Characters: Mainly Peter and Nathan, with the rest of the Petrellis making their appearances. Short appearances and cameos by Bob Bishop, Charles Deveaux, and an invisible Claude (at least I think so, you can't really be sure.)
Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and a bunch of other awesome people.
Author's Note: Sparked by a deleted scene in Six Months Ago first and foremost, and then grew rapidly with all the little hints to the Petrellis' past on the show. Contains alternating episodes in the present (Arthur's death until right before the start of season 1) and flashbacks going further back in time with each (as far back as 1979, guess why. ;))
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Fathers and Sons
April, 2006
"Dad's dead."
Peter still remembered the complete absence of any feeling at hearing the words from Nathan three days ago. It hadn't even been shock or disbelief. It had just been impossible to comprehend. Nathan might as well have been talking in a foreign language.
The shock had set in when Nathan had pushed him away as Peter had made a step towards him – to comfort Nathan or to be comforted, he wasn't sure; when Peter, still uncomprehending, had whispered, "Our father just died, Nathan…" and Nathan had replied, "My father just died. You gave up on him a long time ago."
He'd given Peter a curt nod and walked away, leaving him standing in front of his mirror, all suited up for the disposition that was never going to happen now.
That had been the last time he'd spoken to Nathan. When he had arrived at his parents' home – no, his mother's home, now – Nathan had not met his eyes. Peter had not been able to muster the nerve to call his brother over the past few days. He wasn't sure how he would have dealt with it if Nathan had still avoided him.
"Peter? Peter!"
Peter snapped out of his thoughts and became aware that Stephanie, his colleague, had apparently been trying to get through to him for quite a while now. He straightened in the white plastic canteen chair and shook his head a little to clear it. "Sorry. I… I guess I wasn't listening. What did you say?"
"That your lunch is getting cold and we're supposed to be back up in the ward in five minutes." Her eyes were sympathetic.
Peter glanced down at the table in front of him and found that an untouched plate with what might be described as rice and fried vegetables was in front of him. He only had a fuzzy recollection of how it had got there, or what he'd wanted to do with it.
"Pete, nobody would have blamed you if you'd stayed at home for another day. You were entitled to three."
Peter started picking at the vegetables. The carrots fell apart as the tried to get them onto his fork "I couldn't face another day at home with nothing to do."
"Just don't fall asleep on your round, okay?" She arranged her tray as requested by the canteen staff – cutlery next to plate, not on top – and headed off to the used dishes counter.
Peter rubbed his face, and forced himself to gulp down a few mouthfuls of food before getting up as well to take back his tray. The toadlike woman behind the counter barked at him for not disposing of the remnants of his food, and daring to leave the cutlery in the middle of the plate.
"Give him a break, will you?" Stephanie, who'd hung around, snapped at her. "His father just died a few days ago."
"Can't know that, can I?" the woman replied gruffly. "Condolences."
Peter murmured that it was okay, and followed Stephanie out of the canteen and to the elevators.
He, Stephanie and the other thirteen nurses of their year were doing one-week cycles of different kinds of nursing duties to help them with choosing a specialty; Peter already knew it was never going to be surgical ward. It was too loud, too hectic, too many people as a general rule. Right now, however, he was almost glad to be completely involved, to have to focus on something that was not his father or his brother. It was easier to keep focused than he'd feared. The breaks were the biggest problem. Once or twice, when his mind found the opportunity to dwell on the past few days for a longer stretch than he usually permitted it, he wondered what was actually worst – his father's death, or his brother's silence.
Steph suggested that he could come over after work, for a round of Scrabble. He considered it, but then decided against it. He was glad she hadn't offered to talk, but to pass the time; but he didn't think he would be up to it.
Peter took a cab back to his apartment and turned on the TV before he'd even taken off his jacket, just to have some background noise. He didn't care what was on but flopped down in front of the TV just to watch other people's lives, so he didn't have to deal with his own just yet. He fell asleep on the sofa well past midnight.
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August, 2001
"You want to do what?"
Peter set his jaw. He had expected this reaction, and had mentally prepared himself for the confrontation he knew must follow.
"I'm gonna do a gap year. Voluntary social work. You said yourself I should get a move on after college."
Arthur Petrelli snorted. "I wasn't talking about… teaching kids in Venezuela to play soccer."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Dad, I said nothing about Venezuela or soccer. Voluntary social work can be anything. Work in a nursery school – a hospital – residential homes, or things like that. I haven't decided yet."
"'Voluntary' implies you're not planning on getting paid, I take it."
Peter had feared that this would be the first topic that would come up. "I can get a place here in New York, I wouldn't have to find an apartment somewhere. It's just one year. What I don't want is to just start any sort of job training and then find out it was the wrong choice. I just need some time to – to sort out what I want to do." He shot a glance at his mother across the table, hoping for some support, but Angela Petrelli remained diplomatically and frustratingly silent.
Arthur Petrelli pushed away his plate with a finality that implied the discussion was closed. "You need time to sort out what you want to do? Join the military. Plenty of opportunities, and you get paid."
Peter had hoped that this particular topic would not come up, but he refused to let his career choices be decided by a soup plate. "Pop, we already discussed that." His voice was quiet. "I'm not gonna do military service."
"What, be the first Petrelli in three generations who doesn't serve his country?"
Peter sighed. "What good is it gonna do the country if I crawl around in the mud? I want to serve the people, Dad, not some country."
Arthur cast a look at Angela that said, Do you hear this? Where does he get the nerve to talk that way?, but she didn't come to his aid either.
He turned back to his son. "Don't you give me any of that talk, Peter. Just look at your brother for once. He—"
"I'm looking at Nathan! He's kinda hard to overlook, isn't he? But I'm not him!" Peter exhaled sharply, and saw that his mother was now watching the exchange with interest; these exchanges weren't new, but they had never been this heated on Peter's part. Most of them had ended with Peter doing what was expected of him anyway.
"It was… it was different back then, Dad. In Grandpa's time, it was World War II. For you and Nathan, it was the Cold War. I can sort of see the point there. But the Cold War's over. And I – I just don't see the point in doing military service, just because it's been a tradition. Military service, law school – Nathan did all that. It's just not what I want."
"So what is it you want?" Arthur scoffed at him. "Minimum wage? Wiping other people's butts?"
"It's not exactly as if I have much of an overview what other career choices there are, is it? With pretty much the rest of the family being lawyers?"
"And what makes you think that the rest of the family is that misguided?"
Peter hesitated for a couple of seconds before he said what he was going to say, but then he figured he couldn't make things any worse anymore. "You protect criminals, Dad. All sorts of people who ought to be in jail walk free because of you, tax dodgers, mobsters, murderers or – or rapists for all I know—"
"You're being ridiculous, Peter. There's not a single rapist in this country that walks free because of me!"
Peter wondered whether his father had left the murderers out on purpose. "I don't care, right? So everyone in our family's been in the military, so everyone went to law school – I 'm different then, okay? Can't I just be different? What's so bad about that?"
Arthur rose so vehemently that he nearly overturned his chair. "Be as different as you want, Peter. Just don't expect me to pay any of your bills." And he turned abruptly and went up the stairs.
As soon as he was out of sight – and earshot – Angela reached over to cover Peter's hand with her own. "You know him, Peter. If you meant to antagonize him, you couldn't have done any better."
He cast her a sour look. "Thanks for speaking up for me there, Ma."
She withdrew her hand and gave him a superior look. "All I could have done would have been to tell you to stop it after the first three sentences, Peter. And we both know you wouldn't have done that." Peter stared at a stain on the tablecloth in front of him and made no reply.
"Just let it rest a while," Angela went on. "You still have until next summer. Try again in a few weeks. And if you want my advice, leave Nathan out of your reasoning. You think he's done all those things to get them out of your way, so you're free to do something else. It doesn't work like that, Peter. He set the standards, and as long as Arthur lives, he'll measure you by them."
Peter turned to look at her again. "But you won't."
She brushed a strand of hair of his face. "I'll try not to. A nurse, maybe? It would be a change in this family."
He gave her a half-smile. "Thanks, Mom."
