Fic: Family Ties (Jim Profit/Peter, Nathan/Peter [implied], R)
Author: Trekker
Rating: R
Pairing: Jim Profit/Peter, Nathan/Peter [implied]
Fandom: Heroes / Profit
Length: 2,325 words
Warnings: Sociopath, Incest, Slightly More Implausible Than Usual Premise
Author's Note: Very similar in concept to the other Peter/Profit fic. Sorry 'bout that. I hadn't even read that one yet by the time I'd finished writing this after watching Profit straight through over the weekend. I reserve the right to reuse the premise of this fic (the Nathan-Profit connection part, that is) in a more in-depth fic later if I want to. :P

Title: Family Ties
Summary: The obvious: Jim Profit needs something on Nathan. He gets it.

***
Sometimes, in spite of our best efforts, the universe throws us a curve ball. Usually, it happens when we least expect it. So, to mix a metaphor, it's always good to have an ace up your sleeve. A... get-out-of-jail-free card, so to speak.

*** Profit ***

His name's Peter Petrelli. He's a sophomore at NYU, majoring in Criminal Justice. He hates it. His father's a lawyer, his grandfather was a lawyer and his older brother's a lawyer. Peter Petrelli... is not a lawyer.

I give him the rest of the semester before he throws in the towel and leaves the family business.

I've been watching him.

You see, his father is a defense attorny, and a damn good one. I've known people who've benefitted from his expertise. His brother, however, broke the tradition. He's with the DA's office. Having an in with the DA's office means I can get away with... pretty much anything.

And oh, I have an in. Because, you see, Peter Petrelli's father and Peter Petrelli's brother are, in fact, my father and my brother.

Biologically speaking.

On the eighteenth of December, nineteen-sixty-six at around eleven thirty p.m., Angela Petrelli gave birth to twin boys. No one in the family knew there were two. One of the boys was put up for adoption immediately. The official reason was they didn't have the means to support twins. That's not the truth, of course, because the Petrelli family has been living in a mansion in New York since the nineteen twenties. The real reason? I still don't know.

When I cross the NYU quad just after noon on a Wednesday, it's not a coincidence that Peter is rushing across it to make his class at twelve oh five. He's always running late for his Introduction to Criminal Justice course. One of the million small things that tell me he's not going to make it much longer.

He's not looking, so it's easy to step in his path and let him knock us both over.

"Oh, god!" he says, "I'm so--Nathan?"

"Who?" I say.

He narrows his eyes, then says, "You're not..." Then he's shaking his head, looking amazed and excited. "Oh, man, you look exactly like someone I know. That is so unreal."

I smile at him, making it look kind of quizzical, making me look harmless and friendly. He likes that. "That's weird," I say.

We both stand up, and he apologizes again. He's staring at me now, openly, like he's devouring me with his eyes. He's not bothering to hide it because he thinks I don't know who it is he's really undressing in his mind. I feel my lip twitch just slightly but I control it. There'll be time to toast my victories later. Now, the game is still on.

"Dude, hey, let me make it up to you," he says. "Coffee?"

I make the token protest, gesturing towards the building behind us. "Don't you have class?"

He waves it off. "Oh, man, I hate that class, anyway."

***

I don't even have to work for it. He's leading me all the way, even as we drink the requisite cup of coffee. There's only one moment when he falters, looks at me closely and says, "Uh, this is going to be so inappropriate, but are you adopted? Because, damn you look like this guy."

I just shrug and smile and say, "Not that I know of."

I let my eyes linger on him. Up close, I can see the resemblence better. Our eyes, our cheekbones. The same genes shaken up and stirred a little differently. He's chattering about his family--our family--now. Saying how much he hates law, and lawyers, and unearned priveledge and it's all I can do not to throw him against the wall and choke him. I fought my way up from nothing and this stupid child is vapidly talking about throwing it all away, as though it's nothing but fancy tissue paper wrapped around an unwanted gift. He doesn't even know how naive he is. He doesn't even know what he has to reject, and I can't abide people like him.

But I don't let that show, of course. I nod and smile and agree and soon enough we're out of the coffee shop and I suggest we go somewhere more private and he jumps on it like a starving dog offered a bone. As though he's ever known an unfilled need.

In my hotel room--I've lied and told him I'm here on business--he drops to his knees like an experienced whore. He has my belt undone even as I'm leaning back against the door to shut it.

"Whoa, whoa," I say, making myself laugh as his mouth slides down around my cock, "Easy, man. Let's at least make it to the bed."

Because that's where the cameras are.

He swallows around my cock, then pulls off, panting, looking up, all red lips and wide eyes and as much as I hate him, he's damned beautiful and he wants me to use him so badly I can smell it. And oh, I will. I will.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry," he says.

He stands up and sways towards me, putting his whole body against me like he's a plant and I'm sunlight and I let him.

"Do you kiss?" he says.

I nod. "Yes. Definitely yes."

I let him kiss me, shove his tongue in my mouth. I concentrate on the taste of him, wondering if he tastes like me. I wonder what our brother would taste like. I give him a few moments before I pull away and say, "Bed?"

"Oh god, yeah," he says.

I let him suck my cock for awhile once we're on the bed. He's getting more out of it than I am, but I've always been in control in bed, even when I was a kid. Once he's had enough, I get him under me on his hands and knees and drape myself over him. He's staring at the mirror alongside the bed. The camera is on the table just beneath it. I knew he'd look, I wanted a clear shot of his face. I whisper into his ear, "Call me his name. Let me be your fantasy."

And I feel him shudder. "Oh, man," he says, and that's when I penetrate him, feel him buck back against me with a non-verbal cry. Hot little brat. I slam into him hard, a small punishment for his sins, but his shout is more joyful than pained, and once I start fucking him, he's babbling frantically, "Nathan, oh, god, Nathan, yes, yes, yes, yes."

"Peter," I say, for the camera's ears, "Oh, my Peter, that's my boy."

"Say you love me," he gasps.

I do, I say it, "Love you. I love you, Peter."

He pushes back on me, taking me deep and I feel his body clenching as he comes, screaming his brother's name. Perfect. I wait a few strokes and fake my own orgasm to end it, pulling away and tossing the condom while he's still collapsed on the bed, panting. I kiss him on his gasping mouth and pull him against me, his back to my chest.

He seems broken, almost. Limp in my arms. Crying. God, I hate it when they cry. "Shh, shh," I say, kissing at his tears. "It's ok, it's ok."

"Sorry," he says, "Sorry, that was just. That was intense. Really... intense."

"Yeah," I lie.

I let him fall asleep in my bed, then go off to deal with work on my laptop. When he wakes, he says he needs to get going, and I don't protest. He asks for my number, but I don't give it to him. I tell him I'm married and watch his eyes widen for a moment, and then listen to him stammer that he needs to go.

I let him, and once the door is locked, I get the camera and begin loading and backing up the video.

***

It's funny how much of your identity is tied up in your own uniqueness. The first time I picked up the New York Times and saw him standing in the background in a photo, I thought I was losing my mind. Then I realized that actually, it made everything make a lot more sense.

*** Nathan ***

It's been a long day in court. The sun's already going down by the time I make it to my office for the first time. I take off my jacket and loosen my tie and rub the back of my neck. Mail and memos are scattered across my desk, but one manila envelope sits on top of it all. There's nothing on the front but my name, "Nathan P." That's strange. No postage, no return address, but it's clearly not intraoffice mail.

I pick it up and unwind the red thread, turn it over and a CD and a smaller manila envelope fall into my hand. The CD is unlabled. The smaller envelope just says "Open in Private."

I blink at it, then step back, push my door shut, and open it. Inside is a sheaf of photographs.

I pull them out, and my heart stops for a moment.

"Holy fuck."

Peter, naked, staring straight at the camera, with another man over him, fucking him. It's like an unexpected kick in the gut. It's like my worst imaginings made real. And then I notice the rest.

Me. That man could be me.

"Oh, god," I say, and my body goes cold and numb with horror. How? How did this happen? Was I drugged? Oh, god, Peter.

It can't be real. That realization finally works its way through my hazed-out mind. Just an altered photo or something. But still I stare. Peter naked and blissed. God. Oh, god.

I shove the photos back into the envelope and then I see the folded slip of paper behind them. Of course. I pull it out and all that's written on it is a location and a time.

***

I pull up next to the other car, burning with rage. Whoever did this crossed a line, and that's it, I'm not going to take it. If I have to shoot him myself, I'm beginning to think I will.

Then I see him.

And I realize the photos aren't fake at all.

He's me. Exactly like me, same eyes, same build, same jaw, same everything. Me. How is that possible? It's not possible. Hundreds of genes with unfathomable possible combinations, he can't be me.

"What the hell is going on here?" I say, putting all the authority I can muster into my voice, though I feel like the effect is more similar to me demanding an explanation of a mess from my little boys than it is to me commanding a court room.

He says, "Blackmail," with my voice, throwing in a small smile as though amused by some cosmic joke I'm missing.

I'm not amused. I step forward, I can feel my metaphorical hackles rise as I say, "Who the hell are you?" and this time, my anger is beginning to overtake my shock, and I think it comes out more genuine, especially as I work through what it means that he's real, what it means that the photos are real. Peter fucked him. Peter fucked someone who looks exactly like me.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he says, "My lawyers are going to release that video if anything happens to me."

I should have suspected as much. "That's not an answer," I say, not letting his games get to me.

He smiles brightly, as though I've passed some test and he's proud. "I'm your brother," he says, doling out the information like a prize, "Twin brother."

I say, "I don't have a--" but then I stop, because the proof is standing right in front of me. The simplest explanation is usually correct.

He says, "Adoption. We were newborns."

Why? Why would they do that? Why keep one of us and not--

Or was it both of us? Adopted? My parents not my parents. Peter's parents... not my parents. "You or me?" I say, "Both of us?"

It's startling how he sees right through me, and says, "Just me," and then, "He's our brother, Nathan."

I force myself to push past that, and to focus instead on the issue at hand. "What do you want? Money? Acknowledgement?"

Most aggravatingly of all, his answer is, "Nothing. Nothing right now. Maybe someday I'll call in a favor."

"A favor," I say, outloud, because it's so ludicrous I can't stand it. Then I look at him more closely. It's been said that looking into a mirror steals your soul. Looking at him, I buy it. His eyes are empty. When he smiles, it never quite touches them. Something's just missing.

I've seen it before, in the court room, some defendents. They walk and talk and even smile and frown like normal people, but it's like they're nothing but puppets. They're the people who have no regret, who claim they had good reason for bulgeoning their families to death or robbing the elderly or a hundred other things anyone should know is always, always wrong.

For a moment, I feel fear, because I know, beyond a doubt, that this man is capable of anything. Then the anger is back, along with a cold practicality. "Stay the hell away from Peter," I say. "And my family." I look him straight in his empty eyes when I say, "I will kill you, blackmail or not." Because sometimes, that's all that can get through to them.

He just smiles. "Ok," he says, lightly, like he's agreeing to meet for coffee.

***
End