Title: Dusk Falling
Summary: While Claire and Sylar try to pick up the pieces of their lives, Peter's resurrection may just bring unexpected company to their midst. Little did they know, that wasn't the biggest threat as the impending 'accidents' keep piling up and the footsteps are leading towards them.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners. Some people and organizations belong to yours truly.
A/N: The Return! Ok two things you need to know. Claire was never a redhead (my friends were against it) and ever since the kids were born, she has been a brunette.
Importante: The date is July 12th 2012. ENJOY!!
Chapter One
"Like Clockwork"
Precision, something we strive to be one way or another. As the clock ticks away, our lives flee like sand in the wind, as the the clock tocks, we feel our beings float from the ground. Every second counted monotonously on a clock that never rewinds, that only goes forward. Life is like clockwork, one goes tick, one goes tock. Life is here, be careful, don't drop.
Crestblade Headquarters, London
No one saw the man in black in the hallways, his silhouette trailing on the pathway that was lit with numerous lights. No one heard his footsteps, the ghost remnants of steps, walking down hallways, passing rooms and climbing up stairs to his destination. It was schedule, this was the time the man would climb out of bed, leave his sleeping bedmate alone in his bed in tangled sheets and walk like a phantom through the building.
It used to be stuff of gossip, a ghost creeping up on them but once an innocent on-looker saw him, the familiar face of an occupant of the building, and the rumors were laid to rest. It was innocent, this once a month visit, it wasn't to plot murder or something of that sort, it was merely something for the man's soul.
The room was hidden deep within their clandestine caves, at the back of the building and the back of anyone's mind. No one understood his fixation with the room, it didn't comfort him or soothe him like his companions did, but maybe that was why he kept coming back all these months, it didn't hurt him either. It was a background, a harmless drop for him and his thoughts that seemed to emerge when he stepped into the room.
It wasn't a special room of any sort; the only thing that seemed to stand out was the metal table in the middle of the room, something he marked one March night with a knife in his hand. The light still came out from the dull-curtained window on the left side, just like all the other rooms, the walls were still painted green like the other unused rooms, that hadn't been made into restrooms or bedrooms for their occupants.
One thing that this room had that the others didn't was a rich mahogany clock on the green wall he detested. It had been 4 o'clock ever since he got here, always has been and always will be. He actually made a request to have the clock to stay exactly where it was. No one understood why, one of the many eccentrics that came from having this man as an occupant so they just said yes to it and had the clock stay there forever.
His departed boss once said it was a masterpiece of time, something etched and carved with precision, but what he found wonderful about it were the clock hands. He noticed that, despite the ticking sounds it still made, it made no change on time. To move a second only to move back, hence the monotonous sound that seemed to ring in his ears. It seemed a mystery to that 4 o'clock. What happened at 4 o'clock that made the clock stop?
The man had a tag on his jacket, in scribbled handwriting, it read Michaelson. Michaelson was a handsome man, tall, fit with dark hair; he was hardly ever without his smile. Today was one of the rare occasions.
Ten months he'd been here, landed in this heap of a mess, living this life, making himself out of nothing. Ten months it had been, since he'd woken up to the scent of sea and a brain of black. A few weeks after his arrival, alone in his cell, Michaelson blossomed the fact that he was, in fact, special.
Special, different, any other verbs that could describe the things that were happening to him whenever he woke up in his little cell, he was those things. He woke up once and he could make his lunch tray that went through the little vent levitate off his table, the next he cut himself accidentally with a knife and found that, even if he bled, he still healed beyond any explanation.
Over the weeks, in his cell, under observation and on-looking curious eyes, he learned more to adapt, to learn, to evolve. He learned to concentrate on one solid object and make it move without using the slight twitch of his fingers and he learned that he could heal from any mortal wound, fire, sword, anything the corporate guys could throw at him for fun, and he would still come out unharmed with numerous bloodstains but with no cuts or bruises or burns.
He got out solitary a mere week later, after consults saying he was stable and was fit enough to join the rest. They made him sound like a psych patient, in need for some meds for them. But he was fine, he joined the first four-man team Crestblade ever saw, joining the midst was her. The woman who would feed him his conscience, saying that neither of them needed anyone, and both of them needed to grow tough skin for the outside world.
He did. He built himself brick by brick starting on the foundation of nothing and stood tall, because she was right from the very beginning. Don't get too attached, it's only trouble; don't get too involved, you'll end up disappointed. She spoke as if from experience. But she was right. He would stand on his own two feet and would turn down every offer of crutches.
He still had friends, sure, he wasn't completely apathic to his development, but he made sure not to sink in too deep into the quick sand. So that was where it all began, he began picking up women from the streets, needed a simple fix, or picked up an innocent young woman from assignments before she was trapped up in solitary.
Then came the drinking, the bars and booze under his bed, his stash that he kept just in case he needed it, no one ever said anything about it, he drank normal amounts, just enough for him to space out and avoid vomit on their floor. He was the normal mother's figment of bad, he drank, he used women for simple, primal needs, he was a known killer, cocking every gun he could find or use his own powers to kill. He wasn't a good guy, but, despite what all of them though, he wasn't a bad one, either. He still helped, and did the job that was ordered to do.
The door opened, leaving a trail of light, a glimmer of the outside world. A head peeked through the door, and he realized it was one of the second-command men. This one was the man who lost his wife a few months ago. Poor guy. The bags under his green eyes gave away his insomnia and restlessness to sleep in the night, and his brown hair was ruffled and disheveled.
The other man noticed the brown files in his hands, and immediately hopped off the metal slab and asked, "Assignment?"
"Yup, this one's in New York City," he gave the files to him. "You up for it, Michaelson?"
The man, Michaelson, the one who had been deliberating his life and going through his memories, nodded and answered with a confident, "Always, Brian."
Brian nodded at the man and looked right at him and gave him a play-by-play, "It's in the afternoon, be incognito, this woman here might be wanted by the others, so be careful and always be armed. You hear me, Michaelson? We don't need anymore casualties. "
"Of course, Brian. I'll be armed and I'll be careful, because since when am I not? And call me by my first name, will you? I'm not corporate," Michaelson smiled at him. "So I'll be needing my team for this?"
"Nope, this is your mission. Solo this time," Brian explained.
"Solo, huh? This woman must be important," Michaelson glanced down at the files.
"Not that important, Lincoln just thought it was time," Brian shrugged.
"Lincoln's dead, you know that, right?" the other man asked him.
"Just because he's dead, doesn't mean his plans are, and he always had a lot in mind for you," he said, speaking of their departed boss.
"My, don't I feel special," Michaelson chuckled.
"Now, sleep, you'll need it for tomorrow," Brian said, huffily. It seemed ever since Lincoln's death, Brian had felt obligated to be the straight-up man for him. It wasn't like he and Lincoln were even close; he just felt it was his responsibility.
"Right o, boss," Michaelson said, tucking the files in his jacket.
"Get back to Elle, she'll be worried or something," Brian said, starting towards the door.
"Elle's never worried," Michaelson said. "G'night, boss."
Brian sighed and, as he closed the door of the room, he said, "Goodnight, Peter."
Petrelli-Gray Residence, New York
Fragments of afternoon light escaped the outside world and entered the familial apartment, leaving a trail of light on the floor and peppered the white walls. Pictures shone on the counters, tables and mantelpieces, giving out the impression that the family was one of those memory keeping families, each of their precious moments captured in time and sealed in a pretty little frame, and, truth be told, they were.
One by one, memories lined up, from baby pictures to a couple standing in each other's arms joyfully, dozens of them scattered around the apartment. Although it seemed like it was full of joy and happiness and cookies with milk, the apartment sounded empty with grief, except a dark-haired man sitting at the kitchen table. He was gripping on his 'Have a Good Day' mug with a smiley face plastered on top of it, but it was still half full, he didn't seem to be in much of a drinking mood.
Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray could count the days it's been like this, with the only person awake was him and he would be pondering, thinking over the details he's left out when he's always accompanied, but it wouldn't matter anyway. It had been almost two months of him like this, insomnia-fuelled nights and waking up earlier than everyone else, rustling up his tangled sheets and making ghost-like steps so that he won't wake up his significant other.
He didn't know why, but it seemed like something inside of him triggered every so slightly, and it ruined him bit by bit. He tried to stop it, to sleep, to toss and turn and forget, it never worked. He sighed, his chest rising and falling as he did. He was a handsome man, with prominent features, his parentage caused him to look like a good-looking Italian, from his father's side, though he couldn't quite think of Daniel Linderman as his father and Natasha Christensen as the woman who carried both him and his twin around for nine months and spent two years doing a swell job as a mother just yet.
That was why he just stuck with Gray all these years, Gabriel Sylar would do no good, and he couldn't wear Linderman as his tab either, he grew up a Gray, mundane and normal, and he was going to live as a Gray. Sylar realized something today, these days and nights, restlessness that triggered two months ago, had already been happening for ten months, only once a month, then.
Every month, on the 12th, it would happen. He racked his mind for a reason, for a why, for an answer, a solution, what happened on the 12th? His brother died on the 21st, so it couldn't be that, something in him always thought it was a prediction. Something would happen on the 12th, someday, one day he might just wake up and everything would change. It wouldn't be this month, apparently.
Sylar shifted in his seat, and watched the view from the table. It was reaching afternoon, and, soon, he would leave this house, bid his polite goodbyes and be hidden behind bookshelves of a New York library. Just another day for him.
"Morning," someone says. Sylar looks up from the table and sees a dark-haired Claire, rubbing her eyes, her hair as disheveled as his is.
"It's almost afternoon," Sylar noted.
"Is it?" she asked, sitting down next to him. "Afternoon, then."
She kisses him slightly, a form of embracement and adoration after these four years together, with him being a glorified martyr for her, and she being the same old cheerleader needing to be saved all the time. Different knight, same story. Sylar checked his namesake and saw the time. "I've got to get going," he said.
"Alright, then," Claire smiled at him.
It started normal enough, with Sylar looking at Claire, almost observing her behavior. Then it suddenly swerved when Claire noted how he and Peter were so alike. How they always cared, and loved, then unresolved issues just burst out of him. Sprouting jealousy, envy and the fact that he would never measure up to Peter in Claire's eyes, he was always at the top of the list, then he brought up the kids, the family.
"You don't need me, do you? And you think that this family's so much better without me, is that it?" he yelled.
"Don't you dare! Don't you dare question your place in this family; they are as much your children as they are mine!" Claire argued. Her face was full of anger, and he didn't want that to happen, but he just pushed and pushed her to her boundary. So much so that he couldn't stop the next few words that were erupting through him.
"But not as much as Peter's, right?" he asked. He was answered by a sudden, sullen silence, a veil over them that he couldn't take off. She looked down, her green eyes fixated on the ground and her dark hair falling over her face.
"Truth is, Claire, if Peter walked through that door, you would drop everything for him. Say that the kids are his, and suddenly everything I've done for you for the last four years don't matter anymore," Sylar says, almost silently to the core. "And that would thoroughly prove what I've been thinking all this time. I'm just a sore replacement for Peter."
"Get out," Claire crossed her arms, but she still wasn't making eye-contact. "You said you needed to go, so go."
He didn't correct her, didn't tell her that he could stay if she wanted to, as long as they reconciled. She heard him put on a jacket and the jingling of his house keys and he left, as per her request, without as much as a goodbye.
Room 418, Crestblade
Peter was packing. Not so much that he needed a knapsack to sling over his back, enough to put in his jacket pockets. Money, guns, fake IDs, the whole enchilada to bring on a standard, that and his abilities, that was. He looked through his tangled sheets for something, but found something else entirely. In his hands were pieces of messy papers. He sighed.
Of course, he thought. His dreams had little improvements. Gone were the restless nights, but, with this improvement coming into play, the drawings did, too. Hues of black and white transferred from his mind to the medium of paper. He never remembered waking up and getting a pen and scribbling incoherent things that never made sense in the morning, he just woke up and there they were.
He sat down on his bed and flipped through the new set. It showed a young woman, dark-haired with her face down, her back against a padded wall, something out of a mental institution. The other showed a dark-haired man and a short-haired blonde girl in the glow of numerous TV screens.
As always, Peter didn't know who these people were or what they meant to him. He learned a long time ago that amnesia was a bitch to him. Sure, some people got it for clean slates, but, so far, his road was dusty and useless.
"Hey, there," someone said, Peter looked up and saw his bedmate, Elle.
"Right back at ya," Peter put down the pictures on the counter.
"Packing, are we?" Elle asked, wrapping her arms around his waist possessively.
"Assignment," Peter turned around quickly and kissed her, hot on the mouth.
Soon, she was responding with heat and burying her hands in his raven hair. Her hands then trailed down his face and his neck, sending electrical shocks, tiny but all the same shocking, through his skin. He bit her lip accidentally out of shock and drew back from her.
"Mmm," Elle said, licking her lips playfully. She sat down on his bed and looked up to a packing Peter. "So why didn't I get wind of a new assignment?"
"First solo, m'lady, I don't need anyone babysitting me this time," Peter smirked.
"Since when have you ever?" Elle laid back.
"So I've got to get going, if you haven't gotten the hint," he said.
"No time for this?" she asked, creating a ball of blue in her hands.
"Sorry, Elle, I'm a limited man," Peter shrugged.
"Fine, then," Elle got up and started to the door. "See ya later."
Peter didn't really know how to describe what Elle was to him. They liked each other, were friends when the door closed behind them and the sheets were made into their usual clean manner, and enjoyed each other when the lights dimmed around them. They just didn't know how to describe each other.
It was bond, dysfunctional, and it was known through their tight-knitted group in the building, but, at least it was a bond. She was a beautiful thing, she carried herself with some kind of confidence he immediately found appealing, and no one could deny her beauty. Blonde hair, straight and cascaded down to her back, and blue eyes with striking lashes she always used during their encounters. She was playful, eccentric, fun, a kitten, if put in a nice way, and he was her ball of yarn to play with.
Peter turned to get a fake ID saying his name was James Follett instead of Peter Michaelson, but saw that someone was in his way. This time, it wasn't Elle, it was Alice. The dark-haired young woman smiled at him, crossing her arms, giving him the ID while saying, "You know, they're thinking about making you godfather."
"I wouldn't be any good at that, they know me enough," Peter shrugged. "Hi, Al."
"Hi," Alice smiled sweetly. She was different than the rest, she was one of the few women he didn't take in his arms and become Don Juan with, she was different. "They just want you to be part of their kid's life."
"A kid that isn't even born yet and they've already picked out a name. Danielle something, right?" Peter asked.
"Daniella. And Matt and Daphne are optimists, that's why," Alice explained. Then she picked up what he was doing and asked, "Assignment?"
"First solo," Peter said for the second time today.
"Huh," Alice pondered.
"Jeez, be happy, will you? I've got more capabilities than what's evident, Al," Peter sneered.
Then something inside the young woman, about five or six years his junior, broke and it happened before him. Just when he was about to dip down to give her the customary kiss on the cheek, she got up and looked about as serious as a heart attack.
"Don't go," Alice said. "What the hell are you talking about?" Peter asked.
"Don't go," Alice repeated. "If you care about me in the slightest way possible, don't go. Just stay here and you can do as much shit as you want and get away with it. Please."
"Huh, that offer's quite tempting, but, what makes you think I care about you?" Peter asked.
"Why else would you stand to talk to me?" Alice looked up at him.
"Because I like to stand and I like to talk, the conversations just happen to take place with you," he sighed.
"You always think you don't need anyone," Alice was to the point of yelling now.
"Well, news flash, Al, I don't. And what is it about this mission that's so dangerous that I can't go?" Peter grilled her.
"Why are you so arrogant? Were you always this arrogant, this stubborn?" Alice asked.
"I wouldn't know!" Peter yelled. "I've only got ten months worth of memory stuck in this head of mine. You wouldn't know what it feels like to not know who the hell you really are! I woke up ten months ago with no memory, no nothing, you wouldn't know what it feels like, Alice." All these months, he thought he picked himself up, he thought this issue didn't matter anymore. Apparently it hadn't died down yet.
"We tried as much as we could to make feel you belong here," Alice looked down.
"Yeah, it worked sometimes but I can't be a pathetic comic strip all the time, Al," Peter sighed, trying to calm down, both his nerves and Alice's.
Something on her face changed, her expression changed not so drastically but Peter could notice, he's always been the observant person. She flinched and shifted, it was weird to watch. Unless she was hiding something.
"This is why you don't want me to go," Peter looked at her. "This woman's got something to do with my past, and you don't want me to find out. You want me to stay here and be your little pet. Well, too bad, but you should never have gotten Lincoln to cut off my leash." He passed her, no sorry, no correction, no nothing, just left without as much as a goodbye.
Near Hunter Bistro, New York
Nearly four years. Four years of picking up the pieces, so much so that their life was almost fixed, every fragment stuck by their Super Glue. But, today, another piece fell to floor and no one had the strength to bend down and put it back to where it belonged. Especially Claire.
For now, she was content enough wandering around, hands in her pockets, just deliberating and when she was done, she could call Sylar and tell him she loved him. Because she did, even if he didn't know why, but she did. With all her heart, she loved the man who cared enough to risk his own sleep and comfort her through the night during the early years of being together and she was still a mess.
She loved the man who introduced her to a different world, or, rather, a world she overlooked because of her dreaminess and whining. She could see with a different set of eyes, and see that her family meant something and she wasn't going to risk anything by doing anything out of the way.
A few vigilante jobs with Mia before, but nothing more, nothing drastic to be pulled on, no government plot or anything. She was fine with pulling kids out of burning building and escaping into the dead of night before they could inspect her for burns and bruises like her first time. She was fine with saving someone from a moving vehicle heading towards them and receiving grateful thanks before she went off without her identity revealed.
She was fine with this hybrid of a life, between the hero and the mother; she settled right in between, a rare kind, strong, independent woman who proved they could raise a family and still do something in the world. It might seem naïve but she was content, she was happy and it gave her a strange glow around her. She stopped once she saw the bistro, happy colors painted across it with a name on it that read 'Hunter'.
Claire smiled at that. She stepped inside and was greeted with a flow of people on tables and counters, coming in for their lunch promotion. She loved this place. Both singles and families came flocking in, it spanned for all age groups, in fact, she always thought of this place as somewhere that could be documented in a TLC special.
She sat at the counter, her legs hanging off the floor, and her elbows propped up in a dreamy manner. 21 years old, she was, but inside of her, she still kept the nativity. "Hiya, what can I get you?" a waitress asked her.
"Just get me Jen, please? Tell her it's Claire," Claire smiled at the teenager with a note pad and Southern hospitality kept intact although in the Big Apple. In a few moments, a blonde woman came through with a radiant smile.
"Claire!" she said happily. She embraced the dark-haired woman happily and pulled away and asked, "How are you? What brings you here all alone?"
"In need for comfort food and just plain comfort," Claire smiled. "How's Hunter?"
"Hunter is two, enough said," Jen smiled. "How's everything?"
"Fine," Claire answered. "Hannah and Michael are three, and the weight of abilities isn't really evident when you're a toddler."
"Great, but I wasn't asking about the kids, as much as I love them, I was asking about you," Jen said.
"Sylar and I had a fight. About Peter," Claire sighed, cupping her face in her hands.
"I should've guessed," the blonde said. "Come on, Sy's gonna forgive you. He always does. You two love each other and people who love each other figure things out. How do think me and Greg held on this long?" Claire chuckled.
"He loves you, Claire, just remember that. You'll always kiss and make up, even if it does touch the subject of Peter," Jen said, greeting the new customers with a smile.
"Hope so," the young mother looked up to her friend. The phone rings, shocking both of them and Jen laughs as she wipes the counter with a cloth and a smile. "What?" Claire asks.
"That's Sylar, right there. I can bet 5 bucks," Jen said playfully. Claire answered the phone and on the line, of course, was Sylar's calming voice.
"Claire? Yeah, I'm sorry about this morning. I was stupid and everything," he rambled on.
"It's fine, Sylar," Claire smiles to herself. "I shouldn't have brought it up. You're perfect just the way you are, Sy. You shouldn't need any comparisons to your brother."
"Thanks, Claire," Sylar said. Even over the phone, the young mother could see him smiling. "I'll see you back home."
"Yeah. And Sylar," she said before she hung up. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Sylar responded and the call ended.
"I better get back. The house feels like a home again," Claire said to Jen. The blonde woman shurgged and said cheerfully, "I'll walk you out, then."
There was a road dividing them. Cars passing and moving so they hardly noticed each other. On the right side was a bistro, quaint and homely with a pair of women outside, saying their goodbyes.
One was a dark-haired beauty, swept to the side when she embraced her friend, the tall, slim, blonde with an apron tied around her waist like a waitress's.
On the left side is a shady-looking fellow, his hands pocketed and breathing steadily. Dressed in black, some people shot curious stares at him. in his hands were files and he looked up to see that the brunette woman, the one who was saying her goodbyes were stepping in front of the road, and a car was rushing towards her.
The man started forward, trying to save the woman because the car wouldn't stop, it swerved and turned as if the woman was a target, and this car was the weapon meant to shoot. He never wanted to save someone as much as this woman. A perfect stranger but he felt the impulse to save her.
He didn't know why, but one word rang through his head: Cheerleader. It was like a burst of light and it kept repeating the word in his head until the car was really close. It happened in slow motion in his eyes. But he saved her, the cheerleader, that was all he knew. Then everything turned black.
A/N: So the Return! Tell me what you think!
-Aly
