2007-11-21: Meet Danny Welsh


Jack_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: Peter comes to visit Jack and Trina's apartment. His hostess gift is the quite possibly the suckiest ever.

Date It Happened: November 21, 2007

Meet Danny Walsh

Jack & Trina's Apartment — Midtown Prestige Apts

A day at home has done Jack a world of good. He's had three solid meals and a night's sleep in his own bed next to the woman he loves. His color is improving, some of his heavy frown lines have started to fade, and the haunted shimmer has dissipated from his eyes. Once again, he's his old self. Almost. For now, Trina has left him alone while she went out to pick up some breakfast, making him promise that he'd stay until she returned.

During his self-imposed captivity, there was little to fill the time and no real way to find focus, so he exercised. Now that he's back at home that habit has remained. He's propped into a handstand against one of the living room walls, honing his balance and his musculature simultaneously. He's dressed in a form-fitting black undershirt and a lightweight pair of sweats, leaving the dozens of track marks he's put into his arms, hands, and torso painfully visible.

Alone in the apartment. Until suddenly he's not alone at all. There's no knock on the door, nothing to warn him that he's about to get a guest, just a sound, like a rush of air, and then— there's someone kneeling on his living room floor. Peter's dressed warmly, with a long coat that hangs down over his legs, a scarf hangs loose around his shoulders. And while he's the only one that will be speaking, he is not alone.

Laying on the ground, with Peter's hand on his chest, is a curl haired middle aged man, with stubble along his jaw, a loosened tie, and a shopping bag full of fresh fruit. From the looks of things, this man isn't breathing one bit.

The younger of the men, though oddly enough a year older than the one against the wall doing a handstand looks around until he catches Jack's eyes. His shirt is soaked in blood around his stomach, but he doesn't look injured. Not anymore.

"Holy shit!" Jack shouts. He wobbles and shimmies on his hands for several seconds before he collapses on his head and then crumples to the floor. "Sonofabitch! Peter!" Unsteadily, the mostly-detoxed Irishman clambers back to a standing position. "What the hell happened? Who the hell is the dead guy? Are you okay?" He shakes his head and gestures with his hands incredulously at the body, the blood, and the general mess on his living room rug.

That's almost as good as a punch to the face. Reaching into his pocket, Peter pulls out a piece of notebook paper. "You tell me," Peter says, standing up and holding out the piece of paper he fetched from the alleyway. He'd have cleaned up everything if he'd had the time. The police will find many bullets, most without any sign of impact (though signs of being fired) and blood and other interesting police report worthy things… but no bodies. And no gun, he got that too. "He tried to kill me, Jack. Would have if I hadn't been me. And he threatened to go after Elena next." That last part is probably why he looks so angry… "When I questioned him, he killed himself. Who the hell is this and what have you gotten Elena into?"

With a shaking hand, Jack accepts the bloody scrap of paper and reads the message that's been scribbled on it. When he's finished his eyes go wide with surprise and he stares at the body. "Jesus. This is Danny Welsh? He's a fixer from Ireland. Finds people, kills people whatever." He sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out slowly. "Let's work while we talk. We've gotta clean up this mess before Trina gets home. She'll lose her damn mind if she comes home and finds a dead mobster in the apartment." He's already moving, digging in one of the kitchen drawers for a utility knife, which he immediately starts using to cut up the stained carpet in a large square around the corpse.

Jack may have slept well last night, but his girlfriend has certainly had better nights. Sure, the man of the apartment was home, but he still wasn't himself. Not entirely. To stay alert should the need arise, the young woman had to forgo her beloved prescription pills that made things hurt less. Additionally, there were people out there, looking for him. It was a combination of scenarios that made it so Trina couldn't get more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time.

Which would be why she isn't cooking this morning. Trina didn't want to leave Jack, but neither did she have the energy to break out a pan and go through all that concentrated effort to not burn the building down. She didn't give much explanation for the gratuitous amount of bundling up to go out, save that she was a Dixie girl in a Yankee winter. It was excuse enough. Doesn't everyone wear two coats and hide their hair in denim applejack hats? Anyway, the fact that she packed up her medication and took it with her in a messenger bag probably didn't need any explaining.

And now home comes the conquering hero, with her messenger bag a little fuller and a couple of coffee cups tucked in the crook of her elbow. Sausage, egg and cheese breakfast bagels with grease galore and girly, high-calorie lattes for the win. Jack didn't go with her; he gets no say today.

There's the jingle jangle of keys as Trina's cold, pale fingers rifle through the collection before finally finding the piece of brass that she needs. Once it's found, she slips it into the lock, jostles it until the barrels turn, twists the knob, and then starts walking backwards — opening the door with her back so she can shift the coffee back into a one-per-hand arrangement. Her light voice carries into the air as she leans her head back and calls up, seeking to summon the man of the house. "Hey, sugar! I'm home! Told you I wouldn't be long. Come and—"

Blue eyes open wide as she turns around, the door falling closed behind her with an audible 'whoosh' and 'click' and the coffee cups spilling to the floor as the strength suddenly leaves her hands. The plain look of horror and confusion on her pale, wind-reddened face is unmistakable, even behind the huge black sunglasses that cover her face. "—get it?" Then, as no expression of horror is complete without it, a quiet curse follows, barely more than a whisper as a shaking hand reaches up to pull her sunglasses off. "The hell's going on?"

"Trina's living here?" Peter says with a sudden shock that takes away some of his anger. There's obviously a hint of 'crap' on his face, that's making him regret bringing the body here. "I'm sorry, I couldn't just leave it in the alley." There's some guilt settling in as the man starts to clean up his carpet. "I can teleport it to the Den— " It won't stop the stained carpet, though. And he doesn't get back to the man by the time the door opens. Wince. He stares at Trina rather openly. This woman doesn't even know him, and he— knows her a little better than that. There's a moment where he just looks between her, the body, Jack— and he's forgetting the fact there's a bullet hole through his shirt and blood staining that too.

The first words out of his mouth are rather out of place, though. "You're hurt." To Trina.

"Uhhhh…" Jack glances at Trina, the body of Danny Welsh, and the bloodied Peter in quick succession, then hangs his head and heaves out a monstrous sigh. "Shit. Honey, there's a perfectly good explanation for this. Honest. Uh. Isn't there, Pete? Tell her. I didn't do anything. I just—shit." The Irishman shakes his head ruefully and starts rolling the body up in the stained section of cut-out carpet.

There is a dead man on their living room floor. A dead man. Trina swallows hard, trying to choke back the ill feeling that is threatening to overtake her. There is a dead man on their living room floor. Her breathing quickens, much like her heart, but then Peter talks. "Who the are you?" she snaps viciously, not missing the fact that he's a bloody mess. She doesn't remember him at all. Then her attention goes back to Jack, who is using their carpet to roll up a dead body. A DEAD BODY. IN THEIR LIVING ROOM. Her eyes are wide in her fury and horror, the brunette shaking her head and pointing her trembling finger in the body's direction and her drawl thickening by the gallon. "And don't you tell me that there's a perfectly good explanation! There ain't no perfectly good explanation for a corpse in the living room!"

Oh, god. Peter had hoped to meet Trina under more favorable circumstances. He'd liked her quite a bit— she'd been one of the people who he spent a great deal of time with in the future. Her opinion mattered to him. There's a grimace, almost as if he'd been struck rather than just snapped at. "It's— I brought him here. I'm sorry. I needed to talk to Jack about— it wasn't— it didn't happen here. I didn't think that you would be walking in. I'm sorry." He genuinely sounds sorry, all his anger at Jack deflated into something else all together. She unknowingly saved her boyfriend from a beat down of some proportions. "My name's Peter Petrelli." Even as he's being all apologetic, he does manage to flash a glance at Jack, one that returns some of the anger. What have you gotten us into, Jack?

"Sweet Christ," Jack mutters under his breath. "You're a heavy sonofabitch." When Danny is completely wrapped up, Jack stands and brushes his hands off. "Yeah… Pete, Trina. Trina, Pete. Pete is Nathan's little brother. Trina's the lady who keeps putting up with my shenanigans. And this…" he prods the carpet-wrapped corpse. "This is Danny Welsh. He's been looking for me, it seems. Or he was, anyway."

Hands fly around Trina, becoming increasingly frantic. "Shut up!" she screams at Peter, at a volume that might make the neighbors begin to worry. Jack's right. She's losing her mind. At least, it certainly feels that way. She moves to run her hand through her hair, forgetting its in the hat and knocking said hat to the floor. At least its helping to sop up coffee now. Then those hands cover and drag across her face, rubbing across her eyes the hardest.

The fact that Jack is taking this in stride is, in a word, disturbing. "This is a CORPSE, Jack! This is not another one of your— AUGH!" The cry of frustration doesn't even seem to help, and her hands dive into the messenger bag only to extract the bag of breakfast sandwiches. That bag is then hurled into the middle of the room, falling well short of either man but followed soon after by her big, black plastic sunglasses. But even that act of frustration and despair doesn't seem to help. It does, however, give her the ability to allow Jack's statement to sink in. Looking for Jack. Huh. Unfortunately, it doesn't stop her from glowering at Peter and Jack with her lips set into a very tight line and hands curled into tiny, impotent, shaking fists on either side of her waist.

The scream makes him do exactly what she said. Peter shuts up. He doesn't say anything for quite a time as she has her chance to rant. In fact it looks very much like he may just end up leaving, and he could do it in many different ways. But he sticks around and waits for her to settle down— as much as she's going to. "This man tried to kill me." For someone who'd been shot in the stomach, he's standing up pretty tall. "When he realized I wouldn't tell him where Jack was," he adds on, tones quiet, avoiding direct eye contact with the lady of the house. Instead he focuses on Jack. "I would've let him think I was dying in the alley if he hadn't threatened Elena with a visit before he left. Tell me what's going on, Jack. I can survive a dozen gunshot wounds, but Elena's not immortal and if something happens to her because of you, I'll…" The treat trails off.

"He threatened Elena?" Jack scowls down at the carpet-wrapped body and gives it a hefty kick. "Bugger got what he deserved, then. I'm sorry you got shot, Pete. Let's all just calm down. Getting upset isn't going to make him any less dead. Besides, he killed himself." Confused, exhausted, and still a bit befuddled from his time in self-imposed detox, Jack slumps down until he's sitting on the roll of carpet with his forehead cradled in both hands. "He was probably hired by someone who works for my father. We're having a bit of a family tiff right now."

Trina doesn't say anything right away. He's making her seem like a madman. Like somehow, she's blowing this out of all proportion. There are no words for the roll of emotions churning in her gut right now.

Yes, yes. Elena's in trouble. Let's all worry about Elena. Nevermind the fact that Trina hasn't found the way to tell Jack what happened at the liquor store. Peter has managed to trump anything she could possibly say by bringing a body here, waving Elena (who Trina is still pissed at) around as the magic explanation, and trying to speed up her timeline.

She wants her drugs. She wants drugs and a drink, but right now she can have neither because there's company and a boyfriend. And that additional frustration is making everything so much worse. "Jack Middlename Derex," because she doesn't know if he even has a middle name, but somehow the rhythm that translates into 'You Are In So Much Trouble Right Now' is otherwise entirely ruined by his name's syllable shortage. "I—" WAIT. She knows what to do. Hindered only by her awkward, disjointed sort of stride — made worse by distress, Trina makes her way to the couch and starts throwing cushions, too, after she sends her hat flying. She has had more than enough, thank you. The apartment was supposed to be a haven. A safe place to hide from the world. And then Peter brought a body here. This is Trina's breaking point.


"It's not him I'm worried about, Jack. It's everyone that you know. Not just Elena, here— You're friends with Nathan, too. And they already tracked me down," Peter says, looking at the man, definitely NOT calm just trying to restrain the desire to punch the man in his own home, in front of his future wife. His father. "Your father. What kind of tiff could you be having with your father that would have him hire professional assassins to track you down?" And then a pillow hits him in the side of the head.

The sandwich may have fell short, but pillows have flight capabilities. "Trina, please. I know you're upset…" He lets the pillow drop to the floor, and he actually braves walking over to her. Without a password. He puts his hands up, though, as if that means something. "And you should be. But you're in just as much danger." He noticed the limping. He's a nurse. This is why he can't help but say, "Let me help you…" This is one of the most awkward things. He knows her. She doesn't know him. She has no reason to know him. His attachment to her is two years from now.

"Oof! Trinow! Baby, just lisdamn! Will you please—shit!" Jack dodges, ducks, dips, and dives to avoid the flying upholstery. When the barrage reaches an end he rolls to his feet and glowers. "What the hell, guys? It's not like I asked an Irish hitman to come after me. You know what? Bollocks to you both. I'm outta here. If I stick around, I'm gonna end up back on the spike."

Swearing and muttering under his breath, he storms toward the door and grabs up a coat and some shoes. "Sorry again about the bullets, Pete. You have a nice time helping my girlfriend."

"News flash!" Trina grunts as she hurls a box of Kleenex, but this one goes in Peter's direction specifically. Things were already bad. Stop making them worse! "I already got a visit. Why do you think I dragged him here? It's the only place we had left where I thought I could hide him. Half of Manhattan knew he owned that bar." She remembers the escapade that was Jack's winning of the title of New York's most eligible bachelor. Her temper is fading, leaving just a crying woman. The plus side of this is that she seems to have run out of things to throw. "And you brought a ing body here." Then her head twists, a grim fierceness written in the contortions of her face as she looks at the man moving to leave. "You go out that door, Derex, and — I swear on all that's holy — I ain't huntin' you down again."

GAME: Peter has rolled SHAMWOW and got a result of GREAT.

There's no response at all to the yelling of the young woman who has every right to be upset. Peter looks moderately guilty, something he'd felt around her in the future more than a few times. She had this ability to make him feel all kinds of guilty. And then there's Jack, moving toward the door. He turns, makes a displeased sound and raises his hand in the man's direction. He doesn't even think about what he's going to do, he just knows he has to stop him— and he doesn't want to hurt him to do it. So what happens is a glowing forcefield, identical to the one that had been wrapped around him and threatening to pop his head like a bean, encases the door, blocking the man from actually opening it.

"Just wait a minute, Jack," he says, surprised at the ability's manifestation, though— he shouldn't be. The person he got it from, while a younger version, happens to be standing rather close to him right now. "You're in even more danger than the rest." And your girlfriend's pissed off and threatening not to come after you. That's important.

Thoroughly surprised, Jack lays his palm against the surface of the field. "Wow…" he murmurs quietly. When he pushes, there's no give. No apparent way through. He's angry now, though. He's been yammered at and berated as if he hired the hitman himself. He turns to shoot a glare in Peter's direction. With his shoulders squared aggressively and his jaw tightly clenched, he is clearly Not In The Mood. "Whatever this is, put it away." He cocks one fist back, recklessly preparing to test the barrier's fortitude. "It's time I put an end to this mess, and I can't do it if I'm stuck in here. Besides, I have to get rid of the body."

Oh. So Peter's one of those friends. Trina narrows her eyes at the door and her boyfriend, then turns that glare back to Petrelli. It's fleeting in its rabid intensity, though, as at least whatever the hell the man is doing is keeping Jack in the apartment. Maybe that's why she crosses her arms over her chest tightly and just glares at Jack. No go now. It's a lot easier to be tough when there's someone else there.

"You don't… you don't know what this is?" Peter says with a surprised blink, but it doesn't waver more than a little as he looks away from Jack to Trina, that blinking continuing for a moment until he looks back at the taller man. "You're right that you need to put an end to this, but you can't do it alone. You're not alone in this— they've already hurt Trina, they killed me, and they threatened Elena. How are you planning to end this without sacrificing yourself? Which, after what you've done for me… I'm not willing to let you do." Which is why he holds the forcefield up. It's not budging.

"And I'll help you get rid of the body. I'm the one who brought it here. It's as much my responsibility." His responsibility. He practically killed the man. "Now just sit down, tell me where I can take the body, for now, and don't go anywhere." Might as well get it out of the apartment before it starts stinking.

Jack's body quivers with barely suppressed frustration and rage. Needless to say, he doesn't like being trapped in his own apartment and having information extracted from him against his will. He doesn't like help. He handles things himself. That's how he rolls. Glowering darkly, he spins around to face Peter and jabs one long, wiry finger into the Italian lad's chest. "You wanna know what's up? My dad kidnapped me and forced me to do a lot of shit I'd like to forget. He's the reason I ended up a junkie. He's trying to make a very nasty drug, I stole it from him to protect it, and he wants it back. As soon as we dump this body I'm gonna go find my father and kill him." Unwilling to waste time, he stoops down and grabs one end of Danny's carpet-rolled corpse. "If you want to help, grab this bastard's feet and take us to the corner of 33rd and Stenton. I know where we can dump him."

This is the home that Hell built. "They didn't touch me," Trina corrects with a defensive snappishness, looking at the Man She Doesn't Know who is acting like he knows her. Her lips then curl up into a near sneer. Jack's upset. Jack's upset, and it's putting her in a most decidedly foul mood now. "And why the heck would we know what that is, anyway? You're the one who did it. Don't you know?" …Wait. NO. She was teaming up with Peter to make Jack behave! She shakes her head vigorously, utterly confused and not knowing what the heck to do. The only thing she can do is release a cry of frustration. "When did sanity leave this apartment?!"

"Wait. Wait one goddamn second," Jack growls. A very important piece of information is finally starting to pierce his angry, irrational haze. He glances at Trina and his frustration melts away, instantly replaced by regret and concern. "Somebody came after you? Because of me?" Absently, he drops his end of Danny and gapes at his lover. "Baby… I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I'm gonna fix this, I promise. I'll go kill that bastard dad of mine until he dies from it."

Compassion doesn't always come easy to Irishmen.

"Come on, Pete," he continues, reshouldering their shared burden. "33rd and Stenton. There's a big toolshed thing there. It's right by your brother's old campaign office. Put us down inside."

"Because I got this from…" Peter starts to say, but trails off. This kind of insanity is difficult to explain. They didn't hurt her? Then why is she walking stiffly? There's a long pause before he focuses on Jack. The forcefield falters and disappears as he moves away from the door, his hand lowering. "Jack…" he trails off. He got an explanation. More than he expected to get. Killing your own father? That's… "You're going to get yourself hurt if you don't accept some kind of help." There's a pause, before he walks over and bends down to grab the legs as he's told. As he stands, with the feet held, he looks at Trina. "I'll make sure he comes back." And if he doesn't, he'll kick his sorry Jackass.

And with that, the two of them, and the body, vanish. Poof.

Alone in the apartment now, Trina finally falls to her knees. Her energy's spent, and she feels entirely dizzy. Moreover, she can't stop crying, although it's a silent leak. She just got Jack back. Now here she is while he's gone again.

"You damn well better."

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