Title: Amusia
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Peter/Emma, a proliferation of original characters
Warnings: none
Spoilers: through S4, with specific references to "How to Stop an Exploding Man", "Dual", "A Clear and Present Danger", "Cold Wars", "Exposed", "An Invisible Thread", and "Brave New World"
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
Acknowledgment: BIG love and thanks to finnigan_geist for the beta, and to mimesh for a second set of eyes. And, of course, to kuwdora for the book title I stole off of her.
Summary: Twenty years in the future, Peter's daughter struggles with her place in the Petrelli family, her father's super powers, and secrets of the past.
1. Memorial Hall
"Half of our family is dead," Dad says. It feels like a mantra, but it isn't. This is the only time he's ever said it, the words a physical force that make Annette wobble in place, taking in a sharp gasp of air. Dad's words are muffled, his head tucked down close to Grandma's as they hold each other.
Today is Uncle Nathan's birthday, a man that Annette has never met. She watches her grandmother and her father, standing uncertainly on the threshold to the study, and she wonders. Every year, she feels the deep, painful significance of this day. She can see it in the drawn, tired face of her father, the softened concern that laces each touch from her mother. Her own steps become cautious, hushed, as she moves from room to room. Would she understand if she'd met Nathan?
She has not met him, and never will. Dad has a strict policy about time travel.
It's very difficult not to resent this ghost.
The memory stays with Annette, a dull ache in her chest that she doesn't know what to do with. The next year, she is doing her math homework. Limits and infinity. A thought occurs to her, and she carefully etches it out on a pristine Cartesian plane. She finishes with her tongue in the corner of her mouth, feeling giddy at how smart she is. Snatching up the paper, she runs down the stairs to the sitting room. Mom and Dad are there, relaxing comfortably into each others' arms. It's a little bit gross, but sometimes they do that, and Annette isn't about to let her parents dissuade her.
"Daddy," Annette starts, holding the paper close to her chest. Mom raises an eyebrow at her, reminding her to be polite, and Annette shakes herself. She thrusts the paper to her father, who takes it with an amused, sideways glance to Mom. She starts speaking again, remembering her manners and signing as she talks, "This is for you. I just wanted to show you..."
She stumbles, forgetting the speech she'd rehearsed while drawing it. Her tongue feels awkward and thick in her mouth, and Mom and Dad are frowning at her, trying to puzzle out her meaning while still leaning in, nodding to encourage her to go on.
"And as you see," she says, pausing in her signing to swipe a hand through the air, mimicking the shape of the graph. "It can't be that half our family is dead. Because... because, over time, it'll approach infinity."
That's not comforting at all. That's not what she meant to say.
"What approaches infinity?" Mom asks, tone a little sharp. A little reproachful.
"Um. The dead people," Annette eventually mumbles.
Dad laughs it off, pats her on the head and hugs her for being so good at her Algebra. Mom's eyes do not lose their flinty look, and Annette knows there will be a talk about this later. For now, she flees, crumpling up her stupid paper, throwing it to the floor as she flops down on her bed.
She meant to be comforting. She meant to tell Dad that this is the best time, right now. The present is better than the future. She can't say anything about the past, which feels so unfair. But the future, she can tell him that is a bad place. She and Mom and David and little Maria, they won't be there. Only right now.
When Annette is older, she can only look back on this memory with anger at herself. Stupid, callous, naive girl.
Memorial Hall stood due west of Central Park, walking distance from both Annette's home and Juilliard, the red brick building rising above nearby residences with staid passivity that belied its importance. Memorial Hall was, of course, only one building in the school, the public face of the creature. Behind it lay the grounds and gardens, library, dormitories, and an administration building with direct lines to all of the embassies in the city. The entire campus lay dormant and gray. Ice hanging from the eaves quivered in the blustering city wind, shaking but not yet falling. The students had returned, tracking through slush and muddied snow, but the school still looked like a dim echo to Annette.
The school itself had a more appropriate name, something sounding rich and edifying that no one ever used. Annette traced her fingers over the brass plaque bearing the words, worn shiny and smooth by years and tourists. The name itself was obscured, embossing long flattened, but the year underneath was visible. Est. 2011. There was a much smaller, hidden plaque inside the school. It bore a slightly older date. A more familiar name.
For Nathan, beloved brother and son. 1967-2009
"Taking a reading?" asked a bubbly and curious voice behind her. Annette slanted a wry look over her shoulder, instantly deflating Billie Nakamura's enthusiasm. Her pixie-like features fell into a pout. Since she'd manifested as a speedster, she'd become hyper vigilant about her friends, hoping to catch out the instant they discovered their own abilities.
Annette didn't quite have the heart to tell her she was waiting in vain.
She dropped her hand, replying, "I don't read with my hands."
"Aw, but I thought there was clairsentience in your family. I swear I read it in 'The Petrelli Dynasty' somewhere!"
Annette could strangle her – both for bringing up that damned book and having read it. Annette glance warily behind her, eyes seeking out the handful of tourists intermixed with the bustling, humming crowd of students. Fortunately, none of the tourists overheard Billie's slip up, too consumed by the narration of the walking tours they were listening to through their MP3s to notice.
Still.
"A little discretion, Billie," Annette hissed, taking her friend by the arm.
"Whoops! Sorry."
Annette sighed. Billie probably wouldn't ever understand. Her dad believed in secret identities. It was easy for her to sit back and enjoy the fictionalized versions of her parents' adventure – the third movie was due to come out soon, and Billie had been bugging Annette about going to the premiere – but things were different for the Petrellis. It wasn't all movies and cartoons for them. It was also cruel, thoughtless dissection by pundits, tell-all books, and more than a few paparazzi staking out their house each night.
"There you are!" Charlie called, stumbling forward through the crowd of students on clumsy feet to greet her sister. Her hair was far shorter than Billie's, stuck up in short tufts that always made her look surprised. It was the one distinguishing difference between the girls – or it had been, before Billie manifested. Now there was an additional height difference, since Billie had naturally forgone heels for sneakers, while Charlie still made the attempt on shoes that made Annette's ankles ache in sympathy.
"Dad wanted me to give you this," Charlie added reproachfully, as she thrust out Billie's notebook. Billie flushed as she took it, mumbling a thank you. Charlie just huffed, turning to walk away. Billie cast Annette a bewildered look, and she offered her friend a shrug in response.
"Hey, wait up!" Billie said, running after her sister. She had just enough sense not to use her power.
Of course, Annette was perfectly aware of the issue, she could see the tense lines of anxiety hiding around Charlie's mouth, the shadows under her eyes that concealer couldn't quite cover. She was worried she was losing her sister, being left behind. Charlie wasn't a speedster – she was afraid she wasn't anything, just a Blank who'd never manifest. Annette knew that Billie would figure it out eventually and that the sisters would resolve the issue. She just wasn't entirely sure what she would say to her friend when she fielded that call, because Billie would inevitably think that Annette had gone through the same thing when her brother manifested.
Or when her sister had.
Annette's jaw clenched at the thought of Maria, breath feeling hard and cold in her chest. No, better to think about David. It wasn't like Billie would mention Maria, anyway. Even she was sensitive enough to know better.
Annoyed with herself, she wiped roughly at the tears in her eyes before checking her phone. Still too early for the main bell. Just enough time for coffee. She headed outside, straight through Memorial Hall to a back exit onto the grounds where the bulk of the student body milled around. Memorial Hall was an international school, with students matriculating from all over the globe. Most lived in the dormitories. Few were lucky enough to live nearby like Annette, or have a father who could teleport them in like the Nakamuras.
Off to the side of the dormitories, down the one clear path in the garden, there was the dining hall. Students stood on the steps, dancing from foot to foot in the chilly air, hands wrapped around steaming cups as they chattered happily with newly returned friends. Inside the dining hall, still more students drowsed over their coffee, reeling from jet lag and clustered together in the mellow light the skylights let through.
Cup in hand, Annette settled on a hardwood bench next to Noemi Guillaume. She tilted her head, ducking down to graze her nose against the table as she peered into Noemi's sleeping face. Haiti to New York wasn't the worst flight, but it appeared they had cut it too close again, leaving Noemi with no time to sleep. Better to let her rest until the bell, Annette decided.
Even at this hour, it wasn't too early for the social butterflies to be flitting about, distributing fliers as they try to kick start the new semester's social calendar. A greasy haired boy darted from table to table, drawing Annette's eye and a small smirk. He hesitated when he reached her table, gingerly setting the paper down rather than pressing it into her hands the way he had with the other students. Eyes meeting his, Annette picked the paper up – how retro – and crumpled it without looking.
The boy gulped, scurrying away. Annette's smirk deepened. She had something of a reputation at the school. She admitted to having fun with it at times.
She tossed the crumpled paper down the length of the table toward a trash bin, just as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prick up. A boy slid onto the bench behind her. She could feel the warmth of his back as if it were only a whisper away. She heard the soft rustle of paper, and then a scoff:
"Another Blank party? Doesn't that ever get old?"
Annette turned halfway, eyes lidded as she took in the boy speaking. She recognized his face – scholarship student, attending Memorial High through the generosity of the Petrelli Endowment. But he was handsome enough that she could forgive that: tall, with a white, easy smile and light brown hair that almost covered the stylus tucked over one ear. His voice was a low, comforting rumble that gave her a light shiver.
"There's always a new gimmick to try," she replied. He turned, not a bit surprised that she overheard. All part of his plan, Annette thought in amusement. "Edward, right?"
"Right." Edward smiled, meeting her gaze. His eyes were a truly pretty shade of green. His lips moved to form her name, before he faltered and looked away. There was a shy, nervous look when he lifted his eyes again, betraying the boldness of his tone. "We Blanks should stick together. Solidarity. Avoid this stupid party."
"Sounds good," Annette murmured. She hasn't ever gone to one of the parties, but David had. He'd never been a Blank while at Memorial High – he manifested around fourteen, young enough for his forms to be filled out properly, synaesthetic siren on the correct line – but the Petrelli name had far too much cache for him not to be invited. After the first, he told her how little could be expected from Blank parties. There was never a clairvoyant around, no one prophetic and no one with genetics knowledge beyond Punnett squares. There was no way for them to actually predict what a Blank's power would manifest as. Just a Ouija board, a couple of bottles of Jack, and a grope or two in the closet.
If she were a true Blank, truly someone with the genes for an ability who had yet not manifested, rather than a normal kid with no genetic potential for a power, it probably would have been upsetting to find out the predictions were so worthless. Instead, Annette's cynical heart just found it funny.
"Maybe we could do something else. My cousin's wife plays viola for the New York Philharmonic. She gave me two tickets for Friday, if you're interested," Edward said in a breathless rush.
"Oh," Annette said. Despite herself, her lips twitched in disappointment. "A concert?"
"Yeah. See you at eight?"
Annette threw back her hair, giving him her aloof best.
"I'll think about it," she said dismissively.
Distantly, she heard the bell ring. Students around her grumbled as they pulled themselves up, abandoning their half drunk coffee. Nudging Noemi, Annette stood to join the stream of students heading to class. As she walked away, she could easily make out Edward's disconsolate sigh beneath the chatter of nervy students and she felt a pang of remorse.
The rumors would probably chalk Edward up as another victim of her wiles. She walked a little quicker at the thought, annoyed at her own stupid pride. A concert probably wouldn't be so terrible. No more so than the Blank party. Equally useless to her, but perhaps the company would have been more pleasant.
There was word for what Annette had: amusia. Relatively common, according to the textbooks, although not usually in the severity that she experienced. It was a neurological disorder, the inability to perceive pitch, rhythm, or musical organization. So it was not that Annette disliked music. It was that there was no such thing for her. It was all noise, bothersome, wasteful, and irritating.
And while not having a power merely made Annette normal, sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if not having music made her broken.
History, seventh period. Half of the class was enraptured – the half sexually interested in men. The other half was drooling into their notes as they slept. Dr. Suresh tended to have that effect on people. Despite his years, his body was still strong and straight, his features softened by age in a way that made him warmer than he looked in any of the old photos Annette had seen in her parents' photo albums. Even the silver gracing is hair served only to accentuate his handsomeness. But heterosexuality or no, Annette knew him a little to well to be as inspired by his lecture as some of her classmates. She dutifully nodded along, raised her hand, and drew ever expanding spirals in the margins of her notes when his attention was diverted.
He tapped lightly on her desk, pacing through the class as the lecture wound up. Right, homework time. Annette lifted her eyes to the blackboard. Dr. Suresh pressed a button near the corner of the frame, wiping the screen, before calling up a new list of requirements that settled on the board in a flurry of bright pixels.
"As you may have noticed," Dr. Suresh began, a slight smile on his lips, "You are now in the company of seniors. You yourself may, in fact, be a senior. As such, you face a terrible burden: the senior project."
Grumbling rose in the class.
Dr. Suresh held up a hand, forestalling their protests.
"Ah, how could I have forgotten? But I'm a senior, you say, I thought I was done. You may have applied to college, may even have been accepted already, but you are far from done. It is January, not June. And since all of those applications are out of the way, I fully expect that you have spare time enough to devote to your senior project for the next five months."
Even Annette groaned at the pronouncement. Stylus getting ahead of her mind, she underlined the dates in the file Dr. Suresh had transferred to the class. Other salient details caught her eye: Fifteen minute presentation. Ten thousand word report. Photo album and family tree.
Her hand stuttered to a halt, and her jaw clenched. She glared at Dr. Suresh, tuning back in to what he was saying.
"Perhaps the most intriguing part of the Modern History of Genetic Anomalies is the part which nearly all of you play in it. All of your families are key pieces in a puzzle that has yet to be completed. We are living in a fascinating time, only glimpsing the barest edge of our own true potential.
"In this project, what I ask of you is to explore that potential. I want to see the intersections between your lives and the events that unfold around us. Where was your mother during Kirby Plaza? Where was your father when Primatech burned? Where were you during the Strauss assassination?"
This is cruel, Annette wrote onto her tablet. Her stylus hovered over the send key shakily.
"In sum, this is the purpose of the project: to make you look analytically at your own place in history."
He ended his declaration with a pointed look at Annette; she gripped her stylus hard, pressing the rounded tips of her fingernails deeply into her palm, overcome by anger.
The bell rang and the majority of the students cleared out. Wang Ying lingered, as she always did, asking flustered, redundant questions with a bright red flush on her face. Dr. Suresh answered easily and indulgently. Annette stared at them both, counting out deep, angry breathes as she waited.
When she eventually stood, it was in one sudden movement – clumsy enough to nearly overturn her desk. But her head was buzzing with the sound of rushing blood. She barely noticed.
Mohinder looked up, giving a pleasant smile as she walked to his desk.
"Hello, Annette. I was hoping to talk to you today, actually. It's up to both of you, of course, but I was hoping you'd ask Peter to participate in your project. It would be quite illuminating for your classmates, I think."
It was hardly the first time Mohinder had asked. Peter came to the school all the time – he was a favorite speaker for nearly all of Annette's teachers, and had been since long before she attended. He would be long after. This feeling of her own transience was tiring.
"I'm not doing the project."
"Annette..." Mohinder sighed.
Annette remembered how often he came to babysit her when she was a child. David, only a year older, would crawl all over him before settling at his side, eyes wide and avid looking between the book and Mohinder's mouth as he tried to understand. She would sit on his lap, small fingers tracing over the pictures in the storybooks, his voice soothing her to sleep.
"No," she said, voice chilly. "And you can go get fucked for assigning it."
Before Annette even got out into the hall, she could hear Dr. Suresh calling her father. She heard his voice rise and fall, tone sympathetic, driving her from the building entirely.
Outside, she jumped the short gate between the small area of green space between Memorial Hall itself and the dormitory, edging up under the eaves of the old chapel that had become the library. The garden wasn't very green at the moment, the vibrant roses reduced to gnarled branches and thorns. The meticulous lawn was well dead, buried beneath frost and slush. In spring, the grounds were lovely, filled with lazy students laughing and watching fluffy clouds scud over rooftops. Some of the more richly endowed students always gave into temptation, joining the clouds in the sky.
Annette had never done that.
Sliding her fingers into the waistband of her uniform skirt, she retrieves the cigarettes and lighter she had tucked away. The flame flared bright in the gray January light. Annette leaned back against the eroded brick, closing her eyes as she inhaled, smoke in her lungs the only thing warming her.
She smoked the cigarette down to a tiny nub of filter and resisted the temptation to pocket the butt, casting it down to the ground as litter instead. The small act of rebellion cleared her head more than the illicit cigarette. Annette blinked her eyes back open, squinting upwards to the sky scrapers visible over the peaked roofs of the school and breathed in cold, sharp air. She shivered into her uniform jacket. Her books and down coat were still in her locker.
Annette pushed away from the wall definitively. It didn't take long to retrieve her coat, and soon she was on the steps of the school, by passing Charlie, Billie, and Noemi. Edward. They all tried to catch Annette's eye, to beckon her over, but she scanned the crowd for a different face.
Stupid, she thought, shaking herself in annoyance. She didn't need to look for him. Putting her fingers in her mouth, she pierced the air with a loud whistle the way her mother taught her. Students turned to glare. A few put their hands over their ears, in anticipation of her whistling again. Only one turned with a cheerful smile on his face, eyes still following the wisps of color she had produced.
Breaking away from his friends, David jogged up steps. His short hair fluttered slightly with the movement. In looks as well as temper he took after their mother: sandy hair, snub nose, and lanky height that towered Annette without ever imposing. She was more their father, hawkish and severe in look, never mistaken for anyone but a Petrelli.
"Hey," he said and signed. He frowned abruptly, hand stirring the air between them. "I thought you quit."
Annette had never once claimed she was interested in quitting.
"No. You didn't."
David shrugged easily.
"Don't let Dad smell it on you."
"Maybe I will," Annette returned obstinately. David didn't rise to the bait, and she was forced to look away, awkwardly changing the subject. "How was school?"
David grunted something unintelligible, beginning to walk away. His version of revenge, probably, making her run to catch up with his long legs.
Annette wasn't always sure that David was adapting to Juilliard. He often came to her after a long day in class, expression haggard and shoulder slumped, leaning silently against her side as she completed her homework, content just to be in her presence. Annette didn't want to say he was fragile, because he wasn't. And it wasn't that he was unfocused either – her brother more than anyone was clear about his goals, his strengths. But he was also used to everyone else being sure. Mom and Dad had never lacked confidence in him, and his ability bore him through what would have been a difficult learning process for anyone else. Any instrument he wanted to play, he mastered nearly as soon as he touched it.
At Juilliard, they challenged him. They questioned him. They didn't understand.
It was a bit of a revelation. Irrationally, David had always seemed like the normal one of the family. He just wanted to be a musician. But it was inescapable – he was a Special first, a musical prodigy second. His place would always be with his family.
Half way through the school year, and it felt like time had gone backwards. David met up with Annette after class everyday, standing outside Memorial Hall and chatting with all of the friends he should have left behind when he went to college. Petrellis weren't very good at letting go, Annette admitted.
They walked home the way they had since they were children; Annette deftly navigated the New York crowds walking backwards, David looked over her should just in case, their eyes catching on each other's more often than was really safe as they eagerly shared their day in rapid sign and speech. Today, as they neared the townhouse, David's steps slowed. The expression in his eyes turned weary.
Annette didn't have to look to know what that meant. She was just as exhausted with reporters as he was.
"Dad did something stupid again, didn't he?" she signed, fingers moving in smaller, more subdued flicks that reflected her trepidation.
"Don't say it that way," David says aloud, glaring at her. David thought it was rude when she only signed, excluding others from their conversation, even though he was the Deaf one. David was a goddamn goody two shoes.
Annette rolled her eyes and wheeled about on her heels. She could feel her uniform skirt swish slightly in the movement, brushing against her leggings. Her lips pressed into a fine line as she surveyed the carnage – white news vans clustered around the house, partially blocking the street. The winter sun reflected off a dozen hungry camera lenses. A shout went up – "Hey, it's his kids!" – and dozens of heads turned.
"I hate reporters," Annette sighed, mostly to herself. It was inevitable, she figured. Had to pay down the debt of getting lucky earlier with Billie.
David didn't look at her, instead scanning the crowd for a way through. He nodded shortly to himself, a confirmation, and slipped his hand around hers, pulling her forward as he plunged into the crowd.
"David! David! Can you give us a statement about your father's heroics today? Annette, how does it feel to have Peter Petrelli as your father?"
It feels, Annette thought sourly, like my life.
David offered a low chuckle, close to her ear.
"Shout all you like."
Of course he found it funny. Annette trod on his heel, just for that.
Once they got inside, Annette and David both leaned heavily against the inner door, laughing, still breathlessly exhilarated from pushing through the crush, elbowing reporters in the kidneys, and escaping fame unscathed once more. Annette tilted a smile up at him and he leaned up on tip toes, peering out through the filigree outer door.
"Alexa Andrews is yelling at her camera man."
Annette shook with laughter. Andrews had done a so-called exposé on their parents' marriage six months ago, "exposing the ugly truth behind the fairy tale." Annette had gone out of her way to stumble into the cameraman. She had every hope he dropped his camera.
David turned back, smiling at her, but abruptly his expression faltered. His eyes skipped up the stairs and Annette followed his gaze, even though she knew full well she would not see the colors. She never would. Instead, she heard unpleasant strains of noise filtering down from the stairwell – what other people called music. The rapid flutter of her heart heaved to an uneasy stop before pumping with a slow thump that filled her entire head.
"Damage control," she whispered.
David's eyes were still on the lights. Eventually, he shook himself, saying, "I'm going to go help Mom."
Annette nodded jerkily, eyes wide and wet as she watched him go. Cursing herself, she clenched her jaw, roughly smudging her make up as she scraped her sleeve across her eyes. She breathed in and out, carefully listening to the hitch in her throat, willing the emotion to go away. When she was calm – when she was merely angry, instead of sad and confused and so upset she wanted to scream – only then did she fulfill her obligation. David went to Mom. And she went to find Dad.
As expected, he was in the study. The lights were not on. Annette lingered on the threshold, peering in toward the small space illuminated by a Tiffany desk lamp. Dad sat there, shoulders slumped, one hand curled around a glass, the other covering his face.
You should feel guilty, Annette thought spitefully.
In the months since Maria's ability manifested, a stack of books had sprung up in the family study. "Children, Families, and Chronic Disease", "Chronic Kids, Constant Hope", "Abilities as Illness." Everyone in the family had read them. They hadn't helped. What Maria had, her empathy, it wasn't truly an illness. She wasn't exactly sick.
Except, in so many ways, she was.
Every power that their father brought home upset the fragile internal balance of her young psyche. Every brush with a too strong Special risked plunging Maria into a coma, setting off a cascade of uncontrolled abilities, killing her or maybe even others.
Mom and Dad were trying so hard to avoid that, but each treatment created a different casualty in their family: pharmaceutical power suppressants sapped Maria of joy and energy; Rene's company and power depressed the powers of everyone in the household, and their emotions at the same time; isolation from Dad was incomprehensible.
They made due, day to day. Maria had tutors now, rather than going to school where she might be exposed to the pathogens others called powers. The tutors went beyond academic subjects, teaching her breathing exercises and self-regulation. She probably knew more about meditation than any other eight year old girl in the city.
Her room had been changed to one in the furthest wing of the house, as distant from the master bedroom as it could be. That was a hard decision. Too hard, some nights. Annette had gotten up for a glass of water more than once to find her mother curled in bed alongside Maria, her father pacing in agitation up and down the hall, never crossing the threshold of Maria's range despite the temptation.
The final piece was music. Mom and David started to teach Maria violin. It helped her to focus, clearing away the debris of other abilities as she learned the full extent of her synaesthetic musicality. The lessons helped enough for Maria to rejoin the family for dinner, tightly controlled periods of time in Dad's presence suddenly possible. Her smile would light up the table, words tumbling out of her mouth in enthusiastic jumbles as she forgot to eat.
But as happy as Annette was to be regaining her sister, she knew that Maria's ability was drawing a sharp line in the family. Mom and David and Maria, bonded together by their music. Dad and Annette, set apart by his ability, her lack of music. Sometimes, she wasn't even really sure she and Dad were in it together. Maybe their family was shattered, three unequal parts that could not coexist.
Annette stepped hesitantly into the darkened study. There was a hardening anger in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't sure she wanted to be here. She wasn't sure she wanted to comfort her dad.
She was considering turning to leave when Dad looked up, dark eyes meeting Annette's. Her breath caught in her throat.
It was so hard to look at Dad. Easier in moments like this, in a badly lit room, alone, where she could pretend it was the shadows that smoothed his featured and stole the gray from his hair. When he was with Mom, smiling in the dappled light of Central Park on their favorite path, when they were together and Annette could compare them, then she could not pretend he was aging properly. That was when she could not bear the sight of him.
"Dad," she said after a long moment, finally finding her voice. She meant the word as an acknowledgement, maybe a question. Somehow it came out as an accusation.
His mouth twisted as he looked away, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms.
"They took hostages. A bus load of children, Annette," he replied sternly. "You can't ask me to ignore that."
"I didn't," she snapped. It wouldn't have done any good if she had. Idly, she wondered about the effect of getting Maria to ask. Would that finally stop her dad from risking them all in such stupid ways?
Dad just shook his head, like he was too tired to explain. With a stretch and a sigh that could only be for show, he stood. Walking over to the bookcase, he tossed over his shoulder, "I heard you had something of an argument with Mohinder."
Annette stiffened defensively. She hated how easily he turned things around, how adept he was at avoiding the real problems.
"I'm not doing his class project. He found that disagreeable."
Her father hmm'd meditatively to himself, still scanning the book titles. Annoyed at herself and him, Annette finally left the far edge of the room to hit the light switch. Dad gave her an appreciative grunt, lifting a few inches from the ground to float up high enough to take several slender, finely bound notebooks from an upper shelf. He flipped through the pages of one, nodding as he confirmed what they were. Settling himself back on the ground, he waved Annette over.
Hesitantly, she went.
"What are those?"
He smiled softly, hands touching the binding lightly as he explained, "They're journals, to help you do the project."
"I'm not doing the project," Annette said, although her voice betrayed her, losing certainty as her eyes were drawn to the books. They looked old.
"Just take them, Annie." Dad sighed.
Annette did, giving him her best glower.
"Are we done? Because I have homework."
"Yeah," Dad said softly. He pressed a hand to his forehead, shading his eyes, but not hiding his disappointment. "We're done."
Annette felt a twinge of conscience, and forced herself to look away. She strained her ears, trying to hear the noise from upstairs, trying to remind herself of just what her father was doing to their family. The sound strengthened her resolve, enough for her to square her shoulders and leave without looking back, feet gaining momentum as she went.
When she got to her room, Annette flung the books onto her bed angrily. More than one fell open. A few missed the bed entirely, hitting the floor on the other side. She determined that she did not care. If she was damaging history, then good. Fuck history.
It was only later, after a bad dinner that Maria couldn't come to, after a calm, unpleasant argument between her parents that was all that much worse for the fact that only half was spoken, after calling Billie Nakamura to pretend that she gave a damn about the Blank party, only then did she take a good look at the journals to discover who wrote them.
Nathan Petrelli.