Title: Wrong
Pairing: none
Rating: PGish
Warnings: angst
Spoilers: V4, INCLUDING "An Invisible Thread"
Notes: Inspired by an email discussion with mimesh :D
Summary: Peter figures it out.
Peter doesn't change powers unless absolutely necessary. He doesn't like putting himself at a strategic disadvantage. It's too important to know what is in his arsenal and the best way to apply it – Nathan taught him that by turning him into a fugitive.
But it is Nathan who admonishes him for being paranoid, who tells him that is all over, Peter can trust him, hurt in his eyes as he wonders if Peter is doing this as some kind of self-martyring guilt trip. Look what you did to me, Nathan.
Peter isn't enough of a liar to convince himself Nathan doesn't have a point. Sometimes he does slide away under Nathan's grasp, emphasize a flinch, suppress the cruel twist of pleasure in his belly that he feels when he sees the guilt on Nathan's face.
It's a good look on Nathan. It feels honest, unlike the pleasant indifference he wears so often now. Peter would never claim his brother wore his heart on his sleeve, but even so, Nathan's bland neutrality is unsettling to see.
The other lesson Peter learned about his power is actually the first, although he is only applying it now. He recalls Claude's rants about filing cabinets and radioactive build up. That problem, too, is of the past. Mostly. Because he still has his file cards, his mental rolodex of abilities. He knows the feel of time against his skin, the pulse and sizzle of electricity laced between fingertips. It's all still there, the memory of it, even if the core of power is gone.
So it's very easy for him to adapt to a new power. He indexes it and cross references, comparing and contrasting the mechanics of it to the others he's possessed – maybe it is the legacy of Sylar's hunger that he is so adept at it now. He'd be completely crippled without it, however, if he lived with his powers the way he used to, open-hearted and on the verge of a meltdown as he let them all overwhelm him. Parceling out his powers one at a time, he can control them and he can understand them. No more fumbling for weeks trying to use something new.
It probably says something about him psychologically, the powers he drifts toward. Powers for running, hiding. Flight. Invisibility. Shape-shifting.
"Not exactly white knight material, Pete," he rumbles, Nathan's voice low in his throat, Nathan's eyes contemplative in the mirror.
Their eyes are the same color, not green and not brown, though Nathan's eyelashes are thicker. Prettier.
Nathan's body is a tight fit, so close to his own and so strange for all the subtle differences. Nathan is a handful of centimeters taller, his body stockier and heftier, but still trim. His clothes don't quite fit, rubbing in strange ways, but he persists nonetheless, jeans slung low on Nathan's ass in Peter's usual style, simple white t-shirt stretched across his more muscular chest.
He looks ridiculous. Dad trying to play cool, trying to be his son's best friend, ready to ask what's hip these days.
Peter raises a hand, tracing the groove of a scar on the left of his face with one blunt finger. He cocks his head, affecting curiosity, then a more stern expression, remembering how his brother reacts to unwelcome attention to his scars.
He can't quite sell it. Body, mind, memory, and it still doesn't look right.
Peter picks up a photograph. It's a recent one, Claire and Nathan, Angela and Noah at Nathan's Senatorial office, looking very much like a family. He looks again to the mirror, trying to mold his face into Nathan's expression.
There's something in his jaw, in the hinge, that clicks painfully as he sets his mouth into a solemn, dignified line. Peter looks again to the picture, holding it up to compare.
Perfect. Exactly right, despite how wrong it looks, how painful the contortion is.
Peter lets the photo fall to the ground, instead relying on memory. He remembers the metallic feel of Claire's slim digital camera, the scent of the fresh cut flowers Nathan's secretary made sure to change weekly, the annoying buzz of fluorescent lights. And he remembers Nathan's face, mild eyes and cool pitch of his drifting laugh. The quickness he had as he schooled himself into a more firm, more commanding expression that flickered and faded after the flash.
Opening his eyes, Peter sees exactly that look on his face, just the same as in the picture.
It hurts. It's unnatural. He touches his hand to the mirror, frowning as he traces the image he sees there.
When he took the President's form, the differences were far more pressing, far less nuanced. The President, aside from mere looks, shared none of Peter's genes, and he could feel the strange, pronounced contortion of his cells rearranging, DNA unfurling and reassembling to accommodate the new shape.
It was like putting on a costume, so clearly playing a part.
It was not until later, after Sylar lay drugged on the parking lot blacktop, with the Secret Service warily circling them both, guns drawn, that Peter began to realize the more subtle changes he felt – contrast of being back in his own body revealing how deep the differences went. He waited for Matt to come down, moving slowly as he replaced his cell phone in his pocket, wary of the twitchy agents around him. His eyes followed the path the President's car had taken, thinking of the feel of the brain his mind had been imposed on.
Not entirely the President's brain. But not entirely Peter's either. And in the brief time he took the President's shape, he feel not-quite-thoughts forming beneath his own – the strength of that sharp mind, the political acumen, and nerves far too calm to be his own.
He's starting to understand.
Trying futilely to imitate Nathan, he casts his mind to things he himself would never say. He tries to be more Nathan than Nathan:
"It doesn't matter what you feel. Push that aside and think."
The words catch in Peter's throat. He's come a long way from when he'd never say that, and when he says it now, he feels his own emotion in the words, anger and sickness in his heart as he acknowledges their use.
"Thanks, Dad. I do everything I can to make you proud of me."
Close, but Peter can't restrain his sarcasm from tainting the words.
Softer, a whisper: "I miss you, Pete."
He shivers, growing fear coalescing on his shoulders, drawing out a cold sweat and a hitch in his breathing. It's still not right.
Peter thinks again of that night, Secret Service around him, Matt arriving and flashing the nothing he called a badge at them, getting their help to haul Sylar's body away. He remembers standing there feeling useless and strange, before Matt sent him off to look for Nathan.
He shouldn't have left.
The eyes in the mirror hold no reproach. Feeling tears well, Peter has to look away. He can't watch Nathan cry. And he can't change back, he doesn't want to. Nathan isn't Nathan, and he can't give up all he has left, not now. Not with Sylar – and yes, he's sure of it now, he knows that's what they must have done – wearing his brother's body like a new suit, not quite himself and not quite Nathan.
Wrapping the wrong hands around himself, Peter curled up on the floor, back to the mirror.
"I shouldn't have left you," Peter says in Nathan's voice.