If Nothing We Do Matters


helena_icon.gif f_peter_icon.gif

Scene Title If Nothing We Do Matters
Synopsis …than all that matters is what we do.
Date April 28, 2019

Cat's Building- Rooftop

Sunday in the park was both difficult and relieving. Facing the memorial seems to have brought an odd kind of peace to Helena, as if seeing her death written in stone somehow makes her resigned to her fate even more than before. Her heart had broken for Django of course, and she's still hoping that in certain ways, the river can change its flow. Because Helena has always been the person to believe in the impossible, and ignore the detriments to hope for something better. The bitterness come with her circumstance is slowly beginning to ebb away, even if the good fortune of those who've trespassed against her and her kind had made her want to scream at God, before. She just wants to go home now, and have her two years.

The closer to the sky, the happier Helena is. And she's spending a lot of time up on Cat's rooftop, especially now after Cat's gone through all the trouble of setting up the garden. Once again, Helena is never too hot or too cold, but right now, as flowers and vegetables seem to be in need of a bit perking, she's opened her arms and let cloudform gather between in a meteorological embrace that renders forth a light rain that sprinkles down on the plants at her feet.

So much of Helena's life is beyond her control. In this tiny microcosm, she can be a goddess. She hums softly as she works, not even really paying attention to the tune, allowing herself to drift, and absently shape her clouds. A flying kite. A pirate ship. A dragon.

"I— wanted to say you never change," Peter's voice is an abrupt, and at this point largely unwelcome break to the serenity of the rooftop, "but then— you haven't really had time to, have you?" Where there was open space on the roof a moment ago, there Peter's standing, hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders slacked. With a few meandering steps, he walks around the rooftop garden, eyes averted to anywhere but the blonde woman situated on the roof with him. "I— " Peter hisses out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment, "this was a bad idea."

Bringing one hand up to rub at his brow, Peter finally allows himself to steal a glance at Helena's legs alone, Peter can't really even bear that, and he turns his back on her entirely, walking to the roof edge to stare out over the shining skyline of New York City. This way, perhaps, the wind between the buildings will swallow what he has to say next; "I… I'm sorry."

His voice breaks her peace, making her jump a little. The cloud thins out as she turns to look at him, a certain act of masochism since every time she does it stabs her gut. She can take it, though. Maybe in the end, she's stronger than Peter. This Peter, anyway. "For what?" she asks. "Living your life? Logically, I can't fault you for that. I don't exist for you anymore." She forces the words past her lips. "You have a family now." Not just a wife. A family.

Peter hangs his head, giving a few silent shakes at Helena's words. It isn't any of that, and though much of it does weigh on him, it's the simple matter of what he failed to do that he's sorry for. "I couldn't… stop it." Peter's voice chokes up between his words, and one of his hands smooths down over his mouth in some vain attempt to wipe it clean off of his face to prevent him from saying things like that again. Silent and stoic, Peter stares down from the roof at the street below, down to the cars and people, down to the city he loves while his mind reels on the woman he loved — loves — even Peter's not sure of the tense.

Stepping up onto the ledge on the edge of the roof, Peter's dark shoes scrape against the concrete, and he peers down once more from this higher vantage point to the procession of ants marching below him, head hung low and shoulders slouching further, like a prisoner on death row making his final march down the green mile. "I couldn't… do anything. I— I'm sorry."

"Hey." Suddenly she's next to him, her hand on his arm to turn him about to face her. "Hey." she says again. "Do you think I don't know you would have done everything you possibly could? If you told me you broke all the rules for me, I'd believe you, and you don't have tell me you did, because I don't doubt it. Gazing up at him, her expression fierce, "I may not have perfect memory, but I remember one day when you said something about the pain of losing loved ones, and I reminded you of how you'd been a hospice nurse, and how you knew the truth - that you couldn't tell anyone of the loved ones left behind that they were worse for having loved the one who passed. That's the best I can hope for, for you, you know." She is not going to cry.

She desperately wants her words to be true. She wants them to be true in her heart. "That you're happy. And that you can forgive me for leaving you. And that I'm selfish enough to want to go back so bad to have what time I can with you when I know you'll be in pain when it ends. You're not the only one who's sorry."

Through all of it, Peter's silent. Not in a peaceful way, but in the way a geiyser is silent before erupting, that awkward simmering of emotions bubbling behind a facade of cracking calm. Pulling his arm away — slowly — from Helena's touch, and he walks along the edge of the roof in the way a child might walk across a low stone wall, but without any of that youthful whimsy. "You didn't— " he can't even force the words out, whatever it is he wants to say is just too hard. Instead, it's what he knows he should say, turning around and stepping down off of the ledge onto the roof.

"None of that is going to happen to you." Peter's brows crease together, but without his scar crossing his forehead the expression looks far less intimidating, and more troubled, more passionate in the way that someone who has a firm conviction does. He looks so much less the part of a rebel. "You're not going to go back to your time, just to die."

It's kind of horrible, that she wants to touch him, that it kills her that she can't, that he has to prevent her from doing so. It's a horrible betrayal of his wife, her friend, and of herself. She tries to keep that desire behind a wall, so Peter can't sense it, to spare him the experience, not realizing that maybe he's not pushing out for just that very purpose. "You can't stop the river, Peter. Remember? You can reroute it, but it'll eventually flow in its pattern. If I don't die on that day, it'll find me another way. Even you aren't that strong." A pause. "But if you're thinking…you can't keep me here, Peter. You can't. It'll kill me, more dead than the body you put to rest back then." I can't live in a world where I can't touch you. "You promised you'd help. You promised."

"I'm not going to just lose you again!" Peter whips around, looking for the first time since she's seen him in this time like a shadow of the man she once knew, the man keeping a temper locked away behind fiery eyes and an expression of dread uncertainty. But just as quickly as that old fire was stokeed, it fades back down to nothing but smoldering embers. "I— " his brow lowers, scowling out a look of frustration, "My father isn't going to let that happen to you again." Peter's idealism and naivete, still strong, in light of everything he knows. "We're going to find a way to make things work, we— "

He swallows his words, eyes closing, hands closing, heart closing. Everything has to close down, or that welling rush of nervousness and weary doubt will eat him alive. "You saved the world," so emphatic with his words, "you changed the future, Helena. If you sav save billions of lives, I— I can save one. If I can't— " he waves around at the buildings, "what good is any of this that I can do?"

It's so odd, when one of them raises their voice, the other quiets, when one closes down, the other flares. That's the nature of a phoenix, oddly enough - smoulder, die, reignite. "I may have started it, but others kept going after I was gone. You kept going after I was gone, and more were saved because of what you and your father did. We don't know that all of this wouldn't start rolling forward because of my death. Maybe without it, this future never happens." she starts to argue, and then he shuts down. When he does, she can feel it, feel it in the air, as the weather reflects his emotions and hers. "No." she says suddenly. "No, you don't get to do that."

"You don't get to keep me here, because you can't bear the thought. How can you bear the thought of seeing me now, knowing you can't - " she bites off. "You don't get to close down, you don't get to be resigned, you don't get to lay on your back and let your father walk all over you, you don't get to take the easy way out! You don't get to give up because you're tired or angry or sad! This is heaven for everyone else in the world but this is my personal hell, my reward for giving up my life to a cause!"

Hands ball into fists, fists that suddenly get slammed into his chest.

"If you really love me, you wouldn't make me stay here!"

The thump of the fist striking him is the only sound for a time, save for the distant rumble of some approaching thunder. It's a poor foreshadowing, the storm has already come and gone, maybe this is all just aftershocks — or the atmospheric equivalent thereof — both figurative and literal. With a tension in his lips, Peter's lopsided frown grows deeper as he turns away without so much as a word to Helena, teeth pressing into his lower lip to keep it steady.

"That's not my call to make anymore," for all the bravery and change that the Peter of this time has gone through, when confronted by the regrets of the past he does what he has done so many times before — run and hide. This time not behind old and damp sewer walls, or across continents, but behind the legality of his father's own desires. "My father's going to handle this, and— " he can't look at her, he can't bear to see her, "— and he's going to set all right, it— it's what he does."

Unable to truly hold the belief in his words, Peter does finally look up to Helena, and the piteous expression on his face is one he isn't proud of. "I don't… want you to go," he chokes out behind the struggle of trying to remain composed, "I— " but what good would it do for her to stay here? Suddenly Peter deflates, rubbing a hand over his forehead, "It doesn't matter. You stay here, I send you back… we're all screwed."

"Turn around and look at me." Remember little Helena? Sweet, petite young thing, laughing and the apple of Cam's eye, best friend to Peter's neice, the girl who looked at Peter with such stars in her eyes that maybe she couldn't really see him? That girl is gone. The steel in her voice reflects the core of a woman who spent almost three months in Moab, who's lost friends and loved ones, who has seen everything she holds precious be ripped away from her. "You want me to stay, but you can't look at me - you won't even touch me, you're so afraid! Of what, huh?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know what did it. I don't know what finally beat you down. My death, or your dad, or whatever it was. But you were so much better than that. So much stronger. Even when you were stupid and thinking you could do it all yourself. You wanted to be a hero so badly. And now you're just broken, a lost boy who can't remember his own way back home."

She chuckles then, huskily, bitterly, at her own words. "Second star to the right," she murmurs to herself, "And straight on 'til morning."

There's no rebuttal, but Peter does at least turn. Though when he does it's obvious why he had turned away in the first place, it wasn't because he couldn't look at Helena — the way she is, like a figment of his imagination plucked from a happy memory — but because of the overwhelming emotion that all of this is causing, he turned away out of the self-conscious aversion to leeting Helena see him cry.

But there he is, a man who cannot be killed and may not even be able to feel pain any longer, broken down like a little boy, crying. It only takes a moment for Peter to bring a hand up to his eyes, wiping futily at them as he jerks his head away from her, voice uneven as he tries to speak despite himself. "My dad's a good man," insistant on holding up his father in his mind, "he does whatever it takes to— to make the world a better place." Whatever it takes.

Peter looks back to Helena, eyes reddened and puffy, cheeks wet as she feels the barometric pressure drop rapidly, causing a congestion of rolling black clouds to unfurl over the building, followed by a peal of thunder and a pattering of raindrops that begin cascading down from the patchwork accumulation overhead. Slowly, Peter's hair is matted down to his forehead, getting curlier in the humidity that comes when the cold rain hits the warm rooftop.

"I can't let you go…" it's a pleading tone of voice, weaker now than it was before. "I lost you— forever. I— " his neck muscles tighten as his voice cracks, "If I let you go— you're going to die— again. But if you stay here— " Perhaps in some other time or place, Cat would chime in with the lyrics to "Should I Stay or Should I Go" by the Clash. Inside, Peter longs for the time when something as quirky as that would brighten up his day — the friendships that severed with one death.
For some reason, at this moment, Helena is thinking of how many times she's kissed Peter.

It really seems a strange thing to be thinking about. Truth be told, there haven't been a lot of times, not for her, this Helena. And most of those times, it's her who kissed him. This time though, when she steps forward and puts a hand to his cheek (Oh, don't jerk away!) she doesn't make any such move. She can't. She knows it. But she can't help but love the man, in a way that makes her stomach hurt. She hasn't learned yet that love shouldn't be like that.

"If I stay here, there's no garuntee that this world won't change to something that it's not supposed to be." she says softly. "If I don't go back and do what needs to be done, then now may not happen. It's like the universe doesn't want us to happen, I know. But being a hero means sacrifice and you…" she turns her head to the side, the rain falling down on her and masking her tears, "You picked the wrong time to give up being a hero."

This time he doesn't jerk away, one hand coming up to rest on Helena's at his cheek, eyes falling shut. Maybe if he closes his eyes, feels the rain and hears the sound of it falling down around him, drowning out the sounds of an imperfect future, maybe it really can be the perfect one he always imagined — the future that has Helena in it.

Squeezing her hand in his, Peter opens his eyes slowly, drops of rain falling off of the tip of his nose and his chin, head slowly shaking from side to side, "there is no future," he whispers. Everything Eve hasn't seen, everything that isn't coming to pass. Peter tenses up, leaning forward to rest his brow against Helena's, one arm sweeping around to wrap around her shoulders and pull the smaller girl close.

Maybe if he closes his eyes, maybe if he drowns out everything but the sound of the rain falling down around them, it is the perfect future he always imagined. Maybe the right here and the right now is more important than the could have beens and the might becomes.

"There's no future for any of us," he whispers against her, lips brushing the bridge of her nose as he talks, "not for us, or anyone else. It's too late."

Her heart beats faster, though she tries not to let it show. "Then that means either two things." she says softly. "Either someone's seen this future ending - which I'm willing to bet was prompted by our arrival, and might be rectified if we go back, and you lose me here…or it doesn't matter, nothing does, and everything's been for nothing. And you will lose me anyway, because we will all lose everything." She looks up at him, into his eyes. That may be a mistake.

Silence is all Peter rewards her words with, silence that lingers past the crack of thunder that sends a flood of lightning over the block surrounding Cat's penthouse. Peter's fingers curl into the fabric of Helena's shirt at her back, his nose touching hers in that feathering, gentle way it once used to, "then there's…"

Peter doesn't finish his words, just leans in towards Helena, holding her close as his lips finally meet hers in a kiss so familiar — and yet so foreign — that it can't help but bring back a flood of memories. That fleeting touch awakens so many vivid recollections of the past, beautiful and terrible all together. Everything he has here, his family, his job, his future// — he'd give up all of that for the girl standing in his arms right now. But in order for that to happen, he has to let her go, and he has to let her die.

Maybe if he closes his eyes, everything can be better again.
The last time Helena touched Peter, in all his various variants, was well before 2008 became 2009 for her. The kiss is like a cold, clear drink after a walk through the Sahara. And she positively loses herself in it, even though the storm keeps going above their heads, pouring down on them, and the kiss gets more intent, more desperate. When it's on the verge of going to far, it's Helena who pulls away, who puts her hand to her swollen mouth, and says in a distraught voice, "You have a wife. You have a son."


Too many memories come back at the thought of his son, and Peter takes a stumbling step back away from Helena, covering his face with one hand, jaw trembling as his brows crease. "I— " he can't tell her everything, he can't tell anyone everything. "I know." It's never stopped him before, and that's the worst part of it. The look of inconsolable guilt on Peter's face is so evident when Helena looks at him — he doesn't need the scar to show outwardly when he feels remorseful for something.

"I'm— " he's so many things right now, "sorry." That's one of them, among so many. "I shouldn't have— " cheated on Gillian, kissed Helena, agreed with his father, ordered Hiro to be killed; the list goes on and on.

"There's no way to send you back." The bombshell drops without so much as a whisper, "I can't." Peter runs one hand thorugh his hair, fingers raking back wet locks from his brow, "you don't understand…" dark eyes finally open, looking to Helena with a piteous expression. "Everything here came at a price." He hates himself for it, "this… this future— we built it on the backs of everyone else. When you showed up— you and Elle and— " he looks away, turning only partly to give her his profile. "My father panicked, we— the only person who could've sent you back is dead."

When Peter finally looks up to Helena, his expression is the same as when he confessed his greatest crime to her. "My father ordered that Hiro Nakamura be killed — to prevent you from going back without his authority."

Helena blinks at him through the rain. It's back to business, but her heart's still beating so hard. And the rain doesn't let up. Doesn't matter, though. "The hit's already gone through?" she asks in dread. "Didn't it occur to him that he might be damaging this future by not letting us go back to fulfill it? Besides, you can do what Hiro can." A pause. "Can't you?"

Focus on something else, pull back, don't think about her. There's a shake of his head, he doesn't know if there's any time left for Hiro, but knowing Odessa — probably not. "No," he whispers to something she said, leaving it ambiguous for a moment, "My father plans on sending back his own team, specialists, people who're loyal to Pinehearst that can stay behind the scenes and manipulate history on the proper course…" Peter himself doesn't sound too convinced, "I don't trust him not to— to try and change too much. Sacrifice everything here for a— I don't know."

Deflating, Peter brings his hands up and rakes his fingers thorugh his hair, "I can't send you back with any certainty. I— even after all this time— I'm not nearly as good at bending time as Hiro, espescially/ not with eight people. There's no guarantee that— I could accidentally send you into the //sun. It's ten years, I— I'd need someone to help me, someone— " Peter gives a shake of his head, "Someone like Cat's dad, or… Edward Ray, or— " dark eyes narrow slightly, "Kaito Nakamura." Finally he looks back up to Helena, teeth drawing over his lower lip. "I— maybe I can talk some sense into my father. He— he might come to his senses, help me send you back. I— I'd still need Gillian anyway, eight of you I— " he cuts himself off, the mention of her name almost feeling taboo in this context.

"Edward Ray is gone. Kaito Nakamura's dead I assume, and now Hiro…" she trails off, and then looks up at him. "If there's anyone who wants to see me put back where I belong, I'm willing to bet it's Gillian." she says. "If you asked her, I believe she'd help. And maybe Cat's father, if he's still alive." Helena's mouth curves inward a little bit, the action unconscious, despite her forebrain attention on the problem at hand." She shakes her head. "If he's gone so far as to kill someone, then I don't think so." she says. "Men like him…my dad's like a weaker, less charismatic version. They're convinced they're right, their mind's made up. And the way he runs right over you…" she shakes her head. "Your father is one of the most powerful men in the world. And he didn't become that way simply by shaking hands and kissing babies."

There's a heavy, tired sigh that slips from Peter's lips, and he paces a few steps around the rooftop, that anxious way he always used to on the roof of Cameron's old tenement building — he's thinking. "Mason passed away a few years ago, it hit Cat really hard. She and her father— they'd— " he waves one hand up in the air, "not my story to tell." Swallowing loudly, Peter looks up to Helena with brows tensed.

"Kaito… might still be alive, but he'd be at least eighty. I— he and Hiro didn't see eye to eye with my father. There was a falling out, and— I sided with my family." It doesn't sound like it was an easy decision to make, "My dad's been looking for Kaito for a long time, but… Kaito's difficult to track down. Even with Molly's ability, he's never been able to get a handle on him for long enough to actually find him. He sees everything my father's planning before it happens, and comes up with— " a frustrated sigh causes a break between the words, "it's complicated. I just— I don't know how to go about finding him." As if finding him would make some sort of difference, "Not— that… I could face him if I did."

She recognizes the body language. It makes her think of better days. Better days, ironically so. "There might be ways to find him. If I can track down Hana, maybe - and I know just who to ask. If I can convince Kaito Nakamura to talk to me or Cat…or even you." She looks at him. "I need to know that you'll let me go." she says. "If Kaito Nakamura is such an important person to your father to remove, what I may need him to do will put him in serious danger. And I can see how it might please your father if you were to…" she trails off. She doesn't want to think that of him. "But either I die back then, or we die soon now." As she steps along side him, she slips her hand in his and looks out over the city, toward the Pinehearst Building and Unity Park. "If nothing we do matters," she whispers, "Than all that matters is what we do."

"You've got to stop Edward," Peter says, resolution coming back to him after what Helena says, and when he looks back at her as the rain begins to slow down to a drizzle, he finally sees her for the woman she is, not for the girl he remembers. She's grown, she's strong, she's become the Helena he proposed to, the Helena he was wed to marry, the Helena who had become a leader — not a follower. "I— I'll try to talk to— " then it clicks, and Peter's dark eyes lift up to Helena with one brow raised, "She took my plane." His expression shifts, head tilting to one side, "Tamara." Taking a hesitant step forward, Peter's eyes seem alight with something, "She was there that day in Moab, and— " his eyes search the rooftop, then look back up to Helena. "She might be able to help too, she'll know what's going on, where to go… what to do. There's someone else— "

One hand moves into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out a wallet as he unfolds it and takes out a business card, turning it over before holding it out towards Helena. "He… he's changed." The card is for an Officer Gray of NYPD SCOUT. "If we're going to do this— " he swallows, "If I'm going to do this, I have to make sure my father doesn't find out. I— don't know what would happen if he knew what was going on. I'm— I'm not as strong as I used to be, and," there's a shake of his head, and Peter bites down on his lower lip, "talk to Gabriel, I know he'll help you."

Helena takes the card, stares at it, frowns. "Gabriel Gray." she murmurs. He nearly killed her. She takes a moment to reflect on that, and having done so, shoves it away. Deal with the now, Helena. She looks up at him. "Tell me how you think he can help?" she queries, and not out of conceit. She's quite serious - what wants to know what ability Gabriel can bring to the table in order to help them do what they need to.

"He doesn't work for my father, and he's a hell of a lot stronger than I am." Peter admits this rather easily, perhaps something he's come to understand over the years, "Gabriel and Eileen, they know a lot of people, they can help you cover ground and contact others. And, if push comes to shove, he can help protect you. I can't— I can't let my father know I'm helping you. That means," Peter nods over the edge of the roof, "the people he has following you," dark eyes sweep back to her, "you need someone to watch your back, and he— " Peter cuts himself off, biting down on his lower lip. "You have to trust me on this one, he's changed. I don't even know everything he can do, I'm sure his census entry isn't complete, and even what's there is impressive. I— I need to know you'll be safe."

"There's Cat, there's Teo - there's even Django, he'd never let anything happen to me." Helena says earnestly. Of course, if Peter's read the report on the goings-on in Unity Park, its obvious that Django might be quite happy to follow Helena anywhere. Maybe even comfort her in her time of need. "There's Alex, there's any number of people. Actually, one of them might be better to take with me if I go see him, or convince him to come someplace to speak to me." She shakes her head. "Gabriel and Eileen." She lets herself have one moment of faint anger. "I really want God to explain to me why serial killers and terrorists are permitted their happily ever after, and we get stuck with this." She shakes it off. "I'll talk to him and see if I can convince him to help, without revealing too much. I'm a lot better at defending my thoughts now, if I have time to prepare."

"You— " It's too hard to explain, he'd felt the same anger, felt the same resentment. Peter lowers his head, giving it a small shake. Eileen and Gabriel can defend themselves, and given the opportunity will. "Don't hide anything, tell him what's going on… otherwise," Peter looks away, brow furrowed, "he's not the man he used to be, Helena, none of us are…"

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he tries not to linger on the notion of happily ever after. "I— should go." It's already gotten to tense for him to want to weather, not now, not yet. "You're… right, though." His eyes wander back to her, looking up at those eyes that have changed so much, and yet stay exactly the same. "If nothing we do matters, than all that matters is what we do."

"Changed. I know." she says quietly. "I'll try - I'm trying to remember that." She smiles then, faintly, sadly. She looks at him mute, because anything more to be said will end up taking them places they both know they shouldn't go, and desperately want to. But then - "Can I ask you something?"

He wants to turn away, to be gone before she asks her question, but that hesitation on leaving her to her own devices ends up drawing him into one more conversation. "I— " he clips off whatever that was going to be, "Yeah… for you," Peter manages a faint smile, "what is it?" The thoughts that race through Peter's mind about what Helena could possibly ask exceed the scope of things she even knows about, but the terrible truth at its heart is that Peter is terrified of her asking one specific, and difficult question.

Maybe this is it. Maybe it isn't. "If we succeed - if me and the other seven go back…" she looks up at him then, knowing her question breaks rules, but it's them. They've played by the Universe's laws well and enough, and dammit, Fate owes them this one. "Do you want me to tell you about how long I have left?"

Because maybe, just maybe, forewarning will enable him stop it. Even though she is otherwise at peace with what needs to be done. Even though it can change everything if they were to succeed in actually moving the river. Once again, it's a testament to her great faith in Peter Petrelli: he can move not mountains, but rivers.

"God," the thought of burdening himself with that knowledge, with knowing about the finite possibility of her life. "I— " Peter swallows his words before he manages to say don't ever want to know. One hand rises up to rub over his mouth, as if he were to wipe it clear off his face to prevent himself from needing to answer. "I don't— " he chokes back another conflicted answer, finally letting his hand fall away from his mouth with a slacked quality coming in his shoulders.

"I don't think I could handle that, Helena. Not— not back then," swallowing dryly, Peter looks at her with a puzzled expression, "you have to tell someone though, and— " he can't be the one to give that order, it's like executing himself. "I can't make that decision. That— that's your call."

Maybe once she would have been disappointed with his answer. But oddly, she finds herself nodding, understanding. She wanted to give him the chance, an option to wipe away regret. But it's something he'll just have to live with. "I don't know what I'll do about that." she confesses. "It'll take some thinking." She takes a step back from him, hair clinging tight to her head and skin gleaming slightly from the water. "I need to figure out what to do about the agents your father assigned to tail me." she says, "But in the meantime, you should go home." she says softly. Then, even though it kills her a little bit, "Your son is beautiful."

The color drains from Peter's face when he hears those last words from Helena. A shuddering, cold breath slips out from his lips, and Peter takes a step back, bowing his head as he mumbles out, "T-thanks…" but when he looks back up, there's just too much he'd want to say to her about Nate, and not nearly enough willpower to do it. It's like all these years of becoming a different person, of putting the weak, naive man behind had all been for nothing. All she had to do was smile at him, and all of it went away.

"…Thank you," he whispers one last time, teeth pressing into his lower lip before the displaces rush of air blows the raindrops around him away, sending them spraying to the rooftop in that noticable change in pressure. In Peter's wake, some of those clouds that had gathered overhead begin to break apart, splitting open to reveal the late afternoon skies behind them, and sending those amber rays of sunlight filtering back through to the city below.

It could use a little more light.

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