Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring and NBC. I have no affiliation with Heroes. I'm just playing in Tim Kring's sandbox for a little while.
Author's Notes: Beta'd by my Aunt Juli.
"Hath Play'd the Painter"
By C.K. Blake
One:
A series of events in life can lead to many different things in the outcome of one person's future, or even the world. To have the power to go back and change but one thing can be the catalyst for a whole new world, even something as simple as meeting someone you are fated never to know.
Still, the future is subject to change, even in the lives of those who only see it set in stone. Events happen in a certain sequence, why is anyone's guess, but reason and logic can be discovered in the process. This is what ties together the human race, the ability to find reason and logic even in the most strangest of circumstances and turn it towards our species' benefit, for we are a species bent on survival and growth and evolution.
--
"Save the Cheerleader, save the world."
Those words are haunting, taunting, and beyond maddening, especially when there seems to be no redemption lying in wait for the artist who holds the key to saving the cheerleader. He's not even the one who receives the message to save this mysterious young girl that he's been painting in a myriad of doped up moments in his life for the last six months. Moments that he can't remember when he finds himself conscious once more, after the white has faded from his vision.
He knows she needs to be saved. He even knows she exists, even if he hasn't met her. Her name is Claire Bennet, she lives in Odessa, Texas, and up until a few months ago she was a normal sixteen-year-old girl with but one ambition in life, to be normal, and maybe try out for the cheerleading team.
She's a pretty little blonde slip of a thing with a nice build, attitude, and wholesome innocence. She also has the ability to walk away from things that normally kill people. She's tried killing herself numerous time, and she can pick herself up and walk away without a scratch on her, despite the congealing blood on her undamaged skin.
Claire is like him, only not in the same way. Where she can heal, Isaac Mendez can paint the future. Isaac knows that Claire needs to be saved, he even knows who is going to save her, and he hates that's he's made to be inadequate once again by Peter Petrelli, the man who has stolen everything good in Isaac's life, Simone Deveaux.
Peter Petrelli, sainted hero and fated martyr, or so everyone thinks, but Isaac knows different. He can see the shadows that can slip inside of Peter, change that inner need of his to save the world. He has painted Peter's future, and he's seen one other, who while not like Peter, is someone Peter can become, Sylar.
Yes, Isaac has painted what Peter is capable of, and he hates that it is still Peter that everyone has faith in. He paints the future, but did Simone believe him? Granted that was mostly while he was high, but still, Peter comes out of nowhere and tells her he can fly and she's all for believing that.
Isaac is not bitter, he's just defeated, and he's painted something that gives him chills. He's painted the last of his future. Peter is set to blow under pressure, even while everyone still has faith in him, but who will be around for Isaac's last moments? No one except the man that will crucify him. Sylar will be the only one to hear his last confession, and that's enough for him to accept his fate like a man. Isaac paints the future, and he will not be bitter at the end.
--
He remembers the vow he made with himself, about how time travel is dangerous, then again, he is also the one who broke that very vow. He remembers going to Peter that day in the subway and telling him, "Save the cheerleader, save the world."
It worked that time, but six years later where has it left them? The world is in need of saving once more, this time though, Peter is the one destroying it. Sylar has joined their small crusade against the darkness that has overtaken Peter Petrelli. Nothing has been the same since Nathan's death, and Claire is broken beyond repair, even if she doesn't carry a single scar to show for it. Peter is hell bent on destroying them all, and it all starts with one young girl's crush growing to mean something more, even after she learns that what she feels is forbidden, but by then it's too late.
Someone has to intervene long enough to keep Claire and Peter apart. Someone has to paint a new future, and so that is how Hiro Nakamura finds himself once more back in the past when he swore to himself, "Never again."
He looks around at the bright blue Texas sky. He's in Odessa, a few days after the main event of Peter saving Claire. The Haitian has touched those around Claire, and yet he spared Claire and left her memories intact, even gave her a few things to think about. He shakes his head, still not quite believing that he's doing this. He hopes it's enough this time.
He sees her walking stiffly from the football field, the warm Texas breeze ruffling the short skirt of her cheer uniform against her thighs. He takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. It's now or never. The future's fate hangs in the balance. He wonders when that burden gained so much weight on his shoulders.
He waits for her to draw closer, and when she steps past the alcove where he's hidden in the shadow, he steps out, and says, "Claire Bennet."
--
She pauses, a chill slipping up her spine at the sound of her name from a voice that is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She can't explain it, but she feels as though she should recognize that voice from somewhere. She turns and her eyes widen at the sight of a stern-faced Japanese man dressed all in black with a samurai sword sheathed across his back. She takes a cautious step back and he says, "Wait, I come from the future. I know you remember. Peter saved you because I told him to."
Again she pauses and tilts her head to the side, assessing him. "You know Peter Petrelli?"
He nods. "Yes, and there is something very important that I must tell you. Go to New York. Save the painter, save Peter Petrelli. Remember, save the painter," he says, and then reaches for her hand before he disappears before her very eyes.
She takes in a sharp breath and then looks down at her hand. Her hazel eyes widen as she looks down at the rolled up comic book in her hand. She unrolls it and reads the title "9th Wonders!" She furrows her brow, wondering how this can help her, and then she turns it over, and flips open to the last page of the comic and sees a picture of a man. He's one of those brooding artist types with brown hair barely cut an inch from his shoulders, a perpetual five o'clock shadow firmly in place, and haunted dark eyes that look like they've seen too much already in his life. He looks young, older than her obviously, but no older than his mid to late twenties. He might even be handsome too, if one was into that dark brooding artist type, which Claire Bennet isn't at all.
She looks around her and shivers despite the heat. This is Texas, warm, familiar, and everything she's ever known. She has everything she could want, normal, a family, shallow friends and she's on the cheer squad. She's also lost so much in the last few days, and now she's back where she started, in hiding, unsure of who to trust with her secret, her power to heal. She's learning that everything she's known is a lie, and now she has the chance to find the truth, and maybe herself. If this man from the future is telling her the truth then Peter is in trouble, and she owes him. After all he was willing to sacrifice his life for hers.
She looks down once again to the comic, her eyes meeting the dark, intense gaze of Isaac Mendez, the artist and writer. She takes in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly as she says, "Save the painter, save Peter Petrelli. Doesn't sound too hard. Now sneaking out of the house and getting a plane ticket to New York? That might be a little tricky."
--
He thought finding a way of inducing his cognitive state was difficult without drugs. That's easy, it's living that's proving difficult. Granted the dugs had only made things worse, but at least when he was high he wasn't aware of how much worse things were. It's kind of difficult being an ex-junkie in New York, especially in his neighborhood, but he's managing it.
Right now his power of determination is being sorely tested by his art agent and coincidentally his ex-girlfriend, Simone Deveaux. He's leaning against the counter in his small kitchenette, holding a glass of water between his clasped hands, and watching her as she paces around his loft. She's also ranting, but right now he's filtering that out. He's observing her, the way her body moves, how she's clearly agitated, and finally she stops in front of him, and from the jut of her jaw and the sharp look in her dark eyes he knows that she expects him to do something. She expects him to find everyone's hero of the hour, Peter Petrelli.
"You said you can focus your ability now! So why aren't you doing something?" she snaps.
He pushes himself forward from the counter and snorts. "You just want me to find your precious new boyfriend, Simone. It doesn't work that way! You can't come to me to find him! I know I screwed up before, but you have no right to just ask me to do something like this for you! It's not always about you! Sometimes there is a bigger purpose in life with the gifts we have! I wasn't give this ability just to find Saint Peter fucking Petrelli on a whim!"
"Oh but you Ican/I paint him exploding like a nuclear bomb and wiping out half of the city?" she replies back coldly.
"That's not fair! I don't control or dictate what I paint!"
"But you can find him if you wanted to!" she accuses.
"He's not what's important right now! I won't even live to see him go up in flames, Simone!" he grinds out, and then his eyes widen as he realizes what he's just said.
She takes a step back, a look of shock on her pretty, dark face. "Isaac? What are you saying? You've been gone for what two, three weeks, you come back clean, and now you're talking about not living?"
He shakes his head and then walks across the room, he snatches the sheet off of his latest painting and he hears her gasp of horror. He senses when she draws near him, close enough to his back that he can feel the heat radiating from her body. It's an intimate stance, familiar between them, but it doesn't mean anything anymore. She has Peter on her mind, and he's kind of living on borrowed time.
"When did you paint this?" she asks, her voice soft with her concern.
He pulls away from her and runs his hands through his hair. "Last night. Sylar's going to find me Simone, and that is what he's gonna do to me. So how about you just leave and give me some time to adjust to this, okay?"
"But Peter saved the cheerleader. Maybe he could save you too. It doesn't have to be true. It could be changed," she whispers gently as she reaches out for him.
He jerks away from her and shakes his head fiercely as he growls, "I don't want to be saved by Peter Petrelli or you for that matter. Just go. It'll all be better for me if you just leave right now and don't look back."
He flinches at the sound of the door opening and closing behind her. He's defeated, and now Simone is too, at least when it comes to him. Maybe Peter in all of his heroic glory can save what's left of her, what Isaac's left behind. He can't really bring himself to care much, because then he'll hurt all over again. It's better this way, letting her go so she won't see what's left of him when Sylar is finished with him.
He's about to head back to his kitchenette to grab the left-over low mein from last night out of his fridge when he feels the familiar twitch in his hand, and there it is, the white blinding him and clouding his vision. He stumbles for a moment, reaching blindly to set up an easel with a fresh canvas, and it isn't long before he's got paint on his palette and a brush in hand.
His hands work furiously with a precision that has become second nature to him over the years. He wonders how this is possible, his body using his skill to do something that is almost beyond his control. He's dragged back from his thoughts and into reality as the white fades from his vision and takes in the painting. He recognizes the door to his loft and also the young girl standing in front of it, her arms wrapped around herself, almost like she's shivering, and it's raining outside. She has a hesitant look on her face, like she's building up the nerve to knock.
He runs his tongue across his mouth as he pushes his hair back behind his ear, making a face at the paint he gets in it. He tilts his head to the side, wondering what Claire Bennet would be doing at his door. He knows it's her, and he wonders if maybe he'll get a chance to meet her. Something stirs in his gut, and he hopes that maybe he'll get to meet her before he meets Sylar. He really hopes she isn't the one that discovers his body.
--
It's only taken a week to change her entire life. She thinks it should feel a little more profound than it does. She hasn't changed physically, at this point she doesn't even know if she can. All she's done is cashed in her entire savings account bought a plane ticket under a fabricated name and traveled to a city she's never been to before with only a backpack's worth of clothes, a comic book, and three hundred dollars. She just hopes that this painter she's supposed to save is hospitable, because she's heard things about the streets of New York and she's seen those made-for-TV movies too.
She shivers a little as she steps out of the airport, whether from the unexpected chill of the atmosphere around her or from anticipation she doesn't know. She hails a cab, and fights her way into the back when an overzealous man with a briefcase makes a dash for the same cab. She slams the door, nearly catching the man's hand. He smacks the window of the cab, but then tries to hail the next available taxi.
The driver looks up into the rearview mirror, amusement apparent in his expression. His skin is dark and his teeth are white in his broad grin as he asks in a fluid, unfamiliar accent, "Where to young lady?"
She takes in a deep breath and says, "215 Reed Street, please."
He raises a brow at her, and she assures him she can pay him. He shrugs and pulls out into traffic, the meter going. She hugs her backpack close, still in disbelief over the fact that she's actually done this. She's run away from home to find some painter to save a guy she only met once, because some weirdo samurai from the future told her to. Yeah, because that's something totally normal to do. Then again, there aren't too many teenage girls who can jump off of a sixty-foot high scaffolding and walk away without a scratch on her.
The cab pulls up to a curb, and the driver tells her this is her stop. She pays a ridiculously high fee, and then remembers that people always tip cab drivers in the movies, so she parts with some more money. As she gets out of the cab the first drop of rain falls, and then the floodgates open to a torrential downpour. By the time she's reached the building's landing she's soaked.
As luck would have it, there is an elderly man with an umbrella stepping out of the building. She grabs the door on the pretence of holding it open for him. Once he's down the stoop she scurries inside and heads up the stairs to the top floor. It isn't long before she finds herself standing once again out in the rain in front of the door of Isaac Mendez's loft, contemplating on whether or not she should knock or just go to the nearest payphone, call her father, and deal with the consequences. She blanches at the thought of her father, his lies and losing her memories like Zack, Lyle, and her mother.
She straightens the backpack on her shoulder, takes in a deep breath, reaches up and raps her knuckles on the door, and as she waits she bites her lip and hopes this isn't a mistake.
--
A shiver crawls up his spine as he begins to clean his brushes in the sink with turpentine. He shakes his head, choosing to ignore the feeling, and then the hair on the back of his neck rises as he hears a knock at his door. His eyes widen. It can't be.
He quickly rinses off his hands, grabs an old paint stained towel to dry his hands as he makes his way to the door and pulls it open. And there she is, soaked to the bone, her hair in wet ringlets down her back, water beaded in her eyelashes, shivering at his door, just as he'd painted.
He wonders what he must look like, standing at his own door, his mouth hanging open, just staring at her. Finally he shakes himself from his stupor and says, "Hey, come on in. Can't have you catching a cold after all the trouble we went through to save you."
Her hazel eyes grow wide as she looks at him, and again he wonders what could possibly bring her to his door.
"You're Isaac Mendez, right? The painter?" she asks.
"Yeah, that would be me. I'm kinda surprised you didn't say junkie. So you're the cheerleader," he says with a slight chuckle as he shakes his head in disbelief. "What brought you all the way to New York?"
A violent shiver wracks her body before she can answer, and he shakes himself again and says, "Right, explanations can wait. Let's get you a towel and some dry clothes, and then you can tell me what you're doing here."
She gives a terse nod, and follows him down a small, open hallway. There's a closed door on her right, and at the end of the hall there's an open door with a toilet visible. He pulls the bathroom door open wider and grabs a towel from that towel rack thing Simone had insisted on and gives it to her. She takes it gratefully and begins to dry her hair.
He slips past her and a few minutes later he returns with an old black t-shirt with some band on it, and a pair of gray sweat pants. He offers the clothes to her and she takes them and says, "Mind if I take a shower?"
He shakes his head. "Not at all. You'll find everything you need on the shower caddy. Sorry, but all I've got is some Old Spice soap and men's shampoo."
She shakes her head. "It's not like you were expecting me or anything. It's okay. Um, wow, I've never done anything like this. I'm sorry."
"Weird things have been happening a lot lately. Look, you get cleaned up and dried off, and I'll order some take out and we'll talk. Hey, you got a place to go tonight?" he asks, and he can tell from the blush of her cheeks that she doesn't. "Right, well, I've got a bed in my room and a futon out in the main room where my studio is. You can take the bed tonight."
She gives a jerky nod and then raises her brows at him. He takes in a sharp breath and winces as he realizes that she probably doesn't want him hanging out in the bathroom while she's in the shower, well that and she's also sixteen. He's headed toward jailbait territory. He shakes his head at the thought as he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. That is so not going to happen, for one thing she's probably totally in love with Peter Petrelli, and for another, well he's got a play date with Sylar looming in his future.
He lets out a sigh as he heads down the hall, snatches the phone from its charger on the small kitchenette counter and then dials a familiar number. Looks like Chinese again tonight. He makes sure to order a little bit of everything and hopes that there's something that the cheerleader will like. He also can't help but wonder when Noah Bennet will call to ask if he's painted anything else that involves his precious daughter Claire.
--
Working the shampoo in her hair she wonders if her healing abilities will help her hair survive the very cheap and masculine shampoo she's lathering into it. Sure it's a shallow thought, but she's a sixteen-year-old girl and former cheerleader. She's allowed at least one shallow thought every now and then. Rinsing off and drying is a quick process, especially when the once steamy hot water suddenly turns to a freezing blast. She pulls out a pair of panties from her backpack, thankful that they're dry, and then she's pulling on the shirt and sweats that Isaac brought her.
She has to admit that he's not exactly what she'd been expecting. For one thing the picture of him on the comic hardly did the man justice, and he doesn't seem to be flaky, which is how she would expect an artist to be. She gets a look at herself in the mirror over the sink and nibbles nervously on her bottom lip. As she reaches for the doorknob she says softly, "Here's to hoping he's not some raging psycho."
She steps out of the bathroom, and lifts her nose in the air at the smell of food. Her stomach gives an enthusiastic gurgle, and she realizes that she hasn't eaten anything since breakfast this morning. She slowly approaches the kitchenette, and the first thing she notices is the two bags of what looks like Chinese take-out on the counter along with a small packet of chopsticks.
She reaches into the bag and grabs the first box she touches and pulls it out. She pulls open the flaps, the sweet smell of low mein greeting her. She takes a seat on the counter, her feet swinging a little as she grabs up the chopsticks, breaking them apart and then trying to figure out how to hold them. She looks up with a jerk at the chuckle that comes from across the room. She'd been so wrapped up in the idea of food that she'd forgotten where she was along with the fact that she's currently in a complete stranger's home, and something about his chuckle does funny, fluttering things to her stomach.
"Never used chopsticks before, huh?" he asks, a grin tugging at his mouth, and she can feel the heat that rises to her cheeks as he shifts, dropping his own chopsticks in his carton of food and then crossing the room to get to her.
She freezes as he reaches by her and pulls open a drawer. She looks down and sees it's a drawer full of forks, knives, and spoons. He gives her a pointed look at the sound of her grumbling stomach. "There's no shame in needing a fork, grasshopper."
She lets out a snort and says, "If you know so much, why not teach me how to use these stupid things?"
She holds up the chopsticks, and he laughs, and then nods as he takes her hand in his, changing the way she's holding her hand. He uses his callused fingers to mold her hand into the correct position, and then he slips the chopsticks between her fingers before shifting her fingers to make the sticks clack together. He lets her hand go and she lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. He takes a step back to get some distance between him and her, because there is just something about this girl that is so incredibly magnetic. He can see her and Petrelli having a future together, when things go south with Simone, not that he wants to see that, and damn if Peter's not a lucky man.
He watches as she mimics the motions again, and soon she's lifting out noodles with ease and cleaning out her carton. He goes back to finishing his rice, all the while keeping an eye on her, because he just can't look away.
When she sets aside the empty box she looks at him and asks about something to drink. He nods his head toward the cabinet by her head and then tells her she's welcomed to anything in his fridge. She takes a glass down from the cabinet and a moment later she's ribbing him about having a pitcher full of grape Kool-Aid. It doesn't stop her from drinking any though.
It surprises him how easy it is to be around this girl. Usually he's not so at ease around strangers or new acquaintances, but there is something special with her. Something that goes beyond her abilities. Once he's gotten the leftovers put away in the fridge he decides it's time for some answers. He resumes his place of leaning against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, his head tilted to the side as asks, "So why are you here?"
There's something about his eyes, dark and piercing, almost like Peter's, that draw her in, and soon she finds herself telling him everything from the past few months, from finding out about her abilities, to homecoming, to that weird samurai guy telling her to save the painter.
"You're here to save me?" Isaac asks, shock in his voice, and she nods.
"That's what he told me. He told me that I had to save the painter, and then he put the comic book in my hand and there was a picture of you on the last page, and an address. So what can you do and what do you need saving from?"
Isaac runs a hand through his hair and snorts. "Wow, things must be really bad in the future if Hiro would send you here to save me. Guess they might need me after all," he says, a little bit of awe in his voice, and then he shakes his head, smiles and meets Claire's inquisitive hazel gaze from across the room. "I paint the future. I painted you and that's how Peter knew how to find you to save you, and that guy that tried to come after you, well eventually he's going to get me."
"What makes you say that?" she asks, curiosity brimming in her tone.
He pushes away from the counter and heads toward the wide-open room that he uses as his studio. Beneath her feet Claire notices a mural of the city exploding in the midst of a nuclear bomb and she shudders at the thought of it. She quickly looks away from it and finds herself drawn to a different painting, it's a man, and it looks like he's flying and the man looks so familiar.
"Peter," she whispers as she reaches toward the painting and stops just short of touching it.
"Yeah, that's him. Guess you got it bad too, huh?" Isaac says, and Claire can detect the bitterness in the words. "He took my girl away from me. I mean I can understand why she left me. I Iwas/I a junkie at the time, but she's seen the painting of what he's going to do, and she still stands by him. She could stand by him and not me."
"I guess this means you don't exactly like Peter…"
Isaac shrugs. "He's an okay guy, just has this really hardcore hero complex. We all can't be as saintly as Peter Petrelli who's out to save the world."
"He saved my life," she replies.
Isaac smiles. "Yeah, I got that. It still doesn't change what he's capable of. He's dangerous, and before you go running out in the city to look for him, like Simone did, you have to know that. All these powers he's absorbing, he can't keep that up without letting it out sometime. He's a ticking bomb. Just wait till he loses control. You might be the only one left in the aftermath, Claire. Wait until he realizes he can't save everyone, and then see what happens to him. Maybe it's a good thing that I won't be around to see that."
She makes a face at him and asks, "Why do you keep saying that? That you won't be around?"
Isaac walks across the room and pulls a sheet down from a large canvas. Claire's mouth falls open and her eyes widen in horror as she stares at the painting of Isaac, a look of agony on his face and his skull cut open, blood everywhere. She squeezes her eyes shut and quickly turns away from the painting. She doesn't open her eyes again until she hears the fluttering of a sheet that signals he's covered it up.
She looks up again, meets his dark gaze, and with a fierce determination she says, "I won't let that happen."