Mr Petrelli Goes to Tampa, a heroes fanfic

Mr. Petrelli Goes to Tampa

By Zaen

"Well, well. The prodigal Senator returns."

Rolling his eyes, Nathan Petrelli steps inside his mother's Manhattan mansion and follows her into the drawing room. "I think you have that backwards, Ma. Shouldn't Peter be the Prodigal Son?"

Angela smiles and runs a finger down the top of a dark oak end table. "Oh, who knows? I never did care for Bible stories."

"Maybe that's because whenever you pass a church, the sixes in your scalp start to burn."

"Oh, nice one, son." Angela wipes the nonexistent dust from her fingertips, makes a mental note to fire someone. "I'll have to remember that one the next time I have to save you from your own stupidity. Really, such a thing to say to your mother. I'd whip you—if I didn't think you'd enjoy it!"

Nathan looks up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you and your brother—and your daughter!" Angela bristles at the memory of her sons and granddaughter the previous week, the boy's excessive affection for each other, Claire's obvious infatuation with Peter—didn't she get the memo? "I mean, really, we're not royalty, Nathan!"

"I don't get that. What does this have to do with royalty?"

Blushing, Angela clutches her pearls. "Goodness. Didn't anyone in this family get any sort of education?"

"I did." Peter clomps down the steps, staring angrily at his brother. "I had a great education—as a nurse. Remember, Nathan?"

"How could I forget? You must have practiced blood pressure readings on me hundreds of times."

Peter grins. "Don't forget taking your temperature, bandaging your head…checking you for hernias—"

"Anyway!" Nathan pulls his brother away from the disapproving stare of their mother. "I need to ask you a favor." Peter walks toward the terrace, steps outside into the cold February air and waits for his brother to come after him. He always does.

"So what's this favor? And, uh, what's with the showing up at mom's after disappearing last week?"

Nathan runs a hand over his eyes. "Um. I've been busy, Pete. I'm a senator, remember?"

"Too busy to even say goodbye? And what happened, anyway? I woke up at your place in Georgetown the morning after the inauguration and could barely remember a thing!"

"I think we all got pretty blitzed." Something sparks between the brothers. "Wait. You think the Haitian did something to us? We should be able to remember everything about that night, right?"

"We should. I remember flying to Maryland with Mom screaming in my ear about how I never used to pick up my toys as a kid."

"Sounds about right."

"And then we got to your place. And Tracy was there." A look of restrained disgust befalls Peter's handsome face. "She wanted to, like, steal you away to the Inaugural ball like some backwards Cinderella nightmare." Nathan smirks and rubs Peter's neck.

"No woman's ever good enough for your big brother, huh?"

"I liked Heidi."

"Heidi divorced me."

Peter's crooked grin appears. "I know."

"What are you two talking about?" The brothers turn to find their mother staring at them and holding out a weathered address book. "Stop it this instant, whatever you're doing. Here, I found your little black book from before you were married, Nathan. There should be pretty of numbers in here for you two to…uh…what do you young people say these days? Get busy? Hook up? Knock boots—"

"Ugh, stop!" Nathan grabs the book and flips through the many phone numbers of girls he's long since forgotten. "What the hell is this, Ma?"

"I just think it's about time that the both of you go out and date…women! Women whom you don't already know." She eyes Peter. "Women you aren't…intimately engaged with already. Grown women. That you aren't already…uh…relat—"

"Thanks, but I don't really need dating advice from my mother," Peter replies proudly. "I do just fine. I mean, c'mon, Ma. Look at me." Peter flips the teensy bit of hair he's been growing out, arches his back a little, and knocks his hip out. "You think I have any trouble getting attention?"

Angela looks at the appreciative leer on Nathan's face. "I need a drink."

"Say, uh, when was the last time you, uh, got busy, Pete?" Nathan asks jokingly.

Peter stops posturing and thinks for a second. "I don't think I can remember."

"Oh, thank God!" Angela kisses her sons on the forehead and prances off toward the bar, smiling and saying to herself, "Remind me to send The Haitian a fruit basket!" The brothers watch their mother prance away, not quite able to meet one another's eye.

"Uh…Nathan, what do you think that—"

"Nevermind! I don't want to think about—look, it's getting late and…look, are you going to do this favor for me or not?"

"What is it?"

Nathan gives his best fake innocent smile. "I need you to help me get into the Super Bowl."

"C'mon, Pete. It's not really that big of a deal is it?" Nathan checks his watch as he follows Peter into the kitchen and watches him scan the contents of the fridge. "I just need you to come with me in case we run into any security or whatever, and you can use your ability to, uh, nudge them into letting us through."

"I had no idea you were such a football fan."

Nathan smiles. "Look, you know how hard I've been working to get on this one Senate committee, and the chairman is going to be in Tampa, at the Super Bowl, in a luxury suite. If I can just get a few minutes with him, in a non-work setting, I know I can talk him into appointing me to the committee."

Peter finishes making a half sandwich and takes a small nibble. "And if you can't talk him into it, you're hoping I can…talk him into it, right?"

"Hey, this is the way government works, Pete. Lobbyists, pay for play, pork barrels, late night slumber parties, memos about airport bathrooms—"

"Yeah, whatever." Peter leans against the kitchen counter with his hand on his hip. "And if I do this, what's in it for me, then?"

"Well, you get to see the Super Bowl. Live. For free. In a luxury suite. What red-blooded heterosexual American man wouldn't want that?"

"I—ahem." Peter turns pink and flips his hair the best he can. "Yah, well, uh, this red-blooded…heterosexual…male can't help you. I lost all my abilities, remember? I can only fly again because I've been in close contact with you. That mind bending thing was Matt's."

"But you saw Matt last week? Didn't you suck his ability up then?"

"Nah, I guess I wasn't close enough to him before The Haitian got there and suppressed everyone." Peter throws the remains of his sandwich on the counter. "Damn it! I really wanted to go to the game, man."

"Hey, take it easy—"

"It's gonna be like 65 degrees in Tampa today. I could get a little sun in that kind of weather!"

Nathan shakes his head.

"I guess you're out of luck, Nathan."

"Not necessarily." After checking his watch, Nathan grabs into Peter's back pocket.

"Hee hee!"

"You always were ticklish." Finding Peter's cell phone, Nathan turns it on and holds it out to his brother. "Call Matt. We can fly over there, you two can touch brains or spoon or whatever you have to do, and then we can still get to Tampa before kickoff."

"You really want this, don't you, Nathan?"

Nathan leans close and whispers, "Yes, Peter. I really…really want this."

"Fine. If you really want this, then I really want it, too."

"Oh!" The brothers turn. Angela stares at them, aghast. "Please, go get yourselves some ladies of the night. My treat!"

~*~

After 5 minutes of loud knocking, Matt Parkman finally comes to the door.

"You don't answer your phone?"

"And hello to you, too, Senator," Matt replies, looking shiftily between the Petrelli brothers at his front door. "Peter. Uh, what are you two doing here?"

"Need a favor," Peter replies as he tries to see over Matt's shoulder into the Suresh apartment. "I need to get close to you for a second."

Matt recoils, eyes wide. "Uh, look, live and let live and whatnot, but, uh, this is the 80s and I'm down with the ladies!" The brothers glance at each other, shrugging. "Tone Loc? 'Funky Cold Medina?' 'Wild Thing?' What, didn't they play the radio at your chichi prep school?"

Nathan steps into the doorway. "I prefer alt-country myself. Are you gonna let us in or what?"

Matt blocks their way. "I'm kind of busy right now. Can you come back in about…3 hours?"

Peter hears a rustling in the back of the apartment. "Oh, you and Daphne…"

"Yeahhhhh. Me and Daphne. You know how it is. Girl can't keep her hands off me."

Nathan smiles icily. "Yeah, if I remember correctly, she couldn't keep her hands off you in my house. You owe me, so let us in, Parkman."

Matt stands to his full height, eyes narrowed. "Why should I?"

"Forget it," Peter says as he steps away from the door. "We can find someone else who wants to go to the Super Bow—"

"S-s-super B-b-bowl?" In the blink of an eye, Peter and Nathan are in the apartment with Matt frantically clutching them both by their collars. "You can get me to the Super Bowl? Tonight?"

Peter opens his mouth to say, "Sure we ca—"

"Pete! It was just supposed to be me and you going, remember?"

Peter shrugs. "I guess he's gonna have to come along now. Besides, we might need him if we get into a tight spot."

Nathan sighs. "Yeah, maybe you're right. And besides, someone's gotta be there who looks like he knows anything about football."

"We know football," Peter insists. "Remember how we used to watch Quarterback Princess over and over in grade school?"

Nathan bristles. "Because we thought Helen Hunt was so cute!"

Matt jostles them both. "Can we please get back to where I get to go to the Super Bowl?"

"Look, Peter just needs to be able to mimic your ability so we can sneak into a luxury suite at the Super Bowl and I can talk a fellow senator into getting me onto a committee. As long as we don't get caught and no one gets hurt, I don't see what the harm is. We buy some beers, leave a huge tip, no one gets hurt, I get on my committee, you two get to watch the big game, everyone's happy. So, what do you say, Matt? Are you in?"

Eyes glassy, Matt stands back and sniffs. "You had me at Quarterback Princess."

"Who's a princess?" Matt clears his throat and hems and haws as Mohinder Suresh, wearing a bathrobe, steps out from the back of the apartment. When he sees the Petrelli brothers, Mohinder's eyes fly open and he looks around frantically for something to grab, settling on a table lamp. "Oh, hello. Uh, ah, I just came here to the apartment to, uh, get some stuff to take back to the loft…since Matt is living here…with Daphne, apparently. Yep, just came over to get this lamp. Because this originally was my apartment, but I now I've been relegated to the living in Isaac Mendez's loft. Alone. By myself. While Matt lives in my apartment. The apartment that originally belonged to my father. Where we lived with our daughter, Molly. Whom Matt sent away. Without asking me—"

"For the fifty-leventh time, I said I was sorry, Moh!"

Nathan nudges Peter and steps backwards to the door. "Uh, if we've interrupted something…"

"No, no, it's not important. Mohinder, we can finish our…discussion…later. Me and the flying Petrellis are going to the Super Bowl!"

Mohinder drops the lamp, unfazed the crashing and breaking parts at his feet. "Oh, no you're not! Who called me up at 11 am on a Sunday saying he couldn't find his glasses and couldn't I come over to help him find them because his girlfriend was out of town and oh, look, I seem to have spilt your tea all over you, so why don't you just let me throw those pants in the washing machine?"

Matt lets the fire flow in and out of his cheeks, takes a long deep breath, and then mumbles, "Yes, Petrellis, Mohinder and I would love to come with you."

Mohinder smiles triumphantly. "And I'll be wanting cotton candy!"

~*~

"Oh, no, I am not flying you to Florida with all that!"

"What?" Matt closes the door leading to the alley behind the apartment building and inspects his arm load of goodies. "I can't go to the Super Bowl without my favorite big foam finger!"

Nathan rolls his eyes. "You do realize that its 30 degrees, and even colder up in the air. You don't even have a coat, Matt."

"I won't need a coat. We're gonna be in a luxury suite! With our own bar! And private bathroom!"

Peter perks up. "Private bathroom? Sweet!"

"Do you think they'll have WiFi?" Mohinder asks as he tries to balance laptop carrier, picnic basket, and winter coat. "I'm working on a paper, and I want to rearrange my Netflix queue."

"You guys can't…this is like Inauguration night all over again," Nathan groans.

"Speaking of which," Matt says, looking pointedly at Mohinder over the heap of tailgating gear in his arms, "where's your little blonde girlfriend?"

Mohinder smirks. "Where's your little blonde girlfriend?"

"She's right here!" A tuft a blonde spiky hair appears out of nowhere, and then Matt's gear in on the ground and Daphne is in his arms. Mohinder and Matt's eyes meet over Daphne's head; Matt shrugs, and Mohinder quietly stomps his feet.

"Ok, if the drama's all over, can we please get a move on?" Nathan looks at his watch, then up at the sky. "The wind's starting to pick up, and I really hate flying against the wind. It messes up my hair."

Daphne pulls out of Matt's arms and looks up at him quizzically. "Where are we going?"

"Um, we're all actually going to Tampa, honey," Matt says as he pats Daphne on the head. "I thought you were visiting your Dad in Kansas today."

"I am, but he's taking a nap, so I thought I'd come back here for a, uh, little visit!" Daphne wiggles her eyebrows at Matt. The others fake-gag. "So what's in Tampa, baby?"

"Uh, Super Bowl XLIII?"

Daphne's head tilts. "I thought the New York Eagles won that already last year."

Matt closes his eyes, counts to twenty, and forces the chunks back down his throat. "No, honey, that was—nevermind. It's football, and I love love love football, and I really love the Steelers, and I might never get the chance to go to the Super Bowl again, so I'll understand if you don't want to come along."

Daphne looks over at Mohinder, who is doing his best to not look at her. "Of course I want to come, baby! If this game means this much to you, then it means a lot to me, too. And you can teach me all about football. You can explain every little play, every pass and down and home run and everything!"

Peter whispers, "I knew we should have brought our copy of Quarterback Princess!"

Matt hisses at Peter, then leans down to look at Daphne. "Are you sure you want to go? It'll be pretty boring, you know. Bunch of guys bumping into each other, getting dirty and sweaty, loud obnoxious drunk fans, overpriced snack food and public restrooms? Sound like a fun Sunday evening?"

Daphne's eyes go big and bright. "The dirtier the better!"

Matt makes a small squeak. "Hey, Nathan, how long will it take you to fly to Tampa?" he hisses as Daphne runs her small foot up the back of his leg.

"Two hours, tops."

"We'll see you there!"

"Wait!" In a flash, Matt and Daphne are gone, the large foam finger twirling like a leaf in the breeze.

"Well," Mohinder states bravely, "don't that just beat all?"

"Don't worry about it, Mohinder." Peter slaps the scientist on the back. "Let's just go and have a guys night out, watch some football, have some drinks, and not worry about any crazy blonde chicks, ok?"

"Peter? Is that you?"

"Unbefreakinglievable!" Claire Bennet steps through door leading back into the apartment building.

"Wow, Peter, fancy seeing you here. Hello…uh…fa-pa—Nathan."

Nathan reaches over to try to pat his daughter on the head, but she doesn't look like she'll go for it. "Hey, Claire. Say, would you like to go with us to the Super Bowl?" Claire's cautious grin quickly grows, and she jumps up to grab her biological father in a grateful hug. Behind her, Peter frowns and stomps his feet. Mohinder slaps Peter on the back.

"Boys night out, huh?"

"Shut up!"

~*~

Mohinder and Peter drop to the ground with a loud thud.

"Ah! Couldn't you at least have aimed for that patch of soft land over there?"

"Sorry!" Peter stands and stretches his back as he watches Nathan lilt gracefully to the ground with Claire perched horseback. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere in North Carolina, I believe. Why have we stopped anyway?"

Nathan cracks his neck. "Ok, Claire, honey, there's a tree right over there—"

"Nevermind! I don't need to go anymore!" Claire arches her back as she walks over to Peter. "I just, uh, well, I thought maybe you guys could, um, use a change. Like, since I'm way lighter than Mohinder is."

Peter shakes his head. "No, no. He's totally light!

"And since we're about half way to Tampa, I thought I'd give you a break and let you carry me, Peter. Isn't that thoughtful of me?" Before Peter can answer, Claire jumps on his back and clenches his body tightly between her arms and thighs. He shivers as she whispers in his ear, "Now, isn't this much…much better?"

"D-didn't you, uh, have a little boyfriend back in California, Claire? What ever happened to him?"

Claire waits until they are airborne again before growling, "West was a flying boy. I need a flying man."

Peter isn't sure, but he could swear he feels a hand on his ass.

~*~

It's nearly 6 PM when they land in a secluded area inside the Raymond James Stadium. Mohinder hops off Nathan as soon as they land, but Claire takes her time sliding…slowly…down from Peter's back.

"That just seemed like such a short trip," she coos, nibbling Peter's ear for a second before she peels herself away. "Can't wait for the ride back."

"Maybe I will take Mom up on that offer," Peter says to himself, shivering as Claire takes his hand and they follow Nathan and Mohinder through hallways and alcoves, finally mixing in with the thousands of people trying to find their seats.

"Nathan, how will we know which luxury suite we want to find?" Mohinder asks, but before he finishes the question, Daphne and Matt appear right in front of them. "Oh, I see you finally decided to join the party," he quips.

"This is not a party!" Nathan insists.

"Please. We've been here for almost half an hour!" Daphne yelps, her mouth full of pink oozing cotton candy. Mohinder frowns at Matt and looks away. "Where are our seats?"

Nathan smiles at her condescendingly. "We're looking for a man, late 50's, little shorter than me, very bad, too dark toupee, grey moustache, diamond earring in his right ear. Senator—"

Daphne is gone and back within seconds. "He's in Suite 42! Let's go, Matt!" Matt just has time to give Mohinder an apologetic glance before Daphne pulls him away, normal human speed.

"That's an awfully useful little ability," Nathan says, to himself. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

"Why, you want to give her a job?" Peter jokes, but Nathan isn't smiling. "Yeah, uh, I guess I could see the benefit of keeping someone around with superhuman speed."

Mohinder rolls his eyes. "Huh. For some things, faster is definitely not better!"

"What about indestructibility? I bet having a girlfriend who can't be killed would be really useful!" Claire insists, squeezing closer to Peter as they make their way to the suites. "Don't you think so, Peter? Peter? Uncle Peter?"

"Jeez, don't call me—you know, I'd really love a beer right now!"

Nathan eyes him disapprovingly. "What are you doing? You know she's underage!"

"If you want a beer, I'll get it for you!" Claire kisses Peter on the cheek and then is quickly lost in the throng of people.

Nathan shakes his head and pulls Peter close to ask, "What did you do that for?"

"What did you invite her for?" Peter hisses. "I won't have a moment's peace. She'll be all…into me…the whole time. I won't have any time to watch the game or relax or…you know…bond with you."

"I don't know what you mean, Pete."

"He means that your daughter has the hots for your brother," Mohinder adds helpfully, much to the Petrelli Brothers' obvious mortification. "It is really quite common in nature for inc—"

"I think you've been inhaling too many chemicals, doctor!"

"But…I can see with my own eyes that—"

"Suite 42!" Peter and Nathan sigh gratefully as they make their way toward the luxury suite door, which is guarded by three large stadium security guys.

"Alright, Pete, let me do the talking. Don't say anything until I ask."

"Uh huh."

"If I need you to use your ability, I'll point to you."

"Right."

"Only say to them what I tell you to say, word for word."

"Ok, Nathan! Jeez!"

"I mean it, Pete. Don't screw this up," Nathan growls just before putting on his best, senatorial smile and extending his hand to the largest of the large security guys. "Good evening. I'm—"

"Right this way, Senator. Please enjoy the game." The three men stand aside and let Nathan, Peter and Mohinder in through the glass doors of the luxury suite with no fuss whatsoever. Once inside they are greeted by Matt and Daphne, who are enthusiastically working on a pitcher of mojitos.

"Well," Peter states, "it was a struggle, but we talked our way through."

Nathan flops down in a leather recliner and rubs his tired eyes. "Shut up."

"Yeah," Matt explains, "once we got up here I just gave those guys a nice little 'talk', and we were in like flint!"

"So, where's the guy I'm looking for?" Nathan quibbles. He turns to his right, then yelps when he sees the senator sitting in a chair, eyes open, immobile, apparently catatonic. "What the hell, Matt?"

Matt goes pink. "Yeah, uh, he was a little, uh, difficult, so I had to calm him down, and I sorta made him think he was in the 5th grade again. I, um, I guess he didn't like the 5th grade so much."

"Well you just better—wait." Nathan sits down next to the senator, waves his hand in front of the man's face. Nothing but a twitch of an eye. "Is he, like, hypnotized?"

Matt takes a bite of a hot dog. "It's really more complicated than that, Nathan. You see, I create a—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. If I talk to him like this, can I get information out of him?"

Mohinder crosses his arms. "I don't think that is ethical."

Matt agrees. "Yeah, that can be dangerous, man. I don't know."

"Really? Oh, remind me," Nathan challenges, "what were you two doing earlier this afternoon?"

Frowning, Mohinder rushes into the suite's private bathroom and locks the door. Daphne looks up at Matt, whose eyes are wide and bulging.

"Honey? Mohinder was visiting you while I was in Kansas?"

"Have a mojito, dear," Matt mumbles as he looks at her out of the corner of his eye and pushes into her mind something about being king of the heterosexuals.

Peter shakes his head. "I'm gonna go find Claire," he says to himself as he walks out of the suite. "At least then I'm the center of attention."

~*~

A small group of reporters have descended upon suite 42 when Peter returns, without Claire. He slides around them to stand next to his brother, who is being interviewed by someone from a New York paper.

"Of course I love football," Nathan answers with a beautiful smile, "and even though my state isn't represented tonight, I wouldn't miss the chance to come down here and witness our great American pastime in person."

"I thought baseball was the great American pastime," replies a British female reporter with a mass of large brunette curls. Nathan looks over at her, tenses only for a moment, and then smiles.

"Well, for today anyway, it's the Super Bowl. The eyes of the world are on us right now. It's an exciting day."

Another reporter speaks up. "Senator, who are you rooting for?"

Nathan freezes. "Who am I rooting for?"

"Yeah, which team?"

"Uh." Nathan looks to Peter for help, but Peter just shrugs. "You know, I…I…really can't say that…but, uh, I always root for the New York team at home!"

"Oh, really. The Giants or the Jets?"

"Um…how…uh…are you from the Post?"

"I think it's a trick question," Peter hisses in his brother's ear. "Let me put the brain whammy on him!"

"Senator Petrelli, I think it's time for that private interview we discussed earlier." It's the woman from before. She is wearing large round sunglasses that practically hide her face, but Nathan can still tell how attractive she was. Plus, Nathan always had a thing for accents. He smiles and nods his head.

"You're absolutely right. That'll be all for now, guys, thanks." Once the others are gone, Nathan steps forward and extends his hand to the mysterious Brit. "Thank you for that. It's always such a hassle, picking teams. As a senator, I find it better to remain unbiased about such things, publicly."

The woman takes his hand and smiles. "Well, blimey. One hopes a man such as yourself isn't unbiased about…private things."

"Mm, indeed. Which paper are you from anyway, Miss…?"

"I'm, um, from the London paper," she says, a little nervously.

"Oh. The Times?"

She smiles and cocks her head. "Bob's your uncle!"

"You really are too cute. What's your name?" The woman flirtatiously steps closer, and once Nathan sees her face, his jaw drops. She introduces herself as Helena Bonham-Winslet, but all Nathan can fathom is, but for the hair, she is a dead ringer for Tracy and Nikki.

"I've found you," he whispers aloud. "I found the last triplet."

~*~

"Here comes the kickoff, Daphne!" Matt yells toward the bathroom from his oh-so comfy seat. Mohito in one hand, nachos in the other, Matt would be feeling on top of the world, except that Mohinder is staring daggers at him from the bar. "What, man?"

"You know I don't like jalapeno peppers!" Mohinder scoffs.

"I ordered them with no jalapenos…just for you."

"Oh." Mohinder walks over and tentatively sits in the big comfy chair next to Matt. "So, uh, according to Wikipedia, Pittsburg is supposed to win by 7. Do you agree with this assessment…Matt?"

Smiling proudly, Matt holds the nacho he was about to eat out so Mohinder can a bite. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Nathan escorts the reporter inside the suite so quickly that the door nearly slams in Peter's face. "Why don't we just sit down here so we can become…better acquainted?"

Peter follows, ego and nose nearly bruised. "Nathan! What the hell did you do that for? Who is this?"

Nathan throws a nearby cup towel over the catatonic senator's head and then stands in front of the body. "Everyone this is, uh…Miss Bonham-Winslet, a reporter from London. She's here to interview me, so, uh, could you guys give us a few minutes?"

Eyes glued to the game, Matt only says, "No freaking way am I leaving this spot, man."

Helena giggles. "My, my. He's a cheeky monkey, right bleedin'?"

Mohinder turns, as if listening to beautiful music that suddenly went terribly sharp. "Excuse me? You are from London?"

"Uh…don't be daft," Helena laughs, nervously. "Whew, I sure am knackered after…uh…that fortnight of…uh…buggery bollocks, I could sure use a drink!" She rushes over to the bar and starts mixing herself a drink. Mohinder looks at Nathan skeptically.

"Who is she? Her accent is—"

"Yeah," Nathan sighs, staring at her tight, short skirt. "Isn't it…sexy?"

"No," Peter spits. "What's the deal, man? I thought you came here to talk to light as a feather stiff as a board over there!"

"Have a drink, Pete," Nathan murmurs, watching Helena cross the room with 2 drinks in her hand. "Have a few."

"Now, then, Senator." Helena hands Nathan a drink and purrs, "Have you sussed out how we can, er, go off and have a chat…alone…without the, uh, bollocky wankers watching?"

"Well," Nathan replies softly, "there's always the private bathroom."

"Oh," she giggles, "Right bleedin'!"

"Wait a minute!" Mohinder crosses the room to look more closely at the reporter, who steps away from him nervously. "I know that laugh, don't I?"

"Sod off, you tosser!"

"Hold up, Suresh." Nathan reaches over and removes Helena's sunglasses. Peter and Mohinder gasp. "Don't you see? It's her. The third sister! I am so in!"

The reporter backs away to the wall, screaming, "I don't know what you crazy Yanks are on about, but…but…I don't have a sister…I don't even know who this Tracy is!"

Peter clears his throat. "Uh, he never said the name Tracy."

Helena goes pink. "Uh…throw another shrimp on the barbie?"

"Nice try, woman," Mohinder growls, and then reaches over and snatches her by the hair. The short brown wig comes off easily, leaving in its wake Tracy Strauss' thin long blonde tresses. Nathan's jaw drops again, and then he lets out a childish groan of disappointment.

"I can't believe you fell for it," Tracy retorts as she finger combs her hair. "I guess you don't have to be too bright to be a senator. And the bathroom? Real romantic!"

"I was so close," Nathan complains. He flops down on the couch with his drink. "Well, like I told you last week, Tracy, we're finished. You wasted whatever time and money you spent to follow me down here."

"Oh, come on, Nathan. You know we make a great couple! You need someone in your life. Someone to support you and take care of you and rub your tired shoulders and let you use them and abuse them in any way you see fit, only to come crawling back and begging forgiveness and pledging your undying devotion…all in a really nice little package," she explains, running her hand up and down her tight little package. "Who's gonna do all that for you and be an independent person and be the last face you see when you go to sleep and the first face you see when you wake up?"

Peter stands up ceremoniously, his hand over his heart. "Oh my God in heaven, that person should be—Claire?" Mohinder, Nathan, and Tracy turn around to the door. Claire is in the doorway. Five feet above the floor.

"I tried…I really tried to get you a beer, Peter. But they wouldn't let me! They kept wanting to see my license!" Claire whimpers as her feet dangle helplessly above the floor. "I told them it was for you…my favorite uncle…my way over 21, nearly 10 years older than me uncle—"

"Oh, God."

"But they wouldn't listen! So I tried to go behind the concession stand and take it…because I knew how important it was for you to get that watered down, cheap, domestic lager—"

"I, uh, only drink imported, so…"

"And then someone tackled me…and then a fight broke out…and then this happened!" Breathing fast and shallow, Claire opens her coat to reveal a replica glass Super Bowl trophy embedded in her torso, the football atop a sharp point jutting out of her broken and bloodied ribcage.

Peter gasps. "Oh my God! Claire, honey, are you ok?"

Claire bites her lip and puts on a brave face. "You…you called me 'honey'!"

Mohinder rolls his eyes. "What is she doing up there?"

"Oh," Claire groans, shoulders slumping. "That's the other thing." She falls to the ground, revealing that behind her stands, holding a large platter of nachos, an Arizona Cardinals jersey-wearing Sylar.

"Hey," Sylar declares, "I brought nachos, no jalapenos." Mohinder gasps, and Matt finally turns his attention away from the game long enough to stand and scream, "Get that guy outta here and away from my—"

"Oh, Matt!" Daphne, just returned from running to Philly to get her man the cheese steak he requested, drops the sandwich and curly fries and runs into Matt's arms. "Wow, you're so protective of me! You adore me! Oh, I forgot the hot peppers, but I know you don't care, as long as I'm here and safe, right?"

Matt looks at the intense gaze going between Sylar and Mohinder, and sighs dejectedly. "Uh, yeah. Right."

"Well, isn't this great?" Sylar walks in, sets down the food, stretches and flops down into the cool leather sofa. "I've never been to the Super Bowl before, and now I get to see it in the lap of luxury."

Nathan looks over at Claire, cursing as she removes the statuette from her body. "You ok, pumpkin?"

"Don't call me…ugh…pumpkin!" Peter grabs a towel from the bar and dabs at the blood gushing from Claire's wounds. "Ow…it hurts."

"Don't worry, it's healing already, pumpkin."

"Oh…I like that." Claire holds Peter's hand, now stained with her blood, over the gaping wound in her belly. "Call me 'pumpkin' again."

Sylar laughs. "You Petrellis really ought to have your own TV show. Something on VH-1, maybe Bravo. The ratings would be huge."

Mohinder shakes himself out of his surprise. "What are you doing here, Sylar? This is a private party!"

"For the billionth time, this is not a party!" whines Nathan.

"Why do you think I came?" Sylar replies, then takes the mojito Matt had just poured for himself, takes a sip and frowns. "Yuck, too much water." Matt starts to lunge forward, but Daphne holds him back. "I came to see the great American pastime. To watch the Cardinals cream those sissy boy Steelers."

"Let me at him!" Matt growls.

"I had no idea you followed football," Mohinder says, carefully, eyes lowered.

"There are a lot of things you have yet to discover about me, Dr. Suresh." Sylar stands and carries the nachos he'd brought over for Mohinder to try. "I bet you haven't had any decent nachos since before you lived with that flatfoot. What was it you said last week at the Inauguration? That he 'could burn ice cream'?"

Matt frantically starts checking his pockets. "Where's my gun? Where's my gun?"

Peter lifts his hand from Claire's body. She's completely healed. "Hey, look, you're all better now. Let me help you up." With his help, Claire stands up and leans into Peter, clutching at his arms like someone drained of all their strength. "You've been through a lot, maybe you should go home."

"No! I'm ok, I wanna stay here," Claire insists as her arm snakes around Peter's waist, "with you."

"But you're all…gross." Peter makes a face at the bloody clothes, so jagged and torn that they barely cover her anymore. "Look, you're practically naked."

A small crooked smile covers Claire's face. "Well…there's a start."

"Ok, ok, that's about enough!" Nathan takes his wallet out and hands Tracy a few bills. "Here, why don't you go and buy Claire a T-shirt or something?" Tracy looks at the money and shrugs.

"You've made it clear that I'm not your advisor, your girlfriend or your lover anymore. Why should I do anything for you?"

Nathan looks at Tracy's tight outfit. "Well, maybe we can, uh, revisit some of your former, uh, positions."

"Ohh. There's quite a few positions I'd like to revisit with you, Senator!"

"Stop it!" Peter rushes forward, leaving Claire to tumble back to the floor. He grabs the money and stands between his brother and the woman he refers to in his head as Blonde Bimbo #2. "It's over, Tracy! Get that through your thick skull, ok?"

"Nathan, would you tell your noisy kid brother to mind his own business?"

Nathan can't help smiling. He loves to be fought over. "Well, Peter's just trying to protect me. I mean, really, what is it with you? Aren't you still dating Suresh?"

"No, no," Mohinder peeps around the nachos—homemade—that Sylar keeps feeding him, "our relationship was strictly…business." Sylar giggles.

"Well then why, Tracy? Why do you keep after me like this?"

"Because you're hot, man!" Peter clears his throat. "What I mean is, your hair is hot. I mean…uh…you're sexy…I mean, women think you're sexy…I mean…well, probably a lot of guys think you're sexy…I mean, guys you're not relat—ugh, she just wants to be first lady some day!" Peter sputters, red-faced.

"Damn right I want to be first lady!" Tracy retaliates. "I earned it!"

Nathan laughs. "Doing what?"

"Putting up with you! You and your God complexes, your Mommy complexes, your back hair, and most of all, your brother complexes!"

Nathan takes offense. "I do not have back hair."

"You…have complexes?" Peter whispers, smiling shyly. "About me?"

"Uh…just forget it, Tracy! It's over, I really mean it!"

Peter tilts his head and sneers at Tracy. "You see? Nathan doesn't want you anymore, so you can just—ah…ah! What are you…doing…you…biiiiii!"

Nathan stares blankly at his brother, now frozen to the bone in mid rant. "Tracy! What the hell? You froze my brother!"

"Peter!" Claire, brandishing the bloodied trophy that someone had just stabbed her with, stomps toward Tracy, clearly intent on retaliation. "I'll get you! I'll kill you!" She lunges, and then takes off after Tracy, chasing her around the suite several times before they both go screaming through the door and down the corridor. Nathan hangs his head.

"I'll never be president now."

"Told ya they should have their own show!" Sylar adds helpfully.

A soft groan comes from the frozen Peter. "—iiiiitch!"

"Pete!" Nathan grabs his brothersicle by the shoulders, watching with grateful eyes as Peter starts to thaw. "Oh, thank God. I guess you were close enough to Claire to absorb her healing abilities, right?"

"Y-y-yeaaah." The breath comes like icy puffs from his ice covered lips. "S-s-she…h-h-had…hands…all…o-o-over…me…during…f-f-flight…f-f-feel so…d-d-dirty…"

"I need some blankets! Get me some blankets!" The others just shrug helplessly. "Forget it!" Nathan sinks his brother to the floor, then frantically rips off jacket and shirt and presses his bare-chested body to his brother's cold form. "I can use my body heat to warm him up!" Nathan insists to the others' curious eyes. "It's the only way to do it properly! Remember, Peter used to be a nurse!"

"Y-y-yeah," Peter adds, "w-w-we've done th-th-this bef-f-fore!"

"I'll bet," Mohinder and Sylar say at the same time, then, "jinx!"

"Honey," Daphne whispers to Matt, "Is that Rick Springfield down there?"

"Ok, that's it!" Matt looks down at the crowd gearing up for Bruce Springsteen's halftime show. "Damn it! Its half time already, and you guys have made me miss half the game! Look, I don't care if you guys try to kill each other or freeze each other or…do anything else to each other, but be freaking quiet so I can watch the rest of the game! This is a once in a lifetime chance, and I am not going to let you guys ruin it for me! So sit your buts down, have a beer, eat a hot dog and shut the hell up!"

No one seems to want to argue with the fire in Matt's eyes, so everyone settles down to watch the halftime show. Sylar and Mohinder sit on the couch, their hands shoved deep down into an oversized bowl of snacks between them. Daphne sits draped over Matt, lulled into calmness by the beers he keeps giving her.

Nathan looks down at his brother in his arms. "You at 98.6 degrees yet, bro?"

Peter grabs on tighter, lets Nathan rock him longer. "Not yet," he lies.

~*~

Sometime during a break in the third quarter, Daphne points to one of the large television screens in the suite. "Hey, look, it's the trailer for the new Star Trek movie!" They watch intently, until Mohinder nearly gags on his cotton candy and points at the screen.

"Hey, Sylar, doesn't that actor sort of look like you?"

Sylar squints at the screen, then shakes his head. "Are you kidding? I am so much hotter than that guy."

Mohinder sits back. "Yeah…I mean…um…you killed my father and I will always hate you!" Sylar smiles and leans over to bite into Mohinder's big poof of cotton candy.

"Whatever you say, Moh-Moh."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?

"You know I hate when you call me that," Mohinder blushingly murmurs.

Matt looks over his shoulder and grimaces.

Peter scoffs and looks down at his brother's sleeping face in his lap. "And he says we should have our own TV show. Weirdoes."

~*~

"Yes!" Matt stands and does a little victory dance. "I told you the Steelers were gonna take this!"

"It ain't over yet," Sylar insists as he stands from his seat next Mohinder and looks down at the game play. "There's still time for the, uh…" He looks down at the team logo on his stolen jersey. "Cardinals to pull it out."

Matt glowers at Sylar. "You don't even care, do you? You're just rooting for Arizona to get back at me!"

"Now why would I do that?" Sylar smiles as he looks down at the field, raising his hand. Matt scratches helplessly at the Plexiglas window as the ball, just zooming toward a Pittsburg wide receiver, suddenly changes direction and flies yards away into the astounded arms of an Arizona player. "There we go!"

"No fair! Mohinder, make him stop!"

"What can I do?" Mohinder asks. "I'm just a lowly little geneticist, not a sweet little blonde superhero! I guess I'll just sit here and watch the game all by myself, without my apartment or my adopted daughter who was sent away—"

"Ok, ok, jeez!" Mohinder smiles triumphantly as Sylar brings him a flute of champagne. "Oh, no, I shouldn't have any. Champagne goes right to my head!"

Sylar looks the scientist up and down. "Yes…I remember."

Mohinder looks away before he can blush too harshly. "Well, uh, you know I've never been to an American football game before."

"So what do you think?"

"Well…it's ok, but it's not as exciting as real football. You Americans call it soccer.

"Really? I had no idea," Sylar quips, rolling his eyes.

"Yes. Real football is so exciting. It's the world's sport, you know. There's so much more action, more athleticism—"

"More guys with really great legs."

"Yeah…uh, I don't know what you mean."

"Sure, you don't."

"You do know that I was recently, uh, well, dating Tracy Strauss. And before that I was with Maya. You remember Maya, don't you?"

Sylar shivers. "Don't remind me. Pretending to be into her was some of the best acting I ever did!"

"Really? So…no lady friends…since then?"

"There was Elle." Sylar's smile dissipates, replaced by a look of regret. "She, uh, had an accident."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, her skull accidentally ran into my finger."

Mohinder downs his champagne and scoots further away on the couch.

~*~

It's nearly the end of the game when Claire, wearing a Steelers cheerleader outfit, stomps back into the suite and heads right for the bar. She pours herself a badly mixed drink and gulps it down, hissing as the alcohol burns her throat. As she pours another, Nathan walks toward her carefully, like she might bolt any second.

"Claire, you really shouldn't do that."

"I just got had a catfight with that crazy Tracy woman in the Steelers locker room. I need a drink."

"But you're so young. You don't want to develop bad habits, do you?"

Claire stares Nathan down. "What kind of bad habits? Like having unprotected sex with blondes you barely know and then abandoning your bastard daughter? Or having sex with crazy blonde bimbos and letting people videotape it only to later try to blackmail you? Or maybe you mean having sex with that crazy bimbo's even crazier twin sister minutes after saving her from trying to commit suicide? Is that what you mean by bad habits, Daddy?"

Mohinder raises his hand. "I think he means bad habits like making passes at your own un—"

"There you are, you little brat!" Tracy, wearing a shredded Cardinals cheerleader uniform, clomps into the suite, grabs a glass of water and freezes it in her hand. "Look at me! I look like a cheap floozy in this!"

"It suits you perfectly!" Peter states, right before getting hit with the frozen glass right in the face. "Ow!"

Claire jumps over the counter and tackles Tracy to the floor. "You leave Peter alone!"

"Gee, you protect Peter, but do you ever come to your own father's defense, noooooo!" Nathan complains.

Matt screams, "Will you guys shut up? There's only 90 seconds left in the game!"

The noise wakes up Daphne from her inebriated sleep. "Who won, the Yankees or the Mets?"

"Nathan, get your little brat off me!" Tracy screams. She tries to freeze Claire, but each piece of Claire's skin she touches immediately heals. The two go rolling across the floor, knocking over the TV stand with all the yummy snacks. Matt jumps to his feet and claps his hands loudly.

"If you people don't quit it, I'll create a mass illusion so that everyone here thinks they're in a never-ending loop of Gigli! I'll do it, I will!"

Sylar bursts out of the bathroom. "All right! Fight fight fight!"

Mohinder pokes his head out of the bathroom, too. "He was just helping me with an eyelash in my eye, that's all!

Matt closes his eyes, and suddenly the flickering image of 2003 era Bennifer appears in the middle of the room. "I can't be stopped!" Matt warns. "I'm a tiger!"

Peter flips his hair out of his face and stands firm amidst the chaos. "Bring it on. I ain't afraid of no J-Lo movie!"

"Stop!" Nathan shouts, hovering in the air. "Do as I say…I'm a senat—"

Suddenly, the suite lights go out, the liquor bottles go flying and crashing against the glass windows, and the television sets explode. The smoke then sets off the room sprinklers, and the spraying water quickly freezes and blankets the room with snow and ice.

A head pops in the suite door, followed by two, three, 10 more. Security guys, fans walking by, and a TV camera crew all stare at the at the glass walls of the suite, which is consumed with smoke and fog. Eventually someone comes out of the vapor and debris. Claire.

"Eagles fans," she blurts, pointing to the mess behind her. "Bastards."

~*~

"Nathan! You're calling your mother? Have you come to your senses? Shall I arrange a date for you with one of the ladies in this book?"

"Ma, no, I need a favor!"

"Yes, of course, I can give you a number out of this…let me see…oh, shall I try this number for 'Tito's Escort Service,' dear? You have three asterisks next to the number!"

Nathan sighs and takes his cell phone into the bathroom, away from the mess and the security people and the fire marshals and Matt crying because he missed the last play of the game. "Ma, listen. I need to get a hold of the Haitian, right now!"

Angela clears her throat. "Why? What do you need to forget? What did you and Peter do?"

"It's not for me, Ma. We're down here in Tampa and…um…things got out of hand. And there are witnesses. A lot of witnesses. It's a mess, Ma. We need him down here. If anyone connects me with this, it could be the end of my career, Ma. Ma! Ma?"

"I'm here, darling. I'll put in a call, see what I can do."

Nathan sinks to the floor of the bathroom. It was really nice, before Daphne puked all over it. "Thanks, Ma."

"Of course. That's what mothers do; clean up their sons' messes."

"I guess so."

"So who's down there with you?"

"Peter, Claire, Matt Parkman, some girl named Daphne, Tracy, Mohinder Suresh and, uh, Sylar."

"Oh, dear."

"Don't worry, I don't think he's killed anyone. Yet."

"Yes, well, when you get a chance, ask him and Mohinder if they've seen my ruby ring. I was wearing it last week at your Inauguration party and now I just can't seem to find it."

Nathan's eyebrows go up. "The ring you always wear on your middle finger?"

Angela coughs to cover the embarrassed squeak in her voice. "Yes."

"Wait a minute, Ma. Why would they know where you lost your ring?"

"I'll have The Haitian call you right away." Angela hangs up the phone and then hits #1 on her speed dial. "It's me. Tampa, now. Hit everyone. Everyone."

The End