f_gillian_icon.gif f_peter_icon.gif

Scene Title Possibilities
Synopsis “If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the one to go wrong.”
Date April 16, 2019

Petrelli Mansion

The house is dark and empty looking. The help has long sense gone home, or to their private quarters, the guest has been put to bed upstairs, after a finally attempt to boost and put her into bed, in hopes that the outcome would be different than the last few nights. While the guest bedroom has a soul sleeping in the bed, the master bedroom sits empty. The comforter isn't even wrinkled, the sheets unused for the night. No television sits on, no lamps, no candles lit, a few night-lamps glow near the floor, to assure people don't trip on the stairs or on the fancy statues in the hall while seeking a midnight snack…

Or in the case tonight, a late night drink. A glass of wine sits in hand, while a woman sits near the top of the stairs, just able to view the front door, withe also able to look down the hallway leading to the master bedroom all at once. No matter who she called, the most Gillian had been able to find out about her husband is that he'd returned to Manhattan, the same day, left an important meeting to do so. And an argument of some kind. Details unknown, but voices raised, tensions mounted.

Whether he comes through the front door, or tries to sneak into the bedroom, she's wide awake, eyes peeled, hoping to spot him before he spots her. And hoping not to disturb their guest.

Peter Petrelli stopped knocking a long time ago, stopped using doors out of all but formality before that. When his familiar silhouette fades like a ghost through the front door, he immediately begins loosening his tie, head shaking and brow furrowed with a look of distaste plastered across his face. Perhaps lulled into a false sense of security by the darkness of the house, Peter continues straight from the door to the living room, pulling out his mobile device from his suit jacket pocket, running his thumb over the front. Immediately, the slim, rectangular strip of black metal hanging on his ear has a small green light appear on it.

Pacing into the living room, Peter begins talking once a connection is made. "Hey, it's me. No— no I actually left before the meeting even started." He's trying to keep his voice down, trying not to be heard by someone he presumes is upstairs and in bed, not at the top of the steps. "No, I just got home. I've been with— look, just listen for a second, I need to talk to you about something." Peter's voice drops another tone, pausing by a window overlooking the New York skyline.

"When was the last time you caught wind of Nakamura?" Peter tucks the mobile into his pocket, no need to keep it out now that he's connected to whomever is on the other end of the conversation.

Right through the door. Gillian really expected nothing less than that, but it still makes her blink when she notices the motion, the movement among the shadows cast by the light through the windows. The floor lights don't give that much. It would take a miracle to spot her where she is, a miracle or a suspsicion. Right at this moment, he must have neither. And distracted to boot. Considering the situation, and the mention of Nakamura, she can guess why he might be tense. Why he's back.

There's no way the whole thing is a coincidence of timing. She's long since stopped believing in such a thing.

There's a slow exhale as he starts a conversation on the phone. A breath that may not be heard over everything else, but if it were… it's annoyed. That he'd take the time to call other people. That he's not returned her calls in…

He's much more likely to hear the sloshing of liquid as she takes a generous sip on her wine, but she does not announce herself, or stand up and move beyond what's necessary to take a drink.

"You're sure? Alright," Peter leans his head against the glass, one arm raised to brace himself against the window. "No it's not about that, I— " a dry laugh escapes him, "not that either." Peter closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders forward. "I need you to go active again, see if you can shake any trees and get him to come out of hiding." It's no secret that Hiro Nakamura has no lost love for the Petrelli administration, with Hiro and Peter having been estranged for more years than Peter cares to speak of. Ever since he started working with his father, Hiro has been an absentee — perhaps it had something to do with wanting to execute Hiro's father for his ties to the Company.

"Yeah." Peter finally agrees after a long moment of silence on his end, "This time, though, when you find Nakamura? I want you to make sure he stays dead." Right there, the words seem to carry the weight of a burden perhaps Gillian shouldn't have placed on herself, the weight of a horrible truth that came out of her husband's lips too quickly, too naturally. "I want him in a body-bag and shipped out to Munich, as fast as you can manage." There's a sigh with those words, the same tension too, as Peter finally straightens up and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah— no it's alright. Thanks, I owe you one for this, Odessa."

There's always been secrets. Always been quiet vibes in the background, but overhearing this particular phone conversation makes Gillian wish she'd chosen a stronger drink, or had started on it earlier. A twist of pain digs into her chest. How will it get better when everything has fallen apart? Hiro Nakamura. Time traveler. One of the few capable of doing something to fix what has gone wrong. The other just mentioned wanting him dead, wanting the body shipped. Cold and hard. Not at all the man she first…

It used to be better.

It will get better ag— no, it won't. It can't. Not as long as the dreams are empty.

Odessa. A name placed away unceremoniously.

The glass of red wine gets downed in another gulp before she stands up from where she's sitting. The night robe she wears covers her from neck to ankles, tied with a belt around the waist. Dark in color, almost black, while actually a very dark purple. The shifting of fabric is a warning, before a glass of empty wine sails across the room in his direction. More likely to hit the floor next to him than him, but it pretty much announces her presense as the glass breaks where it impacts.

Peter jolts at the crash of the glass, ripping his earbud out before turning it off, tucking it into his pocket. There's a hissed breath, and his eyes flick up the stairs. The broken glass is looked at again, "You've been drinking, again, haven't you?" Yet somehow he's the one with all of the accusatory tones, all of the sharp words and furrowed brows, as if all of this was suddenly Gillian's fault.

Stepping through the broken glass with a crunch under his shoes, moving to the base of the stairs. While he'supset he's doing his best to keep his voice down. "Do you have any idea what time it is? What are you doing drinking at two in the morning?" Peter's hands throw out to his sides, brows lowered in a look both of disbelief and frustration.

"Why the hell else would I be drinking, Peter," Gillian rasps out as she steps down the stairs, wearing silk slippers that match the night-robe she wears, no protection against the glass that she's not walking anywhere near. Her voice doesn't raise beyond a hoarse whisper, with harshness to the tone. Loud enough to be heard, but not carrying throughout the house. "I'm not drunk. I just had one glass while I waited for my husband to finally come home. And I notice you have enough time to make a really important phonecall…"

An accusing look is cast at the earbud, and possibly wanting to be directed at the person beyond it, "But not enough time to return the messages I've been leaving you. Did you stop to think they might be important?" Not all of them were. But the recent ones had been, especially those. Not yet enough to jump on a plane over— though she's starting to think they were now— why it didn't seem like a good idea when she had the chance she has no idea.

"It's been a month. And a few days more, and I don't even have to guess what made you come back. You found out she was here, didn't you?" If he can have an accusing tone, so can she. She can't even begin to completely process the phone call just yet… She'd been planning her argument all night, and then he tossed a new piece of wood on the fire. Maybe she didn't overhear that part? Or maybe she's struggling to deal with the implications. The last part would be the truth.

What exactly has he been doing for the last month? Or during his other business trips?

This again. Peter takes an aborted step forward, one hand raised, then looks away and runs his fingers through his hair. "Look you— " Peter's words catch in his throat, "I was busy, I've been working my ass off non-stop for the last god knows how many months on this accord with Madagascar. I— I hardly need to sleep, so I've hardly been getting any sleep. You know how much work they have me— "

You found out she was here, didn't you?

Peter snaps, tugging at his hair before his voice raises, "How the hell do you know she's back!? When did you find out!?" Storming up the stairs, Peter slams his hand into the wall, cracking the plaster around his palm-print, "You— do you have any idea what's going on? There was a prison break at Moab, my dad just found out about it. Eight lunatics just busted out and kidnapped Hiro Nakamura — one from the past and God knows where they are now!"

"Don't you— " Peter hisses a pained breath, "Don't make this about her! I— " he turns right around, smoothing his hand over the wall as the plaster transmutes back to its original condition, as if he had never lashed out there at all — at least physically.

Yes, the same argument again. Once the business trips became longer, once he stopped calling home, once he stopped visiting when he had a minute… It isn't that Gillian doesn't like her privacy and her independence most the time, but there's still the basic need for some kind of human affection, and… he's slamming his palm into the plaster, crushing part of the wall. This makes her step back, nearly falling back on the stairs when she does, eyes widening a moment. Just visible in the dim lighting to keep the stairs safe for tredding.

"Because I saw her, Peter. If you would have responded to any of my messages since the tenth you would have known earlier," she grumbles in response, voice still raspy, but beginning to raise in volume as he announces a second escape, with Hiro Nakamura involved, and then fixes the wall.

He could crush her, burn her, electrocute her, or do just about anything he wanted and she couldn't do a thing to stop him, but she still steps back down a step, looking down at him as she's just a little taller thanks to the difference in standing level on the stairs…

"Maybe this isn't about her… But it's about them. The ones from the future… Hiro Nakamura… The escaped criminals…" The one he wants to make sure is dead this time… There's a strong wish she would have drank more. She can't accept this. She didn't marry a willing murderer.

There's pain in here eyes, in her voice, in the way her shoulders set. "It's too late anyway. Whatever the fuck they did, it's destroyed everything. Eve's upstairs, finally back— and you know what? She can't dream. There's nothing. No future. No possibilities. Just nothing."

It's not the first time Peter has just shut down, it happened the day Helena died, he just — turned off. Everything in him just faded away, expression and mirth, any sense of personality just bleeded out of him. When the words no future slipped from Gillian's lips it started, but that wasn't what made Peter lose it. It wasn't the argument, the shouting, or even seeing a woman he had grown to love so furiously upset with him. It wasn't even the stress, like it used to be. No, it was two simple words.

"Mommy? …D— Daddy?"

Words spoken by a small boy in red pajamas standing at the top of the stairs, clutching a brown teddy bear to his chest, a confused and hopeless look on his face as he tries to figure out just why his parents are fighting the way they do. It wasn't anything else, but the look on his son's face.

Peter's breathing halts, it hitches, abruptly starts, and then begins again. He stares up, blankly, past Gillian and over her shoulder to the young boy at the top of the steps. Peter's jaw trembles, his hands curl against his palms, and his neck muscles squeeze tight with every semblance of restrained emotion. But he can't — won't — speak.

The start of the change of expression isn't missed, but the color drops out of her face at the words too. Breath shakes when she exhales, the lack of make up on her lips making her mouth stand out in the palor that's come over her. Dark and light, black and white. That voice shouldn't be there, it shouldn't…

Gillian's eyes fall shut for a moment, a tear sliding down her cheek, curving over depressed dimples where she'd usually be smiling, nearly touching the beautymark on her cheek. Before she turns around, a hand comes up to wipe at her eye, so she can turn around and trek of the stairs quickly. No future. And they just happen to have an investment in it. In a future that is no longer in writing, one that's slate has been wiped clean, with the chisle and hammer taken away.

How can things get better when…

"Daddy's home, Nate," she says, a new kind of tenson in her voice, one straining to keep the anger and frustration, disbelief and disappointment out. "You shouldn't be awake, though, it's late." The pitch of her voice has raised from the usual deeper rasps. "But while your up… I think your dad could use a hug."

So much they need to discuss, so much she needs to ask him, demand from him… but right now, smelling of wine, trembling with anger… there's very little she can manage to do in front of her five year old son.

A shuddering breath slips out of Peter when he hears what Gillian says, when she turns and struggles to keep her composure in front of the boy. Peter brings a hand to his face, palm shaking, and slowly makes his way up the stairs, on ehand covering his mouth. Everything is quiet, everyone is pretending everything is okay, but it's so painflly obvious, even to a child as young as he is, that absolutely nothing is okay.

Creeping up the stairs, Peter moves past Gillian, but not before his hand moves out, ghosts over her back and then slides away again. He reaches the top of the steps, crouching down to wraps his arms around the small boy, picking him up to draw close to his chest and hold over his shoulder, letting his head rest there while dark eyes turn back to Gillian.

There's nothing.

The pain in Peter's expression says it all, says everything that was wrong about their conversation. He swallows, a dry and broken swallow, before stroking a hand over the top of the boy's head as he walks back towards Gillian.

No future.

Everything in his eyes say he's sorry. But nothing in his voice says he can put those words together. "Hey Nate," Peter whispers into his son's ear, "I— I'm back." His jaw quivers, eyes falling shut tightly, squeezing his son in his arms with gentle care.

No possibilities.

He lies, "Everything's gonna' be okay."

Just nothing.

He has to.

Not too long ago she'd claimed she'd gotten used to lying— and she wasn't kidding when she said that. Gillian knows lies are necessary more than she'd like to believe, but there were some things, some precious things, that she'd been convinced weren't lies. Some of those illusions broke with the empty glass she hurled down from the top of the stairs, aimed for her husband, for the floor near him. Anything to make her point.

What does it mean when a dreamer can't dream? When a precog sees nothing? And what does it mean for them? For the present that they've built, the present that her husband holds, looks at her over, carries toward her. The hand that touched her back briefly.

The apology is seen, and from the moisture in her eyes, there's so much she'd like to say or do. That one tear might not be alone, as she steps up to stand at his level, so that she can lean in and press her face into his shoulder close by the son that he's holding. One hand joins his at the boys back, while the other hugs around him, holding onto her husband.

"I love you," she says simply, the tension back in her voice, but it's not a lie. Everything in her mind echoes it.

She loved who he'd been, loved who he'd become with her… can she still love what he became while her eyes were closed? Maybe she wouldn't be so furious if she didn't still love him despite all that. And the fury is just as much at herself… for not having done something sooner. For allowing a litany of self-delusion play through her brain. Self-delusion broken by a simple thing. No future.

Breath is warm through the fabric of his clothes, there's a hint of moisture as well around her eyes.

It's all misinterpreted, "We both love you, Nate." Or perhaps it's easier than confronting his relationship head on, easier than saying three simple words that could mend the divide between the two. But if there was ever anything Peter excelled at, it was running away from the problem. So those words were spared for Nate, while Peter ducks his head down to press his nose into his son's hair.

There's be time for truth later. But for now, this is what he has to offer.

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