A/N: Don't worry, it's coming 'round the mountain.
Nathan had never before appreciated how long a day could be.
It was 9:00 a.m. when the dull growl of five engines interrupted the eerie serenity of the campsite. By 9:45, the freshly arrived park rangers had a small search party organized to scan the surrounding area. The rangers were appropriately courteous and sympathetic, but it was all too clear that their level of concern was significantly lower than that of the Petrelli's. Peter had been missing for a relatively short time, and it seemed unlikely to the Park Rangers that he could have gotten very far.
These men, of course, were not privy to the same hissing whispers as Nathan was. Nathan sat close to his parents (he had not been allowed to join the search party) trying to concentrate on his Reader's Digest. He had been reading the same page for fifteen minutes. The words "Linderman" and "ransom" pierced his selective deafness often, but they did not ring half as loudly as the strained, tortured tones of betrayal and accusation.
Ravenous with curiosity, and more afraid than he could recall being in his life, Nathan clutched the magazine like a life-raft and waited.
Peter was dreaming.
He dreamt of terrible heights, of looming monstrosities that shrank as he rose so far above them. He floated on pillows of downy cloud, drifting like a leaf on a clear summer stream. Yet his hands and feet were heavy, weighed down with pain and a hot, stinging stickiness. His arms strained to keep him aloft, and the burning seemed to course through all his limbs.
A small corner of Peter's mind (the center of sanity in our nightmares) bulged with latent frustration. It cried, implored the frightened boy, urged him to wakefulness. But terrifying and strange though his nightmare was, Peter could not, would not wake. In the loaded quiet of the night wilderness and the dreams it brought, Peter had come to understand his life. His whole world was suddenly spread bare before him, washed in a harsh and ugly light he had not ever perceived before. It was world of secrets, of pressure, of deafening silences. It was hard for Peter, a boy who longed to trust, to give and receive love unconditionally.
Yet until now, he had been shielded, shaded from the cruel exposure. His mother had stood before him, much of the time, as had Nathan. His own need to be blind had kept him away from it all.
But no more. Eleven was nearly twelve, and twelve was nearly teenaged, old enough to know. To know and be responsible for the knowledge of dark things that happened behind mahogany doors and pinstriped suits. Peter was not even sure what it was he so detested, but he knew it was something that was utterly absent in his own soul and therefore that it would destroy him. He didn't want it, but could see no way out. Everywhere he looked, clocks ticked forward, relentlessly onward to the hour when he would be irrevocably joined with the bones that lay in his family's closets.
Faced with this, Peter chose his nightmares gladly.
By two in the afternoon, the number of humming engines had multiplied, and was harmonizing with the crackle of at least 15 two-ways. The minutes ticked by, sliding beyond reach even as they lingered.
Nathan's legs were numb. He had not moved from his crouched position by his parent's tent. He could feel the tension in the tent behind him like a throbbing heat, building to a terrible pressure. The rangers had offered several times (steadily more insistently) to take the three to the Station. Each attempt was met only with a cold steady glare from Mom, and the wordless argument ended. She would not leave, and that meant that Dad and Nathan were not going anywhere.
Nathan did not want to move regardless. Movement, a change in scenery, would crystallize the whole ordeal into reality and Nathan intended to avoid that for as long as possible. He was not used to helplessness, and this necessary inaction chafed at his very nature. Without command, without control, he was left with nothing but worry and whispers and a sweat-soaked copy of Reader's Digest.
The hours passed. The sun turned westward, slanting rays nearly solid with painful brilliance through the thick trees. Slowly, slowly, the light faded and the tops of the trees began to blur into the deepening sky.
The crunch of leaves right before him startled Nathan from his vigilant reverie. "Here, kid," came a woman's voice, and a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar were placed beside him. Nathan blinked. Kid? he thought with an edge of irritation, but then a spasm of hunger seized his gut. The aroma rising from the cheap coffee was sharp, bitter and wonderful, and Nathan was not yet so proud as to ignore a kindness, however condescendingly offered. "Thanks," he muttered, ripping into the plastic wrapping.
"Take it easy, kid," she said, "he's out there." Reluctantly, almost without meaning to, he met her eyes. They were hard eyes, but light, and somehow eased his awareness of the silent storm behind him.
"Thanks," he repeated. She turned away, and Nathan dug in for next wait.