2008-07-01: 118

Starring:

Angela_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif

Summary: There's only one Peter Petrelli.

Date It Happened: July 1st, 2008

118


Level 5, Outskirts of NYC

"Peter," calls his mother's voice in close proximity, gentle attempts to draw him out of sleep. "Peter." They're secreted away behind the walls of Level 5 — the familiar cell walls. Angela has sat down on the edge of the cot and, leaning over her youngest son, who is very much alive unlike his counterpart she so recently sent off into great beyond of non-existence. A hand, with its manicured nails and aging fingers, slightly cold from the trek into the underground, smoothes Peter's hair away from his forehead and lays against his face. Smiling, she delivers a quiet announcement. "It's time. It's time to wake up now."

Something terrible had awoken him the night of the incident. A dream that invaded his already dark and trapped mind. What little he made out of the dream scared him. Peter'd pounded against the glass a few times, until finally giving up and going back to bed. Maybe it'd just been a nightmare. It wouldn't be the first time. The dreams that followed eased some of his fears. What little he could remember had comforted him— somewhat. Not entirely. The drugs also helped. More than he might like.

It's the voice that brings him out more than the touch, a haze pulling against him until he shifts under her touch, at first pulling away. Eyes open after a moment, then a hint of startlement. It's nearly as if he's about to jump out of the cot. "Mom?" he asks in just woke up tones, throat not quite ready to speak yet. A hand reaches up to touch where she'd been touching, and rub over his mouth.

Angela's touch desists, but her hand remains poised in the air for a moment between them, and there's still a faint smile on her mouth. She sits up straighter. "Bad dreams? Yes, well." She twists, bending to reach into a neat white square-bottomed gift bag sitting near her feet. She offers Peter a glass bottle of pure spring water. Only the best. "You have no need to worry about that now."

"They're not all bad," Peter says honestly, though he's not sure how to explain the way his dreams go from horrible to nice rather quickly. Sometimes he feels completely alone in the dreams, and then something invades them and that changes everything. The bottle of water is accepted as he shifts into a sitting position, moving back a little when he does to look at her. "Why don't I need to worry about it? Are you finally letting me out of this place?" Last time he had a visitor that hadn't been someone giving him an injection, he'd promise he'd try to get out. It hasn't been as easy as he'd like to make it sound. Hard to fake it when they stab a needle into him.

Angela casts a rather unimpressed look at Peter. "I get no joy from having you locked up, Peter, I hope you realize that. It's a terrible thing. A terrible place." She looks at the far wall and folds her hands on her knees, clasping them over shadow-coloured hosiery. "I've left you some clothes here. I hope they still fit."

There doesn't seem to be much worry on if she's impressed or not. Could have to do with the tired still in his eyes and the haze in his mind. Peter takes another drink from the water, before glancing around the room, to see if the clothes are really there. The confusion starting to show in his face might have to do with one thing… "Are you really letting me leave?" Confusion and surprise. For a while, he'd wanted to stay. Things go in cycles. Doubt leads to wishing to hide, then a burden of guilt leads to the opposite. Then guilt reminds him why he'd been locked up in the first place.

"Yes. Of course. Forget Bennet's reasoning. You were in here because you were already out there; from the future." Angela turns just so on the cot, looking once more at Peter with eyes much less hazy than his, but they bear their fair share of trouble. "To have you both in action would have been unacceptable for the sanctity of time — something he didn't particularly abide by, I might add. Now there's only one of you." A slow-to-build smile pulls at the elder Petrelli's lips. "The rightful one. My son."

There's no surprise at being told another version of him had been walking around in his place. "Claire told me," Peter confesses, knowing that right now he'd suck even more at trying to lie than usual. Another side effect of the drugs. What does seem to make him laugh, though… "In action." It's almost a snort, the way he starts to move to stand. Moving has always made the drugs easier to handle. Half of why he's kept in shape in the cell. It's the only thing he could do most of the time to clear his head some. Only one of him. The rightful son. "Did I— did he help things?" What do you call your time traveller anyway? His experience with time travel hasn't been the best.

There's no surprise on Angela's part, either — she either knows her granddaughter well enough … or she was listening to Claire and Peter's conversation the whole time. "The short answer is yes. But things have to get worse before they can get better." It's always been the way. The Company abides by this logic more than perhaps anyone; Angela certainly knows it well. "He left the responsibility in the hands of others. Your friends, strangers; would-be 'heroes'. He's set a path. It's up to them now — and us — to make sure it doesn't veer wildly out of control."

"That's a terrible saying," Peter quietly says, putting the bottle down so he can rub hands over his face again. Both of them. "If that's true than things would never get better, cause they'd just keep getting worse. I think the present is better than the future I saw— even more than it'd been by this time. So I have to believe I was able to change something for the better this time." It's just hard to know what it is… "Unless something really bad has happened while I was locked in here. Is everyone okay?"

"Your future self might of thought differently," Angela replies with a dash of acid in her tone. She flattens her hands over her knees and slowly gets to her feet as well. The answer to Peter's question is never "yes", but there's a particular reason the woman hesitates. When she does answer, it comes fast. "Among other things, Nathan is missing. On the bright side, however, Logan should no longer be a problem." Two sides to every coin.

"Obviously if he came back," Peter does forfeit that. Why bother to time travel if there'd been no purpose behind it at all? But… "What do you mean missing? He's still alive, isn't he? Are you sure Logan's gone? What happened to him?" So many questions, but they may not be answered right now. Chances are if she knew where his brother was, he'd not be missing. Once he gets his abilities back, it may take a while, but he can try until he succeeds and find him. Hopefully. One question he's afraid to ask, though. What exactly happens to a time traveler?

Some of the Petrellis' thoughts overlap. "Perhaps when you've recovered from your stay, you can answer some of those questions," Angela points out. "Your … counterpart… altered his mind — to put the two personalities at peace, as it were." Angela's matter-of-fact voice gains a quality that's both sardonic and fond. "Even without his memory, Nathan had other plans." It's just like him to change the painstakingly thought-out plan at the last minute.

"He usually does," Peter admits with a hint of a smile— just a hint, but for him he might as well be grinning. It does sound like him to change the plans without telling anyone, even if altering his brother's mind had always been one of the many options he'd considered. It had helped Niki— whether it did exactly what it'd intended to do or not. "I'll do what I can once… once I recover." All his abilities come back would include what made him end up here in the first place. But controlling that will be the only way he'll be able to live out in the world. "Do I get to go home to my apartment— is my apartment still there? I'm not even completely sure how long I've been here…" Months.

"A hundred and eighteen days." Angela reaches down to pluck the white bag off the floor. "I'm taking you to Vernon. You can rest there until the medication works out of your system," she says with a faintly regretful note. That whole keeping her son drugged in a cell ordeal — sorry about that… "It would do you no good to jump straight back into this madness without your strength," Angela quick to chastise before he protests, seeming quite sure that he will. She steps ahead to rub Peter's arm with a fond hand, then gives him a few brisk (and not so gentle) pats and steps back. "Come now, get ready. Someone'll be coming around to let you out in a minute, I have a car waiting."

"That— I've been dreaming about our treehouse up there a lot," Peter admits quietly, thinking of the treehouse, the building itself. There's so much going on there— the last time he'd been there was to give Heidi a place to stay after Jack supposedly killed her. It's been the only place he could think of that was far enough away— sure, Logan could have gotten to it if he flew, but that'd been why he'd not left her alone. Most everyone else would need quite a lot of travel time, including Jack. "All right. I'll get dressed," he says, not pulling away from her touch until she does. "It'll be nice to get out of here."

Angela breezes to the heavy security door, pausing to smile thoughtfully at Peter before she leaves. Although she doesn't voice it aloud, it will be nice to have him back in the world that's changed since he's been gone. Without another word, the matriarch leaves Peter alone in the cell and moves through the dark corridor of Level 5, its list of captives soon to be minus one.

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