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| Scene Title | …I'll Fly After You |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A long-distance conversation between two EMT partners encompasses the past, the present and the future all in one depressing bundle. |
| Date | April 8, 2010 |
By the glow of a bedside lamp, Peter Petrelli lays on his bed atop the blankets, still dressed in his button down dress shirt and slacks from the day, still wide awake. His tie's off, at least; draped over the side of the bed, a simple black thing with a faint blue diagonal striping, it brought out the color in his navy shirt. Or at least, that's what his mother said.
Staring up at the ceiling, there's a distant look behind his brown eyes. There's a lot there, disconnected thoughts all dancing around, none of them particularly happy. Not after what he heard Magnes say to him last night. Brown eyes close, and Peter's jaw tenses, a slow breath drawn in through his mouth and exhaled out his nose; a psychiatrist told him to do that when he was tense, back when he saw them, back when his family thought he was suffering from depression.
Admittedly he did try to jump off a roof, but he thought he could fly. That made him insane, not depressed.
"Abby, Peter!" Magnes calls out, taking Peter's hand when he walks up, nodding. "Yeah, I strained the crap out of my ability catching that big slab of roof that's sitting out in the middle of the street. I've got nothing holding me down, so I can't do much but try not to get bumped into and go floating away."
After their shake, he points over in the direction of the buried food tables. "Make sure the workers know that the hot food tables are buried over there, so they'll be careful. And um, I think I know who did this. Can I crash at your place and tell you about it after this? I need to wait for my ability to, uh, fix itself, and I'd rather hide out while I wait."
Swallowing noisily, Peter turns his head to look over at the alarm clock beside his bed, just after one in the morning and he's still not tired. The schedule his job has him on it making anything resembling a natural sleep cycle impossible. Or, as the furrow of his brows and the noise in the back of his throat indicates, maybe he's worried about whatever it was Magnes saw— what tried to kill him— what killed Wendy.
"Who did this?" Peter asks with a quirk of one brow, lifting his hand up from the handshake to rest his palm on Magnes' shoulder and restabilize his gravity, defining down for him again. With a tilt of his head towards the rubble pile, Peter furrows his brows and breathes in through his nose deeply. "If you know someone was involved, I'd recommend taking it to the cops, flag down one of the officers and—
The chirp of his cell phone on the nightstand letting Peter know he has a text message elicits an arch of his brow. Rolling over onto his side, Peter stretches out, picking up the phone and just keeping his fingers curled around it. If he gets called in at the last minute one more night, he's going to absolutely lose his mind. Turning the phone over and sliding it open, he looks down at the received text message:
Abigail: Took it. Now, I wait
Dark brows crease, Peter's head cocks to the side as he tries to puzzle out exactly what— "Oh, Abby." There's a lift of Peter's brows, a breath drawn in and a shake of his head, Turning his phone sideways, his thumbs are slowly pecking across the keys, typing out a response for her as he listens to the wind whipping around outside of his bedroom.
Peter: If you turn into a fly monster it's not my fault!! ;) jk jk
There's only a ghost of a smile on his lips as he types that, eyes closing and head tilting down, shoulders slacked and the phone cradled in his hand as he reluctantly hits send. Easier to make her think that he's finding some levity in the situation than drag her down, she's suffering through enough as it is, she doesn't need his worries about the legacy of that God-forsaken Formula burdening her more than it already seems to. Inwardly, he blames Cardinal for this, she'd never have put herself at risk if he didn't ask her to.
Abigail: Peter, what on earth are you talking about? Fly monster?
The chirp of that message arriving has Peter's eyes focusing back down on the phone, a snorted half laugh slips out as one brow lifts. He actually motions at the phone as if to imply what the fuck and shakes his head quickly, rolling his eyes and turning the phone sideways again as he slowly types out a response for her, tongue lightly wetting his lips as he does in an unconscious motion.
Peter: jeff goldblum movie? the fly? come on
Seriously, how can she not know The Fly? Peter shakes his head looking towards the window when the branches of the tree outside scrape against it, then swings his legs over the side of the bed, setting down socked feet on the floor. He carries the phone with him as he moves to his bedroom door, pausing only to turn down the volume on the phone, setting it to vibrate before creeping out into the hall.
Moving quietly across the hall, Peter stops outside of a door directly across from his. He hesitates at the entrance, reaching down for the doorknob with his free hand, only to find his phone buzzing noisily and nearly scaring the life out of him. His startled jump at the vibrating comes with an awkward, but quiet, laugh after the fact. Looking down at the glowing faceplate of the phone he spots Abby's response.
Abigail: <— Baptist
The reaction is an immediate laugh, though Peter's expression — despite his crooked smile — is one of absurd amusement. Leaning his shoulder up against the wall beside the door, he quietly turns the phone sideways and brushes his thumbs over the keypad, glancing up and down the hall when the old house creaks. The attack here has made him jumpy, anxious and cautious. All good traits, if you ask anyone among the Vanguard. But they're not what he's trying to model his life after now.
Peter: i forgot that means cant have fun. we need to have a movie night. hopeless.
"What? No… no, I didn't…" Gillian closes her eyes, moving back over to the wheelchair as if she's thinking of just getting back into it. Chewing on her lower lip, she undoes a few buttons in her coat, no longer even trying to look at him. What she pulls out is a newly purchased, still wrapped in plastic, DVD.
She doesn't hand it out towards him, instead dropping it onto the counter next to the food. "I thought maybe we could eat lunch, watch a movie and get to know each other like normal people, instead of everything being all fucked up and world ending shit, but you've got other things to do, I'll go." There's that tension again, that hint of another emotion that she's trying to fight back. "You can keep both the lunches, your fridge obviously needs it, and the movie. Consider it a late Christmas present or something…" She goes to grab the handle of the wheelchair, pulling it closer to the door again.
Peter's brows furrow, eyes close and he lets the hand holding the cell phone hang down at his side. Lifting a hand up, he pinches at the bridge of his nose, a grunted sound barely audible in the quiet hall as he remembers that moment, more so because he remembers how it went long after the fact.
Terrorism is happening in his apartment! Peter huffs out a breath as he slips away from Kaylee and slowly closes his door with a pointed clack at the end, hand staying pressed up against it to rest his weight on it. "Nice to see you too…" Peter admits in a murmur as he leans off of the door and rubs a hand over his face, moving into the living room slowly with a scuff of socked feet on the hardwood floor. He ducks down by the television, rummaging for something before coming up with an open DVD case. A hiss of a breaht slips out, and he settles down on his knees on the floor, fiddling with the DVD player.
"Remember what we talked about," Peter offers to the air as the DVD tray slides out and a disc is taken, pressed into the case and snapped closed. Peter's clearly talking about the saying no option. "I guess it's good you showed up when you did, though, Gillian…" Rising up to his feet, Peter turns slowly and taps the DVD case against the palm of his hand, slowly walking towards where the two are talking.
"I heard from my mom that Eve had to cancel her last show at the Orchid because she's sick, have you been out to her place to see her? I was wondering if you knew if she just had a cold, or if it was the five-ten." Seems the nickname is sticking, Abby's been lording it around the Ambulance and the media's latched on to it too. "If you've heard anything…" Peter holds up a peace offering, the DVD case for the Adventures of Baron von Munchausen, clearly he watches it, probably not alone. Awkward.
Realizing he's been loitering out in the hall, Peter rubs at his eyes with one hand and turns to look back up towards the light of his bedroom spilling out into the hall. Whatever it was he was going to do, he reconsiders it at that memory, breathing in deeply as his head shakes, but no matter how hard he does he's unable to shake the memory of how GIllian looked when she saw that, and what he recalls his telepathy picking up when she saw that.
I asked him to watch that with me…
Gillian closes her eyes, inhaling slowly. This time there's no tears that fall down like the last time she was in here, but it's easy to tell she's hurt. For some reason or another. The knot gets tied back in place. She doesn't really want this woman in her mind. Figures she'd be blonde.
The vibration of his cell phoen has Peter jumping again. "Christ," he murmurs angrily, misplaced admittedly. Lifting the lighted phone up, Peter's brows lift and he stares down at the screen again. Brows crease, eyes re-read the message carefully.
Abigail: Means v. sheltered Peter. I saw ben hur a lot. Mel is over. Watching Blazing saddles. Black Sherrif!
Mel? There's a swallow, anxious, he knows who she means, but he's just hoping that's a very unfortunate coincidence.
Every single warning in Peter's head is screaming dive, dive, dive the moment Melissa leans for him, but unfortunately for Peter that palm on Melissa's cheek doesn't shove her face away from his, instead serves to gently guide it in. It's an unexpected psychological side-effect of Wendy's very tactile ability and Peter's own working together with an already enticed mind to lead towards this moment of indiscretion— Peter Petrelli fails at relationships.
There's a subtle shake of his head, and Peter reaches down to start typing a response into the phone, teeth toying with his lower lip as his head just shakes slowly from side to side in the measure of the moment.
Peter: mel? pierce?? oh god small world awkward
It's a short enough response, because that's all the guilt will allow him to afford. Reaching up to scrub a hand against his mouth, Peter looks back towards the bedroom door he's been considering, leaning over to listen at the door silently. No sounds on the other side, which admittedly is a good sign. Looking back down to the phone as it vibrates, Peter curses ever bringing the damned thing out into the hall with him.
Abigail: Mel Pierce. Small world. She's always asking me about you. Okay wrong, I feel like crud. but she's babysitting me.
Babysitting, that sounds safe. Starting to type one thing, Peter only gets a few letters in before he closes his eyes and shakes his head, huffing out a sigh as he turns, resting his back up against the wall and typing into the phone again. She's just as distracting on the goddamned phone as she is as his partner.
Peter: we should talk sometime about that. have a tangle with her. complicated :(
Thinking that'll be the end of that, Peter leans to the side, reaches for the doorknob and— bzzzt— the phone vibrates almost immediately. Inwardly, Peter's wondering if the Formula had given her technopathy with how fast she responds. Snorting out a sigh, he looks back down to the screen.
Abigail: I know. I know all about it. You have a short memory. Glad we're not working tonight. Mel says I won't combust.
Brows furrowing, Peter struggles to think back to when he told Abby about Melissa, but with so much going on it' not surprising he'd forgotten that detail. Tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, Peter quickly types out a response to her to try and end the conversation. There's a pop in the house, all the lights go out, drowning Peter in the darkness of a blackout. Breathing out a sigh, it just figures.
Peter: i forget who i embarrass myself in front of it happens so much. don't know what to do with myself 2 night. kaylees sick. no work. magnes is at my apartment so dont want to go there. power just went out again. awesome.
This time, instead of having Abby interrupt him in the middle of what he's been waiting to do, he waits for her to response. Unsurprisingly, she's quick to type up a response. Surprisingly; it hurts. She couldn't have known, though.
Abigail: You have magnes power. Dress warm, go fly. Take Kaylee up above the clouds to see the stars. Magnes did it once for me
Go fly. The words make Peter's stomach turn with something that feels very much like regret.
As the small hand is laid in his, Peter smiles, stepping over to Helena and wrapping his other arm around her back. "Stand on my feet…" He motions down with his nose, "It's hard to maintain telekinesis and stay in flight at the same time, and I don't want to squeeze you…" He grins, "Too hard, anyway."
"Can you use multiple powers at the same time?" she asks curiously and adds, "Not a problem, Peter. I know how to keep my mouth shut, as long as it doesn't mean someone's going to be put in danger. Is that fair?" She gingerly hangs onto his lapels and puts one foot and then the other on top of his feet. Fortunately Helena is a slender girl, it's not a real chore for Peter to bear her weight. She grins slyly. "Was that a completely un-emo un-broody thing to say? I hear there's a penalty fee for those."
Laughing — the first time Helena had heard something like that come from him — Peter gently pulls Helena closer, "Some of them, some require more concentration. I can't do too much and fly at the same time. The same goes for my telepathy, and when I paint the future…" He speaks quietly, leaning in to talk as a sensation of weightlessness comes for but a brief moment, and then the feeling of gentle breeze as gravity takes its pull again. But even though Helena can feel where down is, she's ascending, floating gradually and slowly up from the rooftop. "I'm learning to become less angry. It helps having things to be happy about, having a reason to think things might be okay after all…" In mid-air, Peter begins to turn with Helena in his arms, as if to show to her the skyline of New York from sixty feet above the rooftop. "Can't go too much higher, if we go above the other buildings someone might see us…"
"You're like a power smorgasb— " she lets out a yelp and tightens her grip on Peter, looking down below and then all around, momentary terror washed away by pure delight. "How can you not love this!" she exclaims. She then grins at him. "I control the weather. If you want to go higher, I could make it nice and cloudy for cover." Her tone takes on a bit of dare. "It'd just take me a minute or so to move that much air and condense it."
Peter's smile lingers as he looks up at the sky, then around at the buildings, "As long as you're not afraid of heights." His hand on Helena's back moves up, resting between her shoulderblades as he says that. "I guess this is just an example of how working together can make things that normally are impossible, possible." His eyes drift down to look at the roof below him, "You know, I don't think I've ever met someone quite like you…" His smile changes, becoming tinged with something more serious, "The world would be a much happier place if there were more people like you."
"Thank you." she says sincerely. "There's a lot of people I wish I'd known before all this started." Her gaze shifts, going somewhat distract as overhead a bit of clouds gather in a cottonball puff at a leisurely rate so as not to attract attention. "Like Claire. But I dunno about you." Her attention focuses back on him and she gives him an impish smile.
"No…" Peter shakes his head, leaning back to offer Helena a smile, "Thank you, for having hope."
Rolling his eyes, Peter squeezes his phone and shakes his head, teeth toying with his lower lip as he contemplates just throwing the thing back into his room. He'd wanted to just give a dismissive response and hopefully she won't reply, but now he's got the converse on the topic. Ultimately, he just chooses to ignore it. The phone is slipped into his back pocket, and later he's regret not just powering the thing down.
He stands there in the hall, wordlessly, the pit of his stomach churning before he turns to look at the doorknob he can barely make out. Reaching for the door knob again, Peter very slowly and carefully gives it a twist, pushing the bedroom door open into the lightless room beyond. He's not going to let bad memories drag him down any further.
Stepping inside, there's a ghost of a smile on Peter's lips. He slides in through the open door, then gently pushes it closed just enough for privacy, not enough to latch all the way. Creeping across the hardwood floor towards the sound of someone sleeping, Peter reflexively smiles when he sees the young blonde on her side, hair over her face and softly snoring.
Moving to to crouch down by the bedside, Peter reaches out a hand to brush a lock of wavy blonde hair from Kaylee's face, knuckles brushing over her cheek and smile growing in that gentle gesture. His brows furrow together, eyes avert to the comforter and then cast over towards where one of her arms dangles limply over the side of the bed. He smiles, softly, laughing to himself as he gently picks up her wrist, lifting her hand up to his lips where he places a soft kiss across the back of her fingers, then lays her arm down on the bed.
Then promptly bolts straight up when the phone in his back pocket vibrates against his left cheek. Sucking in a sharp breath, Peter's only restraint from bursting out into a litany of profanity is that he doesn't want to wake Kaylee. He pulls the phone out of his pocket, staring down at the screen with nostrils flaring.
Abigail: Mel says you better call her soon or she's going to ride in the ambulance with us and harass us.
He sighs, what else can Peter do when faces with this. Reaching up to rub a hand over his forehead, he moves towards the armchair in the corner of Kaylee's room, quietly slinking down to settle on its cushions, resting his forehead in one hand as he considers Abby's message. There's a frown, visible and frustrated, but regardless of the fact he starts to type up a response— even if it's a lie.
Peter: oh hey two texts i was trying to call for takeout no one is delivering. ugh i don't know about that. i am afrai if i call her i will do something i will regret.
There's a shake of his head when Peter sends the message, teeth toying with his lower lip as he reads his own entry and then lifts his eyes to look up at Kaylee. This time Abigail doesn't respond, maybe it's intentional, maybe she just never got the message. But Peter closes his eyes, brings a hand up to his forehead, and this time.
He powers the phone down. He's had enough to think about for one night.
At least he's tired now.