The man approaching the suburban house would have appeared tense to anyone who was watching him walk to the front door. The expression on his face seemed to be a mixture of relief, anxiety and worry; possibly explaining the quick steps up the stairs to the decent sized porch in front of the house.
The home he found himself at seemed to be an exact reflection of the girl he was visiting. The forty five minute drive to the suburban area outside of New York may have seemed like a long enough drive, but to the dark-haired man the trip seemed too short. As if the place was hidden right under his nose the entire time. At this thought he paused before he knocked on the door, rage filling his body and tensing further before he shook it off.
Peter Petrelli glanced at his surroundings. A brick path lined the front yard to the welcoming porch, a white picket fence lining the property is exactly how he always pictured a place where Claire would live. Probably because she was from Texas, he mused. No one he knew personally would be living in a place like this, as most city-dwellers would never be able to handle the open hominess of the house in front of him. Sparkling, crystal wind chimes hung from the top of the veranda and he just knew that Claire was inside.
He knocked abruptly, the sound appearing just as urgent as he felt. As the door swung open, however, Peter reared back in shock. It was certainly not Claire, and the expectations that his musings had brought crashed suddenly.
"Sylar?" Peter finally ground out, incredulously. The taller man didn't seem shocked at Peter's appearance at his front door. Rather, he glanced behind him worriedly before stepping out and slamming the door shut and locked behind him telekinetically. Gabriel "Sylar" Gray was dressed in surprisingly normal clothes- just a pair of dark faded jeans and a white t-shirt. Peter was having a hard time trying to put the pieces of this moment together with the conversation he had with his mother just a few hours earlier.
"Just tell me where she is, Ma. I have a right to know. You shouldn't have kept this from us-" She interrupted him as she often did, smiling tightly.
"You have no idea, Peter. If you could have seen the future I saw, you would understand. She has been safe, will remain safe. She won't know you, she has a life now. A life without any of us." The answer did not placate the younger Petrelli.
"So you thought, what, exactly? That we'd all never find out? It's been years…Everyone…" Peter couldn't finish his sentence, just took a deep breath and continued. "I'm going to see her. If I have to track down Molly's ability to find her, I will. I need to explain, I need to know she's okay. I'm going to fix this."
Angela Petrelli stared her son down for a few moments before sighing. "There are some things you can't fix, Peter. Some things aren't broken. She's happy Peter. Know that before you go wrecking her life."
Peter walked out of the Petrelli mansion with an address scrawled neatly on a piece of stationary paper. A forty-five minute drive.
"Hello, Peter," Sylar's smile was tight, and before either of the two knew what happened Peter's fist launched towards the villain's face. As Sylar cradled his face, the door behind him creaked open. A blonde head of hair stuck out surveying the scene.
"Gabriel?" Claire called from the doorway. "What's going on? Who is this?" Peter scowled and moved toward her before he froze in place. He grit his teeth and found he could still speak.
"Claire, it's me. Peter." Claire looked confused, her eyes darting between the two men.
"Peter, my uncle, Peter?" Sylar shot her an indecipherable look, trying to communicate something through his eyes. Peter ignored this; joyful at the sign she remembered who he was. She still remained peeking out of the doorway.
"Yes, Claire, come on. I don't know why you're here but I'm going to take you home. I'm going to fix everything." Sylar had remained unusually silent up till now, carefully watching their interaction. At the mention of her leaving though, his head snapped to Peter.
"She's not going anywhere. She doesn't remember, and she belongs here." Though Peter was expecting this to be said with some form of malice or possession, the other man merely looked tired. Not to be persuaded differently, Peter turned back to Claire.
"Claire, come with me. You don't know…You couldn't possibly understand the position you're in right now. I'll take us back to your home, your family." The door swung open wider and Claire stepped out.
"Family," She repeated slowly. "Family that did this to me. Did this to all of us. Family that left me, alone-"
"Claire," Sylar interrupted sharply. "He didn't remember either. He doesn't know what happened." Claire pursed her lips and shook her head. Peter found himself more confused than ever. He thought this would have been easy. Save the cheerleader. Coming to take her home and restore her memory would have been simple, but the appearance of the serial killer threw him off kilter. Suddenly finding himself at a loss of words- at Claire's response then Sylar's- he remained still with his jaw locked.
After a moment of silence Sylar sighed. "You better come inside, Peter. We have a lot to talk about."
Peter looked like he was about to protest before seeing the look on Claire's face. Her arms were crossed over her chest. He took her in for the first time in years and he found himself thinking she hadn't really changed all that much. Her hair was still long and blonde, bouncy curls that fell down past her shoulders. Her face had grown and matured and she carried herself stronger than before. He remembered the young teenage girl that was fighting for her independence tooth and nail, struggling to be somebody. The girl-no, he thought, woman- looked like she knew exactly who she was, like she knew her place and wouldn't have to fight like she did before. It was this that made him follow Sylar and Claire into the nice suburban home.
A few moments later he found himself seated in a living room that looked like something out of a Pottery Barn magazine. The idea itself made him sick. Did Sylar live here? Most of everything looked like Claire, a combination of girly and country. Little figurines and snow globes lined the shelves and tables. He could have easily convinced himself it was just Claire in this big house, except for the things he couldn't dismiss. The in-home office he could see from his seat on the couch was clearly masculine, covered with lights and clock pieces. Claire would never have organized a room like that.
Or the DVD collection next to the large, flat screen TV. Completely organized and possibly alphabetically arranged; something he knew Claire would never have had the patience for. He tried not to think of how Claire was affording all of this. From what he knew, both of her father's had always provided for her one way or another. She had never been alone, didn't have worldly experience. The thought weighed heavily on him. Did she even finish high school?
Claire and Sylar, who had said very little except to offer him a drink, sat across from him on another couch, communicating silently with each other. Finally Sylar turned to him, "I know you have a lot of questions Peter. We do too. Frankly, we still don't understand everything." Peter did not like the way Sylar was using the term "we". He felt like he was about to throw up.
"But what we do know is that Claire hasn't gained her memory in the past five years, and your mother won't say why." Sylar's lips pursed into a thin line. "I found her, after it had happened-"
"Claire you can't possibly understand!" Peter burst out, not being able to handle it. "The things he's done…He's a monster, Claire! He has killed so many people. He cut open your head. He terrorized you, attacked your family. Killed innocent people. Tried to kill me." The desperation in his tone should have been enough to sway her.
"I know." Claire said calmly, looking at Peter dead in the eye. "He's told me. He's told me everything I don't remember." Sylar had put his face down in his hands, still silent. "But it doesn't matter. None of that matters." Claire reached over to the man next to her on the couch and it was then that Peter began to put the pieces together.
The mingling of the feminine and masculine, the framed pictures and now…
Wedding bands.
I really don't know why I started writing this, but I have a whole plot mapped out in my head. Just needed to get it out on paper! Thank you for reading :)