I Will Be



In Memory:

gillian_icon.gif peter2_icon.gif

Scene Title I Will Be
Synopsis Not all trips down memory lane leave a good feeling afterward. Gillian takes another venture into the past with Refrain, into the day of April 28, 2009, when she was dropped off in Hawaii.
Date September 12, 2009

The Lighthouse - Gillian's Room

White walls, black curtains, pale sheets and comforter on the bed, lots of candles and books. This place is pretty simple. Some blacklights occasionally illuminate the white among the dark.

The small bedroom on the far end of the Lighthouse's second floor, close to the children's dorms, but separete, once housed a blind woman. The young woman laying back on her bed with a pale comforter may as well be blind. Though her eyes are open, she doesn't see the black light lamp causing the comforter to glow, lighting up her skin. A candle burns, forgotten, dark purple wax sending a heavy fruit scent into the room, a coaster protecting the wooden table in case it burns too long. A habit she hasn't lost.

The soft music would drown out some of the background noise, a thump of dance club remixes and techno bands, assuming she could hear anything in the present day. A roughened and damaged jewelry box lays open on the bed nearby, a small key sticking in the lock. The jewelry holder has been removed, revealing a few things under it. Four syringes, needles capped. Alcohol cleaning pads in a stack. Three of the syringes are empty, plunger fully depressed. One with a glowing blue liquid visible.

A fifth lays on fingers of an open hand, needle free.

The woman laying in the bed hasn't been in the present for a little while, now. She doesn't hear the music in the room. The blacklight isn't what warms her face. The dark and cloudy sky above the Lighthouse might as well be miles and miles away.

Because Gillian is laying on a beach in Hawaii.

The tide has started to change again, the waves lapping against the sand. The writing that'd been left behind has long washed away or been stepped on, swept off with a stray foot. Clothing lays nearby in a small pile, on top of a towel. Gillian hadn't been dressed for Hawaii, but that doesn't mean she hadn't made the best of things. The towel protecting her clothes from the sand aren't the only thing she managed to get her hands on. A red umbrella stuck into the sand provides shade as she looks over her tanned skin. To say she's descent might be pushing things, but from a distance colored bra and panties look very much like a swim suit. The beach he'd chosen had been empty enough.

Leaning over to the second towel, she shifts through clothes until she finds a small pocket watch, flipping it open to check the time. A clock which happens to be way off, considering the location of the son. Time-lag. Like jet lag, but without the wait.

Warm breeze, wind and sand mixed with with the crash of surf, it's a far cry from the painful truths of New York City. In a way, Hawaii has remained a paradise even with the way the world has changed. Some part of the world, it seems, can go unscathed by even the worst tragedies, at least from a distance. When the breeze picks up, it's only for a moment, just enough to toss sand into the air in a tiny dust devil of powder white.

But it isn't the breeze that's doing it, it isn't the wind; "Time to go." The voice from behind Gillian is a too familiar one, the sound of Peter's voice is almost like an alarm beeping to threaten waking her up from a happy dream. Boots squeak on the hot white sand, and a shadow comes into view in her periphery, long hair swept to one side, caught briefly in the strong breeze, a long leather jacket folded over one arm, white button-down shirt open at the collar, pressed black slacks looking very business casual. "I didn't exactly dress for the beach," he admits with a tilt of his head and a lopsided smile, that scar having such deep shadows across his face, making it hard for him to seem happy despite the surroundings.

It's only once he's rounded the umbrella that Peter's taken a stare down at what awaits him under that umbrella. Brows go up, eyes linger for a touch too long, and an awkward swallow comes before he quirks his head to the side and grimaces. "I— ah— you can…" he turns his back, "get changed first." This is hardly the most of her he's seen, given what he saw in Antarctica, but still somehow it's different in this situaion, sometimes just a little clothing is more enticing than none at all.

Considering she'd been unconscious, frozen and electricuted when he saw her in Antarctica, there certainly are difference. Now there's a healthy flush to her skin as she flips the pocket watch closed, turning her head so that bangs fall into her eyes as she looks up at him. Gillian can feel the smile, the dimples that easily form on her cheeks as she glances up at him.

"Neither was I, and you left me here for a while now," she says, leaning over to put the pocket watch back before standing up. With only two rather small pieces of clothes covering her, almost all of the tattoos he saw on the other side of the planet are visible, even with the tan wanting to form. Without the umbrella, it would have easily been a sunburn, by this point.

Hold on to the thread

The currents will shift

Guide me towards you

"What made you choose a beach in Hawaii, anyway? Before you did the disappearing act you made it sound like you were going to send me off to fucking Antarctica again. Right direction, way south, but definitely not Antarctica." While she speaks, she reaches out to shift through her clothes, finding the pair of pants she'd worn out here. That begins to get pulled on first. "Too bad you didn't come along while I was trying to tan. I don't tan often, but I don't like tan lines." It's said with a tease, aimed at his stuttering.

"I— " Peter tries to think of exactly how to answer that, and instead goes for the stammering, "I— have someone, you know— and I mean you and Gabriel— " it's perhaps not the most eloquent way to say this is awkward, but he does keep his back to her out of politeness, if not for lack of wanting. The other question, though, has a more succinct and less rambling answer. "Everyone… you know, can use a vacation."

Peter turns his head, not quite enough to look over his shoulder but the temptation is there. "After everything you've been through, I figured a little sun and some time to relax… it might not be so bad." Of course, Gillian can relax, but Peter? No, Peter has to push himself until he's nothing but skin and bones and raw scraped skin and can hardly hold himself up. Moab wasn't kind on him, and it shows in how loose his clothing fits, he's lost a great deal of weight.

Know something's left

And we're all allowed to dream of the next…

Of the next time we touch.

"You're the one who told the people in Antarctica that we were married," Gillian says as she pulls the jeans over her legs, standing as she gets them on all the way, covering up the more indescent part of her attire, or lack of it. There's a grimace, though, but also a slight far off look. "But yeah, I know, I know. I'm just teasing you." For a moment her tone drops, the zipper sliding up, before she kneels back down to find her shirt.

"You're right about the vacation, but I'm not the one who just spent the last few months in prison, you know. Used to call you assface, but you've lost a lot of the roundness. Now you're like… something not-tall in oversized clothes with a big ass scar across your face. I'm not sure what the short form of that'll be." The shirt is retrieved, but not pulled on right away as she looks back at him. The sun starts to warm her in places where the umbrella no longer offers protection.

"You look like you need the vacation a lot more than I do. So why aren't you giving yourself one?"

There's something of a crooked smile, offered to the ocean and not Gillian, but the laugh is for her and the sea. "Peter," he says with chipper sarcasm, "I think is the short-hand term you're looking for, maybe Pete but my brother's the only person who— " warm thoughts about Nathan turn Peter's words bitter, a dry swallow taking out the hope from his tone and the happiness from his words. "I don't have time for a vacation," he admits, dark eyes wander the sand, a sigh drawn in an exhaled heavily, "I haven't had time for a vacation since the eclipse."

Thinking she's clothed, Peter starts to turn around to get a good look at her, but then realizes she's still a bit bare and jerks his head around with a clearing of his throat, feet taking him several steps away from her. "I— I'll rest once the world's put back together." It's a tall order, fixing the world. "I've got to do something right with this ability I have… to make up for everything I did wrong."

"Your brother the president," Gillian says with an amused sound to her voice, thinking back to something not too long ago. The last time she'd seen him, before he showed up in the library. Even if she'd not actually seen him. A deception of sorts, really. "Peter works," she comments, looking at the new distance between, the very brief moment when their eyes met until he retreated. "What if you can't put the world back together cause you've stretched yourself so thin you can't possibly do better than you have in the past?"

The question is serious, in quiet tones before she pulls the shift up to cover the rest of the way. It's a thin shirt, the jacket remaining on the towel with a few other belongings that he brought with her to Hawaii. Including her shoes.

You don't have to stray

The oceans away

Waves roll in my thoughts

"What's this eclipse, though? I mean I understand not being able to rest since… well you know, but eclipse seems a little… I dunno. Different?" A hand reaches up to push bangs out of her face, before she adds on, "You can turn around now. I'm descent, no more stuttering or running away needed."

"My brother the douchebag," Peter states with a laugh, shaking his head as he turns around. Gillian's astute observation, it doesn't warrant much of an answer in Peter's eyes, just a shrug of his shoulder and a quirk of his head. "I'll find a way, even if it means having to rely on other people. There's got to be other people out there — people who want to stop my brother and what he did to this country, what he's doing to the world." Dark brows furrow together, and Peter's head cants to the side.

"I'm going to find Helena, talk to Phoenix, and we're going to get things back together again, like it was in the fall. We're going to find everyone — anyone — who's willing to help, and we're not going to stop until change happens." Somewhat idealistic, somewhat weak, Peter can't help but smile to Gillian as he offers out a hand to her.

"But first, I've gotta' get you back to New York." There's a lopsided smile across his face, brows furrowed and head tipped down into a nod. "Sy— " he catches himself, "Gabriel… might not be happy if I forgot you out here, you know?" He's trying.

"Relying on other people is a better idea than letting yourself get locked up in a cell," Gillian says, smiling a bit, even if something about the topic has begin to show signs of tension on her forehead and jaw. The subjects might be a little close to home. "I'd fucking shoot you again if you left me here— once I found a way back to New York, that is," she says, stepping close enough to smack his hand in an attack-like gesture. She can feel the small sting of skin against skin. She isn't taking the offered hand. Not yet.

"I don't even have my shoes on yet," she says, stick sand-laced feet into shoes and pick up the remaining pieces of her clothes. A clock, a wallet, a few other small things. There's a GPS tracker— it's possible that Phoenix could find her out here if necessary, considering they were able to find people who ended up in Africa after the debacle of a rescue Jacket and belongings gathered under one arm, she reaches out to his offered hand, gripping it tightly.

Hold tight the ring…

The sea will rise…

Please stand by the shore…

"Speaking of working with others, I really do think it might be a good idea to meet up with him, too," she says, looking up at the slightly taller man. "I know you guys have a past, and I really can't blame you…" Especially since she has a past as well, but her past is far more confused than his own. For many reasons.

"I think he could be one of the 'anyone willing'. Maybe… maybe he can even help you. He helped me control what I do. I'm sure you noticed a difference between the time we met up near that pawn shop, and the artists studio in Midtown… I also think you should— even if you just meet with him so that you can see that he's— different."

"Gabriel… helped break me out of Moab. If I hadn't seen him there with my own eyes, maybe I wouldn't have believed it. But— " Peter's brows furrow, head tilting to the side. "I can't— I won't ever forgive him for what he's done, but… I'm willing to at least talk to him." Reaching up to rub his forehead with one hand, Peter's dark eyes wander away from Gillian and down to the sand at his feet. There's a hesitant smile, and as he looks back up he takes a step closer to her, with that hand held. "We all have people that're important to us that are waiting for us back in New York…"

Entwining his fingers with Gillian, Peter nods his head to her, lips hesitant's creeping up into a smile. "Once we get back with them, then… maybe… I'll see about talking to Gabriel." The sudden sensation of falling that comes over Gillian is abrupt, a weightlessness that lurches her stomach up to her throat for a split second as the world turns to little more than a blur, a blur and the echo of Peter's voice as he whisks her away from the island paradise.

"There's no harm in trying."

A sometimes there's a lot of harm in trying. Not that Gillian knew this at the time. Even with the lurching, the weightlessness that almost makes her want to be sick, she doesn't do more but step closer to him, for momentary support until the island paradise gets replaced by something colder. A harsher reality, rather than a fantasy of sorts.

"Do me a favor," she starts in her raspy voice, once she can step back from him. Her hand stays against his, squeezing on as if afraid he's going to slip through her fingers, or vanish again. The sudden change in air temperature and elevation makes her ears pop, her head ache, but she just closes her eyes for a moment. "Next time you choose to whisk someone— anyone— off to a tropical paradise… don't leave them there alone. It would have been a better vacation if I'd had someone to share it with."

The coat will have to wait a moment. She knows he'll likely be gone— maybe he already is. Maybe she just thinks she's holding onto his hand.

I will be…

I will be there once more…

Eyes open.

The ceiling of her bedroom becomes visible. The soft rhythm beat of the iPod playing on repeat. The black light strangely illuminating the whites in the room. Almost as soon as the memory fades away, she feels what Aaron and Peyton described best— the hangover. An ache follows in her body, a hole. Something's missing. It'd been missing even then.

And there had been harm in trying. How would things have been different if she'd not pushed? Where would they be? Fingers shift, the syringe rolls against her palm, before she grasps it. The sweat and shaking wracks her as she puts the cap back on, and locks it away with the others. The lid falls down after, shivering fingers twist the key.

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