angela2_icon.gif kaylee2_icon.gif peter7_icon.gif

Scene Title We
Synopsis Angela entertains her son and a guest during dinner — or things are potentially the other way around.
Date January 26, 2010

Petrelli Mansion

When the ink on Arthur's death certificate dried, formal dinners at the Petrelli household became infrequent occasions. Most of the year, the silver and fine china sits in the dining room's antique curio cabinet, gathering dust behind a pane of glass older and physically more fragile than the family's aging matriarch. Tonight, however, the finery is all laid out on the new table that occupies the space where Nathan and Peter once sat to eat with their parents when they were small.

A half-empty bottle of Riesling sits between two small serving bowls, one containing asparagus risotto made with arborio rice, shallots and Parmesan cheese, the other cioppino — an Italian fish stew, and a childhood staple of both the Petrelli boys. Their Ma does not cook often, but when she does, she puts the same amount of effort into preparing the food as she puts into managing the family's funds.

She's very good at it.

"Miss Thatcher," Angela saying as she turns a clam over with her spoon, "my son has led me to believe that there's something I might be able to do for you, though I have to admit — I'm a little disappointed he didn't seem to think you were capable of seeing me yourself."

Anticipating meeting the matriarch of the Petrelli family, Kaylee had made sure to dress nicely. Dressed in a simple white sleeveless dress with flowing hemline that reached just below her knee, with a nice pair of white flats. Nothing fancy.. no trim.. just simple. Her long blonde hair has been twisted up against the back of her head, leaving loose curls to frame her face.

It's a drastic change from the jeans and leather jackets she usually wears and fairly rare to see. Somehow, the young telepath has been able to push back all her nervousness, maybe it's cause of the presence of the man sitting across from her, who gets a glance before she turns her attention to Angela. "Actually, Mrs. Petrelli, I was surprised when he insisted to come along. I had every intention of coming to see you myself."

"I… ah… was hoping you could help me out. I… feel odd asking a favor of you really." Kaylee catches her lipstick painted lip with her teeth briefly. "I recently had a chat with your son." Blue eyes shift to Peter, nodding to him in recognition. Though it was closer to an argument in someways. "And after some thought, I think he's right. I should think about registering." A small smile touches her lips, though it turns into a grimace. "I'm worried however that I might have caused problems for myself by assisting Adam in LA."

Grimacing, Peter looks down at his place, then leans back in his chair in a manner that suggests he is about to tip it on to the back legs, and then promptly — and awkwardly — does not upon meeting his mother's eyes. "Ah, well…" clearing his throat, he rests his forearms against the side of the table, now quite elbows on them, but enough that he can position his chin on his palms. "Yeah, she's a bit right there. I'd actually just wanted to sort've… tag alone, to be honest. It's sort've my fault she's coming out here to talk to you, so I figured I'd… be moral support?" Moral support for whom is a good question, but the brows-raised crooked smile expression surely indicates that he's at least genuine about it.

"Plus there's a couple of things that I figure… the three of us might be able to talk about anyway." Glancing side-long to Kaylee for a moment, Peter fires a look back to Angela, lacing his fingers together, then anxiously unwinding them. Watching Kaylee for a moment, Peter can't help but turn his head and stare down at the table at the mention of Adam. So many problems have centered on that man, boiling all the way down to how he even got out of Primatech holding.

"To my knowledge," Angela says, "there is no evidence connecting you to the murders of either Paula Gramble or Susan Amman. Should some surface, I would be happy to testify to the police on your behalf. You were, of course, here in New York City assisting me with the Lounge last September." The corners of her mouth tighten into a wrinkly smile. "I have the paperwork to prove it.

"You shouldn't have any difficulty registering," she continues, "though I would recommend that you be wary of how you describe your ability to the officials assigned to your case. Telepathy may not be a wise choice."

A curious look is tossed at Peter, brown giving a minute tug down, Kaylee can't fathom what a three of them could talk about. Her gaze linger on him for a few moments longer as her head turns back to Angela. But the older woman's news makes her eyes snap back and widen a little. There isn't many times that Kaylee is left truly dumbfounded and speechless. Angela Petrelli has succeeded. Then complete and total relief, "I — thank you." The words a sighed out.

The suggestion of being wary, worries her… considering who is telling her to be wary. Kaylee glances down at her plate thoughtfully, her own spoon pushing around the food, which… she has really enjoyed. "Huh… I hadn't planned to tell them everything…" A glance to Peter and then Angela she asks uncertainly. "I… think I can understand why not to tell them telepathy. People tend to run away at the mention… but what would you suggest I tell them?"

Eyeing Angela for a moment, as if uncertain about the level of her willingness to help in this, Peter seems tense. But it's quick to fade, turning dark eyes over to Kaylee with a nod of her head. "Last year— " he says between chewing and swallowing in a manner that would probably get him a hand upside the back of his head were Angela any closer, "I read an article in the Times about a guy who could project his voice, mentally, to people he could see. He couldn't hear their thoughts, but he could basically…" Peter waves his fork around in the air, "shout at them in his head? You could try something like that, register with that description, and they'll probably give you a low tiering too, which'll keep your name and face off of the Registry website."

Sliding his tongue across the front of his teeth, trying to pluck a piece of meat out from between two of them, Peter lets this futile struggle last only a moment before giving up the ghost, then trying one last time to get it out, and then honestly just suffering through it's presence. "Plus, when you think about it, admissions at whatever school you want to attend might look sideways at a telepath, you know? They'll probably still give you trouble, but, we've got good connections in the city."


It's weird thinking this, saying it, being here. Peter actually pauses after saying that, brows creased together, and his eyes drift down to stare into his plate, trying to consider why he's here. So much happened three years ago that should have made him never want to see any of these people ever again. Had Kazimir's perspective on the world— and on family— changed him that much?

Peter's use of the word we does not go unnoticed by Angela. She sets down her spoon in favour of picking up her wine glass between two long fingers, her wedding band twinkling gold in the dining room's muted half-light. Less flashy are is the black pearl necklace at her throat or the matching earrings she wears beneath the dark tresses of hair her youngest inherited from her. She isn't wearing any lipstick — when she drinks from her glass, her mouth fails to leave a visible impression on its delicate rim.

"Directional Telepathy, I believe it's called," Angela offers. "Either that, or some off-brand of Empathy. The only way you'll be caught is if you encounter another telepath, or someone whose gift allows them to sense those belonging to others. There are a few in the city, so be mindful whatever you choose."

"Directional Telepathy…." Kaylee sounds like she's think about that seriously. "I've… met a woman that can sense what people are. In fact, I work with her." That worries the young woman a bit, especially with the talk of duping the system. "She pegged me as a telepath, but it didn't seem like she could tell more then that."

"I… " She send a sheepish sideways glance to Peter, "..had planned to go back to school. Not sure what yet, but I've realized I need that education. Especially, since my father left me the money. There is no use to let it go to waste." thin fingers love to tuck hair behind her ear, her eyes lifting to the Petrelli matriarch.

"Peter is right.. though… at first I refused to even think about it…" Kaylee tilts her chin up, giving Peter a small smile. "I can't dwell on my failures. I guess the phrase my grandfather would use is, 'Get back up on that horse.' So I want to try."

Laughing awkwardly, Peter reaches up to rub a hand at the back of his neck. "Hey, don't go giving me too much credit here, I'm practically the patron saint of dwelling on past mistakes." Said with as much of a good-natured smile as he can manage. Easing back carefully in his chair, Peter angles a look at his mother that seems to be assessing her levels of patience. Teeth toying with his lower lip, Peter's thoughtfully debating topics and events, and finally opts to deliver what he's been sitting on.

"I wanted to ask a favor of you, actually. I— know I sort've already am, but this shouldn't be something too hard for you." Rubbing at the side of his face, Peter checks the faint hint of stubble across his jaw. "Kaylee's got this friend of hers, living down on Staten Island, his name's Eric Doyle. I remember seeing his dossier back when— when I worked at Primatech." For a moment it's hard for Peter to rationalize the memories of his once twinned self. "I know you've still got a lot of… sway in the Company, and Kaylee's been making sure Eric stays clean. Sort've like a parole officer, I guess?" He cracks a crooked smile at that.

"I just— If you could ask Sabra, or whoever's in charge down there these days, to just ease up on looking for him, I promise you'll be the first to know if he steps out've line. He's doing good work down there, good for him, and I just— it's a personal favor." Brows furrowed, Peter seems compelled to offer something back to his mother in exchange, though this gift he is extremely careful with how it is delivered.

"I ah, I also ran into Nathan down in South America a little while ago. We talked, caught up on old times, put some axes down…" Toying with his lower lip, Peter seems hesitant to discuss the matters. "He talked about getting back into the swing of things in Washington? I wasn't sure if there was, you know, anything you might want me to do to help out."

The family that double-deals together, stays together.

"We live in a world that is still coming to terms with its fantastical nature," Angela says to Kaylee. "Whether or not a telepath studying to become a lawyer should be allowed to take sections of the bar exam in a room with other hopefuls is a fairly tame example, but a young woman not unlike yourself was denied admission from Cornell on those very grounds last year. There was an editorial in the Times just this morning about the moral implications of healers charging exorbitant prices for their services. Professional athletes with superhuman speed, reflexes and strength. Coercive corporate lobbyists using silver tongues to compel politicians to propose and vote for crooked legislation. There are reasons for the Linderman Act that groups like Phoenix fail to take into consideration when they're preaching equality — stay abreast of the situation as it evolves," no pun intended, "and you stand a better chance of success."

Another sip of Riesling to cleanse her palette, and Angela's dark eyes have settled again on her son's. "Eric Doyle is the least of Miss Dalton's concerns," she assures Peter, "though I'm hardly surprised that you've made Nathan one of yours." Her tone is creeping into carefully neutral territory, facial expression as well-guarded as Peter remembers it being at his father's wake. "I don't want to upset Heidi or the children. Until I've decided how to approach the situation, I would appreciate it if we do not discuss this any further."

Eyes widen at Peter's request to help out Doyle, brows lifting high on Kaylee's head. Fear sits in her stomach like a brick, she'd have never outed the man herself. A careful glance is sent Angela way, her lip caught and held in her teeth as she waits. There is relief when she doesn't seem overly concerned.

A small head nod, Kaylee says softly, "I'll keep what you said in mind. I truthfully hadn't planned to tell them the extent of what I can do… I've… heard stories." The telepath swallows nervously, as she worries it might be a touchy subject. "Not just from Adam either…. Doyle… other people that have been.. detained."

The mention of Nathan, draws her curiosity, but she doesn't show interest taking a moment to take a few bites of food.

"Adam deserved to be locked up." Peter very awkwardly asserts, then after choking down on his guilt about that, returns his attention to his nearly finished dinner. "Ah— Yeah I'll…" The mention of dropping the topic of Nathan rattles around in Peter's head, and his back straightens, hands come to rest down on the table in front of his plate as he pushes it and the bowl atop it away from himself. "I just wanted to make sure you knew he was down there, you… know how he likes to just fly off somewhere on vacation and not tell anyone."

Swallowing awkwardly, Peter offers a side-long look to Kaylee. "Speaking of Adam…" Peter finally gets back on that topic, and perhaps that very reason is why he insisted on coming along with Kaylee in the first place, all niceness and platitudes aside. "I think it might be good for everyone, if you can give my mother whatever information you have on him. You were the closest to Adam, from what you've told me. You know things about his operation, where he might be hiding. You know how dangerous he is, and you know something has to be done about him. This isn't something I want people taking into their own hands."

Looking back to Angela, Peter's brows furrow and the corner of one side of his mouth downturns into a frown. "Besides, I think my mother— better than anyone— knows just how dangerous he is, and what lengths he'll go through to get back at people who wrong him. That includes you," Peter adds emphatically. "The last thing I want, is to find out I could've done something to stop him, and you— or my family gets hurt because of it."

Kaylee's face pales a bit at Peter's words, "I… know things, but I'm finding out all the time how much he kept from me." Just talking about him, makes her stomach twist painfully, making her sit down her spoon, the food suddenly unappetizing. "I'll give you what I know of him, especially with some of what I learned." The blond telepath takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to ease her stomach. "The big thing I know right off.. Is he is a silent owner of Biddy Flannigan's Irish Pub. He held all his meetings there….. with me gone though…?" Would he really still be using these places?

"I was there with him at Pineheasrt… and when he sold Refrain to the Dragons." Kaylee glances between them both, her words soft. "But there was an awful lot I didn't know." Her tone is apologetic. "Another one of his associates I worry about.. Huruma." Peter would more then likely know her now, unlike before. "I've…. been in her head, when she was training me. I.. saw some of what she does." Kaylee looks a bit sick thinking about it.

"Biddy Flannigan's," Angela repeats, placing her wine glass aside, not to discard it but to steady it on the table as she takes up the bottle and pours more of the pale-coloured liquid into the vessel. "That's bold of him. He should know better than to set foot in my territory after what he did to Susan and Paula. Thank you, Kaylee."

What she intends to do with this information is not made readily apparent by posture, distinguished but relaxed, or the crinkles around her eyes, which smile more often that her thin mouth does. "I don't imagine that I have anything to worry about," she says instead, "and, for that matter, neither do you."

"Huruma." So many times that name's come up around Peter, and only in those moments in Antarctica where he truly counted on her were they ever spoken without resentment or fear. Huruma, whom he painted a prophetic image of, weeks before she ate the flesh from Matt Parkman's arm. Huruma, the woman who kidnapped and tortured Elle. Huruma, the woman he helped set free because of his brash actions with PARIAH. Peter's fingers curl against his palms, brows tensed. Huruma, who helped him save the world.

It doesn't fit together well inside of his mind.

"Thanks, Kaylee…" Peter takes too long in offering that, and he looks distracted enough by his own thoughts. When he finally does snap into attention, Peter's brows furrow and his head dips down into a nod. "I appreciate you taking the time out to talk to us, mom. This— I know things haven't always been the best between us lately, but I've gotten a lot of perspective on things in the last six months. I… understand things a little better."

Looking over to Kaylee, Peter just offers an affirmative smile, as if to say see, painless. "I know it 's been hard on us all, but now that I'm back here after being gone for so long, it— I almost have that feeling that everything might be alright soon." Peter's optimism is always bittersweet, because inevitably, he is going to be proven wrong.

"My pleasure." Kaylee offers softly to both, her appetite shot to hell from all the discussion of her former boss. "And thank you Mrs. Petrelli for your assistance and your advice on registering. I feel better about my decision, though I know there are some that will probably be unhappy with me." She gives a small roll of her eyes. "But, it's feeling like that right thing to do." And she hopes she's not wrong about it.

The young telepath turns a soft smile to Peter. Yes.. you were right. Don't get too smug about it. There is a tease in that thought. "Oh, and the meal was lovely, Mrs. Petrelli." She adds, turning to much more pleasant things. "Never been a good cook despite her and my grandmother trying to teach me, my mom did insist I learn how to dance though and I do alright with that at least."

"Not only did I have the good fortune of marrying into an Italian family," Angela says, continuing to nurse her wine, "but I was lucky enough to have a mother-in-law with the patience to teach me how to shuck oysters and debeard clams." She has not yet returned her attention to the cioppino and it's unlikely that she will — when you spend most of your evening in the kitchen sneaking tastes in between nibbles of French bread while you're still waiting for the flavours to come together — as Angela has — you tend to curb your appetite before the food is out on the table.

"Maybe one day you will, too." No, Peter — that isn't a hint.

He does of course take it the wrong way. Dark brows press together, his head jerks in a look from Angela to Kaylee, pausing like an animal waiting to hear the sounds of a predator— did he just hear that? "I— think— " his words come out about as slow as the pace in which he is rising up from the chair at the diningroom table. Pushing the chair out, looking awkwardly to Kaylee, then just as awkwardly back to Angela, Peter's lips creep up into a lopsided smile. "Dinner was— it was great mom."

Patting one hand on his stomach, he grimaces a bit. "I— so… right. Ah, Kaylee," Peter nods his head towards the blonde, "we should probably be going, don't want to wear out our welcome. It was— it was really nice of you to have us over, mom." There's another awkward grimace, and Peter slaps his hand down on Kaylee's shoulder, a quick white-gold flash of light over his palm comes, before he feigns a smile.

It's insurance, mostly. If she tries to figure out why he's so flustered, all she'll get is that nice telepathic feedback screech.

Because that's the last thing anyone needs to hear.

"Maybe.. " Kaylee says with a soft chuckle. "Of course, I have to find a guy that doesn't find what I am threatening. That is a rare quality it seems." Of course, the slap of Peter's hand on her shoulder makes her jump a bit and she glances up at him with a 'what is wrong with you?' look. Despite that, the telepath slides the chair back and climbs to her feet, brushing the shirt of her dress in place.

"He is right, of course. We've taken enough of your time already Mrs. Petrelli and it was a lovely evening." Kaylee steps to where she can offer her hand in farewell. "Thank you so much. I'll make sure Peter let you know how everything goes."

"He knows that I'll eat him alive if he doesn't." Angela takes Kaylee's hand as she rises from the dining table, apparently intent to see both Peter and their dinner guest to the front door. "You're very welcome — I enjoyed the company." Her grip is perhaps not as firm as her late husband's one, especially not now that she'll be seventy before the next decade is out, but it is decisive, resolute. Much like she is.

"Let me show you the sunroom on the way out," she says, leading Kaylee by the hand and Peter in tow. "The weather should be dictating otherwise, but the roses are lovely this time time of year…"

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