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Two small pink capsules. A glass half full of water straight from the tap. Maybe, hopefully, a good night's sleep.
Tomorrow his schedule was absolutely packed. The press were going absolutely crazy over rumors of an illegitimate child (and, wouldn't it figure, not even the one that he had actually fathered), and damage control had to be done. Peter was still in hiding somewhere, and until the prodigal son came back his mother would be hell on earth. If he wasn't mistaken, there was also something about appearing at a children's hospital – something Peter would have enjoyed. Then, of course, his family – if he would still have one by then.
Heidi was growing tired of the hectic pace of this election. Physical therapy left her drained and the children were growing seven inches every time he turned his head. He should have already expected that – after all, he had experience – but his head had been turned for the entirety of his oldest daughter's life.
Maybe Peter was right. On a night like this one, flying might have cleared his head. The sensation wasn't altogether unpleasant once he had a chance to get himself together, and being on the outside of the fishbowl was a much-needed change of pace. But (but)… What if there were paparazzi? What if something happened at home and he wasn't there to take charge? What if Peter actually came looking for him? He hated his younger brother so deeply sometimes that it shook him to his core, but in the rare moments when things were good and he recognized the favors he gave as bred out of more than obligation, he realized that that hate was just a more dark, impassioned form of love. And because he had become so mechanical with his thoughts; his actions; his life these past few years, it was a relief to realize he still had that capacity.
Then there was the matter of that illegitimate daughter (again). She was a constant presence these days, colouring every event and emotion in a sheen of grey. The rock to his windshield had been hers; he always knew that much. A blurry picture taken from a cell phone was his whole knowledge of her (aside from that infamous Petrelli temper), and the blue eyes boring into his with a stare that wasn't quite hostile but definitely unfriendly followed him around. He had forgotten to ask her mother – was Claire, well, special? She wouldn't have even understood the question. As a matter of fact, he wasn't sure that he did, either.
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Two pink pills washed down his throat. A clock that shouted every second that passed. There would be no sleeping tonight. It was still nice to pretend, though. After all, pretenses had become his entire life.
The sheets were almost as cold as the woman lying next to him. Maybe, he muses, flying isn't his only talent – he freezes everything good and warm and alive that he comes into contact with. That would make him a villain – wouldn't it? Oh, well. He'd always found villains more interesting anyway.