cat_icon.gif peter_icon.gif

Scene Title Faith
Synopsis Peter confides in Cat his darkest secret.
Date September 6, 2008

Dorchester Towers: Cat's Apartment

The entry hall has room for anyone carrying larger objects to move without much trouble and five doorways. First, on the left, is a kitchen with the usual appliances, microwave, toaster, blender, coffeemaker, and George Foreman grill. Cherry cabinets with brass handles above and below the marbled counter fill the spaces. In the center is a table of dark cherry wood with comfortable wooden chairs for six people on a waxed cedar floor.

The living area, second on the left, has a peach colored couch with cherry wood end and coffee tables along the far wall. On either side of those is a recliner chair. Atop one of the end tables is a caller ID phone with NYC phone books. Electronics line the left wall: a 60" thin plasma HDTV, cable box with DVR, stereo equalizer, radio tuner, twelve disc CD player, iPod dock, home theater system, and speakers. One of the other walls has a piano placed against it and a wide window overlooking Nuked York. Pale wine colored pull curtains, normally kept closed, hang before it. The fourth wall has a line of electric and acoustic guitars, a few amps of varying sizes, and a cello.

The first door on the right opens to the smaller of two bedrooms. The second right hand door leads to the main bedroom.

At the entry hall's far end is a bathroom with standard fixtures, a white tile floor, and products a woman would have. Bright and warm glows from overhead track lighting bathe the place. Deep wine colored plush carpet covers the floor, stopping only at the kitchen and bathroom.

The time taken crossing town is spent in relative silence, Cat leading the way to the Upper West Side and the Dorchester Towers. On reaching the building and coming to her apartment door, it's shown she got extremely lucky and snagged a first floor apartment. Keys are produced, the lock is operated and the door opened. "After you, Rock," she invites. A grin is flashed as she makes a flourishing gesture of invitation while holding the door for him.

Peter's silence wasn't entirely out of nothing to say, it was out of uncertainty on what to say, and how to say it. It had been some time since he walked the streets of New York at night, and while the neighborhood Cat lived in was affluent enough to be safe, there was a hint of wariness about him. At times, Cat had looked back to find Peter gone, only to have him emerge up the sidewalk a block. He was avoiding something, that much was obvious.

By the time he had made it up to Cat's apartment, nearly three o'clock int he morning, Peter looked weary. There was that look of lack of sleep, something that was common with him over the brief time Cat has known him, but under the lighting of the hallway outside of her apartment, it was somewhat more pronounced. Entering the apartment at Cat's behest, Peter scanned the expansive suite as he walked in, his boots making hard reports on the floor with each step. "It's nice…" He was quiet, the first thing he'd bothered to say since they left the bar. Slowly, he turns to look back at Cat, having given her more than enough space to follow him in. "Oh — " Finally he made the connection that she had carried her music equipment all the way back from the bar, and with a motion of his right hand, she can feel the guitar case lightly tugged in her grasp, as if someone unseen was trying to take it.

She doesn't object to having the case taken from her shoulder, it's greeted with a quiet "Thanks, Rock. As you can see, I'm not poor." The door is closed and locked after both are inside, she turns to face the man and lead him inside further. "I'm glad you like it. You… you look worn. Need to crash?" Sincerity is in the offer. Cat has questions about what he meant when he said people get hurt, and the way he behaved on the trip, but they'll keep until the morning.

The guitar case moves from Cat's arm, through the air and towards Peter. He takes it by the handle, surprised by the weight, and walks into the apartment without answering her question. Making his way to the couch, Peter sets down the guitar case, leaning it up against, the arm, then turns back around to look at Cat again. "I don't sleep well," He looks around the apartment again, from this perspective, "Ever." His brow tenses, hands finding their way into the pockets of his slacks. "This… would be the first time I've slept in the city since…" He shakes his head, trying to change the subject. "I'll be fine, I'm not even sure if I really need to sleep anymore, or if it's entirely in my head." Peter sounds disturbed by the notion, walking a couple of steps back towards Cat.

Peter tenses when Cat asks that particular question, following her with his eyes over to the couch, "It's not happy memories, or plesant stories…" He looks down to the floor, then over to the door. "I…" Very slightly shaking his head, Peter reaches up to his collar and unshoulders his coat, as if making some measure of determination that he wasn't going to just leave. "If you want to hear it, I'll tell it. But, I don't want you to get the wrong impression either." Walking over to the sofa, Peter lays his coat over the arm, then settles down slowly, leaning back against the softness of the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He thinks about Cat's question, then opens his eyes and rolls his head to the side, looking at her. "No," He pauses to think, "I ate before I hit the club. I'm… relatively sure I still need to do that." He didn't sound certain, though.

She exits the room, headed for the kitchen, intending to return shortly with two bottles of that stout and some sandwiches of the premade variety she kept in the refrigerator. "They're from Piccoli's in Little Italy. Good food there." One of each is set before him, and one kept for herself. "Your tale… I want to hear it. What would the wrong impression be?"

"The kind of person I am." Peter says quietly, looking down to the bottles on the table, then the sandwiches. It wasn't until he saw food that he looked at them in an entirely different manner. Leaning forward, Peter looks up to Cat, then reaches out for the wrapped sandwich, unfolding the white paper and immediately brings it up to his mouth without looking at what was even on it, devouring one of the pre-sliced halves in a few large bites. He swallows, dryly, motioning to the bottle hastily as the cap snaps off, then lands on the table with a clatter. He doesn't have to reach for the bottle, it drifts through the air over to him, finding itself in his free hand. He takes one, quick swig, then sets it down on the table in the same fashion he picked it up.

Finally taking a breath, Peter looked shocked, and at the same time relieved. "I… It's been a while." He mumbled, looking from side to side, "A couple of days." His head shakes, and he looks up to Cat. "My tale?" he lingers on her choice of wording, though there's an apologetic look in his eyes as he does. "That's a long one… I guess, it starts two years ago. Back when I was a nurse…" He looks to the sandwich, considering, "I was tending to a hospice patient — Charles Deveaux." He sets the sandwich back in the wrapper, and gestures for it to drift over to the table with the bottle. "My last patient."

She watches and listens with solemn interest, her eyes taking in his features as he eats and talks, drinks. Cat is committing it all to memory, not that it's possible for her to forget anything. She's calm, the scar on his face and the way he reacted to being asked about it told her his story would be far from mundane, not to mention the multiple abilities he's spoken of and shown her. Weather, telepathy, telekinesis, teleportation, her own memory now… The red heels are presently not in mind, but the feeling she's already been intimate with this man and wanting to know as much as he'll share is.

"I… didn't really know who I was back then, who I'd become." Peter's brow tenses, "Charles was on his way out, he only had a few months left at the best prognosis." With his gaze drifting across the table top, Peter becomes lost in the story he tells. As he tells it, there is a gradual shift in the weather outside, visible through the large windows. At first, it was just clouds covering the sky. The story is told in an intimate, and emotional depth. About Peter's brother, about his discovery of his abilities, Sylar, about Isaac Mendez and his paintings. Eventually the weather outside worsens, rain beginning to fall in a drizzle.

Then the story takes an unexpected, darker turn. Peter begins discussing his foreknowledge of the bomb, of Isaac's most notorious painting, and how he and others were going to attempt to stop it. He leaves no detail out, speaking of his attempt to rescue Claire from Sylar, his brother's refusal to admit his true nature — All the while his hands were folded in his lap, eyes unfocused and distant. The wind becomes stronger outside, driving the rain with it, a storm was coming. Eventually, though, Peter hesitates, well over an hour after he started.

"I… passed out on the steps, I was out for a while. I…" He leans forward, having reached the part in his story just after having rescued Claire and being detained by the police. Resting his head in his hands, fingers raking through his hair, Peter continues. "I had a dream, while I was out. I was in the center of New York, surrounded by abandoned cars. People were running in every direction — That blonde woman I saw at the Wench, she was there. My brother, Claire… people I recognize and don't." His hands start to shake, thunder rumbling outside, followed by close flashes of lightning. "They were running from me." The words were whispered, and Peter's fingers begin to curl into his hair. "I lost control, of a power I didn't even have when I had the dream. I…" Peter's shoulders begin to shake, words spoken thorugh clenched teeth and barely restrained emotions, "I was the bomb… and in the end," He started to break down, his arms shaking, and the lightning outside struck repeatedly on the nearby buildings, harmlessly. "It wasn't just a dream. In the end, fighting Sylar, we… we couldn't…" He actually sobs, breathing in a shuddering and sucking breath. "I was the bomb."

She's silent through the tale, listening intently. Occasionally glances go out the window at the weather effects developing there, and the woman wonders if Homeland has ways to track such effects to the source briefly. Nathan flies. Claire regenerates, Sylar stole brains and powers. Mendez prophesied through art. Each revelation is compared against her mental copy of Suresh's book. Her sandwich is eaten and the stout imbibed early into it. Her expression is calm, growing troubled when he speaks of the dream about people fleeing him, and shocked to the core when he reveals the final detail. Speech fails her for several long moments, she watches him with wide eyes and open mouth, just trying to process it all. This man across from her… he killed so many. He turned New York into Nuked York.

Peter didn't respond, not right away. He just keeps his head in his hands, regaining his calm as he tries to manage his breathing. Once he's got that in check, the dark-haired man slides back, sitting up with his hands on his knees. His eyes are redder than they were earlier, cheeks glistening wet in the dim flashes of light from the lightning outside, the storm seeming to very slowly subside over time. "Now, I do. I… left a lot out." He shakes his head, slowly, "Most everyone who knew me thinks I'm dead. Or they know what I did, and they're looking for me." He turns, looking over to Cat. It was evident from his reactions that Peter wasn't merely just telling a story, he had relived it, through the blessing of Cat's memory, recalling those events as if they were real once more. He couldn't even get halfway through the chaotic story in detail.

"I'm…" He looks away from Cat, down to the floor, "I should go." He had gotten so caught up in the story, that he had divulged secrets no others knew, not even those closest to him. Only one person he trusted knew the absolute truth, and even then, where was he now? Peter slowly rises to his feet, wiping his hands over his face, "I — I'm sorry." It isn't clear who he's apologizing to.

"Stay," she insists. She's on her feet, crossing to wrap arms around him and envelop the man in an embrace. "Thank you for telling me, Rock, all of it. Thank you for that trust. I don't know why I have it, but I do. Maybe you just needed to tell it, to shed the burden you've been carrying around so long. You really are a Rock, to go on after that. To somehow find a way to pull together and start making amends. I… if I saw you about to explode like that, I'd shoot you in the head myself, make no mistake." And on that she's entirely serious. "It doesn't matter who that person is, if someone is about to kill me I'll do what I can to not die. But what happened here, happened. It's done."

He hardly knows how to react to the embrace, he freeze in place, Cat can feel how much he's shaking. "I…" His words fail him, any explanation as to why; why he would confide in someone he hardly knows, why he would tell anyone a secret as dangerous as that, why he would keep going on after something so terrible. All of those answers don't come to him. The only thing he does, after a long period of stillness and silence, is raise his arms to return the embrace, resting his forehead against Cat's.

"You can't tell anyone…" As if she would, but Peter's paranoia raises in his emotion-laden and shaky voice, "P-please." It was the first time he's shown weakness, not only in Cat's presence but in the last two years. The first time he's been able to let his guard down, to let out everything he's been carrying, to tell someone what no one could want to bear the burden of knowing. And Peter Petrelli, a man who often acts before he thinks, told the one woman who could never forget.

How could she judge and condemn him for this? She's shocked to the core still, but managing some coherence in her words and actions. Cat's no angel. She's rich, living in a city still recovering from what this man in her arms did. Her riches come at least in part from that loss of control; the investment of funds in companies with government contracts for cleanup and reconstruction. And she won't apologize for that ever. Nor would she support any form of apology to the people of Japan for how WW2 ended. Or the natives for all this stolen land. It's all in how she rationalizes the world, the greyness that exists.

The words come after long minutes of silence spent embracing him. "I won't tell."

"Thank you." Peter manages to say, leaning some of his weight against Cat. Their height was comparable, in the boots she was wearing she stands the same height as the man she holds, making it easy for him to rest against her as he does. "I didn't mean to…" He's not sure what he means, "Knowing this, it's, it…" He swallows, dryly, "I'm sorry." He has a hard time vocalizing, but the shaking has subsided, comfort found in understanding arms. "This isn't exactly how I imagined the night ending." Peter laughs awkwardly, reaching up with one hand to brush his palm against Cat's cheek, fingers working up into her hair, then back down again, tracing the length of her cheek to her chin. "I'm sorry."

"How did you imagine things?" she asks in reply, head tilting into his hands and eyes closing. Is it an invitation? Perhaps. She's not moving away from the man's touch. "Everything tells me you're working to make amends however you can, and it sounds like you've got centuries to do it." Her own hands remain on his back, making slow circles there across the shirt he wears.

"You'd have been wearing red shoes," Peter says with a ragged laugh, mixed with the emotions he built up earlier, "Not much else," He says in half-jest, brushing his nose across Cat's. "Not now, though, if it was going to happen at all." A crooked, confused smile crosses Peter's lips. He tilts his head up, while directing Cat's chin down. Instead of the night he imagined, he presses his lips to the younger woman's forehead, his eyes closing as he does. "I feel like I haven't slept in two years." His palm brushes back up her cheek again, fingers finding a curly lock of red hair, threading it between his fingers. "I think, maybe… I should." He whispers that last bit, lips brushing over Cat's forehead as he does. When he lowers his head again, his eyes open, focused on Cat's at this close distance. "If, that's alright." There's that hesitance, still somewhat intimidated by her. Even now.

"I probably would've worn them for you, now, as well as the not much else. It's a comfort I'd give you without doubt." Cat closes her eyes again at the contact to her forehead, she whispers "I feel like we already had sex still." But she steps back and turns toward the hallway, taking a few steps toward the spare room. "Sleep in here."

Peter laughs awkwardly again, listening to Cat. For all his demeanor, there is still that strange, almost boyish manner in which he carries himself around women. "I'll… keep that in mind," He breathes in, nose pressed into Cat's hair. Shaking his head as Cat takes a few steps away, one of Peter's hands slide down her arm to take her hand in his. He moves behind her, following towards the spare room. For now, she's in charge.

And lead she does. Into the spare room, she indicates the bed and waits for him to lay in it, her intent to join the man while staying fully clothed. There'll be nothing but sleep tonight; she simply remains close to him if he'll allow it, to be present.

Peter's footfalls are slow and weary, and when he makes his way over to the bed through the doorway, there's a sound of releif that escapes him. He releases Cat's hand, crawling forward and kneeling on the bed, making his way across it before falling down onto his side, then rolling after a moment onto his back. He sprawls out, not out of intention, but out of exhaustion, "Two hours in Hawaii, three hours in Washington, a half hour nap in Taipei…" Peter closes his eyes, bringing one hand up to cover his face, "That's how I've lived. Sneaking into bedrooms when no one is home, halfway across the world." Peter moves his hand, looking up to where Cat stands beside the bed, "Unrented hotel rooms. Warehouses. Places no one else could go…" As he watches her, his expression shows both relief and regret. "Why are you…" He almost doesn't ask, "Why do you treat me this way? With compassion?"

"Because even Rocks need it sometimes," she answers simply. "And because you chose to be honest with me, when you could have lied or stayed silent." Arms move to encircle him and pull the man in. "And because I think you need to trust yourself. Staying here with me and just sleeping, that takes discipline," she adds with a soft laugh.

"I guess it might," Peter agrees, one arm moving to wrap around Cat's shoulders, pulling her in close to him. It had been years since the last time he held anyone in his arms and slept, years since he ever felt comfortable lying down in a bed, years since the threat of sleep wasn't something to fear. As his eyes closed, exhaustion overwhelmed the man, and within moments he was asleep at Cat's side. He wasn't sure that the nightmares would stop tonight, he wasn't sure he could fully trust the woman that he held close to him. But for once, Peter decided to do something unlike himself. He decided to stop over-analyzing things, to stop thinking, and to simply… have faith.

And for now, that was enough.

September 5th: Invitation
Previously in this storyline…
A Request for Infiltration

Next in this storyline…
Permit Yourself Happiness

September 6th: Morning, Sunshine
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