Claire was hurting.

She wasn't in physical pain, of course. Her extraordinary abilities enabled all cuts, scrapes and lacerations to clot and close, all broken bones to reset themselves, all bullets that might penetrate her skin to make their way out of her with no scar left behind. She didn't even feel physical pain the way normal people did. It was….more of irritation than suffering to her.

But she knew she was hurting, and for a very human reason. She hadn't let on, but her torture at the hands of the Taylor brothers had left her feeling shattered in a way she hadn't felt before. She needed to know that she was safe, and loved. She wanted to feel protected, even though she knew she didn't really need it.

Now, she was sitting on a plane with Sylar. They were sitting side by side. They were seated in coach, the most confined class to be assigned to, and so every time she moved her arm, it brushed against his. He wasn't looking at her. He was (or pretended to be) engrossed in a book he had bought from one of the duty-free shops prior to boarding the plane.

She knew he cared about her. She found out that he had begged Mohinder to put her back together after she had been mangled. And that he killed Reid Taylor mainly out of revenge for her. They were on shaky ground, she knew, but she was sure that Sylar would do anything to keep her safe.

She was still attracted to him, but it was different than before. At first, it was a physical attraction, some primal and dark that they shared mutually. But now…somehow it felt like something new. She desperately wanted him to comfort her, to hold her in his arms and reassure her. She was aching to be made love to.

But she was beginning to get tired. The incredible stress of the last few days, combined with the monotonous droning of the plane's engine made her feel sleepy. The seat upright was uncomfortable for her head, and she felt like she would be inconveniencing the passenger sitting behind her if she reclined. She looked over at Sylar's shoulder. She longed to lay her head down. What would he do? Would she make him uncomfortable? Would he tell her to sit up? Would he find some excuse to get up from his seat and escape her?

Finally, she stopped wondering and, as casually as she could manage, brought her head to rest against Sylar's arm. She didn't dare look at him, and he didn't say a word. But then, much to her surprise and joy, she felt his head come to rest on top of hers. Feeling drowsiness come over her, she fell asleep.

He felt somewhat moronic, but up until this point, he hadn't realized how young Claire really was. For so long he hadn't considered her a person, only an acquisition. It wasn't until she fought him, until she challenged him, that he realized that she was so much more than a prize. She had proved several times now that she was worthy, and with living a life as they did, what did age matter? They did not abide by the same rules as those with ordinary lives.

But now, with his head on her silky blonde one, he saw how tender and vulnerable she was. He was much older than her; there was still so much for her to learn, so much she hadn't experienced. He suddenly felt a great responsibility for her, and it frightened him.

They arrived in New Mexico, picked up the mustang. Sylar drove them to a hotel where they would spend the night and the next day would set out for Louisiana. They had no reservations, so the only room the hotel could give them in a pinch was a single room with a twin bed. They made it to the room, and Sylar was surprised to find he was nervous.

She took a shower, and changed into her pajamas in the bathroom. She emerged to find him sitting by the window and looking out of it, in the only chair in the sparsely furnished room. She felt shy in front of him. Not knowing what to do, she climbed onto the bed and sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, waiting for Sylar to acknowledge her.

Finally he brought himself to look at her. She was beautiful, graceful, and misleadingly fragile-looking. She was wearing the pair of pajamas she'd bought during their first shopping trip together, coral pink ones with a short sleeved empire waist top and drawstring pants that reached the knee. They were…adorable, and they suited her. She'd washed her hair, and now had it in a charmingly messy bun at the top of her head. He took a slightly deeper breath than normal, and he could just catch the warm scent of vanilla on her. He was sure the scent was dabbed on her neck, that sweet, soft spot where he'd buried his face twice before. She gazed at him, seeming to invite him to be near her.

He was just…looking. Claire couldn't believe that after all he'd done, with and without her, that he could be indecisive. But, that's what all the signs were pointing to. She wanted to will him to the bed, to get under the covers and hold her close to him the way he tried to when they were in Portland that first night. She couldn't bring herself to do it then; it just wasn't right. And even now, if anything did happen, Claire wasn't sure that she wouldn't regret it later. But she had done all she could to drive her doubts away. She needed him, more than she thought she could. Even after all that had happened between them, she still couldn't escape the weak feeling she had around him.

Finally, feeling ridiculous about staring at her for so long, he got up from the chair and walked toward the bed, not really knowing for sure what he was going to do just yet.

He was gorgeous. Tall and lean, dressed in a tight black turtleneck and black jeans. He was unshaven, and stubble looked good on him. Dark piercing eyes, dark hair that fell boyishly over his brow now that it was beginning to grow. A daemonesque Adonais.

If she just reached out, she would be able to touch him, pull him onto her, hold him close…

Her sea blue eyes were pleading with him. He opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm going to head out for a while. Get some rest. You need it."

And before she knew what happened, he was out of the room, the door shut behind him.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

He found himself in the last place he'd ever want to go. But here he was. The air thick and acrid with cigarette smoke, the stale, bitter scent of beer. The TV mounted above the glass bottles blaring with some sports program or another, the loud, drunken conversations of the patrons around him, the clutter and clink of glasses and mugs and dishes.

Bars were the sort of places Sylar always avoided. The places full of the sounds of people—the ignorant, the small, the petty. But at least here he didn't have to think. He couldn't concentrate in a place like this. His thoughts of Claire began to fade as he took a swig of the foamy ale he'd ordered and allowed the sounds, sights and smells to take him over.

After a half an hour, he forced himself to look up. A few seats down from him, a man with a scraggly blond beard was practically throwing himself on a pale wiry redhead who didn't seem to mind the lack of personal space. Two businessmen were jabbering about their hard day at the office. He turned around in his chair, and saw a woman with short spiky black hair and attired in a short black dress sitting at one of the tables, sizing him up. She appeared to be a little older than him, and she eyed him up and down, then flashed him a slightly gap-toothed smile. He gave a half-hearted grin then turned back to his beer. He didn't need any more complications tonight.

After ten more minutes passed, he allowed his eyes to wander around the room again, and he caught sight of someone who actually made his chest grow cold. Panicked, he threw down enough money to cover his bill and zipped out of the bar.

The air was chill, and Sylar stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked as fast as he could back to the hotel. It was very dark in front of him, and he couldn't see well, and at last he felt himself bump into someone else.

He was about to excuse himself when he realized who it was. "You!" he cried. He held up his hand to repel the intruder when he remembered that his powers were null in the presence of this person. Genuinely frightened, he back away quickly. "Stay away!" he practically screamed.

The Haitian calmly walked out of the shadows, now holding up his hands to work his magic.

"Wait!" Sylar cried. "I'm not the person I was before!"

The Haitian continued to walk towards him.

"I don't kill and steal powers anymore!" Sylar tried again.

Still the Haitian pursued.

His last ditch effort. "I'm traveling with Claire Bennet! We're partners! We were enlisted by a man named Nakamura!"

Those were the magic words. The Haitian stopped in his tracks, tilting his head slightly as if to take all of it in.

"I work for Claire's grandmother," the dark-skinned man told Sylar with an exotic accent. "She sent me to find Claire and bring her home. And remove any obstacles in my path."

Sylar was dumbfounded. From what he had heard during his imprisonment, the Haitian didn't talk. Then again, it was probably useful to pretend to be mute. People were probably a lot more willing to be loose-lipped about vital details when they believed a person couldn't say anything.

Sylar swallowed back his fear. "I haven't kidnapped Claire, nor have I hurt her in any way," he said as earnestly as he could. "She asked me to come along, in fact. I can take her to you now, if you want, and she'll confirm everything I've just told you."

The Haitian crossed his arms. "My instructions were to deliver Claire, regardless of how willing she was to come along," he said bluntly. "My employer is unconcerned with Claire's pursuits. She merely wants the girl to come home."

"But she has no right!" Sylar shouted, indignant.

The Haitian shook his head. "Mrs. Petrelli is a very wealthy and powerful woman. What she wants, she will get."

So, thought Sylar. This woman Petrelli must be Peter's mother. The arrogance and officiousness that boy scout has is genetic.

Sylar sighed in frustration. "At least come with me and talk to Claire about this. She's tried so hard—just let her tell you before you do anything."

The Haitian seemed to consider it for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

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She changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and was now parked in front of the television. She wasn't tired anymore. She was humiliated, and angry. How could Sylar just pick up and leave like that? Oh, he was impossible. She practically had to be at death's doorstep for him to show any feelings at all.

There was a knock on the door and she rolled her eyes. He must have been in such a hurry to get away from her that he forgot his key. Groaning, she stood up and opened the door.

It was him. "Claire, let me in. We need to talk," he told her.

Claire scoffed. "Oh do we? I didn't know that--" she cut herself off when she realized Sylar wasn't alone. It was the Haitian standing next to him.

Her eyes grew wide. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

The Haitian made his way into the room, followed by Sylar. "I ran into your…partner," he said with his refined accent. "I have been following you two for a while. I am here to bring you home."

Claire gritted her teeth. "Was it my grandmother that sent you?"

The Haitian nodded. "Mrs. Petrelli wants you with her."

Then, much to the surprise of everyone involved, Claire took the Haitian's hand in hers. "Please don't do this. Please don't take away Sylar's and my memory. He's worked so hard to overcome what he's done." She squeezed the dark hand. "You've gone against orders to help me before. Please. Do it again?"

The dark man gently took his hand out of Claire's grasp and looked at Sylar with quiet distrust. "If it were just you traveling alone, I might consider it. I might even join you; I am not entirely pleased with the work I've done," he admitted. "But you are a young girl traveling with a known murderer. I must side with your grandmother in this instance."

"But we've been traveling together for nearly two months, and he hasn't gone back to his old ways at all. In fact, we have an assignment. Please." Then, suddenly Claire had an idea. "Why don't you come with us to Louisiana? Help us with our work. Then, after we're done, you can make your decision. Is it a deal?"

Sylar gave Claire a confused look. Why was she inviting the Haitian along? They should be formulating a plan to elude him. Had he been alone, Sylar would probably be plotting to kill him so he'd never have to worry about a drain on his powers. But he knew that Claire had a soft spot in her heart for the dark-skinned man. And Sylar knew that if he objected in any way, it would only fuel the Haitian's suspicions. So he stood by, silent, and let Claire handle the negotiations.

The Haitian stood wordlessly for a while. Then, finally, he said, "when you are ready to go I will come along. I hope for your sake, you impress me." With that, he left.

Sylar looked at Claire. "I guess…we need to get some rest." He shifted uncomfortably. The small, single bed loomed in front of him.

But Claire was grabbing her jacket and purse. "I've gotten enough rest, and it will be morning soon. I think I'll go sit in the lobby and read that book you found so interesting on the plane. I'll come wake you in a few hours." Without waiting for a reply, she went out the door.

Sylar sat on the bed, feeling an incredible emptiness come over him. And then, that image entered his mind again, the one he'd been fighting ever since they left Columbus. He lay back on the bed, holding his head in his hands.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sylar was faintly aware of a hand lightly shaking him. He groaned and tried to paw it away. "Claire, let me sleep a little longer," he mumbled.

But the hand kept shaking him. Sylar finally opened his eyes to find it was the Haitian.

"Get up," the ebony hued minion told him. "We are ready to go."

The trip was broken into two very long days of driving, sixteen hours in all. There was barely any conversation. It was either Claire driving, Sylar sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, the Haitian sitting in silent judgment in the back, or Sylar driving, Claire sitting uneasily in the front, and the Haitian sitting in silent suspicion in the back. Meals taken on the road were just as reticent. Sylar didn't know about Claire, but he almost felt like he was back in that observation room at Primatech, his every action scrutinized and studied. It was an unnerving experience for him, as he was usually the one doing the cool-tempered analyzing.

They had to pass through Texas to get to get to Louisiana, and Claire was almost grateful for it. They passed the sign for Odessa, and she was filled with nostalgia instead of unrest about having the Haitian with them. She longed for those days of carefree childhood and a loving family, but she was resolved to make the most of the life she now led.

Finally, in Houston, they stopped at a restaurant and Claire decided to call the woman they were supposed to visit.

She dropped two quarters in the phone and dialed, looking over at the two men who were once a nemesis to one another, but now thrown together reluctantly. She turned her back to them while she listened to the rings.

On the third ring, there was an answer. "Hello?" came a woman's voice.

Claire's brow furrowed at the anxious sound of the greeting, but she responded pleasantly. "Hi! Is this…Amy Perredine?"

There was a pause. Claire was about to ask if the person was still there, but the woman spoke again. "Who is this?" she asked tensely.

"Th-this is Claire Bennet--"

"I don't know what you people are up to, but there's nothing wrong with my boy! We don't want your help!"

Claire was taken aback by the woman's presumption, but managed to reply, "Uh, Ms. Perredine, I'm a friend of Dr. Mohinder Suresh. He gave me your information."

"Oh! Ohhh," Amy Perredine said on the phone, clearly calming down. "I thought you were someone else."

"Who did you think I was?" Claire asked cautiously.

There was another long pause. "Can you protect us? Can you come here and keep us safe?"

"From what?"

"I don't know. I just…" her voice trailed off.

"Ms. Perredine?"

"I can't say anything on the phone. If you really want to help, you'll get here as soon as possible." With that, she hung up.

"Hello? Hello?" Claire called into the phone. Knowing it was futile, she hung up the phone. She was startled to find Sylar right outside the phone booth.

He smirked at her surprise. "Did you have a pleasant conversation?"

Claire glared at his sarcasm. "We need to get there as soon as possible. That woman is frightened."

Sylar turned and looked towards their table, where the Haitian was indulgently sipping his coffee. "This ought to be an interesting adventure for us; it's always pleasant to have a chaperone."

Claire cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you'd be pleased that he's coming along; now you don't have to worry about being alone with me."

Sylar stiffened and looked away. Claire couldn't help but feel satisfied by his reaction.

"Claire, you're young. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I've just come to realize that."

She scoffed. "You've just realized that? Just two months ago, you didn't care!"

"And two months before that, I would have taken the top of your head off and scooped out your grey matter, no second thoughts," Sylar countered. "Like I said before, I need time to be the boy-scout you want."

"I never said I wanted a boy-scout. You just like to think that because you don't want to take any time to know me," Claire grumbled, then sighed. "It doesn't matter anyway; we have things to do."

At this comment, Sylar chuckled bitterly. "Of course. You want me to understand you, but we spend all our time doing the job of the idiot cops and drying the tears of all the cretins in the world."

At first Claire looked hurt and angry, but then her face grew calm and she shook her head. "You can go to hell," she told him flatly, and went to rejoin their taciturn guest.

Sylar smirked and followed after her. That mouth. It was what he loved about her.

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When they arrived in Baton Rouge and pulled up to the house, Claire couldn't help but feel that something was wrong. She looked behind her at the Haitian in the back seat, and he nodded in affirmation. She took an anxious breath and walked to the door, flanked by her unlikely guardians.

She had to knock twice before the door was finally answered. A short, thick woman with long dark brown hair answered the door, her grey eyes wide with fear.

Clutching the doorframe, she whispered, "Claire Bennet?"

"Yes?" Claire answered. "Amy?"

Immediately tears began to fill the woman's eyes and she grabbed hold of Claire's hand.

"They-they took him! They took my little boy!"

Her hand still in Amy's grasp, Claire looked at her companions and frowned. They had come too late.