FIC: Defining Devotion (Heroes) Nathan/Peter

[slyprentice]

Defining 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) About halfway through rewriting this section of the story, I decided to cut the chapter in two; which means, basically, that this section is rather short. I decided on this for two reasons: a. none of us know what the new episode on Monday will bring and I'd like to stick to canon for as long as I can before drifiting away and b. I feel that you get two new insights that you haven't gotten before and didn't want to overcrowd this chapter with unnecessary information. (2) I debated on this chapter a lot. Part of me feels that certain aspects of this lacks some of the emotion of the pervious parts; however, it dawned on me this is an introduction of sorts to two characters already in play so...I hope you enjoy!
Previous Parts: 
Prologue 
Chapter 1

Chapter 2

"The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty, not knowing what comes next." – Ursula K. LeGuin

Antoine Girard is a lean man. Tall and lithe, his muscles are not corded beneath his skin like steroid bunched stones, but smooth, stretchable, and imperceptible to the naked eye. He prefers it that way and takes meticulous care to keep himself in ‘fighting trim’, as they say.

Il faut casser le noyau pour avoir l’amande, he reminds himself, smoothing a hand down the material of his cotton button down, the soft fabric caressing his body and making gooseflesh ripple down his spine. His skin is warm beneath the cloth, deliciously so, and he can’t help but dig his fingernails into the material over his stomach, humming almost indiscernibly at the sting.

The swish of his light cotton pants – white, as per his usual attire - is quiet as he turns and makes his way back to his desk, bare feet slapping against the polished wooden floor of his study. His dirty blonde hair flops against his forehead as he moves, the prickle of it like a fly walking. He must get it trimmed soon, possibly this afternoon, but first, he has business to attend to.

Settling himself behind his desk, a surprisingly modern looking affair of chrome and glass in a room filled with antiques and worn leather, he settles a hand over the wireless mouse of his computer and jerks it sharply to the right. The flat screen monitor before him flickers to life, a strangely feminine background of lilies and pearls coming into focus, before being obscured by a digital address book. The entry he had made not long ago is still blinking, the name and various contact numbers bolded in blue.

Quinn. His lips curl upwards at the sight, teeth flashing shiny white in the afternoon sun. How merveilleux it was to irritate the man; to tempt and disturb him. One day, perhaps, he would have to do it in person.

But for now, he decides, jerking the mouse again until the tiny arrowed cursor is atop the small dash at the corner of the screen, minimizing the address book and its contents. For now, I must make a phone call.

Swiveling in his chair, the Frenchmen reaches for his phone and dials the Petrelli number by memory.

***

"I don't know who I am." The words are out of his mouth and in the air, just hanging in the silence around him, waiting to be grasped up by some memory, some thought, some something that will tell him who or what he is but nothing so providential happens. Nothing at all. 

What did you expect? He wonders', lifting a half-poised damp clothe the rest of the way to his face and wipes the white-cloud foam of borrowed shaving cream away, the cologne smell of a store bought brand making his nose twitch. The tiny pearls of moisture beads on his skin, his shower from moments ago still warming his body and leaving his tanned skin rosy in the warm curl of leftover steam.  A towel, soft and worn, hangs around his waist, the once-white terrycloth downy against him.

I expected…

The pulse of something he can’t name thrums through him, beating to the throb of his heartbeat. It grips his mind like a vice, the pressure of unknown and forgotten memories pushing and bending until it’s nearly a physical pain. Nearly a physical blow.

I expected…

He doesn't know. He just doesn’t. What he expects, what he wants, is a blank and a void; an empty place that cannot be filled. Even his subconscious, which is pushing and pulling at him for something, doesn't know.

What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to be?

Peter. The name comes unbidden to him, spilling into his mind like a cascading waterfall, washing away his uncertainty for just a moment. The box, the thing that holds him, the thing that says who he is, what he is, if he's good, if he's bad – in it, it says he's Peter.

"You are Peter," he whispers to his reflection, staring intently into features he can't even remember, before he drops his towel, the soppy clunk of it filling his ears, and turns to the wooden peg behind him that holds his flannel shirt and jeans.

End Chapter 2

***

French Translation: Which may or may not be right...

1. Il faut casser le noyau pour avoir l’amande - No pain, no gain. (This is my understanding of this phrase, if I'm wrong, please forgive me.)

2. merveilleux - wonderful