Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Defining Devotion	By : Prentice Category: G through L > Heroes Views: 1466 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter 1

"There is no law of progress. Our future is in our own hands, to make or to mar. It will be an uphill fight to the end, and would we have it otherwise?" – Quote Section 1, William Ralph Inge

Quinn stares out at the glittering lights of the shipping dock below with something akin to disgust in his eyes. His face, made up of unremarkably sharp angles, is, however, completely blank. He's been in this business for far too long to advertise his emotions for all to see, especially with what he's about to do.

The shipping crate, he thinks, crouching low on the crest of the hill just above the docks. Rain slides down the back of his neck as he moves, cold and biting, but easily ignored after years of training and experience. Nine-one-oh-nine, third row back.

He's memorized the information that Antoine Girard – the Frenchman, he thinks with distaste – fed him only hours ago. Neuf-un-zero-neuf. The man was careful to pronounce each number, very careful, as though Quinn was a fucking moron.

Goddamn frog, he thinks, almost absently, reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his heavy jacket, the small pair of binoculars he keeps there sliding into his hand. He poises them in front of his face, staring out at the large metal shipping crates. They're exactly where they're suppose to be, their multi-colored surfaces moist and glistening from the rainfall that had stared an hour ago.

The main entrance to the shipping yards would be chain linked and padlocked more than likely. Something easily dealt with the proper supplies, Quinn knows. The dock yard security guard, however, is another story. Absolument aucunes décès

Absolutely no deaths, the Frenchman had said. No deaths. A completely foreign concept for Quinn but one that he'll stick to for the moment or, well, for at least as long as it suites him out here in the cold rain.

Sliding the binoculars back into his pocket, Quinn pushes himself to his knees, ignoring the sopping mud on his clothes, and wipes a hand over his wet features. It's a futile gesture but one that doesn't matter. He'll be warm and dry soon enough, after he's finished with what he was sent here to do. Rapportez-le, indemne, pour que je voie.

Bring him back, unharmed, for me to see.

Nathan Petrelli wakes to the sickening taste of stale vomit in the back of his throat, the slimy film of sleep covering his tongue, and eyelids gritty from either too much or too little sleep, he can't be sure. His body is hunched around the toilet, somehow managing to wedge itself in the small space between the bathtub's wall and the porcelain veneer of the commode, with one arm twisted painfully behind his back. His feet and legs are slightly numb, heavy with lack of circulation, twitching in awkward painful movements. Nausea churns in his belly, the pungent bittersweet smell of sickness and toilet water invading his nostrils.

The textured glass of a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels lies heavily against his bare thigh, resting in the crook of twisted limbs. He can't remember how he managed to get here or even at what point in the night – or was it day? – that he had started to drink, drink, and drink some more. He just remembers the half-dreamed feel of his insides trying to crawl out through his throat in one giant heave. Before and after that is a blank.

I need to eat, he thinks; pulling his arm from around his back, the sharp knife pains of protesting muscles making him wince. His stomach gurgles dangerously at the thought of choking something down but he knows he has no choice. When was the last time he'd eaten something anyway? He could vaguely recall crackers, salty crackers – or were they the cheese kind? – at some point in time but can't remember what meal or day that had been. Definitely need to eat something.

Gritting his teeth against the urge to gag, acid burning at the back of his throat, the thirty-four year old scrubbed a hand over his face, the other balancing against the toilet and pushing, forcing himself into a more upright and comfortable position. Muscles screamed in protest at the movement, the hours of being twisted and abused making themselves known. The bottle of Jack on his thigh clinks to the floor, the sound obscenely loud in the silence, and Nathan shoves it away irritably.

The gummy feel of his lips, sticky from congealed drool, is appalling. Or would be if he gave a notion to noticing, which he doesn't. Instead, he scrubs a hand over his face, the aching indentions of the toilet impression on the side of his jaw smooth under the scruff of his beard.

The smell of his own sweat makes him cringe and think of a hot shower but he knows he hasn't the energy. He doesn't even have the willpower to stand yet, tingling legs aside, so he pushes the idea away. Maybe he'd get around to it later.

Or maybe not, he thinks abruptly, the roiling in his stomach worsening. He can feel his body trembling, the shaky swallows of breath puffing out of his mouth. He doesn't want to be sick, his throat is raw and oddly dry, and the idea of sticking his face into the bowl is tantamount to the act of throwing up itself but mostly, he's just tired of doing this.

This being what is happening now: waking up to hugging the toilet, the smell of vomit and liquor in the air and on his clothes and skin. Sometimes he doesn't even wake up near the toilet. Just sprawled on the ground, a pool of vomit on the floor or, worse, on his clothes, and wondering what the world would think if they saw him now. The great Nathan Petrelli, ex-foremost runner to be the next President Elect, sitting in crusty boxer shorts that belonged to his brother with vomit on his breath.

How the mighty have fallen, he muses sardonically, pressing a shaky hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat. The heavy smack of his Rolex against his forehead seems to pound right into his temples, the lumberjacks of pain chiseling away at him. It's enough to distract him from his rebelling gut and bring a startling pinpoint of clarity to his mind.

Lowering his hand, he stares at his wrist, at his watch, the queasy swirls of nausea making his lips thin to a quivering line. The watch had been a gift from Peter two years ago, it's clunky and surprisingly weighty bulk packaged with tender care inside its box, the black and steel glinting when he opened it. He can still remember his little brother's face when he'd given it to him.

I saw it, Peter had murmured, lifting the watch from the box in Nathan's hand, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at it. I saw it and thought of you, Nathan. His eyes had lifted and searched Nathan's own, something tender and changeable and completely out of Nathan's grasp shinning in them. It's just like you.

Lifting his hand in a gentle grasp, his little brother had slid the Rolex onto his wrist, fingertips ghosting over the edges of the watch, brushing the sensitive flesh of his wrist. Peter had clasped it, brushing his thumbs down the steel bands on each side when he was done, staring up at him in a way that even now makes Nathan's breath catch. Peter had looked at him like he was everything to him.

'Thanks, Pete,' he remembers whispering and he whispers it again despite his nausea and the stink of the toilet. "Thanks, Pete." I miss you.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Defining Devotion