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hackthis_archiveMany moons ago the most beloved ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sameoldhope made me an awesome piece of art. This is the story it inspired, which I dedicate whole-heartedly to her. <3 Also, thanks to technosage for inspiring the summary and to my betas K-Squared, because you can't beta for someone like me without a whole lot of patience and whole lot of sarcasm. ;-)
Heroes
Peter/Nathan, R
Post-finale S1 'How to Stop an Exploding Man'
I Could've Been an Actor, But I Wound Up Here
They have an apartment that looks out over the water. It's a nice apartment. From the balcony they can see the ships coming into Coal Harbour. Peter chose this apartment over one on English Bay because of the wind coming in off the ocean; ocean currents might be too strong, too rough, too much for a flying man trying to find his way home.
The apartment has central air and heating and a dishwasher. There's a kitchen big enough for Peter to pretend he's on Top Chef and for Nathan to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when Peter's creations catch on fire. Most of the time, though, Peter makes good food. He cooks dinners that aren't lavish, just filling and healthy and full of things he knows Nathan likes: steak, potatoes, roast chicken and asparagus. Every now and then Peter even makes fried zucchini.
The apartment has nice hardwood floors and the walls are just thick enough so they don't shock their neighbors. The built-in bookshelves are slowly being filled in with law books and nursing manuals and used paperbacks. Peter's reading The Once and Future King for the sixth time; Nathan says he's not funny.
Again, the apartment is nice, but not too nice. The foyer isn't marble. There are no antique sconces on the walls, no library of rich mahogany wood. No Kandinskys hang in the guest bedroom and there are no Turners in the drawing room. They do have a guest room, but that's been converted into a reading room of sorts. Sometimes Peter studies there, sometimes he gets Nathan a free connection to Lexis/Nexis, but mostly it's for daily internet searches of newspapers in another country.
In the morning, Nathan conducts the searches, at night it's Peter's turn. Nathan's eyes are freshest in the morning, before he's spent all day poring over law books and reading file upon file at the Legal Services Society where he works. At night, Peter's been on his feet all day at the clinic; he's happy to sit down. He's been giving injections and taking blood pressure and trying to calm down wriggling, screaming children who really don't want to be at the doctor. The kids always seem to calm down when Peter appears.
The other nurses whisper about him in Cantonese or Hindi when they think he's not listening. He doesn't quite understand what they're saying, but he's fairly certain he gets the gist. If he probes he can catch their thoughts swirling in an English/Other Dialect miasma. It's not as though they're rude when they talk about him, they just wonder about him, about how he's so good at his job when he's so young. They wonder why he works at a clinic and not the hospital.
Mostly they seem to wonder about his husband.
Peter's not surprised. People are always wondering about Nathan.
Even Peter's youngest charges seem more enamored of the silver band on his left ring finger than the sugar-free lollipops he carries in his pockets.
Some people might call this paranoia, but Peter died twice this year, he's long past paranoia.
Sometimes Nathan gets home before Peter. This isn't the norm; Nathan has cases to put to bed and legal briefs to write for the LSS, but he tries to be home by seven most nights. Sometimes Peter stays late at the clinic to help with their walk-in patients. Sometimes Peter goes to the Vancouver Art Gallery after work instead of going directly home. On the weekends they go to the harbor or the movies or hiking outside the city. There are hockey games on TV and soccer games in the park; Peter knows he's being humored, but if every now and then Nathan genuinely enjoys himself then it's worth it.
During the week, there are days when Peter walks instead of taking the bus and there are nights when instead of taking the bus home, Peter flies. He never lands on the balcony when he does this, if only because it would probably really piss Nathan off. Regardless, Nathan seems to know when Peter's been flying. Peter doesn't know if it's his hair or his clothing or some subtle smell in the Vancouver air that gets into his pores, all he knows is that if he comes home after he's been flying, Nathan knows. The knowledge is around the tightness in his eyes and the set of his jaw.
Tonight, Nathan's unpacking take-out on the kitchen counter when Peter breezes through the door. The smell of kung-pao chicken makes Peter's mouth water, but Nathan’s down-tilted eyebrows and the lines on either side of his mouth scream disapproval. Nathan's cheeks are still red from his walk from the LSS offices on Alexander Street.
"I wasn't flying," Peter protests before he even drops his bag by the door. The hockey game is a discordant echo from on the TV; Peter knows it's just background noise.
Nathan rolls his eyes as Peter unzips his jacket and hangs it in the coat closet. "Did I say you were?" Nathan asks. "It sounds like someone's got something on their conscience."
"What's a conscience?" Peter quips.
Now that they live together, Peter's had to learn how to be tidier. When Peter turns back, Nathan's chewing on a spring roll and eyeing the game. Peter's done something wrong; he just doesn't know exactly what it is yet.
Actually, that's not true. There are so many things that Peter's done to get them here that Nathan could pick an accusation out of thin air and it would probably be true. Peter walks into the kitchen, crowding Nathan to get to the food, but mostly just to be near his brother.
"There's a whole kitchen for you to walk around in," Nathan gripes before Peter grabs his wrist and takes a bite out of Nathan's spring roll. "I was eating that."
Peter just grins as he chews. He swallows before answering. "Isn't there something in our vows about sharing spring rolls and common space?"
Nathan rubs at his temple with his index finger, his ring catching the kitchen light in Peter's line of sight. "We're not married, Pete."
"The ring on your finger says differently," Peter points out, before leaning forward conspiratorially and lowering his voice. "Don't tell that to the landlord. She thinks she's promoting gay pride by renting us this unit."
Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose. He may not approve of what Peter's done or how he's gotten them here, but he took the ring the day Peter gave it to him and he hasn't taken it off since.
Peter can see the emotions warring in Nathan's eyes. He won't let them get to his face, but Peter knows they're there even without listening to Nathan's thoughts. "You want this," Peter says taking the spring roll out of Nathan's hand and dropping it in the sink. "I want this."
"That doesn't make it right," Nathan retorts.
"It makes it whatever we want it to be," Peter replies, and this time, when Peter crowds Nathan against the kitchen counter, he doesn't protest.
From down on his knees, Peter can still see the dark circles under Nathan's eyes, but when he touches Nathan he can feel the way he relaxes. When Peter mouths Nathan's cock through the fabric of his pants, Nathan's head falls back in capitulation.
Peter lives for the way Nathan surrenders to what Peter wants. Everyone wants to submit to someone; you just have to find the right person to give up your control for. You just have to find the right reason, and death is as good a reason as any.
Rebirth is even better.
Margot was the first friend Peter made at the Khatsahlano Medical Clinic. She had three piercings in each ear, each sporting a silver stud. Her hair was cut in a severe bob and dyed a violent shade of red. She laughed at her patients’ stupid jokes and remembered everyone's name. She brought vegetarian food from home even though she confided to Peter that she loved chicken; her fiancée was a vegetarian and everyone had to sacrifice for love some time.
Margot showed Peter where the supplies were kept and how to bribe the technicians when you needed things sooner rather than later. She reminded him a little of Simone and Claire and a little of every woman Peter had ever known. She was stern but kind and friendly without being nosy. The first time Peter mentioned Nathan she didn’t look at him sideways. She didn't pry. She just saw the ring on Peter's finger and made her own conclusions, because that's what people do, they jump to conclusions.
When Duncan McAllister brought his son, Paul, to the clinic with a black eye and a swollen lip, Peter jumped to conclusions. Child and Family Services was the first, followed in short order by the police and probably a very bad telekinetic accident for Mr. McAllister.
He smiled politely, asked Mr. McAllister to wait in the waiting room, and then pulled Margot from her own patient. "I think we have a child abuse issue," Peter said quietly, pressing his hand on the lid of the discarded bed linen container hard enough to leave fingerprints in the steel.
Margot blinked. "Are you sure, Peter? That's a serious accusation."
Peter licked his lips and thought for a moment. He hadn't listened to Mr. McAllister or Paul, he'd seen the bruises. The bruises were enough, weren't they? The appearance was always enough, right? Peter was trained in palliative care; children, the newly alive, unlike the dying, were not his specialty.
Peter frowned and Margot nodded. "Show me."
The closer they got to where Paul was sequestered, the less certain Peter was. He found himself reaching out, but there were too many people, too many thoughts, and then he heard a deep voice from behind the curtain. "Mr. McAllister, I thought I asked you to wait in the waiting room," Peter said flatly even as he yanked the curtain back abruptly.
He winced slightly at the sight of Paul McAllister sitting on his father's lap, sucking on his thumb, while his dad stroked his hair. Peter had never experienced that sort of parental affection. "I must have misheard you," Mr. McAllister said, "you couldn't expect me to just abandon my son to you -– hello, Margot."
In the seconds that Peter scrambled to make sense of what he'd gotten wrong, Margot took over. "I thought the baseball season was over," Margot said, shaking her head as she moved past Peter to where the McAllisters sat. "Who have you been fighting with this time, Paul?"
With a pop, Paul McAllister pulled his thumb out of his mouth and went on a diatribe about someone named Bobby DeLongpre stealing the puck from him, and so Paul had to check him, only Bobby had gotten a fist in there first, and when Paul was bigger and playing for the Toronto Kings, because the Canucks sucked, he was going to beat Bobby DeLongpre with his stick.
Peter backed out of the curtained area as quietly as possible and went outside for some air. Margot found him sitting across the street at the bus shelter, twisting the ring on his finger, vibrating from anxiety and concern and all sorts of things that Peter didn't want to name.
"I brought you some tea." She offered him a paper cup, which Peter took mutely as she sat down beside him. "Everybody makes mistakes," she said quietly.
"I was wrong. I could have ruined their lives." The words scrambled off of Peter's tongue, scratchy and raw in Peter's throat as though he'd been holding them there forever and they'd finally escaped.
Margot patted him on the shoulder. "Don’t be melodramatic, Peter. It was one call, and you knew enough to ask for help, that makes all the difference."
Peter looked over at Margot and then back across the road at the clinic.
If one decision made all the difference, who had the right to make that decision?
Their first night in the apartment, Nathan couldn't sleep. Or he wouldn't sleep. He was jittery and shifty; Peter had never ever seen Nathan so on edge. The sheets were too scratchy or the air was too stagnant. Nathan just rolled and twitched and wouldn't settle down.
At first Peter pretended to be asleep, because he couldn't figure out if he was supposed to say something, or let it go, or if Nathan would start yelling at him again. A part of him was just waiting for Nathan to sit up and start his litany all over again:
- How dare he die and scare the shit out of Nathan.
- What about those radiation burns that Nathan knew he had had?
- Where the hell had the three weeks gone between Peter exploding and them signing the lease on this apartment?
- Where had Peter been taking care of Nathan before they wound up in Vancouver?
- Where was the money from?
- Who the hell was paying for this apartment?
- Where had their papers come from?
- Who had made the passports?
What the hell was going on?
Peter felt every question Nathan had reverberating in his own skull. They bounced and jostled and shrieked for attention, everything that Nathan wanted to know he was going to find out eventually, but right now Peter was tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Nathan to sleep. And so he rolled over and pinned Nathan to the bed, not even pretending to be sleepy.
"You have to calm down," Peter said, even as he untied the drawstrings of Nathan's pyjama bottoms. "You're thinking so loud, I can't sleep."
Nathan grabbed at Peter's wrists but applied no pressure. "What the hell's going on, Peter? How did we get here? Why here? What the hell are we doing here anyway?"
The curtains over by the window let in just enough light to for Peter to see the frown etched all over Nathan's features. Peter sighed as he shook off Nathan's grasp, levitating slightly to pull Nathan's pyjamas down his legs and over his feet.
Nathan's mouth thinned into a line, but he made no move to stop Peter. Peter stood at the foot of the bed, watching Nathan watching him take off his t-shirt and boxers. He rubbed his chest absently, waiting for Nathan; Nathan's body always tended to respond long before Nathan's face did.
Smirking to himself, Peter climbed back on the bed, settling himself over Nathan's thighs, letting his fingers stroke the dark hair from Nathan's navel down to his cock. "Well, to answer your first question: I was going to give you a blow job," Peter said conversationally, "but you seem so keyed up that you might pull out my hair, so how about you fuck me and we'll call it a day."
Nathan's mouth opened, and for a moment no sound came out. Peter took that as a good time to lean down and kiss Nathan quietly. "It's going to work out," he said softly. "You have to trust me."
Nathan didn't look very convinced when Peter pulled back, but the anger he had been radiating had lessened considerably. Peter would take placidity where he could get it. He focused for a moment and the nightstand drawer opened and a small brown bottle floated into his hand. Peter smirked as Nathan immediately held out his hand when Peter opened the bottle.
Peter poured a small bit of clear liquid into Nathan's outstretched palm, watching intently as Nathan rubbed the liquid between both his hands, but in a whoosh of air Peter was on his back with his legs on Nathan's shoulders and a slight case of disorientation. Who said he had all the best abilities?
"Sex isn't going to make everything better," Nathan said flatly, even as his fingers circled Peter's entrance and he slid two in without preamble. Peter's breath caught hard in his throat, and he gasped for air instead of answering Nathan's comment.
Maybe fucking wouldn't make everything better, but it would certainly do for right now.
Nathan goes running in the mornings. At 5:30am he extracts himself from Peter's limbs, pulls on his running clothing, and goes out to see the city. He comes back at 6:45am, sweaty, flushed and looking as though he's been running his entire life. He's lost weight since they arrived, not a worrying amount, but he's much more lean than he used to be.
The first morning Nathan went out, he didn't tell Peter he was leaving and Peter wasn't sure if he was coming back, so he followed him. In the air. Along the waterfront, over bridges and streets, Nathan never faltered, he never seemed unsure of where he was or how to get wherever it was he wanted to go. He found his way back just as though he'd lived there forever, and while Nathan was entering the building on foot, Peter was landing on the balcony just as flushed as Nathan was. The tips of Peter's fingers were numb from the atmospheric changes and his nose was red from the cold. He dashed in the bathroom to heat up, and ten minutes later was joined by his brother.
Nathan was languid and relaxed from his run, Peter was high on endorphins and the knowledge that Nathan had come back to him. Peter used his telekinesis to hold Nathan against the wall of the shower as he dropped to his knees and worked Nathan over, using his mouth and fingers to bring him to the brink again and again and again. Peter showed Nathan what flying was really good for: fucking in the shower without touching anything except each other.
Tonight, though, tonight is different. Peter is home, dinner is ready, Nathan's briefcase is by the front door, but there's no Nathan at all.
Peter doesn't worry. Or he doesn't want to worry, but he can't help it, and when Nathan comes through the door, his face streaked with sweat and his shirt plastered to his chest. Peter's worry shifts into a very serious wariness.
Nathan doesn't even address him. He just strips right there in the kitchen/entryway/living room and then stalks into the bedroom. The shower turns on and Peter looks down at the dinner he's made and figures there's no point in going into battle hungry.
Fifteen minutes later, Nathan comes back, a towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets still on his chest. His hair is plastered to his head, and Peter's fork pauses in mid-air when Nathan yanks off his towel and uses it to dry his hair.
"There was a letter addressed to Mr. and Mr. Peter Petrelli in the mail today." Nathan says once he's done.
Peter sits back in his chair, the forkful of carrots is still frozen in the air. "Uh huh."
Nathan's mouth thins into a line, and he turns and goes back into the bedroom. This time, he comes back wearing a white undershirt and jeans. Peter bought him those jeans in Peterborough, Ontario, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Nathan in anything but suits. Nathan tosses the envelope on the table, and it skids to a stop between the carrots and the roast beef.
Peter picks up the envelope and flips it over between his fingers. The paper is thick. Heavy. Expensive. Postmarked from Vancouver. He plucks the fork out of the air, sets it on his plate, and then uses a steak knife to open the envelope.
"It's a wedding invitation from Margot," he says after a moment, a tenor of pleasure etching itself into his words. "Actually, no, it's a reception invite. They're having the party before the wedding. Smart woman. Uh, also, it's this weekend."
"Who is this Margot and how does she know where you live?" Nathan snaps. "Where we live? She thinks we're Mr. and Mr. Peter Petrelli?!"
Peter sighs and sets the invitation down on the table. "We work together at the clinic, I've told you about her before. And she probably got our address from the rotation schedule. She has a brain, Nathan," Peter mocks as he holds up his left hand and taps his ring. He can see them flying headfirst into the storm, there's nothing he can do but hold on.
"What the hell are you doing, Peter?!" Nathan rails. "We've got wedding bands! You're letting people think we're married! We have this apartment, you never told me how or why or what the fuck you think this's going to accomplish! We have a life in New York, or did you just forget about that?" Nathan stands at attention by the arm of the sofa, his arms crossed.
Peter sucks in his cheeks and reaches up to brush away bangs that haven't grown back from his last death. "What do we have in New York, Nathan? Tell me. What's worth going back for?"
Nathan rubs his forehead. "Mom. Heidi. Monty. Simon. Claire."
Peter's laugh is a forced bark "So that's what you have, but what do I have?" Nathan opens his mouth, but Peter cuts him off. "Nothing. I have nothing. Mom thought I was hopeless. Claire is much better off without thinking she might have to shoot me one day. I go back, I save the world, and I die again. I've had it with the dying, Nathan. It's not worth it."
Nathan uncrosses his arms, moving through the room to where Peter's still sitting at the dining room table. Peter doesn't even have to look up as Nathan moves closer. He doesn't realize he's floating until he looks down and finds his chair three feet under him.
"Peter." Nathan's tone says it all before his hands settle on Peter's shoulders, and Peter shakes him off, landing gracefully on the floor of his own accord.
"You can't tell me you don't want this." Peter is somewhere between defiance, desperation, and denial. "You can't tell me that you're not happy with this life."
Nathan sighs. "That's not the point."
"Why isn't our happiness the point?" Peter can feel the chill in his own voice. "Why does everyone else always come first?"
Nathan's incredulous look says it all. "I have always put you first."
"Then what's so different about putting us first this time? Isn't this what we've always wanted?"
"You never asked me what I wanted," Nathan retorts. "You just conjured this up one day. Papers and apartments and jobs and rings!"
Peter's voice drops several octaves. "Are you telling me you don't want me?"
"Don't turn this around," Nathan warns.
Peter loses another dry bark-like laugh. "If you're so unhappy, why didn’t you just leave? I can hardly stop you from flying away, Nathan. If you want that other life so badly, why not just leave me right now?"
"I never asked you for any of this." Nathan points out, but Peter shakes his head.
"No," Peter says, "either you want me or you don't. It's not about the rings. Or them. It's about us. You belong with me. You belong to me." Nathan's eyes are huge, his thoughts so loud that Peter can't help but hear them.
"I wasn't – I wasn't reading your mind," Peter protests even as Nathan backs away from him, banging into balcony doors. Peter doesn't even notice Nathan's opened the doors until he's on the balcony railing.
"I died for you," Peter pleads.
It's Nathan's turn to laugh. "Yeah, well, so did I."
When Nathan takes off, all Peter sees is the sonic blast.
This is what Peter did:
He died. Twice.
The second time he almost took Nathan with him. That was enough for him to know that things couldn't go on this way. He could save the world or he could save them. The world wasn't worth more than they were. He'd thought it might be, but the radiation burns all over Nathan said otherwise. His own new, itchy, too-tight skin and Nathan's limp frame said otherwise, too. So Peter teleported them to the pied-à-terre in Montmartre long enough for him to heal Nathan and for him to sell several antiques that his mother wouldn't miss; his French is much better than anybody would guess. It took ten days in Paris for Peter to plan this out and two weeks in a cabin in Ontario to get papers and rings and apartment hunt. He never asked Nathan to marry him; he just put the ring on a tray one morning and left the tray for Nathan to deal with. That afternoon he made a phone call from Iceland to Odessa, Texas for Canadian medical and law certifications.
Now there is this life. It's theirs if they choose to keep it.
This is Peter's dirty secret: he put Nathan first.
Epilogue
If Peter were a girl, this would have all been different. If Peter were a girl, he would have more restraint or more resolve or at the very least a better sense of right and wrong. Peter knows right from wrong, most of the time he just doesn't care. Actually, no, that's harsher than it needs to be. Peter is an example of Darwinism, he learned how to manipulate to survive in his family. He likes to pretend otherwise, and most of the time people are fooled, but not Nathan. Peter can never fool Nathan.
If Peter were a girl, he and Nathan would never have found themselves in this position – hiding out in a hotel reception bathroom with Peter's face smashed against the wall, his pants down around his ankles and Nathan's fingers up his ass. If Peter were a girl they would have thought about things like their family, and their obligations, and pregnancy -- and, well, pregnancy is more than enough worry for one lifetime. But if Peter were a girl, he would've been able to find a boy who looks just like his brother, and who talks like his brother, and who is ambitious like his brother. He could have been his father's little girl and an aunt to Claire. Peter could've found a stupid, nice man who only looked like Nathan and didn't have enough brains in his head to realize that the only man Peter will ever love is his brother.
Instead -- instead Peter gets this.
"You are a manipulative little shit," Nathan hisses in Peter's ear. "You're going to tell me everything you did to get us here or I'm leaving you."
Peter's protests are a little stuttered. "You want this just as much as—" Nathan's fingers are rubbing against Peter's prostate, not with every thrust or every other thrust, but with just enough randomness to make Peter's knees weak. Peter's retort dies off in a keening noise.
"How long, Pete? How long are we going to do this?" Peter's scrabbling against the paint, but he can't get a grip. With Nathan Peter always feels like he's floundering, like he's jumped off the roof of a building expecting to fly and found out that, hey, that's not actually his special ability. But Nathan can fly. Nathan can do anything, and if Nathan can do anything then he can do this with Peter.
"Forever," Peter grits out. "Or until you say stop."
The softness of Nathan's lips brushing the shell of Peter's ear is completely contradictory to the rough way his fingers are working Peter open. "Forever, huh?"
And okay, so public outings are never really the right place for Peter to sidle up to Nathan and put a proprietary hand on shoulder, but Peter's been antsy all night. He's been watching Nathan adjust his tie and straighten his cufflinks and charm every employee of the clinic. He just looks so Nathan.
Nathan wears a suit like he was born in it, and everyone has their limits, their weaknesses. So, it's really Nathan's own fault.
"You know you love me." Peter's words end on a whine, because he does know it. Nathan hasn't said it yet in this life, but Peter knows it.
It was the last thing Nathan told him before the last time they died.
Peter knows that if this were anything less than the greatest love ever, Nathan never would've started over again with Peter. There would be no apartment in Vancouver, no working for legal aid or no nighttime fights and flights that end with dirty, filthy, hard sex and a broken kitchen table. If Nathan didn't love Peter he wouldn't submit to wearing off-the-rack suits to the parties of Peter's co-workers, and when people address their invitations to Nathan and Peter Petrelli, Nathan wouldn't let them assume that the shared last name is because they're married.
Here they can be married. This is why Peter chose Vancouver. Here Peter can have Nathan leaving bite marks on the side of his neck, and Nathan yanking his hips back, impaling Peter on Nathan's cock without so much as a "ready?"
Nathan knows when Peter's ready; when Peter needs time and when Peter's can't wait. Peter couldn't wait for this. He couldn't trust this to anyone else. The scrape of starched cotton, the smell of sandalwood soap and dry cleaning chemicals, the cold brush of cufflinks against his skin—he’s lived for this for longer than he can remember.
In New York there are other things, responsibilities: wives, mothers, illegitimate children, random explosions in the sky and elections that have presumably gone to other people. They don't talk about those things, at least not yet, it's been months, though, and yet is coming. Peter doesn’t delude himself, as much as it appears that way on the surface. Their time is running out, but that's a different life in a different country. That's a different clock.
This is Vancouver; this is Mr. and Mr. Petrelli's time, and when Nathan laces his fingers with Peter's and fucks him against the wall like there's no tomorrow, Peter knows he means it.
Later, as Peter pulls up his pants and lets Nathan straighten his tie, he smirks. "What are you so happy about, Mr. Petrelli?" Nathan pulls Peter's tie just a little too tight.
"Life, Mr. Petrelli," Peter says cryptically. "Life."
"Oh, really?" Nathan rolls his eyes.
"I like this one," Peter says, leaning in and stealing kiss. "It's better than the last."
-end-
On Sunday I called this the 600 word story that just needed some context. 5000 words later, "Look! CONTEXT!"
1. Title taken from the song 'Dirty Laundry' by Don Henley. The gorgeous art was made bysameoldhope. Be in awe.
2. The conversation about the summary can be found here, because Peter really is a manipulative little shit. Thanks,technosage
3. Betas byethrosdemon and antheia; remaining SNAFUs are all mine.
sameoldhope made me an awesome piece of art. This is the story it inspired, which I dedicate whole-heartedly to her. <3 Also, thanks to technosage for inspiring the summary and to my betas K-Squared, because you can't beta for someone like me without a whole lot of patience and whole lot of sarcasm. ;-)Heroes
Peter/Nathan, R
Post-finale S1 'How to Stop an Exploding Man'
They have an apartment that looks out over the water. It's a nice apartment. From the balcony they can see the ships coming into Coal Harbour. Peter chose this apartment over one on English Bay because of the wind coming in off the ocean; ocean currents might be too strong, too rough, too much for a flying man trying to find his way home.
The apartment has central air and heating and a dishwasher. There's a kitchen big enough for Peter to pretend he's on Top Chef and for Nathan to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when Peter's creations catch on fire. Most of the time, though, Peter makes good food. He cooks dinners that aren't lavish, just filling and healthy and full of things he knows Nathan likes: steak, potatoes, roast chicken and asparagus. Every now and then Peter even makes fried zucchini.
The apartment has nice hardwood floors and the walls are just thick enough so they don't shock their neighbors. The built-in bookshelves are slowly being filled in with law books and nursing manuals and used paperbacks. Peter's reading The Once and Future King for the sixth time; Nathan says he's not funny.
Again, the apartment is nice, but not too nice. The foyer isn't marble. There are no antique sconces on the walls, no library of rich mahogany wood. No Kandinskys hang in the guest bedroom and there are no Turners in the drawing room. They do have a guest room, but that's been converted into a reading room of sorts. Sometimes Peter studies there, sometimes he gets Nathan a free connection to Lexis/Nexis, but mostly it's for daily internet searches of newspapers in another country.
In the morning, Nathan conducts the searches, at night it's Peter's turn. Nathan's eyes are freshest in the morning, before he's spent all day poring over law books and reading file upon file at the Legal Services Society where he works. At night, Peter's been on his feet all day at the clinic; he's happy to sit down. He's been giving injections and taking blood pressure and trying to calm down wriggling, screaming children who really don't want to be at the doctor. The kids always seem to calm down when Peter appears.
The other nurses whisper about him in Cantonese or Hindi when they think he's not listening. He doesn't quite understand what they're saying, but he's fairly certain he gets the gist. If he probes he can catch their thoughts swirling in an English/Other Dialect miasma. It's not as though they're rude when they talk about him, they just wonder about him, about how he's so good at his job when he's so young. They wonder why he works at a clinic and not the hospital.
Mostly they seem to wonder about his husband.
Peter's not surprised. People are always wondering about Nathan.
Even Peter's youngest charges seem more enamored of the silver band on his left ring finger than the sugar-free lollipops he carries in his pockets.
Some people might call this paranoia, but Peter died twice this year, he's long past paranoia.
Sometimes Nathan gets home before Peter. This isn't the norm; Nathan has cases to put to bed and legal briefs to write for the LSS, but he tries to be home by seven most nights. Sometimes Peter stays late at the clinic to help with their walk-in patients. Sometimes Peter goes to the Vancouver Art Gallery after work instead of going directly home. On the weekends they go to the harbor or the movies or hiking outside the city. There are hockey games on TV and soccer games in the park; Peter knows he's being humored, but if every now and then Nathan genuinely enjoys himself then it's worth it.
During the week, there are days when Peter walks instead of taking the bus and there are nights when instead of taking the bus home, Peter flies. He never lands on the balcony when he does this, if only because it would probably really piss Nathan off. Regardless, Nathan seems to know when Peter's been flying. Peter doesn't know if it's his hair or his clothing or some subtle smell in the Vancouver air that gets into his pores, all he knows is that if he comes home after he's been flying, Nathan knows. The knowledge is around the tightness in his eyes and the set of his jaw.
Tonight, Nathan's unpacking take-out on the kitchen counter when Peter breezes through the door. The smell of kung-pao chicken makes Peter's mouth water, but Nathan’s down-tilted eyebrows and the lines on either side of his mouth scream disapproval. Nathan's cheeks are still red from his walk from the LSS offices on Alexander Street.
"I wasn't flying," Peter protests before he even drops his bag by the door. The hockey game is a discordant echo from on the TV; Peter knows it's just background noise.
Nathan rolls his eyes as Peter unzips his jacket and hangs it in the coat closet. "Did I say you were?" Nathan asks. "It sounds like someone's got something on their conscience."
"What's a conscience?" Peter quips.
Now that they live together, Peter's had to learn how to be tidier. When Peter turns back, Nathan's chewing on a spring roll and eyeing the game. Peter's done something wrong; he just doesn't know exactly what it is yet.
Actually, that's not true. There are so many things that Peter's done to get them here that Nathan could pick an accusation out of thin air and it would probably be true. Peter walks into the kitchen, crowding Nathan to get to the food, but mostly just to be near his brother.
"There's a whole kitchen for you to walk around in," Nathan gripes before Peter grabs his wrist and takes a bite out of Nathan's spring roll. "I was eating that."
Peter just grins as he chews. He swallows before answering. "Isn't there something in our vows about sharing spring rolls and common space?"
Nathan rubs at his temple with his index finger, his ring catching the kitchen light in Peter's line of sight. "We're not married, Pete."
"The ring on your finger says differently," Peter points out, before leaning forward conspiratorially and lowering his voice. "Don't tell that to the landlord. She thinks she's promoting gay pride by renting us this unit."
Nathan pinches the bridge of his nose. He may not approve of what Peter's done or how he's gotten them here, but he took the ring the day Peter gave it to him and he hasn't taken it off since.
Peter can see the emotions warring in Nathan's eyes. He won't let them get to his face, but Peter knows they're there even without listening to Nathan's thoughts. "You want this," Peter says taking the spring roll out of Nathan's hand and dropping it in the sink. "I want this."
"That doesn't make it right," Nathan retorts.
"It makes it whatever we want it to be," Peter replies, and this time, when Peter crowds Nathan against the kitchen counter, he doesn't protest.
From down on his knees, Peter can still see the dark circles under Nathan's eyes, but when he touches Nathan he can feel the way he relaxes. When Peter mouths Nathan's cock through the fabric of his pants, Nathan's head falls back in capitulation.
Peter lives for the way Nathan surrenders to what Peter wants. Everyone wants to submit to someone; you just have to find the right person to give up your control for. You just have to find the right reason, and death is as good a reason as any.
Rebirth is even better.
Margot was the first friend Peter made at the Khatsahlano Medical Clinic. She had three piercings in each ear, each sporting a silver stud. Her hair was cut in a severe bob and dyed a violent shade of red. She laughed at her patients’ stupid jokes and remembered everyone's name. She brought vegetarian food from home even though she confided to Peter that she loved chicken; her fiancée was a vegetarian and everyone had to sacrifice for love some time.
Margot showed Peter where the supplies were kept and how to bribe the technicians when you needed things sooner rather than later. She reminded him a little of Simone and Claire and a little of every woman Peter had ever known. She was stern but kind and friendly without being nosy. The first time Peter mentioned Nathan she didn’t look at him sideways. She didn't pry. She just saw the ring on Peter's finger and made her own conclusions, because that's what people do, they jump to conclusions.
When Duncan McAllister brought his son, Paul, to the clinic with a black eye and a swollen lip, Peter jumped to conclusions. Child and Family Services was the first, followed in short order by the police and probably a very bad telekinetic accident for Mr. McAllister.
He smiled politely, asked Mr. McAllister to wait in the waiting room, and then pulled Margot from her own patient. "I think we have a child abuse issue," Peter said quietly, pressing his hand on the lid of the discarded bed linen container hard enough to leave fingerprints in the steel.
Margot blinked. "Are you sure, Peter? That's a serious accusation."
Peter licked his lips and thought for a moment. He hadn't listened to Mr. McAllister or Paul, he'd seen the bruises. The bruises were enough, weren't they? The appearance was always enough, right? Peter was trained in palliative care; children, the newly alive, unlike the dying, were not his specialty.
Peter frowned and Margot nodded. "Show me."
The closer they got to where Paul was sequestered, the less certain Peter was. He found himself reaching out, but there were too many people, too many thoughts, and then he heard a deep voice from behind the curtain. "Mr. McAllister, I thought I asked you to wait in the waiting room," Peter said flatly even as he yanked the curtain back abruptly.
He winced slightly at the sight of Paul McAllister sitting on his father's lap, sucking on his thumb, while his dad stroked his hair. Peter had never experienced that sort of parental affection. "I must have misheard you," Mr. McAllister said, "you couldn't expect me to just abandon my son to you -– hello, Margot."
In the seconds that Peter scrambled to make sense of what he'd gotten wrong, Margot took over. "I thought the baseball season was over," Margot said, shaking her head as she moved past Peter to where the McAllisters sat. "Who have you been fighting with this time, Paul?"
With a pop, Paul McAllister pulled his thumb out of his mouth and went on a diatribe about someone named Bobby DeLongpre stealing the puck from him, and so Paul had to check him, only Bobby had gotten a fist in there first, and when Paul was bigger and playing for the Toronto Kings, because the Canucks sucked, he was going to beat Bobby DeLongpre with his stick.
Peter backed out of the curtained area as quietly as possible and went outside for some air. Margot found him sitting across the street at the bus shelter, twisting the ring on his finger, vibrating from anxiety and concern and all sorts of things that Peter didn't want to name.
"I brought you some tea." She offered him a paper cup, which Peter took mutely as she sat down beside him. "Everybody makes mistakes," she said quietly.
"I was wrong. I could have ruined their lives." The words scrambled off of Peter's tongue, scratchy and raw in Peter's throat as though he'd been holding them there forever and they'd finally escaped.
Margot patted him on the shoulder. "Don’t be melodramatic, Peter. It was one call, and you knew enough to ask for help, that makes all the difference."
Peter looked over at Margot and then back across the road at the clinic.
If one decision made all the difference, who had the right to make that decision?
Their first night in the apartment, Nathan couldn't sleep. Or he wouldn't sleep. He was jittery and shifty; Peter had never ever seen Nathan so on edge. The sheets were too scratchy or the air was too stagnant. Nathan just rolled and twitched and wouldn't settle down.
At first Peter pretended to be asleep, because he couldn't figure out if he was supposed to say something, or let it go, or if Nathan would start yelling at him again. A part of him was just waiting for Nathan to sit up and start his litany all over again:
- How dare he die and scare the shit out of Nathan.
- What about those radiation burns that Nathan knew he had had?
- Where the hell had the three weeks gone between Peter exploding and them signing the lease on this apartment?
- Where had Peter been taking care of Nathan before they wound up in Vancouver?
- Where was the money from?
- Who the hell was paying for this apartment?
- Where had their papers come from?
- Who had made the passports?
What the hell was going on?
Peter felt every question Nathan had reverberating in his own skull. They bounced and jostled and shrieked for attention, everything that Nathan wanted to know he was going to find out eventually, but right now Peter was tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Nathan to sleep. And so he rolled over and pinned Nathan to the bed, not even pretending to be sleepy.
"You have to calm down," Peter said, even as he untied the drawstrings of Nathan's pyjama bottoms. "You're thinking so loud, I can't sleep."
Nathan grabbed at Peter's wrists but applied no pressure. "What the hell's going on, Peter? How did we get here? Why here? What the hell are we doing here anyway?"
The curtains over by the window let in just enough light to for Peter to see the frown etched all over Nathan's features. Peter sighed as he shook off Nathan's grasp, levitating slightly to pull Nathan's pyjamas down his legs and over his feet.
Nathan's mouth thinned into a line, but he made no move to stop Peter. Peter stood at the foot of the bed, watching Nathan watching him take off his t-shirt and boxers. He rubbed his chest absently, waiting for Nathan; Nathan's body always tended to respond long before Nathan's face did.
Smirking to himself, Peter climbed back on the bed, settling himself over Nathan's thighs, letting his fingers stroke the dark hair from Nathan's navel down to his cock. "Well, to answer your first question: I was going to give you a blow job," Peter said conversationally, "but you seem so keyed up that you might pull out my hair, so how about you fuck me and we'll call it a day."
Nathan's mouth opened, and for a moment no sound came out. Peter took that as a good time to lean down and kiss Nathan quietly. "It's going to work out," he said softly. "You have to trust me."
Nathan didn't look very convinced when Peter pulled back, but the anger he had been radiating had lessened considerably. Peter would take placidity where he could get it. He focused for a moment and the nightstand drawer opened and a small brown bottle floated into his hand. Peter smirked as Nathan immediately held out his hand when Peter opened the bottle.
Peter poured a small bit of clear liquid into Nathan's outstretched palm, watching intently as Nathan rubbed the liquid between both his hands, but in a whoosh of air Peter was on his back with his legs on Nathan's shoulders and a slight case of disorientation. Who said he had all the best abilities?
"Sex isn't going to make everything better," Nathan said flatly, even as his fingers circled Peter's entrance and he slid two in without preamble. Peter's breath caught hard in his throat, and he gasped for air instead of answering Nathan's comment.
Maybe fucking wouldn't make everything better, but it would certainly do for right now.
Nathan goes running in the mornings. At 5:30am he extracts himself from Peter's limbs, pulls on his running clothing, and goes out to see the city. He comes back at 6:45am, sweaty, flushed and looking as though he's been running his entire life. He's lost weight since they arrived, not a worrying amount, but he's much more lean than he used to be.
The first morning Nathan went out, he didn't tell Peter he was leaving and Peter wasn't sure if he was coming back, so he followed him. In the air. Along the waterfront, over bridges and streets, Nathan never faltered, he never seemed unsure of where he was or how to get wherever it was he wanted to go. He found his way back just as though he'd lived there forever, and while Nathan was entering the building on foot, Peter was landing on the balcony just as flushed as Nathan was. The tips of Peter's fingers were numb from the atmospheric changes and his nose was red from the cold. He dashed in the bathroom to heat up, and ten minutes later was joined by his brother.
Nathan was languid and relaxed from his run, Peter was high on endorphins and the knowledge that Nathan had come back to him. Peter used his telekinesis to hold Nathan against the wall of the shower as he dropped to his knees and worked Nathan over, using his mouth and fingers to bring him to the brink again and again and again. Peter showed Nathan what flying was really good for: fucking in the shower without touching anything except each other.
Tonight, though, tonight is different. Peter is home, dinner is ready, Nathan's briefcase is by the front door, but there's no Nathan at all.
Peter doesn't worry. Or he doesn't want to worry, but he can't help it, and when Nathan comes through the door, his face streaked with sweat and his shirt plastered to his chest. Peter's worry shifts into a very serious wariness.
Nathan doesn't even address him. He just strips right there in the kitchen/entryway/living room and then stalks into the bedroom. The shower turns on and Peter looks down at the dinner he's made and figures there's no point in going into battle hungry.
Fifteen minutes later, Nathan comes back, a towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets still on his chest. His hair is plastered to his head, and Peter's fork pauses in mid-air when Nathan yanks off his towel and uses it to dry his hair.
"There was a letter addressed to Mr. and Mr. Peter Petrelli in the mail today." Nathan says once he's done.
Peter sits back in his chair, the forkful of carrots is still frozen in the air. "Uh huh."
Nathan's mouth thins into a line, and he turns and goes back into the bedroom. This time, he comes back wearing a white undershirt and jeans. Peter bought him those jeans in Peterborough, Ontario, because he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Nathan in anything but suits. Nathan tosses the envelope on the table, and it skids to a stop between the carrots and the roast beef.
Peter picks up the envelope and flips it over between his fingers. The paper is thick. Heavy. Expensive. Postmarked from Vancouver. He plucks the fork out of the air, sets it on his plate, and then uses a steak knife to open the envelope.
"It's a wedding invitation from Margot," he says after a moment, a tenor of pleasure etching itself into his words. "Actually, no, it's a reception invite. They're having the party before the wedding. Smart woman. Uh, also, it's this weekend."
"Who is this Margot and how does she know where you live?" Nathan snaps. "Where we live? She thinks we're Mr. and Mr. Peter Petrelli?!"
Peter sighs and sets the invitation down on the table. "We work together at the clinic, I've told you about her before. And she probably got our address from the rotation schedule. She has a brain, Nathan," Peter mocks as he holds up his left hand and taps his ring. He can see them flying headfirst into the storm, there's nothing he can do but hold on.
"What the hell are you doing, Peter?!" Nathan rails. "We've got wedding bands! You're letting people think we're married! We have this apartment, you never told me how or why or what the fuck you think this's going to accomplish! We have a life in New York, or did you just forget about that?" Nathan stands at attention by the arm of the sofa, his arms crossed.
Peter sucks in his cheeks and reaches up to brush away bangs that haven't grown back from his last death. "What do we have in New York, Nathan? Tell me. What's worth going back for?"
Nathan rubs his forehead. "Mom. Heidi. Monty. Simon. Claire."
Peter's laugh is a forced bark "So that's what you have, but what do I have?" Nathan opens his mouth, but Peter cuts him off. "Nothing. I have nothing. Mom thought I was hopeless. Claire is much better off without thinking she might have to shoot me one day. I go back, I save the world, and I die again. I've had it with the dying, Nathan. It's not worth it."
Nathan uncrosses his arms, moving through the room to where Peter's still sitting at the dining room table. Peter doesn't even have to look up as Nathan moves closer. He doesn't realize he's floating until he looks down and finds his chair three feet under him.
"Peter." Nathan's tone says it all before his hands settle on Peter's shoulders, and Peter shakes him off, landing gracefully on the floor of his own accord.
"You can't tell me you don't want this." Peter is somewhere between defiance, desperation, and denial. "You can't tell me that you're not happy with this life."
Nathan sighs. "That's not the point."
"Why isn't our happiness the point?" Peter can feel the chill in his own voice. "Why does everyone else always come first?"
Nathan's incredulous look says it all. "I have always put you first."
"Then what's so different about putting us first this time? Isn't this what we've always wanted?"
"You never asked me what I wanted," Nathan retorts. "You just conjured this up one day. Papers and apartments and jobs and rings!"
Peter's voice drops several octaves. "Are you telling me you don't want me?"
"Don't turn this around," Nathan warns.
Peter loses another dry bark-like laugh. "If you're so unhappy, why didn’t you just leave? I can hardly stop you from flying away, Nathan. If you want that other life so badly, why not just leave me right now?"
"I never asked you for any of this." Nathan points out, but Peter shakes his head.
"No," Peter says, "either you want me or you don't. It's not about the rings. Or them. It's about us. You belong with me. You belong to me." Nathan's eyes are huge, his thoughts so loud that Peter can't help but hear them.
"I wasn't – I wasn't reading your mind," Peter protests even as Nathan backs away from him, banging into balcony doors. Peter doesn't even notice Nathan's opened the doors until he's on the balcony railing.
"I died for you," Peter pleads.
It's Nathan's turn to laugh. "Yeah, well, so did I."
When Nathan takes off, all Peter sees is the sonic blast.
This is what Peter did:
The second time he almost took Nathan with him. That was enough for him to know that things couldn't go on this way. He could save the world or he could save them. The world wasn't worth more than they were. He'd thought it might be, but the radiation burns all over Nathan said otherwise. His own new, itchy, too-tight skin and Nathan's limp frame said otherwise, too. So Peter teleported them to the pied-à-terre in Montmartre long enough for him to heal Nathan and for him to sell several antiques that his mother wouldn't miss; his French is much better than anybody would guess. It took ten days in Paris for Peter to plan this out and two weeks in a cabin in Ontario to get papers and rings and apartment hunt. He never asked Nathan to marry him; he just put the ring on a tray one morning and left the tray for Nathan to deal with. That afternoon he made a phone call from Iceland to Odessa, Texas for Canadian medical and law certifications.
Now there is this life. It's theirs if they choose to keep it.
This is Peter's dirty secret: he put Nathan first.
Epilogue
If Peter were a girl, this would have all been different. If Peter were a girl, he would have more restraint or more resolve or at the very least a better sense of right and wrong. Peter knows right from wrong, most of the time he just doesn't care. Actually, no, that's harsher than it needs to be. Peter is an example of Darwinism, he learned how to manipulate to survive in his family. He likes to pretend otherwise, and most of the time people are fooled, but not Nathan. Peter can never fool Nathan.
If Peter were a girl, he and Nathan would never have found themselves in this position – hiding out in a hotel reception bathroom with Peter's face smashed against the wall, his pants down around his ankles and Nathan's fingers up his ass. If Peter were a girl they would have thought about things like their family, and their obligations, and pregnancy -- and, well, pregnancy is more than enough worry for one lifetime. But if Peter were a girl, he would've been able to find a boy who looks just like his brother, and who talks like his brother, and who is ambitious like his brother. He could have been his father's little girl and an aunt to Claire. Peter could've found a stupid, nice man who only looked like Nathan and didn't have enough brains in his head to realize that the only man Peter will ever love is his brother.
Instead -- instead Peter gets this.
"You are a manipulative little shit," Nathan hisses in Peter's ear. "You're going to tell me everything you did to get us here or I'm leaving you."
Peter's protests are a little stuttered. "You want this just as much as—" Nathan's fingers are rubbing against Peter's prostate, not with every thrust or every other thrust, but with just enough randomness to make Peter's knees weak. Peter's retort dies off in a keening noise.
"How long, Pete? How long are we going to do this?" Peter's scrabbling against the paint, but he can't get a grip. With Nathan Peter always feels like he's floundering, like he's jumped off the roof of a building expecting to fly and found out that, hey, that's not actually his special ability. But Nathan can fly. Nathan can do anything, and if Nathan can do anything then he can do this with Peter.
"Forever," Peter grits out. "Or until you say stop."
The softness of Nathan's lips brushing the shell of Peter's ear is completely contradictory to the rough way his fingers are working Peter open. "Forever, huh?"
And okay, so public outings are never really the right place for Peter to sidle up to Nathan and put a proprietary hand on shoulder, but Peter's been antsy all night. He's been watching Nathan adjust his tie and straighten his cufflinks and charm every employee of the clinic. He just looks so Nathan.
Nathan wears a suit like he was born in it, and everyone has their limits, their weaknesses. So, it's really Nathan's own fault.
"You know you love me." Peter's words end on a whine, because he does know it. Nathan hasn't said it yet in this life, but Peter knows it.
It was the last thing Nathan told him before the last time they died.
Peter knows that if this were anything less than the greatest love ever, Nathan never would've started over again with Peter. There would be no apartment in Vancouver, no working for legal aid or no nighttime fights and flights that end with dirty, filthy, hard sex and a broken kitchen table. If Nathan didn't love Peter he wouldn't submit to wearing off-the-rack suits to the parties of Peter's co-workers, and when people address their invitations to Nathan and Peter Petrelli, Nathan wouldn't let them assume that the shared last name is because they're married.
Here they can be married. This is why Peter chose Vancouver. Here Peter can have Nathan leaving bite marks on the side of his neck, and Nathan yanking his hips back, impaling Peter on Nathan's cock without so much as a "ready?"
Nathan knows when Peter's ready; when Peter needs time and when Peter's can't wait. Peter couldn't wait for this. He couldn't trust this to anyone else. The scrape of starched cotton, the smell of sandalwood soap and dry cleaning chemicals, the cold brush of cufflinks against his skin—he’s lived for this for longer than he can remember.
In New York there are other things, responsibilities: wives, mothers, illegitimate children, random explosions in the sky and elections that have presumably gone to other people. They don't talk about those things, at least not yet, it's been months, though, and yet is coming. Peter doesn’t delude himself, as much as it appears that way on the surface. Their time is running out, but that's a different life in a different country. That's a different clock.
This is Vancouver; this is Mr. and Mr. Petrelli's time, and when Nathan laces his fingers with Peter's and fucks him against the wall like there's no tomorrow, Peter knows he means it.
Later, as Peter pulls up his pants and lets Nathan straighten his tie, he smirks. "What are you so happy about, Mr. Petrelli?" Nathan pulls Peter's tie just a little too tight.
"Life, Mr. Petrelli," Peter says cryptically. "Life."
"Oh, really?" Nathan rolls his eyes.
"I like this one," Peter says, leaning in and stealing kiss. "It's better than the last."
-end-
On Sunday I called this the 600 word story that just needed some context. 5000 words later, "Look! CONTEXT!"
1. Title taken from the song 'Dirty Laundry' by Don Henley. The gorgeous art was made by
sameoldhope. Be in awe.2. The conversation about the summary can be found here, because Peter really is a manipulative little shit. Thanks,
technosage3. Betas by
ethrosdemon and antheia; remaining SNAFUs are all mine.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 05:20 pm (UTC)Neville would be so good for Peter. You don't even know. He could totally be visiting Seamus and Dean in Ireland. *pauses* That's -- that's not even funny is it? That's a real bunny! Shoot it! Quick! Before it grows!
no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 06:27 pm (UTC)I'm sorry, was someone having a thought? Have you written any Torchwood? I would like to read some methinks.
no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 06:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 06:54 pm (UTC)(am not happy today).
no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 08:25 pm (UTC)I did get this e-mail today which kind of cheered me up a bit, maybe it will work for you:
no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 10:08 pm (UTC)It's what happens when I discover that you can assign people tasks on Microsoft Outlook. The person who I assigned the task was claiming that he had completed his task, but I rejected his claim because he has been getting better at being evil, but still is plagued by a guilt and a desire for other's approval.
When I'm bored, I try to turn my co-workers into Jim Profit:
Me: Would Jim Profit feel bad about sending that e-mail?
Him: Nooooo
Me: Who do you want to be when you grow-up?
Him: Profit...
Me: Then quit whining and do better!
no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 10:12 pm (UTC)fuck Adrian Pasdarsleep with Profit too!no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-25 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-26 02:06 pm (UTC)"Can you..."
"No!"
"But you don't..."
"No!"
"How do you..."
"No!... ... wait where are you going? Come back and entertain me!"