2007-06-28: Last Call Casualty


Elena_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif

Summary: Elena is drunk-dialed for the first time in her young, adult life, and by the end of it finds her relationship with Peter getting even more complicated fast.

Date It Happened: June 28, 2007

Last Call Casualty

You, you called me out
You said you're done with me
But I can't seem to remember anything at 3 am
Am I that guy? The one that's happy hanging with my friends
And 5 drinks in I'm in love again

So if I get drunk and call you up
Don't get pissed and don't hang up
I know it's late but it's never too late to be
Another last call casualty

— Last Call Casualty, Bowling for Soup

Somewhere in New York City

It's really late. Past midnight by the time he calls. And it actually took Peter a few minutes to figure out her phone number and get it fully dialed. It should be easier. He has it in a phone book entry. But— there's issues. After waking up someone with a wrong number (sorry, Vote Crane, man — yeah, Peter can be a jack ass too sometimes), he manages to get the right number dialed. Leaning against an alley wall in the middle of Brooklyn, a few blocks down the street from Jack's, he's still not quite in the best of shape. There's actually a bottle in hand that he bought at a liqour store not too far down the block, and he's already a good many gulps into it.

The Gomez Apartment, Queens, New York

It seems the bottle runs in the Petrelli family. As well as Elena knows Peter, she does -not- know this about him.

It was only past midnight. Which thankfully, means that the young, female Gomez is still awake. She's trying to read, but another killer headache is assailing her. She manages to use her powers to keep it at bay, but this is how the phone call finds her, chiming Binary Sunset into her room as she thumbs through The Six Wives of Henry VIII, a thick, red tome by noted historian Alison Weir. She picks up, answering the phone. Peter knows she's up this late, and she can't help the small smile on her lips. "Joe's Pizza," she teases. "Hey. What's up?"

Somewhere in New York City

Joes Pizza? For a few moments, Peter actually thinks he got the wrong number again. He lets out a deep groan, and prepares to tell them he's got the wrong number— except the voice is one he recognizes, and not just a worker at Joe's Pizza. Or at least he doesn't think she works at Joe's Pizza. "Are you… busy right now?" His voice sounds a little different than normal. Not quite slurred, really, but definitely has a tone to it that it doesn't usually have. A tone that also happens to sound very defeatest, not to mention tired. "I— sorry— it's late isn't it…? Just really wanted to…" he trails off, closing his eyes as he leans his head back against the alley wall.

One might actually think he's /injured/ by the way he's speaking. Except if that were the case he'd be better by now, wouldn't he?

The Gomez Apartment, Queens, New York

The smile dies on her mouth. The book slaps shut in her hand as she slowly straightens up from her sort-of-flopped position on her bed, rolling over on her stomach and her tangled hair sliding down her shoulders and back. The glasses are taken off, set carefully on the bedside table as she talks. "I was reading, so I wasn't really sleeping," she says slowly. He didn't sound right. And he just wanted to….what? Did something happen? Was he injured? But…that can't be. He can regenerate, and rather quickly at that. "Peter….are you alright?" she asks, looking around her room, and checking the alarm clock. Yes. It was late. But he sounded like he was in trouble.

Somewhere in New York City

"Elena…" There's something so miserable about the way he says her name that might sound completely out of place. A sharp inhale later and she'll know that maybe he's not physically hurt, but whatever pain he's in right now has emotionally pained him. Peter takes a few moments before he can continue, "Would you… hate me… if I had the ability… to tell you what to do. And you had to do it… and I— used it on you— to try and keep you— from… from being hurt. Does the intention… make it any better… than what— what that man…" Yeah, something's really bothering him. He's definitely not all right. And that's just the start of it.

The Gomez Apartment, Queens, New York

Agony. Elena can't help but frown. She -liked- to think her friendship was at least one bright spot in his emotionally-laden life, but the way he uttered her name just now sounded so…..heartbroken, she had to wonder if she had done something in the last few days that upset him and she didn't know. She opens her mouth to speak, but he continues, and she falls quiet. It's clear something's wrong. "Peter whatever you did, I know it was out of the best and purest intentions," she begins. "I know I'm…I sound -incredibly naive- for saying that. I mean, we've known each other for….five months? Close to half a year. But I'd like to think I'm not a complete idiot when it comes to you. You're…" She falls quiet, and speaks up again after a moment of silence. "Peter, you're nothing like John Carter. Okay? Where are you?" She thought she heard faint traffic noises in the background.

Somewhere in New York City

"Yeah… I'm nothing like him," Peter murmurs in response, but there's something about his tone… it's almost as if he thinks he's worse. Right now, he just might. Yes, she's one bright spot in his emotionally battered life, even now, but— she's also a source of tremendous guilt, which he can't even tell her about. "I'm in Brooklyn…" he murmurs, saying the street, and the last landmark that he saw at the corner of the alley he' ducked into. She might recognize it as just a few blocks down from Jack's, on the same street. There's a few moments of silence, but she'll still hear the cars on the street, and him breathing slowly, until he continues on, "I didn't want her to hurt anyone— didn't want her to be hurt by it— she's been hurt so much and she only just started to trust people and I couldn't— but what I did to her isn't much better from what they did…" Only he's forgetting to say what he did, isn't he?

The Gomez Apartment, Queens, New York

"….." Elena lets the words sink in. She knows right away who he's talking about - he's only talked about one person in that context before in her presence, and he wouldn't be talking about anyone she didn't know, otherwise this phone call wouldn't be making ANY SENSE whatsoever. "….Peter what did you do?" She can't help it, she's always been a straightforward person, so long as it didn't have anything to do with her feelings, or what she hid from others. She is fully out of her bed, stuffing her feet in flat sneakers and reaching for her bag. He said he was close to Jack's. He was in Brooklyn. He SHOULD be at the Petrelli Mansion making sure nothing happened to Heidi and the boys while Nathan was away. ….and what the hell was he doing in Brooklyn anyway?? She'll have to grab a cab. Opening the window, she looks over her shoulder, and makes a quiet mental apology to her father before…..well, she backtracks, grabbing the spare key to Peter's apartment from the music box he bought her, and ducks out of the window and into the fire escape.

Somewhere in New York City

There's that sharp inhale again, and Peter slides down the side of the alley and ends up sitting down. It's not good for his clothes, since alleys in Brooklyn aren't notorious for being cleaned often, but the volume of the background noise changes as he sinks, and those inhales through his nose make something else rather blantantly obvious. What did he do? "Didn't— love her— the way that I— the way that I should be." Anymore? Ever? "But I couldn't— she been through— and she would've hurt people. Even if— even if it was just to hurt me." The blame is all his, but some people don't work the same way as others and… "I had to make her… okay with it." He's having a difficult time getting the words out, voice tighter than normal, lowering in volume. If she moves too quickly, she may not make out everything…

The Gomez Apartment, Queens, New York

She was so confused. Elena thought their relationship was getting -better-. Cleaner. Elle's improved in her interpersonal relationships with other people. Then again, it could also be the headache she's been desperately trying to keep at bay. Landing lightly on the ground below once she's climbed down enough steps to get there, she straightens up, and walks towards the nearest intersection. She was wearing a tanktop, snowflake-print pajamas. Nike airwalks. She was treating New York City like a college campus instead of a dangerous metropolis and she didn't care. She starts looking for a cab. "So you used….." She didn't even know HOW Peter managed to get the sort of power he was describing. But she understands. She gets it. But she has to get him -home-. "I'm coming to you, okay?. Just…just stay there. I'll be there soon."

Somewhere in New York City

Normally he might try to protest, tell her she doesn't need to, but instead all she'll hear is a soft response of, "Okay." Peter takes a few moments before he says anything else, voice suddenly gaining some urgency, as if he's afraid she'll hang up on him, "Don't— can you stay on the phone. Just— talk to me. Tell me what— how your day was— anything. Please." It seems odd. Normally when he's this upset he'd give anything to be alone. He'd avoid people and hide away, but instead… it's almost as if he's actually afraid she'd stop talking to him. "I told her— to be okay with it. Think it worked." He'd probably have at least some healed electrical burns if it hadn't, knowing his girlfriend. Not to mention initial emotional reaction that would have come before inflicting pain on others.

She manages to hail a cab - it was late enough on a weekday that she doesn't have as much trouble as she usually does. Elena was almost afraid she'd have to throw herself in front of one to get one to stop. Luckily she doesn't have to go that far. When she hears the quiet request, she nods, even if he can't see it. "….okay," she replies softly. And so she does. After getting into the cab and directing the driver to go to the location Peter had described, she tells him about her day. About how she was going to teach Portia how to dance, about her talk with Manny. About how her headaches were getting annoying. She tells him about the book she was reading when he called, and what she learned about the lives of Catherine of Aragon ('Catherine is Catalina in English,' she would tell him) and Anne Boleyn, and the political turmoil surrounding their times as Queen of England….

When she gets there, she asks the driver to stay. She's not done with him for the night, but if Peter should ever look up, he'd hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel as Elena walks over to him, entering the alley and getting down on one knee to crouch in front of him. She reaches out gently to take the bottle from his hand.

"C'mon, Peter," she coaxes gently. "I'm taking you home. Home-home. I don't think….well, I don't think Heidi would appreciate you stumbling back into her house drunk with the boys there."

There's not much in the way of conversation from him, but Peter does make some sounds, non-commital sounds, that might mean he's not really listening at all. Either way, she's carrying the conversation, and he's just listening to her voice. He's even still got the phone pressed against his ear when she reaches to take his generously sampled bottle out of his hand. It's not light stuff, either. This is something he should be drinking with at least ice in a glass to water it down even a little. Allowing her to have the bottle, his head lifts up to look at her. There's tears streaking down his cheeks, as she might have already expected to see, and he pulls the phone away finally and turns it off. "She's going to be worried… Just— told her I'd be late— not…" That he wouldn't be home at all.

"I'll take care of it," Elena says, her tone the same every time he expresses a worry - gentle, and capable. At least in situations like these, she knew what to do. "She'd want you to be in bed regardless, sleeping off……god, how much did you drink?" Not in those other stressful situations where she tended to flail like a headless chicken. She reaches over, her thumbs gently wiping away at the tear streaks like he's done for her a couple of times before. And then, she'll help him up, and support him if he needs the help towards the cab. She leaves the bottle right where it is - she's certainly NOT taking it with her. If he complains about it later, she'll tell him she's got her hands full with him. But he's had enough for the night.

Face still raised, Peter doesn't move away when she wipes the tears from his cheeks, but he does close his eyes briefly. Another sharp inhale follows, before he sticks the phone in the open carrier bag hanging across his chest. He could grab the bottle and put the lid back on and drop it in there— but he doesn't. Instead he leans on her for help towards the cab, nodding that she'd take care of it. "Are you sure— you don't hate me?" he can't help but ask, as he walks rather slowly along. She's not forced to carry all of his weight, but he's definitely not able to walk straight. "Think she would be…" And it sounds like he wouldn't blame either of them if they did. Maybe he'd be right there with them on this.

"I….it's hard to say, Peter," Elena replies honestly, her eyes forward as she helps him move to the cab. "…hard to say what I feel about…you know. Using the same sort of power to make things easier for everyone involved. But you know Elle better than I do. And you're right, she'd go ballistic. She might even…." Go after friends? Family? Random strangers? She didn't know but she's seen the electroblonde when she was mad, and she was merciless. "But I don't hate you. Okay? You're….you're my friend. These days you're practically my -best- friend." She turns her head to look up at him. "And if I hated you I'd be leaving you to your devi— okay that's not true. But you're going to have to believe me on this. Watch your head." She'll press her hand gently on top of his as he ducks, in case he doesn't duck low enough to prevent his cranium from hitting the steel frame of the cab, but once he's in, she follows, and gives the cab driver his address downtown.

They both know what Elle would be capable of. Peter knows deep down that what he did probably saved many people he cares about a lot of pain— as well as the blonde girl herself. "They'd've stopped her." He shouldn't need to explain who They are. "…but how They'd've stopped her— would've been much worse." And that may be the only reason he could possibly forgive himself. "Least this way… she'll remember it— and remember it in a good way— and maybe she'll… be able to…" As she helps him duck down, he moves as instructed, and then settles into the cab, closer to the middle of the back seat than he should be. The cab driver only needs one sniff to know he's been drinking. But otherwise it's obvious anyway. "I want to believe you," he murmurs softly, painfully. And while the cab driver starts to make his way to his apartment, he starts to ramble a little, "Talked to Jack. Was going to tell him— talk to him about what I did— but didn't get around to it." So he had to call her. "Told him what was going on— with the bald guy— a little of it, at least. Hope you don't mind."

"So believe me. It's not that hard, is it?" Elena says, looking over at him and meeting his eyes. But it was her turn to listen, and so she does. They both know Elle's dangerous. She had been on the receiving end before. She knows who They are, and she nods when he continues on - rambling really. It was clear by his meandering thoughts, translated poorly into words, that he wasn't on his right mind. He needed to vent, not be analyzed. As the cab starts pulling towards his apartment building, she nods. "It's okay….I meant to tell him anyway," she tells him quietly. "I made the same promise to Jack as I did with you. The last time something happened, I saw fear in his eyes. I didn't….I don't want to be…" The cause of that, but she doesn't continue the thought, and falls silent instead.

When they arrive to his address, she helps him out of the cab, and moves for the front door. She is counting her blessings, at present, that the building had elevators. Not a lot of old buildings in New York had them. But she'll take him to his door, and use his key, unlocking it and pushing the door open before ushering him inside.

Peter Petrelli's Apartment, Downtown New York City

There's a small nod, though hopefully to the first statement and not the question. Peter keeps his eyes closed for a while in the cab, giving a short ramble that includes finally answering the question about how much he drank. Three glasses of something strong and the partial bottle of— well— it looked pretty strong too. Does he usually drink that much? Probably not. And he's not a big guy— so it's circulated pretty fast and settled in. "A lot of people… care about you," he says in a rasped whisper, including Jack in this 'a lot of people', obviously. And she should know a few more that could jump into that description. That's about it until they're inside his room finally. He leaned against her up the elevator, and then stumbled into his door. The carrier bag is lifted over his head when he finally says, "Saw Mara in there too— Her and Jack— they seem really close… but— she— said that Sylar— that Gray— was after her again. Called… Mohinder— to give her a message. That he'd be after her." That might explain some of his defeated mood, even if he had more than enough reason to be upset before he found this part out. There's almost a moment where he looks as if he may start moving towards the fridge— but she can probably stop him.


Elena reaches out to take his arm. "Wrong way, kemosabe," she says, keeping her tone light, though given how quietly she was speaking, it sounds rather somber. She steers him away gently from the fridge. The only fluids he's taking tonight after his three glasses and half a bottle of Captain Morgan's spiced rum is a glass of cold orange juice and an aspirin. But she tries to change directions gently - she doesn't want him to fall. She guides him towards his bedroom, nearly knocking over…something. She can't really see, it's dark. But she's been in Peter's apartment enough times to know where things are. At least, the big things. She stretches out one hand, like a blind man groping in the dark, and finally finds the edge of the bed. "Sit," she murmurs. The news on Sylar was disturbing - and god knows what he means about Mara and Jack being close. All she knows is that Jack had a girlfriend and it certainly wasn't Nathan's strumpet.

But she can stew over those later. She had to take care of him.

"…what does that mean?" Peter asks, even as he's guided across his dark and empty apartment. The windowed doors leading to his bedroom were open. They almost run into the little table game of hockey that's sitting propped up near the end of the bed, which makes them find the side for real before he can sit down. Did he normally have that out while she was here? Not normally. The apartment seems empty without the little white fuzz ball running around… but he does sit down, looking up at her in the shadows and the pale light from the windows behind the bed. "You know I really don't— just needed to hear your voice…" Those are two very different sentances, and one he didn't finish. How could they possibly be related to each other? Maybe they aren't. His brain isn't exactly processing information well. The carrier bag he brought with him across the apartment drops to the floor with a soft thump.

She almost laughs. Almost, at his question. But laughing now might prove to be cruel, when he's feeling so vulnerable and…..truth be told, Elena had absolutely -no idea-. She's never talked to Peter drunk before. So she scoots the carrier bag away, and reaches out. "I know," she replies softly. "And I promise you you'll hear it until you pass out, okay? Here, up you go…." And yes, for once in her life, she'll be helping a grown, adult male who isn't related to her in any way and who isn't a patient in Mount Sinai to take his shirt off. This wasn't really new to her, sadly - she's put him to bed once before, when he was having those nightmares. But once that's divested, if he lets her, she'll drop it on the floor and ease it to the side next to his carrier bag. In the dark she has….absolutely no idea where his laundry hamper is.

Reaching out, her fingertips touch his cheek in a reassuring manner. "One second." She turns, and heads out of the bedroom, heading into the kitchen to grab something to drink, and a bottle of aspirin.

There's a moment when she starts to tug up his shirts — because he has two on, one thinner one underneath — where Peter doesn't seem to understand what she's doing. There's a odd surprised blinking from his eyes, and he looks at her until he finally gets the idea and raises his arms to assist. The lower one actually requires more work, because it's tucked in, but she can get it off, or leave it on for her sake. Since it's awkward otherwise. It's more of a tanktop than anything, allowing his shoulders and arm muscles to be easily visible.

The touch on his cheek also earns a blink, and silence follows her as she leaves him to go get something to drink — there's bottled water and V8 and orange juice in the fridge — though the aspirin may take a little longer to dig up, especially since it's in his bathroom. He's leaning forward a little with his hand pressed against his head— only it's not due to headache, he's touching his cheek in the same place she touched him before she left. "You don't have to stay," he murmurs softly. "I don't— you don't have to."

When she comes back, she's got orange juice on ice, a wet towel, and aspirin that she manages to find in the bathroom, because SHE keeps aspirin in the bathroom, and therefore Elena figures that would be the most logical place to look. The wet towel was from there too. She hands him the glass of orange juice, and as he continues to speak, she sighs - and before he can open his mouth again to protest, or spill out whatever concessions he has in his head, she taps the small pill gently on his mouth. "Drink," she says. While quiet, she wasn't going to hear any arguments on this, and she leaves the pill there until he opens up and takes it. She eases back and she exhales, finally addressing his concerns.

"I -know- all of that," she points out, finally taking a break herself, easing down slowly next to him and giving him a look. "But I'm….look. I know you said…" She pauses again, and rubs her face. Her fingers and the darkness hopefully mask the look of frustration on her visage. Why? Why was it so …damned….DIFFICULT to just spit things out at him? She doesn't have this problem with Heidi. "…I know you said," she repeats, trying again. "That you're going to take care of me. I'm just trying to do the same for you. When I'm here…running around, getting you aspirin, juice, whatever. I'm here because I want to be. Not because I'm reluctant or anything like that, it's not out of obligation or duty or…just….you know?" Oh god. He probably doesn't. He's drunk, and she's inept when it came to talking about what she felt.

The aspirin might dissolve in his mouth for the lengthy pause between her putting the pill in there and the drink that he actually takes. The orange juice certainly goes down easier than the drinks he'd had before, but the container gets lowered once he's swallowed, and Peter looks over to her, where she's settled, and to the hand covering her face. The motion is slow, she'll have plenty of time to see it coming, but he reaches out and touches the back of her hand… then slides his fingers around hers and pulls the hand away from her face.

"Want to take care of you… but I don't know if— if I can. If I even— deserve to." He's pulling her hand back to him, if she doesn't pull it away. In his weakened state she probably easily could, but he's drawing it up against his cheek, lowering a little to make the trip shorter. He'll hold it there, if she allows him to, even as some stubble has grown on his cheek and may be rough for it. "…you have so many… who could take care of you… who'd be better at it. Don't know if I can protect you. Couldn't protect…" his voice trails off, eyes closing.

She knows enough that she could fill in the rest there.

Even in his drunken, addled state, he still didn't like it when she hid her face from him. The realization doesn't really hit home until later, feeling her hand dragged away by his in that usual, unassuming way - as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Elena looks back at him, her expression serious and her lips pressed in a soft line. But the next gesture startles her, her dark, gold-flecked eyes blinking when he presses his cheek against her hand. She could feel the stubble, the hard angle of his jaw and the slope of his cheek. She doesn't pull away - even if she wanted to, she didn't have the heart, or she didn't lack enough heart, to draw away. Another bout of heavy silence falls.

She closes her eyes and sighs. In these situations, she wasn't as eloquent as she usually is. But typical Elena, she'll give it a go anyway.

She opens her eyes again, lowering her head a bit so she could meet his, since his head is lowered slightly against her hand. "I….Peter I wasn't just….I wasn't just relying on you from the beginning. Even when you said that. I know there are plenty of people who would. But at the same time, they all can't be there when the time comes for me. I understand that and I've….resolved…in a way, that if I had to go down, it wouldn't be without a fight." She quirks him a small smile. "Gives you guys a bit of time to come find me and help out right?" Her thumb brushes gently over his cheek, since he's not letting go. "I can do my part too, you know? You don't have to take on everything by yourself. You have enough to worry about. I know you worry about me. I know all you want to do sometimes is to make sure nothing happens to me. But I always thought of this as a collaborative effort, Peter. If you slack off, or I slack off, someone else will pick it up. I can't reasonably expect you to defend me all the time, and I don't. I….don't know if I'm making myself clear but the POINT is I'm not going anywhere without a fight. If it does…the way I see it, the failure would be mine, not any of yours, because I didn't do it hard enough."

For the first bit, despite lowering to meet his eyes, Peter's eyes are closed. The only open again when she gets to the part about how she wouldn't go down without a fight. There's almost a mild hint of panic, even then, that she'd have to fight at all. It's irrational, because he knows she can take people down just as fast, if not faster, than he can. She's strong. She's better at her abilities, and she's better at protecting than he is. She protected the boys a lot better than he did— she could protect herself better too. "I know," he murmurs weakly, shifting his head to turn more into the hand he's holding, lips briefly brushing the back of her fingers, before he lowers it away— there's a hesitation when he lowers her hand, and it ends up being pressed against the center of his chest instead.

"Doesn't change that… wish I were strong enough. To protect. Want to become— strong enough— to protect— people." There'd been a hint of a shorter phrase there that he lengtened. "But I know… I'm not. Believe in your ability— far more than mine."

There's a moment— before he shakes his head. "Sorry— Just upset." It's about the same as when he tried to tell her she could leave. Letting go of her hand, he leans enough to put the orange juice down against the bedside table, and start to rub at his face with the damp towel. "Been… a long night."

It was hard to breathe all of a sudden. She didn't know what he was getting at, Elena just watching him despite all her reasurrances when he turns his face further into her palm, feeling his light grip. When lowered, she could feel his heart beating through the fabric of the wifebeater, and for the moment she chews on her bottom lip. She didn't know what else to tell him. Was there -anything- else to tell him? She didn't even know anymore. But when he says what he does, she nods.

"I know….and you are. You just have to stop doubting yourself all the time and just do it. I know it's….not much of a piece of advice. But human beings are capable of so many great things once it comes down the wire. Hell, our bodies are -designed- for it. You're not going to get anywhere without you….I don't know. Kicking yourself in the ass to move it. I believe you can. I believe you -will-. I know this thing with Elle….your….past with Simone. I know they shook you up bad but…just because things turned out the way they did doesn't mean that it was because you couldn't do anything. You're…capable of so many things…..I just…don't understand why you can't see that sometimes…"

Her hand is released, it rests on the side of the mattress. She watches him rub his face with a towel, and she reaches up to take it from him. Gently, of course, but she gives him a small smile. "I'll say. Do me a favor…don't try to quaff a sixty of spiced rum by yourself. At least have some ice with it." She reaches up, to rub the towel gently on his other cheek. "I'll go once you close your eyes and try to get some sleep," she assures him quietly.

The words that took so much effort to get out don't fall on deaf ears. Especially not if the shaking in his shoulders is any indication. Chances Peter will remember what she said in the morning? That's more likely. He definitely is listening, and emotionally affected. "Don't understand… what I did— spent so many years trying to get… anyone to believe in me… like this." That might explain his self-esteem issues. If he didn't ever know who believed in him until recently. And it's not one person, either— which is part of what has him wondering what he did to deserve this, after— wanting to hear those words for so long. And hearing them given to someone else instead.

"Is that what I was drinking?" he murmurs softly, hand reaching up to wrap around her own hand, and the towel again. That remains for a moment, before he he finally starts to move to lay down on his side, at which time he's forced to release her. It'd be hard for her to leave if he clings to her hand. Even if part of him would like to. "Sorry… don't drink very often." He's closing his eyes, as requested, but there's a continued murmur as he settles over onto his back, "Last time… you didn't answer the phone…"

"…….I hope that doesn't mean I drive you to drink, Peter Petrelli," Elena says with a huff, eyeing him from where she's sitting. She sets the towel on the bedside table. Granted she -doesn't know- she was practically the cause for both instances but if she heard it, she probably wouldn't be happy about it. When he finally rolls over on his back and closes his eyes, she sighs, reaching over to yank his shoes out from his feet and tossing them on the side of the bed. Then she'll pull a spare afghan over him. "But….I'll answer the next time. And the one after that. Just….just don't do this too often. It…between you and me it kinda kills me," she confesses haltingly. "Seeing you like this. Not like I'd have it any other way….I'd like to think that you could confide in me just as….much as I try to confide in you lately."

Her fingertips brush over the gradually-lengthening strands of hair from his forehead, pushing them back gently. She drops her face towards him, pressing her lips gently on his forehead.

"Go to sleep," she murmurs soothingly.

"You didn't," Peter assures softly, and since he's too drunk to lie he must not think she'd been the cause. Maybe an indirect connection that made his depression a little worse than necessary, but definitely not the cause in his mind. Not this time, or the one before— "Was just… your voice… that I needed to hear…" he murmurs in a tired voice, not even sure if she'll understand what he means. Nothing he hadn't already said. It kills her, though… that, and the kiss on his forehead, makes his eyes open again, and he reaches up to touch her cheek with his thumb, fingers sliding back against her neck.

It might keep her from getting too far away, as he makes her lower a little, until he leans up just enough to press his forehead against hers. Not straight on, there's tilting, and his nose touches her cheek bone. At least his eyes are closed again, but the orange juice does nothing to mask the vodka and rum that he drank earlier. Nothing at all.

He doesn't say anything more, even if he might like to. Some things just can not be confided right now… especially not right now. Not fair to her. Part of him knows this— but at the same time… he shifts just enough to nudge his nose against her own, breath whispering against her lips, even if the smell might offend her a little.

She better not have! She'd hit him! …probably not hard, but Elena wouldn't be all too happy for making him so unhappy he had to turn to alcohol to cope. But when he reassures her it wasn't like that at all, she can't help but wonder - her voice. Did that entire week of no contact affect him that badly? She didn't know. It was a little remarkable to her that she could… -affect- someone so strongly. Was it the water? Then again, Peter had always been unique. She couldn't quite put a finger on what it was.

His eyes were open again, once she pulls back a bit…only for his hand to keep her where she is. Her eyes open. She could barely see his face, save for the line that contrasts the silhouette from the city lights outside, and the phase of the moon. But they close again, feeling the weight on his forehead against her own.

"You're not sleeping…" The last was meant to be a tease, but it's cut short when she feels his nose nudge her own, his breath on her mouth. The fingers keeping her balanced on the mattress dig in slightly, feeling her heart jump to her throat. She couldn't even…the tang was evident, the smell of vodka and spiced rum was there - but at the very least, the latter had a sweeter smell. It wasn't too offensive, but it's not like she could focus. She was suddenly lightheaded. He was so close.

So close…

"Pe..ter…" The movements of her own mouth exacerbate it all, his name formed on her lips, brushing against his in a light touch. It was accidental, for the most part, but… oh god. What was this?

No, he's not sleeping. And for all the tingling and lightheadedness still in him from the alcohol, somehow it seems to spike all on it's own. A different kind, compounding the fuzz already present in his brain that's causing some slowed thinking and responses. The first touch may have been accidental on her part, but what comes after may be blamed on the alcohol. Probably best if it is. Lifting up just enough to more forcefully close the distance between them, Peter's lips keep her from saying his name again… at least for a moment. The spiced rum, the orange juice, the damp water from the towel that'd been against his face— all work together for influences on the contact.

His eyes are closed again, but this most certainly is not sleeping—

It doesn't last too long, though, before the second hand raises up and touches her cheek, pushing her away, and letting rest his head back against the bed. He doesn't let go of her, doesn't open his eyes. Even with the fuzzing of his brain, he knows he shouldn't have done that. She's— "Sorry— you're… my best friend…" He says with a strong measure of tired guilt.

Whatever's next, perhaps a goodnight or a seeya, it doesn't come out. Elena's words are stifled when Peter's head lifts up to close the gap in a measure that was almost determined even for his addled state, feeling his mouth against hers and her eyes flying wide open briefly, somewhat shocked at the sudden, full contact. She had been kissed before, she wasn't a stranger to it anymore - from one other guy. But she lets it happen, her mouth parting slightly to make room for him as her eyes close again. She knows this is wrong. She knows this is wrong on so many levels. Her thoughts muddle around in her brain. There were so many reasons why she can't. So many reasons why she shouldn't kiss him back.

But she does.

Part of her hates herself a little, for not having the will to resist.

When they part, she opens her mouth to apologize - but he beats her to it. She doesn't say anything - she couldn't help but feel the sting. Best friend. It only drove home the fact that whatever they had, it was good. It was solid, and strong, and because she was being a girl, and young, and -dumb- about stuff like this, she risks ruining it all because she just COULDN'T NOT—

Her fingers brush over his forehead. She'll make it easier on him. "It's fine," she says quietly. "But you really need your sleep." Her control sweeps over him, letting a warm sort of drowsiness overtake his system.

If he'd known how much she blamed herself for that— he'd probably have said more. But Peter's not really processing everything completely. It takes a moment before he can even disengage his hands from her face, a hint of reluctance as the fingers slide down her cheeks, and one of them ends up brushing across her lower lip before they drop down fully. There may have been intention to say more, there's soft murmurs as his lips move, hints that he might be trying to open his eyes, but combined with the alcohol's natural ability to slow down body function, her push of control has moved him on a fast course of falling asleep. There's some quickened breaths, as if he's trying to fight against it— but then that slows, and relaxation begins to slowly take him over. Tension soothes out of his jawline, forehead, and muscles, and within moments, he'll probably end up falling sound asleep as she desired.

And he'll get the fun job of waking up with a killer headache, light sensetivity, and the curiousity of how he managed to get to his apartment at all.

He was trying to say something, but too much has been done and she couldn't risk….Elena bites down on her lower lip to keep down the urge to cry. Her chest hurt. Her headache was back in full force, having had to let go of what had been keeping it at bay to put Peter down gently. And she didn't even know why. Was it because of what he said, or what they did? Was it because she let it happen, or she just….she didn't know. But she could've ruined— she had already lost Drake. She didn't NEED this sort of complication in her life! Not now!

It stung. Whatever it was, it just —

She takes a deep breath, standing up determinedly and shaking her head. She needs to go home. She needs her bed. And she's hoping that for once, Fate'll be merciful and make him forget all of this in the morning.

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