Gee, I'm alone, in my room, with a laptop, the Internet and a brain…BING BING! Random Heroes story! My first Heroes story and it's a one-sided Paire…and I own neither Claire nor Peter, or Hiro, Nathan, Niki…hell, I don't own the show! SHOCKER!!! This is told from Claire's POV. There IS a reason for the odd title but this doesn't have a lot to do with the Shakspearen play... now, enjoy!

Why Do I Envy Juliet?

It all began with a simple play.

I was a senior in a school in New York. I lived with my real father, Nathan and his family. The school I was attending decided to put on the play of Romeo and Juliet, and somehow, I managed to secure the role of Juliet. This surprised me, for I had, for some reason, a dislike of the character Juliet. A dislike that I thought bordered on envy. Why I would envy a character in a play, I couldn't understand. Anyway, I came home on that Tuesday afternoon with a script book in one hand and a carrier bag full of beautiful Tudor dresses in the other. After manoeuvring into the spacious living room, I'm surprised to see him sitting on the sofa.

You see, for the past few months now, there had been this man in my life. I met him quite by chance in my old high school in Odessa, Texas, and he soon became "my hero". I often thought of him, not as the ordinary man he was, but the handsome hero I perceived him to be. Obviously, the discovery that we were related came as a huge shock to me. I couldn't help but feel slightly disgusted at myself – I was lusting after my uncle for God's sake! But soon, we managed to strike up a close platonic relationship. He became my friend, my confidante. I felt I could come to him for anything. But on that Tuesday afternoon, I realized something I couldn't tell him.

He had been sitting on the sofa, and immediately congratulated me the moment I entered the room (most likely because he read my mind, the idiot…)

"Romeo and Juliet, it's a great play," grinned he, as he began rifling through my bag.

"What, you read Shakespeare?" I teased, "I didn't peg you for a person who reads."

He pulled a face at me, and I giggled girlishly, much to my humiliation. Thankfully, he didn't seem to care about my strange laughter as he snatched my script from my hand.

"Of course I read! We did this in high school," he said proudly.

"You're a hospice nurse, not an actor!"

He shrugged, "I can still act!"

I laughed again, before sitting on the sofa and folding my arms, "Well, then, show me how brilliantly you act."

Smiling, he opened the book to a random page near the end.

"You don't believe I can act?" he smiled teasingly, "Then I shall prove it."

I merely watched as he stood by the window and began to read.

'How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I
Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath…'

Ever so often, he glanced triumphantly at me. I did not react, but stared in awe and attempted to slow my beating heart. It was then that something changed. He stood by the window, striking a powerful pose, and read passionately. The soft sun streamed though the glass, blessing him with a golden outline, making him seem like an angel. I felt my eyes widen as I made my discovery. He was not my uncle anymore. I was in love with him.

You may find this notion disgusting, but I didn't. The idea of caring for my uncle as a person would care for a lover did not repulse me as much as it should. In fact, it suddenly seemed like everything was sliding into place.

In the days that passed, these feelings did not leave, but if anything, they grew stronger.

I was 19 years old and he and I still liked to have movie marathons. We often arranged different movies on different days. On bad days, we watched feel-good movies. On dull days, we watched actions and adventures. On good days, we watched horror movies. The genre of movie changed with our moods. On a particular Saturday, he was in a happy mood, and I felt romantic.

I remember wishing that I didn't feel so into love and romance while I had my heart's desire by my side, but nevertheless, my mood didn't change. He grudgingly agreed to watch a few romantic comedies (or "chick flicks" as he put it) with me, before I allowed him to pick his own choice of movie. During one of his movies, I found myself falling asleep against his shoulder.

I woke up some hours later. The television was off, and a blanket I didn't remember was covering my form. I sighed, and stretched, and only then did I realise I was alone. I sat up, and couldn't help but pitifully call out his name. A few moments later, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw him standing by the door, grinning down at me.

"Sleep well?" he asked nonchalantly. I rolled my eyes.

"I'd have slept better if I had a shoulder to use as a pillow," I replied as I stood and began folding the blanket. He chuckled, before taking the blanket from me and neatly folding it.

"What time is it?" I asked tiredly. He glanced at his watch and informed me that it was almost eleven at night.

"Another movie?" he suggested. He then walked to my father's video cabinet and produced the movie of Romeo + Juliet, wearing a goofy smile as he brandished it.

"We never saw it when you got the lead in that play," he smiled. I smiled half-heartedly back, but I continued staring at the front cover of the video. My heart gave a sickening leap as I took in the picture, of Juliet and her Romeo.

"Claire? Claire?"

I looked up when I realised he was calling me, wearing a frown.

"You okay?" he asked concernedly. I nodded, rubbing my eyes.

"Yes. I just…wanna go to bed," I sighed. He smiled and nodded, and then placed the video back in its rightful place as I sat back on the sofa and sunk into the cushions with a sigh. He turned and laughed.

"You're not sleeping here!" he cried, "You have a real bed, y'know!"

"Too tired," I grumbled stubbornly, closing my eyes. There was silence, and then my eyes flew open when I felt a strange sensation of being lifted. I look around blearily to see him carrying me bridal style up to the stairs.

"Thanks for the warning," I said sarcastically.

"You were tired," he replied in a mocking impersonation of my voice. I slapped him playfully on the arm, but let my hand linger when I felt the muscle underneath.

We seemed to reach my room all too quickly. He lovingly placed me on the bed and pulled the cover up under my chin.

"Goodnight, Claire," he grinned, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night," I mumbled, but then, in my exhaustion, I allowed those three little words, "I love you," to slip past my lips. I then froze, my eyes slightly widened. After two long years, I'd finally told him the truth – not as a niece would say it, but as a lover. I waited anxiously in the dark for his answer, which soon came.

"Love ya too, Claire-bear," he said, before leaving the room and quietly shutting the door behind him, unaware that he had just left my heart in tatters. Because now I knew. Tears built up quickly in my eyes and spilled out onto my cheeks, soaking my pillow. Yet, I didn't make a sound, nor did I try to stop the tears. I couldn't find it in myself to care.

He didn't love me. Not like I loved him at least.

He hadn't said it in the way a boyfriend would say it. He didn't use my proper name, he didn't say "I love you too", just "Love ya too, Claire-bear". That was the one sentence that will live with me my whole life. Those words spoken on the night I found out he would never romantically love me.

I was 22 years old and more tears were coursing down my cheeks. But they were tears of heartbreak, tears of grief. Nathan was on my left, supporting me, not allowing any of his own tears escape. Heidi had his left hand in her right, giving him her moral support as we watched the priest speak. Monty and Simon were sitting by their mother, their eyes lowered to their laps. The priest was standing in front of the mahogany coffin, staring remorsefully at the people sitting in pews in front of him.

The official story released was that he was in a car crash, but only Nathan, Heidi and I knew that he was murdered. How, who, where, we still don't know, but all we knew then was that Dr Mohinder Suresh brought him to us. We all expected him to jump up, use my ability to come back to life again, but he couldn't, or wouldn't. Unlike me, it seemed he had control and a choice over his powers. To begin, I was in disbelief, keeping close to him so he could use my powers, but he didn't. We tried to find any cause of death, but we found nothing.

We were now following the coffin out into the graveyard, but most people had left. It was just the six of us now, me, Nathan, Angela, Heidi and the boys. We arrived at the grave, and I almost began crying again when I saw the large headstone inscribed:

Peter Petrelli, September 4th 1982 – February 18th 2012. Loving, unique, special, he will be forever missed.

I took a deep breath as I stood on the edge of the six-foot deep hole, and watched the coffin begin to be lowered. I wished I could be in the box with him, but I couldn't. He had a choice. I don't.

The box was now completely lowered and they were beginning to pile dirt on top of it. I was tempted to stop them, stop them throwing dirt onto my beloved, but I couldn't. I merely watched as his final resting place was concealed. The love of my life was dead.

He had a choice.

I don't.

It had been five years, but I could never forget. I was 27 years old, and pregnant with my first child.

It was the result of a drunken one-night stand six months ago. I wished it had been his and that it was planned, but it wasn't, and I would still love this child the same. Nathan was furious when I announced I was pregnant and keeping the baby, but I didn't care, and I knew that Peter would find me admirable.

Presently, I was kneeling again in front of his grave, gently placing a single rose in front of the grave. He always claimed roses were soppy, something you gave to a lover, and I agreed. That was the point, after all. I sighed miserably, and reached out to stroke the cold marble of the headstone.

If I could die, I would have killed myself years ago. But I can't, and I know he wouldn't want that. Besides, I thought as I lovingly placed my hands on my growing stomach, I have something to live for again.

As I stare at the gravestone, my mind wandered back to that Tuesday afternoon, when he read me Shakespeare. I remembered the jealously I felt towards Juliet, and only then did I realise.

I was envious of Juliet!

How ridiculous! The idea of being jealous of a character in a play! Why would I? Because she was an ordinary girl? Because she had the ability to die and not wake up on an autopsy table a few hours later?

No.

I wasn't jealous of those things.

Tears mounted in my eyes as I realized the truth.

I was jealous because in the end, Juliet got her Romeo.

Now, it is three months after that day in front of the tombstone, and I am cradling my newborn son in my arms. He is blinking up at me with dark blue eyes, and I contentedly stroke his fuzzy blonde hair. This is the first boy I've loved since Peter, and I think I love him more than I'll ever loved Peter…and I love Peter more than life.

Nathan is sitting beside me, unable to wipe the smile off of his face as he looks at his first grandson.

"He's beautiful, Claire," he comments, breaking the trance-like state the baby had me under.

"I know," I grin.

"I can't believe I was so mad," Nathan sighs, "I mean, he's beautiful, and he's made you the happiest I've seen you in a long time."

I smile and nod as I hold the baby closer to me. Nathan looks expectantly at me.

"So, what will you call him?" he asks. I think for a moment, before deciding there is only one name I can give my son.

"Peter," I whisper, "His name is Peter."

Fin

Well, that only took me a while (like an hour and a half!!!). When I get a plot bunny, I stick it out to the bitter end, don't I? Okay, I needed a KIND OF happy ending and I wanted to show Claire wouldn't be all sad and depressed for the rest of her life.

Anyway…any good? Bad? Awful? Nothing to do with Romeo + Juliet? Review!