Sorry, sorry, when will the sorry that float from his lips mean something? Anything at all?

"I'm so sorry, Claire."

And I have wings growing out of my ass, yeah your so very sorry.

"Say that one more time and the gun gets pointed up, Sylar."

Before another 'sorry' escaped his lips (that I was waiting to turn up in that smirk that chased me in my nightmares) I let lose at lest five bullets right into his chest (not a single one of them near that extraordinary brain of his).

"Next time you won't be so lucky, Gabriel, next time."

-

"Where the hell have you been, Claire?"

"Shut up, as I say each month it's none of your business, Knox. Move, we have work to do."

It's a pattern, the one that plays over and over again each and every mouth, and every single year.

The night ends in the blood and brain filled nightmare (but of course I don't scream, I ran out of those a long time ago) that he's always the star of and ending with me making my way over to my house (not his, never his).

Point the gun (that is always set smugly in my little pink hands) at Mr. Dad and watch him fall into his part, 'I'm so sorry, so very sorry'.

And each time the words come to my ears without a ounce of truth to them but like all the months before the gun never seems to aim up, just one or two in the chest then I'm gone (like a bat out of hell, at lest I would be something, anything).

"We missed you Claire-bear, dealing with personal issues again, love?"

If any other lips had spoken those sacred words (Claire-bear, there a reminder of my lost humility) they would be spurting blood from undesired places but it was him, and he could call me anything in the world.

"And as habit calls, I bet you were off paying a little visit to Elle, now weren't you Adam dear?"

Our lips came together (like they were old pages of a book that always touched even when greedy fingers pulled them apart) like every day of these long four years.

Later on (away from them, who follow us like sheep to the slater) we would fall into each other like two old lovers back from a day of work and his lips (that are the only ones that bring feeling to my cold skin) would whisper our story, 'then one day, Claire-bear, four years to this very day, Adam met his Eve.'