2007-05-22: Train Wreck


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Summary: Peter goes to visit Bob in an attempt to find out certain things involving the man's daughter. Unfortunately Peter is not a business man and fails to present to proper kinds of arguments and the meeting itself is a train wreck.

Date It Happened: May 22nd, 2007

Train Wreck

Kirby Plaza

When he finally makes it to Kirby Plaza, it's well after dark. Peter got sidetracked a lot longer than he intended, so at this late hour, he's not expecting many except the most diligent worries to still be present. Hopefully the man he needs to speak to would be among those. Approaching someone at a receptionist desk in the lobby, he asks politely, "Excuse me, I know it's late, but is Mr. Bishop still in? If he's not overly busy— could you tell him Peter Petrelli'd like to talk to him?" Not as balsy as his last attempt to meet with the old leader of the Company.

The receptionist looks up and says, flatly, "I think he's in a meeting, Mr. Petrelli, but I'll check." Of course, she'll check when her nails are done. She hadn't really started them till Peter came looking for her boss, but lets face it: this shade of Passion Purple Shine is to _die_ for, and it has to be dealt with properly. She gestures to the chairs. "You can have a seat over there." Belatedly, in the fashion of receptionists everywhere, she offers a bored: "Can I get you a water or diet Coke?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Peter responds patiently, giving her a small nod, though he knows he may be getting blown off. Stepping towards the chairs, he takes off his coat and drapes it over an arm, and sits down to wait. If he has to get blown off for something, it might as well be Passion Purple Shine. Pulling his phone out of his coat pocket, he checks for any messages or missed calls, as he'd had his phone turned off for part of the evening.
Passion purple shine is applied and fifteen minutes later, when she realizes Peter won't go away, she hits the buzzer. "Mr. Petrelli to see you, sir," she drones in her nasal whine. There's a long pause and then a short, clipped, "Ask him what he wants."

The receptionist gives Peter a thin smile, and, as if he hadn't just heard the comment on speaker, relays it. "Mr. Bishop would like to know what the nature of your business is here today?"

Considering how long it takes her to even page the man, Peter's thinking of making a phone call, specifically to the man's daughter. But then again, she'd ask where he is… Instead he spends a lot of time thumbing through his phone book, pondering over the many entries, until he hears her actually speak. By the time she directs the words at him, he's turned the phone off and closed it, dropping it back into his jacket pocket before he stands up. "I…" He hesitates. "Tell him I'm reconsidering one of his offers."

"Send him in," Bob says, having heard perfectly well over the speaker.

"Mr. Bishop will see you now."

And into the office Peter shall be ushered. Bob has had time to put everything potentially confidential away, and Peter will be greeted by a smooth, clean desk of walnut, gleaming under the office lights. "Close the door," he says, when Peter comes in.

Suspiciously pristine office, indeed. Peter gives a glance around, as if half expecting that certain things will be hidden in plain sight— only he doesn't see anything hidden in plain sight, or even craftily hidden. Yet. Turning to close the door, he steps away a few paces closer to the desk, before he lets his coat drape over the chair top of a chair, instead of his arm. He remains standing, though. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Bishop. Especially at such short notice." Yeah, he's a lot more polite this time. "I need to ask you a few questions… About Elle."

Tightness begins around Bob's eyes. He pulls out what looks to be an office toy, except it's that doorknob that Peter turned to gold on his way out last time. He starts rolling it from hand to hand. "I am not agreeing to answer anything, but you can ask anything you want."

The doorknob is squinted at lightly, before he realizes exactly what it is. Peter hadn't even noticed the doorknob was different— but he does know he somehow got that ability. Turned his toothbrush into gold. And his girlfriend's pants for that matter. "I understand that," he says, watching the knob until his eyes slide away and avoid going back. "I'm wondering what would happen if Elle did do something that you considered a betrayal."

Bob stares at Peter for one long moment. Then he sets the doorknob down. "What is this all about, Petrelli?" he asks darkly. "What are you getting at, asking something like that? My daughter wouldn't betray me. My daughter is a good girl. Severe lapses in judgment that cause big messes for me to clean up, that's the worst I'll ever see out of my daughter."

There's still no eye contact from Peter, who puts his hands on the back of the chair as if he needs it for support. "Just needed to know— if she was in danger. You're right in that she wouldn't betray you anymore— but before… Maybe to you it was just a lapse of judgment, a mess you had to clean up… But if that's the way you clean up most messes…" He hesitates, taking in a slow breath before he finally looks back at him. "I want Elle to be allowed to keep some— freedom. To be able to do things she wants to do— have as much of a normal life as possible. She deserves that. But if it comes to the point where— she'll lose that, won't she?"

Bob puts the doorknob down on the desk hard. "What the hell do you want from me, Petrelli? I've got a world to protect here. I'm working as hard as I can to make sure you and she have a nice world to mess around in day after day. I've got…" He rips open a drawer and dumps out a series of file folders, until the thick things spill out onto the desk and onto the floor, "That many dangerous, insane messes to clean up. You are a nuclear /bomb/, a Broken Arrow who is running around free in part because my daughter, for reasons I can't /fathom/, loves you." He stands up, slapping his hands down against the files and leans forward, eyes sharp and dark. "I am done justifying my actions to you. I've got bigger problems on my plate. You want to date her? Date her. I've already let her go to that. But you quit coming in here like you know anything."

"I wasn't— " Peter says, before he cuts off, closing his eyes and letting his brow clench up in frustration. That's definitely not what he'd been expecting to hear right now, especially since… "Was trying to find out what would happen to her if our… dating got in the way of her job. I wanted to— wanted to make sure that no matter what happens between us, she'd be allowed to keep some…" He trails off, giving his head a shake. "Just want her to be able to keep what she's found. Even… if it's not with me."

"And what has she found?" Bob demands. "What has she possibly found that I haven't already given her?" He tosses the doorknob to the side, and it lands in a corner. He stares at Peter sourly before dropping back to his chair. "I wanted you gone. I still want you gone. No memories, no pain. She gets herself back on track. But you and your…cronies don't know how to leave well enough alone. And here you are, back in here, trying to interrogate me about actions I /might/ take? I repeat. What is this all about? You wouldn't be here if you didn't think I'd have some reason in the very near future to take some action."

Following the golden doorknob, Peter's really not sure if this man could possibly understand what he took from his daughter all those years ago. "Maybe you weren't the one who might be taking action," he says stiffly, looking more displeased by the moment. "I wanted to know what would happen to her if we stayed together. To see what would really be in her best interests. I'm sorry for wasting your time." He picks up his coat and folds it over his arm again, before making his way towards the door.

"I've decided to let her go," Bob growls. "Haven't you gotten that yet? She wants to be with you. I'm going to allow it." His face twists. "I think its a bad idea. I think you two are a train wreck, and you know it. I think you really do know it. But this time I'm going to let her make her mistakes. I've already made my bid for this. Nothing at all would happen to /her/. Something happening to /you/ still isn't off the table. She is your shield. You are not hers."

"I know," Peter says, stopping to hold onto the doorknob that is /not/ turned to gold. Though frustration had started to leak into his voice, now he just sounds… quiet. Almost whispered. "That doesn't mean it's a mistake, Mr. Bishop." With a sigh, he opens the door and adds, "I really was reconsidering an offer you made. But I'll stick with my old decision, I think." Hence the 'sorry to have wasted your time.'

"I need men who are committed," Bob says. "I don't need weather vanes. That's what you are. A weather vane. Emotionally you're not rooted. You're a man who has little boy ideas. If you'd come in, signed on, gotten to work, great. But if you came on board now, you know what would happen? Six months from now or less we'd be right back at square one. You need to grow up. More than anything else, Peter Petrelli, you need to grow up."

"I never reconsidered working for you," Peter says, looking back while he still holds onto the door. There's a new tension around his jaw, as if insulted and angry. He keeps it mostly in check, but there's definitely tension on his face. "And I never will." It doesn't seem he's lying to cover his tracks, either, he's not that good a liar. Must have been another offer he was trying to reconsider. Closing the door behind him, he shows himself to the exit of the building, though likely with an escort.

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