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slyprenticeDefining Devotion
By Prentice
Rating: 17+
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Warnings: This deals with some fairly heavy issues, namely: alcoholism, terrorism, non-con and bad French accents language skills. If any of these bother you, I’d say you’d better abandon ship now.
Timeline: This is set after the events of season one with things picked and chosen from the first three episodes of season two. Yes, Peter still has amnesia.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything but the storyline and a few random characters, all of which are used and abused to the fullest extent.
Summary: From the moment that Peter Petrelli was born, he had a way of redefining Nathan’s life; for the good and for the bad.
Author's Notes: (1) I don't know French. Okay, I do, but I'm really, really bad at it so in the spirit of not abusing a beautiful language, I decided to use a very unreliable translator for this story. I wish I could say that it worked amazingly but it doesn't, so please, if you do know French don't be offended and feel free to share the proper spelling of said sentences. (2) I toy with time lines all the time and do what suits my character's needs. (3). If you're looking for smut, don't look here. It's going to be a long time in coming (heh!). (4) I need a beta and an alpha reader for this story; I know.
Addendum (10/10) - Many, many heartfelt thanks to Golden Sylphide for correcting my atrocious French. I truly hope it makes more sense now!
by Prentice
Prologue
The glimpses of the future are vague at best; clouded by the haze of uncertain change. Nathan Petrelli doesn't mind that. He lived with this kind of ambiguity for most of his life. Hell, since the moment he was born.
"Are you sure you saw him?" His words are slurred but steady, intent in a way that belies the alcohol raging in his veins. The smoky curl of bourbon and too much whiskey churns in his gut, the fumes burning his nostrils. Nathan's tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth and he wonders, albeit briefly, when was the last time he brushed his teeth. "Because I don't like to be fucked with, Antoine, comprenez-vous? Last time –"
The sharp volley of rapid fire French crackling through the line makes his jaw clench and a muscle above his right eye begin to twitch. His head is pounding and the hand lying against his thigh has a tremor in it. The itchy feel of drying sweat makes him want to squirm but he doesn't.
"Ne me fais pas avaler ca!" He growls after a moment, the painful lance of his own voice making his stomach churn. "I don't care how goddamn sure your informant was. I want your eyes on him, Antoine. Peu importe ce qu'il en coûtera, débrouillez vous pour que ça soit fait!"
With that, he ends the call. The satisfaction of stabbing his thumb with more force than necessary into the tiny keypad of his cell phone, nearly crushing it with force, is almost overwhelming. For two days he'd been waiting on this call, two days of the creepy crawls of addiction itching at his skin, and the fumes of alcohol beckoning his return.
He'd finally given in an hour ago: bourbon with a half-bottle whiskey chaser. He wants more already. His taste buds are clamoring for just another sip, just another swallow.
"Idiot," he mutters disgustedly, scrubbing a hand over his features. Beneath his arms, the fabric of his t-shirt is soaked with perspiration, the heat of his own body unbearable even in the cool of the air conditioned apartment. He doesn't know how much longer he can take this. How much longer his body will withstand the kind of destruction he's been laying into it for weeks now. Will it be before he finds his brother, or after, when it finally gives up and gives in?
"Idiot," he says again, just to hear a voice in the hush of his – Peter's – his apartment. It'd been months since anyone else's voice had sounded here. Not since he'd thrown his mother out, her high heels tapping against the floor like the pinpoints of hypodermic needles, has anyone but himself voiced anything in this space.
He hates that.
He hates that their mother – his mother – Peter's mother – was the last person aside from himself to say anything at all within these walls. Even if it had been months ago now; months when she’d still been alive, still been breathing, still been so fucking tainted by evil that Nathan could hardly stand the sight of himself in the mirror because of what she’d almost made him become.
He still couldn’t, really. Staring into his own eyes, ones that had shinned back with fierce, nearly animalistic determination before, now only reminded him of what his mother said, what his mother wanted.
Lead him, Nathan, she’d whispered to him once. Mold him. Make him into who he needs to be. She’d touched his cheek then, cupping it in her hand, staring up at him. The gesture would have seemed motherly to anyone looking but the hunger in her eyes belied the simple act. For us, Nathan. For you.
His skin sometimes crawls with the thought of it. The way he’d kissed her cheek, another familial gesture to any onlooker, and nodded his assent as though his little brother were nothing but a toy to manipulate. To create. To destroy.
“Oh, Pete,” Nathan whispers, his throat tight with anguish and eyes stinging with unshed tears. His mother’s words from weeks ago still echoed in his mind.
If you’d followed our plan, if you’d done what you were supposed to do, he’d still be alive now.
Closing his eyes, he ignored the hot tracks of tears down his face. Over the months, when his mother was no longer welcome, he’d tried so many times to wash those words away. Tried to make them disappear from the walls, from his mind, and most especially from his heart, but his drunken, weeping cries for and to his brother were nothing in comparison to that betrayal.
Even in the dark of night, when his voice is nothing more than a slow slurring murmur, his nightly bottle clinking against the wooden floors, and his words of love pouring out of his mouth to the walls around him, soaking up his pain and devotion, does he feel like he was washing them away. Sometimes, in his more sobriety induced lucid moments, he thinks that they might never be gone. That they might stain the walls of this apartment forever, even when he is dead and gone, buried and forgotten by time and the elements.
Or maybe, he reflects, opening his eyes to stare blankly at the ceiling, his cell phone sliding out his hand to the couch cushions beside him, I'm just nuts.
End Prologue
French translations: Which may or may not be correct...
1. Comprenez-vous - Do you understand?
2. Ne me fais pas avaler ca! - Don't give me this shit!
3. Peu importe ce qu'il en coûtera, débrouillez vous pour que ça soit fait- No matter what it takes, just get it done!
