DISCLAIMER: I don't own Heroes. Nope. Not mine at all.

DREAMS

Chapter Two: Like Soda Cans

At the same time that Peter Petrelli was bound for New York City, Claire Bennet sat quietly on the end of her bed in Costa Verde, California, thinking about him. Everyone told her that he'd died that night at Kirby Plaza, but to Claire that was so much horse elbows. Spontaneous regeneration, or whatever it was called—that was her power, and Peter had it too. He'd have healed himself afterwards, she was certain of it.

She had to be certain of it, because the alternative was unbearable even to consider. Still, thoughts, nasty little thoughts made of mental acid, crept unbidden into her mind: if he really had healed, then why had he disappeared? Why wouldn't he have come back straight away if he was all right?

Because, Claire would thought-snap at them, he's Peter. He left because he didn't want to risk going nuclear again. He didn't want to hurt anyone. It frustrated her that, whenever she told herself this, there was always that tiny hint of uncertainty. Trying not to think about it was her preferred course of action, but then that other, more persistent thought would appear where it had no right to be.

What if he's dead?

Images would always follow this, like soda cans tied to a newlyweds' car: Peter, lying sprawled on the ground in front of her school in Texas, a pool of glistening blood surrounding him and his legs in entirely the wrong positions…Peter, in the living room of the Petrelli mansion, blood on his face and his eyes white and lifeless. That huge piece of glass, the end barely visible amongst his dark hair because it'd been driven in so deep…

Bouncing nervously on her bed, praying desperately that her father wouldn't come upstairs and see the huge, fat tears running down her face, Claire tried thinking of other things, but everything just led her mind back to Peter. She found that she'd broken out in a cold sweat and practically tore her blue sweater off, hands shaking. Underneath she wore the first clean clothes she'd been able to find, since her PJs were dirty; she had ended up in a white t-shirt and…

…Oh God, no, why did I put that on…

…The red skirt that had been one-half of her Union Wells cheerleading uniform, back in Texas. The words floated up at her before she could stop them. They were spoken in his voice, too, which was completely unhelpful.

Save the cheerleader. More tears now, accompanied by big, gasping sobs that were impossibly loud and even more impossible to stop. Her dad would hear her; he was in his room, just down the hall from Claire's. Any second now he'd come bursting through the door expecting to find his daughter in some sort of life-threatening situation, and instead there'd be…

Just me, thought Claire, disgusted with herself. Just me crying like a little kid over a single sentence. Not even a full one, either, just three words!

'Ugh,' she said aloud, shame stemming some of the flow of tears just as her father came, yes, bursting in. Noah Bennet's eyes, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, had a terrified and hunted look.

'Claire?' he said, a little more loudly than was necessary due to the volume-altering powers of dread. When he was satisfied that his daughter wasn't being murdered by anything (including her closet; he checked inside it), he perched apprehensively beside her and said, 'I heard you crying.' Claire knew her father well enough that she didn't need to work very hard to deduce that this actually meant 'Why were you crying, and where does he live so I can kill him?'

'It's nothing, dad, okay? I was just thinking…' She trailed off, but her expression was as easy to read as a Dr Seuss book. Noah put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

'About Peter,' he finished for her. This time it wasn't a question but a statement of the irrefutable truth. He sighed. 'Claire Bear, I know you miss him, but you need to let him go. He's gone.'

'Yes he is!' Claire practically leapt off the bed, pushing back the niggling uncertainties with her rage. 'Peter's alive, I know he is! Everyone keeps telling me that he's not coming back. Well, I think it's about time somebody tried to find him!'

'Claire!' shouted Noah, but his daughter had already thought to herself the teenage equivalent of Blow This for a Game of Soldiers, and so her dad had been left shouting at the last wisp of blonde hair as it whipped out of sight and followed the rest of Claire down the stairs and out of the house.

-

Muggy greyness was torn in half to reveal light and a rather large nose which, incapable of eyeballing, was nostrilling Peter. He gave a start and sat bolt upright, nearly colliding with it. The nose was pulled back and he could see that it belonged to the curious face of Trisha the horrible airplane child. Peter rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then yawned hugely. 'How long was I out?'

'Who's Claire?'

'What?' Sparing a lightning-fast glance out the window, he saw that they hadn't landed yet. The look wasn't fast enough, however, and combined with hunger and nerves Peter now felt he was about to be violently sick. Unable to help himself, he was treated to a guiltily pleasing mental image of said sickness happening all over the little girl next to him.

'You talked in your sleep.' Trisha was making it clear that she'd withhold all information unless asked nicely for it. Inside her eight-year-old chest beat the heart of a crotchety old lady.

Peter was in no kind of mood for this. 'What did I say while I was asleep?' he demanded, and the girl answered him entirely out of taken-abackness. Clearly people hardly ever demanded that she do anything.

'You mumbled a bit at first, and then you went, "no, Claire, don't do that, they'll find you",' she volunteered hesitantly. 'After that you just kept saying, "Claire, Claire" and I started to think you'd gone a little bit mad. I thought about waking you up but it was very enter-tain-ning.' She smirked, fiddling with the big plastic clover she'd no doubt bought in Ireland. Little girls who smirk are generally very suspicious and untrustworthy, but what she'd said had sounded truthful enough. Peter wondered vaguely who Claire was, as the woman who worked the plane's PA system announced they'd be landing in about a half-hour. Maybe Claire, whoever she was, would turn out to be his girlfriend and give him a good smack around the ear for being away so long.

Girlfriend…That felt odd. Both nice and weird at the same time. Never having read Alice in Wonderland, Peter wasn't familiar with the phrase 'curiouser and curiouser', but if he had been, he'd have thought it then. Waiting for the moment when the engines would fail and death, in the form of hard tarmac, would come up to meet him, Peter tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It had quite a lot to do with the plane's steady descent but also with his current internal struggle. What if everyone in his old life had already moved on, and didn't want to see him?

Trisha gave him a funny look as he muttered to himself. 'I guess I'll just have to wait and see.'

-

Claire had marched angrily for five blocks before she saw the man that followed her. Catching him in the corner of her vision as she turned into a random street, she forced herself not to freeze in terror.

He was taller than her, round and a little past middle-age, with thinning hair and black-framed glasses. Over-emotional though she often was, Claire could never be called stupid; the hungry look in his eyes would have brought the word 'pervert' or 'rapist' to the mind of any other woman in that situation, but Claire had seen too much in the past six months to be as naïve as that. The word that sprang to her mind was 'Company'.

As she sped up, she glanced around the deserted street for some kind of weapon. Come on, she thought desperately. A brick, a fence post, an old sofa, anything will do! But there was nothing. Setting her jaw, determined to go down fighting if at all, Claire swivelled round to face her stalker.

The fact that she'd noticed his presence seemed to delight him; perhaps it made the hunt that much more enjoyable. Stepping closer, he said, 'My, my. If it isn't Claire Butler. Or should I say, Claire Bennet?' This was obviously meant to be shocking. The man looked extremely disappointed at Claire's blatant lack of bewilderment, but recovered nicely. 'Yes, I though you might've figured out who I am. I work for your father's former employers.'

'I know that.' The words lashed out like a snake, swift and chock full of venom.

He ignored this. 'The Company has spent quite some time looking for you, Claire. You're very important to us. What you can do has the potential to help a lot of people.' His words dripped so much honey that all the ants on the sidewalk stopped what they were doing and stared up at him expectantly. 'If you'll just come with me, we'll…'

'You're lying,' Claire snapped, interrupting him. 'You don't want to help people, you just want to take me away so you can test me. Well, I'm not going anywhere with you!' The last sentence had been yelled. The Company man's eyes darted around, making sure none of the neighbours had heard. Then he turned and beckoned to someone Claire hadn't noticed before.

Another man strode toward her; Claire gave an audible gasp of surprise. This newcomer was about the same age and build as his associate but with no glasses and darker hair. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, making him seem paranoid and slightly mad.

'This is my friend Mr Parkman,' said the first man, making 'Mr Parkman' sound about as menacing as 'Mr Hitler'. 'He's new at this job but his methods are very effective. Either you come with me, the easy way, or…'

'Or?' Claire whispered, not too terrified yet to take up the challenge.

'Or Mr Parkman will make you wish you'd chosen the easy way.'

If you actually read this far, congratulations! You win Mohinder's fancy shoes! Peter didn't feature much in this chapter, but don't fret, Peterfans! I'll make up for it next time. See you then.