Participants:
| Scene Title | That Time Was Ephemeral |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Peter's solitude is broken by Abby who has her bubble broken by him in the end. |
| Date | November 20, 2010 |
Pollepel Island - Ramparts
From Pollepel Island, it almost feels like the world isn't coming to an end.
Outside of Bannerman Castle's bailey, the entrance of the former munitions depot is a crumbling reminder of splendor that this island once had. Despite its condition, however, it has a certain level of beauty to it that other such ruins — like those in Midtown Manhattan — have not quite yet managed to find. Maybe it's the lack of death required to make Bannerman collapse, maybe it is the serenity of nature having reclaimed so much of this place. Maybe it's just far enough away from the terrible state of the world, that allows Peter Petrelli to find some semblance of solace.
Seated atop a low, crumbling wall that flanks the stairs out of the castle's front arch, Peter looks like the last few weeks have clearly taken a toll on him. Most evident, is the healing injury cutting across his face, a vicious gouge that cuts from his forehead across the bridge of his nose and down to his cheek. still red and tender around the edges, scabbed over. Eventually, it will be a terrible, terrible scar.
Peter isn't dressed for the weather, likely due to having been brought here unconscious. A black denim jacket is loosely draped over his shoulders along with a gray wool blanket. In his hands, he holds an open can of Chef Boyardee raviolli, steam issuing from the open top of the can, the bottom half of the label blackened from being heated over an open fire.
The clunk and clink of the fork in Peter's other hand scrapes against the inside of the can, he's taking his time to eat. Alone.
"Oh my lord, I haven't had that stuff since I first moved to New York. My momma didn't approve of it" The chef Boyardee that is. "SHe said it wasn't right to eat from a can, what you can make at home. But I tell you, my cupboards were full of it." Because when you lived in a bachelor pad in a questionable part of town that cost too much money, the dollar store's chef boyardee was your mainstay. That and it heated up in a microwave or a hot plate pretty good.
"Howard said that the Petrelli fucker was here. Given that I don't think that your brother would be out here on this island, and your momma, well, she's not the kind I would think that would step foot on this place, that left only one person"
The human population of this part of the castle has doubled and Abigail in a sweater, layers of shirts beneath, jeans and boots, stands a safe distance away, ready to go if the scowl faced scarr'd gentleman wants her to. "Good to see that you made it out. I'm sorry, about your face" She has something in her hands, something for him that others might very well want and crave. Well, something other than that jacket of someones that she's carting around and scissors to go with it.
"Ab— " Peter chokes on his raviolli when he actually looks up and sees her. "A— Abby?" Disbelief and a little self-conscious embarrassment crosses Peter's face as he hastily moves to leave his fork in the can and set the can down on the crumbling terra-cotta colored brick wall. Disbelief, though, seems to be less about Abigail's physical presence here, and more about her physical appearance.
Peter sheds his blanket with a roll of his shoulders, letting it drape backwards over the wall, though his hands keep his jacket over himself. Arms slide into the sleeves as he takes scuffing steps over to her, one hand sliding out of the end of a sleeve and reaching out as if to touch Abby and make sure she's real. He hesitates, fingers curling against his palm.
Then, however unlikely it seems, he smiles.
"You change hair styles as often as I change abilities," Peter admits with a fond expression, only then noticing her eye color has changed. Thankfully he's the psychic one right now, not her.
"Yeah but, I actually like changing haircolors. You know I've never had short hair at all in my life? I mean never. My momma always told me that short hair was for men and not for women. I have to agree with her but, you know, it's not too bad. Thank the lord on high that it all grows back right?"
Her Momma says a great deal. Her momma also likely says that you need to greet old friends with great enthusiasm and she does that, letting the coat drop safely to the side, the little bag with shirt and sewing supplies and her hands close around his wrist holding tight. He's yanked forward two seconds later so that she wrap her arms around him much like an octopus can be imagined to wrap about the flag of the predicted winning nation in football. She squeezes him just as tight, side of her face against his chest.
"Yours is a face I'm beyond joyous that has made it alive. I can't imagine a world without a Peter Petrelli causing trouble and breaking hearts" Bear hugs, octopus hugs, they're all the same, save for less tentacles.
Surprise is visible on Peter's face, in his tense posture and in the hitched breath in the back of his throat when Abby hugs him. He's known for a long time that she isn't usually someone who willingly offers physical contact, and it's a welcome surprise that she is now. Peter's arms belatedly return the embrace, leaning in to the hug and actually feeling — for the first time — welcomed by someone here, honestly.
"I missed you," Peter says quietly, resting his nose down atop Abby's forehead. Theirs is a height difference of just two scant inches. "I'm— I was worried something happened to you. I heard about the attack on the council, I— God I thought you were dead." Emotion bubbles up in the back of Peter's throat, and whatever problems once sat between he and Abby, whatever differences made him leave her apartment when she hooked up with Caliban, none of them matter right now.
"It looks good," is offered a bit sheepishly afterward, followed by a breathy laugh and an awkward smile.
"Delilah was in labor, we were driving her to a hospital. Lord Peter, I delivered walter just like the flash said I would, only, you know, in the back of my SUV. Leather seats, totally ruined. They headed on and I went to go see what I could do to help. I haven't done Ferry stuff ever since Elle electrocuted me and I got found out" Since she had the GPS.
Abigail pulls away, reaching up to ruffle Peter's flop of hair, careful about the healing scar. To her, it's like it doesn't exist. "I had to run though. Susan likely gave my name, but they hadn't showed up at my place yet so Robert sent me away, told me to run. I got here day before yesterday" Or something like that, it gets a bit foggy.
"Lord, you look like the ass end of an ass Peter Petrelli. I shouldn't be that surprised that you're here, but you are" SHe ruffles him again. People she knows making it have prompted her to be a bit more displaying of affection with people that she at least knows. They're all in this together. The thing in her hand is produced, a plain old Hershey chocolate bar. "Share it with me?"
Out of all the things that Abby has brought up, chocolate somehow draws Peter's attention more than anything else. "Yes," he agrees enthusiastically, slowly unwinding his arms from Abby and nodding towards the low wall he'd been using as a seat. The air is chilly, but the rising sun is warm and that makes all the difference. With one hand at Abby's shoulder and a sheepish smile on his face, Peter guides her over to where he'd been sitting, moving ahead a few steps to tug his blanket over more of the wall for he and Abby to sit on.
The empty raviolli can is set aside as Peter sits, turning dark eyes up to the brunette. "Mine came true too…" he motions to his face, "my— vision. It wasn't what I thought it was, but…" Shaking his head slowly, Peter looks down to the blanket and then back up to Abby.
"Wait, Elle Bishop?" It took him going over the notion of electrocution in his mind to connect the two. That's a name he hasn't thought about in a long, long time.
"Yeah, Elle. Long story, it wasn't really purposeful, involved an empath" She lets him settle the blanket, she can keep the two of them warm enough, cranking up her temperature internally till she radiates comfortable heat. He'll have to sit close, but, it'll help. One she's sitting, feet dangling over the side, the packaging is broken open, offering it out to him to snap off a bit. She'll save some for Kaylee's little hangeron. "Most folks came true, so I heard, but not in the ways that they thought. Richards all het up that he couldn't stop it. Liz says he's taken off for a… walkabout? Walkabout"
Once he has his bit, she grabs hers, letting it melt on her tongue from the heat, roll it around her mouth. It's no gourmet bar, but it's still good. She's got a couple more in her bag. "Gonna snow soon here. I think. Trevor lived" You know, the Vegan. "So, I mean, that's good" Depending on who you are. "We're both alive. You staying out here or taking off soon? I knew a few folks can't wait to get away from here"
Snapping off a chunk of the segmented chocolate bar, Peter offers a wordless thanks to Abby, listening to the explanation of so much all at once. Somehow it's easier to parse with telepathy, maybe it's that he's supplementing her verbal explanations with a subconscious scrape of her surface thoughts, maybe he's just getting used to Abby's talkative nature. Probably a little of both.
"I'm… probably leaving tonight, actually." He doesn't sound so sure of himself, not now anyway. "Hana asked me to leave, and I can't really argue with her. I represent something most people don't want to think about right now, I'm… it's not unwarranted either. Whether or not it was something I could help, Messiah has done terrible things that I can't even begin to expect everyone to forgive me for."
It's only then that he pops that piece of chcoolate in his mouth, still talking while he eats. "I have someone back in Manhattan who's probably worried about me. Niki Sanders," dark eyes track to Abby, then out to the forested hills near the castle. "Been living with her since I moved out… I think you two know each other. She… She kind've needed the company, we both did."
She knows Niki, and she doesn't know that he's currently wielding telepathy. Woe be to Peter, it's a little noisy. She might have made the effort to calm it all down a bit. Robert's there, very much on the surface, worry and fear for him. "You'll give Hana my regards. I don't supposed they'll mean much, but let her know I'm glad she's okay" Another small bit of chocolate is snapped off, taking just a little at a time.
"Niki was at Redbird, last I knew. If I write you a letter Peter, can you bring it to Robert? When you get back to town, just drop it off at Burlesque. Don't say who's it's from, just that it needs to get to Caliban." She's worried it might not make it to him if Peter says who it's from, hopes that Logan won't open it. But it seems a safe avenue to send Robert a message that won't get intercepted by who knows what government agency.
There's an uncomfortable noise in the back of Peter's throat, but he nods in reluctant agreement to Abby's request. "I can probably manage that, yeah. I mean— well… yeah I can probably get in there without raising too many eyebrows. Why drop it off at Burlesque, though. Wouldn't it be easier to just… bring it to his house, or is Robert in hiding too?" That much suddenly makes him worry about his mother.
"I'll… tell someone to tell Hana your ah, regards. She and I aren't exactly on the best of terms right now, and the last thing I need," Peter looks up towards the clouding skies, "the last thing I need is ruffling feathers here more. Last I heard she left for Manhattan yesterday," and that much earns Abby a look back. "It's why I didn't take the same boat when it was headed out." Peter's attention wavers from Abby back to the sky, eyes narrowed at the clouds as if asking them an unspoken question.
"How are things, anyway, you… you and Robert?" It feels strange calling him anything other than Mister Caliban.
"Because I don't know who might be watching my home or Robert. Because I know that Robert and Logan travel in some of the same circles." That her husband is friends with him, that Logan works for Linderman. Doesn't mean that she puts any stock in it actually making it to Robert.
She too looks up at the sky and the clouds that slowly make their way creepy creepy forward. "We're good. Last I knew. Marriage isn't something easy and neither of us are… normal people" She ducks her head, fiddling with the wrapping of the bar. "Haven't even consummate out marriage. He's getting used to being able to touch my skin, hurts him still." A heat rises visually to her cheeks at the fact that she said that out loud. "You can go oh god abby don't tell me that, if you like. He was upset with me when I came home on the ninth. Then he told me I couldn't stay, that I had to run, and when I thought to stop, run some more." She proffers out the bar again.
"I'm going to follow through on what he said just… cat had said that the Ferry would think I was responsible for the council execution, because I wasn't there. So I had to make sure, had to see what I could do before I do what he told me to. Still trying to figure out what Country to try and run to"
There's an awkward but honest laugh from Peter as his head dips down, shoulders rise and he offers a broad smile to Abby. It's in relation to something other than the grim notions of executions, and idea Peter lets take the fore instead of more somber fare. "I don't know if you'd heard about it, but I remember seeing on the television people talking about this new drug, supposed to come out in March, going to be a negation drug available to everyone."
Peter's head tilts to the side, brows furrowed. "Might be a good fit for you, help you… you know, mend relationship complications?" There's a breathy laugh as Peter looks down to his lap, folding his hands. "I don't think the Ferry blames you for anything, either. They keep talking about this woman named Susan, I guess she's the one who did everything, set everyone up for the fall." Peter's dark eyes slowly drift back to Abigail's. "Don't know why she would want to, but it happened… and now we're all fugitives."
"Yeah, Peter, it'll only work if he takes it. The problem isn't so much me, as him. Maybe if I get more control, it won't be so much the issue but right now, he feels like her burning. He twitches and hisses after we kiss. We're like the most non-public displays of affection couple. It's no surprise that I'm always asked if I love him. You know what I call it when he has his hand on my lower back?"
She snaps off a bigger piece of chocolate. "His way of kissing me. I think I'm the only newlywed, who actually wore flannel to bed just so I can sleep beside him." The sides of her lips wobble up then down, a slight shrug of her shoulders. "And I'm not about to tell him 'hey, Robert, I need to get it on real bad before my lady parts fall off, shoot yourself up with this please' because if that wasn't a problem, then the negation drugs that I was taking, would have been in his hand and I'd have been holding a glass of water and looking at him while not wearing a stitch of clothing"
Not that she doesn't lust after her own husband. She lusts. Abigail's not dead. She loves him very much too.
"Yeah, I'm seeing very much that no one here thinks like Catherine. I nearly exploded on her in the bathroom at Redbird Security. Liz had to reign me in." More chocolate bar offered out to him, if it all goes, it goes. At least it goes to a good cause. "Whatever her reasons, she did it, and she's ruined the lives of a great many people."
Abigail looks out over the grounds now, the tree's and shrubs. "And we just bought this beautiful Condo Peter. I mean, it's huge, and I was making him a wine room that he could just grab a book and sit in and be surrounded by wine and I was gonna go and buy like all these wines and blow probably more than I could afford to to fill it. Did you know there are condo's that cost seven million dollars? And now, I'm sitting in a castle and thinking of how long my two grand in cash will last me in Italy. Or India"
Peter has a suggestion, one he's loathe to recommend, but one that none the less falls on his shoulders as an option. But before he steers the conversation in a more serious direction, he does have some spotlight of humor, belatedly offered behind his cracking off another piece of chocolate for himself. "Speaking as a man," peanut gallery please be quiet, "I'm going to tell you this, and once." Peter's brows lift slowly. "The next time you see Robert? Have your drugs with you, and tell him that he has no choice, that he's going to take them, and that you're going to take full advantage of him."
Peter pops the bit of chocolate into his mouth. "Trust me," he insists with a raise of his brows, "you won't bruise his pride. He'll be more concerned with far more important matters." His smile, crooked by default, seems even more so there. For now, the idea he has stays quiet, he'll get to it, just not until Abby smiles, or laughs, or some combination of the two.
"Oh Peter, I'll bruise something else of his, and probably break a few lamps and furniture" She laughs though, like maybe he'd intended and he can hear her mentally tucking that away and contemplating where to hide a dose of the drugs for just such an occasion. Maybe she could get to Burlesque, before she takes off. Have logan call him down, if Logan doesn't outright call the cops on her or refuse her entry.
It's tossed away as soon as she thinks it though, more likely easier to get someone to sneak her into the corinthian and have him meet her there. "Maybe I just shoulda done that, before. I just didn't want to impose on him not having his gift for a day. I didn't think it'd have been a fair thing to ask. Lord knows, that he knows, that I do so like to do such an act." And there's the night, in the alley that ended up in the SUV on a cold february almost a year ago.
She snaps off another piece, stuffing it in her mouth, then stuffing another piece, chewing, melting it, she herself a little bit warmer.
"Trust me," Peter explains with a grin, "there is no higher gift than the affection of someone you love. No amount of money, words, or," he motions down to the wrapper, "chocolate is a good enough substitute. I know if I were in Caliban's position, I'd probably be more than happy to be able to have my way with you— " and at that Peter nearly chokeson his chocolate, eyes wide and brows raised, laughing awkwardly. "Not— that— I mean…" both of his hands come up as if to imply, please don't hit me.
"That came out wrong," Peter admits with a breathy laugh and a furrow of his brows. If no one else, Abigail can always bring out the old Peter, the happy one, even if he wears that stoic mask.
"No offense either Peter, but the ladies that you have loved, all want your head on a platter and say really mean things in association with your name. I quite prefer you as Peter my ambulance partner. Peter my friend." She holds out the last piece of chocolate to him, wrapper tugged and pulled till there's the last two small squares. "And it is a second best substitute. I mean, come on, Chocolate produces the same endorphins that making love produces. You should know that" Doesn't everyone know that?
She breathes in through her nose, letting the air out in a long soft sigh. "The lord demands that we be apart right now, and apart we shall be" She holds up her hand with her wedding ring. "He has my necklace and my engagement ring. And he will come for me, when the time is right, when it's safe again. Maybe Susan didn't give my name to the authorities, maybe she did. I'm not in jail right now, and I can help. Here. Now." She looks up to him, empty hand coming to his face, touching around the scar gently, studying it.
"You know. It's not that bad. It could be worse" She points out softly. "Could have been in like, three lines, instead of just one. Or you know, deeper and then we'd have no Peter Petrelli. It'd be a sad world"
Laughing softly, Peter scrubs one hand at the back of his neck. "It's the new haircut," Peter admits with a lopsided smile, "you have me all disarmed, I think you look better as a brunette too…" he admits with a faint smile, "really, it suits you." Then, and perhaps to save himself the embarrassment of trying to acknowledge Abby's praise or how briefly awkward things got, Peter looks down to his lap and folds his hands, changing the topic.
"You know, it…" He exhales a snorted sigh. "You could always change," and that comes with a look up to Abby, slowly. "Your face, I mean. When half of me worked with the Company, I found out that the Linderman Group has a specialist, out in Las Vegas. A guy who does face-jobs, apparently one of the agents had gotten one. It can't change internal things like your bones or whatever, but… he could make you look like someone new."
Peter offers a faint smile at that. "Robert could help you get a new identity, maybe a fake Registry entry of someone who didn't have a family and died in the riots. Someone missing, someone no one else would miss?" Dark brows crease his scar in an expression of earnest worry.
"You could try and live a normal life," Peter explains softly, "get a second chance."
"Yeah, like face changers are just rampant. Sonny's dead and I'm sure that if changing my face had been an option, that Robert would have suggested it" But… It's not like the idea doesn't percolate in her mind as she lifts a hand to subconciously toys with the short ends of her hair. A change of face, find the names of people who perished, who knows. At least the latter might do good for her in another country at least.
"I'd need to learn to talk like someone who hasn't been sipping the southern tea Peter. If.. if that was possible. But I'm sure it isn't." Who knows, not her. "Remember, in the ambulance, that night it crashed in the snowbank, and you said that you wanted a normal life, you were trying for a normal life?"
"Yeah…" Peter admits to the memory of that day. "Yeah it— " his words are interrupted by a bitter laugh. "It all seems kind of stupid now, in retrospect. I'm… I'm never going to have a chance at a normal life, not after the things I've done, no after what I did with Messiah. My life was rigged from the day I got back from Operation: Apollo. My life, everything in it…" Peter frowns and closes his eyes, "I wish I could start over. Change things…"
When Peter's eyes open, they're distantly focused. "I wish I could take it all back."
"You still have a chance though, maybe…" There's a worried tip of Peter's head into a nod, followed by a downwards turn of his lips. "Well," he defers a bit defeatedly, "if you hear about any face-changers, I mean. If they aren't cooperative? I owe you a favor or two, so… I could borrow what they do, for you, and fix you up." Peter's brows lift, hopefully, and then slowly even out as he exhales a slow, breathy sigh.
"Now you know what I meant when I said that you'd have no choice. That you'd be pulled back into it if god wanted you back into it. Can't just say 'no, sorry, all done here, move along' Doesn't work that way"
She falls quiet though, even mentally quiet, folding the wrapper into squares, then further into squares. "Tell you what" She nudges him with her elbow. "You come across one, you borrow it and you come find me, if the world still disagree's with a young southern thing trying to live her life and if Robert wants his wife back even if it's with a different nose and chin, then… I'll agree."
Abigail looks away from him, out across the island the castle stands on. "Be strange though. Every time I would look in the mirror, my face wouldn't be my own."
"Yeah," Peter exhales the word, wearily. "I know how that feels, and it's… you never really get used to it. I mean, over a long enough time you do, but it changes you." It isn't so much Peter's experiences talking, but the man who used to reside inside of him, the man Abigail Beauchamp killed. "Eventually you start to rienvent yourself, you start to see yourself more as the person in the mirror, rather than the person you once were. You find yourself like…" Peter looks down to his hands, curling fingers closed. "You find yourself second-guessing every decision you make. Did you make it because it is what you want, or because it seems like what this identity would do?"
Brown eyes lift up, drift in focus over to Abby. "It is hard, but you have to ask yourself whether living as someone else is more difficult than living without someone you love." Peter's brows crease together, his tongue slides across his lips and he looks away, out towards the water.
"I know what I'd choose…" is a wistful thing to say, coming from Peter.
"A can of ravioli."
You know, like the one that's hovering between them, held by the brunette. "You'd so choose a can of ravioli" Because she wants off this tangent, something is bothering her but without really digging, Peter's not going to know what. "I got a jacket to fix. I borrowed it from Howard, I felt bad for setting his ability off and there's a bunch of burn holes in it. He's had it for a long time so, you know me. IF I can do something nice, then I'll try to do it."
She waggles the can teasingly. "I should leave you alone, let you be. Let you mope"
"Yeah, probably…" Peter offers a faint smile, looking down to the can. "I'm not so sure that the woman I actually want to be with would appreciate that comparison though." there's a crack of Peter's lips into a smile, wry as if to imply whoever that is. Tipping his head down into a nod, Peter glances askance to Abby, lifting up a hand to rest down on her knee, giving it a squeeze.
"Thanks for talking to me," Peter explains with a brightness in his voice that, while perhaps not hapiness, is at lease relief. Unfortunately his relief had to come at the expense of Abby's happiness and peace of mind. If he knew that, if he knew just how badly he ruined things, it would likely destroy him.
"Go do your good deeds," he says softly, "I'll probably stay out here, keep the wall company and see if it snows today. When the boat comes back, though, I'll probably be leaving. But, I'll make sure to say goodbye before I do."
"You said your goodbye right now silly Petrelli." Her hand slides down to cover his, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek with the chasteness and platonicness of a nun. "I'll be busy, probably. Food to cook, people to track down, talk. Things to put in order and lots of wood to chop to make fires and rooms to keep warm"
She shifts her legs back to firm ground, using her hands to push herself up. "Besides. Walls only need one person to hold it up, and I got some thinking to do" There's another ruffle of his hair. "Be well Mister Petrelli. «Stay safe, don't do anything stupid and the Lord watch over you on your journey»" The latter in accented italian.
Peter's brows knit together with a little awkward uncertainty at the end there, despite his last name, Italian was never his strong suit. A little here, a little there, mostly from grandma Petrelli before she passed away. But Peter does smile, presuming it nothing more than Abigail wishing him well, she's not the type to do otherwise.
"You too, Abby…" While their time as partners in the field of medicine was short, Peter Petrelli and Abigail Beauchamp made a good team. Things change, though, and so do people. The single snowflake falling down from the sky between them reminds Peter of the winter they spent working together, and how much simpler— how much happier things were.
Just like that snowflake, that time was ephemeral.
All too temporary.
