Warning: Spoilers for season 3. Set in the final scene of the season 3 finale. I own nothing.
Summary: The musings of Nathan Petrelli, feeling not quite himself after Sylar's death.
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Nathan Petrelli. Senator, congressman, leader.
Nathan Petrelli. Father, brother, son.
Nathan Petrelli. Hero.
Nathan Petrelli. Villain.
Nathan Petrelli. Confused.
Nathan Petrelli sat in his office, fingering his cufflinks. He was waiting. His mother was coming, due any minute. They were going to lunch. He didn't know where. He assumed she would just pick somewhere. Perhaps she'd reserved a table at a place they liked. He wasn't sure. Normally he'd have had his assistant, maybe his secretary, reserve a place for lunch at a restaurant they visited often. But not today. He wasn't himself today.
He swiveled around in his chair and stared out of the window. Something was wrong with him. He hadn't felt right for a few days now. Not unwell, just… wrong. Like he was someone else. Not that he made a point out of it, of course. He didn't tell anyone, and nobody asked. But Angela Petrelli noticed. Or seemed to. She visited a bit more often than normal, gazed at him for long periods of time when she thought he wasn't looking. But he didn't ask about her behavior. He didn't bother. His mother had her secrets, her quirks, her strange little habits that he knew only too well. So he didn't ask. And she didn't elaborate.
The sky was a pale blue, only a few wispy clouds darting across it. Golden sunlight filtered gently through the window, illuminated the roofs around him, reflected off the many windows in the tall, dusty buildings of New York. The blue reminded him of someone. The sun too, and the clouds. Blue eyes, like the summer sky. Golden hair, like the sun. And creamy skin, not quite like the clouds, but reminiscent nonetheless. A woman. A beautiful, deadly woman, with hands that glowed with the pure electric energy she controlled…
The instant her face appeared in his mind, it vanished, and Nathan could almost hear a loud crack, like that of a whip, as the memory of the woman recoiled, retreated to the depths of his mind. But still he thought of her. He knew her. Somehow.
He could recall a few images of a few blondes he knew, but none of them seemed to fit. Nikki Sanders, the woman he'd spent the night with that time in Vegas. Or Tracy Strauss, her twin. Neither face fit, even if they were the same. Any other woman he could think of was wrong, not quite the right eyes, smile not exactly the same, hair just the wrong shade of blond. Then the blond hair, blue eyes, easy smile formed into another young woman – not the right one, but still familiar. It was Claire.
Claire visited a little more too, although Nathan doubted Angela had anything to do with that. Noah Bennett didn't come with her, mostly, even though he still watched Claire like a hawk. He dropped by occasionally, though, an odd, guarded look in his eyes that didn't quite fade, however hard he might have tried to hide it. As Nathan sat there in his chair, deep in thought, he came to wonder exactly why he kept thinking about Claire so much. It was strange, really, that even though it hadn't been very long since he'd found out she actually existed, she'd entered his thoughts more often every day. Even more so in the past week or two. And not always in the way a father should think about their daughter.
He was disgusted with himself, of course. Thankfully they weren't openly sexual thoughts, but thoughts for example about how beautiful she looked on a particular day. Not in the proud, loving way a father thinks when he sees his daughter, but the way a man thinks of a gorgeous woman on the street. Fortunately the feelings weren't overwhelmingly strong and he was able to control and conceal them quite well. Not even his mother had noticed. Even the calm and controlled Angela Petrelli would have given a noticeable sign of shock if she realized her son was possibly attracted to his own daughter.
Claire seemed a happier person these days. She'd come over, eyes sparkling, expression glowing, telling him all about a guy she'd met or a movie she'd seen. And he'd listen. Even if the things she talked about weren't things that particularly interested him, he found that he liked to listen to her. He cared what she had to say. Even if he was busy, he'd find time to sit down and chat. Not for very long, but always enough time to hear what she wanted to tell him. She hadn't really done that before. He assumed she talked to Bennett about those things. Or Bennett's wife, Sandra. Her mom and dad. Nathan was just her father; Bennett was her dad. Even Nathan knew the difference.
There was only one reason Nathan could think of that would change Claire so completely: the death of Sylar. Yes, it was true – Sylar was finally gone. And good riddance, too. Sylar had been a horror, a nightmare come alive – a psychotic, telekinetic killer with little to no morals or remorse. Nathan was glad he was gone. Good for everyone that he was dead, but Nathan was especially glad because he deserved it. Especially after what he'd done to Claire.
After the Homecoming incident at Claire's old school, she'd naturally been terrified of Sylar. After he scalped her and took her power – after hunting her down more than once – she'd seemed downright traumatized at the mere thought of him, with good reason. She'd wanted revenge. And she'd gotten it. Nathan could see the newfound relief in her face now, as if the world had been lifted off her shoulders. He'd noticed the passion, the rage, the pure hatred in those bright blue eyes as she watched his body burn on the funeral pyre. But could it be called a funeral, really, if there was no one there to mourn?
He'd wondered privately to himself – more than once – what else Sylar had done to her. He knew there was no way Claire would have let Sylar come anywhere near her, near enough to do the things he wondered if Sylar had, and Claire was by no means an easy girl to push around. Yet still Nathan wondered. Wondered and feared. He pushed the thoughts aside but they always came back in greater numbers. He didn't want to ask, and she wouldn't have told him anyway, but sometimes, when he was sitting alone, immersed in paperwork, his thoughts would drift and vivid images would come to mind.
Claire watching him, white-faced, sitting on the coffee table of a house he didn't recognize with blood splashed across her forehead in a jagged line. Mouth moving. Shoulders shaking. Aren't you going to kill me? His own mouth moving. Voice familiar, but not his own. You're special. I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to.
Sitting in a sofa. Cream-colored, a hotel room. Claire with her back to him, body stiff, moving jerkily as if she isn't in control of her actions. Spinning on her heel, a bottle of red wine and two wineglasses in her hands. An expression of hate and fear on her face. Putting the wineglasses on the table. Sitting suddenly down, as if pushed. Him, moving over to sit by her. Both of them reaching for a wineglass, Claire still acting as though she is a marionette. Taking sips, a cool, fruity wine cascading down his throat. A hand reaches out, familiar, but not his own. Caresses her cheek, cradles her head. Mouth moving. Voice familiar, but not his own. You may eventually come to forgive me. Leaning in, ignoring her panicked eyes, her disgusted expression, lips almost brushing her cheek. Maybe you'll even love me…
He dismissed these images as products of an overactive imagination, but deep down he felt they were far too vivid, too real to just be the ramblings of a stressed out mind. And sometimes, at night, in the strange state between wakefulness and deep sleep, he could see other images, other imaginary dream sequences more realistic than a normal dream. A woman, perhaps the same age as his mother, tiny, with wispy brown hair, staring at him with lifeless eyes, clutching the pair of bloodied scissors embedded in her chest. The small, limp form of a plump man, a large portion of his skull cracked open, a bloodied whitish crystal lying on the floor beside him. And the most disturbing of all, a man he recognized, looking in a mirror, a man he recognized as one of Danko's agents, a pained expression on his face as his skin bubbled and twisted, and morphed suddenly, seamlessly into Sylar's face…
A knock at the door roused him from his musings and he turned around. His mother was in the door, flawlessly dressed as always, smiling at him. She asked if he was ready. He got up, got his coat, walked around his desk to his mother, but something caught his attention. A clock in a cabinet in the corner of the room. Something wasn't right with it. He looked at it, studied it hard.
"Is there something wrong, Nathan?" Angela asked. She was looking at him curiously.
"This clock," Nathan said slowly. "It's a minute and a half fast." He poked the minute hand and it slid back a few millimeters, back to where it was supposed to be. His mouth twitched slightly, almost smiling, now satisfied. Then he turned to his mother. "Shall we?" They left.
The clock ticked quietly in the corner, gaining a third of a second every half-hour.