Oneshot: Black and White
Title: A New Year
Characters/Pairings: Angela/Charles, Arthur
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~2400
Spoilers: Up to "1961."
Summary: Takes place in the mid-1960s. Pre-series, exploring the pasts of the first generation.
A/N: I haven't watched "1961" since it aired, so some details might be wrong.
Angela is twenty-one now, not the wide-eyed girl who had gone to Coyote Sands, suitcase in hand. Too much had changed since then. Now she is a woman, cool and confident, studying herself in a floor-length mirror. Her skin is so much thicker now.
It was her aunt who picked her outfit for the party: the white wool cardigan, silk blouse, floral skirt, all carefully chosen to make Angela more ladylike than she really is. Her aunt is full of fidgety excitement, smoothing Angela's thick black hair with a comb. She was the one who had adopted Angela after "that business in the desert,” as she referred to it. Angela had spoken to no one about Coyote Sands, or about Alice. Not even the other survivors would talk in detail about the disaster and the families they lost, the bodies they buried in the sand.
Her aunt straightens the collar of her cardigan. "Angela, Mr. Petrelli was an old friend of your father's, and he was thoughtful enough to invite you to his Christmas party. Quite a selective crowd - not to mention that his son Arthur likes you an awful lot."
"I know that." Angela turns away from the mirror, blushing slightly. "But I would feel strange talking to him, considering the guest I’m bringing tonight."
"You're bringing that boy from Coyote Sands?"
"Charles isn't from Coyote Sands. He lives right here in New York."
"I know, Angela, it's just that Charles isn't - isn't… " She stops. There’s no way to finish that sentence correctly.
"I know Charles isn't, Auntie, and if New York’s upper crust has a problem with that, I couldn‘t care less. Charles has been my friend for years, which is more than I can say about the Petrellis."
Her aunt smiles tentatively, touching Angela gently on cheek. "You get that mouth from me, sweetie."
The doorbell rings, and Angela races to the door. Charles is waiting on the doorstep with the car, smiling brightly. He kisses Angela carefully on the cheek while her aunt watches from a distance.
"We'll probably be back by midnight," says Angela absently to her aunt, pulling on her wool coat, “but I’m not making any promises.” Her aunt smiles wryly in response, but Angela is not her daughter and is too old for a curfew, anyhow. To Charles, Angela whispers, let's go.
His car is a rust-eaten piece crap and the heater doesn't work. Angela folds her arms and shivers. "I don't understand why you don't get a new car. You've got enough saved."
"Money's tight. I'm trying to get into real estate. Stocks, maybe. Requires a lot of capital either way." He shrugs. "But I'm going to make it big one day, and when I do, we'll live in some lush penthouse. Central Park West. I've already picked the building, and it's gonna have my name on it."
Angela reaches for his hand. His fingers are warm, and they feel good wrapped around hers. "I know you will," she says vaguely. "I've always known."
"Because you dreamed it?"
"Because I love you."
They're quiet the rest of the way to the Petrelli house, content just to be near each other in the bitterly cold night. Charles parks his clunker around the block - to save face, if anything - and they walk together up the street, hand-in-hand. The Petrelli house is old, but also spacious and beautiful, decorated with lights and wreaths and a fresh coat of snow.
"I don't think I'm gonna fit in at this party," he says under his breath, opening the door.
"Don't worry. Neither will I." She holds onto his arm tightly.
The warm blast of air inside is a welcome surprise. The house's foyer is empty, but distant voices can be heard wafting from the living room. Charles takes both their jackets. He’s busy hanging them in the closet when Angela hears approaching footsteps - a woman's, from the sound of heels.
"Angela Shaw. Such a wonderful surprise." Mrs. Petrelli greets her with a bony half-hug; Angela forces a smile. "Arthur will be so happy to see you. And...who is this young man? I don't believe we've met."
"This is Charles Deveaux. He's an old friend of mine," says Angela, introducing them quietly. They shake hands; she lets go quickly, still smiling defensively.
He opens his mouth to say something when she interrupts: "Yes. Oh, of course. Well, the party's in the living room, and Madelein's serving refreshments in the kitchen. You should introduce yourself around, Angela, it's marvelous seeing you again."
Listening to her footsteps recede, Charles laughs. "I think that went well."
"I need a drink."
He pats the small of her back. "I'll look for something in the kitchen."
Angela wanders through the throng of guests alone, wishing Charles would hurry. There are a few familiar faces - a few people tell her how much she's grown, how beautiful she's gotten over the years - but it's mostly a crowd of strangers, and she‘s not one to rub shoulders with the rich and powerful. She finds a quiet spot by the Christmas tree, real pine, brightly lit and lusciously decorated. She is examining a glass ornament with a careful hand when someone taps her shoulder.
She turns around, expecting Charles - but it's Arthur Petrelli, his dark hair slicked back. Stunningly handsome as always. "Mistletoe," he says with a grin, pointing a single finger towards the ceiling.
"There's no mistletoe up there," Angela says, without so much as an upward glance.
"I was speaking metaphorically," Arthur says with a smile. "A guy can hope, can't he?"
They stare at each other awkwardly for a moment; Arthur's gaze is so steady, so direct and somehow needy, that Angela cannot bring herself to look him in the eye. He moves forward, almost imperceptibly, to kiss her, when she laughs loudly and backs away. He laughs too, clearly embarrassed.
He scratches the back of his neck, blushing just enough to be noticeable. "I was just wondering if you had given anymore thought to my - my proposition."
"I can't say that I have."
"Angela - " He takes both of her hands very gently in his, but it's an unwelcome gesture. His fingers are always so cold, seemed to draw warmth from her very skin; her wrists squirm at the touch. "I think we could really be good for each other. You've known me for years. And we've always been so alike - similar goals, similar minds -"
"Please let go of me." He does.
"I can take care of you,” Arthur says. And then - “I love you.”
The words are empty, and she has no reply. She sighs in relief when Charles emerges from the crowd, carrying two glasses of champagne. He seems confused, handing Angela her glass. "Is something wrong?"
"Who the hell are you?" says Arthur sharply.
Charles laughs uncomfortably. "I'm Charles Deveaux. Angela's friend?"
"Oh. The guy from the desert. I remember now." Arthur is still frowning. "And are you supposed to be her date, or her valet?"
"Is there a problem?" Charles asks.
"We're friends," she insists. It's a dead lie, and she hates telling it, but Charles is used to this by now. "We're just old friends, Arthur."
"And what about me? I'm just a 'friend' too, am I?" Arthur puts a heavy hand on her shoulder, which Charles roughly pushes away, spilling some of his drink. Charles reaches reassuringly for her hand, their fingers intertwined. He looks to Arthur, calmer now, and says, "Look, get it together. People are staring."
"It's not me they're staring at." Arthur's words stung, but they know it's true. She watches as Arthur turns and walks away, whispers surrounding them.
Charles squeezes her hand, whispers, "We should get out of here."
Angela can feel the eyes of the crowd all over her, but for some reason, it only makes her want to laugh. Charles wants to leave their drinks in the kitchen, but Angela drags him in the other direction.
"What are you doing?" he whispers. "We can't just waltz out of here with their crystal - "
She shushes him and grins wolfishly, finishing her drink in three swallows and setting the glass down on the marble floor. She opens the door of Mr. Petrelli's study.
"Come on," she whispers, leading him inside without turning on the lights. Charles hesitates, finishing his drink before joining her.
"Angela, what are you doing in here?"
He closes the door and turns on the lights, only to have Angela flick them off again defiantly before flitting away. In the pitch darkness, he blindly feels his way through the large room, fingertips exploring the wood panel walls, smooth cedar desk, and various sofas and armchairs.
She laughs. "Coming to this party was such a bad idea. God."
“Can't argue with you there.” He stumbles blindly in the dark. “Where are you? Someone could walk in any second."
"Then I guess you'd better find me before I do something stupid." He listens to her disembodied laughing, moving away to his right, and gropes after her in the darkness. She says, almost to herself, "Did you see how they were looking at us? And we were just holding hands. Imagine what they would do if they saw us making love in here. Me, bent over Mr. Petrelli‘s desk, and you - "
"Come on, stop screwing around, we don't live here, I'm not going to - "
He thigh collides with the sharp corner of Mr. Petrelli's desk. Hearing his sharp gasp of pain, Angela finds him in the dark. Her soft hands feel worried.
"I'm alright," he insists. Their game of tag is over. Charles reaches for the soft skin of her face. Holding her head in his hands, his thumbs ghost over her eyes; they trace the slope of her nose, the wetness of her smiling lips, the sharpness of her chin. The darkness makes everything so alien - so new and blind and muted - that every piece of each other they find suddenly feels like a new discovery.
They kiss - missing at first, before sliding together in the dark. Their lips move together slowly, deliberately, now that there is no one but the darkness to judge them - and when they part to catch their breath, Angela says, "Arthur wants to marry me. He proposed last week. I couldn't find a way to tell you."
Charles is taken back for a moment, but then he remembers that Angela can't see his expression, so he leans forward in the dark until their foreheads touch.
Angela is impatient. "Say something."
"I don't know what to say."
"Doesn't this matter to you?"
"It matters more than anything." He tries to kiss her cheek, but in the darkness his lips land on her ear.
"I want to just tell him no, but he'd never forgive me. And Arthur's done so much for me, for my aunt, he’s paid our bills, I can't just - "
"I understand."
"What?”
“I know this is hard.”
“You want me to go?"
"No, never." He reaches for her hand, groping around in the air for a moment before they touch, putting his other hand at her waist. They rock side to side, moving to the music playing in their minds, remembering that diner in the desert. Two kids at a make-believe prom. She rests her head on his chest, feels his breath rise and fall.
Charles closes his eyes. "I don't want to see you with him. I want you here. With me," he says slowly. "But I want you to have all this, too. The house, the money, the nice things. I want you to be able to walk down the street someday, kissing your husband, holding your kids, and not have to be looked at like we were tonight ever again."
“Things are changing now. It won‘t be so bad,“ Angela says. His hands find their way under her cardigan, under her silk shirt. She's a little ticklish, and her belly quivers in the dark. "And Central Park West isn't such a bad neighborhood."
"Promises, Angela. Pipe dreams," Charles whispers. "Right now, I don't even know if I'm gonna make next week's rent. And everyone else...they'll see us as too different and maybe eventually we will, too. You know?"
"We're not that different," Angela says sternly. In the dark, he can't see her cry.
His hands feel their way to the zipper of her skirt, letting it fall around her ankles. His fingers creep under the waist of her beige pantyhose, and with the lightest pressure, starts peeling them off her legs.
Her heart is pounding so hard, she's light-headed. The danger pulses through her like electricity, knowing that only an unlocked door separated them from a lifetime of embarrassment - still, his fingers on her are so distracting. So distracting that neither of them here the approaching footsteps, the turning of a doorknob, and flicking of a light switch -
It’s hard to say exactly how much Mrs. Petrelli saw. But she had taken a full step backwards, jaw agape. Angela slips her underwear back on discreetly as Charles catches Mrs. Petrelli’s arm.
“Please,” he says soothingly. “You don’t want to tell anyone about this. It’s not a big deal, right? You’re not going to tell anyone. Especially not Arthur.”
Mrs. Petrelli’s eyes grow glassy and numb. She stares from Charles to Angela and back, not saying a word.
“It'd be best to just let this go. No need to make a scene, right? For everyone's sake,” Charles says calmly, his voice washing over her in slow waves. “In fact, if I were you, I wouldn’t remember this at all.”
Mrs. Petrelli blinks once, twice, and nods. She picks up their champagne glasses and leaves without saying a word.
They are silent for a moment, and then Angela bursts out laughing. "Did you see her face? God, it's so freaky when you do that."
"You're not going scold me for abusing my powers?"
Angela grins and pulls on her overcoat. "This was an emergency."
"Of course it was."
"Thanks for saving my ass."
"Always."
They walk out, arm in arm, holding onto each other for as long as they can.
Characters/Pairings: Angela/Charles, Arthur
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~2400
Spoilers: Up to "1961."
Summary: Takes place in the mid-1960s. Pre-series, exploring the pasts of the first generation.
A/N: I haven't watched "1961" since it aired, so some details might be wrong.
Angela is twenty-one now, not the wide-eyed girl who had gone to Coyote Sands, suitcase in hand. Too much had changed since then. Now she is a woman, cool and confident, studying herself in a floor-length mirror. Her skin is so much thicker now.
It was her aunt who picked her outfit for the party: the white wool cardigan, silk blouse, floral skirt, all carefully chosen to make Angela more ladylike than she really is. Her aunt is full of fidgety excitement, smoothing Angela's thick black hair with a comb. She was the one who had adopted Angela after "that business in the desert,” as she referred to it. Angela had spoken to no one about Coyote Sands, or about Alice. Not even the other survivors would talk in detail about the disaster and the families they lost, the bodies they buried in the sand.
Her aunt straightens the collar of her cardigan. "Angela, Mr. Petrelli was an old friend of your father's, and he was thoughtful enough to invite you to his Christmas party. Quite a selective crowd - not to mention that his son Arthur likes you an awful lot."
"I know that." Angela turns away from the mirror, blushing slightly. "But I would feel strange talking to him, considering the guest I’m bringing tonight."
"You're bringing that boy from Coyote Sands?"
"Charles isn't from Coyote Sands. He lives right here in New York."
"I know, Angela, it's just that Charles isn't - isn't… " She stops. There’s no way to finish that sentence correctly.
"I know Charles isn't, Auntie, and if New York’s upper crust has a problem with that, I couldn‘t care less. Charles has been my friend for years, which is more than I can say about the Petrellis."
Her aunt smiles tentatively, touching Angela gently on cheek. "You get that mouth from me, sweetie."
The doorbell rings, and Angela races to the door. Charles is waiting on the doorstep with the car, smiling brightly. He kisses Angela carefully on the cheek while her aunt watches from a distance.
"We'll probably be back by midnight," says Angela absently to her aunt, pulling on her wool coat, “but I’m not making any promises.” Her aunt smiles wryly in response, but Angela is not her daughter and is too old for a curfew, anyhow. To Charles, Angela whispers, let's go.
His car is a rust-eaten piece crap and the heater doesn't work. Angela folds her arms and shivers. "I don't understand why you don't get a new car. You've got enough saved."
"Money's tight. I'm trying to get into real estate. Stocks, maybe. Requires a lot of capital either way." He shrugs. "But I'm going to make it big one day, and when I do, we'll live in some lush penthouse. Central Park West. I've already picked the building, and it's gonna have my name on it."
Angela reaches for his hand. His fingers are warm, and they feel good wrapped around hers. "I know you will," she says vaguely. "I've always known."
"Because you dreamed it?"
"Because I love you."
They're quiet the rest of the way to the Petrelli house, content just to be near each other in the bitterly cold night. Charles parks his clunker around the block - to save face, if anything - and they walk together up the street, hand-in-hand. The Petrelli house is old, but also spacious and beautiful, decorated with lights and wreaths and a fresh coat of snow.
"I don't think I'm gonna fit in at this party," he says under his breath, opening the door.
"Don't worry. Neither will I." She holds onto his arm tightly.
The warm blast of air inside is a welcome surprise. The house's foyer is empty, but distant voices can be heard wafting from the living room. Charles takes both their jackets. He’s busy hanging them in the closet when Angela hears approaching footsteps - a woman's, from the sound of heels.
"Angela Shaw. Such a wonderful surprise." Mrs. Petrelli greets her with a bony half-hug; Angela forces a smile. "Arthur will be so happy to see you. And...who is this young man? I don't believe we've met."
"This is Charles Deveaux. He's an old friend of mine," says Angela, introducing them quietly. They shake hands; she lets go quickly, still smiling defensively.
He opens his mouth to say something when she interrupts: "Yes. Oh, of course. Well, the party's in the living room, and Madelein's serving refreshments in the kitchen. You should introduce yourself around, Angela, it's marvelous seeing you again."
Listening to her footsteps recede, Charles laughs. "I think that went well."
"I need a drink."
He pats the small of her back. "I'll look for something in the kitchen."
Angela wanders through the throng of guests alone, wishing Charles would hurry. There are a few familiar faces - a few people tell her how much she's grown, how beautiful she's gotten over the years - but it's mostly a crowd of strangers, and she‘s not one to rub shoulders with the rich and powerful. She finds a quiet spot by the Christmas tree, real pine, brightly lit and lusciously decorated. She is examining a glass ornament with a careful hand when someone taps her shoulder.
She turns around, expecting Charles - but it's Arthur Petrelli, his dark hair slicked back. Stunningly handsome as always. "Mistletoe," he says with a grin, pointing a single finger towards the ceiling.
"There's no mistletoe up there," Angela says, without so much as an upward glance.
"I was speaking metaphorically," Arthur says with a smile. "A guy can hope, can't he?"
They stare at each other awkwardly for a moment; Arthur's gaze is so steady, so direct and somehow needy, that Angela cannot bring herself to look him in the eye. He moves forward, almost imperceptibly, to kiss her, when she laughs loudly and backs away. He laughs too, clearly embarrassed.
He scratches the back of his neck, blushing just enough to be noticeable. "I was just wondering if you had given anymore thought to my - my proposition."
"I can't say that I have."
"Angela - " He takes both of her hands very gently in his, but it's an unwelcome gesture. His fingers are always so cold, seemed to draw warmth from her very skin; her wrists squirm at the touch. "I think we could really be good for each other. You've known me for years. And we've always been so alike - similar goals, similar minds -"
"Please let go of me." He does.
"I can take care of you,” Arthur says. And then - “I love you.”
The words are empty, and she has no reply. She sighs in relief when Charles emerges from the crowd, carrying two glasses of champagne. He seems confused, handing Angela her glass. "Is something wrong?"
"Who the hell are you?" says Arthur sharply.
Charles laughs uncomfortably. "I'm Charles Deveaux. Angela's friend?"
"Oh. The guy from the desert. I remember now." Arthur is still frowning. "And are you supposed to be her date, or her valet?"
"Is there a problem?" Charles asks.
"We're friends," she insists. It's a dead lie, and she hates telling it, but Charles is used to this by now. "We're just old friends, Arthur."
"And what about me? I'm just a 'friend' too, am I?" Arthur puts a heavy hand on her shoulder, which Charles roughly pushes away, spilling some of his drink. Charles reaches reassuringly for her hand, their fingers intertwined. He looks to Arthur, calmer now, and says, "Look, get it together. People are staring."
"It's not me they're staring at." Arthur's words stung, but they know it's true. She watches as Arthur turns and walks away, whispers surrounding them.
Charles squeezes her hand, whispers, "We should get out of here."
Angela can feel the eyes of the crowd all over her, but for some reason, it only makes her want to laugh. Charles wants to leave their drinks in the kitchen, but Angela drags him in the other direction.
"What are you doing?" he whispers. "We can't just waltz out of here with their crystal - "
She shushes him and grins wolfishly, finishing her drink in three swallows and setting the glass down on the marble floor. She opens the door of Mr. Petrelli's study.
"Come on," she whispers, leading him inside without turning on the lights. Charles hesitates, finishing his drink before joining her.
"Angela, what are you doing in here?"
He closes the door and turns on the lights, only to have Angela flick them off again defiantly before flitting away. In the pitch darkness, he blindly feels his way through the large room, fingertips exploring the wood panel walls, smooth cedar desk, and various sofas and armchairs.
She laughs. "Coming to this party was such a bad idea. God."
“Can't argue with you there.” He stumbles blindly in the dark. “Where are you? Someone could walk in any second."
"Then I guess you'd better find me before I do something stupid." He listens to her disembodied laughing, moving away to his right, and gropes after her in the darkness. She says, almost to herself, "Did you see how they were looking at us? And we were just holding hands. Imagine what they would do if they saw us making love in here. Me, bent over Mr. Petrelli‘s desk, and you - "
"Come on, stop screwing around, we don't live here, I'm not going to - "
He thigh collides with the sharp corner of Mr. Petrelli's desk. Hearing his sharp gasp of pain, Angela finds him in the dark. Her soft hands feel worried.
"I'm alright," he insists. Their game of tag is over. Charles reaches for the soft skin of her face. Holding her head in his hands, his thumbs ghost over her eyes; they trace the slope of her nose, the wetness of her smiling lips, the sharpness of her chin. The darkness makes everything so alien - so new and blind and muted - that every piece of each other they find suddenly feels like a new discovery.
They kiss - missing at first, before sliding together in the dark. Their lips move together slowly, deliberately, now that there is no one but the darkness to judge them - and when they part to catch their breath, Angela says, "Arthur wants to marry me. He proposed last week. I couldn't find a way to tell you."
Charles is taken back for a moment, but then he remembers that Angela can't see his expression, so he leans forward in the dark until their foreheads touch.
Angela is impatient. "Say something."
"I don't know what to say."
"Doesn't this matter to you?"
"It matters more than anything." He tries to kiss her cheek, but in the darkness his lips land on her ear.
"I want to just tell him no, but he'd never forgive me. And Arthur's done so much for me, for my aunt, he’s paid our bills, I can't just - "
"I understand."
"What?”
“I know this is hard.”
“You want me to go?"
"No, never." He reaches for her hand, groping around in the air for a moment before they touch, putting his other hand at her waist. They rock side to side, moving to the music playing in their minds, remembering that diner in the desert. Two kids at a make-believe prom. She rests her head on his chest, feels his breath rise and fall.
Charles closes his eyes. "I don't want to see you with him. I want you here. With me," he says slowly. "But I want you to have all this, too. The house, the money, the nice things. I want you to be able to walk down the street someday, kissing your husband, holding your kids, and not have to be looked at like we were tonight ever again."
“Things are changing now. It won‘t be so bad,“ Angela says. His hands find their way under her cardigan, under her silk shirt. She's a little ticklish, and her belly quivers in the dark. "And Central Park West isn't such a bad neighborhood."
"Promises, Angela. Pipe dreams," Charles whispers. "Right now, I don't even know if I'm gonna make next week's rent. And everyone else...they'll see us as too different and maybe eventually we will, too. You know?"
"We're not that different," Angela says sternly. In the dark, he can't see her cry.
His hands feel their way to the zipper of her skirt, letting it fall around her ankles. His fingers creep under the waist of her beige pantyhose, and with the lightest pressure, starts peeling them off her legs.
Her heart is pounding so hard, she's light-headed. The danger pulses through her like electricity, knowing that only an unlocked door separated them from a lifetime of embarrassment - still, his fingers on her are so distracting. So distracting that neither of them here the approaching footsteps, the turning of a doorknob, and flicking of a light switch -
It’s hard to say exactly how much Mrs. Petrelli saw. But she had taken a full step backwards, jaw agape. Angela slips her underwear back on discreetly as Charles catches Mrs. Petrelli’s arm.
“Please,” he says soothingly. “You don’t want to tell anyone about this. It’s not a big deal, right? You’re not going to tell anyone. Especially not Arthur.”
Mrs. Petrelli’s eyes grow glassy and numb. She stares from Charles to Angela and back, not saying a word.
“It'd be best to just let this go. No need to make a scene, right? For everyone's sake,” Charles says calmly, his voice washing over her in slow waves. “In fact, if I were you, I wouldn’t remember this at all.”
Mrs. Petrelli blinks once, twice, and nods. She picks up their champagne glasses and leaves without saying a word.
They are silent for a moment, and then Angela bursts out laughing. "Did you see her face? God, it's so freaky when you do that."
"You're not going scold me for abusing my powers?"
Angela grins and pulls on her overcoat. "This was an emergency."
"Of course it was."
"Thanks for saving my ass."
"Always."
They walk out, arm in arm, holding onto each other for as long as they can.