The Price of a Memory
Part 7/17
"You're getting very sleepy."
Peter fought back the urge to roll his eyes at Claude's theatrically ominous intonation as he obediently concentrated on the heart-shaped pendant being dangled in front of him. Behind the little blur of constant motion, he could make out Claude's face, staring intently as if he could get Peter to fall into a trance by sheer force of will. Molly sat beside him, mesmerized by Claude's game almost in spite of herself.
In the weeks that had gone by since Claude had first offered himself as a test subject for Mohinder, Molly hadn't exactly warmed up to the invisible man. But after last night, they'd spent the morning in desperate need of a distraction and Claude had offered it to them with his playful suggestion that they try to recover Peter's memories by hypnotizing him. So far, his strategy had worked. This was the brightest Peter had seen Molly look all day and even he was starting to feel the weight of the night lift from his shoulders.
Molly had been showing signs of an impending attack for days now. The listlessness, the loss of appetite, the nightmares. They'd known it was coming and had prepared for it as best as they could without scaring Molly in the process, but when Peter had woken from a nightmare of his own to find Mohinder shaking his shoulders and hissing that Molly was sick, he still felt completely unprepared. Caught up in the confusion of the moment, he'd first tried asserting his medical knowledge where he thought it would be useful but was soon unceremoniously exiled to standing next to the phone in case they needed to call an ambulance.
Peter wasn't stupid. He knew that being sent to stand next to the phone was the rough equivalent of being asked to boil water, a task reserved for someone who would only be in the way otherwise. But he'd stood there as Mohinder had asked him to, resentful and helpless. In the end, Molly had responded to the usual treatment and they'd managed to avoid any real disaster. But Mohinder had been in a deep state of self-flagellation ever since and with all of them tired and unsettled, things in the apartment had been tense.
Lost in thought, Peter didn't realize his attention had slipped until Claude reached around with one hand and slapped him on the side of the head.
"Pay attention, you," he said.
Peter sighed, shifting so that he sat up a little straighter. He raised an eyebrow at Claude. "If this works, you're not going to make me walk around and cluck like a chicken or something, are you?" he asked.
"Wouldn't think of such a thing," Claude replied in a tone that suggested that that was exactly what he'd been thinking. Or worse.
Molly giggled. "You're supposed to be getting sleepy, remember?" she reminded Peter.
"Oh, right," Peter said, shifting his gaze back to the pendant.
In reality, he was a little relieved that Molly seemed to know that this was all just a game. When they'd started, he'd been afraid that he was going to have to pretend for her sake that he'd fallen into some kind of trance, making up some harmless memory from his lost past just to satisfy her. But it was clear that she was expecting about as much out of this as Peter and Claude were and that she was simply enjoying the entertainment value of their familiar banter.
When exactly that banter had become so familiar, Peter couldn't say. Probably around the same time he'd stopped being surprised when Claude started meeting him at the coffee place every morning. It had been hard getting used that, seeing the stranger sitting at Peter's usual table by the window day after day, not sure if he was supposed to join him or find his own place to sit. But gradually the moments of blankness surrounding Claude had begun to fade. Peter recognized him more quickly now. There were still bad days but even then they didn't have to waste quite so many awkward minutes while Peter flailed about, trying to free the other man's name from the tip of his tongue.
And Claude never just told him, either. Not even a hint in the right direction. Instead, he would just sit there while Peter struggled, forcing him to come up with the information on his own. The same went for words Peter blanked out on or directions he couldn't quite give. At first, this seemed like unnecessary torture. Something Claude did for his own private amusement. In the past, when Peter had tripped like this, Nathan would impatiently supply him with the answer if only so the pace of the conversation could match the tightness of his schedule. Claude, on the other hand, pretty much had all day. Literally.
"Why do you do that?" Peter had asked once as they walked along the sidewalk, Claude invisibly overturning trash cans for no apparent reason. "You knew what I meant."
"Of course I knew what you meant," Claude said as if his superior intellect was merely a given in this situation. "But I also knew that you knew what you meant. I was just waiting for you to figure it out. That's all."
When Claude wasn't challenging Peter's memory, they were usually talking about Claude's powers, a topic he was surprisingly open about considering how close-mouthed he was about everything else. Peter was allowed to ask anything he wanted about the exact mechanics of going invisible, but the things he was really curious about were strictly off limits. As a result, he knew nothing about Claude's former life. How he'd discovered his abilities in the first place. How he'd gone from a (presumably) respectable life as a paper salesman to what he was now. Where he lived. What he'd been doing before he decided to search out Mohinder. That kind of stuff required a level of clearance Peter had yet to gain with the invisible man, who remained a deep mystery to him despite their daily interactions.
"Wrist is getting tired, mate." Claude's voice cut into Peter's thoughts once again. "Are you getting sleep yet or not?"
"I'm getting seasick," Peter said. "Does that count?"
"Try breathing more deeply," Mohinder suggested from where he was sitting in the battered armchair where he'd kept himself more or less removed from the proceedings up to this point.
"Also, let your eyelids get heavy," Claude added, seeming to resent Mohinder's intrusion on their fun.
Once again barely suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Peter did as he was told. Watching the pendant swing back and forth, he began to think of the nightmare he'd had the night before. It wasn't often that he slept deeply enough to dream anymore, but when he did it seemed like the nightmare was always waiting for him and even though he never remembered it afterward, he knew it was always the same one. Breathing to the bottom of his lungs, he concentrated on the unsettled feeling he always got when he woke from that dream until his eyelids grew heavy and began to sink of their own accord. His chin fell to his chest. Vaguely, he heard Claude say something like, "Fuck me. It didn't actually work, did it?"
Hearing that far away voice, Peter looked up at the vast blue sky surrounding him and wondered where the words had come from. There were people walking by on the street far below the ledge where he stood, but they were too distant for the wind to have carried their voices up to him so clearly.
He lifted his face as he lined his toes up with the very edge of solid ground. Long strands of hair blew in his eyes, obscuring his vision as he considered his next move. His palms were soaked with sweat. His heart hammered in his chest. But underneath it all, there was a kind of peace. The peace that came with having a deep sense of purpose.
The knack of flying is learning to throw yourself at the ground and miss. The knack of flying--
Filling his chest with air, he spread his arms out and allowed one foot to follow the other as he stepped out into the nothingness. For a moment, he felt supported by a cushion of wind currents. But then, as if in slow motion, he began to fall, the ground rushing up to meet him.
"Whoa, steady now."
The voice again but this time it was closer and Peter opened his eyes to find Claude's hands on his shoulders, pushing him back onto the couch from where he'd been leaning forward, ready to tumble onto the floor. Startled by the shift in reality, it took a minute for Peter to orient himself. When he did, he found that he was staring into three wide-eyed, eager faces. Even Mohinder had gotten to his feet.
"What the bleeding hell was that?" Claude asked, breaking the silence.
It had been his nightmare. Of that Peter was sure and he opened his mouth to tell them so but something stopped him. True, this was what he'd been dreaming every night without knowing it. But it was also more than that. It was a memory. It had to be. A memory of him flinging himself off of a roof.
Had he tried to kill himself?
Unsettled by the idea, Peter brushed his damp palms across his thighs, willing his heart to slow itself back to a more normal rhythm. He managed an impish grin but there was no hiding the shaking of his voice as he said, "Man, you guys are way too easy."
"You tricked us!" Molly exclaimed, delighted by Peter's supposed ruse.
Claude and Mohinder, however, were clearly not convinced. Both men frowned at Peter, who cast about for some kind of diversion from the coming inquisition.
"I think it's Molly's turn," he said, reaching down to the floor and picking up the necklace Claude had dropped when he'd moved to prevent Peter from falling out of his seat. Peter rose, gesturing for Molly to take his place on the couch, which she did with no small amount of enthusiasm.
But Mohinder was quick to intervene. "I think maybe Molly should rest for a while," he said as Peter settled himself on the edge of the coffee table, already dangling the pendant in his hand.
"I feel fine," Molly insisted and it almost would have been convincing except for the remaining pallor of her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes. "Besides, I want Peter to hypnotize me. Please?"
"Are you sure you're not too scared?" Peter teased while Mohinder and Claude exchanged a thoroughly unsubtle look behind them.
Molly made an indignant noise.
"I don't know," Mohinder said.
"It's just for a little while," Peter replied, hoping to convey through his tone that getting Molly out of the room wouldn't make him any more amenable to confessing his vision.
Mohinder eyed Molly, who fairly hummed with excitement. It was a complete turnaround from the dark mood she'd been in all day.
"All right, then," he said, relenting.
Permission granted, Peter turned back to Molly. "Okay," he said, holding the necklace in front of her face. He moved his wrist so it began to swing back and forth in a smooth arc. She watched it carefully. "Don't turn your head. Just follow it with your eyes."
"You're doing it wrong," Claude said from beside Peter on the table.
"No he's not," Molly said, immediately coming to Peter's defense. In a reassuring voice, she added to Peter, "I'm getting sleepy."
"Right," Peter said. "Very sleepy."
Beside him, Claude moved away, the sleeve of his coat brushing against Peter's arm so that goosebumps rose up along his skin. It went without saying that, like Mohinder, Claude knew Peter was hiding something and that he wasn't above pushing Peter to find out what it was. For the first time since they'd met, Peter found himself dreading being alone with the invisible man.