Save the Queen B, Save the World.
A fanfic in which Heroes meets Gossip Girl.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Believe me, I wish I did. But I'll settle with just borrowing.
A/N: This is really just a experiment that I've wanted to try for quite some time. I got the idea of a story like this while I was in France on a holiday. And after long a time spend hesitating, I finally decided to post it here. Anyway I don't know if it is any good, so please let me know what you think. Also I apologize beforehand for all the grammar faults I made, it just that English is not my first language so it is very diffucult to not make any faults. I appreciate it if you could point out any faults that I made.
Note: Some characters might seem to be out of character, but that is simply because I like to think that they act that way because of the other persons that are in the room. They don't have to hide anymore behind masks, but can just be themselves. Or at least the way I see them in my little head.
Chapter 1: Prologue When you run, don't run towards me.
"You could be happy,
I won't know
But you were happy the day
I watched you grow"
- Snowpatrol.
New york, Hospital, 22 juliet
'Am I dead?'
That was the first thought that entered his head as the bright light hit his eyes. He immendiatly shut them again and tightly hold them together. Never go near the light, they said. Well he didn't exactly know who 'they' were, but he wasn't going to be the one not following the wisdom.
But a person has a limit of time in which he can look at the insides of his own eyes without growing bored. A limit that provides the invisible boundary between boredom and fascination. And after two minutes, Peter Petrelli has reached that limit. So he opens his eyes, slowly, careful not to hurt them again against the new discovery of different pigment other than black.
While his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, his ears picked up a faint noise coming from a corner. It sounded strangely familiar, eventhough he couldn't quite place it. Not the person that made the noise, nor what the person was saying. Right now it sounded more like a buzzing of some sort machine that was going in overdrive.
"What," he groans, suprised by the sound of his own voice. He sounded hoarse, very animal like.
"I don't like to repeat myself, not even for you, eventhough you could clearly use some socializing,' the mysterious person says in a cocky voice that made him sound so sure fo himself. Almost too sure.
With his eyes open and adjusted now, he could finally see where he was. And even to him, a person who had only seen something like this once in his life (when his grandmother was in the hospital after a heart attack), it didn't look good. Tubes were hanging everywhere, coming from everywhere, and something was making an annoying beeping sound. He immendiatly feels sick by the sight of it all, something was seriously wrong. Wrong with him. He remebered looking at soap opras when he was younger and whenever a person was in the kind of room that he was in right now and the same amount of tubes were hanging from the walls, that person was neither about to die or he was already dead. And all Peter Petrelli wants to do at that moment is to run as fast as he can, as far as he can.
He couldn't however, it feels as if his body is tied down to the bed, to weak to stand on his own. He let his eyes travel around the room. It had 4 walls, all white, too bright. Nothing was hanging on them, no decoration, just nothing. Which made them look like cell walls. He hates the room already and when his eyes finally locate the person, he suddenly feels the urge to vomit right there, just to give the room some color.
The person was sitting in the right far corner from the bed, like he was too afraid to sit near him, maybe because whatever he had was contagious, or maybe because he disliked hospitals, or maybe, he thought as he saw the expensive shoes the person was wearing, he was afraid something might smudge his clothes. Neither way, both his feet stood firm on the ground, planted there like the roots of a tree. He leaned a bit forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. The composition made him look like a therapist studying a patient and he suddenly felt like he was sitting in a documentary about Doctor Freud.
But as he let his eyes travel farther up, and he could see the person's face. He crossed the idea of a therapist in his head. The person sitting in his room, cound never, not even in the wildest dreams, be a therapist. No, that person needs a therapist on his own, before he could ever become one.
"What are you doing here," Peter spoke, still sounding hoarse and he couldn't help but break out in a fit of coughs that followed the task of speaking.
"It is always delightful to see you too, Petrelli." his voice dripping from sarcasm except when he said the last name. It seemed like he said it sincere. Maybe even like he meant it. "Maybe I just came, because I missed you."
''You don't miss, Charlie" The person looked up when the name was used, before getting this thoughtful look all over his face. He was silent for a while, before responding.
"Nobody calls me that"
He didn't say the word, he didn't need to. Because the word anymore hung in the air like a ticking bumb.
Tic. Tic. Tic.
The pressure of it becoming bigger and bigger with every breathe either one of them drew. Neither one spoke up, too afraid that whatever was going to be said might be the last push for the bumb to explode. So the silence grew and grew, more insistent than the pain Peter felt in his head.
Tic. Tic. Tic.
His eyes settled on his blanket, draped around his from. Also white. Too bright for this kind of visit.
Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic. Tac.
"My mon called, didn't she?', he said, deciding he might as well break the ice sooner, before they both becamse two souls frozen in time. But after he said it, he realised that it sounded more like a statement than a question.
But he doesn't really care and he doesn't take the words back. He just brings his eyes up from the blanket and forces them to look at the boy – man now -. He swears he sees a small fragment of fear and confusion in his eyes, before they are replaced by a mask of indifference. He almost feels like he is talking towards an actor that can put his emotions aside just as easily as he can toss something away. And he needs to have his own mask on or else he will sink away, alone. But as he has said before, he almost feels this way. Almost.
'Yeah, she called. I don't know how she got my number, but she told me you were in a hospital and that it was time for me to see you again or something like that, I wasn't really paying attention."
"So why did you come?" He figured he might as well ask the 1 million question. It is better to be straight to the point than to turn around it forever. At least that is what they said. He makes a note to himself that whenever he gets out of this damn hospital bed, he is going to look up who those they are.
"Because you are the only family I have left of her"
He says it forced, like he has practiced it in front of a mirrow. Standing in different positions, using different voices, just to know what sounds the best. This defiantly wasn't the best.
Peter Petrelli wants to hear the words again. To hear the person say them over and over again. And he wishes he has a tape recorder hidden under his blanket, so that he can make a tape of this conversation and hear the tape over and over again, before selling it on internet. A tape with the soft side of this Upper East Sider sure would make a lot of money
But most of all, he wished he had a tape because then he could hear the scentence again. Because it sounded too surreal, to even be uttered. Especially by this person. Never by this person. But here they were, presented in a scentence, 11 words, 40 letters, that were clear english and he could understand them well enough, but he couldn't quite grapse them. Didn't want to grapse them, to understand them. Didn't want to act on them.
A silence has filled the room again, but this time the pressure was less high. Maybe it was because some of the tension was realised. It was not much, but it was some. A small slice of the world largest pie. Or maybe it was simply because they both denied the tension that was still there. Both too tired to do something about it, both too emotional spend to fight it.
"So what happened?" Ah, the question. Peter had expected, dreaded it really. He knew it would come, knew he would have to answer many of those, but he still couldn't figure out an answer. So he simply settled for the thruth. (the thruth is the longest way, they said).
"I jumped of a building, because I thought I could fly."
Charlie's eyes went wide for just one second before letting out a laugh. When he stops and sees the seriousness on Peter's face, he couldn't help himself but laugh again. Peter suddenly had to think of the Joker of Batman.
"You thought you could fly,' he says, dreading out every word, making sure that every word sounds even more ridiculous than the one before.
"Yes"
"There were try-outs for Superman or something?"
"No, I just had a dream in which I flew. And I just felt so real, like it wasn't me but real me that flew."
"You are delusinal.''
Peter let out a groan before he could stop it. He expected Charlie to react this way, but he had had the faintest hope that Charlie's reaction would be different. In which Charlie said that he understood and that he also had dreams. He didn't have to fly but just something not normal. But that hope seemed to go up into flames right now.
Charlie gives Peter another look, before standing up, stretching his arms up above his head. It made Peter wonder how long Charlie exactly has sat there.
"Well, as much as I enjoyed my visit,'' he spoke, his mask back on, his wit in tact. "I have places to go, people to see, other non crazy people."
He strides towards the door like he was a soldier on a mission to get as far away as possible. To hide himself from the hospital, from this visit. And from Peter. But Peter just couldn't let him get away, before asking one thing. It has been on his mind ever since he found out.
"Hey Charlie, what do they call you now?"
Charlie stopped mid way, one foot already out of the door. He stood still for quite some time, not moving, not even turning his head to look at Peter.
He sighed before mumbling "Chuck"
"Chuck..didn't that girl start calling you that when you were six?''
But when Peter looked up, Charlie or Chuck or whoever he was right now, was already gone. Vanished up into the air of the new york people. And Peter was left feeling like that was the last time he would see him. He thought he could finally rest now, but that was far from the thruth. Instead he laid awake the whole night.
Spotted: C leaving the hospital. Did he finally admit to himself that he has some issues, or was he so drunk after the Kiss and Tell party that he has mistaken the hospital for his suite. My money is on the last one, although I secretly hope it is the first. Let's face it, the world would be better off without a Bass walking around.
- CB -