You watch her folding her arms and staring insistently at you. You're still stunned by the way she rushed there so unexpectedly, and you feel your ears burning. You're not sure if more than two minutes have passed since when you saw her getting off of the taxi and asking to one of the boucers if he knew something about Peter Petrelli, and you hate having been on the door in that very moment. Just gone out to smoke one of that craps sold by the pusher behind the corner - that you wouldn't be able to define with other words than sickening - just to 'freak out like everybody does'.

She has looked at you with her eyes wide open, maybe she didn't expect to see you smoking, or more probably she didn't expect to see anything of the man she found in front of herself.

You wouldn't be able to say how did you end up in the public toilet, and you really have no will to know how it's going to go on, what you will be forced to tell her to get her out of the way and persuade her to leave. You just know that it would have been much easier if you didn't met at all.

"Why were you left with that scar?" judging by her bitter voice it seems to be already the third or forth time she's asking you the question.

You turn towards the washbasin to rinse your hands. "I'm not the only one, it seems" you turn round the question to her – just not to betray the coward you have become.

"What do you mean?..."

You dry your hands on the trousers. "The hair, Claire"

She bites her lips and close her eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about"

"Ah, you think to be the only one pretending to be somebody else?"

"Then don't speak about it as it was something concerning just me!"

You shook your head. "It was just to explain that there are some scars that remain even to the ones who regenerate" you are about to go, you have no intention to waste a word more.

"What are you doing?" her voice is turned on by a life that no one should be allowed to have anymore.

"Go away, Claire"

You find her before you, trying to block your way, and the thing doesn't surprise you that much – you had expected a bit of resistance. She's always a Petrelli.

"No!!" she grabs both your wrists. "What the hell have you become?! I spend months looking after you, just listen to me!"

You throw out a joyless laugh. "Listen to you? Listen to what, exactly?"

"I just want to know what happened"

She's nearly crying, and fuck, no, not this. "You want the Peter that saved you, don't you? Well, can't you understand that a bomb has passed between him and me?! Is it that difficult to get or you think you can do it…?"

She shooks her head. "A bomb wouldn't have been enough"

You grumble something that neither you can identify but that sounds pretty like a 'stop wasting time', and try to shake her off.

Bad move, because all you get are her lips spasmodically pushed against yours and her nails scratching your face. Maybe she's stupidly hoping to hurt you, and fuck, fuck, fuck she's succeeding in it. And not with her hands.

She draws herself back just a second before the moment you would have pushed her. She's red in her face and maybe even mortified, but there is even satisfaction sparkling in that furious grimace.

For an instant you feel the desire to slap her face, you would even gain one more reason to hate yourself.

"Can you listen to me, now?"

This time it's you grabbing her wrists and immobilizing her much more than she would ever hope to do with you.

"Don't to this anymore"

"And you stop letting your life passing before your eyes!"

That's enough.

You violently pull her towards you, beating the mouth against here without any grace and risking to choke her with your tongue. "This is what you want, mh…?" you breath on her face. "This, damn…?"

The noise of steps coming from the anteroom of the toilet warns you that soon you won't be alone anymore, and you fast enter one of the water closets, with out letting her go.

You lock the door, push Claire against the wall and cover her mouth with a hand before she can protest. You move the hand half a second before starting again to kiss her like a madman, cupping her ass to pull her closer and bending your head to be more comfortable.

She doesn't need to start punching your chest to make you realize that she doesn't like it at all… you don't like it either. Not this way. But it wasn't you to start it.

You kiss the outline of her jaw waiting her to relax a bit, then you brutally take away her jacket, letting it fall on the damp floor.

You don't look her in the eyes as you unbutton her jeans, and you think about how long you haven't been doing something like that… about the last time you had to do with a woman dressed with something different from underwear. You discover you don't remember.

Even your trousers are unbuttoned now, and with an impulsive gesture you throw away even your t-shirt. It's really getting hot. You make slide her shoulder straps until her elbow, before dragging down her top and rolling it up at her waist.

You raise her chin and force her to watch you, so she can see what she started, and because yes, it's fucking liberating to lay the blame on someone else.

You hope that at least the greedy thrust with which you make your way inside her body will make her open the eyes, but your brain has got totally dim and you can't verify it. You can just think about how damn hot and wet she is, and that missing resistance because you're not the first one. Who knows why the hell did you expect yourself to be it, besides. She's twenty, God Christ, you shouldn't be willing to take off by bites the head of who arrived before you.

When you hear her sighing you press again your mouth against her. You grip her soft hips with a strength that will leave your fingertips printed on her, as you thrust deeper, so much that it feels you could smash her.

You go down with the head along her neck and lick away the sweat, inhaling the smell of bath foam. That has nothing to do with Niki's or whoever's perfume. It tastes sour and like the insane desire to continue to lick her with the same hunger.

You thrust more, parting her legs with one of yours and feeling her closing around you, and here they are, shit. Her eyes. That blue that clashes so much with your life, that shouldn't exist anymore, that hurts. They're wide open, shocked, and you can't say what more. They almost manage to make you remember that you still love her… but luckily neither them can do that much. What comes out is nothing more than an annoying vice that contorts your bowels.

The bra you didn't manage to take away before throwing yourself inside her is now only an uncomfortable obstruction, totally screwy. You feel her nipples rubbing against yours as you adhere more to her body and your sweats melt.

You hoped to keep out of that fucking closet that kind of conscience that sometimes comes out and sucks, but it's tears what makes your eyes sting, more than sweat, more than anything. You grind your teeth and don't raise your head.

It tastes salty when your lips are awkwardly caressed by his forehead. Wide, free from forelocks. At their place now there's only that horrible scratch.

For the first time you manage to move your hands, taking them on his hips and feeling them impregnating of that nauseating sensation of sticky. His penis thrusts every time deeper, it seems searching the way to stay inside you forever. You open more your legs until you hear the 'crack' of the jeans' fabric that breaks. Your breath fasten until it stops in your throat, as that beast flings against you shaken by the orgasm. Your convulsions are so hard that almost make you shiver.

Then his sperms spreads inside you, with such a violence that it seems to reach every part of your body. It burns, but not as that new, umpteenth scar. That doesn't stoop bleeding, that makes your stomach, your chest and your head hurt. And it doesn't make a great difference knowing that this is the only person in the whole universe from whom you would ever accept to put your dignity under your shoes at the point of being fucked against the wall of a public toilet.

You ask yourself why you're not crying, but maybe you got out of the habit. You lean your head against the wall and murmur an 'I love you' that tastes of saliva, sweat and panting. Peter doesn't hear you, and you know it's infinitely better this way.