A Long Trip Home

[chimeramimicry]

The door is two yards away but I can't move from the top of the stairs.  It's been months, four or so, since I've been here, in this spot.  Gone were the days of trudging up the stairs with my satchel on the way home from work because my building's landlords refused to fix the elevators properly.  Gone too was the pleasure I had of returning to this apartment I paid for with my own money and not from my trust fund.  I donated all of that to charity the moment I turned twenty-five and finished paying off my loans to school.  It was two years ago.  It feels like forever.

I'm not the same man I had been.  I'm not a child anymore.  At least, I want to think that.

I'm still clutching the photograph of my brother and I in our tuxedos.  There's a smudge on it from my thumb and full of creases.  I've not let it go since I opened that box containing everything that I am.  Everything I was.  I left Ireland without looking back.  There was, there is only one thing on my mind.  Nathan.

Nathan.

Nathan.

I know he's here.  I've always felt a connection to him.  Mohinder Suresh called it part of my empathy, to feel things like that.  Funny to be so empathically linked to someone I spent my whole life pining for, who has always had a life to live without me.  He's never had time for me.  Never.

"Just walk, Peter," I whisper to myself as I move to a door I have not touched in a long time.  I swallow.  And knock.  I know he's in here without knowing it.  I almost lose the nerve to knock.  Please answer, Nathan.  Please.

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[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

"Get the fuck out of my house, Nathan!" I scream at him, breathing hard now to control myself. It's not good to get angry and it's not good to feel the way that Sylar made me feel. Castrated. Used. Butchered.

He's still walking towards me. He's still trying to convince me that this pregnancy, this child, is no good. But each word he says makes me love him, my baby, more. I can not and will not let Nathan harm him. He's the only thing I have now. As scared as I am of being a parent, alone, I know that much is true.

He will give me purpose.

"You have your life. Your children. Your wife. Your mistresses! You're fucking pathetic for calling me a whore. You don't own me anymore Nathan. I take that right from you back, finally. It only took ten damned years from when you turned me into this freak to be free of you!"

Things are flying between us. I can't control it and I don't want to.

"Go back home where you belong!"

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

A dish flies past my head and smashes on the far wall. The fear that's built up in me is overshadowed by anger and possession at the words he speaks. He is mine. He can't escape that, no matter how he tries. He can change his body, change his name. He can never change the fact that he was born for me.

"You keep that thing inside of you, you'll never be free of me, Peter," I threaten finally, deflecting the next dish with a swing of my palm. It crashes and splinters into a thousand tiny slivers off the refrigerator. "It's just as much mine as it is yours. More than yours. Because you're mine. No matter what you say, Peter. You understand me?"

I'm not fast enough to step sideways, even though I see it coming, and the last dish in the drainer hits me in the thigh. I grit my teeth at the pain that blossoms through my leg, and I drop to my knees, clutching at the bruised muscle. "Jesus Christ," I moan. "You've got to stop this, Pete."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

For several endless moments, I want to kill him. Hearing him cry out in pain makes me pause and then I crumple to the grounds, leaning forward on my hands as I pant. The floating bits of silverware and other kitchen utensils falls with me, raining from the sky around us to a more harmless position on the floor. It looks like there was a tornado in here.

I wish that their had been.

Bringing one hand to my eyes, I rub away the moisture. "Why do you think I can be yours when you can never be mine?" I ask him softly. "I can't do this anymore, Nathan. I waited my entire life for you and you gave me up over and over again. I'm...taking my life back."

The child inside of me has changed me more than my powers ever could. I am stronger for having him inside of me.

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

His telekinetic temper-tantrum is finally over, and I crawl gingerly over to him, avoiding scattered silverware and broken shards of china, wincing because of my injured leg. He caught me right in the place where I had surgery many, many years ago after my Navy accident left my face scarred and my leg broken in three places. It hurts like a bitch, but I ignore it, because my little brother hurts far worse.

"Peter," I plead, wrapping him up in my arms again. We're both trembling from fear and exhaustion, and I know it's not good for him what just happened. He can't die, but I don't know if the child inside him could. I don't want that to happen. I was lying to myself if I think I could have ever forced him to get rid of it. Peter is mine, the child is mine, and I have an obligation to both of them. One I could never cast aside just because it would ruin my life.

I know this is by far the sickest, most twisted thing I've ever considered, what I'm about to say to him. Her.

"You don't know how wrong you are. You gave me up. You tried to push down every single memory I ever had of how much I love you. I tried to make you happy, give you what you wanted, and you left me.

"I started drinking again, started cheating again, because you took away everything that makes me what I am. Heidi--I love her, and she loves me, but she's not in love with me anymore. I could leave her tomorrow, or stay with her until I'm ninety. It wouldn't make a difference. Because without you, I'm nothing.

"You said you wanted to marry me? You wanted to have my children? You can have it now if you want it. Just tell me that's what you want, and I'll--" I can't believe I'm doing this, but I know it's the only way he'll be happy, the only way I'll be happy. The only way he'll be mine.

I slip my wedding ring off my finger, the meaningless piece of gold left on the nightstand when I woke up and found myself alone and naked in my brother's bed. I can make it mean something again.

"Marry me, Peter. Paige. Whoever you are. I love you like I always have," I whisper, sliding my ring onto the third finger of his left hand. It's ridiculously big for him. I lean in and kiss him, tentatively placing my hand on his pregnant belly and rubbing gently. Somehow, it's become much easier to accept what's happened to him, to us. He's carrying my baby. Our baby.

This is by far the strangest thing that's ever happened to the Petrelli brothers.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I think I've stopped breathing. My lips tremble against his as I squeeze my eyes shut, another stream of tears smearing my makeup and making it sting. I should retort to the things he said, I should make myself remember that he speaks honey and bleeds acid, but I don't want to. Not when I have finally endured enough to be what I've wanted to be since I was just a small child, back when I fell in love without even knowing what love could be.

The massive ring feels heavy on my hand when I touch his cheek, head tipping back so he can kiss me more fully. So he knows that I love him still, no matter what he's done to me or forced me to do to him. My apartment is in shambles, pictures and clocks fallen off of the wall, mirrors cracked, knicknacks ruined, all out of anger and betrayal.

There are things to hammer out still. I can't just move in with him in Washington. He has his career. He has his image. He'll need to divorce Heidi first, and that could take a year or more.

Even so, I don't care. Soon is better than never. And now I have hope.

"Yes, Nathan," I whisper as I draw back. "Of course I will."

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

I sit there among the ruins of Peter's kitchen, cradling him in my arms, kissing his tearstained face, his makeup rubbing off on me.

I should understand the significance of the destruction around us, what it signifies in the grander scale of things, what the future holds. But I ignore it. I oftentimes take after my mother in that respect. Ignore a problem, and it doesn't exist.

My brother and I are two very different people, but when it comes down to this crazy thing we've shared since he was barely a teenager, we are the same. The basic, ingrained need, the desperate love we have for each other, these things we share will keep us together even while they kill us both.

I ignore that too. None of that matters. I told him on my birthday that I'd trade it all for him, and now he knows I meant it.

Once my leg stops throbbing dully to the beat of my heart, and his tears stop, I help him up and lead him to the living room where the damage is not so extensive. I sit him on the couch, take a deep breath and ask, "Have you seen an obstetrician? Because if not, I think you should. Make sure it's--he's--okay. I mean, I'd know you'd know, but--"

I sigh. I'm rambling like a nervous teenager who's just found out he's going to be a father, even though I already am one and know exactly what it entails. It's not any of that that's making my heart triphammer inside my chest, my stomach flip and twist inside of me.

It's because I've just begun to love this child that my brother and I are bringing into this world.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

"Not yet," I whisper, cradled in his arms on the kitchen floor, lips inches from his ear as he strokes my swollen belly, knee raised so that I can lean back against it. "I will. I know I have to." Just because I can feel him, our son, doesn't mean that he's all right. He's the product of incest. And that means that the chances of him having whatever newborns could possibly have has been doubled. Tripled. My God, and here I was, thinking that the hardest part would be caring for a normal kid!

No. He's connected to your blood stream. He's healthy and you know it. Your blood heals anything. My heart calms down just enough so that I can hear Nathan's.

I start saying silly things. Stupid things. About how our lives will be different. About the future I'm sure we'll have now. He lifts his hand, maybe to stop me, but I wrap my smaller fingers around it. Our palms kiss, as Romeo and Juliet do in that play.

I always thought that was such a romantic verse.

We clean up, the two of us. We shower. We curl up together in my bed. Naked, just the way I prefer to be with him. He fondles me. I touch him, fingers gently moving down his flaccid cock. This is not a time for sex, but for reconnection.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

I run my hands all over Peter, everywhere I can reach, memorizing every new curve, reminding myself of every birthmark on his skin. He's not entirely different.

It's still going to be difficult to get used to the fact that for at least the next six months, possibly forever, I'll never see my brother in his male body. I know he's here with me right now, technically, but I ache for him anyway.

I can't make myself think of him exclusively as Paige, and he hasn't asked me to call him that. I suppose I'll have to start, since I did ask him to marry me.

The thought thrills me like I could have never imagined. We were meant for this. I can't help but smile, and I lay a trail of kisses down his long, graceful neck, cup one breast idly in my hand, rub my thumb against the nipple very lightly. He's touching me too, and for the first time since I can remember, which isn't a terrible lot, I'm able to control myself and just enjoy his hands on me, his presence next to me.

Being with him has given me back some of what I've forgotten, but I can't remember it all. And I want to. I need to. I need to know where we came from so I know where we're going next.

"Peter," I whisper into his shoulder. "I'm missing a lot of you. Inside my head. Is there any way...you can undo what you did?"

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

"Let me try," I whisper against his shoulder and with my fingers, I turn the light off. Telekinesis has it's uses...and even if I still am not found of it, I find myself willing and able to tap into Sylar's emotions a little easier now than I had before. Shifting, my legs still entangled with his, I lay on my side and gaze at him, nose to nose. We can't really see each other, just outlines. And that's good enough for this excerise.

I want to give it back tohim...even the things from our childhood that he's forgotten. I want him to have every high and every low. I want him to see the full picture of what we are. How beautiful we are. How meant to be we are.

My fingers touch the side of his head, by his temple, and I take in a great big breath. The task requires a lot of concentration as I go through the damage my father caused. The damage I caused. I repair him as I dust off our shared memories. Every kiss. Every touch. I treat them, even the rape memory, as if it was sacred.

Because it is.

Because I need it to be.

There will need to be more sessions like this. I've only scratched the surface. But I've proven, by the end of it, when we are both sweaty and tired and clinging to one another, that I can fix him.

I can be Nathan's hero.

[crashgirl82.livejournal.com]

The darkness surrounds me, and I relax as Peter's fingers press to the side of my head.

Images pass behind my eyes, select moments in the lives of Nathan and Peter Petrelli. When each begins, black fades to soft shades of gray, shadows buried inside my damaged mind. I can almost feel his power pulling away the curtains, revealing hazy scenes, the color and sound dull, muted. Like I'm seeing them through smoke, hearing them through water.

Then they change, and become much like extremely vivid, lucid dreams. I know I'm lying in bed with Peter, but each memory that my brother uncovers feels like I'm reliving them all over again. He doesn't gloss over anything; he shows me everything objectively.

The first time he touched me. The first time we made love. Every kiss. Every whispered word of love, every time I raised my hands to him. Lies I told, truths I confessed. Tears I cried. Everything.

I know he can't fix it all at one time, and I can't expect him to. Peter is trying so hard to give himself back to me. The brother, and lover, I lost over and over again in so many cruel ways.

Peter keeps on like this until his hand drops from my face, and I snap out of the dream theater inside my head. His soft, warm body presses into mine, and I hold him in the place he's always belonged.

I try to let him know how much he's shown me, but I can barely speak as a wave of exhaustion moves over me. "So tired, Peter," I manage. "I remember..."

Sleep claims me for its own, and my dreams are filled with the man, the woman, the soul I love.

When I wake, I'm looking upon his peaceful, sleeping face, the light of the sun illuminating his pale skin, his hand resting protectively around the curve of his belly. Female or male, he's still beautiful, and more than ever, everything that's good in the world.

I decide to let him sleep, and when he finally emerges from the bedroom two hours later, I've managed to clean up his kitchen and get breakfast on the stove.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I'm wearing his shirt, because it's my prerogative too. Even pregnant, I'm still tiny and his skirt is still massive on me. I loved wearing it when I was little, I loved wearing it when I was a teenager. And I love wearing it now. It smells like him. My lover. My fiancee.

I feel my cheeks blossom when I think of it, and redden even further when I see him cooking at the stove. Pancakes. And fried apples. God, he loves me! My eyes are wide as I slip in behind him, wrap my arms around his waist -- the sleeves of the shirt so long that it covers my knuckles -- and kiss his shoulder.

"For me?"

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

"No, for me," I tease, taking his hand and pressing it to my lips while I flip the pancakes, waiting for them to turn that perfect golden-brown color. I haven't cooked anything for anyone in quite a long time, but I woke up this morning remembering how to make something that my mother used to make for Peter every Sunday morning, just like this one.

I remember much more about everything that's happened to me throughout my entire life, not just memories of things between myself and my brother.

I remember how I felt when I asked Heidi to marry me, my inner turmoil no longer blunted out by my father's alteration.

Right after she said yes, part of me had instantly wanted to take it back. I knew that Peter would be hurt, but there was nothing I could do to ease the loss he would feel. Even in the midst of my love affair with my younger brother, I'd wanted what any red-blooded American man wants: a normal life, a wife, marriage, children. To carry on my name, leave my mark on the world.

If someone had told me that night, while Peter cried in my arms upon the news of Heidi's and my engagement, that in little more than ten years I would be trading all that for the same with him, I'd have laughed in their face. Because the very idea of that is impossible. Except now, it isn't. Peter's strange combination of abilities has made it happen, and I still almost can't believe it.

When Peter announced at the tender age of six he wanted to marry me, everyone wrote it off, never thought twice about it. Just a silly kid who didn't yet understand the meaning of love, of marriage, of any of it.

He did then, and he does now. And I'm more than happy to give it to him.

I set Peter up at the kitchen table with a serving of pancakes and fried apples, and I pour myself a cup of coffee. My cell phone rings.

"Be right back," I say, and go out to the balcony to answer Heidi. I'm not trying to hide anything, and I know he can listen in on my end of the conversation if he wants.

What I told Peter was the God's honest truth. I love her, but I'm not in love with her anymore. She's not in love with me. Neither of us is truly happy with the way things have been, and there's no reason to live this lie anymore.

That's why I'm not surprised when she says, her demeanor calm, not a trace of anger or bitterness in her voice, that she's had enough. She's moving herself and the children to her parents' house. "You'll never be the man I married, Nathan, never again. Take care of yourself," she says.

A sense of closure settles over me as I walk back inside to sit down for breakfast with my brother, first leaning in to kiss him, his lips sticky and sweet with maple syrup. Then I laugh. Heidi doesn't know how wrong she is.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I didn't just hear part of his conversation, I heard it all. The thoughts were right on the edge of his mind, the conversation with Heidi had gone unpredictably smooth. And he's still smiling. That was what catches me the most. He's not upset. I grasp his hand as it is about to leave my cheek, fingers pressing into his palm. "Nathan, are you all right?"

He looks better than all right. His divource is final. The house in Hyde Park is going to be his alone. And he still has the senatorial apartments in Washington for when he has to be in the capital. The place he takes his intern. The place he was sharing with Tracy Strauss more often than not.

My lips press to his palm as I look up at him.

He's still smiling, but I feel a little bit of darkness cloud over me. I can't ask him to be with only me. He's never been with only me. Cheating is in his nature. He's too much for any one person, even if I know I could handle him. I close my eyes. I don't ruin my happiness by thinking about his mistresses.

"What's our nexy move, Nathan?"

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

"Our next move," I say, studying the forkful of pancakes I'm bringing to my lips, "is entirely up to you. You can play California girl a little while longer, or you can come home with me." The pancakes are absolutely delicious, and I'm quite proud of myself. "Looks like maybe I should be the domestic one, hmm, Pete?" I tease, pointing at my plate.

He gives me a smile as he eats his own pancakes, and I just watch him for a moment. His hair has grown out a little, and he hasn't brushed it, so it's a bit of a mess. I like him better without all the makeup. He's wearing my shirt, long enough on him to be a dress, and he had to roll up the sleeves three times, just like he did when he was a teenager.

The thought makes me miss the man my brother was, and I know it's going to be a struggle for me, reconciling who he used to be with the woman he is now. I wonder if Peter even wants to change back after he has the baby. Will our son have a mother and a father, or two fathers?

Will our son have an ability? It seems to run in the Petrelli blood. Claire does. Monty and Simon may, I never noticed them doing anything strange, but I never ordered them tested or anything like that.

"But one thing's for sure--when we get back to New York, I'm taking you to see an obstetrician."

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

I know I should not be picking up thoughts from Nathan's head, but his mind is just so damned loud. I think this might have to do with the baby. My powers have been slowly getting more and more out of control. I need to really bottle them down. The fingers of one hand still connected -- I can't let him go -- I bring his knuckles to my lips after licking them free of sticky apple juices.

"I'd like to try and come back to myself," I murmur, trying to play it off as my own thought. "Six more months of this...and then I want my missing body parts back." I grin at my brother, and we laugh. "But...if I can master this... I can still be your wife for the important things. We can still have this life together...and we can still be what we use to be."

I put my hand over my stomach, and change the subject back to the notion of doctors.

"I'll give to give notice, and after that, I'll come home with you. And see any specialist you want..." And we can get married in a civil ceremony. A church wedding...for siblings? No. I just want the ring and the paper work. He can help me forge a new identity for myself as Paige. "And we still have to think up a name."

[law-anddisorder.livejournal.com]

"Well, I didn't name any of my children, Pete, so I guess I'll leave that up to you," I say with a smile. Heidi named Monty and Simon, and I don't know if Meredith or the Bennets named Claire.

I like the offhand way Peter answers the question I have inside my head. At least he misses himself too. His female body is beautiful, but I miss him the way he used to be.

I'm not so sure how much I like it that he's constantly picking up my thoughts. When he first got the ability from that police officer named Parkman, I believe, Peter said he didn't like using it, only when he had to. Now it seems like he's got it turned on full force around me. It started back when we were in Philadelphia, when I was so sick and so weak I couldn't always make it known verbally what I needed. I'm still getting used to him being a living lie detector. It's actually a blessing in disguise, though. It will force me to keep honest. I can't lie to him and tell him I only had one drink with dinner when I'm really about to fall flat on my face, or that I stayed late at the office going over paperwork when I was really fucking that intern.

All that is going to stop now. The affairs I recently carried on behind Heidi's back, I can't let them continue behind Peter's. I don't need any man or woman but him. The drinking and the sex was just a temporary fix, self-medication, to fill the empty place inside me where Peter belonged. Now I have him back, and now he really can be enough for me.

We finish our meal in a comfortable silence, our hands never breaking contact, my mind wandering. I stop on one thought in particular. In moving him back to New York, I'll be forcing Peter to leave his friends that he spent so much time with while here in Los Angeles.

"Hey. One of these days, you should invite your girlfriends over for a little celebration and going-away party. I'm sure they'll miss you, don't you think? Maybe they'd even want to give you a baby shower," I joke.

[chimeramimic.livejournal.com]

A baby shower? The fork pauses at my lower lip and I grin at my brother. "Yeah?" I'd like that. I'll miss Peggy and Slice, they've been everything to me in the past few months. They've kept me sane, promised me support, and were willing to do things to help me most people wouldn't have. "They can meet you... Maybe..."

I find myself watching the side of his face, the curve of his nose, the chisled edges of his lips. He's a beautiful man, though I doubt very much he'd like for me to tell him that. I watch him butter his toast and then turn his head to look at me, smile on his mouth, smile in his eyes.

I remember breakfasts like these up in our vacation house in Maine. Just the two of us alone in the house while Mom and Dad go yachting. I lean forward, my elbow on the edge of the table.

"Maybe...they could even be brides maids. If we just go down to City Hall and get a liscence. I don't want fancy, Nathan." But I do want the ring. I want the bond. I want the paper.