2009-11-04: The Good Guys

Starring:

Max_V4icon.pngPeter2_V4icon.png

Date: November 4, 2009

Summary:

Wanting to believe that people would tell the truth can sometimes be a downfall.


"The Good Guys"

Building 26

It hasn't been long since the cute computer nerd came in and talked to him. Peter's pacing back and forth, trying to figure out the best way to find out what really happened when Tracy was sent to go after Rebel and Iceman and try to trap them. The description from the woman had been vague, leaving him with little idea of what'd actually happened, but also very worried. He tugs on his sleeve, talking softly under his breath. He should try to talk to Ivory. The Senator will know what he should do…

But he shouldn't bother him, either. Stopping in his pace, he finally moves toward the door, seemingly determined to take some initative. Though he may never have to leave.

Several hours spent in surgery and more than a day in recovery were understandably uncomfortable for Max. Not only has he been in constant, mind-numbing agony, he has been mentally reviewing the loss of his arm over and over. And over. Somehow, in the final seconds of his confrontation with Tracy, he managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

Though he should likely remain in bed for some time, the stout and stubborn scientist is already up and about. Much of his vigor is owed to the fentanyl patches plastering his upper body. He's wearing a wine-colored suit with a Mandarin collar and a black shirt, both of which have one sleeve neatly cut off at the elbow, revealing a thick wrap of bandages around the stump of his left arm. Despite the multitide of clotting agents running through his system and smeared across his wound, the bandages are soaked through with blood. A flat package wrapped in brown paper is tucked under his good arm. None of this seems to be slowing him down any as he lets himself into Peter's room.

"Mr. Petrelli," he greets, his normally low and reasonable voice tight with tension. He smiles through the carefully applied layers of cosmetics that soften the circles under his eyes and the lines across his forehead. "I'm so sorry to have left you to your own devices. I hope you will forgive me."

When the door opens, Peter takes a solid step back in surprise, having expected to spend a while knocking until someone answered to unlock the door. He's not a prisoner, he's just being kept safe, he knows that. But it still surprises him when the person he would have attempted to see walks right in. "Max!" he exclaims, then looks at the sight of… "Jesus. What— should you even be on your feet?" He steps closer, the part of him that's fresh from being a nurse immediately wanting to help him to a bed, nevermind the pressure in his own head.

"I should have gone with you. I can survive a helicopter, I could have… this shouldn't have happened to you." He had asked Ivory if he could go, so that he could prove himself, make the man who mentioned knowing his brother proud. Instead…

"There, there," Max murmurs, his smile taking on a softer, more sympathetic cast than most have ever seen him display. "I will be fine, though I may call on you to lend me a hand from time to time."

The jest does a poor job of concealing his anguish. It's not the physical pain that affects him so much as the emotional. He truly has lost a part of himself. A fraction of the whole that he has worked so hard to perfect. It isn't a pleasant sensation.

"I'm already working on a prosthesis," he continues, dismissing the issue as best as he can. "On a more pleasant note, I come bearing gifts. I find that while a suit does not make a man, it can greatly improve his disposition. I hope you enjoy these." He sets his wrapped package down on Peter's bed and gives it a pat. "I think it will fit nicely. I did my best to size you up by eye, but I didn't want to spoil the surprise by asking for measurements."

"Of course. I'll— do whatever you need me to do," Peter says, genuine in his words, if still a tad guilty looking. Cause he should have been there, in his mind. It isn't pleasant for anyone, that's for sure. At least until he comes baring gifts. It's not the single card that he's not been able to go out and use that Ivory gave him, but it's something solid and now.

He's been dressed and out of any kind of stupid jump suit for a while, but that doesn't mean he's been in comfortable clothes, and as he opens the rather large package he can't help but smile. "They look great. Do you think I'll be able to get a better room, soon?" With… a real bed and less cold looking, probably. "I— I understand that you're all worried about me, but… I want to help. And it seems like you could use it more now…"

"Of course," Max replies brightly. "You are more than welcome to use my suite. I have a spare bedroom and plenty of space. I'm hardly ever there as it is." Awkwardly, he reaches across his body with his right hand to dig a keycard from his left pocket, which he then offers to Peter.
"And we are worried about you, you know. You've been through a terrible ordeal. Lost much of your memory. Still, that's no reason you should be stuck in this broom closet like some sort of prisoner."

Smiling gamely in the face of torturous pain, he jerks his head in the direction of the door. "Why don't you get dressed and I'll take you there? We can get you a proper bite to eat, as well."

"Oh, I know I'm not a prisoner, but I only just found out how many years I'm missing… Three of them. I'm almost thirty and…" Peter sheepishly shakes his head, repacking up the clothes as if he would rather change somewhere that's not quite a prison. He sets the bag down on what counted for a bed in here, and goes to pick up the magazines that Ivory had brought to him, and a few other supplies. All of which seem important for the fact that… Ivory sent them over. Only one thing given in person, but… these are all things he treasures. They're added to the package for easy carrying.

He does have to rest a few moments and take in a deep breath, before he moves to the door. "I'd like staying with you, I think. I— I'd asked about getting some of my belongings from my apartment in New York, just so it can feel a little more like home to me. Pictures and… books and stuff. Do you think that'd be possible?"

Max pauses and tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. "That can be arranged," he answers after a few moments. "I'm afraid that it wouldn't be wise for you to go back there. Not yet. However, if you'd like to make a list, I'd be happy to send someone. Would that be an acceptable compromise?"

Compromise. It takes every ounce of Max's willpower to not pronounce the word in the same way he would when saying 'tapeworm' or 'infected penis.' He manages, though.

"Oh, I know Ivory— I mean, the Senator— wanted me to stay inside until he was sure that the people who might be out to hurt me were taken out of the way… That Rebel guy?" Peter says, not really seeming to have understood much of what happened, but if Max is missing an ARM it must have been really dangerous. "So a list of things should be more than enough. I don't need to go there myself. Not until it's safe, at least."

Smiling again, Max claps Peter on the shoulder in a manfully affectionate fashion. "There's a good lad. I know you don't remember it, but you and I aren't only partners. We're good friends. I would feel terrible if something happened to you." He gives the shoulder a squeeze. "I'm just glad to have you back in the fold."

"A lot seems to have happened in three years," Peter says, that hint of a smile still tugging on the corner of his mouth as he leans into the touch. "I'll do my best to help out, just let me know what I can do, and I'll do it." Genuine enthusiasm, he seems to be very trusting of the things he doesn't quite understand. Why would they lie, after all? They're the good guys.

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