This story was written during the summer, based on rumours and speculation. As you can see, I kind of got things backwards. :-) So, spoilers up to 1x23: How to Stop an Exploding Man, and complete AU for everything after.

Chapter 1

He woke up on a cold dock, wet and shivering, with the mother of all headaches. Gathering his limbs together, he made a move to stand up and winced in pain. Had he been drinking? He didn't remember drinking, but then, he had only the vaguest recollection of how he'd ended up there at all. He'd been going fast, that much he remembered, faster than ever before, trying to stop but unable to hold back against the power of his own speed and the... the... what had sent him off again? Some force had pushed him ahead against his will, until there was nothing under him but water and he didn't even know which way was back anymore.

And now there was this place. What was this place? He looked around, seeing square, low buildings, windows shining bright against the darkness. A figure moved between the shadows – a man, clearly headed somewhere, walking with purpose. Desperate to connect with someone who obviously had more control than he did, anything to stop feeling so lost, he started walking, then running, and shouted out, "Hey! Wait up!"

The man proved to be very young, almost a boy, and seemed taken aback at first, but then looked him over, eyes widening. "Jävlar, mannen, mår du bra? Vad har hänt med dina kläder?"

He stopped, confused at the stranger's incomprehensible words. He hadn't forgotten how to speak, had he? His words had made sense to himself, but had they been only nonsense to the other man, much like this was to him?

"I'm sorry," he said, "I don't understand..."

To his relief, the man nodded and started speaking slowly and with an accent in words that did make sense. "Okay. You speak English, yeah? What happened to your clothes?"

English. Of course, that was it. A different language, that was all. He could have laughed with relief, if he hadn't followed the man's gaze at his clothes. They were charred and tattered, as if something had burned them and torn them to pieces.

"I don't know," he said, staring at the rags.

"Are you hurt?"

He shook his head mutely. If his clothes had been damaged so badly while he was still wearing them, he should have been damaged too. It only stood to reason... but nothing about this seemed very reasonable.

The man touched his shoulder and muttered some more in the foreign language. "You are cold."

"Yes."

"And wet. Were you on a boat?"

He frowned. A boat? That didn't seem to fit. "I don't think so."

"Okay. What's your name?"

His name. God, he should know his name, but he didn't, it just wasn't there, not even at the tip of his tongue. It was gone.

"You know, your name?" the man continued. "What people call you? I'm Qais, you are..."

"I don't..."

"You don't know."

He shook his head, terrified. What had happened to him? Why didn't he know his own name?

"Okay," the man – Qais – said, patting his shoulder in a soothing gesture. "Here's what we do. I take you home with me, get you warm, and we can talk more about this later. Yes?"

"Yes," he said, grateful to have some kind of help, even if it was from someone barely old enough to drink. "Thank you."

Qais nodded and pulled off his own jacket, draping it across his shoulder and rubbing his arms lightly. "Better?"

"A bit."

"Jalla, come on," Qais said with a final pat on the arm. "There should be a bus coming soon."

They walked down a few streets to a large brick building with bus stops on one side. There were rows of monitors, but nearly all were blank and dark. When the bus came, the driver glared at them and barked something in the foreign language, but Qais answered him calmly, and in the end they were allowed in, sitting down near the back. He leaned against the seat, enjoying the warmth and relative comfort. The bus started moving and places went by, though there were very few people – a shabby-looking girl that sat nodding off in a corner, two women in headscarves speaking together in low voices, a man in overalls. The speaker voice called out incomprehensible names, and at one of those names, Qais pushed the stop button.

"You ready?"

He nodded, watching Qais' face as they stepped outside. It reminded him of something, with those patient brown eyes, the gentle smile. He had known someone, somewhere, like this, in expression if not in features.

They walked past some apartment blocks and then into one, climbing a gray staircase.

"Here we are," Qais said, turning the key in a door that said 'Mansour'. Qais Mansour, then, two whole names for this stranger and none for himself.

Once inside, Qais yelled loudly and people started showing up in the hall – first an attractive young woman in jeans, carrying a pair of socks that she put on while she watched the two of them and said things that appeared to be questions, then a middle-aged couple in bathrobes, and finally a teenaged girl, half asleep, who padded out there in only a T-shirt. This last appearance caused the others to tell her something in sharp voices, until she went back into her room and returned with some sweatpants on.

The middle-aged woman shook her head at his clothes, said something at the man by her side and waved him away, and then shooed the new arrivals into the bathroom. He sat down on the toilet, overwhelmed.

"It's okay," Qais said. "I have explained things to them. Well, a little bit, anyway. Dad is fetching you some new clothes. Do you want a bath? Mom said you should have one – or a shower, if you'd rather."

"A bath would be nice," he said. "Thanks."

He stripped out of the rags he'd been wearing and sat down in the bathtub, letting the blessed warmth of hot water run over him.

A knock on the door made him open eyes that had started to drift shut. Qais' father came in, holding some clothes and a large towel. He only now noticed that the man walked with a heavy limp.

Qais gestured towards his father. "My dad, Adil."

The two of them spoke for a while, and while he sometimes thought he recognized the sound of a word, he could have been mistaken. Finally, Adil asked, "You feel better?"

"Much," he said. "I can't thank you enough, or your son. I don't know what I'd have done if he hadn't been there."

"Are you hurt? We can call hospital if you want."

"No, I'm not hurt." He hesitated. "But I don't... I don't seem to remember anything. At all."

Adil nodded, his face showing no surprise. It must have been one of the things Qais had told him. "You are not Swedish."

Sweden. Was that where he was? That surprised him; he had a feeling Sweden should be more... well, blonder for one thing. Still, this was one question he could definitely answer. "No. I'm not."

"Know you where you come from?"

He shook his head.

"Are you here..." Adil said something to Qais, who filled in, "Legally?"

Legally? He rubbed his forehead. Even if he was there legally, how was he supposed to prove it when he had no idea who he was? Anyway, what of the one memory he did have, of seeing land after nothing but endless water? He didn't recall crossing any border.

"I think I just arrived."

Qais picked up his tattered clothes from the floor and started searching through them. After a while, he shook his head. "No papers."

Of course not, he thought bitterly. That would have been too simple, wouldn't it?

The two men spoke together for a while, and then Qais smiled at him. "Don't worry about anything. We'll help you work this out, okay? Do you want some sleep when you're done in here? We can put some new sheets on Aisha's bed, she's going to work now anyway."

He was practically falling asleep already, and so he only nodded in relief. Lost and confused as he may be, at least he didn't have to be alone.

Interlude 1: Peter and Angela

In his dream, all was cold, and dark, and utterly empty. The only thing that moved was him, shooting through the void like a bullet fired from a rifle. He felt parts of himself being ripped away, until there was nothing left, and screamed with lungs that were no longer there, trying to make a noise, anything that would prove that he still existed.

Peter woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding, and he had to lie still for a few minutes, forcing himself to breathe calmly. Going back to sleep was out of the question; instead he turned on the light and left the bed, going into the kitchen for something to eat. The thought of food made him queasy, but it was a ritual – wake up at night, make a sandwich.

He boiled a cup of tea as well and sipped it slowly, trying to settle his stomach.

Steps came closer, and he recognized the sound as belonging to his mother even before she showed herself.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked. Her voice was frail and tired, like it had been all those months ago, when his father died. Back then, he had done all that he could to ease her pain. Now, it enraged him. How dare she? How dare she, after what she had done?

"No."

"Bad dreams?"

He stood up and started packing away the food. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Was it... the explosion, or..."

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" He poured out the rest of the tea and threw the sandwich in the trash.

"Peter, I know this is hard."

"Hard? You were gonna let me destroy New York! Tell me, are you even sorry that he's dead, or just that your little plan failed?"

She grabbed his arm, sending a mass of images through his brain of a child he'd only ever seen on family photos yet recognized clearly. He flinched. "Don't."

"Why ask questions if you can't stand the answer?" she asked. Her voice was steely and cold, now, but there were tears glittering in her eyes.

The child grew into a teen, then a man, and there was the second child – him, along with Dad, younger and more carefree than he remembered him. A family, a whole family, and there was Nathan's wedding, and the boys' births... he tore his arm from her grip and forced her out of his mind, unable to stand any more of this.

"Whatever you think of me, Peter," she whispered, "don't for a minute think I don't love my children."

"Then why?" he asked, desperate to understand despite fearing what he would hear. "Why!?"

Her cold fingers touched his face, wiping away his tears with the back of her hand, and he let it happen. "You've never been to war, Peter. I can't expect you to understand what it's like, when your duty no longer lies in keeping the family alive."

"How could it possibly be your duty to destroy New York?"

She watched him for a while, and seemed ready to say something, but shrugged instead. "It doesn't matter. That future is gone now. Whatever lies ahead, it's very jumbled, very unsure... and we've lost him."

She turned and left, and he reached out with his mind, but caught nothing but weariness before she was gone entirely.

Leaning against the refrigerator, he pressed his fingers against closed eyelids, missing Nathan so badly that he couldn't breathe. The one person he could count on, and he'd killed him. If only Claire was here, or even Claude with his acid barbs – anyone who wasn't a Petrelli, who didn't lie to him and who he didn't have to lie to.

Most of all, he wanted a second chance, starting over, trying again – which he could, thanks to Hiro Nakamura.By denying himself that chance, didn't he allow this to happen? Letting his brother die over and over again, because he feared rocking the boat.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I can't. I'm so sorry."