizing Simon’s predicament, Monty merely grumbles a protest before shifting accommodatingly, settling into a comfortable warmth against Simon’s side.
Simon squeezes his eyes shut, willing this thing away. Pressed up against the computer desk as they are, Monty can’t see Simon’s hard-on, but he would if Simon were to stand up, so he does his best to just ignore it. God, what is wrong with him? If he thought yesterday was a bad day…
When Simon actually glances at the computer screen, he’s caught off guard by a picture of his father, Monty, and himself. It’s an old picture from a trip to the Cape that he barely remembers. The hell?
“See? He hasn’t entirely forgotten about us.”
Monty sounds so wistful that Simon can’t bring himself to set him straight. But an old photograph on his political website that helps boost his “family man” persona does not a special bond make. There’s a reason why whoever put this page together had to use such an old photograph. Monty is one thing, but Simon doesn’t know why he feels surprised. He would have expected to see a bunch of bull about making America “safe” from the Other on his father’s site- yeah, way to go, Dad, way to set human rights back a thousand years- but this…
Simon really doesn’t appreciate being used.
Monty clicks away from the image, bringing up another picture of his father in his Navy uniform. The caption reads:
“The Petrelli family has a long, distinguished record of service to their community and country. Nathan’s father served in the United States Army in Vietnam where he learned the value of loyalty to country and fellow man.”
Simon’s aware of his grandfather’s time in Vietnam. He let Simon hold his Purple Heart once. He remembers sitting on his lap in his study, running his fingers over George Washington’s profile, as Grandpa told him what it felt like to be shot through the abdomen. He remembers feeling scared, awed, and not a little bit proud that his grandfather was a war hero.
Long before he can locate the countries on a map, he also knows that his father served in Bosnia, Serbia, and Rwanda when he was a pilot in the Navy. He knows because he saw his father’s election commercials like a billion times during the campaign and because his grandmother has taken to bringing it up every chance she gets. He suspects that she knows about his poor grades, because now when she visits she also likes to remind Simon that his father was top of his class, the valedictorian.
In turn, Simon likes to remind his grandmother that his father has also turned out to be an alcoholic, a deadbeat dad, and not to mention a neo-Nazi fascist. Comments like that never go over well. In fact, they earn him a stare so icy that he actually shivers, but he doesn’t care. He’s not going to join the Army or the Navy just because his father had early political ambitions. He’d sooner move to Canada.
“With a family that has strong ties to the community, Nathan Petrelli serves his constituents with the same dedication he shows his family- a dedication that always puts their well-being and happiness above his own. Remember, Nathan Petrelli came to politics with his own family in mind, and when he represents his constituents in Washington, it’s with everyone’s families in mind.”
Simon is stealing a gulp of Monty’s soda, but he actually spits it back out all over the screen.
“Simon?”
He blinks hard a few times as if that will fix the words into something that makes sense.
Monty is tugging on his arm. “What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong is that Simon really doesn’t like being used, especially not like this. An old photograph is bad enough… He doesn’t realize he’s up and walking until he’s already through the hall and in his bedroom. Monty tries to follow him, but he gently closes the door on his wide eyes and trembling lips and trips the lock. His brother’s cajoling voice from the other side of the door is a low buzz at the back of his head as he slumps against his side of the door.
“Monty?” he says.
There’s a pause in the noise on the other side of the door. “Yeah?”
“Were you in my bed last night?”
This time, the pause is longer. “Simon, open the door.” Monty sounds almost as panicked as Simon feels.
Simon groans and bangs his head back against the solid wood. What did he do? And why is he still hard? Fuck!
There’s a strange banging noise behind his head, soon followed by more clinking and banging. Startled, Simon jumps up and opens the door. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see, and he stares in astonishment at the sea of nickels, dimes, and pennies that are suddenly littering the hallway. He looks to his brother for explanation. Monty’s mouth works open and closed like a fish, but no explanation comes forth. His eyes are wide in surprise, but he’s got nothing on Simon.
“Monty, did you throw change at my door?”
***
After their grandfather dies and their grandmother moves in with them, Simon and Monty accompany her to church every Sunday and then out to lunch afterward. It’s their own little tradition, and it picks right back up when they move back to New York City, as if they never left.
Simon could do without the church part, but he doesn’t mind the quality time with his grandmother. When she’s not picking at him over his grades or his “behavior issues,” she makes for some fairly fascinating company. He just wishes that- for once- she would take him somewhere to eat that didn’t require expensive loafers and a dinner jacket. He bet Monty ten dollars once that he would get her into a McDonald’s before his sixteenth birthday. He lost. And so watercress soup till the end of time it is.
He has no reason to suspect her motives on this particular outing, not even when she neglects to invite Monty along. In truth, Simon leaps at the chance to put some space between Monty and himself. He can barely look at his brother without thinking about... what they did. What he thinks they did. He won't let himself fully remember what went on that night, and he sure as hell isn't going to ask Monty for details.
He and his grandmother are coming out of St. Patrick’s when someone bumps into her so hard that Simon instinctively reaches out to catch her fall.
“Excuse me,” says a man as he hurries past. Simon watches him cross the street and get into a black car. The black car.
“The absolute nerve of some people,” Angela says, righting herself.
Simon would agree, but he finds that his voice is gone. He doesn’t say anything all the way to the restaurant. Even when he’s sitting inside the restaurant, he sits facing the door. His eyes dart nervously around the room, and he tugs at his collar. He can’t stop sweating.
Angela doesn’t seem to notice. She chats about this and that in such a steady stream that be barely notices when she abruptly changes tracks. “Simon,” she says, “I think it’s time that we have a conversation about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”
Simon sighs. “Again?”
She takes a casual sip of her champagne. “You’re aware of the men who have been watching your house?”
His spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. She knows?
“Apparently they’ve expanded their surveillance, because they were at St. Patrick’s today. Perhaps you noticed?”
He nods dumbly.
“This means that they’ll probably be popping up at your school next. I’m sure they must have a spy by now in your little club. Lucky for us, these people are very sloppy at their jobs, and they’ve given us plenty of warning.” They could be talking about the weather for all the emotion she’s displaying.
Simon is fairly certain that the whole world has gone crazy. “Grandma, what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, dabbing her mouth pristinely with a cloth napkin. “You’ve done nothing but ramble for the past two years about the injustices being done to specials, evolved humans, or what have you. You know that the government is not your friend right now, and you also know that sometimes people go missing.”
Simon’s spoon accidentally slips through clammy fingers. Her gaze follows the splash of watercress soup onto the tablecloth before sliding, reptilian-like, back to him. “My friend? Because of the club? I don’t understand why they’d care about me. I’m just a kid.”
Angela settles back in her chair and gives him a long, hard stare that makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. This isn’t the first time he’s wondered if she can read minds. “Simon, I know,” she says, still looking unimpressed. “I know about what you can do.”
What he can- Oh. Oh. Simon almost laughs. She thinks he’s one of those people with abilities? “Grandma, I’m not the ‘evolved man’! I suck at much pretty everything related to physical fitness.” Unless she counts thumbs of steel from countless hours with his Gameboy. But he doubts that she does.
“Simon, I would appreciate it if you would stop treating me as if I were an idiot.”
He’s the one who feels like an idiot right now. Dumbfounded, he stares at her, wondering how she could have gotten this crazy idea into her head. Is this what the government people think? Is that why they’re following him?
Angela takes his silence as… well, something, and rolls her eyes. “Simon, you need to listen to me very carefully. There are those in positions of power that are doing everything they can to eradicate those with abilities-”
“Like Dad?”
“Simon, the facts are what they are, and there isn’t any more time for foolishness. You have an ability. And so do I.”
Simon’s mouth drops open. “You… You’re…?”
“Yes, dear. You could say that it runs in the family. I can see the future. Your grandfather… Well, let’s just say that he had many talents. Just like your uncle. And your father. And now your- what shall we call it? Your heightened magnetism?”
She pauses to take another sip of her soup. Simon can only gape as he waits for her to reveal her admittedly bizarre sense of humor through a wink or a laugh. Because this has to be a joke. And a bad one at that. His grandmother can’t really see the future. Can she?
He decides to humor her. “You’re saying that… that my dad can…? And Uncle Peter?”
“That’s right."
It's not impossible, Simon knows. Evolved humans are everywhere, more and more coming out of the closet every day. But for some reason the idea of his family having secret powers is too much. Maybe because the Petrelli family is already populated with giants. His grandmother has never needed a special ability to bend this city to her will.
Or maybe it's just that the sheer number of lies required to keep something like this a secret from him-- oh, and the world, he guesses-- would be monolithic. Every time someone looks at that picture of his family on his dad's website and thinks that it reveals reality, something pure and true and familial, that's another lie in itself on top of an already huge pile. But this? Simon doesn't think he could stand it.
Angela leans forward to take his hand. Simon stares at their joined hands, confused. He thinks this is the most maternal gesture he's ever seen coming from her. It's weird.
"You’re not alone in this," she says kindly, which also feels strange to him. "In fact, there are many more of us. Most have gone into hiding, which is where you need to go as soon as possible. For your own safety.”
“Grandma, what are you talking about?” he explodes, ripping his hand away from hers. So much for humoring her. But she isn’t laughing, and he’s fairly certain that she isn’t kidding, so she must have lost her mind. “I’m not an- an evolved person. Why would you even think that?”
She sighs. “Simon, I can see the future. And I saw you protecting your brother with your ability. Well, you were trying anyway. I saw metal objects flying toward you. Unless it’s a form of telekinesis, then I have to assume that it’s heightened magnetism until you prove otherwise.”
Metal objects? Flying at him and… “Grandma, that’s…”
Simon’s voice abruptly leaves him as a flash of something like recognition comes over him. It’s like an epiphany except that it’s only a feeling, a buzzing at the back of his mind. But, no, it’s more than that because Monty was trying to tell him something that day, but Simon was too distracted by his own problems to actually listen.
Startled, he meets her intent gaze. “Grandma, what exactly did you see in… in the future?” He struggles over the words even as he forgets that he’s supposed to be humoring her and not the other way around.
She hesitates, either because she’s struggling to remember the exact details or else because she’s trying to decide which part to tell him. Simon is suddenly the one with no patience for games. “Tell me!”
“Simon, keep your voice down,” she snaps. He’s forgotten that they’re in a public restaurant. But a glance around them reveals no curious onlookers.
“The dream wasn’t specific,” she tells him. “They aren’t always. That would be too easy. No, everything was very confused. But I saw you shielding Monty with your body from metal projectiles. You were holding your arms out as if you could stop them, and then you did.”
Something cold blooms in his chest. No. No, it can’t be. This is crazy.
“You’re sure that…” He almost can’t say it. “You’re sure that it was me? That I was the one controlling the metal?”
He can tell that he’s thrown her off. Any other time but now, it would feel like a victory. “Grandma, you’re sure?”
“I thought I… Simon, what are you saying?”
Magnetism. Metal. There’s metal in coins. Even pennies. He remembers doing experiments with magnets and spare change in science class. Oh, God, it was never about Simon at all. The men and their black cars haven’t been watching him. Just his family.
He buries his face in his hands. “Why is the government doing this?” he moans miserably. “Why can’t they just leave everyone alone?”
Angela turns her face toward the window so that sunshine glances off her profile. For the first time ever, she looks old to him. “I’m sorry, dear, but there are always going to be people who don’t understand. And people fear what they don’t understand. People with abilities pose a threat because what we can do is beyond their imaginations, beyond their fears. Their instinct is to try to control us, and the only way to do that is by force."
He doesn’t care about other people or what they fear. There’s only one person he’s afraid for right now. It isn't for himself that he asks, “Am I in danger?”
His question seems to put her back on her game because she visibly relaxes, which is odd considering the question. “I’m afraid so. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you in the middle of the night. And trust me, my boy, when I tell you that no one will ever hear from you again. We need to move you to a safe location where the government won’t be able to reach you. It’s the only way.”
Simon reaches for his glass of water- his mouth is suddenly dry as a bone- but his hand is shaking so bad that water spills over onto the tablecloth. “You can’t…” It’s hard to talk through his cottonmouth. “You can’t know it’ll happen that way.”
Except that’s exactly how it happened to Jimmy’s dad.
She smiles, and it’s a sad smile. “Darling boy, it’s already happening.”
Simon pushes away from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. “I have to go,” he gasps.
She calls after him, but he doesn’t stop until he’s out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk outside. Then, he starts to run.
He has to get home. It’s the lone thought that sets itself on repeat as he sprints block after block. He dodges around people who shout after him. Simon’s heart threatens to explode, and he ignores it, ignores the screaming stitch in his side, instead urging his body in forward momentum. He curses his stupid, overpriced and inconvenient loafers. They won’t stop him. Nothing matters, not the people blocking his way, not the distance, not anything.
By the time he makes it to Hyde Park, Simon is drenched in sweat, and he feels as if he’s going to die. But that car is already there waiting for him. Or else it’s another one. They’re still here, so he isn’t too late.
Further motivated, Simon pushes himself up the stoop and into the house. He instinctively heads for the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time, until he’s outside Monty’s bedroom. He doesn’t bother knocking.
When he sees him, Monty tugs off his headphones with a distressed cry. “What happened to you?”
Simon couldn’t speak at that moment if he wanted to. Instead, he clutches the doorknob in a sweat-slicked grip and gasps in desperate gulps of air. Monty is on his feet in seconds. He moves forward as if to catch Simon if he should fall, but instead Simon grabs his arm and hauls him out into the hallway and then into Simon’s room.
“What’s going on?” he asks worriedly as he rubs the part of his arm that Simon gripped. “Are you okay?”
No, Simon is about as far from okay as a person could possibly get. But he could get a lot worse in a few moment’s time. Simon quickly locates his mini gumball machine that doubles as a piggybank. There’s no hesitation when he picks it up and smashes it into the floor.
“What are you doing?” Monty yells, clearly freaked out.
In lieu of an explanation, Simon grabs a handful of change from the floor and turns to Monty.
His brother’s eyes widen, understanding coming quickly. “Simon, don’t-”
Ignoring him, Simon opens his hand and watches with sick satisfaction as the coins fly out of his hand and straight for Monty. He tries to duck, but the coins smash into him- “Ow!”- and stick like magnets to a fridge.
A loaded silence settles over them. Monty looks terrified, but Simon is the one about to cry. He should have known. He was an activist for the evolved human cause, for crying out loud. If Simon would have known about this, about his brother, then he could have done something- anything- differently.
“How long?” he chokes out. How long has Monty been hiding this… this thing from him?
“It just started happening! I can’t help it!” Monty looks so pathetically miserable that he’s practically begging to be held and told that everything will be all right. He even twitches like he might throw himself at Simon. But Simon won’t lie to him. It won’t be all right. Not ever, if their grandmother knows what she’s talking about. And somehow Simon thinks that she does. If she knew about Monty- even though she was mistaken about Simon- then there’s no reason to think that she isn’t right about the rest.
God, what else doesn’t he know about his own family?
“You should have told me,” he says, suddenly angry. This is all Monty’s fault, after all. Simon is supposed to be the freak in this family, not him. Simon can take care of himself, but Monty…
“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. “I wanted to! I tried!”
Not hard enough, he thinks. Now, it’s too late. “I’m sorry, Monty. But it’s out of my hands.”
His brother looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “What? Simon, what are you talking about?”
“You can’t keep this a secret anymore,” he says, picking up his cell phone from where he left it on the chest of drawers.
Monty does lunge at him now, desperate hands scrabbling for his phone. “Simon, no! You can’t tell!”
Simon temporarily drops his phone so that he can twist Monty into a headlock. He makes choking sounds as Simon hauls him to the door. He shoves Monty out into the hallway with as little force as he can manage before slamming the door shut. He turns the lock just as Monty hurls himself against the door, the thump of his body loud enough to cause Simon to stumble back in surprise. This situation is scarily familiar.
“Simon, please!” he pleads, banging his fists against the wood.
He can’t afford to listen. Not when he’s already suffering flashbacks to every Holocaust movie he’s ever seen. If losing Monty is the only way to keep him, then there really is no other option. He picks up his phone.
“Simon, don’t do this! Please! I didn’t mean to do it! I can stop! You don’t have to be afraid, I promise! Simon?”
Simon’s heart clenches painfully in his chest, but his death-grip on his cell phone remains steady. As if he would be afraid of Monty. But this is for his own good.
“Hello?”
He has trouble getting his voice to work.
The voice on the other end of the line grows insistent. “Simon? Are you there?”
“Yeah,” he manages.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“Simon, please!”
I’m sorry, pal, he thinks.
“I need your help.”
***
They wait for her in the music room.
This time, Monty has his head in Simon’s lap. Lying on his side, stretched across the couch, he clutches Simon’s knees as his brother runs soothing hands over everywhere he can reach. Simon wants to be able to remember what his brother feels like beneath his hands. There’s no telling when they’ll see each other again. He refuses to think if. He refuses to think about a lot of things right now.
“Where will I go?” Monty’s voice is rough from all the crying and carrying on.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly.
“What will you tell Mom?”
That’s another thing Simon can’t afford to think about right now. As it is, it’s taking everything he has to keep it together. “I’ll think of something.”
Monty turns his head so that he’s looking up at him. Rather than answering all of the questions he sees swimming around in there, Simon uses his thumb to gently wipe away the tear tracks from around his brother’s swollen eyes. He finds the old gesture comforting, but Monty catches his wrist, halting the impulse. They’re left staring at each other.
“I love you,” Monty says solemnly.
A lump forms in his throat, and Simon has to bite down on his tongue to keep the tears at bay. But he smiles. For Monty.
“I love you, too.” His smile threatens to wane, but he holds it. “Don’t forget about your screw-up of a big brother when you’re living it up in the Caribbean. Or wherever.”
Monty leans up and presses his lips against Simon’s. The kiss is so light that it’s barely even there, but there’s a promise in it. Simon will have his freak-out about all the ramifications of what they are to each other later, when Monty’s safe.
A moment later, they hear the front door open downstairs, and Monty sits up.
When their grandmother enters the music room, she is followed by the last person Simon expects to see.
“Uncle Peter!” Monty cries, already running to embrace him.
He looks older than Simon remembers, tired. But he has that same indulgent smile on his face as he allows Monty to squeeze the life out of him. “Hey, buddy. It’s been awhile.”
Years. It’s been years.
“Are you coming with us?” Monty asks, now looking excited.
“You’ll find that your uncle has many useful talents for getting us safely out of the country,” Angela says, answering for him.
Uncle Peter suddenly notices him. “Simon?”
Simon knows he should stand and accept the hug that will no doubt be bestowed on him, but he remains rooted to the couch. The most he can manage is a curt nod and a “hey.”
“You’re all grown up,” Uncle Peter says wistfully.
He wants to say something sarcastic and cruel, but Monty is suddenly moving back to him, and Simon does stand this time to embrace his brother. Monty’s arms close around him like a vice, and Simon can’t help but smile into the tuft of hair pressed against his face. He shuts his eyes to block out the sight of his uncle and grandmother watching them with pitying gazes.
“You do everything they tell you, okay?” Simon says gruffly, his arms clutching a little too tightly. “You stay safe. If you don’t, then I’ll kick your ass.”
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Monty whispers against his cheek. “You’ll see.”
Two seconds in the presence of Uncle Peter and Grandma, and he’s already lying.
Simon finally pulls back from the hug. Taking Monty’s face in his hands, he kisses his forehead for what may be the last time. “Time to go.”
Watching them walk out the front door is the hardest thing Simon has ever had to do. But he forces himself to remain still and not to go after them. Someone has to stay behind to make sure their mother is okay. And one boy is easier to hide than two. He doesn’t even want to know what direction they’re going. Simon gives it five minutes, and then he goes to retrieve the last of Angela’s vodka from his room.
Simon has been drunk before. But he’s never been as drunk as he is when he winds up in front of his father’s old campaign headquarters.
Later, he won’t remember much apart from the good, solid feeling of the baseball bat in his hand and then the cracking sound as it connects with the window. He’s too drunk to do much damage. Hell, he can barely stand up. But apparently he causes enough of a disturbance that the sound of a police siren soon penetrates the air.
***
Nathan has already paid his bail and slicked whatever needed slicking to get Simon out of his mess. He’s waiting in the front lobby, foot tapping impatiently.
He takes one look at him and then tells Simon’s good friend, the guard, “If you’ve used even one iota of unnecessary force on my son, then-”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Simon interrupts quickly before Nathan can entirely confirm the guard’s politician stereotype.
Nathan looks skeptical. “You’re all right?”
He nods. If he looks like road kill, then it’s due to the early onset of a brutal hangover and what might possibly amount to a bout of alcohol poisoning if the nausea he’s experiencing is anything to go by. The guard can hardly be blamed for that.
Instead of taking him directly home, Nathan takes him to a café that stays open 24 hours a day.
They sit across from each other in awkward silence. Simon has never felt more depressed in his life, and he can hardly remember the last time he was alone with his father.
“Monty’s gone,” he blurts out.
Nathan calmly sips his coffee. Black, no cream, no sugar. Because that is his father. He probably thinks putting any kind of sweetener into his drink would make him somehow less of a man. If Simon had the energy or anything other than this gaping hole in his chest, he would have emptied several Sweet n’ Low packets into his untouched cup. Because that is Simon, caught in a perpetual rat race that has no real victories, only the illusions of them.
“I know,” he says finally.
Simon stares so hard that his eyes start to burn. “How do you know?” he demands.
“Because I just came from seeing him and your grandmother off at the airport.”
He’s fairly certain that his jaw drops. Again. “You know? And you let them leave?”
Nathan sits back and gives him the lawyer stare. “He’s my son. I’m not the monster you think I am, Simon.”
He feels strangely shamed as he remembers the long ago broken arm. What might have been different if that had never happened? He doesn’t know. Maybe everything, maybe nothing. Monty would still be what he is.
“Your grandmother told me that she told you about me.”
It takes Simon a moment to remember what he’s referring to. In his rush to protect Monty, he’d forgotten that his grandmother also implicated his father as one of the evolved humans.
There are many accusations he could throw at his father in this moment, and he would deserve them all. But Simon feels tired. “So, what can you do?” He isn’t really certain he wants to know, but it seems the thing to ask.
Nathan seems reluctant to take the conversation further, but he is the one who brought it up. “I can fly.”
Like Superman. Simon laughs. Because, really, what else can he do?
“What happens now?” Will he ever see Monty again? Simon is the one who was supposed to disappear, not him. He feels a strange combination of freedom and renewed suffocation.
“I’m going to fix all this, Simon.”
The only way his father could ever fix this would be to bring Monty back and to guaranty that no one would ever come after him again. He doesn’t think Nathan can give him that. But what does he know? The answer: absolutely nothing. Simon has no idea what’s going on. He feels as if he’s trapped in vertigo. Up is down, down is up.
What really gets him is that there isn’t a damn thing he can do beyond handing his little brother off to someone else and hoping for the best. All those years of being everything he could be to Monty-- brother, best friend, confidante, protector (he can't even think about that other thing yet)-- and now he has no control over anything. Monty is gone, and Simon is powerless. He's been stomped into submission by giants.
Nathan leans forward, trying to entreat some response from his son. “You believe me?”
No. “Yeah.”
His father makes a satisfied sound. “You just leave everything to me. Okay?”
Too tired to fight, too tired to hurt anymore, Simon nods. He has no other choice but to trust in his father, to trust in the belief that he’ll do what he can to keep Monty safe. He has to give his father a chance to be a hero.
“Okay.”
His next cup of coffee, he takes black.
Finis.
***
Note: Much of this fic was based off of Heroes supplemental material such as the deleted scenes from S1 (Simon’s strawberry allergy) and S2 (Nathan freaking out about his sons seeing him during his recovery), the online webcomic (Arthur's Purple Heart and the shot through the abdomen that earned it), as well as Nathan’s political website (votepetrelli.com). All are worth a look if you're as obsessed with Petrellis as I apparently am.
Title: The Lost Ones.
Author: Starvinbohemian.
Fandom: Heroes.
Pairing: Simon/Monty Petrelli.
Rating: R.
Summary: Petrellis keep their promises. Except when they don’t.
Continued from Part I.
Simon has a royal hangover when he wakes up the next day.
His body screams in protest as he rolls over and blinks blurry eyes around his bedroom. He doesn’t remember going to bed. He doesn’t remember much. Well, not much beyond the fact that he’s never going to see Sarah again.
Simon’s mouth tastes like wax and cotton, and it’s unpleasant enough to propel him out of bed, through a nasty cloud of vertigo, and into the bathroom. He’s scrubbing at his teeth with his toothbrush when he’s suddenly hit with the memory of warm hands on his face, kisses that seem to go on forever, and a sweet-flavored tongue that slides against his.
Simon chokes on his own spit. Panicked eyes meet his in the mirror above the sink. He didn’t think it was possible to feel sicker. Did he…?
No, he realizes. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. Simon is a lot of things, but he’s not… There’s no way. The pounding of his heart eases as his mind insists that it’s all too hazy to have been real. The alcohol messed with his head. A fever dream.
Simon rinses out his mouth and leaves the bathroom and his burgeoning panic attack behind. Unfortunately, he can’t leave the nausea behind, but that’s okay because he’s fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing has changed.
It’s probably that masochistic streak he supposedly doesn’t have that drives him to his bedroom window. He pulls back the curtain, wincing against the bright sunshine. It’s a nice day. And that black car is there again.
Maybe a little late, but it finally occurs to Simon that his house is being staked out. He doesn’t know why, but that black car has become a regular feature outside their home. He feels a paranoid, sinking sensation in his gut. This is it. Jimmy’s dad all over again. But this time they’ve come for Simon. He wouldn’t have thought himself important enough to warrant this-he’s still in high school for crissakes- but maybe he’s been naïve to think he can do whatever he wants without any repercussions. Oh, no, was he father actually right?
Simon sets the drapes back so that they’re covering his window and then he high-tails it out of his bedroom.
“Mom!” he yells, bursting into her bedroom with no real idea what he’s going to say. It turns out not to matter, because her room is empty. Simon backpedals and dashes downstairs to find her, but Heidi isn’t in the kitchen or the living room. She’s nowhere. Simon is starting to feel the onset of a panic attack when he hears a noise from upstairs.
He checks Monty’s room first, but he ultimately finds him in the computer room. Simon takes a moment to breathe through his unnamed panic- why shouldn’t his mother or Monty still be here?- before he realizes what his brother is doing.
Monty is looking at their father’s webpage. Simon had momentarily forgotten his hangover, but the full weight of it crushes down on him again, and he sags a little against the door. He doesn’t mean for his voice to go all quiet and menacing when he says, “What the hell are you doing?”
Monty jumps as if he’d screamed. “Um.”
For no real reason, Simon feels his hands clench at his sides.
“I was just wondering what he was doing,” his brother says, looking ashamed.
He should be ashamed, Simon thinks, feeling oddly betrayed. Looking at their dad’s political site for anything other than ammunition is pathetic. They shouldn’t have to browse websites to see their dad. Not to mention that it’s just weird that their family information is all over the internet.
Their family information is all over the internet. And just like that, his panic breathes life again. “Where’s Mom?” he demands.
Monty shrugs. “Store, I think.”
Is it still safe to go to the store? Would they even target her? Simon doesn’t know. He needs to talk to somebody. He needs help.
Nathan’s smiling face on the computer screen seems to be mocking him. See what you’ve done now, his visage says. Don’t you wish you could ask for my help?
Simon wants to smash the screen in and then he wants to make a follow-up of punching Monty for being this pathetic. Why doesn’t he understand that Nathan has ruined Simon’s life?
But standing here, near his brother, Simon starts to feel a little silly. So what if there’s a black car parked outside? Maybe one of the neighbors bought a new car. Why should he jump to the most paranoid conclusion just from that? He really isn’t so important that the government should want to kill him. Right?
“Are you mad?”
He is, but at the moment he’s more concerned with finding an anchor to reality. He isn’t really thinking as he shoves Monty over so that they’re sharing the computer chair. He just wants to feel the physical presence of another person to assure him that he’s not crazy. But as soon as Simon’s thigh presses against Monty’s, he remembers why this isn’t a good idea.
Monty stiffens in a way that Simon would think guilty if he weren’t so intent on denying that there’s anything for him to feel guilty about. But then there’s suddenly a flash of a memory of a thigh sliding between his, and Simon is instantly hard.
He freezes. No, no, no…
Not realizing Simon’s predicament, Monty merely grumbles a protest before shifting accommodatingly, settling into a comfortable warmth against Simon’s side.
Simon squeezes his eyes shut, willing this thing away. Pressed up against the computer desk as they are, Monty can’t see Simon’s hard-on, but he would if Simon were to stand up, so he does his best to just ignore it. God, what is wrong with him? If he thought yesterday was a bad day…
When Simon actually glances at the computer screen, he’s caught off guard by a picture of his father, Monty, and himself. It’s an old picture from a trip to the Cape that he barely remembers. The hell?
“See? He hasn’t entirely forgotten about us.”
Monty sounds so wistful that Simon can’t bring himself to set him straight. But an old photograph on his political website that helps boost his “family man” persona does not a special bond make. There’s a reason why whoever put this page together had to use such an old photograph. Monty is one thing, but Simon doesn’t know why he feels surprised. He would have expected to see a bunch of bull about making America “safe” from the Other on his father’s site- yeah, way to go, Dad, way to set human rights back a thousand years- but this…
Simon really doesn’t appreciate being used.
Monty clicks away from the image, bringing up another picture of his father in his Navy uniform. The caption reads:
“The Petrelli family has a long, distinguished record of service to their community and country. Nathan’s father served in the United States Army in Vietnam where he learned the value of loyalty to country and fellow man.”
Simon’s aware of his grandfather’s time in Vietnam. He let Simon hold his Purple Heart once. He remembers sitting on his lap in his study, running his fingers over George Washington’s profile, as Grandpa told him what it felt like to be shot through the abdomen. He remembers feeling scared, awed, and not a little bit proud that his grandfather was a war hero.
Long before he can locate the countries on a map, he also knows that his father served in Bosnia, Serbia, and Rwanda when he was a pilot in the Navy. He knows because he saw his father’s election commercials like a billion times during the campaign and because his grandmother has taken to bringing it up every chance she gets. He suspects that she knows about his poor grades, because now when she visits she also likes to remind Simon that his father was top of his class, the valedictorian.
In turn, Simon likes to remind his grandmother that his father has also turned out to be an alcoholic, a deadbeat dad, and not to mention a neo-Nazi fascist. Comments like that never go over well. In fact, they earn him a stare so icy that he actually shivers, but he doesn’t care. He’s not going to join the Army or the Navy just because his father had early political ambitions. He’d sooner move to Canada.
“With a family that has strong ties to the community, Nathan Petrelli serves his constituents with the same dedication he shows his family- a dedication that always puts their well-being and happiness above his own. Remember, Nathan Petrelli came to politics with his own family in mind, and when he represents his constituents in Washington, it’s with everyone’s families in mind.”
Simon is stealing a gulp of Monty’s soda, but he actually spits it back out all over the screen.
“Simon?”
He blinks hard a few times as if that will fix the words into something that makes sense.
Monty is tugging on his arm. “What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong is that Simon really doesn’t like being used, especially not like this. An old photograph is bad enough… He doesn’t realize he’s up and walking until he’s already through the hall and in his bedroom. Monty tries to follow him, but he gently closes the door on his wide eyes and trembling lips and trips the lock. His brother’s cajoling voice from the other side of the door is a low buzz at the back of his head as he slumps against his side of the door.
“Monty?” he says.
There’s a pause in the noise on the other side of the door. “Yeah?”
“Were you in my bed last night?”
This time, the pause is longer. “Simon, open the door.” Monty sounds almost as panicked as Simon feels.
Simon groans and bangs his head back against the solid wood. What did he do? And why is he still hard? Fuck!
There’s a strange banging noise behind his head, soon followed by more clinking and banging. Startled, Simon jumps up and opens the door. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see, and he stares in astonishment at the sea of nickels, dimes, and pennies that are suddenly littering the hallway. He looks to his brother for explanation. Monty’s mouth works open and closed like a fish, but no explanation comes forth. His eyes are wide in surprise, but he’s got nothing on Simon.
“Monty, did you throw change at my door?”
***
After their grandfather dies and their grandmother moves in with them, Simon and Monty accompany her to church every Sunday and then out to lunch afterward. It’s their own little tradition, and it picks right back up when they move back to New York City, as if they never left.
Simon could do without the church part, but he doesn’t mind the quality time with his grandmother. When she’s not picking at him over his grades or his “behavior issues,” she makes for some fairly fascinating company. He just wishes that- for once- she would take him somewhere to eat that didn’t require expensive loafers and a dinner jacket. He bet Monty ten dollars once that he would get her into a McDonald’s before his sixteenth birthday. He lost. And so watercress soup till the end of time it is.
He has no reason to suspect her motives on this particular outing, not even when she neglects to invite Monty along. In truth, Simon leaps at the chance to put some space between Monty and himself. He can barely look at his brother without thinking about... what they did. What he thinks they did. He won't let himself fully remember what went on that night, and he sure as hell isn't going to ask Monty for details.
He and his grandmother are coming out of St. Patrick’s when someone bumps into her so hard that Simon instinctively reaches out to catch her fall.
“Excuse me,” says a man as he hurries past. Simon watches him cross the street and get into a black car. The black car.
“The absolute nerve of some people,” Angela says, righting herself.
Simon would agree, but he finds that his voice is gone. He doesn’t say anything all the way to the restaurant. Even when he’s sitting inside the restaurant, he sits facing the door. His eyes dart nervously around the room, and he tugs at his collar. He can’t stop sweating.
Angela doesn’t seem to notice. She chats about this and that in such a steady stream that be barely notices when she abruptly changes tracks. “Simon,” she says, “I think it’s time that we have a conversation about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”
Simon sighs. “Again?”
She takes a casual sip of her champagne. “You’re aware of the men who have been watching your house?”
His spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. She knows?
“Apparently they’ve expanded their surveillance, because they were at St. Patrick’s today. Perhaps you noticed?”
He nods dumbly.
“This means that they’ll probably be popping up at your school next. I’m sure they must have a spy by now in your little club. Lucky for us, these people are very sloppy at their jobs, and they’ve given us plenty of warning.” They could be talking about the weather for all the emotion she’s displaying.
Simon is fairly certain that the whole world has gone crazy. “Grandma, what are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, dabbing her mouth pristinely with a cloth napkin. “You’ve done nothing but ramble for the past two years about the injustices being done to specials, evolved humans, or what have you. You know that the government is not your friend right now, and you also know that sometimes people go missing.”
Simon’s spoon accidentally slips through clammy fingers. Her gaze follows the splash of watercress soup onto the tablecloth before sliding, reptilian-like, back to him. “My friend? Because of the club? I don’t understand why they’d care about me. I’m just a kid.”
Angela settles back in her chair and gives him a long, hard stare that makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. This isn’t the first time he’s wondered if she can read minds. “Simon, I know,” she says, still looking unimpressed. “I know about what you can do.”
What he can- Oh. Oh. Simon almost laughs. She thinks he’s one of those people with abilities? “Grandma, I’m not the ‘evolved man’! I suck at much pretty everything related to physical fitness.” Unless she counts thumbs of steel from countless hours with his Gameboy. But he doubts that she does.
“Simon, I would appreciate it if you would stop treating me as if I were an idiot.”
He’s the one who feels like an idiot right now. Dumbfounded, he stares at her, wondering how she could have gotten this crazy idea into her head. Is this what the government people think? Is that why they’re following him?
Angela takes his silence as… well, something, and rolls her eyes. “Simon, you need to listen to me very carefully. There are those in positions of power that are doing everything they can to eradicate those with abilities-”
“Like Dad?”
“Simon, the facts are what they are, and there isn’t any more time for foolishness. You have an ability. And so do I.”
Simon’s mouth drops open. “You… You’re…?”
“Yes, dear. You could say that it runs in the family. I can see the future. Your grandfather… Well, let’s just say that he had many talents. Just like your uncle. And your father. And now your- what shall we call it? Your heightened magnetism?”
She pauses to take another sip of her soup. Simon can only gape as he waits for her to reveal her admittedly bizarre sense of humor through a wink or a laugh. Because this has to be a joke. And a bad one at that. His grandmother can’t really see the future. Can she?
He decides to humor her. “You’re saying that… that my dad can…? And Uncle Peter?”
“That’s right."
It's not impossible, Simon knows. Evolved humans are everywhere, more and more coming out of the closet every day. But for some reason the idea of his family having secret powers is too much. Maybe because the Petrelli family is already populated with giants. His grandmother has never needed a special ability to bend this city to her will.
Or maybe it's just that the sheer number of lies required to keep something like this a secret from him-- oh, and the world, he guesses-- would be monolithic. Every time someone looks at that picture of his family on his dad's website and thinks that it reveals reality, something pure and true and familial, that's another lie in itself on top of an already huge pile. But this? Simon doesn't think he could stand it.
Angela leans forward to take his hand. Simon stares at their joined hands, confused. He thinks this is the most maternal gesture he's ever seen coming from her. It's weird.
"You’re not alone in this," she says kindly, which also feels strange to him. "In fact, there are many more of us. Most have gone into hiding, which is where you need to go as soon as possible. For your own safety.”
“Grandma, what are you talking about?” he explodes, ripping his hand away from hers. So much for humoring her. But she isn’t laughing, and he’s fairly certain that she isn’t kidding, so she must have lost her mind. “I’m not an- an evolved person. Why would you even think that?”
She sighs. “Simon, I can see the future. And I saw you protecting your brother with your ability. Well, you were trying anyway. I saw metal objects flying toward you. Unless it’s a form of telekinesis, then I have to assume that it’s heightened magnetism until you prove otherwise.”
Metal objects? Flying at him and… “Grandma, that’s…”
Simon’s voice abruptly leaves him as a flash of something like recognition comes over him. It’s like an epiphany except that it’s only a feeling, a buzzing at the back of his mind. But, no, it’s more than that because Monty was trying to tell him something that day, but Simon was too distracted by his own problems to actually listen.
Startled, he meets her intent gaze. “Grandma, what exactly did you see in… in the future?” He struggles over the words even as he forgets that he’s supposed to be humoring her and not the other way around.
She hesitates, either because she’s struggling to remember the exact details or else because she’s trying to decide which part to tell him. Simon is suddenly the one with no patience for games. “Tell me!”
“Simon, keep your voice down,” she snaps. He’s forgotten that they’re in a public restaurant. But a glance around them reveals no curious onlookers.
“The dream wasn’t specific,” she tells him. “They aren’t always. That would be too easy. No, everything was very confused. But I saw you shielding Monty with your body from metal projectiles. You were holding your arms out as if you could stop them, and then you did.”
Something cold blooms in his chest. No. No, it can’t be. This is crazy.
“You’re sure that…” He almost can’t say it. “You’re sure that it was me? That I was the one controlling the metal?”
He can tell that he’s thrown her off. Any other time but now, it would feel like a victory. “Grandma, you’re sure?”
“I thought I… Simon, what are you saying?”
Magnetism. Metal. There’s metal in coins. Even pennies. He remembers doing experiments with magnets and spare change in science class. Oh, God, it was never about Simon at all. The men and their black cars haven’t been watching him. Just his family.
He buries his face in his hands. “Why is the government doing this?” he moans miserably. “Why can’t they just leave everyone alone?”
Angela turns her face toward the window so that sunshine glances off her profile. For the first time ever, she looks old to him. “I’m sorry, dear, but there are always going to be people who don’t understand. And people fear what they don’t understand. People with abilities pose a threat because what we can do is beyond their imaginations, beyond their fears. Their instinct is to try to control us, and the only way to do that is by force."
He doesn’t care about other people or what they fear. There’s only one person he’s afraid for right now. It isn't for himself that he asks, “Am I in danger?”
His question seems to put her back on her game because she visibly relaxes, which is odd considering the question. “I’m afraid so. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you in the middle of the night. And trust me, my boy, when I tell you that no one will ever hear from you again. We need to move you to a safe location where the government won’t be able to reach you. It’s the only way.”
Simon reaches for his glass of water- his mouth is suddenly dry as a bone- but his hand is shaking so bad that water spills over onto the tablecloth. “You can’t…” It’s hard to talk through his cottonmouth. “You can’t know it’ll happen that way.”
Except that’s exactly how it happened to Jimmy’s dad.
She smiles, and it’s a sad smile. “Darling boy, it’s already happening.”
Simon pushes away from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. “I have to go,” he gasps.
She calls after him, but he doesn’t stop until he’s out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk outside. Then, he starts to run.
He has to get home. It’s the lone thought that sets itself on repeat as he sprints block after block. He dodges around people who shout after him. Simon’s heart threatens to explode, and he ignores it, ignores the screaming stitch in his side, instead urging his body in forward momentum. He curses his stupid, overpriced and inconvenient loafers. They won’t stop him. Nothing matters, not the people blocking his way, not the distance, not anything.
By the time he makes it to Hyde Park, Simon is drenched in sweat, and he feels as if he’s going to die. But that car is already there waiting for him. Or else it’s another one. They’re still here, so he isn’t too late.
Further motivated, Simon pushes himself up the stoop and into the house. He instinctively heads for the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time, until he’s outside Monty’s bedroom. He doesn’t bother knocking.
When he sees him, Monty tugs off his headphones with a distressed cry. “What happened to you?”
Simon couldn’t speak at that moment if he wanted to. Instead, he clutches the doorknob in a sweat-slicked grip and gasps in desperate gulps of air. Monty is on his feet in seconds. He moves forward as if to catch Simon if he should fall, but instead Simon grabs his arm and hauls him out into the hallway and then into Simon’s room.
“What’s going on?” he asks worriedly as he rubs the part of his arm that Simon gripped. “Are you okay?”
No, Simon is about as far from okay as a person could possibly get. But he could get a lot worse in a few moment’s time. Simon quickly locates his mini gumball machine that doubles as a piggybank. There’s no hesitation when he picks it up and smashes it into the floor.
“What are you doing?” Monty yells, clearly freaked out.
In lieu of an explanation, Simon grabs a handful of change from the floor and turns to Monty.
His brother’s eyes widen, understanding coming quickly. “Simon, don’t-”
Ignoring him, Simon opens his hand and watches with sick satisfaction as the coins fly out of his hand and straight for Monty. He tries to duck, but the coins smash into him- “Ow!”- and stick like magnets to a fridge.
A loaded silence settles over them. Monty looks terrified, but Simon is the one about to cry. He should have known. He was an activist for the evolved human cause, for crying out loud. If Simon would have known about this, about his brother, then he could have done something- anything- differently.
“How long?” he chokes out. How long has Monty been hiding this… this thing from him?
“It just started happening! I can’t help it!” Monty looks so pathetically miserable that he’s practically begging to be held and told that everything will be all right. He even twitches like he might throw himself at Simon. But Simon won’t lie to him. It won’t be all right. Not ever, if their grandmother knows what she’s talking about. And somehow Simon thinks that she does. If she knew about Monty- even though she was mistaken about Simon- then there’s no reason to think that she isn’t right about the rest.
God, what else doesn’t he know about his own family?
“You should have told me,” he says, suddenly angry. This is all Monty’s fault, after all. Simon is supposed to be the freak in this family, not him. Simon can take care of himself, but Monty…
“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. “I wanted to! I tried!”
Not hard enough, he thinks. Now, it’s too late. “I’m sorry, Monty. But it’s out of my hands.”
His brother looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “What? Simon, what are you talking about?”
“You can’t keep this a secret anymore,” he says, picking up his cell phone from where he left it on the chest of drawers.
Monty does lunge at him now, desperate hands scrabbling for his phone. “Simon, no! You can’t tell!”
Simon temporarily drops his phone so that he can twist Monty into a headlock. He makes choking sounds as Simon hauls him to the door. He shoves Monty out into the hallway with as little force as he can manage before slamming the door shut. He turns the lock just as Monty hurls himself against the door, the thump of his body loud enough to cause Simon to stumble back in surprise. This situation is scarily familiar.
“Simon, please!” he pleads, banging his fists against the wood.
He can’t afford to listen. Not when he’s already suffering flashbacks to every Holocaust movie he’s ever seen. If losing Monty is the only way to keep him, then there really is no other option. He picks up his phone.
“Simon, don’t do this! Please! I didn’t mean to do it! I can stop! You don’t have to be afraid, I promise! Simon?”
Simon’s heart clenches painfully in his chest, but his death-grip on his cell phone remains steady. As if he would be afraid of Monty. But this is for his own good.
“Hello?”
He has trouble getting his voice to work.
The voice on the other end of the line grows insistent. “Simon? Are you there?”
“Yeah,” he manages.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“Simon, please!”
I’m sorry, pal, he thinks.
“I need your help.”
***
They wait for her in the music room.
This time, Monty has his head in Simon’s lap. Lying on his side, stretched across the couch, he clutches Simon’s knees as his brother runs soothing hands over everywhere he can reach. Simon wants to be able to remember what his brother feels like beneath his hands. There’s no telling when they’ll see each other again. He refuses to think if. He refuses to think about a lot of things right now.
“Where will I go?” Monty’s voice is rough from all the crying and carrying on.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly.
“What will you tell Mom?”
That’s another thing Simon can’t afford to think about right now. As it is, it’s taking everything he has to keep it together. “I’ll think of something.”
Monty turns his head so that he’s looking up at him. Rather than answering all of the questions he sees swimming around in there, Simon uses his thumb to gently wipe away the tear tracks from around his brother’s swollen eyes. He finds the old gesture comforting, but Monty catches his wrist, halting the impulse. They’re left staring at each other.
“I love you,” Monty says solemnly.
A lump forms in his throat, and Simon has to bite down on his tongue to keep the tears at bay. But he smiles. For Monty.
“I love you, too.” His smile threatens to wane, but he holds it. “Don’t forget about your screw-up of a big brother when you’re living it up in the Caribbean. Or wherever.”
Monty leans up and presses his lips against Simon’s. The kiss is so light that it’s barely even there, but there’s a promise in it. Simon will have his freak-out about all the ramifications of what they are to each other later, when Monty’s safe.
A moment later, they hear the front door open downstairs, and Monty sits up.
When their grandmother enters the music room, she is followed by the last person Simon expects to see.
“Uncle Peter!” Monty cries, already running to embrace him.
He looks older than Simon remembers, tired. But he has that same indulgent smile on his face as he allows Monty to squeeze the life out of him. “Hey, buddy. It’s been awhile.”
Years. It’s been years.
“Are you coming with us?” Monty asks, now looking excited.
“You’ll find that your uncle has many useful talents for getting us safely out of the country,” Angela says, answering for him.
Uncle Peter suddenly notices him. “Simon?”
Simon knows he should stand and accept the hug that will no doubt be bestowed on him, but he remains rooted to the couch. The most he can manage is a curt nod and a “hey.”
“You’re all grown up,” Uncle Peter says wistfully.
He wants to say something sarcastic and cruel, but Monty is suddenly moving back to him, and Simon does stand this time to embrace his brother. Monty’s arms close around him like a vice, and Simon can’t help but smile into the tuft of hair pressed against his face. He shuts his eyes to block out the sight of his uncle and grandmother watching them with pitying gazes.
“You do everything they tell you, okay?” Simon says gruffly, his arms clutching a little too tightly. “You stay safe. If you don’t, then I’ll kick your ass.”
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Monty whispers against his cheek. “You’ll see.”
Two seconds in the presence of Uncle Peter and Grandma, and he’s already lying.
Simon finally pulls back from the hug. Taking Monty’s face in his hands, he kisses his forehead for what may be the last time. “Time to go.”
Watching them walk out the front door is the hardest thing Simon has ever had to do. But he forces himself to remain still and not to go after them. Someone has to stay behind to make sure their mother is okay. And one boy is easier to hide than two. He doesn’t even want to know what direction they’re going. Simon gives it five minutes, and then he goes to retrieve the last of Angela’s vodka from his room.
Simon has been drunk before. But he’s never been as drunk as he is when he winds up in front of his father’s old campaign headquarters.
Later, he won’t remember much apart from the good, solid feeling of the baseball bat in his hand and then the cracking sound as it connects with the window. He’s too drunk to do much damage. Hell, he can barely stand up. But apparently he causes enough of a disturbance that the sound of a police siren soon penetrates the air.
***
Nathan has already paid his bail and slicked whatever needed slicking to get Simon out of his mess. He’s waiting in the front lobby, foot tapping impatiently.
He takes one look at him and then tells Simon’s good friend, the guard, “If you’ve used even one iota of unnecessary force on my son, then-”
“I’m fine, Dad,” Simon interrupts quickly before Nathan can entirely confirm the guard’s politician stereotype.
Nathan looks skeptical. “You’re all right?”
He nods. If he looks like road kill, then it’s due to the early onset of a brutal hangover and what might possibly amount to a bout of alcohol poisoning if the nausea he’s experiencing is anything to go by. The guard can hardly be blamed for that.
Instead of taking him directly home, Nathan takes him to a café that stays open 24 hours a day.
They sit across from each other in awkward silence. Simon has never felt more depressed in his life, and he can hardly remember the last time he was alone with his father.
“Monty’s gone,” he blurts out.
Nathan calmly sips his coffee. Black, no cream, no sugar. Because that is his father. He probably thinks putting any kind of sweetener into his drink would make him somehow less of a man. If Simon had the energy or anything other than this gaping hole in his chest, he would have emptied several Sweet n’ Low packets into his untouched cup. Because that is Simon, caught in a perpetual rat race that has no real victories, only the illusions of them.
“I know,” he says finally.
Simon stares so hard that his eyes start to burn. “How do you know?” he demands.
“Because I just came from seeing him and your grandmother off at the airport.”
He’s fairly certain that his jaw drops. Again. “You know? And you let them leave?”
Nathan sits back and gives him the lawyer stare. “He’s my son. I’m not the monster you think I am, Simon.”
He feels strangely shamed as he remembers the long ago broken arm. What might have been different if that had never happened? He doesn’t know. Maybe everything, maybe nothing. Monty would still be what he is.
“Your grandmother told me that she told you about me.”
It takes Simon a moment to remember what he’s referring to. In his rush to protect Monty, he’d forgotten that his grandmother also implicated his father as one of the evolved humans.
There are many accusations he could throw at his father in this moment, and he would deserve them all. But Simon feels tired. “So, what can you do?” He isn’t really certain he wants to know, but it seems the thing to ask.
Nathan seems reluctant to take the conversation further, but he is the one who brought it up. “I can fly.”
Like Superman. Simon laughs. Because, really, what else can he do?
“What happens now?” Will he ever see Monty again? Simon is the one who was supposed to disappear, not him. He feels a strange combination of freedom and renewed suffocation.
“I’m going to fix all this, Simon.”
The only way his father could ever fix this would be to bring Monty back and to guaranty that no one would ever come after him again. He doesn’t think Nathan can give him that. But what does he know? The answer: absolutely nothing. Simon has no idea what’s going on. He feels as if he’s trapped in vertigo. Up is down, down is up.
What really gets him is that there isn’t a damn thing he can do beyond handing his little brother off to someone else and hoping for the best. All those years of being everything he could be to Monty-- brother, best friend, confidante, protector (he can't even think about that other thing yet)-- and now he has no control over anything. Monty is gone, and Simon is powerless. He's been stomped into submission by giants.
Nathan leans forward, trying to entreat some response from his son. “You believe me?”
No. “Yeah.”
His father makes a satisfied sound. “You just leave everything to me. Okay?”
Too tired to fight, too tired to hurt anymore, Simon nods. He has no other choice but to trust in his father, to trust in the belief that he’ll do what he can to keep Monty safe. He has to give his father a chance to be a hero.
“Okay.”
His next cup of coffee, he takes black.
Finis.
***
Note: Much of this fic was based off of Heroes supplemental material such as the deleted scenes from S1 (Simon’s strawberry allergy) and S2 (Nathan freaking out about his sons seeing him during his recovery), the online webcomic (Arthur's Purple Heart and the shot through the abdomen that earned it), as well as Nathan’s political website (votepetrelli.com). All are worth a look if you're as obsessed with Petrellis as I apparently am.