2007-03-17: Stop The Serial Killer, Save The World?


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Summary: Elle and Peter discuss things, including what to do about the whole tornado thing. And they decide that stopping the serial killer may save the world. Maybe.

Date It Happened: March 17, 2007

Stop the Serial Killer, Save the World?

Guest Bedroom - Petrelli Mansion

Waking up earlier, Peter quietly watched her for a while, then took the opportunity to carefully untangle himself from the sheets and the young woman under them with him, put suitable amount of clothes on, shirt and a pair of loose pants, and tip-toes out the door and downstairs, leaving the door slightly ajar, as a hint that he's not /gone/ in case she wakes up. When he returns about thirty minutes later, the he nudges the door open and glances inside, hoping she's managed to stay asleep while he cooked. From the smell, the breakfast is simple; hash browns, with light onions and salt, but nothing else. Playing it safe, to be honest. A glass of orange juice also weights down the tray, though coffee's brewing downstairs.

Elle is drooling on her pillow asleep. She's so tired she didn't know this level of tired existed. 30 minutes? It's a drop in the bucket of her sleep time. Sprawled underneath the sheets, naked as the day she was born, she snores so loudly she'd do a lumberjack proud. No wonder Peter was up.

There's definitely been cuter things to see in the morning, but— hey… Peter's not really going to complain too much about this as he nudges the door closed and carries the tray over to the bedside table and pushes the digital clock aside to make room. Settling back down against the bed, he takes up watching her again, reaching out idly and touching the hair that falls against her face, pushing it aside. Definitely not the most romantic sight ever, but somehow it's still making him smile, never mind whatever happened downstairs… cause it did not take half an hour to cook this.

Stirring when she's touched, Elle blinks blearily up at Peter before turning in the bed to lay on her back. "I had the craziest dream." She reaches out to touch the man's arm, shocking it very lightly, "We decided to date. And then we had…" Smiling lopsided, she looks up at him directly and says, "Totally wasn't a dream, huh? Oh man. Wait… where's your cowboy hat then?"

Making no move to pull his hand away when shocked, Peter continues to have that smile, more than a hint of one, as she murmurs into awakeness and recalls what happened. The former nurse has raised eyebrows until she gets to the end, which brings out a laugh-like exhale. "Well, the cowboy hat might've been a dream— but the rest—" The hand shifts so that he can touch hers, much as he has in the past. "It wasn't completely crazy, right?"

"Last time I checked we're of age… hot… and liked each other. I don't think crazy comes in at all," Elle points out, before noticing the tray. "Oh you did not." Sitting up quickly, she grins, "You totally did. Breakfast in bed?" This before she realizes she's topless and tugs the sheet up a little. She can at least pretend to be modest. "If my father and I were speaking, this'd be heaven."

"You're the one who called it a crazy dream," Peter says, before he settles back into a sitting position so that he can pass over the plate, and the silverwear. The maids will be changing the sheets anyway, so it doesn't matter if she eats in the bed. "Would've made more— but I'm not sure what all you eat. I figured everyone eats potatoes. There's coffee downstaires, if you'd rather have that." Passing over the orange juice would be next, as she has a table on her side she can set it on. He's not in a hurry to touch his. What else she said, though… that causes a more serious expression to form. "Maybe— we could talk to your father… In a day or two…"

"And tell him what?" Elle says, sighing frustratedly and running a hand through her blonde curls. "Unless you're hiding Sylar all tied up in the closet with a bow on his head, I got nothing." Mood killer, that. She shrugs her shoulders as if to dismiss that branch of the conversation and says, "I'm not allergic to anything. I don't usually eat anything that had a face, though." Surveying the potatoes, she adds, "It smells absolutely divine." The glass of OJ is seated on the table next to her before she returns her attention to the potatoes, some of which are speared and devoured voraciously.

The dismissed conversation is allowed to remain dismissed, but she might catch Peter's serious expression lingering for a long moment. Focusing instead on her answer of preferred foods, he nods. This would be why he didn't cook anything else, actually. "What about eggs, milk and cheese?" Important questions, especially if he's going to be cooking for her often, which seems to be the case. The potatoes aren't expertly made, or anything, but it's obvious that he cooks for himself, or used to. Out of practice, but still. "Didn't think we'd have that in common," he adds with a hint of a laugh. And just as he took the time to watch her snore and drool, he's taking the time to watch her eat as well.

"I'll still eat chicken-bebbes." The blonde smirks Peter's way, "And I've never met a glass of milk that I didn't like. Cheese is okay, too. I just don't do meat, really. Whenever I get sandwiches at Noodle Heaven or whatever its called, I have to special order my philly cheesesteak. And they're like… that's vegetarian, not cheesesteak. And I'm like just because it doesn't have actual cow in it, doesn't mean it isn't a philly cheesesteak. I think they have my number posted by the phone. They never answer when I go to order carry out." Picking some more at the potatoes, she adds, "You'll have to let me cook you some alfredo a la Elle sometime. It's second only to pizza a la Elle. You'll note the common theme."

The more she goes on, the more genuine his smile becomes. Peter must really like what he's seeing and hearing— or he's just in an exceptionally good mood. Maybe that's part of what getting a girlfriend and partaking in offered benefits does to a young man who's been pretty lonely the past few months. "I certainly won't stop you from making me dinner every so often," he responds, even if said dinner involves take-out or delivery. In some ways it's the thought that matters most. "We'll need to figure out what movies are playing right now. I haven't exactly had time to watch television to see trailers lately." His Company 'cell' had been rather on the boring side. "Unless you changed your mind on where you want your date."

"No. A movie sounds perfect. Probably something across town though, I'm sure the Company knows exactly where we're staying now." Reaching for her OJ, Elle takes a long sip and sighs. "At some point I'm going to have to resume trying to find Sylar. I didn't want to presume, but… you're gonna help, right? The longer he's out there, the more people are going to end up with a one way ticket to six feet under."

"Even if they won't come after me, do you think they'll be coming after you?" Peter asks, smile lessening as the conversation dips towards more serious levels. "I'll help with Sylar. Hiro Nakamura— he brought me pictures of paintings by Isaac Mendez— he'd had the ability to paint the future. They show some very bad things for New York. A tornado's going to cause a lot of damage, and who knows how many deaths. Some also show Sylar. If they're at all connected… then maybe stopping Sylar will stop the tornado." It's difficult to say, really. "And we know one thing he's after— Claire. I know where she's staying."

"Seriously, he's still after her? The guy needs to get a new hobby. Stalking Cheerleaders is just so cliche," Elle declares with a snort. A snort for Sylar, even. She's got her eyes on her plate and is moving the hash browns around to create a smiling face. "So what you're saying is… we have to save the cheerleader to save the world? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Who /SAYS/ that?"

Oh, she'd be surprised how many people say that. While she plays with her food, Peter can't help but smile again at her sarcasm and snorting, shifting so that he's on his knees atop the mattress and actually sliding in beside her. There's a reason for this, because soon she'll feel a hand on her shoulder, and he's leaning in close to kiss the top of her ear. A small spark passes between them, whoever the source is doesn't need to be known. "You just said it, Elle," he whispers against her ear, before he presses a second kiss into her neck. "Think of it more like… stop the serial killer, save the world. Knowing what he's after will help us find him." Which should have better luck than walking around hoping to stumble on him. And, yeah, it also means he can protect his niece.

Elle giggles at the first kiss, keeping her head steady forward so she doesn't knock into Peter's face. She does, however, bite her lip at the second kiss at her neck. "You know… you have a way of putting things into perspective. I'm in. Sylar is so toast. He's like one of those nerds who go to those festivals to pretend its medieval times. Only less dangerous and with a better sword." Setting aside what's left of her breakfast (not much!), she asks, "If we know he's after her, we should probably find out as much as we can about where she is now and her routines. That way we can start figuring out a strategy for catching him in the act."

Settling back after she sees reason, Peter reaches out to take her unoccupied hand and holds onto it. "I know she's staying in a nice hotel. And she apparently has a boyfriend, this kid named Drake Maxwell. They've been going on dates fairly often, as far as I can tell. We might need to follow them around, but I bet Sylar won't attack anywhere public. Hiro seems to think he doesn't have any abilities right now, which must be why he's carrying around the sword." Isn't that Hiro's sword, even? He wonders how the Japanese man let him get his sword. "The hotel, and anywhere she might be alone, are the places I'd look out for."

For a second Elle looks impressed. "Dating. And under daddy's nose. Maybe she's got a spine somewhere under all that quivering wimpy exterior." Then she goes from impressed to surprised, brows shooting up, "Drake Maxwell? A little dense, kind of cute, needs to stop frosting his hair, Drake Maxwell? Works at Starbucks, Drake Maxwell?" Maybe she missed some of those conversations the other day afterall. She's only willing to drop that subject when Sylar comes back up. "As proud of my lucky shot the last time we came face to face with him? I agree with Hiro. He's either lost his powers or they're weakened, because that should have been harder."

Quivering and wimpy? Peter's eyebrows raise at that description, but he can't really think of an adequete answer. Doesn't look as if he agrees with that statement. "Yes, that Drake Maxwell," he confirms, giving her the answer before they move on to the serial killer whose— actually killed him before. "Wouldn't call that a lucky shot." From the sound, he'd been impressed by her ability. However, he has to admit… "It was too easy. If he could've moved things with his mind, he could have tossed us back against the hall as soon as we opened the door. Or strangled us. At least one of us. If we're going to take him in alive, to your dad— we'd need to catch him while he's like this."

"I agree. We aren't going to get a better time than now… especially since, he probably hurt himself after that fall. There was blood," Elle says, turning in towards Peter and letting the sheet drop. "So, we scope out the hotel where Claire-bear is staying… get a bead on the layout, then work on anticipating Sylar's next move?"

As the sheet drops, Peter had been planning to say something, and gets overly distracted for a moment or two. A blink later and he's looking up into her eyes again, "Could also try and get a room in the hotel. Somewhere close by her room… It'd be more private…" There had been a lot of effort to keep his eyes raised, but they slide back down as he's talking, before moving right back up. More private would be good. With his family living in the house, and all.

"You afraid someone's going to sneak a peek at our lovenest?" Elle asks bluntly, raising a hand to Peter's cheek to brush it lightly. "I don't care, Peter. I'm not going to rein myself in. It's not my style. Let your mother and your brother think what they want. I'll respect their house and I'm not going to disrespect them in it, but that's all." Patting that same cheek, she starts for the edge of the bed, swinging bare legs over to the floor. "Give me ten minutes and I swear I'll be ready to go."

For some reason, being told she doesn't care also makes Peter smile, leaning a bit into the brush of his cheek, as he watches her exit the confinds of the bed. "I guess you're not the type to do that, no," he says softly, in a soft voice, almost admiring. He's distracted watching her for a moment, before he slides off the bed and rounds to his plate, which got terribly ignored in favor of watching her eat. The potatoes are cool now, but he picks up the fork and gets to work on eating, while she's using her ten minutes. Ten minutes he'll also need to spend getting into suitable outdoor clothes, instead of these obvious around-the-house clothes.

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