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Scene Title Orienteering
Synopsis As their lives begin to diverge in unexpected ways, Peter Petrelli and James Woods catch up over drinks.
Date April 9, 2012

Woods' Apartment

Battery Park City, Manhattan

There's a soft sound of piano music filtering in from speakers recessed into the ceiling. It reverberates off of the floor to ceiling windows of the apartment, reflecting interior light and the cream-colored walls of the apartment against the dark of night and glow of city lights beyond the glass.

Seated in a leather armchair, Peter Petrelli looks down at a glass of Scotch on the rocks, then up to the man holding the decanter. James Woods flashes a smile before imploding into a ripple of distorted light, reappearing seated in a chair across from Peter, one leg hooked over the other and his own glass of Scotch held to his lips.

"You've really come a long way with that Formula-induced ability," Peter notes with a gesture to Woods. The Brit cracks a smile, swirling his glass around to let the ice softly clink against the sides. "I remember when you were teleporting into moving cars," Peter adds with a crooked smile and a laugh, and Woods just purses his lips and demures away from that memory, taking another sip of his drink.

"Well," Woods says in a hushed tone of voice, "at least I never got inta' a fistfight with my own evil clone." Blue eyes flick over to Peter, and his smile grows from subtle to toothy. They both laugh, and Petr slouches back into his chair, relaxing.

The two enjoy a silent moment after the laughter, Chopin's Claire de Lune playing over the silence. "Those sure were the bloody fuckin' days, weren't they?" Woods asks with one brow raised, looking into his glass. "Company men, solvin' crimes, gettin' killed by Sylar."

Peter's brows furrow, briefly. "I'm sorry about…"

"Stop," Woods dismisses Peter's apology. "First off, I know you've got my Pete's memories jostlin' around in yer noggin', so that ain't a worry. It ain't like he's gone, just more…" Woods motions up and down to Peter. "More mopey, yeah?" They both crack a smile at that. "An' as fer what happened t'me, it all worked out, right? I'm here in one piece, with a few additional scars…"

"Ladies dig scars," Peter opines with a laugh, motioning with his glass in mock toast. Woods returns the gesture in like form.

Laughing still, Woods adds. "Hey, you ain't wrong about tha'. I'm fairly certain tha's why Odessa's still with me after all these years." The notion elicits a grimace from Peter, who then looks out the windows with a thoughtful distance in his eyes.

"Sorry," Woods says quietly. "I know things are… complicated for you. But, hey, Gillian is a right fine lady, Pete. Most'f us don't get t'find true love twice." Woods' brows furrow, and his attention goes to Peter's reflection in the window.

For a few moments Peter is silent, languidly sipping from his drink, drained of the humor that had been there moments ago. "We postponed the wedding," is something Woods didn't know. The surprised gasp isn't an affectation, either, it's a genuine shock. "With everything my father has me doing, we just don't have time. November 8th changed everything… and it feel swrong to have a wedding and go on honeymoon next month when there's an entire facility of Pinehearst employees just… gone. When our own world is being invaded." Peter looks back to Woods, frowning. "It feels irresponsible."

Making a noise in the back of his throat, Woods looks furtively around the room, then leans forward in his chair and asks, "What… does the lady think about this?" One of Woods' brows raise slowly.

"I… haven't told her yet," Peter explains in a hushed tone of voice, eliciting a whoop of frustration from Woods. "Look it's— complicated. Gillian's wonderful, probably too wonderful. I just— I don't think I'm over what happened to Helena…" the inovcation of her name has Woods slowly slouching back into his seat. "Everything had been so quiet, right up until the 8th. I'd been able to just… get swept away. But now, it's like…"

Peter is lost in the haze of his own reflection. "Maybe she's out there somewhere," he says in a small, guilty voice. "Maybe there's a world out there… where she's still alive. Maybe it was me that died in the— "

"God damnit Pete!" Woods implodes in a flurry of distorted air, reappearing beside Peter with a shuddering pop of bent space, glash sloshing. "Stop bellyachin' about a world that may not even exist. You've got one right here tha' needs you. Now, maybe it ain't time t'marry Miss Gillian, or maybe she's bloody exactly what you need. That ain't my call t'make, but if you let this life go sailin' past you because you're too caught up on what could've been…"

Woods' expression sinks into a frown. "Pete, don't get hung up on the bloody past. What happened… it was a tragedy. But tha' doesn' mean you have t'stop livin' yer life too." Finally, Peter looks up from the window, doubt in his eyes and emotion visible too. He smiles, that lopsided smile of his, and he averts his eyes down into the surface of his drink.

"Thanks…" Peter says in a hushed voice to Woods. "Thanks for being a good friend." Woods smiles, faintly, then takes a sip o fhis drink and walks i rather mundane fashion back toward his chair.

He looks over his shoulder, pointing to Peter. "I'm a damn fine friend," Woods says in half-joking measure. "Don't forget how bloody lucky y'are t'have me."

Peter smiles, finally, and a laugh returns where there was once silence. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Woods."

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