2007-10-21: Unstitched


Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif

Summary: Once again, Peter calls someone from the Company to check on progress, and the man mentions that they are captured, and that his wife is injured. So the man of many powers invites the two Company Agents over to his apartment to heal them, breaking out of quasi-quarantine to do it. And little does he know him and the wife, Mariska, have a few connections with each other. But one of them is figured out eventually.

Date It Happened: October 21, 2007


On the Phone

IT's been a rough evening already. So Fel's voice is curt, as he lifts his cellphone off the charger. "Ivanov here," he says, curtly.

"Hello, Agent Ivanov," Peter says into the phone, sounding a lot less angry and frustrated than he had been before, because he certainly had a lot of time to settle down since that last conversation. His voice is calmer, more collected. "It's Peter Petrelli. I don't have anything lead wise, I just wanted to… check in. See if you found anything."

His voice is drily amused. "They're….off the street."

"What?" Peter says with a tone of surprise. "When did that happen? You managed to recapture them— ?" There's a hint of a missing word on the end there. Finally. But he cuts himself off before he actually says it.

"Yes, we did," Fel's voice remains matter of fact. "A…day or so ago, I believe."

There's a relieved exhale from the other side of the phone. Peter doesn't say anything else for a moment. When he does, his voice sounds concerned. "Is everyone okay? They were dangerous people."

"We didn't lose anyone. They got to my wife, and hurt her badly," His voice has gone flat. "So, admittedly, it was a bit personal."

There's another pause, as if he's hesitating. Peter takes in a deep breath. "Did you ever look at my file? I'm honestly not even sure what the Company has in it, but I figure they have one— you might not be high enough to look at it, I don't know how it works, but… I can heal people."

"I'm sick, but I can still use my abilities," Peter says, sounding a little determined when he does this. His voice is rough, but he's not coughing anymore. "And I've been sick for two weeks and no one new has developed symptoms, so it's pretty safe to say it's not spreading— and it hasn't gotten any worse in a while either."

"Is it safe to move her?" Peter has to ask, sounding worried. "I'd say my apartment, but it's on the 14th floor of a building— we have an elevator, but that might be taxing for her if she's too injured…"

His grin is audible. "Yes. She can walk. She just can't use her arms."

"All right," Peter responds, then gives the address to his apartment. "I'm not actually there right now, but I can get there in about… twenty minutes and I can wait for you both."

"I'll be there in a half hour," Felix says, and clicks off the phone.

Peter's Apartment

Making it to his apartment first, Peter unlocks the door and opens it, glancing around at everything that's missplaced. The problem with being out of the apartment for two weeks is that it didn't get taken care of very well at all. There's dust everywhere. And when he opens the fridge he quickly regrets it. Yeah, not offering drinks to his guests, unless it's a can of soda. He'll have to clean that out later. While he waits, he moves back to the bedroom and starts to pack a bag of extra clothes and other things for his continued stay outside his apartment.

Fel is prompt, and a man of his word. Ten minutes or so later, there's a crisp knock on the door, and the FBI Agent is there with his new and wounded bride. His expression is wary, narrow-eyed, but his voice is polite, "Mr. Petrelli."

To say that the evening has proceeded pretty awkwardly thus far might be laying it on a bit light. The explanation for their trip was brief but oddly not unexpected and the car ride was uncomfortable on multiple levels. Mariska hovers dangerously close to Felix in the hallway of some unfamiliar high-rise apartment building with a frankly bothered look on her face.

It's not too long after the knock that the door opens. From the look of him, this young man is sick. There's a paleness to his face and a tiredness in his eyes that gives it away. However his breathing is mostly steady, even if his hands shake where he holds the door open. "Come on in. I'd offer you something to drink but I haven't even been in my apartment for a couple weeks and… we're not here for pleasantries, anyway. There's a love seat she can sit in over there," he gestures through the door into the main room, moving deeper into the kitchen so he can close the door behind them once they enter.

"You still look like Hell, Petrelli," Ah, Fel, ever charming. No wonder Misha was swept off her feet. But he ushers Misha to the seat, trying to make it comfortable.

Mariska's paled gaze momentarily narrows as she first lays eyes on the man who greets them at the door. Does she…? Was he…? He looks hauntingly familiar, though, she just can't seem to put an unsteady finger on where or when it was that they might have met. She has a little time to mull it over while she's being gently ushered to the aforementioned loveseat, settling down with a wince and a teeth-gritting hiss. Once there, she divides her time evenly between giving Felix and Peter the eye. Compared to the treatment that Felix received, Mariska's visit with a so-called miracle worker is coming off significantly seedier.

For the moment, Peter's a little occupied on closing and locking the door again and then going to the sink to wash his hands and dry them off with a disposable towel. "Whatever I have isn't easily passed on, or more people would have had it by now…" In fact he's pretty sure he actually coughed on the FBI Agent back when he first started getting sick… "But I don't want to take any chances, either." His hands are raised, to indicate he's meaning the handwashing. But as he moves back into the room, his eyes settle on the woman and he frowns, but… the serious expression trails off. "All I need to do is touch you. It may take a few minutes. Sometimes it doesn't work right away. It's not actually my ability…" he rambles on as he moves closer and leans in to touch her shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Felix asks, voice unwontedly gentle. What an odd thing to say. "And is it unique to the …..whatever we are?"

Well… that's not very confidence instilling. In fact, Mariska actually flinches a twitch when Peter touches her… as if she anticipated him going for someplace she might later be compelled to demonstrate on a doll in the presence of the authorities. Quick! She makes a weak gesture in search of Felix's hand before, oh my! She gasps. The sensation that overcomes her in oddly indescribable, neither painful nor pleasant.

Wounds will knit back together, but it may take time for the pain and aches to go away, but a majority of it will disappear. Peter closes his eyes for a long moment, whispering an explanation to the FBI agent. Sure, most people keep their abilities secret, especially from the authorities or the Company, but they held him for four months and if he had access to his file he'd already know all of this. "I absorb the abilities of others— the people I meet." After a moment, he pulls his hand back and steps away, opening his eyes again. "I think I've done all I can."

Fel's only concession to shock is a couple of slow blinks, and a nervous pass of his tongue over dry lips. "I….see. How many do you have?" he wonders, canting his head, even as he holds his wife's hand, gently.

Mariska erupts into a small shudder the moment Peter completes his laying on hands. His sighing withdrawal is reciprocated in kind by the woman just seventy-six seconds under his care as she shrinks back and away, curling in toward Felix instinctively. She lifts a cautious left hand and, clearly, there's a range of movement available to her now that was not previously there. "Do you… have a bathroom?" she drawls.

How many does he have? Peter looks a little thoughtful for a moment then actually ends up shaking his head, "I have no idea, honestly. Maybe around twenty— maybe more. I'm only really good at… a dozen or so of them." That's probably not the most reassuring thing in the world, but… there it is. There's a reason they'd held him at one point, and reasons he might be worried about going back. With his eyes drifting back to the Russian woman, he nods and gestures through an open pair of french doors, where a bathroom is visible right past the dresser and sectioned mirror. "Yeah, sure. Did you have stitches to remove or anything? I can probably help— I have a first aid kit under the sink in there, and before all this started I used to be a nurse."

Felix looks profoundly perturbed, really. But doesn't protest. "Yes, there are stitches," he murmurs, looking to Misha. "So, your power is learning others' powers?"

Lots and lots of stitches. Mariska is already making her way to the bathroom, rolling her shoulders forward and back, lifting her arms a bit oddly at her sides, testing out the extent of her miraculous healing with gestures that a major league pitcher might more aptly employ. She's quick to peel out of the slightly too-large t-shirt she's wearing in order to hurriedly unhook the front-worn fasteners of her therapeutic compression shirt worn underneath. For the moment, modesty seems to have taken something of a backseat, as she barely bothers with closing the door before she's freed a bare shoulder and — sweet, merciful Jesus! Sure, she's still sporting a black and blue bruise but her right arm looks just as if someone had decided to stitch up a smudged lipstick line from elbow to nearly her neck. It's… kinda ew, actually. The remnants of biodegradable, surgical fishing line puff slightly on the surface of her skin.

Since he wasn't asked to, Peter doesn't follow, but he does move a little closer to the french doors in case she calls for help or anything, though he does say, "There's some small scissors in the first aid kit under the sink." If she can't handle it herself, he'll probably be there. He glances back at Felix. "Pretty much, yeah. I meet people with abilities and… get them. Some are easier to control than others, but…" He trails off, shrugging. "I'm just glad that some of the ones I have can help people like your wife."

"Is it a conscious act? Can you choose todo so or not?" Fel persists, blue eyes now agleam with curiosity. He glances after Misha. «You need help in there, doll?»

Once her moment of awe and horror subsides, Mariska commences a quasi-frantic search for the first aid kit Peter mentioned. Under the sink, eh? Little door opens with a mild creak and — ah ha! There it is! Of course, it doesn't take the woman long to realize that, yeah, bendy though she may be, someone else is going to have to snip the stitched loops left lingering in her skin. "I — I can't… yes," she says, defeatedly. Dammit. She hates feeling helpless.

"No, it just happens. I don't really seem to have a choice in it," Peter admits, glancing back over at the man. It's when the young woman in the bathroom speaks that he starts moving toward her, though he didn't understand the Russian, so he just automatically assumes it's directed at him.

"She could use some help," Fel translates, though it is no doubt redundant at this point. "Interesting," he says, motioning for Pete to precede him.

Mariska has seated herself on the toilet, arms crossed over her chest with her borrowed t-shirt draped over them in an attempt to afford herself some measure of modesty. Her bare back displays the radical results of Peter's efforts on the second wound, the one she couldn't see in the mirror; it, too, has been dramatically improved, though there is still a thin, pink line that suggests she'll still bear a slight scar from it. She looks a little bit wide-eyed but not unhappy.

"Thank you," Peter says to Felix at the translation, opening the door to step into the bathroom and avoiding looking at anything except her back and the wounds there. He'd been a nurse— there's been his share of nudity that he had to get used to, but he can respect people's desires to preserve modesty by not trying to look, too. Nothing he's not seen before. "It was the one who slashed people that got you?" he asks, carrying on a bit of conversation as he makes something appear out of nowhere. A small box of sterile gloves, which he slips on. It's the nurse in him, and he's also sick, so it's safer this way. Once he has those on, he takes the scissors and starts to clip away at the stitches. "But you guys caught them at least— so hopefully they won't hurt anyone else."

"So long as they stay caught," Fel sounds ….rather less than sanguine about it. "And it doesn't end up being some Arkham Asylum sort of situation," His voice remains dry, as he speaks outside the door.

Despite Peter's previous pronouncement of prior employment as a nurse, Mariska seems genuinely surprised when it's him and not Felix who comes through the door… perhaps even more so when her husband remains on the other side of the door. She rolls a little basic Russian over to the younger man, drawling out a simple, "Da." She not precisely taciturn so much as just super still. Hey, he's got scissors next to her skin! No sudden moves seems like a smart idea. After a few 'snip snip' intervals, she allows her own curiousity to wade in to the conversation, "…what else do you do?"

"Hopefully they'll stay captured," Peter says, quietly wishing he'd had a face mask in that glove kit, just in case. There's a pause, before he stops snipping and reaches to shift through the first aid kit— ah, there it is. He pulls one over his mouth. There. Now he doesn't need to worry about breathing on her so much. And can answer her questions. "What else do I do?" He pauses in the snipping a bit as if thinking about it. "I do quite a bit, really… mind reading, regeneration, enhanced strength, prophetic dreams, flight…" He trails off. He could go on for ages.

"I think she meant. ….for a job," Now Fel's amusement is evident in his voice, even though he can't be seen beyond the door. "You could make a living telling fortunes in a carnival?" he suggests.

Er, no. She really was after the reply that Peter dispensed. However, her reaction to it might be noted in a sudden stiffening of her muscles and a sharp breath in… or, maybe she was just accidentally pinched. Either way, the sooner he finished snipping and plucking the unnecessary remains of sterile thread from her magically erased wounds, the happier she'll be to put her shirt back on and escape the suddenly suffocatingly small room that she's apparently sharing with a telepathic, invulnerable, super strong, prophetic, flying healer who— wait. "…prophetic dreams? How do you mean?"

"Oh, well, I work at a bookstore now— though I haven't been able to do my job for a while," Peter says, looking back at the woman's back and getting to his snipping. Only when she asks about the prophetic dreams does he glance away from his work, at the back of her head. "Well— A week or so before I met your husband I had one…" There's a hesitation, as if there's more to it, and he snips and pulls out more sterile string carefully as he explains. "The guy who slashed you up— I've never actually seen him, but I saw him in that dream. The only one of them I actually tracked down and fought was the acid woman. But I saw all three of them in it." Among other things.

Fel….well, his expression is very reminiscent of a cat outside of a mousehole. He's mute, for the moment, listening. And then asks, very gently as if afraid of startling Pete, "What was the content of that dream?"

Tread softly, Mariska. Not even Felix has been enlightened as to the disturbing images that she was subjected to as a part of the massive nightmare that some unlucky half a dozen souls shared while sprawled out on the concrete of a lower East Side thoroughfare. The mere thought of mentioning a whisper of it now turned her skin to goose-flesh. "He… cut open a woman's throat, tore her tongue from her jaw…" She barely manages to get the words out without choking at the mental image that suddenly comes screaming back into the forefront of her thoughts.

There's a noticable blink, and Peter snips the final stitch, pulling it out and tossing the last one into the garbage can near the toilet, sitting back on his feet. "Yeah… that's exactly what happened." He's forgotten a lot of the finer details of the dream, but seeing two of his friends murdered by the slashing man and the acid woman is pretty heavily engrained in his memory. His eyes stay on the Russian woman for a long time, and he doesn't even glance behind him. "I know that a couple of— your people were there in the dream…"

"Who else have you told about this?" Fel's voice remains even, but there's something like ferocity underneath it, now. "And how did it all end?"

A second's hesitation bleeds into an uncomfortable silence as Mariska dares to raise her right hand from the tangle of the t-shirt pressed over her chest in order to gently pat the mended and stitch-free skin of her left shoulder. Once confirmation of removal is complete, she slowly crawls back into the shirt and finds her feet, eyeing Peter now with those pale eyes as if he were someone to be incredibly wary of. The face mask he's donned somehow only lends to a slightly more sinister motive, despite his otherwise charming countenance.

There's a long pause, before Peter stands up and moves toward the door, only stopping because he might have to actually touch Felix to get outside it. "I've told people I trust about it— or people who already knew about them. The more they knew, the better they could defend against them," he says softly, slightly muffled by the mask. He glances back at the woman, and she's looking at him differently. She can't see his frown very well, but his face shifts. "The dream ended in a hospital. With two people I knew in quarantine. But not me. And it hasn't spread to anyone else, despite physical contact, proximity, and even handling of blood samples. Nor has it gotten much worse." Or much better. "I think the dreams are more symbolic than literal. Stating the threat if nothing is done to change it. And it can be changed, or we wouldn't be having any kind of conversation right now."

Hearing the movement, Fel steps delicately aside to let them re-emerge. "What is this disease you have? If you can heal, how are you infected with anything at all?" he wonders, hands in his trouser pockets.

Mariska finds herself impossibly anxious to be back within arm's reach of Felix, even daring to entertain the thought of truly testing out the extent of Peter's miracle work by taking hold and jumping back home without so much as a 'thank you' or 'goodbye'. She looks… spooked.

Moving out of the bathroom, Peter backs away a bit to remove the gloves and the mask finally, so he looks more normal. "There's a doctor that works with your people. Dr. Aldric. And Dr. Suresh for that matter too. They know more about this virus than I do, honestly. A blood test is all it would take to make sure that you're fine, but like I said, we've tested people who've come into contact with me before and after I showed symptoms and no one new has developed it." Just the original four. "My regeneration doesn't do anything against it— and it's slower than normal since I started getting symptoms, but all my other abilities work fine. And I'm not entirely sure how I got it," he adds. He has ideas, but not assurances.

"Doctor Suresh, I know," Fel says, uncertainly, already putting out an arm for Mariska. Odd how they've become such a comfort to each other, really. "He's working on this?" That has to be good news, right?

Depends on who you ask. Despite the good doctor's reputation with other folks, Mariska still can't seem to get over the tiny snag that has to do with his apparent involvement in the use of her daughter as a guinea pig in whatever sort of perverse experiments the Company in inclined to perform on someone with her unique gifts. The Russian woman eventually settles in to a light lean against Felix's side and watches the younger man with a pair of wondering eyes.

"Yes. I think he's in Texas right now trying to track down a possible source for it," Peter explains, then pauses a moment, wincing visibly, as if he just realized he might have said too much. "I— I don't know if he's technically working with you— I mean— it might be…" He really doesn't know when to stop answering questions. He closes his eyes for a moment and rubs a hand over his face. "I don't know how much you trust the people you work for. But it's a possibility that they created this virus. Just a possibility, though. It could have been created by someone else entirely."

Felix's lip curls. "Like…..whom? The government? Some other front firm?" He's not sneering so much at Pete as the whole gaggle of spooks in general. "I'm a peon, Mr. Petrelli. Newly taken into the fold, so my clearance is nonexistent."

"Why?" Mariska abruptly wonder aloud, head tilted to the side. "Why would someone make a virus that does… what?" She's clearly got a lot to learn about the concept of terror and the populace… but, then again, she's not exactly a scholar learned in the ways of science nor a feeb with access to government secrets.

"The first version killed, the second one took away abilities…" Peter explains, looking between the two of them. Again, he seems to know he's saying far too much, but… "This one is different though. It's mutated. And as far as wel know the only symptoms so far are flu-like. With my regeneration not working, though, it may have been made to target people who can heal exclusively."

"It makes sense. Something that targets selectively, kills the threats, leaves the normal humans safe," Fel says, sounding musing, rather than upset.

Mariska's brow frets and wrinkles, finding this whole conversation turned unexpectedly grim and casual. She might be even more disturbed if it weren't for the lingering dregs of Vicodin still circulating in her system. She cares just a little bit less about everything right now, so that fact that this is registering any emotional reaction at all ought to say something.

"That could be what it is, yes," Peter says, voice trailing off a little before he looks at the woman holding onto her husband. "Were you one of the ones in the dream?" he finally asks, something he should have asked when she described what happened with the slashing man so vividly, and since she's grown silent since they started talking about it…
Felix looks to Misha, silently. She hasn't said much about to him, but he's not gonna browbeat her about it.

"Da. I was," she sighs, lifting her chin in order to deliver only half of an affirmative nod. "I saw you. And your friends. I heard you…" Not that she really recalls much of what they might have said; she was too busy being horribly traumatized by what she was seeing and trying to shield her little girl from the grisly grand illusion. "This is all your fault," she says, echoing Angela's refrain from the finale.

"You were the teleporter," Peter suddenly blinks, thinking back on the few times he saw her, and realizing it now. Between the dream, and then Sylar when he woke up, there's few times he'd really be able to pay attention to everyone in it. But… He does remember her jumping in and out of the cafe, right before he started to blow up. And he remembers the Company Agents pulling a gun on her and her teleporting out. And… it's all his fault. His eyes lower, shoulders slump a little. "Yeah. I guess it is… But I don't know how." He's got theories, though… "The virus wasn't supposed to happen. Didn't happen."

The Russian Relocator blinks and looks tentatively to Felix, as if for support or suggestion or perhaps to be swept off her feet; picked up and carried right out of the apartment, removed to more familiar territory. She seems conflicted on whether she ought to confirm or deny. But, then again… this Peter kid did just do them both a little favor by bringing her back to something akin to optimum operating condition so, maybe she ought to play nice. For now. "Da," she utters for the third time tonight. "What do you mean… didn't happen? This is it, isn't it? I saw it. You saw it. There… in the dream… in the hospital… it is happening."

Felix says, quietly, "We need to go home. I…..do want to hear more about this. You have my number." Fel's tone is actually fairly humble - not quite the arrogant set of orders you'd expect from a Company op.

"No, what I meant is…" Peter trails off, because there's so much more he needs to explain to make them understand what he means. When Felix says they should leave, he nods. "All right. Be safe. I'm glad that they're off the street, at least." Now the virus just has to be fixed. "I'll give you a call."

Despite that slightly domineering gleam in her eye, Mariska isn't inclined to fight Felix's suggestion to be homeward bound. She ducks her chin and takes a step forward, keeping an arm around Felix's waist without clinging too close so as to impede his stride. Before they disappear in the same mundane way in which they arrived, however, she remembers her manners by virtue of a slightly tired shrug and she offers Peter a polite, «Thank you.» It's swiftly translated into English as: "Thank you." Now he knows how to say it in Russian… just in case he might ever need to bounce it back in the future…

"Yes, thank you," Fel says, more gently. They'll simply drive home - he's not going to leave that ancient BMW out there as a telltale. Besides - he needs it to get to work tomorrow.

"You're welcome," Peter says with a hint of a smile tugging on his mouth, a big change from the guilty, nearly defeated look. He'll follow them to the door, but not down to their car.

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