The First Thread

The corridors were filled with the quiet hubbub of an early-afternoon lull, a grateful reprieve from the ruckus of the busy morning. Here at reception it was possible to take a breather for the first time all day, and Peter allowed the gentle hum of life around him to unwind the tension that had been knotting throughout his body for hours now.

It hadn't been too bad this morning, really. Dealing with the wounded, drunken leftovers from an all nighter bar-brawl had been a bit of a challenge, but aside from that he had been almost as competent and proficient as back in the old days. Which of course meant he had over exerted himself constantly since his shift had began, but the stress was worth it in order to feel a sense of satisfaction that he was actually managing to be helpful today.

The place smelled as always of medical sterilisation, cheap coffee and the telltale concoction of too many different meals combined into a distinct, blended cocktail that positively screamed hospital food. Peter was still re-adjusting to the stomach churning aroma that he had used to be accustomed to. Thankfully it didn't disgust him as much today, which was probably because he had skipped breakfast and lunch and hadn't had a thing to drink since six o'clock that morning.

Diving right back into his old job of constant chaos and countless, stressed people bustling by him every minute of the day probably hadn't been the best idea to begin his rehabilitation with, but Peter couldn't not do his part to help somehow now that he was back here. Gone were the slow, silent days of reading, strolling or just plain pottering around the city at his own pace and leisure: the days that had punctuated his ceaseless attempts to break down the mental barrier surrounding his enclosure. This was his life now. And while, really, he knew he probably should have given himself time to get accustomed to the real world before starting back at work, he chose to think of it as just an escapement. A means to be able to help in any manner he could, while also taking his mind off the evolving push and pull of the world going on outside this building. Until it all became too much, that was.

Currently, Peter had already cut into the first four minutes of his only break, but just as soon as he put the finishing touches on poor old Mr Oliver's chart, he intended to slip away into an empty supply closet for some much needed peace and quiet and, of course, coffee. Ten minutes. That was all he needed. Just ten minutes to recharge, recollect himself and become the best he could possibly be for the rest of the day. He wasn't even sure which commodity he treasured the most during the busiest shifts – the solitude or the coffee. Today his dehydrated, weary form was leaning towards the coffee.

"Peter?"

Peter jumped at the sound of his name, accidentally ending his sentence with a lopsided scribble of pen that scored through the line above. Turning to see who had called him, he quickly scanned over the recesses of the hospital for a familiar face. None stood out at him. Turning his attention back to the task at hand, he decided he must have imagined it in his over-hyped state.

"Peter?"

Once more he scrawled an unhelpful spine on his last letter as he turned around to search for whoever clearly was calling for him. This time Peter discerned that the voice was female, and she was laughing at him. But again, he saw nobody he recognised or thought would know him... until finally his gaze landed on a young woman standing barely five metres away. She waved at him and laughed again, a short, choked sound of sympathy, and it was only that noise coupled with her smile that eventually betrayed her identity.

"Claire?!" Peter gaped in disbelief as he stared at her, clumsily dropping his clipboard on the counter beside him and starting towards her.

"Has it really been that long that you don't even know me anymore?" Claire smiled wider and clip-clopped over, arms open wide for a hug.

"Hey! Sorry! I didn't recognise you!" Peter rambled, still reeling in shock. He hadn't seen this girl up close for years from his perspective, and it was safe to say that... well... this wasn't quite what he had expected to set eyes on when they finally reunited.

She cuddled around his waist in a brief, tight hug, and he kissed the top of her head on autopilot. Claire... It couldn't be... She felt the same in his arms as she used to, but the sight of her was still struggling to process through Peter's sluggish, caffeine-deprived brain. His lips pressed onto the top of long, brown hair before the pair stepped apart, and Peter tried to suppress the nasty lurch in his stomach as he anxiously swept a hand through his own dark locks.

( )

"Your hair - why did you-?"

"It's the only way I could go incognito anymore. I guess it really works if even you didn't know it was me!" Claire raised a playful eyebrow at Peter, proudly taking in the astonished look on her uncle's young, yet weary face.

The poor guy looked exhausted. He was unshaven, pale, and his hair was untended and almost longer than she had ever seen it. Within that quick glance, Claire highly doubted he'd been looking after himself properly since they'd last met. It was amusing (in a totally guilty, insensitive way of course) that Peter looked more like himself to Claire when he was tired, bloody or verging on the edge of downright ill. Probably because that's how she'd first met him. He looked close to that now.

It wasn't until setting eyes on her faithful hero this very second that Claire even noticed how much she'd missed him, and slightly regretted getting as swept up in the flurry of fame and publicity as she had done – so much that she had lost contact with her own family. Both families, actually.

It had been well before the carnival since she'd last spoken to Peter. Nathan's funeral, if Claire was correct in thinking. Since that day it seemed a change had come over him (probably the result of losing his big brother, she assumed) and she suddenly felt awful for not contacting him sooner to see how he was doing without Nathan. The change in this young man was subtle, probably invisible to those who didn't know him very well, yet enough to taint the air around him like gentle wisps of smoke. He seemed... older, somehow. As if in the wake of losing his best friend he had aged years internally in the span of a month or two. After a brief, silent debate, Claire decided not to launch into a lecture about self care within the first minute of seeing him again, and so tried to lighten the trepidation in his eyes by employing a little curtsey for his benefit.

"Do you like it?" Claire prompted, flicking her uncharacteristic, dark hair over her shoulder. Then she rolled her eyes, scoffing to show her true disinterest in her new look. "My publicist Danielle says it makes me look very distinct, but I'm not so sure. It's worth it though. Really, it's just a relief to not have cameras pointing at me wherever I go..."

Far too late, Peter puffed out air in an obvious attempt to compose himself and encourage her. He failed miserably."Yeah! Yeah... it looks... it looks great!"

Claire's cheery mood quickly sobered when she realised his odd reaction to seeing her wasn't fading. No... there was something else going on here that was clearly bothering him. "Peter, it's just a wig... what's wrong?"

( )

Just a wig. At least that was more reassuring than permanent hair dye, but Claire Bennet's signature blonde locks had always been so much more than just a colour. Surely this makeover was just a coincidence, right? It didn't have to mean anything more. It had just been a shock, that's all, setting eyes on her in person for the first time since her legendary dive at the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival and seeing not his niece, but someone else. Someone he never wanted to meet again. Clearly, this girl standing before him was the same sweet kid he knew and cared for: she was happy to see him, she was good, and as far as Peter could see, there were no scalpels hidden up her sleeves for later use on him...

Claire just watched him with a quizzical expression, her fingers wrapping around his forearms in a warm and affectionate touch. Her familiar face soothed him a little. Shaking himself to dismiss haunting, old memories, Peter finally smiled convincingly in a proper greeting.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, I'm just tired after a busy morning... and it was a shock. Seeing you like that." He smiled again, reassuringly. He lifted a finger to stroke a stray hair off Claire's face, feeling it silky and false underhand. Now that he was properly looking, it was easy to believe from up close that the hair was just a disguise. The weight in his chest eased a little.

"Talking of hair..." Claire drawled, stretching up to tug at the locks trailing over the back of Peter's collar. "Yours has gotten so long..."

"What? Oh. Yeah." Peter cringed self-consciously under the scrutiny, tucking the subject of her attention back into place behind his ear for the millionth time that day.

"Don't tell me you're too busy to get a haircut?" Claire looked at him sternly, a definite what-did-I-tell-you-about-looking-after-yourself expression stamped on her face.

Peter shook his head lightly in response. "Nope. Just like it this way." He said simply, because explaining that he had gotten so used to having his hair longer than he normally wore it for five, long years in a dream prison and was now reluctant to cut it would be far too complicated. Almost guiltily, he changed the subject. "D'you want a coffee? I was just about to get one."

"No thanks, I re-caffeinated on the way over." Seemingly satisfied with his performance of mental stability, Claire groaned and wandered off towards two empty seats aligned against the corridor wall, settling in for a long talk. Peter followed her, secretly longing after a scrap of steaming, milky sustenance that he knew was likely to evade him for another few hours at least. But Claire was more important. Family was more important.

He perched on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees and fingers linked. "So what's up?" He asked, watching the young woman beside him earnestly.

Claire grimaced and sighed heavily. "I just badly needed to see a friendly face."

Peter felt a shy, affected smile tug at his lips. Nobody else except his mother and Sylar had bothered with him for weeks. "I need to see a friendly face, too. I've really missed you." He said truthfully, nudging her fondly with his elbow. Although it wasn't quite the same as sitting in the dark supply closet with his back to a cold, rough and reminiscent wall for ten minutes, spending his break with a loved one definitely also carried a calming affect. Had it really been over five years since Peter had last spoken to this girl...?

His niece let out a dry chuckle, avoiding his eyes. "Thanks. I know, feels like I've been away for years or something, doesn't it...?" She joked, and Peter fought to keep thoughts of an empty, dead city from showing on his face. "Sorry I missed your birthday. And Christmas. I was thinking of you, kept meaning to call but before I knew it the weeks had already slipped past. What'd you do for the holidays?"

"Nothing much. I spent my birthday here." Peter shrugged modestly, purposely omitting the part where after his shift had ended, he'd spent a very enjoyable evening at Sylar's apartment watching movies and eating too much cold pizza. It probably wasn't the best way to break into the particular topic of Sylar... "Spent Christmas with my mother." He recalled the day in question. While he had been torn between spending the holiday with his remaining family who had nobody else but him, or his only friend who also had nobody else but him, he hadn't shared a Christmas with Angela in far too long. Sylar on the other hand... Peter had spent the past five holiday seasons with him after all. It was the right thing to do to share that precious time of year with family, even if his decision had been cemented only after Sylar's insistence that he'd be fine by himself.

"Right." Claire acknowledged sadly. "The first Christmas since Nathan... I was thinking of him, too. And as for you... I can't imagine what you must've gone through." The sudden, unexpected mention of Peter's loved and lost brother winded him painfully, and he kept quiet under Claire's sympathetic, roaming eyes.

His first Christmas without Nathan... unlike what Claire thought, it hadn't just recently transpired. No, that fateful day had taken place within the confines of Parkman's mind prison, of course. Echoes of it, the pain, the heartbreak, still hurt to remember but Peter knew he would never forget it. He'd been so broken that day. He'd avoided Sylar for almost a full week beforehand, despite the other man's attempts to break bread together to celebrate the season. Peter had been far too angry, had missed his family far too much on that special occasion to even so much as look at Nathan's murder – let alone laugh and drink and sing carols together. He had locked himself away in his quiet, empty apartment and mourned his brother, his mother, everyone and everything he had ever known, all alone in the depths of his stagnant realm until the morning hours of the following day finally rolled in.

That year had housed the worst birthday and Christmas of Peter's life. Perhaps even the lowest point of his entire punishment behind that damned wall. This past Christmas though, the one to which Claire was referring, couldn't have been more different. While of course it hurt like hell to look at Nathan's empty chair at the table, and to simultaneously be wishing that the reason for said empty chair could be sitting at his other side and not spending the entire day alone somewhere, sharing that precious time with his mother had soothed a void in Peter that he hadn't even realised he carried. It was such an ordinary tradition in this extraordinary world, and for those precious hours only they had forbidden any touchy subjects (including, of course, Sylar) and Peter and Angela were merely mother and son celebrating and reminiscing and eating Christmas dinner together. Like a normal family. A normal family exempt from the terrifying tornado of change that the young woman currently sitting beside Peter had solely bestowed upon the world.

For a moment Peter and Claire sat together, unspeaking, while the hospital continued to buzz faintly around them. Peter waited patiently, aware of his precious break time elapsing with every second but willing to wait it out until Claire felt comfortable enough to share what was really on her mind. It didn't take too long.

( )

Claire heaved a great, troubled sigh. "I ditched my security detail to get here." She confessed. "Urgh, I'm just so sick of it all. Lifestyles of the rich and famous...? Yeah, it's not so fun up close."

Peter listened sincerely, as he always did. She could feel his gentle gaze burning into her face as she avoided his eyes. "So...? You want out...?" Somehow, through that always impeccably understanding means he possessed, the words didn't come across as patronizing in the least – the way she knew they would had they come from anyone else besides Peter Petrelli.

Claire grimaced, grinding her teeth at the tender topic. "Yeah." She admitted aloud for the first time. "No. Maybe? I dunno..." She huffed, picking at a chipped edge of her nail polish. "Maybe I don't have to stop... to do something else too?"

It was embarrassing, which was why she hadn't voiced this aloud to many people yet. Claire knew full well that she'd brought this on herself, and it was her own fault that she was now caught up in this lifestyle that she was steadily beginning to hate. She just couldn't face the unsympathetic judgement that she knew would be thrown her way if she told anyone else that she wanted an easy way out from the mess she'd created: her mom, Angela, Gretchen, so on so forth. But Peter... Peter would never scold her. He was the perfect fallback, a quiet presence who was always there for Claire whenever she needed to vent her feelings without fear of judgement, even if she didn't call very often to catch up with him. He was consistent, trustworthy, and when almost everyone else Claire had ever known had lied to her in some shape or form, trust was a very precious trait to come by.

"It's just that... when I jumped from that wheel, I thought that I would be helping people. But all this? "Miracle Girl"...?" She hooked her fingers into sarcastic air quotes. "It was supposed to be so much more than what it's turned into, more than just donating blood to scientists who can't even get it to work properly. I wanted to do something important."

"You're an inspiration, Claire." Peter said quietly, yet Claire still couldn't quite look at him. "At the very least you're helping that kid who is all alone, scared or ashamed of their ability, and who just needs someone to look up to to give them courage. That is important. Didn't you wish for someone like that when this all started? I know I did."

Tickled by his words, Claire expressed a self-depreciating scoff. At last she dragged her eyes to meet the familiar, warm and comforting ones of her uncle, and let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "I called my dad this morning. Let me just say it was... eventful. I haven't seen him in person since that night. At first I thought he'd be mad at what I did and I didn't want to hear it... then I was just dreading the "told you so, you should have listened to me, I was only trying to protect you, Claire Bear" crap."

"Well he was." Peter stated with a kind, teasing glint in his eye.

"I know! But I didn't wanna tell him that!" Claire exclaimed, causing Peter to laugh at her exaggerated, whiny display. Encouraged by what she suspected was his first genuine show of humour so far, Claire continued. "I asked him to get me a job at his new company." At once the light fell from his face and Peter blanched in horror. Claire quickly held her hands up in surrender. "Not the company! It's a new one. Some expensive technology organization where they're trying to help integrate registered evos into the world. "All legal"." She finished with another bout of air quotes and a smile.

( )

"That "Renautas" place?" Peter asked huskily, his voice having momentarily seen fit to desert him.

"That's the one." Claire confirmed, nodding her head and slapping her hands to her thighs. "I'm meeting him later today to talk more about it. I swear, if he shows up to bribe me with a chocolate milk...!"

The twist in Peter's gut was impossible to ignore at the mention of the word, that same word that had kept appearing in his drawings... evo. Since the President had announced the recognised term for this new breed of "Evolved Humans", every time Peter heard it he was cast back to memories of painful muscle cramp and a dark, cold room, where he'd literally held the future in his own two hands. And he was reminded over again how uneasy he still was to have let this timeline play out unrestricted so far.

Sure, everything still seemed to be fairly okay, but that new company – Renautas – sent chills down Peter's spine whenever he thought of it. He didn't like the sound of it at all, especially if it was in leagues with the newly introduced Evo Registration Act that had been implemented to keep track of evos who voluntarily came forward – 'for their own protection', of course. Renautas had popped up to soothe the whole situation much too quickly for Peter's liking, and every glossy ad on the TV, on the side of buses or in magazines didn't fool him for a second. It was just another Company, another Pinehearst, and of course Noah was working there. He should have expected nothing less.

But for Noah to willingly include Claire in it...? Either she was right and it really was all legal (unlikely), or Noah was so desperate to get back into his daughter's good books that he'd get her a job beside him just to see her again (not so unlikely). Either way, the thought of Claire getting involved in a shady company organisation...? It's safe to say it wasn't very encouraging.

Peter bit down the angry snarl that wanted to burst free at the thought of Noah Bennet. Things were still raw, there: the men hadn't been in contact since the less-than-courteous phone call the morning after the carnival. That was yet another loose end that swooped away out of Peter's line of sight but refused to leave his awareness: the apparent 'evil scheme' that Noah had been wary of, not to mention his opinion on Peter's new friend... There were far too many loose ends nowadays, pulling him under and smothering him, making it all too easy to crumble under the stress of so many spinning plates... but for Claire, Peter raised his eyebrows in feigned intrigue. He tried to ignore the prickling sensation lifting the hairs on the back of his neck, to ignore the nurses that passed with steaming, fragrant, styrofoam cups in their hands, and focus his attention intently on his niece who needed him more importantly right now than he needed coffee and refuge from the big, scary world.

It was tempting to warn her against Renautas, but with no proof to back up his gut feeling, coupled with the fact Peter knew Claire hadn't come to him to be told by yet another person what to do with her life, he bit back everything he so desperately wanted to say.

"I never pictured you as much of an office girl." He teased lightly, his eyes crinkling fondly at the smile that lifted Claire's round cheeks. He truly wished, with every inch of his heart, that she wouldn't lose that smile.

"Yeah? Well I never pictured myself as much of a poster girl, either."

Just then, double doors banged open nearby and a gaggle of chattering children skipped past – a family, all desperate to get a good look at the new cast on one young boy's leg. They didn't spare a second glance at Peter or Claire (why would they when the Captain America leg cast was the most amazing thing in the entire world?!), yet Peter didn't miss the way Claire ducked her head and turned her face away for fear of recognition. His lips fell from the timid smile and into a tense, sympathetic line.

Lowering his voice, Peter leaned over in his seat until his shoulder budged Claire's reassuringly. "So what brought on this change of heart? Running away from your team like that? It's not like you..." He said sarcastically, well aware of Claire's past record of sneaking away against the rules whenever she felt like it.

Claire let out yet another sigh, and this one was nasal and choked with dissatisfaction.

( )

"I wanted to see the world for myself and not through a pointless security team or tinted windows."

It seemed the most ridiculous thing that the Indestructible Girl was tailed by a team of agents for her protection, but Claire could only handle so many people running up to her in the street and cutting or hurting her in some way, just to watch her heal before their eyes. After a particularly nasty event in which a girl had brought an archery set to one of Claire's press panels, she hadn't had such an issue with having a constant security team around her. But they were still pointless, though. Technically.

However, today Claire hadn't run away from her team out of badness, or a teenage sense to rebel (no, she'd already passed that stage a few weeks back). She just really did need to talk to someone who knew her as more than the media star she had become. Finally she'd had enough of everyone answering her questions about the world outside her celebrity bubble with nothing more than smiles and encouragement. The world is doing great! Everyone loves you! You made a brilliant decision, honey, and you should be proud of yourself! Be proud, be strong, and don't forget to smile for the camera, sweetheart...

It all sounded so false.

The only scraps of reality that Claire could scavenge were the occasional emails or texts from her mom, and the more frequent ones from Gretchen. But sadly, even that relationship had fallen by the wayside in the hysteria following that night in Central Park, despite Claire's attempts to keep in contact. Obviously, Claire had dropped out of college – it wasn't like she'd ever gone to the classes anyway. She didn't miss it, but she did really miss her... friend. They'd never even had the time to define what they were... would possibly have become. Claire doubted she'd ever find out anyway. She hadn't heard from Gretch in over three weeks now.

Unfortunately, Claire had picked up enough information already to know that not everything in the real world was as peachy as she was being led to believe behind closed doors. And it was a thought that continued to claw and clutch after her like a needy child seeking attention: what if something awful happened, and it was her fault, and she wasn't even "allowed" to hear about it...? She wouldn't let it happen. And if it took quitting her post and working with her dad to finally break free, then so be it.

Purposely pushing painful thoughts aside, Claire took solace in the form of her kind, caring and compassionate uncle at her side. "You've heard of those gangs, right?" She asked quietly, trying to sound more knowledgeable than she really was.

Peter bit his lip, toying with it in his teeth. There were many thoughts spiralling around behind his eyes, Claire new, but she also knew he would never tell her them because even after everything they'd been through – he still wanted to protect her from anything that would cause her even the slightest bit of harm. Today that knowledge was endearing instead of insulting, as it usually was. It was nice to know that someone actually caredfor her, and not just for her best angle before a dozen hungry cameras.

( )

"Yeah." Peter finally nodded. "Yeah, I heard about them. Groups of... of evos protesting the Registration Act, right?"

Claire mimicked Peter's nod, and the realisation that every single person on the entire planet, every person making up those gangs, had been affected by this very girl sitting beside him overwhelmed Peter. He dipped his head again to sever their eye contact. She seemed to be only just now considering the implications of her earth-shattering actions, and while Peter did feel for her finally coming to grips with this huge responsibility, he still didn't at all agree with what she'd done in the first place. Of course he wouldn't tell her that and hurt her when she was clearly already feeling guilty. And while it was true that stepping out with her abilities would definitely have inspired other people to accept themselves, it had still been an impossibly selfish decision.

"As far as I know those gangs haven't done anything dangerous yet. They're just trying to assert their rights... Can't say I blame them, really." He chuckled dryly, thinking of all those people who simply didn't want to be dragged away from their normal lives and branded as a different race to that of their loved ones. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right. And even though the Evo Registration Act was voluntary at present, it was a demeaning manacle all the same.

"Me neither." Claire grumbled, absent-mindedly digging one of her high heels into the laminate flooring underfoot. Strange... Peter suddenly wondered when he'd missed his niece grow from a fresh-faced cheerleader with her messy curls, lumpy sweaters and old trainers to this sleek, sophisticated young woman wearing tailored pants and designer heels. He'd been out of touch with anyone but Sylar for so long... even before Matt had trapped them together. Claire's stiletto scored another gauge in the flooring. "You never admitted to having an ability?" She asked. Very loudly.

Peter hushed her, glancing around in a panic. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have heard her. "I might do someday when I feel the time is right, but... there are a lot of us still in hiding. Not everyone wanted to be thrown into the spotlight, Claire." He said it gently, with no intention to accuse her. "Not everyone is happy to be different."

"Hmm... I know the feeling." She huffed, continuing to take her discomfort out on the laminate floor.

( )

Brushing her brown hair off her face, Claire shook her head at her own naivete. "I thought the world was ready for this, I thought I was ready. For a world with powers, where people are flying and running at impossible speeds through the streets to get to work every morning!" The sight was one she had fantasised about for so long, yet actually walking through it on her way to the hospital today had been the most bizarre, dreamlike sensation. She still couldn't quite wrap her head around it. "It just doesn't feel real..."

"I think the world is ready, Claire. Look around. Nobody's dying, nobody's getting kidnapped and harboured like criminals." Again, Clare allowed her eyes to roam over the pallid, handsome face before her. He really was tired. Stressed. There was a weight to his usually bright eyes, and now more than ever she was certain there was something huge he was refusing to tell her. Even though the words he was speaking should have been comforting, Claire couldn't let them relax her. That old worry was starting to build into a pressure behind her eyes.

"But what about those gangs that have started up all over the world? What if they get violent? Or do something really bad and it's my fault?!" She hissed through her teeth, quiet enough that the people walking by wouldn't be able to hear her.

The hospital continued to whir around them, swept up in its own haphazard clockwork. Claire's attention fell to her nail polish again, succeeding in peeling off another flake of coral paint. After another moment of hesitation, Peter ducked his head to meet her eyes behind the long curtain of his hair, and dropped his tone. "Listen... I drew the future. And I think... I think that everything's gonna work out okay."

( )

There was no reason not to tell her, after all. It wasn't a secret. It was foretold, it was going to happen... and even if Peter still couldn't put his trust fully in those drawings, why couldn't they be used to console someone he cared about?

But then Claire crossed her arms and squinted her eyes dubiously. "You painted the future? How'd you manage that? I thought the painter died."

Oh shit. Peter hesitated for a brief moment. He hadn't thought about that part. He could always lie and say he brushed against a stranger and accidentally took their power? Pretend he'd met up with Parkman to borrow it? Or, he realised with a lurch of his stomach... he could tell her the truth. This conversation had to happen sometime after all, right? And leaving it until more weeks had already passed probably wasn't such a good idea.

"...I got it from Sylar." He said, deciding just to be honest, but vague, and just hoping that she wasn't going to take the news too badly...

"Urgh, Sylar!" Claire groaned in disgust.

Peter's heart fell. Claire Bennet, of all people, had a very sore spot whenever it came down to Sylar. It wasn't that Peter could blame her, of course. For she didn't know about the five years Peter had spent within another man's head: all the fighting, all the crying, the unprecedented bond that had evolved there between the two lonely souls in the gaping city... It wasn't Claire's fault, nor Sylar's, that they hadn't spoken since Sylar's redemption had faced the open air for the first time. Still, Peter suddenly felt his chest constrict at the realisation that he'd really have to explain it all aloud. And after all his efforts to protect her, to prevent his beloved niece from ever coming to harm, he was going to hurt her terribly when he told her... when she found out...

"When did you see Sylar?" Claire asked. By the way she was eyeing him, it was as if she had imagined another duel to the death between the two men that Peter had coincidentally neglected to tell her about. The thought was morbidly amusing. Ripping each other to shreds with their bare hands would be nowhere near as shocking as the truth.

Peter licked his suddenly very dry lips. It had been easy to tell Noah, not as easy to tell Angela, but he had done so persistently anyway, as for Claire... she was different. He couldn't bear to see her look upon him with disappointment, with betrayal. But then what about Sylar? Who needed – no – who deserved a chance to be seen as more than he used to be? Who Peter was absolutely determined to defend against anyone who wouldn't challenge their perception of him...?

He found himself beginning to burn under Claire's gaze, and tried and failed twice to say something. Despite the surging sense of loyalty coursing through his veins and the needle of his moral compass straining in the right direction... somehow Peter was still unable to force the words he wanted to say out of his mouth. Instead, he finally managed a weak recovery from the awkward silence. "...It doesn't matter when. Just that I got the power, and I saw the future."

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't even a solid answer. He just forgot to specifically state that he also happened to have seen Sylar multiple times a week since the night she'd changed everything in Central Park. That he was still learning to live without the other man's constant presence, and that even in this second he missed the sound of his voice or having his familiar movements nearby.

( )

Sylar... the incessant killer who had haunted her for years. The sinister figure who had killed her biological father so soon after they'd finally been reunited. Sylar. The dark shadow in the locker room, the probing fingers inside her exposed brain, the deranged psycho who had then actually believed that she would help him after everything he'd done to her...! Claire had never known hatred until that man had slaughtered his way into her life. It was reassuring to know, however, that she wasn't alone in this feeling. The only other person who hated Sylar almost as much as her was currently sitting at her side with his shoulder brushing comfortingly against hers.

"Don't talk to me about Sylar. If I never hear about him again, it'll be too soon." She tried to lighten the conversation with a little chortle which Peter didn't return.

Instead he gnawed his lower lip and dipped his head again. The lack of a reply filled the air stagnantly, and Claire simply watched a long curtain of dark hair fall to obscure the young man's face. That lock at the front was so long again... falling almost level to his lips. It shouldn't have been an issue (after all – what had she said to Peter about her hair upon arrival?), but it was almost disconcerting to see him look less neat and groomed and sturdy than she was now used to. She hadn't seen him look so unkempt since the night he'd exploded in Kirby Plaza. He had most certainly not been in a good place in his life back then, and Claire briefly wondered if she should be worried about him now.

Peter continued to hide behind the safe veil of his hair as he no doubt battled with conflicted, angry feelings and words that he would never dare subject her "sensitive" soul to. However, Claire didn't blame him for this reaction in response to the current topic of conversation – Peter had every right to despise his brother's murderer all he wanted. It was only natural that he still be wounded after the recent death of Nathan. His friend, brother and hero.

Overcome with a sudden wash of sadness for Peter, her friend, her hero, who had nobody and nothing except this job which looked to be draining everything from him, Claire reached over and slipped her hand into his. She gave a reassuring squeeze. His palm was warm, slightly rough and positively burning with the pure empathy she loved about him. Long fingers twitched around Claire's hand in return, however it was only a tiny acknowledgement rather than full acceptance of her comfort.

Peter swallowed and shuffled a little closer on his seat to hers. "Claire... do you believe that people can change?"

Claire eyed him dubiously, half expecting this to turn into a joke she couldn't understand yet. "You're talking about Sylar...?"

Peter's hair swung as he nodded his head wordlessly, then swished as he flicked it out of his eyes to turn and face her again. There was pain swirling inside his hazel irises, clashing and diverging as if a multitude of different thoughts were battling through his consciousness in a whirlwind storm. It was a look Claire had seen him wear before. Back when he was once again hurt and bloody and she'd helped him limp home and clean his wounds that refused to heal in the absence of abilities... She remembered the exact same expression of restlessness, question and conviction as he'd insisted that Sylar had thrown him out the top floor of a building in order to save his life...

Just the thought of it: Sylar – a changed man. It was obscene. He had ripped Claire's innocence away the very moment he had murdered Jackie Wilcox in cold blood before her eyes. He had physically violated her by sawing off the top of her skull to steal her ability. Then also stolen both her biological parents from her, torn them from the face of the earth before she'd even got a chance to properly know them... He was disgusting. Nothing more than pathetic cretin disfigured by power and hate.

"No. I don't think he can change." Claire said truthfully, and noted the hurt little flinch that rolled through Peter. "I don't believe anyone could save him. There's nothing good within him to save. And hey..." She squeezed her uncle's slack fingers again. "That is not your job. After what he did...? He doesn't deserve anything from you... and certainly not your guilt." It was Peter's blink of surprise that prompted Claire to elaborate. "Angela told me what happened here in the hospital. When you were trying to save Nathan..." Another flinch shook the man, and Claire let the rest of the tender story hang, unfinished.

She had heard about Peter's 'stunt' with a nail gun and Sylar in a failed, hopeless, but valiant attempt to save the last, dying tendrils of Nathan from within the killer's mind. Things had gotten pretty vicious and bloody by the sounds of it, and according to Angela, there was now a misguided sense of remorse on Peter's part for how violent he'd been in the heat of the fight. Apparently Peter felt awful for attacking another person like that and had been spending some time "dwelling on Sylar lately". But as far as Claire was concerned, Sylar was not a person. He had passed that point of no return a good dozen or so murders ago.

( )

Peter knew she was trying to be comforting. She was trying to help him overcome some phony cover story that his mother had clearly span rather than dare tell anyone her son was in league with a killer. Although the sentiment was nice, a guilty heat had began to prickle along Peter's skin where Claire held his hand so sweetly. He was lying to her. Or at least not telling her the truth, which was almost as bad.

"He's a monster, Peter, and we're better off not knowing where he's crawled off to."

( )

At the word "monster", Peter slipped his hand free from her hold and averted his eyes once again. As if it was painful to hear, or something. "No one is a monster, Claire. I mean, yeah, some people are worse than others, some people lose their way... but in the end we're all still the same. We're all human."

This time Claire let out a genuinely amused giggle. "Right. Are you even listening to yourself? You do know who we're talking about, don't you?" The smile faded from her face when she realised that yes, despite the insane words he'd just cast over the pair, Peter was serious. Jesus, he really must be ill! Delirious maybe after working too hard... "He's only ever hurt people. Nathan! You! Me...!"

There was that same look again, from after his fall at Pinehearst. An honest insistence that the cuts and bruises marring Peter's broken form had been delivered mercifully by the man who had already murdered him more than once. "He saved me, remember? And he never hurt Gretchen, at college, when he could have."

"...Did... did I tell you about that?"

Peter took a second to take a breath, and when he spoke his voice was sufficiently steadier than the taut facade that had tumbled from his lips just seconds ago. "I just mean, what if he chose to stop? What if he saved himself?" He scratched at the collar of his paramedic shirt, as if it was suddenly itchy and uncomfortable. Narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to one side, he studied her face intensely for a reaction. "Don't you think that's possible? That he could change and we don't have to fear him anymore...?"

And suddenly it all clicked into place. It all made sense. Oh, Peter...

( )

A wash of understanding seeped over Claire's face, and for a moment Peter dared to believe that she had detected the truth and that she was actually okay with it...! She squeezed his hand again, and this time Peter returned the gesture gratefully.

"You don't have to be afraid of him, Peter." Claire soothed gently.

Wait. He took a second to catch up with this direction in conversation. She thought...?

"He can't hurt me. At least not anymore than he already has. And as for Angela... somehow I doubt she'd go down without a fight." Claire assured him gently, her face soft and round and kind, and Peter couldn't bring himself to correct her misguided train of thought. When she next spoke, he was reminded so vividly of the first proper conversation he'd ever had with her in a tiny, bare cell in Odessa. She smiled lovingly at him, adoration plain on her face for all to see. And there she was: the young girl he'd come to know and love peeking from within the incriminating brown hair and polished exterior of the new, classy woman. "I know it's scary after losing so much to Sylar already. But I can promise that you won't lose me, too."

She blinked bright eyes at him and continued to smile with such reassurance, trust and affection that Peter was wholly unable to wipe that look off her face with words that could endanger the very foundation of their relationship. He fidgeted for a moment, knowing that when the truth came out eventually she'd only hate him more for keeping it from her. He should tell her about Sylar – he knew that. For the sake of both his friend and his niece. The lie would only intensify over time, the roots of betrayal would only have time to grow deeper, and it would be so much worse than if he could just fucking spit the words out now...

But... that was a worry for another day.

A nervous, conflicted smile flickered over Peter's face, hopefully enough to placate her while his conscience stung terribly. "Thanks." He murmured, smiling directly into her green eyes this time with all the gratitude he could muster. Coward. Fuck, he was such a coward... "That's nice to know." His smile twitched wider while inside he was caught up in a confusing blur of affection and guilt towards both his friends.

"Well hey, it's also nice to know that, according to your drawings, I haven't ruined the future!" Claire insisted, leaning in and settling down with her head against Peter's shoulder. He held her close with one arm around her shoulders and closed his eyes, savouring the simplicity of something so precious as a hug. After craving human touch for so long in the dream, Peter would now happily go about his day while being constantly wrapped around another person if it was socially appropriate. Drinking in the affection directed his way, he rubbed Claire's shoulder and allowed the weight and warmth of another living being pressed into him to quench the parching thirst that had tortured him for far too long. It had been years since he'd sat and had a proper conversation with anyone other than Sylar and, occasionally, Angela. It was still rare to be embraced such as this in the tender, loving, innocent hold of a family member.

It was the nicest moment Peter had experienced in a while, except for the dishonesty that was rubbing away at him inside, leaving him raw and aching. Peter knew without even checking the time that his break was now over, and still he desperately yearned for a drink and at least a few seconds to hide out from the crowds around him. It had been a nice respite though to reconcile with Claire again at last. However, he still felt brittle and rusted like a thirsty machine that had overworked itself under terrible care and now couldn't run properly until it was oiled at the joints. But he had to get back to work. There was no time to hide now, not when people were going to need him.

He didn't break his cuddle with Claire just yet though, reluctant to pull out of the simple miracle of human contact. He didn't know when he'd next see her again or if she'd even want to associate with him then, and there was so much he wanted to say before letting her leave: take care of yourself, be careful when it comes to Renautas, tell your Dad to go fuck himself, and most of all... please don't hate me when you find out that I'm harbouring a secret friendship with the man you hate most in the world...

But he didn't say anything. The nicest instants in life are all so brief, so fragile, and Peter found that even if he succeeded in prying his fingers from the lid of his secrets, the lock refused to open anyway. He chose to take it as a sign that somehow, even if he couldn't quite see how yet, it was the right thing to do to keep this short-lived moment intact.

He'd tell her about Sylar later, he promised. For there was no way she wouldn't find out... one way or another.

( )( )( )

The soothing harmony of clockwork flowed through the otherwise quiet recesses of the shop. Each individual tickhad its own voice, its own character, and together the choir resounded peacefully around Sylar. The song they sang was one so familiar that he didn't even notice it anymore.

With the precision, love and skill possessed only by a master of his profession, Sylar tenderly fed yet another gear into it's rightful place within his present undertaking: an old wristwatch that belonged to his client's grandfather. It was an original piece, rare and delicate, if a little worse for wear. It was an old boy, this one, and deserved the appropriate care that only Sylar knew how to provide. Concentrating, unblinking, through the lens of his magnifying glasses, he set the sliver of metal snugly in its place with a faint click of satisfaction. Almost finished. He let out his breath and leaned back, stretching his neck and glancing at one of the many working clock faces littered around the shop.

It was barely four o'clock. He was making good time with this order, and should have the watch repaired within the next half hour before Ms Lawrence came to collect it. Then there would be only an hour or so before he'd close up the shop, and then there would be nothing but the dragging, uneventful hours of the evening and night to come, and then he'd come back here in the morning and sit in this same exact spot for yet another quiet day of mediocrity...

If he was completely honest – Sylar was a little disappointed in himself for allowing this to be his daily routine. Fearsome Sylar, powerful Sylar, the man who had finally climbed so high from his old, pitiful existence that he didn't have to answer to anyone... was still a watchmaker. By choice this time, true, but still... the "wait it out" period of this timeline was taking longer than he had first anticipated. When would it be okay to move on from this? To start actually making a difference in the world? A good difference, this time...? Watches and tools were certainly not all Sylar had in mind for himself this time round.

At times the long-forgotten cloud of inadequacywould rear its ugly head, a demon who still had a taste for its old friend Gabriel Gray. However, instead of succumbing to the darkness that the cloud exhaled, as he had used to back in the day, now Sylar was determined to allow it only to inspire him to get out there and start doing something about his situation! The only problem was there was nothing out there for him to do. Nobody needed him to save them, there were no opportunities for him to start proving himself as a good guy... Sometimes he found himself almost wishing for a tragedy to strike, just so he had an excuse to flee this pretence at life and get stuck into the good stuff at last – his newly blossoming hero duties. It was unimaginably selfish of him, of course he was aware of that, but it was that sinister little voice in the back of his mind that kept suggesting the urge to maybe, well... speed things along a little...

Sylar sighed, lifting his work glasses off his face to scrub his hand over it. Earlier he had stepped outside once for a brief breath of air, but aside from that today had been slow, quiet, boring and just plain ordinary. While the current project strewn out carefully over his workbench was a rare one that really held his interest, the rest of this lifestyle was... well... anything but. Despite what he had enthused to Peter on that fateful night back in December, actually living this simple life of his, post-freedom, was steadily losing its charm. Being cooped up in here alone day after day had began to spread nasty reminders through Sylar of the lowly, unspectacular years before he had made something of himself (even if it hadn't quite been the rightthing...). It reminded him of his first three years of utter solitude and punishment inside his head, before Peter had arrived, breathed life into the city and saved his soul and sanity. And it reminded him of the many inner conflicts and battles he'd been struggling through during the duration of his difficult redemption.

Sylar pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids to force away the memories of the barren mind prison and the haunting ache of loneliness that continued to stay with him in these quiet moments. It was easier to fall back into the mindset of fear and isolation without the quiet sounds of Peter reading over on the couch, or the smell of him burning dinner wafting in from the kitchen, or even the constant banging of him tackling the damned wall in the distance... Sylar just needed a subtle reminder that he wasn't completely alone in the world. Here, hidden in the back room of his old, musky watchmaker's shop, there was nothing at all to keep him company except his clocks and their never ending symphony, ticking in perfect unison as the days rolled by.

Sylar chuckled to himself, the sound of a human voice almost jarring amongst the machinery. God, who would have ever imagined he'd actually missthe god-forsaken clunks! of the sledgehammer that had used to drive him insane for all those years...? Well, really, Sylar knew the truth of the matter: it wasn't the noise that he missed. It was the source of it. It did tend to amuse him from time to time that his problem nowadays was because his days in the real world were far too similar to those in Matt's prison, whereas Peter's struggle was a polar opposite. He knew the little hero was overdoing it back at work, because of course he was, and every time Sylar had set eyes on Peter since they'd separated to their individual routines, the guy had only looked more and more drained.

Making a mental note to talk Peter into borrowing regeneration when he saw him tomorrow night, Sylar opened his eyes again and coughed, just to make a noise if for nothing else. Tomorrow night... the thought of seeing Peter comforted him. Four days were far too long to go without meeting up again. Spinning absent-mindedly in his chair, Sylar let his eyes roam over the cork-board above his desk as he pondered over how best to voice this thought over coffee tomorrow so as to avoid the problem in future.

'Future'... he had a love/hate relationship with the word. The future was a moving goalpost, the end of the rainbow that he could never find, it seemed, held out deliciously before him but constantly out of reach just to taunt him. The drawings he had co-created the night after the carnival had never strayed far from Sylar's mind, and each time he chanced a sneaky peek at one he experienced the same swooping exhilaration in his gut, just as strong every time. They were a promise... those depictions of himself and Peter venturing forth on a new adventure of some sort. At least, he assumed it was an adventure. None of the drawings of the pair showed merely a TV, coffee or pizza surrounding them after all, and so Sylar had hope that someday he would have more to do than play house and pretend to be a dedicated workman who lived for his craft.

Saying that... he really ought to put the finishing touches on Ms Lawrence's watch before she arrived. So Sylar laboriously got back to work, drowning out any non work-related thoughts and burying himself in the time piece until the bell tinkled above the shop door. A client that was actually early...? A rare phenomenon.

"I'm almost finished, just give me a minute..." He called out before tightening the last, delicate screw another quarter turn... there. Perfect. Now all he needed was to re-attach the back panel and it would be one of his best restorations to date! Releasing another sigh, this time of pride that his work was so satisfactory, Sylar leaned back in his chair and wheeled into view of the main shop... but Ms Lawrence wasn't early after all. Instead Sylar struggled to process the sight of thirteen guns pointing directly at him.

He froze, one hand still on the glasses he'd just removed and the other midway through the process of sweeping his hair off his face. The entire shop floor (which usually felt crowded when occupied by more than three people at once) was currently packed with unidentifiable, armed and outfitted agents, all with their weapons trained on a terrifying, wild beast. Sylar eyed the masked figures one by one until his his gaze finally landed on the only uncovered face the the room besides his own. And it all made sense.

Swallowing back the rage and insult that practically begged to spill forth from his fingertips, Sylar forced a kindly smile into place on his lips. "Need me to fix your watch? I'd give you a discount, but... y'know..." He cocked his head in false sympathy, allowing himself to relax his posture and place his hands harmlessly in his lap.

"Don't play smart with me, Gabriel..."

( )

Noah Bennet watched the man before him wince, then muster up a controlled voice.

"My name is Sylar." He corrected calmly. Yet all Noah could see was that same, deranged, blood-thirsty murderer screaming those very words at him through a glass window the first time they'd met face to face...

"So you've told me, if memory serves." Noah smiled icily, tracking the trajectory of a potential bullet in his mind. Right between the eyes.

( )

Sylar bristled. He, too, was suddenly plagued by images of a cold, claustrophobic room underground and the cold-hearted gun-for-hire who had taunted him from the outside of his cell. Whereas Sylar felt sickness consume him for what he had done back then, and knew he had come so far since... the bespectacled man towering above his chair hadn't changed in the slightest. He was still merciless, still refusing to respect Sylar, or even so much as treat him as a human being! Perhaps most painful about the whole invading-army-situation was the venomous hatred in those eyes – identical to how it had been when they'd looked down upon an obsessed murderer swept up in the prime of his rampage those years ago.

But Sylar wasn't that person anymore. No matter if the world refused to see it or not. He was different than he'd ever been, and he couldn't go back to using 'Gabriel' now. Not after he'd journeyed so far to distance himself from the specimen he used to hate, used to be. At least 'Sylar' was a name he'd chosen for himself. It was his. It was him! And he wasn't about to shrug it off like an ill-fitting jacket as soon as it went out of style. The man and the name had been through so much together, and by now it was too deeply ingrained to remove. Besides, abandoning it now would be cowardly and foolish! As if dropping the name would make people forget... No. They'd never forget what he'd done (sure, they'd forget each other's misdeeds and forgive their sins at the drop of a hat, but Sylar knew he was far outside that circle of trust), and so 'Sylar' he would remain. Until he could turn that shackle into a mantle he could be proud of, one that would overwrite the letters engraved in innocent blood. Or at least try to.

"If you're not here about that hideous monstrosity you call a watch, I really can't help you." Sylar raised an eyebrow, forcing himself to stay calm. There were far too many foul memories of this man to choose from, but right then the phone call after the carnival was forcing its way to the forefront, and Sylar felt anger nipping at his patience.

"Oh, you already have, Gabriel..."

Bennet took a small step closer, the gun eclipsing half his face from Sylar's position. Those horn-rimmed glasses were unmistakable, as ever. Now that the surprise of this arrival had worn off, Sylar realised that he was no doubt about to partake in another attempt to be captured by the Company. Or whatever organisation Bennet was selling himself to nowadays. Ignoring the twelve other guns and focusing solely on Noah, Sylar kept the growling beast inside his chest subdued.

( )

The bastard squinted in question, as if he really didn't know the reason a team of highly trained soldiers had bombarded him at this time in the afternoon. Just the sight of that face in person regurgitated years' worth of loathing within Noah, and he took advantage of the lack of response to fully express his delight.

"I should thank you for providing me with the perfect opportunity to take you down. I've been waiting for this for... huh. You know I've actually lost track?" He drawled, inching another step closer to his target. "Can't say I'm surprised you finally slipped up. But after what you just did without even breaking a sweat? That's cold. Even for you." Noah let his disgust mingle with the gratification already sitting on his face. Although of course he didn't condone the horrific act that had transpired this afternoon, he would also be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for it.

( )

Realising this was getting quite serious, Sylar dropped the nonchalant act. Grinding his teeth, he gripped the armrests of his work chair to the accompaniment of twelve agents reaffirming their aim behind Noah. "What the hell are you talking about?"

( )

Ah, yes... he had always been good at playing pretend, Noah would give the guy that. There had been a time not too far back when the two men had been partnered up by Angela Petrelli to work for the Company. Although Noah had never outwardly admitted it – there had been the tiniest seed of curiosity that had quite possibly, nearly, believed Sylar's pleas of wanting to change. But of course it had been a lie. Just like the Primatech delivery guy had lied to Sandra, like Zane Taylor had lied to Dr Suresh, like Agent Taub had lied to the Building 26 team... and now Sylar was lying to the entire world.

"Don't insult me, Gabriel. We both know exactly what I'm talking about. I must commend you on this cover though: who would ever suspect the boring watchmaker had a craving for bloodlust on the side?" Noah said silkily, failing to hide a smug grin from taking over his face. There was no way out of this one... unlike Primatech, Renautas had the sufficient funds and... means... to hold a psychopath like this one locked up for the rest of his sick, eternal life. And Noah would be more than happy to be the one to take this elusive stag's head in for mounting at long last.

The stag twitched that magnificent head again as confusion seeped onto his features, along with an irritated edge. "So... hmm, let me guess: you think I've done something wrong..." Sylar filled in the blanks with childish, sing-song mannerisms, following each word's placement with his finger. "And now you're planning on – what? Shooting me in the face? Really...?" He raised dark eyebrows and bored deep eyes knowingly into Noah's. The middle aged man suppressed a snort: oh yeah, the son of a bitch knew he'd been caught, alright. He was too much a self-righteous show off to let someone else take his glory, and too confident in his own immortality to even try to hide that fact.

"You're not even going to deny it? I thought that was the latest plan? Play innocent and pretend you've turned over a new leaf...?" Noah glanced at his agents, causing them all to draw in a little closer.

( )

Fortunately, Sylar had had more than enough experience channelling his many emotions into a suitable mask for show, otherwise he probably would have punched the other guy in his stupid, ugly glasses by now. Instead, the hairs on Sylar's arms raised in the static force of electricity beginning to ripple beneath his skin.

"Why should I even bother denying it? You wouldn't believe me if I did." Sylar had almost forgotten what badness felt like, but it occurred to him suddenly that it was only because he had been fortunate enough not to encounter anything that angered him like this since he'd set out again on his own. Now, though, the treacly substances of upset and deep dislike were drudging through his veins, dragging him down from the serene, peaceful little pedestal he had existed on for the past month or so.

"You're right." Noah concurred, that ominous expression still plastered across his face. "But unfortunately for you, I don't even have to listen to your lies. Not when I have evidence putting you at the scene of the crime."

Sylar's mouth gaped open before he could stop it. "You think I'd be stupid enough to leave evidence?" Expertly hiding the hurt that this accusation had spawned within him, Sylar picked up his work glasses and span his chair back around to face the desk, turning his back on Bennet. All he had to do was fix the panel closed and that was his day's work complete! "If you could just close the door on the way out –"

"Look at me you son of a bitch!" With an uncomfortable tug, Sylar was wrenched around again by a rough hand on his shoulder. With a snarl he gripped the armrests of his chair again, ready to jump to his feet and shout his piece, but reconsidered as thirteen guns cracked around the shop, readying to shoot at a moment's notice. It's not like they could kill him, but it was never very pleasant discharging bullets from his body and healing from the wounds. Not to mention Sylar was very fond of the sweater Peter had got him for Christmas, and riddling it with bullet holes would only serve to piss him off further.

( )

If asked, Noah would insist that it was this man's horrific actions that had him so wired, but really it infuriated Noah like nothing else to stare down into this killer's visage and see not one shred of fear residing there. It was definitely time to wipe that high-and-mighty look off his face for good...

Restoring his backup, composed demeanour, Noah looked down his nose at his charge with a phony sense of pity. "Surely you don't really think you've been allowed to live this little charade unsupervised, now?" A tiny flicker of emotion rolled over the young man's face. Was it... worry? Or, even better, embarrassment...? "Were you always a workaholic, or is that just part of the act too? Oh how the mighty have fallen... and I thought my life was empty..."

Encouraged by the first, true hint of humility on Sylar's face, Noah trailed past the watchmaker to examine his bench up close. Everything was in its perfect place, organised by size and utility, it seemed. Even the trash can was meticulously tidy, with a carry-out cup of coffee standing neatly in the corner of the bucket and folded bits of paper stacked around it. It was the work of a perfectionist who absolutely needed control in every aspect of his life. And so what happened when someone took away that control? Or when he realised he'd never even had any to begin with...?

Beside him, Noah felt Sylar tense at an outsider's proximity to his possessions, as if terrified that the pristine display might get mixed up. It was tempting... but Noah chose instead to let the agonizing not-knowing eat away at Sylar for a bit longer. He didn't move anything from it's geometric design or place, not even the photographs and drawings that were carefully pinned to the cork board above the bench for easy viewing while working. For a second Noah just gaped at the sketches, his thoughts momentarily de-railed by the two figures proudly displayed over and over again like some crime-fighting duo or the two main heroes of a story...

Then his smile only deepened.

Of course he had got the reports from his team of Sylar's many visits, night time walks and dinner dates with his new best buddy, or whatever the hell it was they were doing together multiple times a week for hours at a time. However, it was only now that he absorbed the display on Sylar's wall – a shrine devoted to his very first, real-live friendship! – that the idea sprang to light... one more kick to the bruise, right?

( )

"You're finished, Gabriel. The game is over. Wait until word gets out about what you did today... wait until Peter finds out."

For the first time since setting eyes on his untimely intruders, real panic rushed through Sylar then. Heart hammering against his ribcage, he forced himself not to get too worked up in the presence of company. Peter wouldn't find out anything... and if Bennet even dared try to go near Sylar's friend...! If he dared try to corrupt him...!

"Until Peter finds out what, exactly? You still haven't told me what it is I supposedly did." Sylar growled, glaring up warningly under his brow at the company man who wordlessly pulled his phone from his pocket, pushed a few buttons, then slid the device across the workbench.

Sylar's gaze flicked around the anonymous figures flanking Bennet, and he paused with questioningly sarcastic words on his lips, allowing himself more time to think. A witty remark or observation probably wasn't the best course of action for this moment. Did he even want to view what was on that phone...? Not really. But under the circumstances, he supposed he couldn't very well refuse without sacrificing his new favourite sweater. So, hesitantly, Sylar wheeled his chair closer. The screen slowly came into focus as he approached, his limbs suddenly feeling rubbery and his tongue too large for his mouth. He didn't want to see... he didn't want to see the blood, the death, the heartache... but he continued to grow nearer to the video (the news, he soon realised), suddenly unaware of the room full of trained guns pointing at him. All that mattered was that phone and the story that was undoubtedly going to stir up nasty memories of his own...

Or not. There wasn't even a story being broadcast. The weather? What? Confused, Sylar had just about mustered up a fake laugh when the sound died in his throat without ever seeing the light of day. On the screen, the happy, cheery weathergirl with her animated, smiling suns and little umbrellas was interrupted. By a breaking news story prefacing disaster.

Sylar watched numbly, letting it unfold at a glacial pace as his senses whirred and his heartbeat continued to race. The first thing to process was a black sea... tainted and poisoned by the blood of a fallen structure that was still spilling into the water... an oil rig... drenched in thick plumes of smoke and eroding beneath a raging fire that was far from being contained... there had been an explosion... a few miles out... it was evident without the scrolling text along the bottom of the screen that hundreds of people had died here... the emergency services were still arriving at the scene... the roar of the flames echoed into the sky, the screaming of bending metal rang out between the fading, smaller explosions that continued to destroy the remains of the rig... so much death... so much disaster...

With a full-body shiver, Sylar turned his face away. He couldn't bear it, it hurt too much of haunting memories and old, aching scars. It wasn't supposed to be this way... The livevideo feed was silenced and the phone removed, and then it was just Sylar all alone once again in the midst of vicious handlers preparing to collect their prize.

Seconds passed, serenaded by the gentle tick of the clocks that was so out of place in the face of such devastation. It was awful. So many people dead. The calm before the storm had just elapsed. Was this going to change the world? Had something gone wrong along the way? And then – Peter! He would be so horrified when he saw, feel so guilty after "doing nothing" and allowing it to happen... and if Noah got to him –!

Breathing heavily, Sylar rode through the waves of nausea before garnering the strength to lift his eyes and once again meet the ones sitting dully behind those horn-rimmed glasses. Eventually, he croaked his voice out. "You were so quick to blame me... you got here before the story broke?"

"Lets say the company I work for is well connected."

The company man, father, ex-husband and supposed to be ex-agent glowered down at Sylar with that same, unfaltering smugness – as if he was actually getting enjoyment out of this! Sylar knew that Bennet had made no secret that he was comfortable with "morally-grey" agendas, yet he still didn't look as horrified as he should be by today's destruction. Of course not... because the most important part of the explosion wasn't the many loved ones of the recently dead who were yet to hear the news. It was having the reason to lock Sylar up once and for all.

He didn't have to sit here and take this abuse! Even if he wasn't prepared to kill them all for this, that didn't mean Sylar had to sit idly by and do nothing!

He made as if to lean closer, but with a crisp snick, Noah's gun was back at Sylar's forehead, hovering inches away. "I know this won't kill you. But aside from being therapeutic as hell, it will knock you out cold long enough for us to sedate you." A devious light glanced off the lens of his glasses, and his lips were still caught in that condescending crescent moon shape. "Sadly I'm bound by company orders not to kill you unless in self-defence. So please, don't come quietly and give me an excuse to shoot you, Gabriel..."

With a sickening jolt in his stomach, Sylar heaved and for a second was certain he was about to throw up. But only rage was regurgitated past his lips. "My name is SYLAR!"

( )

It all happened so fast: an impressive display of the honed reflexes of thirteen professionals and one enhanced superhuman all came into play at once. With an enraged snarl, Sylar shoved Noah back, launched to his feet at an intimidating and menacing height; the weapons in the room roared to life; twelve darts of electricity spat into the evo's chest; and he surged backwards at the impact, falling heavily against his desk and writhing uncontrollably as the currents coursed repeatedly through his body.

"Take him." Noah commanded, regaining his footing and stowing his own weapon as his team crept around him like water past a rock. He stood, catching his breath after the sudden surge in adrenaline, and watched his enemy tremble and thrash as every ounce of control he thought he had was about to be wrenched away.

At goddammed last. Claire would be so proud of him...

( )

Fuck, it hurt! It hurt worse than Sylar remembered. Bullets he was used to, but being caught off guard by twelve million volts of electricity was not something he had been prepared for. His body refused to obey him and he was helpless under the controlling grasp of an outside power, unable to do anything but slump against his now disrupted desk and wish for the agony to fucking end!

He could feel his regeneration struggling to heal him as the venomous current kept biting painfully in a continuous cycle, he knew that his sweater now had twelve holes ripped into the front of it and so was no longer wearable, and over the crackling in his ears and his own grunts of pain, he could distinguish the sound of his nearly-completed, antique wristwatch crashing to the ground and scattering into hundreds of pieces.

It was with the loss of the watch that Sylar regained some power. He growled, fighting the shockwaves and steadying himself against the table, catching his breath in rasping gulps of air.

"Take him! Now!"

Noah Bennet's voice sounded distant and far away, and Sylar finally managed to control his limbs as the last spike of electricity jolted and died. Heaving in lungfuls of air to sooth his aching (but now gratefully healing) body, he allowed his repressed distress to finally spill over, flowing through his veins like glorious nectar. There was no need to hold back in the circumstance of self-defence... it was justified...

( )

Shaking, either from anger or aftershocks of the darts, Noah was unsure, Sylar glared at the approaching men with such intensity that they all hesitated. The killer seemed to inflate before their eyes, growing bigger and badder as the moment stretched on, and even Noah found it hard to berate his men for halting in their duties. After another grunt of effort and an outstretched hand from the telekinetic, all twelve of Noah's team members were thrown aside into a heap on the warm, wooden floorboards of the shop, leaving Noah standing alone, outmatched and with no chance in hell of facing the provoked beast and winning.

Until his training kicked in, that was. With a practised arm Noah drew his gun and fired with perfect precision, before he too could join the others on the ground.

( )

The BANG was disorientating, but with an old ease that was restored to him in impeccable condition, Sylar met the bullet in mid air – stopping the thing just millimetres from his palm.

He was still struggling for breath, gasping with the effort of exerting his abilities so forcefully after only touching on them again just recently for the first time in weeks. It felt... freeing, actually. Revitalising. And now that he had passed the practice round, he wanted to go for the real ride...

Sylar recalled the gruesome sight and sounds of the destroyed oil rig, the look in Noah's eye and how quickly he had pointed the finger, atop the man's phone call to Peter those weeks ago and his inability to believe Sylar had changed, and suddenly he couldn't contain the hurt or betrayal that was tearing him up inside. His unshaken facade shattered completely, and Sylar expelled all sense of composure from his bones with an angry groan – and with it, the darts from his chest. He rounded his fuming gaze on Noah, and with a flick of his finger wrenched the man's gun from his grasp.

( )

Noah's glasses flashed as he looked up into Sylar's glowering face, towering above him now that they were both on level ground. Adrenaline spiking, he took a step back, reaching for the concealed knife in his belt with slightly trembling fingers. NO! He'd not let this monster escape again! Not when he finally had the upper hand, and had got so fucking close at long last...!

"Why couldn't you just LEAVE ME ALONE?!" Sylar bellowed, the distraught, strangled yell succeeding in stroking the right spot of Noah's ego.

"You brought this on yourself, Gabriel." Noah smirked, grateful for his well-employed demeanour of calmness in times of need such as this. On the outside he displayed a superior mask of a man in control of the situation, while the inside was a very different story. His fingers found the carved handle of the knife... "I know you. I know that you know just as well as I do that you belong in a cage -"

"You don't know me!" The tall figure pounced forward at the exact same moment Noah whipped his knife around... then his whole body was locked in place by an invisible force, and deep, dark, blazing eyes obscured Noah's vision entirely. His stomach dropped. He knew that look too well... it was the expression synonymous with 'Sylar' in his mind's eye, and it meant only one thing: that someone was about to get hurt.

Refusing to go down easily, Noah braced himself for a fight as best as he could within his telekinetic bonds. He ensured to keep a stony expression that managed to filter out most of his terror, and recalled the valuable skill that helped him not to scream during torture. For there was no damn way he was going to give this bastard the satisfaction of dying a coward's death at his hand-!

But then his bearings were scattered by hot breath tickling his face, and he could practically feel the fire in the glassy orbs that danced above his own. "I'm not that person anymore!"

It was barely a whisper, a hiss, but Noah felt every word punch him in his gut. So he wasn't going to die here, after all? It was ridiculous, the thought that Sylar might willingly let him leave and then still dare to insult him with that claim! His skin crawled at such pretence – and even on the slightest possibility that Sylar actually believed what he'd said – deep down it was just another lie. Only this time, it seemed that the master of disguise would have succeeded in fooling himself.

A biting reply worked its way onto Noah's tongue, but before he could summon his voice, he was harshly thrown aside again and tumbled to the ground in a painful heap beside his men. A sharp pain stabbed at his temple, the world went dark momentarily, and there was nothing but a swirling pit of anger, disappointment and a vague sense that he shouldn't be lying here like this when there was a prize-winning stag still out there with his target on its heart...

By the time Noah recovered his senses, replaced his glasses and was helped to his feet by a groaning and grumbling team member, he already knew he was too late.

( )

Sylar stumbled to a stop on the street outside, the air cold and nipping at him through his new, holey sweater. It was busy out here, with a fair bit of air traffic too. With yet another uncomfortable lurch of the stomach to add to the already overflowing pile of unease, he averted his gaze from the people flying overhead and forced himself not to think of a particular, dead Senator. There were more important matters to attend to! Like whatever the fuck had just gone down with The Terminator and his crew, for example!

The world was still spinning at least, still continuing as normal. Or as "normal" as "normal" could be, anyway. It seemed bizarre to think that destruction was still unfolding out at sea this very second, so many people had just been wiped from existence, and nobody even really knew yet. It could change everything... Did Peter know already...?

With a constricting heart, Sylar glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his shop. No doubt Bennet and co. would be on his tail any moment, and if they really were keeping tabs on him, then he couldn't even outrun them...

So, despite his promise to his only friend never to do so in public, Sylar kicked off from the pavement and blended in with the other specials commuting through the skies. He had to flee... they'd pointed the finger so quickly, so quickly... hundreds of people were dead, he could practically smell the burned blood and charred flesh... the sight of the once proud structure bleeding into the sea along with its victims was going to haunt him for sure...

Unfortunately he knew from history that there was no way Noah Bennet was going to let him fly away and get on with his own business. No, there was a storm coming Sylar's way. A scorned, humiliated and generously funded storm going by a new title, but a familiar one all the same. And Sylar had no idea in hell what he was supposed to do from here.

No idea what he was supposed to do. But as for what he needed...? Right now he needed nothing more than to seek reassurance in the only friendly face he knew out of the seven billion on the planet.

( )

The shop buzzed angrily around Noah as all twelve of his men were helped up, sheepish and embarrassed after being felled so easily. Noah removed his glasses and dabbed at the cut on his forehead while the others gathered in formation before the second in command, who barked orders to 'get after that motherfucker before he gets too far'...!

The agents scrambled out the shop on cue, leaving Noah behind with only the second in command and the humiliating remnants of the fight that thirteen against one had lost so spectacularly. He heard footsteps approach. "You're not going after 'im, Sir?"

Ah, dammit... Noah lifted his glasses to the light, examining a deep crack running across the left lens. He sighed. "What did I tell you? We're not gonna catch this guy running after him with weapons that aren't even effective. We need a different approach." He replaced his glasses, blinking past the disorientating artefact on the glass, and turned to survey the mess of the once immaculate shop. He strolled to the workbench, carelessly kicking aside the tools littering the ground around it.

The burn of failure was still stinging nastily through Noah, and he was not looking forward to reporting back to base about this one. Sure, he had tried to explain that they needed a Plan B (or perhaps a Plan C? The bullet to the head had seemed suitable, and would have worked if Noah hadn't been so distracted thinking back to his meeting with Claire that afternoon, he convinced himself) but the higher ups hadn't taken his warnings seriously enough. He cursed them internally, it wasn't like they'd be the ones taking the fall for this. The only comfort was that at least Renautas wasn't aware of precisely how many times this same target had slipped through Noah's fingers in the past, so technically he got a clean slate here. A clean slate that was already marred by his first strike. Son of a bitch.

"Sir? How do we find 'im?"

Noah mulled over his reply, squinting through his distorted lens at the object that had just caught his eye... one of the drawings of Sylar and his new little bestie had come loose from the board during the commotion and was now crumpled on the surface of the bench. The duo, the best pals... Sylar, beside Peter Petrelli: perhaps the first person who had ever put up with him. Defended him. Liked him...?

'How do we find him...?' Thoughtfully, the company man picked up the paper and straightened out the corners. In this one the super-powered pair were standing facing each other in what looked like a busy corridor, holding hands in the midst of a vague, faceless mass of other people. Whatever the hell was going on with those two (and Noah had his fair share of conspiracy theories about it), one thing was for certain: fucked up or not, they definitely had a connection of sorts.

And Noah had no doubts who Sylar would turn to if something went wrong in the big, bad world...

A/N: Hi everyone, I hope you liked the update! I wish I could have more than one chapter to post at a time, but this one is really long so hopefully was satisfying enough for now X) Things are definitely going to be heating up in the story now, don't forget about Angela's dream last chapter...

Again, I can't promise when the next update will be, but I CAN promise that there will be one! Hopefully within the next few weeks :)