2007-10-31: Poison In Plastic


Nathan_icon.gif Mara_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif

Summary: Chance meetings in the local liquor store on Halloween.

Date It Happened: October 31st, 2007

Poison In Plastic

Liquor Store in Hyde Park

It's late at night when the door to the little liquor store is opened, a chime sounding out to indicate more customers are arriving, and the words, "…fire me if I ran off to save the world, right?" "Only if you didn't give me two weeks notice." drifting in along with them. Store can has Peter, can also has Nathan who walks in just after him. Both look like they've seen far better days, and as for Nathan, he sort of looks like he got into a fight with the lawn and lost. His dark coat is still visible stained with dirt down the front, although his face is clean - just a colourful assortment of fresh bruises down one side of his face giving shadows that have nothing to do with the harsher lights above them. The fever isn't doing him any favours either, but at least he's dressed nicely, moving now towards where the whiskey is shelved.

There's no stains on Peter's suit, though, showing that one of them avoided a fight with the lawn. However, he looks tired, paler than normal, sick by all definitions of the word. But mind the fedora on top of his head, the style of the suit— because it makes him look like a mobster stepped out of an old movie. Though the hours of Halloween may have ticked away, there's still the presence of costumes abound. Perhaps that's his costume. Sick zombie mobster. Only he's more intelligent looking. "Gotcha, two weeks notice," he says in response, voice tired, but still amused, despite being hoarse and deeper than normal.

"'Aven't you got this in anything larger than a liter?" A strangely peppered, yet distinctly British accent rings out from the back of the store, belonging to a woman standing between the sections labeled 'Gin' and 'Whiskey' if the direction it's carrying from is any indication. The man at the counter rolls his eyes, but doesn't respond.

Sure enough, as Nathan rounds the shelves in the pursuit of whiskey, there's the redheaded woman to whom the voice belongs. "Plastic," she mutters as she hefts a 1.75 litre bottle of Gordon's. "Really know you're scraping the bottom of the barrel when your poison no longer comes in glass, but packaged in plas-" She lifts her head and Mara Damaris' hazel-green eyes go wide as she focuses on the politician and his brother. "…tic. Hello, Nathan." Self-consciously, she brushes the bangs over her forehead, in desperate need of a cut as they fall into her eyes in a fringe far too long to be fashionable.

And Nathan turns towards the voice, out of instinct rather than recognition, holding a bottle of Canadian Club in one hand that he'd just pulled down— and blinking at Mara, taking in the appearance of her holding what appears to be the Godzilla of Gordon's bottles. "Mara," he greets, and replaces the whiskey back onto it's shelf, glancing back at his pseudo-mobster brother then back at the woman, gaze now going down towards the plastic liquor bottle. "Got something planned?" Much like the detective, he quite desperately needs a haircut. Maybe he can corner Elena into it, because she's female and might know about these things.

At the sound of the voice, Peter doesn't even get a chance to glance at the alcoholic beverages. A voice he hasn't heard since two years from now— yeah, his life is complicated. He follows his brother in the pursuit of whiskey, though he's looking for something else. Hand reaching up, he plucks the fedora off of his head and holds onto it, suddenly recalling that it's on inside a building, and— well— At least this way they can see he needs no immediate hair-intervention. It's just started to grow long enough to fall into his forehead again. There's a hint of a different consenant about to roll off his tongue, but he stops himself. "Mara— uh— hi." Not expecting this at all.

"Just stocking the liquor cabinet," Mara murmurs quietly. "'Ello, Peter." She presses her lips together and glance between the Brothers Petrelli. She's almost nervous. "It's… been a while."

Nathan grunts a wordless agreement at the stocking of liquor cabinets, hand drifting now towards the tried and true brand of Jack Daniel's, although his gaze lingers on the shelving, now, critical of a possible other choice. Or second choice - you don't go falling out of your house and then hiking to only retrieve one thing. "We've been somewhat preoccupied," he says, another glance towards Peter. This isn't really the time nor place to go 'we have a possibly deadly infectious virus, stay back' but it's a concern.

"More than somewhat," Peter says softly, still holding onto the fedora, looking around the store and suddenly realizing just how stupid this whole outing probably was. It had been called quarantine for a reason, but he'd not wanted his brother to go on his own, either. "We're feeling a little under the weather. And we haven't even drank yet. At least I haven't," he adds after a second, looking at his brother. "It's— um— nice to see you." He continues, looking back at the red haired woman. "I'm glad you're okay."

"That makes three of us, then." Mara smiles thinly to Peter. "Good to see you, too." She brushes at her bangs again, oddly enough not to brush them way from her eyes, but further there. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" Mara snags another bottle of Gordon's, this one a glass litre, and pushes it into Nathan's arms. You want this.

It's definitely a needless risk, but one Nathan felt entitled to make. He can be yelled at for it later. Right now, he replaces the Jack Daniel's for the bottle of Pendleton whiskey he just noticed, making an approving sound as he takes it down and glances over the label. This one, he's taking home. As for whether he's been drinking, he doesn't dignify that question with a comment - although for the record, he hasn't. That's why he's here! Speaking of which— Nathan blinks when his other hand is now occupied by the customary litre of Gordon's, and this, he tucks under his arm. Taking this one too. "Well I can think of a reason," he says, now diverting from the topic of the virus. The flicker of a smile that had occurred when she passed him the gin vanishes for the time being. "Didn't think we'd hear about it eventually?" The only elaboration he gives is one word: "Gray."

Unfortunately they're in the wrong aisle for schnapps, so Peter's hands are empty, except for the fedora. At the mention of why they'd be worried, he hesitates— and allows Nathan to speak up on the matter. When Gray is mentioned, he plants the hat on top of his head, hiding from sight under the shadow cast by the lamp on the brim of the hat. "That— and— you haven't had any…" Visions. Long ones. Lasting in comas. About him and a future he's hoping to avoid. How to say all of that outloud. "I— uh— mean— You know." Maybe she doesn't. Mmm. Maybe he should go look for that schnapps.

Mara shrinks back a step. "You know I'm not allowed to talk about work." Except that she does it all the time. "…What did you hear?" She glances first to Nathan, but her eyes linger on Peter, narrowing a bit as if to warn him not to delve into the troubled recesses of her mind. "Haven't what, Peter?" She adjusts her grip on the gin, calling attention to the thick leather gloves on her hands.

Peter's stumbling over words draws a puzzled glance from his older brother. Nathan has no idea what subject he could be approaching, so he just settles his gaze back onto the redhead. "That he's out," he states, simply. Not too harshly, it's not like he's blaming Mara for this. All the same. "Told you so." There. "I'm going to go find tonic," he announces, graveled voice even more so from the sickness plaguing both he and Peter, before— well he's about to push past Mara to go inspect the fridges at the back, but thinks better of it, taking the long route and moving back around Peter.

It's difficult. His older brother should understand! Peter's eyes watch his brother, doesn't move to stop his retreat, as he responds to Mara— while looking at his brother. "I won't ask you about what you're doing— but yeah— we know that he's out again." Which he's not pleased about, from the grit of his jaw. That's not it, though. He looks back at her again, as his brother takes steps to leave. "Visions. Any that last longer than they should— days or weeks— of things that could happen. You haven't had any— have you?"

Mara shakes her head quickly, looking suddenly panicked. "I've been doing my best to avoid it." She lowers her voice and steps toward Peter. "My abilities are on the fritz. I can't even explain it. My skin crawls when I'm near something with a history." She follows Nathan with her eyes. He did tell her so. Damn him.

He's giving them room to talk, is what he's doing. Plus, he does actually need tonic. Nathan doesn't note the dual gazes tracking his progression for however long, opening the refrigerator doors and retrieving the tonic. And then, he lingers, apparently looking at the wall of vodka. No one would ever pin him to be a vodka fan, but he seems to be searching for something amongst the labels. Not finding what he's looking for, he makes a slow trek back towards the two. Giving them some time in case whatever was so awkward for Peter to say is less awkward without his presence, as well as being mindful of his own partially healed injuries.

There's a slow breath and Peter looks back at her. Likely there's a few things he could hold out which would trigger unpleasant visions. Luckily he left them all in his apartment, and his abilities are unreliable at the moment. "So you can stop yourself before you get one now? That's… that's helpful. I— was getting afraid that they were going to drive you insane eventually. But if you can control it more, at least… at least there's that much." He takes in a slow breath, genuinely concerned, but also rather anxious. And still physically exhausted and pale and sick. But that's another story.

"If by control, you mean I'm not touching a bloody thing unless absolutely necessary? Then yes, I am in total control." Not much control there at all, is there. "Have you been overdoing it. You look awful…" Mara's eyes flit to Nathan and she murmurs, "And you look like you tried to play on a slip and slide, but without the yellow tarp."

Having swiped up one of those little plastic shopping carrier things, now weighed with gin, whiskey and tonic, Nathan comes to stand by the other two, a hint of a smile at Mara's words. "I fell out of the house," he explains, a little wryly. He could almost be kidding. Except he isn't. It'd certainly explain a few things about his appearance, anyway. "Peter and I— and a couple of other people— are sick. It's making our— " Discreet glance around. The one guy at the counter seems about to fall asleep rather than eavesdrop, so he continues, voice still lowering a little. "Our powers act up." Or down, as it were. Very suddenly down.

"Overdoing it at the moment? Probably," Peter answers truthfully. On his feet, walked a couple blocks, and healed his brother's broken ribs. In his current state, that's overdoing it. Normally this is less than what he'd done before. "Nathan tried to sneak out on his own— we ended up walking instead after I made sure he could walk…" He says, looking back at his brother worriedly. Their voices are lowered, and parts of that are vague enough they could mean just about anything. "But yeah, we're sick. Remember all those months ago? When Gray was sick? Think we caught something similar— but not the same. New version. Only reason I'm not…" Out there hunting him down right now. But he doesn't finish that.

"I'd kill for that righ' now," Mara laments. She inches away from Nathan. "You're wearing that bloody ring. — Not that you shouldn't be! But I can feel it from here. That's all. Good job on still standing, though. You look fantastic for a bloke who's fallen out of a house." She turns her gaze, now glinting with a sort of dark mirth, back on Peter. "Yes. I remember vividly." Which explains the brief flash of satisfaction. She shifts the gin bottle to sit in the cradle of one arm, reaching up with one now-free hand to scratch at her forehead absently. "I meant to kill him." That last bit directed toward Nathan. The itch seems persistent as he gloved fingers work at it a bit longer, brushing aside hair briefly.

That gets a flicker of a frown, Nathan looking down at his hand, towards his wedding ring. He's not about to take the ring off, as he's not sure that putting it in his pocket would help Mara anyway, but he does shuffle back a few inches. Her affirmation gets a grim kind of look, but also a nod. Too late now, either way - he's alive and roaming and there's really not much the three of them can do about it. At her persistent scratching, Nathan's gaze darts up towards her hairline - and stops there, his free hand raising up as if to brush her hair aside. But that's both invasive and not entirely appropriate, along with the fact he shouldn't be touching anyone right now, and he resists, hand dropping - but he looks at her. "You're hurt," he observes. No reason to think that the mark he saw has anything to do with Gray, but he studies her face to find the truth in her expression.

Intended to kill him. Peter opens his mouth, then doesn't say what he might have intended to say, because he's looking at her forehead, catching hints of what she might be covering up when his brother speaks on it and he fully takes notice. Looking away a moment, his eyes divert down and he breathes through a tightened jaw. "It's a shame you didn't succeed," is what he says at first, before he looks up at her again. "Are you okay?"

"I might have succeeded if some idiot hadn't given him the means to escape before I got there." Reluctantly, Mara brushes the hair away from her forehead, rather than risk the chance that Peter will get the bright idea to use one of his myriad of abilities to do it for her when he has no business taxing himself that way. Frankenstein-esque stitches criss-cross to pull together the horizontal line cut into her forehead. "I'm on the mend," she insists stubbornly. Physically, at least. There's no telling what the emotional scarring looks like. "I'm worried about you two, though."

Nathan raises an eyebrow. Someone had done what now? A glance to Peter, and he rolls his eyes a little, focusing back on Mara. "Your secret organisation is proving exactly why secret organisation's shouldn't exist outside of fiction, you realise." Can't trust it any further than he could throw Bob Bishop. "Don't worry about us, we're doing that enough for everyone," he adds, lightly

There's a long pause, the stitches and the placement of the cut attracts his attention pretty thoroughly. Peter keeps his eyes on it as he says, "We'll be fine." It's a reassurance, on top of his brothers, but he's thinking carefully on… someone who might help Sylar escape. "He can die, Mara," he says softly, now looking down and away. "Even at his most powerful, he can still be killed." It's whispered, and then he starts to move away, "I think I want to get something for myself." And then he's heading— toward the schnapps. Oh dear.

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