Title: Broken

Summary: Post Season One finale. One-shot. Peter wonders whether some things can ever truly be fixed. Slightly AU – I changed it to Peter's father dying many years before, though in the TV show he's only recently deceased.

Author: RinoaTifa

Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or any of its characters. All dialogue is my own, except for in a flashback of the final episode, which is indicated with italics.

Warning: Contains major spoilers for the first series.

Please read and review. Thanks and enjoy.

Am I dead?

The thought came, before he was aware of anything else. He didn't know where he was, what had happened… even his own name eluded him for the time being. Then the pain hit – ferocious, agonising, excruciating pain, the kind he had never experienced before and prayed he never would again. It shot through every inch of him like a thousand red-hot knives. Before he could even scream out loud, the memories also came flooding back, sending him reeling once more.

Peter Petrelli let out a sob, then instantly regretted it as the slight movement caused more waves of pain to crash over him. His last coherent memory was the sensation of exploding. No longer able to contain the vast amounts of radioactive energy that had accumulated within him, he had finally given in, and it had erupted outwards, shining with a burning ferocity that had blinded him. Out of every pore the energy had shot out with lightning speed. The air had crackled as it was burnt up and still the light continued to stream out of him, howling in his ears and searing his throat, until it had ballooned outwards in a toxic mushroom, engulfing him and…

He dimly recalled the air rushing past as he plummeted towards the earth but even that was fuzzy. All he could really remember was an intense feeling of loss at his very core.

That feeling was there now, nudging at the edge of his mind, demanding his acknowledgment yet Peter refused. Instead, he used what little strength remained in him to push it into the deepest depths of his mind where it could cause him no more harm for now.

The pain had not yet abated and Peter was struggling to remain conscious. He knew it must have been his sudden crash landing that had caused this, and was even willing to assume that the impact had managed to break near to every bone in his body. He had to regenerate and fast, but to do that he would have to think of her, and if he thought of her his mind would inevitably lead on to…

Too late. Already the image of the petite blond cheerleader with a warm smile and caring heart had sprung to the forefront of his mind's eye. He remembered her wise, sorrowful eyes in stark contrast to her young age. He remembered her bravery, stubbornness and kindness. He remembered her tear-stained face as she begged him not to make her kill him. Electricity seemed to flow through his body and Peter could feel his bones cracking back into place, the pressure on his chest releasing as his ribcage snapped into its correct position, his flesh stretching to grow across the gaping holes where it had been stripped away not long before. The sensations weren't exactly painful, but they were certainly uncomfortable in a strange, slightly surreal way.

But even as his physical wounds healed themselves, a deeper pain emerged, one he had been fighting to keep at bay for as long as possible.

Out of nowhere, a memory came to Peter. He was six years old again, shivering in a New York December morning, dressed in a suit still far too big for him. Shoulders slumped, head down, he was determined to make himself as small as possible amongst the rows of soberly dressed men and women, all come to 'share in his loss.' Already in his late teens, even then Nathan exuded an air of confidence and quiet authority so, naturally, it was he who had taken charge of most of the arrangements. Sat beside Peter, his dark gaze was fixed firmly ahead during the priest's sermon, as was that of Angela Petrelli on the young boy's other side.

"Eternal rest grant unto him, oh Lord," intoned the priest and Peter remembered wondering how many times this severe looking old man had spoken those words and whether he even believed them anymore. Sobs began to rock young Peter's small frame, the only sound other than the priest's voice in the brisk morning air. His mother had squeezed his hand lightly, reminding him to 'stay strong' and several disapproving glances were exchanged; yet Peter had remained oblivious to all of that, lost in his own mourning. Then he had felt Nathan's arm lace itself around his shoulders and he was being pulled in close to that familiar bulk, drawing warmth and comfort from his brother. He continued to weep, and Nathan held him, not saying a word, not trying to shush him or even make it better, just letting a sad little boy release the grief within him at his father's funeral.

From that day on, Nathan had been Peter's hero.

And now he was dead. Because of Peter. Like he had all those years ago, Peter again allowed his misery to take over, the tears falling thick and fast onto the tatters that were once his clothes. Only now there was no older brother to hug him until they subsided.

Yet eventually they did and his deep, dark eyes were no longer fractured with tears. It was only then that he caught sight of his foot, twisted almost backwards and lying limply in a pool of red. Gritting his teeth, Peter grabbed his ankle and twisted, yelping in pain even as the loud crunch told him the foot had been realigned to its correct position. Again Claire's ability began to do its work, fixing the break so that in moments a terrible sharp pain had been reduced to no more than a residual tingling in his toes. He flexed the foot experimentally, not at all surprised to find it seemed in even better condition than before that night. In his early teens, during his initial fascination with the notion of flying, Peter had jumped out of the tallest tree in the back of his old family home and broken that foot. Ever since, it had never been quite as capable as the other one but now it was in perfect working order. Despite all the other emotions still hitting him thick and fast, part of him couldn't help but be amazed yet again at just how remarkable Claire's power was.

Another memory came swimming into his distracted brain. This was several years after the first, not long after Peter had hit the awkward age of eleven. Again his gaze was fixed firmly downwards, though this time it was to avoid the disapproving gaze of his elder brother. Peter was staring intently at the page before him without reading a word, legs tucked up beneath him on the leather sofa worn smooth in places from the many years he had reclined on it.

"Aren't you a bit old for comic books, Pete?" Nathan, twenty-four now, had one eyebrow quirked upwards in an expression that had become far too familiar to Peter lately.

Peter just gave a sullen little shrug, eyes never leaving the coloured panels of The Amazing Spider-Man.

"I suppose there's nothing wrong with it," Nathan had conceded after a long pause. He settled himself down beside his younger brother, acting as casual as the palpable tension would allow. "Just thought you might have grown out of it by now."

Again Peter shrugged slightly. The silence stretched on until, unable to restrain himself any longer, Peter had thrown the comic down on the coffee table and turned his accusing gaze onto Nathan. "You haven't visited in a long time."

Peter had been pleased to note that Nathan looked mildly uncomfortable, though he recovered quickly. "I've been busy. My job's very demanding, you know that."

"Mom misses you being around," Peter persisted, not willing to let this go that easily. He'd always let Nathan win, held his tongue and believed that big brother knew best. But not today. "Every week she waits for you to show up for dinner and each time you disappoint her with a last minute call and some flimsy excuse."

Nathan's eyes turned steely and when he had spoken there was an edge to his voice. "Ma recognises how important my work is. It's about responsibility, Peter."

Now that had really got the pre-teen fired up. He rounded on his brother, practically yelling, "You don't know the first thing about responsibility!"

"Oh, and I suppose you do?" countered Nathan, his own voice rising dangerously in volume. He snatched up the comic from the table and waved it in Peter's face. "Life isn't like in the comic books, little brother. There're no such thing as superheroes!"

With that, he had thrown the issue of The Amazing Spider-Man into Peter's lap in disgust and stalked out of the room, slamming the front door shut behind him just as his mother came downstairs to find out what all the noise was about.

But Peter had recently come to realise that his brother had been wrong. Superheroes really did exist, and Nathan had been one of them.

People had always underestimated Nathan to an extent. Sure, they knew he was destined for greatness, but they also thought of him as resolute, ruthless and even heartless. Everyone knew it – his own daughter had pegged him as a traitor. Even his mother had expected him to stand back and watch as his younger brother destroyed half of New York in order to further his career. Only Peter had ever thought differently. Only he hadn't been completely surprised when Nathan had flown in to rescue him.

Because everyone recognised Nathan was great, but only Peter had realised that he was also good. And it was the combination of the two that had made him a hero.

Peter fell back against the hard earth, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes as he fought back another onslaught of tears. He couldn't imagine life without Nathan. He was more than a brother – he was an advisor, a carer, a friend. Whenever he'd needed help, Nathan was always there. Even if he didn't necessarily offer it in the right way, at least he always tried to do what he thought was right. That resolve, that determination to never give up, was what Peter had always admired most about his older brother. His death reflected that.

The last words they had exchanged still echoed faintly in Peter's head.

"I'm not leaving you, Peter." And he'd known from his brother's tone that his mind was made up; nothing would change it now. Even so, Peter had refused to accept it, backing away from Nathan even as he fought to control the energy that threatened to burst out of him at any moment. "There's another way to end this, and you know it."

Yes, Peter knew. He'd known for a very long time, and the knowledge had hung between the two brothers, so different yet so similar, tormenting them both with the possibility. Yet already Peter had rejected it; he loved Nathan more than anyone else in the world and the possibility of life without him was inconceivable. He'd shaken his head forcefully, though he knew it was futile. "I can't let you die."

"And I can't let everyone else," had come the immediate response that Peter both hated and admired. He'd stared into the dark depths of Nathan's eyes, silently pleading with him not to do this. Nathan tore his gaze away, glancing back at Claire before addressing Peter once more. "You saved the cheerleader ... so we could save the world."

And despite all the protests that filled his head, Peter had understood. He'd nodded slightly and swallowed, trying to come to terms with the fact that he was about to kill his own brother. "I love you, Nathan."

Nathan smiled, and there was not the slightest trace of blame on his face. "I love you too." He glanced up at the sky. "You ready?"

Even though he knew he never would be, Peter had nodded. "Yeah."

Then he was in Nathan's arms, being pulled up higher and higher into the sky, and for one bizarre moment he had been reminded of all those years ago when his brother had held him close and comforted him and realised this time was no different.

They'd stopped, hundreds of feet above the earth, suspended in the air as he grew brighter and brighter, knowing that only moments remained before he erupted. Nathan met his eyes, smiled warmly and, for the last time in his life, had comforted his younger brother, telling him that, "Everything's going to be alright, Peter." Then he had died.

Peter stood up, still slightly shaky on his feet. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings and work out the quickest route back to New York even as his mind dwelled on his brother and the kind of man he had been, right to the moment of his death.

It would be hard, without the man who he had always depended on in his life. But he knew that were the situation reversed and he had been the one who died, Nathan would find a way to carry on, no matter how much it hurt.

So now Peter resolved to be the kind of hero his brother had been. To never give up and never look back and always do whatever was necessary, in Nathan's name and in his honour.

There were some things even Claire's powers couldn't fix and once broken, Peter wasn't certain they ever could be completely healed again. But he would certainly try. For his brother, the great and good hero. For Nathan.