Ignoble (Heroes; 1/1; PG; Nathan POV)
Title: Ignoble
Rating: PG
Characters: Nathan, Angela
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine -- though I wish they were!!
Summary: ignoble: not noble. 2.1 Tag from Nathan’s point of view.
Warnings: Spoilers through 2.1 -- "Four Months Later"
Heroes are only human. Their noble deeds inspire, as they should. Their ignoble deeds make clear that even the greatest human is no god.
-- Don Wyclif
It didn’t surprise him to see her there, covered in furs and standing awkwardly in the middle of the unkempt apartment in SoHo he now called home. She’d called him infrequently since he came back though he’d never bothered to let her know he was in New York again. Not that it mattered; she always had a six sense about these things.
Her messages were all the same - a collection of failings he’d collected, ways that he did not measure up to the man they’d groomed him to be - a congressman, a leader, a hero. Concern over Heidi’s departure and the children he’d shunned veiled under contempt for Peter’s disappearance and his macabre thoughts in the wake of that day.
Stumbling through the doorway, clutching a packet of papers to his chest, the manila corner of the envelope brushing against his beard, a reminder of where he’d gone and the man he’d become. Another day at the bar - sliding shots of Jack and Jim Bean down his throat, the burn of liquor on his dry throat a comforting reminder of the feel of Peter’s arms on his as he drank away the time after.
He played the role for a while; posed for pictures after being sworn in by Pelosi, his wife dutifully by his side as his world fell apart.
She’d left a week after that - walking off with the children in tow, claiming he simply wasn’t the man she married anymore. He couldn’t argue with that - he wasn’t. He could fucking fly and he’d saved a city from his exploding brother to save his estranged and indestructible daughter the pain of what firing a gun really meant.
A mass of boxes were at her feet, evidence that she was making good on her threat to bury this part of their lives - the closure she needed and he refused to let her indulge in. Peter was alive, whether she believed it or not.
“What are you doing here ma,” he asked, watching her bony fingers linger on a photo of him and Peter at his wedding, back when Peter still resented him and he was the prodigal son.
She opened her mouth, her eyes sad and worn, a bitter tinge lingering on her words as she raced into her diatribe. His mother had dealt with this in his own way - blaming him for brother’s death. A revisionist history akin to Cain and Able that he was only too willing to let her indulge in.
“You’re drunk,” she spat, eyes narrowing as the smell of alcohol wafted through the apartment, a stupid gaze painted on his face.
Got it in one; give the woman a prize - Jack was making him angry, and Jim was fueling his sarcasm. The whiskeys were different that way, alike but not identical, almost inverted - kind of like him and Peter.
“Thank god your father isn’t here to see you,” she continued, her ire contained to her delivery and the box that she was currently stuffing with Peter’s things, mementos he kept around like a security blanket, silent promises of his return.
“Or you for that matter,” he returned, his voice cutting through the disquiet of the apartment and stunning his mother into momentary silence, a verbal slap to match hers. They were two of a kind - stubborn and determined and tainted.
Peter truly was the only good thing either of them had left now - and she was going to bury him too.
“You killed your brother, drove Heidi away, drove your children away,” she spat, the accusation lost in her singular focus, her myopic view that he was the sole guilty party.
Maybe he was - god’s sick humor about taking the saint and leaving the sinner on display.
The alcohol was sinking into his brain, dulling the impact of his mother’s words as she continued her voice growing angrier by the second as her eyes watered over for a second before being forced back. They both needed someone to blame, and he was the obvious choice.
She continued her ranting, but the quiet comfort of alcohol and apathy drowned her out and he stared at her blankly, silently accepting her vocalization of what they both knew.
He was the failure here.
“If you’d followed our plan, done what you were supposed to do, he’d be alive now!” His mother finished her tirade, her voice waffling a bit at the end - Peter was always her favorite; he was the contingency plan.
Thoughts were running through his mind, a million different words for the same thing - his mother was wrong for the first time in his life.
Maybe he wasn’t the same after all - or maybe it was the alcohol talking, whispering sweet nothings into his ear like Jessica or Niki - whatever her name was - had that night in Vegas - meaningless affirmations that he, Nathan Petrelli, was good and noble.
“To think I almost listened to you,” he returned, his delivery icy and imbued with outright loathing, a revelation shining through the haze. He fucking saved the world when his mother wanted it to burn all so Peter would be with them, all the while knowing he was the reason for the bomb.
Peter was too soft for that shit. Too coddled by his mother, never receiving the same bullshit soliloquies about duty and honor from their father and the repetitive orders to be a man.
Peter might be alive if he’d blown up - but he wouldn’t be living. A fate that his mother was willing to live with to comfort her own heart.
“You’re evil, ma,” he muttered, staring down his mother with an indignation he wasn’t sure he truly felt. The guilt had been eating at him for far too long to truly blame anyone else.
She didn’t even say anything. Her head was still high and emotionless, a slight hint of annoyance gracing her face.
She didn’t believe he believed it.
And he probably didn’t.
But he didn’t really want to see her, either.
“Get out,” he ordered, and she simply glared at him, turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.
It took him a moment to recover, the loud crack of the door reverberated around the apartment, finally breaking him out of the cold comfort of his intoxication. She’d long gone by now, his only memory of her visit the shattered glass of the picture frame displayed on the table - a visual reminder of how broken everything had become.
His daughter, his brother, his wife, his sons - and now his mother.
For the first time in his life, he really was alone.
Rating: PG
Characters: Nathan, Angela
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine -- though I wish they were!!
Summary: ignoble: not noble. 2.1 Tag from Nathan’s point of view.
Warnings: Spoilers through 2.1 -- "Four Months Later"
Heroes are only human. Their noble deeds inspire, as they should. Their ignoble deeds make clear that even the greatest human is no god.
-- Don Wyclif
It didn’t surprise him to see her there, covered in furs and standing awkwardly in the middle of the unkempt apartment in SoHo he now called home. She’d called him infrequently since he came back though he’d never bothered to let her know he was in New York again. Not that it mattered; she always had a six sense about these things.
Her messages were all the same - a collection of failings he’d collected, ways that he did not measure up to the man they’d groomed him to be - a congressman, a leader, a hero. Concern over Heidi’s departure and the children he’d shunned veiled under contempt for Peter’s disappearance and his macabre thoughts in the wake of that day.
Stumbling through the doorway, clutching a packet of papers to his chest, the manila corner of the envelope brushing against his beard, a reminder of where he’d gone and the man he’d become. Another day at the bar - sliding shots of Jack and Jim Bean down his throat, the burn of liquor on his dry throat a comforting reminder of the feel of Peter’s arms on his as he drank away the time after.
He played the role for a while; posed for pictures after being sworn in by Pelosi, his wife dutifully by his side as his world fell apart.
She’d left a week after that - walking off with the children in tow, claiming he simply wasn’t the man she married anymore. He couldn’t argue with that - he wasn’t. He could fucking fly and he’d saved a city from his exploding brother to save his estranged and indestructible daughter the pain of what firing a gun really meant.
A mass of boxes were at her feet, evidence that she was making good on her threat to bury this part of their lives - the closure she needed and he refused to let her indulge in. Peter was alive, whether she believed it or not.
“What are you doing here ma,” he asked, watching her bony fingers linger on a photo of him and Peter at his wedding, back when Peter still resented him and he was the prodigal son.
She opened her mouth, her eyes sad and worn, a bitter tinge lingering on her words as she raced into her diatribe. His mother had dealt with this in his own way - blaming him for brother’s death. A revisionist history akin to Cain and Able that he was only too willing to let her indulge in.
“You’re drunk,” she spat, eyes narrowing as the smell of alcohol wafted through the apartment, a stupid gaze painted on his face.
Got it in one; give the woman a prize - Jack was making him angry, and Jim was fueling his sarcasm. The whiskeys were different that way, alike but not identical, almost inverted - kind of like him and Peter.
“Thank god your father isn’t here to see you,” she continued, her ire contained to her delivery and the box that she was currently stuffing with Peter’s things, mementos he kept around like a security blanket, silent promises of his return.
“Or you for that matter,” he returned, his voice cutting through the disquiet of the apartment and stunning his mother into momentary silence, a verbal slap to match hers. They were two of a kind - stubborn and determined and tainted.
Peter truly was the only good thing either of them had left now - and she was going to bury him too.
“You killed your brother, drove Heidi away, drove your children away,” she spat, the accusation lost in her singular focus, her myopic view that he was the sole guilty party.
Maybe he was - god’s sick humor about taking the saint and leaving the sinner on display.
The alcohol was sinking into his brain, dulling the impact of his mother’s words as she continued her voice growing angrier by the second as her eyes watered over for a second before being forced back. They both needed someone to blame, and he was the obvious choice.
She continued her ranting, but the quiet comfort of alcohol and apathy drowned her out and he stared at her blankly, silently accepting her vocalization of what they both knew.
He was the failure here.
“If you’d followed our plan, done what you were supposed to do, he’d be alive now!” His mother finished her tirade, her voice waffling a bit at the end - Peter was always her favorite; he was the contingency plan.
Thoughts were running through his mind, a million different words for the same thing - his mother was wrong for the first time in his life.
Maybe he wasn’t the same after all - or maybe it was the alcohol talking, whispering sweet nothings into his ear like Jessica or Niki - whatever her name was - had that night in Vegas - meaningless affirmations that he, Nathan Petrelli, was good and noble.
“To think I almost listened to you,” he returned, his delivery icy and imbued with outright loathing, a revelation shining through the haze. He fucking saved the world when his mother wanted it to burn all so Peter would be with them, all the while knowing he was the reason for the bomb.
Peter was too soft for that shit. Too coddled by his mother, never receiving the same bullshit soliloquies about duty and honor from their father and the repetitive orders to be a man.
Peter might be alive if he’d blown up - but he wouldn’t be living. A fate that his mother was willing to live with to comfort her own heart.
“You’re evil, ma,” he muttered, staring down his mother with an indignation he wasn’t sure he truly felt. The guilt had been eating at him for far too long to truly blame anyone else.
She didn’t even say anything. Her head was still high and emotionless, a slight hint of annoyance gracing her face.
She didn’t believe he believed it.
And he probably didn’t.
But he didn’t really want to see her, either.
“Get out,” he ordered, and she simply glared at him, turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.
It took him a moment to recover, the loud crack of the door reverberated around the apartment, finally breaking him out of the cold comfort of his intoxication. She’d long gone by now, his only memory of her visit the shattered glass of the picture frame displayed on the table - a visual reminder of how broken everything had become.
His daughter, his brother, his wife, his sons - and now his mother.
For the first time in his life, he really was alone.