Trekker (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} 47_trek_47) wrote,@ 2007-09-26 00:40:00 |
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Heroes15 Fic: Promises (Nathan, Simon, PG)
Title: Promises
Author: Trekker
Rating: PG
Warnings: Depression sucks
Disclaimer: Not mine, Kring makes them do more fanfic-y things than I do, yadda yadda.
Characters/Pairings: Nathan Petrelli, Simon Petrelli (Nathan's older son)
Table/Prompt: Table #9 / Prompt #6: Coercion
Word Count: 1584 words
Summary: Never break a pinky swear is rule number one.
Author's Notes: Spoilers through 2x01: Four Months Later. It's late, will link to table tomorrow.
***
Nobody knocked on Nathan's--Peter's--door. For a month or so, sometimes someone who knew Peter would come by, but that stopped happening. It had been weeks since anyone had knocked. So this knock got Nathan's attention.
Quiet, hesitant, and small, like someone afraid of who might answer.
From his position, prone on Peter's sagging old couch, Nathan glared at the peeling paint on the door. Go away, he thought at it, as though will alone could drive off this interruption.
Another knock, still small and shy.
With a groan, Nathan rolled over, hitting the floor on his knees with a groan. He stayed there for a second, head spinning, stomach lurching, before he dug his fists into the couch cushions and pushed himself up to his feet. He could feel the sway in his step as he crossed the room, and the headache building up again like a slowly encroaching storm, throbbing like distant thunder in his temples.
Undo the chain, throw the deadbolt, open the door.
No one there.
No, wait. Down there.
"Simon," he said, staring, almost uncomprehending. What the hell? Here? Alone? "What are you doing here? How did you--?"
But then his oldest son reached up with both arms, looked up with teary eyes, and all he could do was pick him up and clutch him close. "Si. Oh, Simon. Hey."
Simon wrapped his arms around his neck and snuffled against his shoulder and said, "Daddy, you smell funny."
That startled a small bark of a laugh out of Nathan, that rasped against his throat. He turned his head and breathed in the smell of Simon's shampoo-clean head, and said, into his fine, soft hair, "Yeah. Yeah, I bet I do. Com'ere," he added, pushing the door shut and carrying Simon into the apartment.
Already, he was feeling a slow build of panic. He couldn't have a kid here. The place was a mess, there was at least one broken bottle in the kitchen, and he could hardly stay awake, much less keep up with an eight-year-old. Already, Simon was feeling heavier in his arms, dragging on his shoulders. Too heavy, and Nathan was too tired. He put him down on the couch, amidst the sheets and pillows and said, "Stay here, ok? I'll be right back."
But before he could straighten up, Simon caught his hand, small fingers ensnaring his own. He looked back down at Simon looking up, with eyes wide and earnest. "Right back?" Simon said. "Pinky swear?"
Pinky swear. Childish, yes, but Simon and Monty were children, so he'd known they'd understand. He'd never broken one of those promises. He'd never let himself. Once, he'd walked out of a meeting with a federal judge to make sure he caught his plane to be home on time to keep his word. He'd learned one thing from his father about parenting, and it was that the worst feeling in the world was a broken promise, and that, worse, after awhile, you learned to expect it.
He held up his free hand, closed but for his little finger. Simon interlocked his own small finger with Nathan's, and Nathan said, "I swear. Right back."
Simon nodded. "Okay."
In the bedroom, with the door shut, Nathan shut his eyes, braced his hands on the edge of the dresser and let out a long breath. Simon was here. No way did Heidi know that. No way would she let him come. Somehow he'd got here on his own, and somewhere, Heidi was panicking.
All Nathan could feel was distant relief. She'd come, she'd take Simon home, and she wouldn't let this happen again.
He loved his sons, but he couldn't deal with them now. Couldn't face them like this. Couldn't stand them seeing him like this.
He opened his eyes, stood on shaky knees and stripped off the shirt he couldn't remember when he'd last changed. He pulled another T-shirt out of the middle drawer, something simple and grey, and pulled it on. It was Peter's, but his own stuff was back at the mansion, and he hadn't found the time--the energy--to go back for it.
He headed out of the bedroom, across the living room to the kitchen. Simon hopped off the couch and followed him to the edge of the tile, where Nathan stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. "Stay there, kiddo, there's broken glass in here, ok?"
"What broke?" Simon said, leaning his body over the tile barrier but keeping his feet on the carpet, trying to see.
"Just a glass," Nathan said, sweeping his hand through the clutter on the counter until he finally found his cell phone in the midst of the detritus.
He flipped it open. Dead battery. Of course.
It took another minute of rummaging through wadded paper towels, dishes, discarded boxes to find the charger.
That was when Simon figured out what was going on. "No! Don't call Mom!"
Once the phone was plugged in, it turned on, and sure enough, he already had four messages from Heidi. Frantic at first, no doubt, then probably angrier and angrier. At him, of course, not at Simon.
He turned around, still tethered to the wall by the charger, and said, "Simon, your Mom is probably panicking right now. We have to tell her where you are." You need to go. I can't handle this. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
"NO!" Simon said, leaning further, but still obediently keeping his feet on the carpet. "No, she'll make me leave. Don't make me leave. Dad, PLEASE."
Nathan sucked in a breath, feeling that pain right in his chest. He set the phone on the counter, crossed the few steps to Simon, and knelt in front of him, taking his shoulders in his hands and looking him straight in the eye.
"Look, I--I know things are rough right now, ok? But I'm--I can't--I can't be here for you right now, Simon. I can hardly--" take care of myself, let alone you, "I can't. You need to be with your Mom."
"Please," Simon said. "I'll be really, really good--"
"I'm sorry."
And that was when Simon shook him off and ran--around him, behind him, over to the counter and then away across the apartment like a shot, the cell phone clutched in his hand. Simon was halfway across the room before Nathan even managed to get back to his feet and follow him, and Simon reached the half-open window and shoved it the rest of the way up before Nathan had made it more than a few steps.
Old building, not child-safe, the window just opened out freely onto fourteen stories of empty air and a street full of traffic far below.
"Simon," Nathan screamed.
Right on the windowsill, balancing there, one small arm held out over the dead drop, still holding the black and silver phone. "Don't call her," Simon said, firmly, his eyes fixed on Nathan, his other hand white-knuckled on the sill, telling just how precarious his balance was. "I'll drop your phone," he said.
Nathan had stopped in his tracks, didn't want to startle him or unbalance him. He could feel his heart beating in his chest for the first time in months. Oh, god. I can't fly. I can't, I know it. I can hardly walk, for fuck's sake. Simon, oh god, Simon.
"Simon, get down. It's not safe. Please."
I can't handle this, I can't handle it. Oh, god, someone get this kid away from me, someone take him somewhere safe, somewhere away.
"You have to say you won't call her," Simon said, wavering. "You have to pinky swear it. Or I won't get down. I'll drop it, and then you can't call her."
Their gazes locked, Simon's eyes set and determined, 100% Petrelli, and Nathan's wide and frantic. Nathan could see the message clearly in those eyes: Promise me. I want to believe in you. Help me trust you.
And then Nathan knew what he could do to keep Simon safe.
He knelt on the floor. "All right. All right, you win. Come here." He held out his hand, fist closed but for that one crucial finger. He kept his eyes on Simon, and felt his whole body release when Simon lowered himself off the sill.
Their fingers locked, and Nathan said, "I won't call her. I swear."
Simon nodded.
Nathan forced a smile. It seemed to take every muscle in his body, and left him exhausted from the effort. "Can I have my phone back, now?"
His phone was duly returned, and he stood, walked to the window, shut it, locked it, then locked the front door and returned to the kitchen. He plugged in the phone, hearing the soft beep saying it was charging, then turned it on and turned around.
Simon was standing at the verge of the tile again, watching him with uncertainty. "Dad?"
Nathan pressed the 3 key--Heidi's cell--with his thumb, then the send key.
"Dad," Simon said, "Dad you swore! You can't break a pinky swear! It's the number one rule, you said!"
Nathan listened to the distant purring ring, keeping his eyes on his son.
Just before Heidi picked up, he said, "I lied."
As Simon ran across the apartment, slamming into Peter's bedroom and throwing himself across the bed, Nathan thought, It's better this way. For both of us.
***
End
Title: Promises
Author: Trekker
Rating: PG
Warnings: Depression sucks
Disclaimer: Not mine, Kring makes them do more fanfic-y things than I do, yadda yadda.
Characters/Pairings: Nathan Petrelli, Simon Petrelli (Nathan's older son)
Table/Prompt: Table #9 / Prompt #6: Coercion
Word Count: 1584 words
Summary: Never break a pinky swear is rule number one.
Author's Notes: Spoilers through 2x01: Four Months Later. It's late, will link to table tomorrow.
***
Nobody knocked on Nathan's--Peter's--door. For a month or so, sometimes someone who knew Peter would come by, but that stopped happening. It had been weeks since anyone had knocked. So this knock got Nathan's attention.
Quiet, hesitant, and small, like someone afraid of who might answer.
From his position, prone on Peter's sagging old couch, Nathan glared at the peeling paint on the door. Go away, he thought at it, as though will alone could drive off this interruption.
Another knock, still small and shy.
With a groan, Nathan rolled over, hitting the floor on his knees with a groan. He stayed there for a second, head spinning, stomach lurching, before he dug his fists into the couch cushions and pushed himself up to his feet. He could feel the sway in his step as he crossed the room, and the headache building up again like a slowly encroaching storm, throbbing like distant thunder in his temples.
Undo the chain, throw the deadbolt, open the door.
No one there.
No, wait. Down there.
"Simon," he said, staring, almost uncomprehending. What the hell? Here? Alone? "What are you doing here? How did you--?"
But then his oldest son reached up with both arms, looked up with teary eyes, and all he could do was pick him up and clutch him close. "Si. Oh, Simon. Hey."
Simon wrapped his arms around his neck and snuffled against his shoulder and said, "Daddy, you smell funny."
That startled a small bark of a laugh out of Nathan, that rasped against his throat. He turned his head and breathed in the smell of Simon's shampoo-clean head, and said, into his fine, soft hair, "Yeah. Yeah, I bet I do. Com'ere," he added, pushing the door shut and carrying Simon into the apartment.
Already, he was feeling a slow build of panic. He couldn't have a kid here. The place was a mess, there was at least one broken bottle in the kitchen, and he could hardly stay awake, much less keep up with an eight-year-old. Already, Simon was feeling heavier in his arms, dragging on his shoulders. Too heavy, and Nathan was too tired. He put him down on the couch, amidst the sheets and pillows and said, "Stay here, ok? I'll be right back."
But before he could straighten up, Simon caught his hand, small fingers ensnaring his own. He looked back down at Simon looking up, with eyes wide and earnest. "Right back?" Simon said. "Pinky swear?"
Pinky swear. Childish, yes, but Simon and Monty were children, so he'd known they'd understand. He'd never broken one of those promises. He'd never let himself. Once, he'd walked out of a meeting with a federal judge to make sure he caught his plane to be home on time to keep his word. He'd learned one thing from his father about parenting, and it was that the worst feeling in the world was a broken promise, and that, worse, after awhile, you learned to expect it.
He held up his free hand, closed but for his little finger. Simon interlocked his own small finger with Nathan's, and Nathan said, "I swear. Right back."
Simon nodded. "Okay."
In the bedroom, with the door shut, Nathan shut his eyes, braced his hands on the edge of the dresser and let out a long breath. Simon was here. No way did Heidi know that. No way would she let him come. Somehow he'd got here on his own, and somewhere, Heidi was panicking.
All Nathan could feel was distant relief. She'd come, she'd take Simon home, and she wouldn't let this happen again.
He loved his sons, but he couldn't deal with them now. Couldn't face them like this. Couldn't stand them seeing him like this.
He opened his eyes, stood on shaky knees and stripped off the shirt he couldn't remember when he'd last changed. He pulled another T-shirt out of the middle drawer, something simple and grey, and pulled it on. It was Peter's, but his own stuff was back at the mansion, and he hadn't found the time--the energy--to go back for it.
He headed out of the bedroom, across the living room to the kitchen. Simon hopped off the couch and followed him to the edge of the tile, where Nathan stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. "Stay there, kiddo, there's broken glass in here, ok?"
"What broke?" Simon said, leaning his body over the tile barrier but keeping his feet on the carpet, trying to see.
"Just a glass," Nathan said, sweeping his hand through the clutter on the counter until he finally found his cell phone in the midst of the detritus.
He flipped it open. Dead battery. Of course.
It took another minute of rummaging through wadded paper towels, dishes, discarded boxes to find the charger.
That was when Simon figured out what was going on. "No! Don't call Mom!"
Once the phone was plugged in, it turned on, and sure enough, he already had four messages from Heidi. Frantic at first, no doubt, then probably angrier and angrier. At him, of course, not at Simon.
He turned around, still tethered to the wall by the charger, and said, "Simon, your Mom is probably panicking right now. We have to tell her where you are." You need to go. I can't handle this. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
"NO!" Simon said, leaning further, but still obediently keeping his feet on the carpet. "No, she'll make me leave. Don't make me leave. Dad, PLEASE."
Nathan sucked in a breath, feeling that pain right in his chest. He set the phone on the counter, crossed the few steps to Simon, and knelt in front of him, taking his shoulders in his hands and looking him straight in the eye.
"Look, I--I know things are rough right now, ok? But I'm--I can't--I can't be here for you right now, Simon. I can hardly--" take care of myself, let alone you, "I can't. You need to be with your Mom."
"Please," Simon said. "I'll be really, really good--"
"I'm sorry."
And that was when Simon shook him off and ran--around him, behind him, over to the counter and then away across the apartment like a shot, the cell phone clutched in his hand. Simon was halfway across the room before Nathan even managed to get back to his feet and follow him, and Simon reached the half-open window and shoved it the rest of the way up before Nathan had made it more than a few steps.
Old building, not child-safe, the window just opened out freely onto fourteen stories of empty air and a street full of traffic far below.
"Simon," Nathan screamed.
Right on the windowsill, balancing there, one small arm held out over the dead drop, still holding the black and silver phone. "Don't call her," Simon said, firmly, his eyes fixed on Nathan, his other hand white-knuckled on the sill, telling just how precarious his balance was. "I'll drop your phone," he said.
Nathan had stopped in his tracks, didn't want to startle him or unbalance him. He could feel his heart beating in his chest for the first time in months. Oh, god. I can't fly. I can't, I know it. I can hardly walk, for fuck's sake. Simon, oh god, Simon.
"Simon, get down. It's not safe. Please."
I can't handle this, I can't handle it. Oh, god, someone get this kid away from me, someone take him somewhere safe, somewhere away.
"You have to say you won't call her," Simon said, wavering. "You have to pinky swear it. Or I won't get down. I'll drop it, and then you can't call her."
Their gazes locked, Simon's eyes set and determined, 100% Petrelli, and Nathan's wide and frantic. Nathan could see the message clearly in those eyes: Promise me. I want to believe in you. Help me trust you.
And then Nathan knew what he could do to keep Simon safe.
He knelt on the floor. "All right. All right, you win. Come here." He held out his hand, fist closed but for that one crucial finger. He kept his eyes on Simon, and felt his whole body release when Simon lowered himself off the sill.
Their fingers locked, and Nathan said, "I won't call her. I swear."
Simon nodded.
Nathan forced a smile. It seemed to take every muscle in his body, and left him exhausted from the effort. "Can I have my phone back, now?"
His phone was duly returned, and he stood, walked to the window, shut it, locked it, then locked the front door and returned to the kitchen. He plugged in the phone, hearing the soft beep saying it was charging, then turned it on and turned around.
Simon was standing at the verge of the tile again, watching him with uncertainty. "Dad?"
Nathan pressed the 3 key--Heidi's cell--with his thumb, then the send key.
"Dad," Simon said, "Dad you swore! You can't break a pinky swear! It's the number one rule, you said!"
Nathan listened to the distant purring ring, keeping his eyes on his son.
Just before Heidi picked up, he said, "I lied."
As Simon ran across the apartment, slamming into Peter's bedroom and throwing himself across the bed, Nathan thought, It's better this way. For both of us.
***
End
