(Author's note: This has gone on far longer than I expected, and I've now used up every single line from my title song, "Magnolia" by The Hush Sound—so I'm going to start cheating. I'll stay within the same artist, at least, but I'm definitely going to have to start using lyrics from other songs…)

You were a fire/

Caught in a storm/
Memories, like embers

Keep us warm/

Traumatized and paranoid from her second encounter with Sylar, Claire had been watching the driveway compulsively for the past two days, carefully monitoring the postman delivering mail, glaring suspiciously at neighbors walking dogs. They'd all dealt with the ordeal in different ways: Angela, by completely redecorating the hallway; Claude, by wandering around the house, eating anything that was left open and turning invisible at the slightest noise; Claire, by watching the perimeter with the vigilance of a well-trained guard dog. Once her father got here, she felt, everything would be all right, but for now she needed to watch.

Thus far, all intruders had proven to be innocuous, but when Claire saw the hyper-flashy red sports car pull into the driveway, her heart nearly stopped (would it start again, she wondered, were she to literally be scared to death? Could that be healed?). This vehicle did not belong to a mailman or an insurance salesman—she didn't know anyone who would drive such an eye-catching monstrosity.

She jumped off the windowsill and went running for Claude—Angela was at a charity fundraiser—who was predictably to be found in the kitchen, working his way through a pack of Fig Newtons that someone had foolishly left on the counter. "There's someone in the driveway," she told him breathlessly. "Someone just pulled up in a car I've never seen before, and I don't know who they are, come look." She grabbed his sleeve and dragged him insistently into the hall, just in time to see Peter and Nathan, looking decidedly worn around the edges, come in the door.

She dropped Claude's arm at once and hurtled herself at them with such force that she nearly drove them back out the doorway, surprised to find that she was just as happy to see Nathan as she was Peter. They hugged her back enthusiastically, Nathan using one hand to steady them on the door frame.

"I think you missed your true calling in life, little miss cheerleader," Peter told her, sounding winded. "Someone call the NFL and tell them we have an emergency linebacker sub."

"What happened?" she demanded, untangling herself from their various limbs. "Where have you two been?"

"Long story," Nathan said, holding up a hand to forestall her questions, "and before we tell it to you, there's a shapeshifter in the trunk that we need to deal with."

Looking over Claire's shoulder, Peter's mouth fell open in a decidedly unattractive way. "Claude?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"He saved my life," Claire explained, "but that's kind of a long story, too. Claude, come help us with this…shapeshifter, or whatever it was."

As they walked down the driveway, Peter remarked offhand, "You know, I'm not sure 'shapeshifter' is the right word. She doesn't just change herself—sometimes she changes things around her, remember, Nathan?"

"Right, well, unless you plan on calling her 'illusionist-who-shifts-not-only-the-shape-of-herself-but-also-the-shapes-of-other-things'," Nathan said sardonically, "maybe we'd better stick to the label we have." He popped the trunk of the car, revealing Candice, unconscious, bent uncomfortably into the small space.

"I just don't think 'shapeshifter' is the right term," persisted Peter. "What if we get mixed up later because we were using the wrong word—"

"Oh, shut up," Claude said. "I haven't seen you two minutes and already you're bothering me."

"Hey, you're the one who came crawling back," Peter ribbed. "Missed me too much, did you?"

"Knew you'd get yourself into some bloody mess and most likely take the rest of the world with you, is more like it," Claude grumbled.

"Look, this is really cute and all," Nathan interrupted, "but do you think we could get her inside before she changes into the Terminator and kills us all?"

"Right," Peter agreed. "You take her legs, we'll get the rest." He started to lift, then stopped and grinned at Nathan. "On second thought, maybe I'd better switch you—I know how you are with a pretty pair of legs."

"I wouldn't talk if I were you, Pete," Nathan shot back. "You're the one who couldn't seem to keep your hands off her."

Claire and Claude nearly dropped Candice, goggling at Peter. "You're joking," Claude laughed. "I don't believe it."

"We are not going to get into that," Peter said determinedly "When you hear the whole story, you'll understand."

"Right," Claude said smugly. "That's what they all say."

---

"You've got to be kidding," Peter said, staring in horror at the phone Claude held toward him.

"No, I'm really very serious," Claude said impatiently. "It's Company policy. If an agent doesn't check in within forty-eight hours, they will find out why. So unless you want to take your chances against a crack retrieval team, I suggest you make the call."

They were gathered in the guest bedroom, perched on various pieces of furniture around a newly conscious Candice who glared at them from the ground. They felt sure she would probably be doing more than glaring, had they not thought to gag her with a piece of duct tape—she was not happy. Peter had had the idea at the last minute to take one of their controlling metal collars with them, and after a few tries, he managed to solder it together with the metal-melting ability he'd seen Sylar use. They'd put their now- harmless captive in the spare room, and had been feeling very good about themselves when Claude had ruined it by warning them of possible Company retaliation.

"This is the only thing to do, and you know it," Claude told him sternly. "Stop shilly-shallying and take the phone."

"I can't be her," Peter protested. "I don't even know if I can use her ability yet."

"There's only one way to find out," Claude said, grabbing his hand and forcing the phone into it.

"I think you'd better, Pete," Nathan urged. "The last thing we need is to bring the Company down on our heads—you remember what that's like, don't you?"

Peter stared at the cell phone unhappily, knowing what his decision had to be. It was easy for him to figure out what emotions he associated with Candice—annoyance, pain, and disgust came effortlessly to mind. His surroundings lurched sickeningly, blurring and twisting the air, shuddering into a new form. When it all stopped, he only had to look down at his hand—now delicate and appliqué-nailed—to check that it had worked, and then snatched up the phone, eager to get the ordeal over with.

Scrolling to the number labeled 'Thompson', he waited impatiently for the man to pick up, carefully ignoring the amused looks from the real Candice across the room.

"Candice?" he heard a steady baritone voice come across the line. "Where have you been? I was starting to wonder."

Steeling himself, he replied. "Sorry," he said, trying not to be shocked at hearing her smooth, provoking tones coming out of his mouth, "I lost track of time. When can I bring them in, Thompson? I'm tired of eating room service and watching makeover shows."

"It's going to be a while," he said, reprimanding but understanding. "Bennet called the police on us, it's been such a huge mess."

"I wish you would hurry—I'm getting very bored. What say I shoot both of 'em and come back to Texas? I can be on the next flight."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said. "Just make sure they stay in your custody."

"Can do, boss. I'll call you tomorrow." He snapped the phone shut and shifted immediately, vastly relieved to have his own body back again.

Claire squeezed his hand sympathetically, worried at the dazed, sickened look in his eyes. "Weirdest. Experience. Ever," he said finally, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth.

Claude clapped him on the shoulder, nearly as amused as Candice. "I hope you get used to it," he said, "because you've just promised to do it again tomorrow."

Peter closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "Don't remind me."

"Well, for all your complaining," Nathan interjected, "you gave a very convincing performance—you sounded just like her."

"Hooray for me, call the Academy and get me an Oscar," Peter said, bitingly sarcastic. "Can we not talk about it?"

"See? You still sound like her," Nathan said. "Does this shapeshifting thing have any side effects?"

Peter nodded toward the silent figure of Candice, leaning against the bed with all the grace she could manage, considering that her hands were duct-taped behind her back. "Ask her," he suggested. "Be my guest."

Nathan gave her a glance, and was promptly pierced through by a searing, scornful glare. "No, really," he demurred politely. "I'll pass."

NOTE TO READERS: Thank you, everyone who's given me plot suggestions, they're great and I seem to be back on track! If you have any ideas, though, still don't hesitate to share!