Beetlejuice for the Soul - for handoften

[chimeramimicry]

From a post on sixwordstories 

Three weeks had passed since the strange blue phone booth disappeared in a crack of ozone in the alley outside of the run down apartment Peter Petrelli was living in with his sometimes roommate Gabriel Gray.  Everyday, from noon until three in the afternoon precisely, Peter would spend his time sitting on the dumpster silently as if waiting for the strange British man who had spent some time contemplating his murder to come back.  Peter was fairly certain he was losing it by that point.  He'd never hallucinated, but with the stress he'd been suffering, there really was nothing else to account for it.

The world had gone to hell since he and Sylar had saved it from the wrath of Samuel only to have it fall into darkness with the flying leap of a blond former cheerleader who wanted to see the good in humanity.  I use to be like her, Peter thought to himself, heels drumming on the steel of the dumpster.  An idealist.  Now, they were simply being hunted again by every living human being.  Special.  Non-special.  It didn't matter anymore.  The world was splitting apart as sure as if Samuel Sullivan did it himself.

The death of his brother, the breakdown of his mother, the loss of his friends, the desire to save whoever he could, and five years spent in the world he and Sylar created inside of the mad man's mind had ruined him utterly and destroyed the well meaning, naive soul that had always lived there.

"Peter, come inside."  Gabriel's voice drifted down from the third floor window.  Peter ignored him.

He had unfinished business to conduct out here.  "Theta...  Sigma."  It was like he was pledging to a fraternity.  He waited a moment, but nothing happened.  No one appeared.  He was still sitting there on the dumpster.  Peter swallowed.   "Theta Sigma."  It was stronger this time, but not even the wind picked up.  Maybe he was like Bettlejuice?  "Theta Sigma!"

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[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

"Yeah. Lately I have been," Peter said, not mincing words when there was nothing much to mince. This particular appearance of the dancing would-be murderer didn't phase him much either. He was a believer in the extraordinary, debuting that particular talent since he was five years old when discovered that bedsheets could double as Superman capes and black plastic clothespins attached to winter ski masks were perfect to pretend to be Batman with. Having a brother twelve years older than you and a rich and overbearing mother utterly afraid to let you out of her sight tended to push all kind spirited boys into suicidal loneliness or an over active imagination. Gabriel was nearly the former, but Peter had been far more lucky.

Gazing passed Theta -- but certainly not upwards as if he was afraid that he might have to share this strange new discovery with someone else that could never understand it -- Peter pursed his lips and ignored the droop of the lower one for the time being. Perhaps hallucinated blue phone booths usually turned red on subsequent visitations. Peter scratched the back of his head as the wind played in his lengthening bangs.

"What is that?" There were a hundred and eleven questions to ask right now, from the state of Theta's dress to the blond he had been coming to see to the state of his plans on his murder, but Peter's crippled soul was, in someways, still the lonely child with the terrible, self made superhero costumes that jumped off of the swingset to pretend he could fly.

And right now, that little soul wanted a peek at the phone booth.

[handoften.livejournal.com]

"You have a very dull life if that's the case."

Another look up and down was given to Peter as he began drawing off the strands of beads. Sparks of colour and projected images flashed and glittered in the air. Peter was briefly considered before Theta tucked them into his coat pocket. Funny how the beads should have been spilled out but fit easily.

"Beads are not for 'dudes' or so they told me during the parade."

Straightening his coat, Theta turned back to Peter and sighed. He really should just kill the man and be done with it, but the murder had to fit the victim. So far there was nothing particularly outstanding about Petrelli that screamed poetic justice. It was that matter Theta was still considering when the question came.

There was no 'good' answer that a human would get when it came to a TARDIS. Theta could have explained it in detail what it did, how it did it, and what the end result would sometimes be, but could a lowly human truly appreciate her greatness? Probably not. She generally made telepaths and those with psychic abilities nervous, putting off an aura of dislike of everything and everyone but the half-breed. The crimson TARDIS was much like a growling racecar that was ready to lunge forward at the mother pushing a babycart before it.

"She's the most beautiful thing in the universe," he said simply, looking over his shoulder at his TARDIS. He and the Doctor had finally traded each other, thankfully without Torchwood shoving their noses into matters. It had been one of the Doctor's methods to avoid bloodshed. Bringing the two forces of Theta Sigma and Jack Harkness into each other's proximity was asking for trouble.

Theta merely stood there with his hands in his pockets and watching Peter. There was no offer forthcoming to show the one-time hero the inside of his TARDIS or explain beyond what he had said.

"You wanted me for something?"

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

There was a moment of silence followed by the standard New York heartbeat of a taxi cab honking just at the other end of the alley. It was so standard, so usual in Peter's life that he didn't even look up. Theta's question had an answer, but Peter hadn't gotten far enough with his soul searching over the past three weeks to work up how exactly to put it.

There were more interesting things to do at the moment any way, and none of those involved speaking. Though Theta had pronounced an intent to kill him and was currently standing directly at his back, Peter felt no fear towards him. Somehow, he knew that this particular so-called psychopath was a little better than shoving a knife in his back.

That morning's version of power roulette with Sylar -- a game played less to keep boredom out of their systems and more to fuel Peter's desire to return to his Swiss army knife capabilities -- had left him with a power he did not much care for.

It reminded him too much of Nathan.

It really had not been a good day today.

Circling the strange red box, Peter returned to Theta with a strangely content look on his face. He was not smiling, and certainly not frowning. His eyes were rich and deep and held an innate curiosity.

And he had finally come to an answer for the British man.

"Yes," he said softly. "I wanted to see you."

[handoften.livejournal.com]

As Peter moved about his TARDIS, Theta's eyes stayed sharp on the man. He was protective of her, not liking much of anyone getting too close. She wasn't too fond of it either although she was still and silent as Peter circled about. If he touched her, he was going to get a shock. Unlike the Doctor's TARDIS, Theta had armed his with a burglar alarm so to speak.

The noise of the street distracted Theta. For five years he had been in solitary, sometimes seeing a few members of Torchwood when they dropped off his food or clothing, but beyond that, his only company was himself.

"Have a care with her. She's a lady and doesn't like to be touched without permission," Theta said, forcing himself to look away from the distant street. There was no danger here. Surely Jack couldn't have tracked him this far this fast.

Pushing himself away from the rubbish bin, he wanted the look upon Peter's face change from what it had been before to a brand of what he took to be contentment. Strange. She never had that effect before. There had been a few that had gone stumbling back from her, holding their heads and babbling about feeling rage. It wasn't rage per se, but Theta supposed that was all humans could understand it as being.

A brow raised at those words though.

"To see me? Why is that? Wanted to know about my TARDIS that badly?"

Surprise became suspicion as his paranoid rose.

"You're a Torchwood agent, aren't you?"

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

Pete, never touch another man's ride. It's like touching another man's woman. You can't do it without permission and you're going to risk a broken nose even if you do get permission. Peter's eyes darkened. He'd not heard that voice in a long time. It wasn't like he was going to touch the fire engine red box. Something told him, more forcefully than the annoying voice of a dead sibling, that he should not.

Peter ignored Theta for the moment, gazing up and down the box with a hint of apathy or perhaps a mild case of lust. Or gas. Human emotions were a dime a dozen and so many of them shared the same look that without vocal or other bodily cues, simply trying to read a face could very well get a humorous interpretation.

The shorter of the pair frowned, touching his fingertips to his unruly lower lip and contemplated the facts. Firstly, the hallucination of his brother had been replaced by an annoying, congo dancing, murderous Brit who claimed he was part of an organization Peter had never heard of. Secondly, he traveled in something that looked vaguely like a British phonebooth from Harry Potter. "Hmm..." came a short response finally to the paranoid outburst from Theta, but it was in fact only Peter's attempt to puzzle out how his delusions happened to pick that series rather than the X-Men or with Batman references.

You're going mad, Pete.

That voice again. Peter tried to ignore it. "We're all mad here, Alice," he murmured outloud and then glanced back at the wild haired Brit. "I'm not an agent for anyone. Is this phone booth your..."

Tah-dis? Tardis? The accent was throwing him off.

[handoften.livejournal.com]

Humans and their reactions always interested Theta. All he real memory experience of were Gallifreyans, and the things that upset them would have been ignored by humans. On the other side of the coin, things that humans found as important as their very lives would have been dismissed by the alien race. Watching Peter gave him an open view that he couldn't enjoy with others.

He couldn't properly identify the emotional weather that moved across the human's features, darkening eyes and causing all sorts of reaction. Each motion was taken in, stored, and to be considered later so that he might understand better. It could help him pass better among them when he felt the need or desire to.

Peter's regard and lack of touching Theta's TARDIS helped whether he knew it or not. To Theta, she was the greatest thing in the universe. If someone else regarded her as such (or he thought they did) then that scored them points.

"I'm mad. You're mad."

He grinned at Peter. That was one of his favourite books.

"Long had paled that sunny sky, echoes fade and memories die. Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies... Never seen by waking eyes," he recited, sliding off the bin to rest against the side of his TARDIS. The door gave a quiet click, opening slightly. A sliver of golden-red light spilled out into the alley.

"She's a time machine to put it in terms you can understand."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

The idea that he was admiring a time machine as other men his age might admire a fine looking sports car did not surprise him, not like the sudden recital of the poem from Carroll's classic. Peter's eyes were bright despite the lack of sunlight in the dim and dreary alley way, suddenly leaping from the garishly beautiful exterior of the TARDIS to Theta himself. In a way, he too was garishly beautiful in his outlandish clothing, wild clothes, and the wisdom behind his eyes that most people probably took so easily for granted.

Peter wondered if they were alike in that respect and immediately rejected the thought. He did not do well if he thought himself an important sort of man enough to have connections like that. Pride was never something he suffered from, but naive disappointment and let down was sometimes too much for him. He'd had enough relationships severed at the root to try and find anything worthwhile to connect to in anyone else again.

"A time machine," he finally said, the word rolling about on his tongue. "I visited the future once." Why bother concealing himself to this Theta person? He was eccentric, sure, but he wasn't a hunter. Peter liked to think that his empathy still allowed him to tell... Though it always failed him before. "Where are you going next?"

[handoften.livejournal.com]

"How did you go and travel to the future?"

From Theta's point of view, there are many ways to do so. He's always interested in finding out another. The idea that Peter might be a Time Agent is born and dies just as quickly. From what he can tell, the man isn't wearing a wriststrap or anything like one of them would be. Besides, he's far from the look and smell of that group of the 51st century.

"I haven't decided where I'm going next," Theta said thoughtfully, prodding open the door. The room within was far larger than what it looked that the box could hold. Metal was lit with shades of crimson and gold that came from a central console and above.

"I will need to deal with Torchwood eventually, so I may go back to Cardiff. I'll have to. Jack is going to figure out where I went, and it's best not to let him have too much time to think. He's not very good at it," Theta told Peter, a smirk in his voice and on his lips.

The cold and calculating side of Theta had withdrawn for awhile or the half-breed was simply a good actor.

"What do you really want, Petrelli? Begin by telling me that, and I might tell you where I'm going next."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

With Theta's comments coming rapid-fire, no sooner had Peter finished trying to explain human evolutionary DNA re-sequencing -- where was Mohinder Suresh these days when he needed someone to understand theory? Probably in India no doubt -- than he had to wrap his mind around this Torchwood. And this Jack person that Theta was not suppose to go to...but now had to see?

Peter was confused, though being an empath around someone with a currently calm swagger did wonders for his nerves and dashed out a bit of what could have caused him trouble in the way he answered the last question.

But Nathan was not helping. You want a new prince charming to come and sweep you away, he taunted in the back of the younger man's mind. You want a new big brother to don a cape and save the world with you.

The world had gone to shit, and though Peter was not to the point where he would condemn it as no longer worthy for saving, he had lost his motivation to do anything more than hide. His soul had been damaged. Though Peter, thanks to a lovely five year sojourn into Sylar's mind a few weeks ago, had been given a grace period to get over his brother's death, he hadn't been able to take it. He had only just started letting go. Not that it helped the voices. The ghost seemed delighted in that.

Go on, the voice prompted. Go on. Be a child. No one can pick up the pieces for you anymore. Not even the former Sylar you share a rat-hole with. Not even this figment of your imagination.

Peter closed his eyes for just one moment and then leveled them on Theta. "I want to go with you." It seemed so one sided. "Then you don't have to come and find me when you're done contemplating my demise."

[handoften.livejournal.com]

"With me."

Theta's words were flat, his eyes giving nothing away. No one, except for that one Jack, had ever asked him to be a companion. It evened out since Theta had no desire to take anyone with him. Taking another on board his TARDIS would mean tolerating their presence, sharing his space, and ... it wasn't a pretty thought.

"You want me to take you with me. In my TARDIS. And go explore the universe throughout space and time."

The very idea had Theta stunned. He was used to people being afraid of him, mocking him, or him simply putting an end to their pointless lives. Unless he missed his guess, the human before him had thought about this for awhile too, perhaps built it up in his mind. But why? What would drive anyone to wanting to be around him, convince themselves to even the smallest degree that Theta was the Doctor and liked picking up strays.

"Why? What makes you think I could or would do something like that?" he asked, crossing his arms and eyeing Peter with a fair amount of suspicion. There had to be some motive behind it all.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

It was true that Peter had spent a great deal of time on this particular train of thought, but the question he had just asked Theta was as spur of the moment as it was irrational. Peter had made some pretty terrible choices in his life, he had trusted some pretty terrible people in his life. This person, this Brit with a time machine, whether he was an illusion or not an illusion, was just another in a long line of bad choices.

"I don't want to travel. I do not want to explore. I--" Peter choked on his own words, on his own tongue, for a moment before he regained his composure. At least he was determined, and that made this easier for him in the long run. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"Peter!"

Peter closed his eyes when he heard Gabriel's voice and shuddered at it. He might have lived with the man for five years, forgiven him, accepted him as a friend....everything he was totally against before he took his five hour sleep. He just could not stand the thought of going back inside there. No matter how irrational.

"You came back. Here. For some naked blond, maybe. But I'm here instead. I just need to get out of here."

Poor Pete. Why don't you beg? Peter put a hand to his head and turned back towards the TARDIS and away from Theta.

"Shut up," he muttered under his breath before he glanced back at the Brit. "Even if you're not real, I'd rather be with you."