A/N: This story marks my return to fanfiction after a long period of hiding. It is also part of phase one in my evil scheme to make Fortrelli a wildly popular crackship. (Yes, that is what it is called and it's real life counterpart is called Venticola because I said so.) I plan on writing more stories about them but I'm also determined to finish this one first.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Please review. :3

"Caroline, breakfast is ready."

The voice doesn't sound like her mother. Not that her mother ever makes breakfast or wakes her up or anything. She sits up, throwing the covers off to find herself somewhere that is definitely not her room, in a place definitely not her house, with someone who is definitely not her mother standing by the door. This all happens in a second, and the truth hits her in the next.

Oh, right, she thinks bitterly. I'm in a crazy house.

Not by her own choosing, thank you very much. It was after the Founder's Day party. She still isn't quite sure what happened that night. Just that by Mrs. Lockwood's toast her mother had figured out her relationship with Damon, and by the end of the night it had all come out-including the marks on her skin that even she couldn't explain. By the next day she was in a psych's office trying to explain away all the gaps in her memory of the last few weeks. By the end of that day, she was crying. Add in two days in the mental ward at Mystic Falls Hospital, and then an ambulance ride to Highland Ridge Mental Facility. Barely within state lines and still the closest mental hospital to Mystic Falls. And there she is.

She runs a hand through her hair and drags herself out of bed-not especially difficult, since the bed is something like a thin cot propped up on some ancient, creaking mental contraption. When she looks to the door, the nurse is gone, so she grabs a sweatshirt off the floor-for some reason it is always freezing in the god-forsaken hospital-pulls it on, and goes into the hallway.

It is her first morning at Highland; she'd arrived at seven last night and immediately fallen asleep in her room. Not like she had a reason to be tired. She'd spent the last few days lying in a hospital bed, answering questions. It is a lot of change, a lot of emotional expense, but she doesn't think that is an excuse for so much exhaustion. Maybe sleeping is just better than having to live in the real world where she is in a goddamn mental hospital.

The trays are laid out on a table just outside the main office. She takes the one marked with her name, turns around, and then hesitates. To the left is the lounge. A few couches, a coffee table, a big TV-and a lot of fellow patients that she isn't quite ready to confront yet.

To the right is an unmarked door with a small window distinguishing it from the patients' rooms. She goes over to it, glancing around nervously, and peeks inside. Another patient is there, picking at his own food, but aside from that it's empty. Well. Better than the crowd in the lounge, she supposes. With that, she goes inside.

Despite her nerves, she holds her head high as she sits down. Caroline Forbes is confident, cool, in control. Or, she had been at one point, and hopefully would be again soon. The other patient's head snaps up at the sound of the door falling shut. By her estimation, he looks to be in his early twenties, with brown hair and big brown eyes. He's cute, she thinks. You know. For an insane person. Not that she's in any place to judge.

He nods at her in greeting, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. She can't help but smile a little back as she sits down. The smile is quickly wiped away, though, when she looks down at her breakfast. Her nose wrinkles.

"What's wrong?" the man across from her asks. He sounds amused.

"French toast," she says simply, with a shake of her head. She wonders why she hadn't noticed before. Probably because she hadn't quite woken up yet.

He nods. "You know you can tell them. They ask you what you won't eat when you come in. They have a form and everything."

"Well, you'll have to excuse me for not being up to doing paperwork after-" she shrugs and looks down. "I was tired."

"You're right. Sorry," he says. She shrugs again.

"It's fine."

There is a pause as she picks up a fork and stabs a sausage link with it. Then he speaks up again.

"I have pancakes. You wanna trade?"

She looks up abruptly. "Is that allowed?"

He grins crookedly. "I don't see anyone that can stop us," he says, and once again she can't stop herself from grinning back.

"Alright." She slides her tray toward him. "I'm Caroline."

"I'm Peter. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah...you too."

"I can see we have a lot of new people today, so why don't we go around and introduce ourselves? My name is Leslie. I'm a therapist here at Aspen Springs. I've worked here for about three years. So let's go around, tell everyone your name, and why you're here, if you're comfortable with that. Let's start with you."

Peter looks up from the table, but the therapist is looking at the patient across from him,

"My name is Norma. I'm 78 years old and I'm here because it's never too late to get a new start. I spent my whole life trapped in one marriage to the next..." Unlike the others, who keep their heads down and ears closed, Peter listens as she rambles on and smiles a little. At least someone is glad to be here.

Next is the tall blond that came in at breakfast. She looks up as Leslie calls on her, and then shrugs.

"My name is Caroline Forbes," she says. She uses a very different tone than the one she used when she introduced herself to him, and he gets the sense that her name means something where she's from. "And I'm having a psychotic break. Allegedly." This gets a few chuckles from the room, and even Peter has to look down to cover his smile.

A few more people go by (mostly addicts) and then it's his turn. He looks up.

My name is Peter Petrelli, he wants to say. You may have heard of my brother Nathan who's running for congress in New York who sent me here after I jumped off a building trying to fly. Pretty sure he flew up and caught me but he keeps denying it and maybe he's right and I am crazy and between him and my mom I ended up down here allegedly because it's one of the best mental facilities in the country but probably more because it's far, far away from New York where my brother is running for congress like I said and I am a liability. As usual.

Instead, though, all he says is this: "I'm Peter. I threw myself off a roof."

He glances across the room at Caroline, trying to gouge her reaction, though he isn't sure why. Maybe because she is as of this morning the only thing close to a friend he has here. Though he's been here a few days, he's kept to himself for the most part. He hasn't even been to group yet; the only reason he came today is because he and Caroline were still in the room when the patients started filtering in. She was the first real conversation he'd had in days.

Her head snaps up at the words "threw myself off a roof"and she meets his eyes. Then she smiles a little-uncertain, but ultimately sympathetic. He smiles back.

Maybe-just maybe-this little trip won't be so unbearable after all.