You've made it through the storm this far/
You can do this, dear, it won't be hard/
The snow won't
stick to the weeping willows/
There will be tomorrow/
Peter knew the instant he was back in New York, could tell by the metallic acid bite in the air; he heard the people yelling and saw the cityline chewing up the sky, and suddenly he felt safer, that much more strong. This was his home, with all its dirt and crowds and miserable slushy winters—home base, he thought. I'm safe. You can't touch me here.
He couldn't help grabbing Katie's arm and dragging her over to the window. "Look," he said. "It's the Statue of Liberty—there's her crown above that building, see? And that's where my apartment is, and there's the where that artist lives, over in SoHo—remember, the one I told you about who can paint the future? See?"
"I see, Peter," she laughed. "We're getting left behind." Sure enough, the rest of the group had forged intrepidly onward, spearheaded by Nathan and Mr. Bennet, the native New Yorker and the frequent flier.
When they got outside the airport, they were promptly run down by an aggressive cyclist, who sent an unbroken stream of obscenities back at them as he pedaled away. "Hey, I'm walking here!" Nathan yelled after him in time-honored New York style, then turned to them with a half-proud, half-apologetic smile. "Welcome to New York," he said. "The city that never shuts up."
---
To be honest—and Nathan was always honest with himself, because that made it so much easier to be dishonest with others—Nathan had forgotten about Heidi. Isn't that terrible thing to admit? He loved his wife, he really did. She was smart and resourceful and fascinating, and she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen (including Meredith, Niki, and that redhead from two years ago), with her high-contrast delicate features, black hair and eyes too blue to be believed.
He remembered the day he'd met her—he'd run into the back of her car, a spectacular rear-end collision on Broadway. He'd come out ready to fight anyone, with his law-school fists up, but the minute she stepped out of her car, so striking and wonderful with anger lighting her porcelain cheeks to a blush, he'd lost it, words falling out of his open mouth to shatter on the pavement. He'd accepted all liability for the accident and asked her to dinner on the spot.
He loved Heidi—he did, he loved her and he would have done a lot to keep her, and frequently had to. But when she opened the door to their house, looking so much like she had that day on Broadway with her eyes brimming flames, he realized that he hadn't thought of her since he'd left, not once. He wondered what that said about him.
He masked his sudden guilt by leaning over to kiss her, hoping she'd play the 'pretend-nothing-has-happened' game with him. "Hi, hon," he said, moving to let the rest of the group in the house.
As her eyes slid over them, he found his lies suddenly failing him, simply unable to concoct an explaination for two teenagers, an unknown woman, and a man who looked like he belonged in the 1970s CIA. Business colleagues, his brain suggested wildly. Long-lost cousins. Bridge club. Homeless people I found on the side of the road. Then, exhausted, his mind suggested something it rarely resorted to: how about the truth?
"Heidi," he said tiredly. "I have something to tell you."
She studied his face. "You're cheating on me."
"No!" he said, surprised she would guess that the one time it actually wasn't true. "Heidi, no."
"Then what is it?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap, keeping her eyes studiously off the parade of inexplicable guests.
"Why don't we go somewhere else?" he suggested, conscious of their gazes on him. Suspicious but willing to give him a chance, as she usually was, she rolled her chair off into a side room, not bothering to check if he followed.
As the door shut hollowly behind them, Peter turned briskly to the others. "So!" he said, glossing over marital crises and mortal peril with a light, welcoming tone. "This is our house. Well, not my house, I have an apartment way out in Brooklyn, but I'm not allowed to live there until I stop getting myself killed. This is the hallway," he said pointlessly, playing realtor-slash-Vanna-White, "and over here is the kitchen. The library is over there, and this is my mother." He added her smoothly into his tour as she came into the hall, not missing a beat.
"Peter!" she said warmly, rushing forward to hug him. "I'm certainly glad to see you alive. Are you all right? Where's Nathan?"
"Nathan's trying something new with Heidi," he explained, nodding to the closed door. "He's telling her the truth."
"Oh dear," Angela said composedly. "That doesn't sound like a good idea. I've been trying to keep it from her for ages."
"Maybe he's got a higher opinion of her than you do," Peter said neutrally—he had a lot of respect for Heidi, but he certainly didn't want to argue with his mother. It was like arguing with Nathan, a losing battle, like swimming in quicksand. "But hey, Mom, this is Jonathan Madison and Katie Ramira, and you already know the Bennets."
"Specials, I assume?" she said, scanning them dispassionately, like an X-ray checking bones. Peter saw Jonathan start to shift, bored and perfectly willing to start trouble—he moved himself imperceptibly between them, unwilling to let the kid find out exactly why it was a mistake to pick a fight with Angela Petrelli. "Katie Ramira," she said thoughtfully. "We were under the impression you were dead."
"I'm not," she said easily, reaching out to shake her hand. "I'm happy to finally meet the mother of two such interesting men."
Angela gave a small smile at her word choice, catching the implications Katie had threaded in. "Yes, well, I can't take all the credit," she said cryptically. "Come in, all of you, we'll find you rooms, God knows there are enough of them in this house. Claude!" she yelled behind her. "Claude, look who's here! He's been staying with us," she explained to them. "I told Heidi he was my boyfriend."
Only Peter and Claire were brave enough to exchange amused looks, but he saw Mr. Bennet's eyebrow twitch upward uncontrollably before coming back to normal. Claude appeared out of the kitchen, half-eaten sandwich in hand. "What is—" he began, then stopped dead at the sight of them, clustered together in the entryway like carolers or uninvited guests. "Well. I was starting to hope you lot had died by now." From behind Peter, he caught a snatch of dark hair and gold-tint skin, and he nearly dropped the sandwich with surprise. "Katie?"
She came into view, slowly and almost shyly, smiling up at him in the way she used to when she was seventeen. "You remember me?"
He broke her shyness to bits by pulling her into a rough hug. "Remember you? How could I not remember the girl who nearly killed me half a dozen times? I thought you were dead!"
She sighed. "I think I'm going to make a shirt that says 'I am not dead' and wear it around for the next couple of days. Why do you all think I should be in the ground?"
"Thompson told us you died," Mr. Bennet said reasonably. "We had no grounds to doubt him."
"That was probably about the time I told them I didn't want to play anymore and they stuck me in the vaults," Katie told them. "I suppose 'she died' is as good of a cover as any. They certainly didn't expect me to get out again."
"Right, if we're having storytime, we're going somewhere more comfortable than this sardine tin," Claude said, and, to their consternation, took Mrs. Petrelli's hand and began to pull her down the hall.
"What?" she said, noticing their stares. "I already told you that Claude and I are dating."
Peter made a choked, squawking sort of noise, holding onto the stair rail for support. "You're what?"
"We're dating," she repeated patiently.
"You can't date him!" Peter protested.
"Your mum's a big girl," Claude told him, vastly amused at his reaction. "She can do pretty much what she wants."
Claire pinched Peter just as he as about to speak, pulling him back from the newly-announced couple. "Leave her alone," she whispered. "Don't you think she's been lonely?"
"Claire," Peter insisted as they walked down to the library. "This is not okay! What if they get married? He'll be my father!"
She giggled, suddenly seeing an image of Claude in a church, tuxedoed with his hair slicked back. "Just when I thought this family couldn't get any weirder."