Peter wobbled on chubby, unsteady legs, gripping the coffee table with one hand. Two feet away, cross-legged and still in his uniform from the trip home, Nathan gestured and called, "Come on, Pete, three steps, you can do it."
"He's not ready yet, Nathan." Ma said.
Nathan ignored her.
"Come on, Peter."
Peter wobbled again, let go of the coffee table... and promptly plopped down on his diapered butt. Nathan just laughed.
Peter grinned at the sound, showing off his new teeth, and then, unexpectedly, said, "Na-tan!"
As far as Nathan was concerned, that was better than walking any day.
The top headline in the local section of the Las Vegas Sun read, "Linderman Cleared in Vogel Homicide."
Nathan sat in the Cantine, staring at the headline.
"Hey, man," Thomas said, looking up from playing cards with John, "Why do you get the Vegas newspaper anyway?"
"Uh. All the news you could want?" Nathan said, knowing that answer wouldn't fly.
"Shyeah, right," John said.
Nathan smirked. "Okay, you got me." He flipped the page and held the paper up.
"Hooker ads," was all he said.
The Las Vegas Sun suddenly became the most popular news source in the NYMA barracks.
"We had goldfish for snack, not real fishes, they're shaped like fishes, 'n they're yellow not gold, 'cause gold is shiny. Then I climbed up to the top of the climberthingy and then I couldn't get down so Miz Amber had to help me--"
Nathan tried to decipher the onslaught of toddler-babble, until suddenly, Peter was on his lap, kneeling with his knees digging painfully into Nathan's thighs and saying, "Can we go to the park, Nathan? I want to go on the swings and you push me higher than Annie will, and then maybe we could have ice cream."
Peter was sick. Ma was pissed about it, though obviously, she didn't say that to Peter. It was an important enough night that Nathan had come down from school for the weekend just to join in the schmoozing. Instead, though, he'd taken off his uniform jacket and sat down on Peter's toddler bed with the teary, snotty little guy curled up in his lap, sucking the thumb of one hand and gripping the stuffed eagle Nathan had bought for him in the other.
Nathan kissed his hot, germy head and hugged him closer as the guests chattered downstairs.
Two weeks after he arrived at the Naval Academy, Nathan got an envelope addressed in his own hand. He smiled as he opened it and pulled out a crayon drawing of two stick figures surrounded by grass and sunshine.
"Damn, Petrelli," Johnson said, "You got a kid?"
"Oh, no," Nathan said. "My little brother. He's five."
He'd given Peter a stack of addressed, stamped envelopes right before he'd left for Annapolis. Listen, Peter. You ever need anything, you write to me, ok? Peter couldn't really write yet, but once he could, Nathan wanted the option to be there for him.
Nathan'd stayed in Annapolis for summer classes, so he hadn't been home in nearly a year. In that time, it seemed his brother had been replaced by a demon.
Rubbing a bruise from a flailing foot, Nathan followed Peter up the stairs. He found him flopped across his Power Rangers comforter.
"I thought you liked me," Nathan said.
"You're mean and I hate you," Peter said without moving. "Go away. You will anyway."
Nathan sat down. "Aw, Peter. I'm sorry. I won't stay away that long again. I promise." He sounded like their father.
"You're lying," was all Peter said.