Summary: In the aftermath of Peter's first flight we discover that despite their troubled relationship, father and son may have more in common than previously thought. AU
Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I love it!
Chip off the ol' Block
Not many people have a favorite desk, but Angela did. It was made of cherry colored wood; old yet well preserved with all the original drawer pulls and it alone held the distinction of being the only piece of furniture to have survived three separate redecorations of the Petrelli home. One designer had had the gall to suggest that they either sell the piece or at least move it to a less focal area of the house.
"Like an attic or basement," the man had joked.
Angela hadn't been amused. It was her desk, or, as she privately called the delicate antique, their desk. Angela had first seen the desk during a trip through Pennsylvania she and Arthur had taken while they were still dating. The then young woman had fallen in love with the romantic piece in a rural antiques shop but she had been severely disappointed to learn that it wasn't for sale.
She was justifiably shocked when she returned home from the trip and discovered the desk in her bedroom. Ecstatically pleased not only with the desk but with the display of affection from her generally unromantic beau, she immediately called Arthur to thank him for the gift.
"Open the top drawer." She could still remember the mysterious tinge to his voice and how she had shivered at the sound.
"Hmm, another surprise?" She looked back and laughed at how willingly she complied with his directions.
Inside she had found a ring. The ring. The ring that would lead her parents to boast of their daughter's good match. The ring that would cause her friends to congratulate her openly but jealously berate her in secret. The ring that she would usually cherish but sometimes loathes. One day it was a golden ticket, a key to the highest circles in the city; the next it was a noose growing tighter and less escapable every day. The ring was a blessing and a curse in the truest sense of the cliché.
The desk, however, was a constant good. It signified not only a wonderful vacation, but more importantly, it spoke of a thoughtful, sensitive lover. She kept it in easy view and made a special point to use it regularly as a reminder of who her husband had been, who he could be if you were to strip away work and his CAP obligations. It wasn't just important to her. It was vital to her sanity.
With the high levels of stress in the Petrelli home in the days following Peter's incident, Angela felt an intense need for the comfort of her desk and so she found herself sitting at her old friend going over the guest list for a dinner party she was planning. Arthur sat across the room, feigning interest in the day's edition of the Times. He held the paper in front of him, but the absence of the distinctively soft rustling of turning pages told Angela that he had been staring at the same page for nearly half an hour. Some might argue that he was simply being a careful reader, but a wife doesn't live with her husband for as long as Angela had without recognizing trends in behavior. She knew it was unusual.
"They're late," Arthur complained, breaking the silence of the room.
"Who, dear?" she asked, though she knew he referred to her sons and granddaughter. Nathan had taken the children to the park at Angela's suggestion when Arthur had returned from work in a dark mood.
"Don't be stupid, Angela," Arthur growled, lowering his paper in order to throw a razor edged glance at his wife. "You know who I'm talking about."
Angela turned to face her husband, hurt at his curt language and bewildered by his increasingly foul behavior. "Arthur dinner isn't for a half an hour so how do you figure they're late?"
Arthur snorted in response. "By the time they get home and get ready for dinner they will be. You know what a mess Peter makes of himself where there is even slightly exposed earth, let alone the park. It takes 40 minutes just to wash his hands. Nathan was never such a damn messy kid."
The affronted mother threw down her pen. "My God, Arthur what is wrong with you? You've been so eager to pick a fight these past few days. You even snapped at Claire last night."
He crumpled his paper and threw it to the corner of the sofa. "Is it really so much to ask that my family should be on time for dinner? Is it such a monumentally difficult task?"(1)
"Oh, really Arthur, we both know this isn't about dinner or punctuality. You're still angry that I pulled Peter out of Hillcrest: the Petrelli family tradition. Admit it."
"I don't give a damn about Hillcrest," he muttered, brushing past Angela to pour himself another drink. Angela was silent as she watched her husband serve himself. The only noise in the room was the delicate tinkling of ice against crystal.
"Peter apologized for what he did," she said quietly. "It's unfair of you to continue holding it against him. He…"
"Will you shut up about Peter?" he shouted loudly, slamming his glass against the mahogany of the bar. He cursed as alcohol sloshed over the brim of the cup and onto his hand and the wood below. "Just stop for five minutes Angela." He wearily ran his drenched hand over his face. "You have no idea what is…what I've…" His back was to her but she caught his reflection in the decorative mirror hanging on the wall. She saw the frantic look in his eyes, a look uncharacteristic of the great Arthur Petrelli except in rare cases. Few people were ever allowed the level of intimacy required to correctly identify the meaning behind this panic, but Angela wasn't just anybody. She was his wife of 23 years. Over two decades she had lived with the man; loved him; bore his children. She knew that look.
Suddenly it all made sense. The anger. The frustration. The emotional and physical distance. "You've been dreaming again," she gasped, crossing the room in long strides to be beside the brooding man. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Don't Angela," he warned. "I can't talk about this. Not with you."
"I'm your wife," she reminded him, placing her hands against his rigid back. "If you can't confide in me, whom can you confide in?"
He turned and grasped her hand tightly in his own. "No one," he said sadly. "I don't know if even I understand them. They're different and strange." He laughed miserably. "If only we all had the gift flight, life would be much easier."
"Maybe I can help you," Angela persuaded, feeling closer to her husband than she had in weeks. "Please let me try."
He pulled his wife flush against himself and hissed into her ear, "Leave. It. Alone."
Any response she wanted to give was forgotten as the sound of her children returning home rang loudly through the house. Peter rushed into the room first, shouting incoherently while dancing an impromptu jig. Claire giggled happily from her perch in Nathan's arms, clapping along with her uncle's silly dance.
"Peter, calm down," Arthur ordered releasing his wife who quickly stepped away from him. "What's the meaning of all this nonsense?" Angela shot her husband a warning glance at his harsh words for their obviously elated son.
Peter, however, was too beyond himself with joy to mind his father's attitude. "I did it. I really really did it," he said after taking little calming gulps of air. "I flew! Didn't I, Nate?"
"He did," Nathan grinned proudly as he set Claire on the floor beside his brother. "And he didn't even need a launch point, just pushed himself off the ground like an old pro." He ruffled his brother's hair as he walked over to the bar. "Way to go, Pete. Here's a tip: flying really impresses girls. (2)" Nathan winked and laughed when Peter's seven-year-old mentality forced him to communicate his disgust.
Angela congratulated Peter on his success and pointedly ignored Nathan when he exclaimed "What happened?" upon sight of the flooded bar counter. Claire had attached herself to her uncle's waist, her young heart catching the flame of excitement that she sensed burning around her though she didn't exactly understand the cause. Peter hugged her back good-naturedly. Annoying as she could be, he loved his niece. He couldn't wait until he was strong enough to take her flying. 'Hey,' he thought, 'Why wait? I can show mom and dad and Claire how cool flying is right now!'
"You want me to show you?" he asked his parents. "I can do it really good, no fooling!" Angela smiled indulgently but Arthur gruffly nixed Peter's plans for a performance.
"Not now, Peter," he said, picking up his mistreated paper and attempting to smooth out its wrinkles. "You need to go wash up for dinner."
"But pop it'll just take a second," Peter said hopefully. "Please!" Nathan watched his father optimistically, looking for any sign of leniency or appreciation for his little brother.
He was disappointed.
"Don't make me repeat myself, young man," he snapped. "You're making us late enough for dinner without taking the time to show off."
Angela's heart broke as she watched her son's head droop, his father's rejection a sad antithesis to the boy's former jubilation. The renewed closeness she had been feeling between she and her husband was no more. She gathered her blissfully oblivious granddaughter into her arms and led her dejected son from the room, asking him to relate in detail his afternoon at the park.
Nathan listened as his brother's voice faded away. He eyed his father, debating whether or not he should reproach the elder man for his treatment of Peter.
"Pop," he said hesitantly, handing Arthur his refilled glass. "You know, it wouldn't have taken very long for him to show you. He has been working at it really hard."
Arthur accepted the glass but ignored his son. He walked out of the room, leaving Nathan alone to bemoan the growing number of cracks he was finding in his hero's armor.
Relations between Arthur and his family remained icy over the next week. It was almost unfair that while the other members of the household held his unsociable behavior against him they were unaware that he was regularly waking up several times a night, soaked in sweat with his heart in his throat. No one knew that some nights he would lie in bed for hours, afraid to fall asleep. Afraid of what he would see. Would it be Peter lying in a pool of his own blood? Would the blank stare of eerily white eyes greet him that night? Just about anyone would agree that there is no worse fate than that of a parent who lives through the death of his or her child. What would those same people have to say to the man who helplessly watched his son die on a nightly basis?
Now Arthur may not have been the ideal father. He would be the first to admit that he was impatient and harsh. He expected too much, too fast, too soon. He hadn't even wanted Peter in the first place, but he had him. He was his son and blood was everything to a Petrelli. Besides, he did love him in his own way.
'What the hell does it all mean?' He flung the question into the cosmos as he once again lay awake at three a.m., frustrated and quaking with fear. Careful not to disturb his slumbering wife, Arthur crept out of bed and walked down the hallway to his son's room. He needed to see him sleeping safely, unwounded and whole. He tiptoed softly over the blue carpet, relieved to see the gentle rise and fall of Peter's chest. Arthur arranged himself so that he was sitting at the edge of the racecar bed his son was fast outgrowing. "You want to believe that you're just like Nathan," he whispered, "but my dreams tell me differently." He leaned in towards his son, hovering just above his ear but close enough to smell the freshly clean scent of recently bathed little boy. "Who are you, Peter?"
He fell asleep watching his son and woke up before Peter even knew he was there. Though the pull of his bed was especially tempting now that the sun was peeking over the horizon, the clock read 5:26 am and he had a seven am meeting downtown. He quickly dressed and left for the office without a word to his wife or son.
The patriarch's absence wasn't an unusual occurrence but it did leave breakfast a party of two. Nathan had taken Claire to visit some of his old friends two days earlier and he wasn't meant to be back till the end of the week. Neither Angela nor Peter minded the diminished table count. Even as Peter felt his brother's absence, he was relieved to have a series of meals without the nonstop babbling of his niece and Angela was always glad to have private time with her special boy.
In her customary self-centered fashion, she used the time to recite the long list of items requiring her attention before the upcoming CAP event to an obviously disinterested Peter.
"I'm not going to Mr. Larson's place today," he interrupted abruptly, Mr. Larson being the temporary tutor Angela had found for Peter. To Peter's delight his parents had agreed that he could attend the exclusive AP school that had opened in NY about ten years prior, but as mid year enrollment wasn't an option the qualified tutor was overseeing his education for the time being.
Although Peter, like the average kid, wasn't terribly fond of school, Angela was surprised at his announcement. Mr. Larson was a kind, patient man whose company Peter genuinely enjoyed and he had never had any qualms about attendance before hand.
"Yes, you are," Mrs. Petrelli replied, not bothering to address the sudden change of heart.
"I can't," Peter maintained, putting down his toast and matching his mother's stare.
"May I ask why not?"
"Nathan's coming back today and he's bringing a friend that he wants me to meet," Peter answered, sure of his words even if his mother wasn't.
"You're wrong, Peter," Angela said, occupying herself by serving her son a fresh glass of milk. "Nathan will return on Friday, not today."
Peter shrugged. "Plans change, ma." Angela suppressed a chuckle at his spunky audacity.
" How exactly are you privy to that information?" the senior Petrelli inquired.
"What's privy mean?"
Angela sighed. "Why do you think Nathan is coming home today?"
"I dreamed it," Peter said, as if it were a normal occurrence. Strangely, in the Petrelli household it almost was. Almost, but not quite.
"You dreamt that Nathan was coming today?" she asked suspiciously.
"Uh huh. And he's bringing Ted."
"Who's Ted?"
"I dunno. He's got really bright eyes though."
"Peter, it was just a dream," said Angela dismissively. "Do you remember when you dreamt that tiny monsters were living in your shoes just waiting to devour your toes?"
"Yeah." He refused to meet his mother's eyes, unwilling to see proof of the patronizing disbelief he heard in her voice. Instead he lowered his gaze to the plate on the table before him. "It's not the same," he said quietly.
"All dreams are the same, sweetheart." She dabbed her mouth with the expensive linen napkins she had shipped in from Italy. "They're simply creations of your subconscious mind. Nothing more. Your father explained that to you."
"This was real, ma. It was different. I could tell," he insisted.
She raised her eyebrows imperiously. "Oh? Like you knew there were carnivorous beasts in your shoes. I seem to recall that for two week you refused to put on your shoes until someone had checked them."
"That was a long time ago," he blushed. "I was a baby."
"Four months ago?"
"Ma, please, I need to stay," he pleaded.
"No." She remained firm, refusing to cave in to his pitiful pleas even when he pouted adorably.
"But ma…"
"That is enough," she barked loudly, causing Peter to jump in his seat. "It was a dream, Peter. Billions of people all over the world dream every day and none of them ever come true. Why should yours be any different? Dreams are fantasy, make believe, products of over active imaginations. It's immature and unhealthy to cling to their validity." Her irritation softened at his hound dog expression and she offered the boy a gentle smile. "Now, that silliness is behind us, yes? You will go to spend your time with Mr. Larson, Nathan will return at weeks end and that is that." She pretended not to mind when Peter grunted a minimalist response. "Come give me a kiss and then get all of your books together."
He lurched indolently along the table towards his mother and pecked the proffered cheek. She took the opportunity to pull him into an embrace. He was taken off guard and fell heavily against her upper body, trapped there by her unexpectedly strong arms. "I'm more than happy with my amazing flying Petrellis," she whispered into his ear. "Don't try to be something more than what you are. Leave the fortune telling to your father."
They each considered the other for several intense moments after she released him, both lost in their own thoughts. Peter broke the spell when he suddenly turned and walked away, Angela assumed to do as he had been told.
Angela's motherly instincts chided her for being so blunt with the young boy. 'He's still a baby,' the honeyed voice crooned accusingly. 'You couldn't even allow him his dreams. What kind of mother are you?' Angela banished the thoughts as quickly as they arose. She stormed from the breakfast table, eager to busy herself and prevent any more unbidden regrets from taking hold.
'I know what's best for Peter,' she thought, sneaking a glance at the sad eyed boy in the rear view mirror as she drove him across town to Mr. Larson's office. 'This world isn't made for dreamers. We need to be firmly grounded in reality to thrive. I learned that the hard way. I won't have the same for my son.'
Despite her perfunctory dismissal of those pesky maternal instincts, several hours later Angela was busy planning a mother-son outing to make up for unabashedly demolishing Peter's faith in his dreams. No, she honestly bore no subconscious, deep-seated guilt for having done so, but her shrewd mind was able to perceive that she should feel guilt for the act and Angela's life was all about doing what should be done. She should be a permissive wife, so she acted like one. She was wealthy therefore she should be generous, so she pretended to care about her various pet charities. Angela had always been a closet Shakespeare fan and, after all, all the world's a stage, right? Acting the part was second nature to Angela, and she didn't intend to change.
She had a full day of networking and socializing ahead of her but, for once, she decided to put Peter's needs ahead of her own. Before Peter was born she had confided to Nathan that she didn't want to repeat past mistakes with her second son (3) and she had learned that sometimes doing so meant putting Peter first. Angela remember that a few nights earlier Peter had been showing his father a flyer to some new amusement park that had him very keyed up. Arthur had, of course, rebuffed his son's please of "Can we go?" as a waste of time, but Angela distinctly recalled Peter putting the flyer in his father's desk.
'Probably hoping he would change his mind,' she thought with a rush of anger at the knowledge that he never would.
She pulled her car up to the family home with the sole intention of rummaging through her husband's desk for that flyer. If she and Peter were to spend the remainder of the day together she couldn't afford to be side tracked by meaningless tangents. A quick dash and grab seemed possible upon first glance of the empty house. Not even pausing to deposit her handbag on the entryway table, Angela trotted up the winding staircase in a childlike manner she hadn't indulged in for decades.
Her goal, Arthur's study, was in view when a hallway door opened and a laundry basket laden maid revealed herself.
'Damn it,' cursed Angela at the sight of the new hire. The woman was everything the Petrellis required in household help, that is to say loyal and discreet, but for some unknown reason she assumed Angela wanted to be informed on every minute detail of the goings on in the Petrelli home. If Angela needed information, she had more reliable sources than the 34-year-old wife of a watchmaker with no obvious talents, skills or interests besides a young son and a strange passion or snow globes (4).
"Oh, Mrs. Petrelli," she said in her uniquely soft yet high voice. "I didn't know you were in."
"I'm not," Angela said brusquely as she attempted to stalk past the younger woman. 'Not dealing with her today.'
The other woman, oblivious to every signal displayed by Angela's defensive body language, side stepped in front of her. "I thought you might want to know…"
Angela stopped her mid sentence. "Tell me later," she ordered and walked around the obtuse woman, continuing her trek to the office. Just a few more steps and her hand was on the door.
"Oh, but Mrs. Petrelli…" the charwoman protested from the spot in the hallway where Angela had abandoned her. Angela simply rolled her eyes in annoyance, skillfully tuning out the woman as she entered her husband's favorite room.
"Surprise," called a voice from within.
Angela started when she heard the voice, the room was supposed to be empty, but she absolutely forgot to breathe when she saw who was sitting calmly across the room from her.
"Nathan!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"
Nathan laughed as he rose from his chair, tickled that his surprise was so effective. His mother had a notorious skill for uncovering secrets before anyone else. "This has to be a first. Angela Petrelli: Surprised. Stop the presses. Too bad pop wasn't here to see it."
Angela's mind was reeling. 'He must have called Peter last night. That's the only explanation.' She gulped indelicately, desperate for air. "Did you tell Peter that you were coming home early?" she asked bluntly, groping behind her for the seat she knew to be there.
"No," replied Nathan, his glee quickly morphing to concern by his mother's inability to nonchalantly brush off her surprise. She looked terrified. "I only decided to come up a few hours ago, kind of a last minute thing. Ma, is everything okay?"
'It's a coincidence,' she thought. 'It has to be.' She attempted to regain composure, repeating her calming mantra of 'Coincidence, coincidence.' After a few moments she was able to look her worried son in the eye and ask, "Why? Why not wait till Friday?"
A bit offended that his mother of all people would seem so upset to see him, Nathan crossed his arms and leaned heavily against one of his father's many bookshelves. "It's not a big deal or anything, but I wanted Peter to meet a friend of mine who's going out of town on Wednesday. This is his only time to come to the city."
Angela didn't know whether she should laugh or cry. 'It could still be a coincidence,' she thought feebly, though the more rational part of her mind scoffed at her hope. "What's his name?" she asked, focusing her eyes on the pattern in the wood paneling behind Nathan's head. 'Please say Bob…Michael…Louis…anything except…'
"Ted. Ted Sprague. Why? What's with the third degree, ma?"
"Dear God," mumbled Angela, sinking into the plush chair, her mind abuzz with warning that all was not right. She stared into Nathan's confused eyes, willing him to share her fear, her overwhelming panic.
"Peter…Who are you?"
And….done. I think I'm pretty happy with how this chapter turned out. I hope you all feel similarly. Please review…I truly love to read and reply to your comments. Oh, and I already started the next chapter, so hopefully it won't take too long to get up.
Notes:
(1)Arthur's penchant for punctuality is introduced in 8th Grade History
(2)Once again …refers to a scene in 8th Grade Historyt where Nathan uses his gift to wow a potential date
(3)This line refers to a conversation between Nathan and a pregnant Angela that takes place in 8TH Grade Histor
(4) This is a secondary character from the series…I think it's pretty obvious who it is. She isn't a major part of my story, but it does leave the door open for someone else to drop in, now doesn't it?
