Participants:
| Scene Title | Give A Foot, Take A Mile |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | An unexpected visitor comes knocking on Felix Ivanov's Door… |
| Date | October 11, 2009 |
Le Rivage, Felix and Leland's Apartment
Knock
Knock
Knock
The day was going so well too. The sound of someone at the front door rings out through the quiet of the apartment, over the distant din of the television and the noise of traffic outside. It's a slow, thoughtful and very deliberate pounding on the door. Nothing hurried or concerned, but certainly designed to garner attention. It's not often visitors come to apartment 102 in the dimly lit halls of the Le Rivage apartment builduing.
It's even less often when guests don't just announce themselves at the door. In this late afternoon, however, there's nothing ordinary about anything happening at the shared residence of Leland Daubrey and Felix Ivanov. This apartment, a home that it is, can only serve as a staging ground to prove once more, that Felix Ivanov can never find peace.
Lee's still a real cop with a real job. Fel's….in limbo. With Deckard's efforts, there's nothing more that can be done for him until the custom made prosthesis arrives. In the meanwhile, he's limping around on a makeshift with a crutch or a cane. Sleeping a lot, eating all the things Lee makes to tempt an uncertain appetite and get him to put on weight, trying to wean himself off painkillers, dozing in front of the TV. Times like this he misses his cats.
There's the cadenced stump-stump-stump of him hitching his way over to the door. He's dressed in t-shirt and jeans, but they were bought when he was at a proper fighting weight, not recovering from a month's brutal captivity and a following week's near coma, so they hang off him, the shirt slipping to expose the wing line of a collarbone. The door creaks open, and one pale blue eye appears in the crack. There's still a metal bar version of one of those chain locks. "Who is it?" hewonders, in a voice still raspy from sleep.
"Peter Petrelli." Comes the rough, tired voice from the other side of the door. "It'd be nice if you didn't try and shoot me through the door, too." If there weren't enough things wrong with Felix Ivanov's life, Peter Petrelli would be at the top of the list of things that could only exacerbate the situation. A shuffling away fromt he door is heard in the hall, followed by Peter's voice being just a little to the left of the door this time.
"It's important." Important enough to stalk down a federal agent when you're wanted by half of the government agencies that hunt people for a living. Important enough to go to a man he tried to kill in a subway tunnel. Important enough to knock politely…
It's the drugs. The morphine has taken shape and is talking to me. He already had a long, long argument with the ghost of Kazimir earlier this week, and another visit from the wife and daughter he never had. That single eye blinks, once, and then a hand rendered spidery in its thinness comes up to unhook the lock. Fel doesn't speak, just swings the door wide and stares at Peter in puzzled consternation, before hitching himself out of the way. There's a weird sort of fatalism there - Felix is relaxed because curiosity has won, and if Peter intends him any real harm, then he's in no condition to offer any real resistance.
As Peter steps more fully into the frame of the door, one dark brow raises in consideration of Felix and the crutch. "You look like death warmed over," the pale man admits with a lopsides smile as he invites himself inside. But as he passes by Felix, there's that telltale pin-pricking tingle that Felix hasn't felt for months since his one-on-one showdown with Kazimir Volken at Jittetsu arms. Then, catching Peter's profile, he sees the vibrant blue of his eyes. Having stared at Petrelli's mugshot enough in his career, Felix Ivanov knows those should be brown.
"I've got a problem, and you're the only person I could think of to come talk to about it." That in itself says something consideravly terrible as he walks in, dress shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. "Have you seen a healer?" Peter finally asks, looking back over his shoulder with one brow raised curiously.
Fel's gone pale, ghostly so, white to the lips, and he's leaning on the crutch like his legs've gone to rubber. "Oh, my god," he breathes. "Who are you, really?" It's not actual terror only because he's just too tired, been hurt too much to work up real fear.
Blue eyes track to Felix, then to the door, and Peter takes a few steps back and pushes it shut himself before turning back to the crippled agent. "We'll go with Peter because that's probably a whole lot easier to explain." There's a hesitant smile offered, and Peter just slips right by Felix again on his way towards the living room. "I didn't expect to find you in crutches, so that makes what I'm here for a little more difficult to ask." Rolling his tongue over the inside of his cheek, Peter comes to sit down on the arm of the sofa, hands folded in his lap. "Come on, sit down… We need to talk."
Well, standing there and gawking like an idiot won't get any questions answered. So Fel lurches into motion, reaching the sofa and seating himself in a few awkward paces. "You're not Petrelli. You're Volken," he says, still with that same frozen calm. "Or something like. You….you didn't die at the Narrows, did you?"
Sighing heavily, Peter rubs his hand over his face and shakes his head slowly. "I'm— " he doesn't really know how to peoperly answer the question. "It's not really like that. You're half right and you're half wrong, but what's wrong with me isn't half of the troubles you've got going right now." Blue eyes linger on Felix for a moment, then settle down to the coffee table for lack of anything else to focus on.
"You're the only Federal agent I know who might listen to me, and actually try to do something instead of just lock me up right now. You're the only person who— I'd like to think— can see the bigger picture some times." Dark brows furrow, creasing that scar across his face, "so forget about what I am for a moment, and think about this…"
Blue eyes lift up to Felix, uncertainly. "The surviving members of the Vanguard have in their possession a ten kiloton nuclear warhead." If there wasn't anything to send Felix's stomach into his feet, it would still be that. "I'm not talking about the ones on Staten Island, I'm talking about the ones still out there in foreign countries, hiding in their dark holes. I need your help."
Well, it does look as if Danko and Dean between them succeeded in beating the raw bitchery and sometime arrogance right out of Felix. Because his expression remains uncharacteristically mild. He just blinks at Peter. "How is it you think I can help?" he says, gently. "I can pass on what you've told me. Though honestly, from what you've said, you might need to be talking to the CIA." He pauses, sucks in an uneven breath, and points out, amused, "I couldn't arrest anyone now unless they cuffed themselves for me."
"I'm not even sure that'd do anything other than them dragging you…" Peter admits with a raise of his brows. "All I want you to do is keep your ear to the ground. I have a pretty solid feeling that the government already knows about the nuke, but I'm of the mind that they aren't going to act on it in time, like with the Narrows." There's a resentful narrowing of Peter's eyes. "I need you to consider that this might have to be handled on the side, discretely by people who don't want to restart the cold war because of a stolen Russian nuke."
Wringing his hands together, Peter's eyes shift to the side and his tongue rolls over the inside of his cheek. "I need you to see if you can find people in your department, or in your contacts, you might be amenable to taking a trip overseas to places the Vanguard are still holed up in. People who wouldn't mind acting off the radar, off the record, and with people who know the terrain." A huff of a sigh slips out, and Peter's head dips down into a nod.
"You know a lot of people in this city, Ivanov." Peter's brows furrow, "I need you to do some— " alright maybe legwork is a bad choice of words. "Some legwork," way to go Peter, "for me. Shake whatever trees, whatever bushes, whatever cages you have to. I can't do this alone, and I can't do this with just a handful of people either."
Of all the fucking times for Peter to come running to him. Felix merely looks grim, at this. "I'll talk to some people I know. Supposedly, some of the local Vanguard cell who turned coat at the Narrows are still trying to fight on the side of light. Hell, why not Gabriel Gray," he says, deadpan. Might be joking, might be serious. His hands are limp in his lap.
"No." Peter's voice is imperitive as he looks up to Felix, it's a sharp denial. "Not them, anyone but the Vanguard and Gray. They… they don't need to get involved yet." Blue eyes wander away from the federal agent, then focus down on the floor. "I've got a close enough line of communication with them anyway. Felix," first names now, is it? "I need you to get in touch with people I can't approach. Either people in your agency, or just street level contacts that I'm not aware of. Leave the Vanguard remnants to me…" says the man with Kazimir Volken's eyes, "I'll handle them. I just need to know that you're going to try and do your best to feel around for people who might be willing to lend a hand when the time comes."
A shift of Peter's shoulders has him sliding off of the sofa, and then up to his feet, gloved hands folded behind his back. "That's all I'm asking you to do. Make a few calls, shake a few trees." A look is given down towards Felix's legs, eyes closing before he slowly looks back up to the agent. "You've already fought enough for twenty lifetimes."
The soon-to-be-former Agent eyes Peter in turn - his eyes are pallid, unreadable, save for that bone-deep weariness. "I'll do what I can," he promises, quietly, though there's a certain lack of fervor in his tone. Danko and Dean and Harlow and all their ilk took more than just a foot, clearly. "I'll pass it up the chain. They might actually listen to me."
Warily, Peter's blue eyes level to Felix, teeth pressed to lower lip as he looks up and down the agent. "Have you… seen anyone about that? I mean— not a doctor?" There's a squint of blue eyes, a tense swallow, and while Peter does seem to flash a concerned stare towards the doorway, he looks back to Felix with an uncertainty of whether he should press the issue, or just leave.
"A healer." There's a subtle nod of his head to those words, blue eyes alighting to Felix again as dark brows furrow, and it's not hard for Felix to see the much reviled look of pity on Peter's face. Likely the last thing Ivanov wants to see in his condition.
It's likely a perverse mercy that Deckard, out of lack of energy or will to finish, has left him crippled. Because whole, he'd no doubt launch himself into the fray with his usual manic weasel enthusiasm. Fel doesn't get up - Peter can let himself out. "I'm alive and conscious because one visited me. This was all he could do," His tone is perfectly neutral.
There's a dry swallow, and Peter's head dips down into an apologetic nod. Teeth bear down on Peter's lower lip, and there is a telltale look of disappointment in his eyes. "I…" he isn't sure what to say. This isn't the meeting he had hoped for, this isn't the fire-eyed swordsman who clashed with Kazimir Volken in Chinatown a year ago. This is the shell of a defeated man, one who has finally wound down to the last of his nine lives.
Nodding his head once, slowly, Peter looks up to Felix again as he makes his way for the apartment door. "I'll owe you," he concedes hesitantly, "for this." There's a weak bob of his head around the apartment as his hand goes to the doorknob. "I— I'll find a way to pay you back, Ivanov."
Fel's expression remains impassive, but he's sitting oddly poised on the couch. Perhaps it's merely the pain in his leg. "Take care of this nuke," he says, quietly. "That's payment enough."
Take care of the nuke he says. Peter's eyes narrow a touch, and he looks down to the floor awkwardly. "If I don't…" his lips creep up into a hesitant smile, door coming open as he looks back up to Felix. "I'm sure you'll find out." Nicer words have been exchanged as greetings, but as Peter finally steps back out into the hall and closes the door to Leland and Felix's shared apartment, the silence that comes after the fact is perhaps more unwelcomed.
Humanis First took more than a foot from Felix. But so the saying goes:
Give a foot, take a mile.