"You're sure this is the right address?"

Claire watched Micah as he nodded, his fingers flying quickly over the keys in front of him. His eyes were closed, fingers outstretched as he leaned closer to the screen, his lips pursed.

"I'm sure," he said finally, turning back to look at her. His eyes were tired, dark circles underlying them as he struggled to focus on her. Claire felt a small pang of guilt for asking him for this favor, but she needed to know. She needed to go home.

"Thank you," She said quietly, struggling to ignore the way he seemed to look right past her, as though her face were the cause of his pain, the reason why he couldn't sleep at night. She supposed it was; after all, she'd begun this whole mess.

"No problem," He muttered, turning back to the computer screen. Claire waited, unsure if he was going to say more. When she counted to fifty and he still hadn't spoken, she finally stood, turning back towards the door. It slid closed softly behind her, a dull murmur of voices reaching her ears even from high on the balcony.

There were still many specials left in the warehouse, unable to find their families, or simply having no one to find. Peter and Micah were doing their best to help, Peter by calming and consoling and Micah by searching. They'd made significant progress, but there was still so much more to do. Claire had offered her help to Peter only once; his rejection had been clear enough.

The past few days had been hell. The silence that Peter had enforced upon the apartment had become unbearable. Claire was beginning to understand how Emma felt on a daily basis; she, of course, seemed completely unfazed by the lack of sound. It was obvious that she felt the tension underlying the relationship between uncle and niece. Claire knew that she was trying to mediate; she'd often heard whispered conversations that stilled as soon as she entered a room, followed quickly by the uncomfortable silence as Peter left and Emma was left alone with her, the one who had clearly upset the man she cared so deeply for.

It made no sense for her to stay there any longer, she told herself. It was time to go home, wherever that was. Her mother and brother had no idea that Noah Bennet was dead. They may have known of her escape if they'd been following the news reports, but they couldn't have any idea where she'd been, why she hadn't found her way back to them yet. Claire had felt guilty asking Micah for this favor, but she couldn't take it any longer. She needed to leave. And while it had taken him two days to find the address her father had so carefully buried, she finally had it. The slip of paper suddenly felt heavier in her hand; she curled her fingers around it tightly, feeling her jaw clench as she reached the bottom of the metal stairs, struggling to ignore the several heads that turned in her direction.

She could hear Peter's voice as he delegated reassurances to a large group of specials, struggling to ensure them that they were doing all they could, that they were welcome to stay here and at the homes of anyone willing to open their doors to them. The panic was almost palpable as she ducked through the crowd, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead even as she passed within a few feet of her uncle, the man she had so often thought of as her hero. She knew without looking that he didn't even register her presence, that if he did it was only with cold disdain. Still, it was nice to hear him speak, even if it wasn't to her. She'd missed his voice.

She found Hiro standing with Ando, far off in the corner of the warehouse. Hiro was kneeling next to a small group of children, performing 'magic' tricks: making things disappear, teleporting behind them and tapping them on the shoulder. They were red-faced from laughter, several mouths open in awestruck wonder. Claire found herself wondering how many of them had been brought in from the facility, a slow anger simmering in the pit of her stomach at the thought of their small limbs strapped to beds with cold steel, as trapped and helpless as she had been.

She opened her mouth to speak when one of the children, a small girl with wide brown eyes and brown hair, tugged on her arm.

"You know him," She said, and Claire frowned slightly, kneeling down on the dirty warehouse floor to see eye-to-eye with her.

"Know who?" She asked slowly, feeling Hiro's eyes on them, the magic performance temporarily forgotten.

"The man who saved me," She said simply, as though it were obvious. "I saw your face in his head. He was really tall." Here she raised a hand up as high above her head as she could, standing on the tips of her toes. "He was kind of scary," She added softly, and it was then that Claire saw the image in her mind: Sylar knocking aside the redheaded nurse and freeing this child from her binds. She knew that the image had been placed there by this child, by her ability. She felt as though someone had kicked her in the stomach, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"Do you know where he is?" She asked quietly, suddenly looking very timid. "I wanted to say thank you."

Claire felt her stomach clench and pressed her palms against her knees, struggling to still their shaking.

"I don't know," She said quietly, tasting the lie on her tongue. "I'll tell him you're looking for him if I see him, though."

The girl smiled, her face brightening slightly as she nodded, turning back to the show. Hiro, however, was watching her now, and nodded without her speaking a word.

"My lovely assistant, Ando, will continue the show until I return!" He said with a flourish, and were it not for the circumstances, Claire might have found amusement in the dumbfounded look on Ando's face as Hiro took her arm and teleported back to Peter's apartment.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

It was nearly midnight by the time she finished packing.

It wasn't that she had much to take; even when Peter had brought her some clothes from the shell of her old home, it hadn't been much. She'd managed to fit everything she owned into a small duffel bag she'd found stuffed in the back of the hall closet. She wasn't sure what had taken her so long; it seemed as though every time she added another article of clothing to the bag, she found another reason to stay.

She'd already made her decision, however, and she fully intended to follow through on it. The sound of the zipper on the bag rang like a note of finality before the room fell into silence, the only sound that of the steady ticking of the watch she still carried in her pocket.

Peter didn't know she was leaving; she hadn't really planned on what to tell him, though she was sure that Micah would relay the information she'd asked him for if he even decided to ask around. Emma was someone who she found it harder to shake the guilt off for leaving without an explanation; the older woman had cared for her in her own way over the past week or so, stilling her trembling with a touch of her hand, comforting her without words, attempting to convince her that Peter was simply going through a hard time. And Claire knew that he was, but she also knew something that Emma didn't: that it was her fault.

Emma was grieving as well. Claire could see it in her posture, in the red eyes and stifled sobs. She'd seen her face when Peter relayed the news of Sylar's death, and Claire had seen her crumble. She'd almost forgotten that Emma had never known Sylar as he once was, a serial killer whose hands were wrist-deep in blood. No, to him, he'd only ever been the man who saved her life from Samuel's carnival, pulling her gently away from the blood-covered strings of the cello, her fingers trembling and raw. To him, he had always been a hero; and now he was dead. Claire had to imagine, however, that she didn't know the circumstances of his death, that Peter hadn't told her; if he had, she couldn't imagine that Emma could look at her the way she was, with pity and worry lining her face. She wouldn't be able to forgive her if she knew; she'd be just like Peter.

Claire stepped back from the bed, neatly made with the sheets tucked under the mattress. Every personal trace of herself had been removed from the room; it was as if she'd never been there, and that was fully how she intended it. She had just slid the duffel bag over her shoulder and was turning away from the bed when she saw his reflection in the window.

She felt the knot that had formed in her stomach weeks ago tighten at the look of betrayal on his face, quickly masked by indifference as he looked from the bag to the empty room and back to her face, frozen where she stood.

"Claire," Peter said softly, and she almost changed her mind about leaving.

"I'm sorry," She said simply, though what she was apologizing for, she wasn't sure. She just knew that she needed to leave before he said something else, before he convinced her to stay. But why would he, a derisive voice in the back of her mind asked? He'd made it more than obvious that her presence was unwelcome here now, if it ever had been in the first place.

"What are you doing?" He asked, and she saw the emotion breaking out on his face, the one which had only looked at her from a stoic distance ever since their return from the hospital. "Where are you going?"

"Home," She said simply, and wondered if she was imagining the way he flinched back at the word. "My mother needs to know that I'm alive. I need to see her." She could see Sandra Bennet in her mind's eye, grieving not only for her ex-husband but also for her daughter. "My brother. I need my family, Peter. And you don't need me."

The last words slipped out, unbidden, and she felt an angry blush warm her cheeks as she shifted the bag to her other shoulder, feeling the comforting ticking of the watch against her thigh. She forced herself to meet his eyes, her hands clenching slowly into fists at her sides as the silence dragged on, the ticking the only indication that time was even passing. Part of her was hoping that he would yell at her, tell her to stay, that he needed her, that he forgave her; part of her wanted him to scream, to tell her that this was all her fault and she had to stay and clean up her mess. She just wanted to hear him; she wanted him to talk to her like she was a person instead of just another fixture in his home that he walked past every day without comment, without thought.

The knot in her stomach loosened when he nodded, turning cold and hard as he stepped away from the door, giving her a path to leave.

"I'll call Hiro to get you," He said flatly, refusing to look in her direction. "You don't want to leave any trace of yourself that will lead them back to your family."

Claire could taste the bitterness on her tongue, and paused before speaking, forcing herself to swallow it down. This was what she'd expected; this was what she deserved. There was no other way he could have reacted.

"Don't bother," She said softly, watching as he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking at the wall next to her head rather than her eyes. "I already called him."

She waited, but he just nodded again. This was for the best, she told herself as she turned away, making her way to the front door and slipping her shoes onto her feet. She could feel Emma behind her, her eyes curious and searching, but she couldn't make herself turn around and say goodbye. It would be easier for everyone if she just left.

She closed her eyes when Hiro took her arm, clenching the piece of paper with the address on it tightly in her hand as he took her to the front porch. She barely had time to blink before he was gone again, not even giving her a chance to say goodbye. She glanced up at the nondescript blue house in front of her, the grass overgrown and gate creaking in the wind. It was a small neighborhood, obviously middle to lower class. It was plain, and it wouldn't stand out. Her father had made a good choice.

Claire suddenly felt like an intruder as she raised her hand to knock, struggling to stem the tremble in her fingers as her knuckles rapped against the wood. She heard the sound of footsteps inside, the muffled murmur of voices as someone made their way to the door. She slowly lowered her hand, suddenly feeling sure that she would vomit if she even dared to open her mouth.

She didn't belong here. But when the door opened and her mother looked at her, her eyes wide and skin pale as the bowl she was carrying slipped from her fingertips and onto the floor, she wondered how she'd ever thought she could go any longer without seeing her family again. She fell into her mother's arms, letting herself be wrapped up in her embrace, feeling tears warm her cheeks even as the glass cut into her shoes, crunching beneath her weight.

"My baby," her mother whispered, pressing her face into Claire's hair, pulling her closer. Claire could see the outline of her brother standing near the kitchen, so much older than when she'd last seen him. Her stomach clenched as she realized how much she must have missed. She offered Lyle a thin smile before pressing her forehead into her mother's shoulder, allowing herself to be pulled inside and the door shut securely behind her.

The house was unfamiliar, but it was filled with the presence of two people she loved. It wasn't her home, but her family was here.

And that would have to be enough.

X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X

Her mother and brother had taken the news of Noah Bennet's death in stride, though she could see the pain lining her mother's features at the sound of his name. They'd all grieved for him once, back when they believed him to be dead. And though he'd come back since then, they were already familiar with the crushing grief that came with it. They were prepared, and though it still hurt, they could stand beneath its weight.

She felt herself losing what little reserve she'd managed to build up since that night in the graveyard with Sylar, however, when she'd felt her father's presence like a ghost over her shoulder, hating her decisions, as disappointed with her as he could be, in life or in death. She told them as much as they wanted to hear, though her mother often stopped her, insisting that she could wait, could rest. But once she began to speak, she found it nearly impossible to stop.

She didn't tell it all. She would never tell her mother of the indescribable pain she'd felt when the Doctor dug his knife into her skin, scraping against her bone. She would never tell her of the emotional trauma of watching your own limb be amputated without sedative, feeling pressure but no pain, knowing that the very evidence of your survival was the evidence that the last of your humanity had passed away.

She would never tell her of the orderly, the way he had pressed her against the bathroom wall and touched her. She would never tell of the days of psychological horror, of the months spent in isolation when she misbehaved at the start, of watching your skin peel away from the bone and knit back into place. She wouldn't tell; she couldn't.

She did tell of her escape, that a fellow inmate had assisted her. She kept his identity to herself; that was a secret she was unwilling to part with, at least not now. She never once said Sylar's name; she knew that if she did, the guilt would overwhelm her.

Her mother had been silent, though Claire could see the pain in her face as she spoke of the two years they'd spent apart. When she told of their attack on the hospital, she could tell that her mother was biting her tongue, resisting the urge to demand why she hadn't come directly home, why she had insisted on staying. Claire would have been able to answer that question, at least; it was her duty. After her rash action had caused so much pain and suffering, it was the least she could do to alleviate as much of it as possible.

Still, she only seemed to have caused more.

She stared up at the ceiling in the bedroom her mother had made up for her in haste, seeing Peter's face in her mind, the way he had refused to meet her gaze as she walked out of the room. She wondered if she'd see him again, if she could make herself look him in the eyes if she ever did. She turned onto her side, the sheets feeling strange and unfamiliar against her skin, the room foreign and unwelcoming. Her mother had left her here soon after she'd finished her story, insisting on her rest. She stepped carefully around her, as though afraid she might break at the slightest misstep. Claire didn't have the energy to correct her; perhaps she was right, at least for now. Still, it hurt to see Lyle look at her like she was a complete stranger. Was that what she'd become to him?

There was nothing she could do about the two years she was gone. They had already passed, and all she could do was focus on the present. The past no longer mattered.

The thought brought a small smirk to her face even as she turned and buried it into her pillow, forcing out the rest of the room. If the past didn't matter, then the guilt wouldn't crush her every time she allowed herself to be alone. If the past didn't matter, it wouldn't still hurt her and so many other people. She ran her fingers absentmindedly over the piece of paper under the pillow, the one she had brought with her even here. She found her lips forming the names of those who were listed on it, each one bringing a different face to her mind, a different life that wouldn't be lived because of her. Of course the past mattered. She owed it to everyone on that list to remember them, to carry them with her wherever she went. The guilt didn't matter; it was the least she could do.

She had nearly made it through half of the list when she heard the knock.

She slowly sat up, turning her eyes towards the door that led into the hallway. It was dark, no light shining beneath the door. She was silent for a few moments, though she heard nothing more from that side. The back of her neck prickled as the sound repeated itself. She slowly turned towards the window, slipping out of bed and taking a single step in its direction before it happened again, and she caught sight of the hand tapping on the glass of the window.

Her every sense was suddenly alert, all semblances of sleep or reflection leaving her body within the blink of an eye. She could hear the wooden floor creak slightly beneath her weight as she took another step towards the window, the long fingers on the other side curling around into a fist, tapping lightly on the glass once more before disappearing.

Her stomach clenched tightly as she reached the glass, her breath catching in her throat as she placed her palms on the windowsill, peering over the ledge. She wasn't sure what she expected to see; she was on the second floor, after all, and there were no trees to climb outside. Of course no one would be there; she felt the knot in her stomach loosen slightly as she lifted the window up, closing her eyes as the fresh air blew a few strands of hair away from her face. She just needed sleep; it had come scarcely lately, and though her body could continue to function without it, it was becoming obvious that her mind could not.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, her eyes closed as she listened to the sounds of the night in this unfamiliar place. The air was chilly, though no snow had found its way to the ground. She felt a shiver run down her spine, raising goose bumps on her bare arms. She heard herself whispering the names that remained on the list, only faltering on two. It was only once she finished, the silence once more falling around her like a blanket, that she opened her eyes and saw him.

Her mind didn't make sense of his face for what felt like a long time. She knew she was staring at somebody, someone very familiar who brought an unpleasant sensation to her stomach. He was looking at her from beneath dark, thick brows, turned down slightly, though with concern or some other emotion she couldn't be sure. The emotion looked foreign on his face somehow, as though his muscles didn't know how to portray it. She felt her legs moving as though of their own accord, taking a single step back from the window, faltering slightly beneath her weight. Her mouth opened to say his name, the one she couldn't bring herself to look at on the list that lay tucked securely beneath the pillow on the bed, but nothing came out but her breath, leaving her choking on nothing.

"Claire," he said quietly, and her heart began to race, her mind swimming in confusion, struggling to catch up to what she wasn't sure was real.

"You're dead," she managed to choke out, the words sounding dead and lifeless to her own ears. He simply nodded, pulling himself in through her window, pausing once to give her a chance to stop him. She wasn't sure she needed to prevent a ghost from coming inside; after all, what harm could he do?

"I was. Or at least, I think I was," he said, though Claire barely heard him. She was too busy wondering how her mind had managed to conjure up something this real, this lifelike. He was detailed; usually her dreams consisted of shadows and figures, slightly off in ways that she couldn't place. But this one – he seemed right, somehow. She could see the lines in his forehead, the small hairs on his knuckles, the dark circles that underlined his eyes. She felt a frown tugging on her lips as he took a step closer to her, his hand held out as though to calm a wild animal.

"Claire," he said again, and his voice sounded strange to her ears. It was familiar, and far too clear to be imagined. Still, that was what it had to be. There was no other explanation.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tightly, willing herself to wake up, to rid herself of this hallucination. She let out a long breath, feeling her heartbeat return to normal, slowly unclenching the fists that had unknowingly formed at her sides. She could hear the sounds of the house again, the slight creaking beneath her bare feet, the whispers that came with every old home. It was only once she was sure that she was grounded in reality once more that she opened her eyes.

And saw him.

She felt nothing for a moment but growing frustration. Why was he still here? What right did he have? She could feel the guilt clawing at her chest once more, stealing the breath from her lungs. Perhaps this was part of her punishment for getting him killed; maybe it was the manifestation of her guilt come to haunt her, to take away any semblance of peace she could ever find. It was a fitting form of punishment, she thought distantly. To be haunted by the man who had just stopped being the center of her nightmares.

"Claire," He repeated himself, and she looked up, frowning slightly as she realized he had moved closer. It wasn't until he placed his hand on her shoulder that she began to wonder if, somehow, he truly were there.

"I don't know what happened," He said, his voice low, urgent. "After I was shot, I don't remember much. Just waking up in the dark, covered in dried blood and disoriented. The hospital was abandoned; it was easy to leave, to transport myself back to Peter's apartment. I found out then that it had been a few days. Peter and I figured that it must have been empathy that allowed me to get your power. Even if my body was beyond repair, my mind wasn't. It just took longer to heal so much damage."

His words seemed to be breaking through the disbelief, cracking whatever restraint she'd maintained. It wasn't possible that he was still alive, and yet his words made perfect sense. She had forgiven him, in a sense; though she'd thought he was dead, was it possible that a bit of life had hung on, that his mind had reached for hers in her grief, taking the ability to knit itself back together? It would explain why he looked so real, why he wasn't foggy like the figures in her dreams…but if he was really there, standing in front of her, then Peter had known.

She felt a sudden burst of anger, stronger than the confusion and pain, burning them both away and taking sole residence in her chest. Sylar had chosen to let her believe in his death. Peter had chosen to let her suffer in grief and guilt, believing his death to be on her hands, while knowing he was alive somewhere else. She felt her hands clench into tight fists at her sides, barely able to hear the other words he was saying. They were just noise, white noise fueling her anger and frustration.

He wasn't dead.

She wanted to kill him.

Her eyes snapped open when he placed his hand on her shoulder, warm and firm and real. She shrugged him off, her eyes narrowing at him as he opened his mouth to speak once more. She heard the sound of her hand connecting with his jaw, felt the pain in her knuckles as bone bounced off bone, the surprised sound that came from his throat as he stumbled back a single step, unprepared for the assault.

"Sylar," She whispered, barely able to raise her voice, knowing that she shouldn't, not caring. "You bastard!" She shouted, ignoring the way his eyes widened slightly, darting towards the door. "How dare you come here? I thought you were dead! You sick son of a-" She only cut herself off when he placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers gripping too tightly to her flesh, one finger over his lips, signaling to her like a child to be quiet. She stiffened, taking a step back so his hand fell from her, feeling the anger spark anew in her chest. She pressed her lips together tightly, glancing at the door until she was sure her mother wasn't coming to check on her. Only then did she look back at him, no longer covered in blood as she remembered, strangely whole.

"Get out," She said quietly, struggling to quell the bitterness in her words. She couldn't look at him, couldn't imagine him as anything but dead without wanting to scream.

"I told Peter not to tell you," He said, ignoring her words. "Don't be angry with him. I thought it would be better if no one knew I was alive. It was easier to move around, to get things done, if no one was watching me. Even the government files have me listed as deceased now, and I thought-"

"You couldn't have told me?!" She demanded, her voice quiet but insistent, anger hissed through her teeth. "One more person would have ruined it?! I thought you were dead, Ga-Sylar," She corrected herself quickly, ignoring the way his eyebrows turned up slightly at the sound of his old name, nearly slipping past her lips. "I thought I killed you, and you were just going to let me live with that?! You and Peter-" Just saying her uncle's name brought a stab of pain to her chest, one she was unable to completely push away. He hadn't been angry at her; he'd been lying to her, and somehow that didn't make it hurt any less.

"You should have told me," She said finally, her words flat. "He should have told me." The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but she couldn't summon it right now. She just felt—tired. Maybe she would still wake up and find this all to be a dream.

"I did," He countered, and Claire just shook her head, feeling a bitter smirk turn up the corner of her lips.

"You're a little late," She intoned flatly, looking away from his intense gaze, feeling analyzed and uncomfortable once more in his presence. "You and Peter let me believe it was my fault, let me think he hated me for what I did to you—"

"You didn't do anything to me," Sylar interrupted, and Claire looked back at him, her fingernails digging into the soft skin of her palms. "I made my own decisions, Claire, and you need to accept that. You didn't shoot me; it wasn't your fault."

The words fell from her ears, meaningless and flat. Just because she hadn't held the gun, pulled the trigger, didn't make her any less culpable for what had happened. Just because she hadn't been the one to kidnap and torture all of those specials didn't make it any less her fault that they had been hurt, been murdered. Just because she hadn't thrown the knife didn't make Whitney's blood wash from her hands.

"Stop it."

His voice was low and authoritative as it ordered her, bringing a slight frown to her lips as she focused on his face, the lines that made him seem older, despite the fact that he now retained her ability once more, would never age.

"Everything I said to you before the attack is still true now." Claire found herself struggling to remember that night, what felt like so long ago now. "You're not that kind of person. If you had known the consequences of your actions that night at the carnival, you wouldn't have done it. But you didn't know, and you have to accept that." She turned her face away when he stepped closer, feeling herself pulling away from his words, from any logic that they might carry. This was Sylar, after all; and despite the fact that she'd accepted his humanity when she believed him to be dead, it was somehow harder to accept now that he stood in front of her, renewed and breathing.

"Not everyone hates you, Claire. They might be angry, but anyone who knows you can see that you didn't hurt them on purpose." She heard a small, bitter laugh come from his lips, a sound that surprised her enough to tear her eyes away from the wall and back onto his face, twisted slightly with something akin to pain. "They look at me and see the 'Brain man', the one who tortured and abused them and made their lives hell. Nothing's going to change that, and I've accepted it. But you," He continued, and here she found herself unable to look away, her stomach churning inside of her body. "You always tried to do the right thing. It's part of why I hated you for so long. You learned from your mistakes, no matter how big. And that's what you need to do now."

"So many people are dead," She whispered, surprised at the sound of her own voice, the vulnerability underlining the words. "Dead, because of me. Because of what I did. Intentions don't matter, Sylar."

The frustrated groan that emitted from his throat echoed around the empty room, bouncing back to her from every side, surrounding her. "Intentions are all that matter, Claire," He protested. "They're the reason no one will forgive me. I wanted to hurt them. I wanted to see them suffer, to relish in the pain on their faces when I tore them apart. But you-you can argue and yell however much you want, but it's not going to change the fact that you're different. You didn't want to hurt anyone. And hating yourself isn't going to make anything better; you're just crippling yourself, making it harder to be of any use to anybody." He paused, the anger and frustration slowly draining from his face, his voice, leaving her in an uncomfortable silence until he continued.

"You have to forgive yourself, Claire. I think almost everyone else already has, has gotten past their anger or frustration. You just need to catch up to them."

She was silent for what felt like a long time. She unclenched the fists at her sides, letting a long breath out through her nose, struggling to calm the racing of her heart. The names of the fallen ran through her mind, each name clear and sharp, cutting her like a knife. Her actions had led to their demise, in one way or another. No matter what Sylar, or anyone else, said to her, that would always be true. But maybe he was right. The thought made her uncomfortable, a weight pressing down hard into her shoulders, a pressure surrounding her that she couldn't push away. She wouldn't be very useful to anyone if she didn't get sleep, if she tortured herself day and night with what she couldn't change. She couldn't make herself responsible for the evils of other people; there was too much to bear, and she couldn't handle it, not for a year, and certainly not for the hundreds she had remaining.

Forgiving herself didn't have to mean forgetting. Letting go of the guilt didn't mean losing the memory of their lives. It just meant living her own.

Claire felt desperation clawing at her chest, the pain almost physical as she slid down to the ground, her back pressed against the bed behind her, the wooden floor cool against her legs. She pulled her knees to her chest, pressing her forehead into them, willing herself to calm down, not to let him, of all people, see her this way. But he already had, hadn't he? How aware had he been when he was lying on the tiled floor, dying? How much had he heard, with his ears or with his mind?

The thought made her ears burn, though with shame or anger she wasn't sure. She just closed her eyes tightly, ignoring the tears that snaked their way past, wetting her bare skin as a sob struggled to claw its way free. She could still hear the names of those on the list cycling endlessly through her mind, though at least one had been removed now. Gabriel Gray was alive.

But Whitney, and so many others, remained dead.

She bit her lip hard, though the sob still broke free, a strangled cry that echoed in the small room. She made herself smaller, hoping and praying that he would leave, knowing at the same time, somehow, that he wouldn't. She heard the soft creak of the springs as he sat down on the bed behind her, though he didn't try to touch her, something she found herself extremely grateful for. She was confused enough without having to add him to the mix; she couldn't distinguish the hatred from the fear, the fear from the pity, the pity from the empathy, the empathy from the guilt. He was no longer the Boogeyman; he was no longer Sylar, and yet she couldn't bring herself to say his real name aloud, not with him sitting behind her. That would be admitting everything again, only now he could respond, and she wasn't sure she was ready to hear what he would say.

She heard the soft crinkle of paper as he pulled the note out from where it must have been peeking beneath her pillow, the soft exhale of breath as he read over it, hesitating for only a moment before slipping it into his own pocket, taking her guilt and burden away. The action was enough to chase the breath from her lungs, the weight somehow lifted, if not entirely, from her shoulders. She could feel them shaking, a motion that was only stilled when she heard the soft ticking of the watch that sat on the bedside table, marking the time as it passed.

"It's running three seconds fast," Sylar said softly, and Claire found a small smile breaking through her tears as he picked it up, turning it over, his nimble fingers going to work. It was only once he set it back down, the ticking sounding the same to her less-sensitive ears, that she dared to look back at him. His long limbs were folded awkwardly to fit on her small bed, and she somehow found the sight humorous, despite the circumstances.

"Thank you," Claire said quietly, and though she wasn't referring entirely to the watch, that was what he chose to answer to.

"Maybe I should open my shop again," He said thoughtfully, his brows turning down slightly. "No one would think to look for me there. Too mundane."

"I still can't picture you behind a desk," She admitted. "Even though I saw it before, back in the clearing…it doesn't seem like something you'd find fulfilling."

She wasn't sure where the words had come from, or why she found them worth saying. Still, she felt an honest curiosity now, a wondering to know the man who sat in front of her. He was no longer the monster she'd seen so clearly in black and white; there was more to him. He was complicated, like the watches he so painstakingly fixed.

"Timepieces are complicated," He explained, and she saw his hands moving slightly in his lap, as though to express what his words could not. "Every piece fits together so carefully; even a single minute detail can throw the entire mechanism off. They have to work in harmony, or nothing will work at all. There's no room for error; the entire—"

She listened as he continued, though something about the way his eyes brightened, his body sitting up straighter, made her uncomfortable. She'd seen things in his mind before that had disturbed her, to say the least, but something about this brought it back. Was this not what he'd said, what he'd thought, when he was rooting through her mind on the living room table? Was this not the same curiosity to know how things worked that had driven him to murder so many innocent people? She felt a shiver run down her spine as his eyes slowly met hers once more, seeming to read what she thought. She stiffened slightly, knowing that that could very well be what he was doing.

"The Hunger is still there," He stated simply, the excitement gone from his features. He was reciting a fact, though she could see the discomfort in his posture, the way his hands folded together in his lap. "I can control it. I will control it."

Claire suddenly heard Peter's voice in her mind again, opening himself up to her soon after she'd found her way back to him. He'd admitted that he'd murdered Nathan in an alternate future, that he'd felt the Hunger himself.

'I did control the hunger after that, but it was hardest thing I've ever had to do, Claire. It was taken from me when my father took my abilities. I don't have it anymore, but Gabriel—Sylar…does. It's something he has to deal with every day, and sometimes I wonder how he hasn't killed everyone he's come in contact with. He's the strongest man I know, and I do forgive him.'

She looked up at the man in front of her, who somehow reminded her of a boy now, of the awkward and gentle Gabriel Gray she'd seen in his mind in the clearing so long ago. He was capable of change; he'd proven that to her now.

'He told me about visiting you at college, that you said his abilities might have eaten away at what was left of his humanity. You set him on this path, Claire. Indirectly and inadvertently, sure, but you helped him.'

"I know you will," She said suddenly, the words surprising both of them. The silence that fell afterwards wasn't thick with unspoken words, as she often felt it to be. It was almost comfortable, a thought that would have made her wary at almost any other time. As it was, she found herself closing her eyes, her chin resting on the edge of the bed, somehow unafraid to relax in his presence. She still had a lot to work through, both within herself and with him, but it could wait until morning. The weight of the guilt she'd forced herself to carry had lightened, not only with his appearance, but also with his words, with the piece of paper she no longer had to carry.

She heard his voice as though from a distance, the bed moving slightly as he stood up. She barely felt his arms as he lifted her onto the mattress, quickly stepping away from her prone form.

"Goodnight, Claire."

She turned onto her side, feeling sleep, something that had eluded her for so long, just within her grasp. Still, she opened her eyes as he stepped back towards the window, his back facing her.

"Goodnight, Gabriel."

To be continued…

Note: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. School was kicking my butt, but now I'm on break, and I'm going to finish this story before I go back. There will only be one or two more chapters, three at most. Thank you for being patient with me. I hope I don't disappoint you.