Spectrum of Grey
Chapter One
"Misanthropy for Dummies"
"People suck, friend. Every last one of 'em."
Some more than others, of course - the ones you actually expect something from, for instance.
The ones you trust.
The ones you believe in.
The ones you love.
Occasional Hitchcockian tendencies aside, pigeons are, statistically speaking, considerably less likely to stab you in the back.
A bigger feat than most people are capable of, obviously.
The list of people who haven't turned out to be a magnificent disappointment runs shorter each passing moment. Peter Petrelli has narrowly avoided it for now. He's not too bad, really, for a nuclear-bomb-to-be. Still, the bloody kid exudes his infantile idiocy like bad cologne.
Was I ever that naive?
Or was I worse?
But I shouldn't be asking questions I know the answers to. Especially when I don't like those answers much. Or at all.
On the list of grand disappointments, I can proudly declare myself to be among the very top.
Not something I've dwelt on much until now. Peter may absorb powers, but he spreads something a great deal more dangerous.
Hope.
Been a while since I could use that word without it magically turning into the crown jewel of cynicism, which is the only safe, sane use for it.
Hope, real hope, is more hazardous than any exploding man can ever aspire to be.
It makes you believe, even though life tells you that you're a moron for falling for it, time after time. Nobody can accuse humanity of being overly logical.
Hope makes you see an actual future, instead of a giant brick wall that never ends.
It makes you forget.
Worse. Makes you remember.
Now, without the distraction of a human stress ball, and with only sporadic flickers of a tedious view arriving from the window, it's hard to stop your mind from wandering to certain long-buried places.
It starts with flashes, orphaned and disconnected.
A sweaty thigh, shallow breathing. His mouth against my neck.
My mouth in – well, other places.
After all, I'd sworn I'd give him something to really be wildly enthusiastic about.
A single, low chuckle escapes my throat. Closer to a bark, really.
Maybe Puppy Petrelli gave me some spare rabies.
Dog-related trains of thought are, unfortunately, not easy to derail. And they lead straight back to him.
That goofy grin, turning up whenever he was in over his head. The frequency of those decreased at a linear, almost scientific rate; bright eyed and bushy tailed didn't last long with him, gradually drowning under a thick protective veil of nearly robotic composure and impeccable sarcasm.
I scratch my neck, where his little taser dart hit. Cutting edge technology can cause one hell of an itch.
Other itches can't be scratched, or ignored. Might as well hack off the offending body part and be done with it.
A hint of harsh reality slips back into my mind, echoing with distant gunshots, and I get the distinct urge to kick something. Or someone.
A stroll down memory lane isn't good for my mental health. Whatever's left of it.
Problem is, once you're already there, you get the Hotel California deal. Escape artistry comes naturally to the invisible, but some places are trickier to break out of.
More recollections pop up uninvited.
A messed up assignment going from bad to worse, to something neither of us quite expected. You could call it a not-quite-conventional first date courtesy of Freezer Girl. I used to think it'd take a cold day in Hell to get him to open up, and, conveniently, our line of work was more than happy to provide one.
That gaze - an exclusive mix of bewilderment and concentration, like he was trying to figure out if this wasn't some elaborate trick or optical illusion I'd conjured up.
Never was quite able to lose that gaze. Not after the first time, not after the tenth.
Not after eight years.
Had to give him one for consistency.
One thought keeps repeating, buzzing in vicious circles and refusing to be swatted down.
A vague memory of a kiss - sloppy and awkward, urgent and misplaced. An experiment on breath holding, with indeterminable results. Worse than goddamn teenagers.
Vague. Ha. I wish.
Feels like yesterday.
I lean back, close my eyes.
Seven years.
Not nearly enough to let go.
My pitiful attempt to locate an island of inner peace is cut off as a fellow passenger foolishly decides that I'd make a comfortable seat.
It takes him a moment to reassess the situation, before bolting right up.
He turns around slowly, gazing at me with a look of unadulterated confusion.
Well, through me, technically.
But I can't be bothered to take offence.
People are just inherently assholes like that.
I clear my throat. Doesn't hurt to be polite in face of the opposition.
The man departs with strategic haste, probably harboring and savoring anecdotes of haunted trains for the kids.
Funny. Somehow, all methods of transportation I happen to be on turn out to be chock-full of ghosts. Startling coincidence, that.
A few more hours pass before it strikes me -
I'm running in the wrong direction.
A fit of deep, manic laughter takes over, like in a tacky old horror film.
Mutant rabies. No other explanation.
Fantastic.
I make my way out of the train, making sure to bump into my favorite seat-buddy for maximum effect.
The outside wind greets me with unsurpassed enthusiasm.
Welcome to Odessa, Texas.
Almost home, once upon a time.
It's been a while.
What the hell am I thinking?
This is catastrophic mistake.
Oh well. Not a new concept to me. 'Catastrophic Mistake' is my middle name.
I follow the inner compass my brain has conveniently forgotten to discard, navigating through a jungle of suburbia.
Juniper Lane looks a bit different these days. More police lines than usual, for one.
I take the 'Do Not Cross' suggestion into careful consideration before slipping inside.
Looks like the Apocalypse came to his home early.
I wrap myself in preemptive numbness, one of a thousand defense mechanisms that life has found necessary to equip me with.
Leaving the fresh war zone- no cleanup crew would be able to cover this mess up, I let a detached auto-pilot lead me to the local hospital.
I find them soon enough, huddled together around the hospital bed.
I barely recognize the boy now. Seven years count as a lifetime at his age.
And the pale, grim-faced woman bears only a passing resemblance to the Sandra Bennet I remember.
I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat, erasing any pretence regarding sentimentality once presumed KIA.
Guilt has never been foreign when dealing with his family, but this is different.
Closer to regret.
At least the show dog attaché is loyally present.
Some things never change.
Like him. He's the exact same, with only those damn glasses added to his arsenal. That, and apparently a brand new lead-caused hole in his side.
But where's Claire?
Peter mentioned something about a girl in Texas. Coincidences aren't as common as one might think, especially not when our kind is involved.
Latent panic sets in.
Did they take her?
I should've done something. Anything.
Anything but play dead.
Great. Self loathing. How innovative.
I find a corner to settle in and lean against the wall, having long since accepted voyeurism as a part-time job.
This turns out to be harder to watch than I'd imagined. He repeats a mantra of reassuring words, playing the rock.
He's always done that part well, but it's only effective up to a certain point.
And that point has clearly been reached and thoroughly crushed.
Eventually, they leave as a surprise visitor arrives.
Another blast from the past.
Thompson.
My fingernails dig deep into my skin, determined to distract me from the glaring red flag that's waving ecstatically in my field of vision.
I flatten myself against the wall, hoping it'd have the decency to swallow me, for once.
It stays remarkably solid, not being cooperative in the least.
Can't even count on inanimate objects.
I listen to the string of coldly calculated questions, and the corresponding answers, building up through confusion and anger to the usual compliance.
Only one thing matters.
They don't have her.
Which means she still stands a chance. Roughly that of an overweight pigeon attempting to cross the Atlantic, but it's better than nothing.
The interrogation comes to a conclusion once the doctor insists he gets some rest.
Strange, but getting rest doesn't seem like a particular priority of his. Once we're alone, his face takes on a sharp quality. Making room for the hunter.
Always been a perceptive bastard.
His posture grows tense, eyes scanning the room with efficiency that's ultimately futile.
"Where are you?"
The question echoes from wall to wall with all the hesitation of a Big Bad Wolf looking for his little Riding Hood.
I've overstayed my welcome.
No time for hesitation. I need to get the hell out of here.
"I know you're there."
I keep motionless and analyze the words. They're uttered with the familiar drawl, infused with confidence.
It's obvious now.
He's bluffing.
And I'm calling it.
It takes a few seconds for the dangerous certainty to melt away with a mirthless, silent chuckle that turns into a pained grimace.
Not everybody enjoys talking to empty air, poetic as it may be.
He brings his hand to his forehead, leaning back in his bed and letting out a frustrated breath.
I've seen that face before. Too many times to count.
Never on him.
He's lost.
Wouldn't admit it in a hundred years, of course. Too controlled. Too untouchable. Too Bennet.
There are perks to invisibility, besides the questionably useful yet infinitely entertaining ability to haunt trains.
It allows you to see him with his guard down.
And that's a privilege as exotic as flying purple elephants.
His expression barely changes, but I can still decipher the key part.
It's pain, and not the kind that originates from bullet wounds.
And that's personal experience speaking.
The old compulsion to protect him makes a crushing, undesirable comeback, even though I'm the one who could use some protection at the moment.
Partners. You can never truly get rid of them, no matter how much pepper spray you employ. Or bullets, for that matter.
Speaking of bullets…
Gunshot wound. Memory loss. Mysterious disappearance. What does it all add up to?
My cultivated instinct to automatically assume the worst is malfunctioning.
What takes over is a mix of rusty detective skills and a hunch with no base in rationality.
Like in the good old days.
Then the dots connect.
He didn't give her up.
I release a trapped breath, trying to keep it from being too audible.
This is the keenest feeling of relief I've had in years.
The ultimate Yes Man might've gotten a bit of a 'no' in his repertoire after all.
Doesn't necessarily change anything.
I can still leave. Get piss drunk. Learn to forget again. Wouldn't be too hard.
I have running listed on the top my resume, after all, in bright and bold letters.
Can't run forever, though. You wind up out of breath.
Might as well make my last stop here.
Throwing caution its proper place, I cross the room and reach out, placing my hand on his shoulder.
His surprise lasts only a split second, followed by brief attempt of visual orientation. It's then replaced by wry irritation.
He watches patiently as I materialize.
"Think you can go without shootin' me for a couple of minutes?"
Giving a slight wince as he pulls himself upright, he proceeds to follow the Company guidelines to concise answer-giving, letter by letter.
Which of course means giving no answer at all.
"I was wondering when you'd get tired of hide and seek."
"Seems to me tag is more your style these days."
He regards me with an expertly bred phlegmatic air, brow rising slightly, corner of his mouth quirking with only a bare trace of humor. The tired, bitter kind. The kind you learn to embrace and cherish when under the employment of the esteemed Primatech Paper Company.
"You're it."
No matter how jaded and world-weary you think you get, there'll always be a son of a bitch more cynical than you.
It's nice that you can always count on him to fill that spot.
I snort.
"I've noticed."
Next minute is a trade in strained silence.
Almost forgotten how unnervingly intense those eyes can be.
Earnestness invades his voice as he finally speaks up. Might've bordered on vulnerability, if he let it.
"Why are you here?"
I sit down at the edge of the bed, examining the question under a mental microscope.
I'm not fond of second chances.
Neither of us has turned out exactly what he wanted to be. Life just ain't that accommodating. It prefers being a spiteful bitch. Can't say I don't sympathize.
Unfortunately, once hope catches up with you, you're pretty much doomed.
"We need to talk."
People suck. Every last one of them.
But, in the royally screwed up manner as only humanity can provide, it can't stop you from loving them.
Oh, bloody hell.
I never learn.