Title: Waves
Author: freak-pudding
Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of NBC International and Tim Kring. No copyright infringement intended.
Summary: Change rolls past and through them, threads tangling and twining together, unbreakable. Or so they all thought.
Author's Notes: I've got nothing.
Part One
"I don't understand. If he can regenerate, why hasn't he healed? And if he can't regenerate, why isn't he dead?"
Bennet pushes against the side of his glasses, and the glare over the window warps, a hollow white ring over a dark black circle—Peter Petrelli's slack, sallow face framed within.
"Has there been any change?" Thompson asks, thumping on the glass.
"None," Bennet grimaces. "He's still in some sort of deep coma, completely unresponsive to outside stimuli."
Thompson says nothing.
The doctor moves beneath them, making notes. Bennet turns his wedding ring around and around and around on his finger. Thompson flicks a switch, and the gallery goes dark.
"How's Claire?"
"Getting better," he says. "She remembers nothing."
Thompson studies him a moment.
"As it should be."
He holds the door, and Bennet passes through.
"How'd the cover-up go?"
"Candice performed remarkably well," Bennet says, continuing down the hall. "She could have a bright future in the Company."
"The Petrellis bought it?"
"He agreed to the cremation here. They'll never know."
"Good."
- - -
The apartment in Brooklyn hasn't changed.
Mohinder stands with the perpetually confused landlord, as the shorter, fatter man scratches his bald pate and thinks.
"Rent you for, say, ninety a week?"
"I told you I'll take it," Mohinder sighs impatiently. "I was here before, remember?"
The man studies him, but there's no recognition behind the milky blue irises.
"Rent's due first thing Sunday," he says dubiously. "Or I call the cops."
He chooses not to point out that he's already advanced two months' rent; Mohinder had watched the old man carefully enter the information into his register.
There will be no mistakes this time.
The old man turns and totters back down the hall, stopping at the landing to observe Mohinder once more, hand rubbing his scalp, calluses polishing in place of a pumice stone.
Mohinder can only sigh, and drag his duffel through the door.
He spends a few moments tidying up nothing; Eden has clearly been making good use of her key. The shelves are lined with food. A bag of tea and a strainer sit before the empty pot, and he smiles at the two cups set beside the stove.
The space is suffocating with his father's last acts, and Mohinder throws open the widows to New York's breezy heat. He leans his head against the frame, breathing deep, when he finally notices Eden's note.
It flutters gently, flapping to escape from beneath the corner of a punishing book.
Knew you'd be back, it teases. I'm out of town again for a while, but when I come back, I promise I'll tell you everything. I'm sorry, Mohinder.
He makes a decision then, whirling back to his bag, extracting the folder from the very bottom.
He pins his own apologies to his father's map and starts to work.
- - -
Nathan charters a private flight back to Manhattan. Peter's ashes are set carefully in the overhead compartment, between briefcases and spare blankets. The pilot boards, and Nathan falters.
At takeoff, the urn is buckled snuggly beside him.
He sips nervously at a glass of whiskey, sleeve wiping droplets from his lip, soaking brown in a haphazard stain.
He stares straight forward the whole flight, trying to imagine that it's a restless person cushioned into the seat beside him, rather than a thick ceramic vase.
The pilot lands and taxis right into a hangar. They can't risk press yet.
He cradles the urn like a child as the limo circles the block.
"Actually," he says, "I'm not quite ready to go to the house."
The driver nods.
They take a long detour, until Nathan opens the door and steps out. The driver barely has a chance to stop, but Nathan's marching on in the sunlight.
He finds the spare key on his second try; Peter is far too predictable.
Was, Nathan thinks, with a sting.
He sets the urn on the kitchen counter, and surveys the living room. Typical Peter: clothes, shoes, uniforms, medical books litter every available surface. Nathan grabs a shirt off the couch and folds it.
He starts across the room to open the windows, but turns back and sets the urn gently into the empty armchair.
Under his little brother's watchful eye, Nathan sloughs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie. His body twists, eyes darting over the room.
He has no idea where to start.
He eventually chooses the coffee table, because it's simple and it's right there, and it leaves him with a clear view of the urn.
"I can't remember the last time I cleaned something," he confesses to the apartment, and sets to work.
It is then that the phone chooses to ring; its insistence is shrill, and Nathan stops, slowly, medical journals crumpled in one fist.
"You've reached Peter Petrelli. Or, I guess, you haven't reached him. Just leave your name and message, and I'll get back to you soon. Thanks. And no, Nathan, I don't want the job."
His mouth twitches, almost a smile, and the answering machine tones.
"Hello, Peter."
His feet slide themselves across the thick rug, heel to toe, from the TV to the countertop.
"I called earlier, but, um, you…you haven't replied."
He doesn't remember checking the messages when he arrived, but he looks now. Fourteen.
"I wanted to tell you that I arrived back in New York, and I was hoping…I was hoping to speak to you."
Nathan's hand hovers over the receiver, and he's staring, mesmerized.
"I suppose…I just wanted to apologize, Peter. I believe you now."
The caller sighs.
"I'm sorry."
He snatches up the phone, hand slamming onto the answering machine. It cracks.
"Peter Petrelli's dead," he snarls into the handset. "Stop calling."