Claire sat in the shower, staring at the blood spiraling down the drain. She slid the razor down her wrist, watching as the blood welled up and the skin knit itself back together. Sometimes she liked to see how long she could keep the blade inside as the skin healed over it, ripping it out from the inside. Those hurt the most.

Every time she pictured Peter's face she cut deeper, eventually seeing the white of the bone peek through her skin. She bit her lip, the pain sending shivers down her spine, the adrenaline running through her veins until she was shaking so badly that she dropped the razor on the porcelain floor of the tub.

All she could see when she closed her eyes was Peter's face. Not as he was when he was alive, but in the moment she'd found him. The way his head has tumbled down his chest like it was nothing, landing by her feet, his eyes cold and unseeing. That was the face she saw when she closed her eyes now, not the uncle who had been like a father for the past 20 years.

It wasn't fair.

She picked up the razor again, ignoring the knock at the door.

"Are you going to pay my water bill?" She heard Gabriel's voice, and the anger came back again. This was an easier emotion to deal with than grief, and she held onto it just as she held onto the razor, slicing through the thin skin of her fingers, some only a few weeks old.

He was acting like a father figure, and it pissed her off. He didn't have the right to tell her what to do, where to go. Even though he'd saved her life, he now acted like he owned her. He'd barely allowed her to go back to her own apartment to gather enough of her things to come back to his apartment, where she'd been staying for two weeks, sleeping on the couch despite his insistence on her taking his bed. That was another line she refused to cross.

They'd already crossed too many. She absentmindedly ran the razor over her fingertip, watching as the chunk of her finger fell into the tub before slowly growing back. The man who had started as an enemy had become a reluctant friend, but something was shifting, and she didn't want to examine it too closely. She'd felt it when she woke up on his couch the first time, seen it in the way he looked at her, the way he hovered over her. She'd felt it when he hugged her, when her tears had soaked his shirt. She flinched at the memory, hating that she'd allowed herself to show so much weakness in front of anyone.

"I'm serious, Claire," he said. She looked up at the door, though she couldn't see it through the shower curtain. "It's been like two hours. Are you okay?"

She considered the question carefully, turning the razor over in her hands. No, okay wasn't the word. She had felt a careful rage simmering in her stomach since she'd woken up on the couch. The doctor's eyes had been replaced by this new man's, the bearded man who was responsible for Peter's death. She imagined that it was his hand under the razor, and she pressed down hard, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips as she sliced off a finger at the bone.

"I'm coming in." His voice was loud and commanding, and she barely had time to react before the door was off its hinges. She quickly dropped the razor, scrambling back as he stepped towards the curtain.

"Don't you dare open that curtain!" she shouted. "What the hell is the matter with you? I'm taking a shower, for Christ's sake."

"Here," he said, and she felt a towel being pushed towards her. She frowned, taking it with her four fingers and leaving bloody streaks on it as she warped it around her body. She looked down at the finger and fingertip sitting in the tub, circling the drain but not quite able to make it down. Well, shit.

"I'm opening the curtain," he said, and she braced herself for the fallout.

"Jesus Christ, Claire." She didn't look at him, instead focusing on the bloody steaks in his tub. "Is this what you call taking a shower?" She could hear the anger in his voice, and her own responded in turn.

"I don't think you get to judge me right now, Gabriel," she said, stepping out of the tub and around him, acutely aware of the fact that she was naked.

"You're getting blood all over my rug," he said, though it seemed like an afterthought.

"I'll buy you a new one." She looked down at her hand, the fingertip already healed and a new finger well on its way. "Look," she said, holding her hand up for him to see. "Almost good as new. No harm done."

His voice was nearly incredulous as he grabbed her hand. She could feel the warmth of his fingers as he held onto her, the soft brush of the hair on his knuckles against her smooth skin.

"This isn't going to help you," he finally said, dropping her hand. She bristled, feeling her anger coming back anew.

"I don't think that's for you to decide," she said, stepping around him and leaving bloody footprints in her wake. She walked into the living room, where she'd been living out of a suitcase for the past two weeks. She could hear him following her, and the anger continued to build.

"It may feel better for a minute, but you're only hurting yourself," he protested, and she laughed, turning back to him.

"That's the whole point, isn't it?" she asked. "Pain is a reminder. I thought you of all people would understand that."

"I don't tend to chop off my digits for the hell of it, Claire."

She groaned, shaking her head as she grabbed a pair of shorts and a tank top out of her suitcase, tossing them on the couch.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. It's oddly therapeutic."

She could feel him before she saw him as he moved closer, standing just next to her. She paused, looking back up at him. Why he of all people thought he could judge her was beyond her. Sure, he was a changed man, but he'd done hell of a lot worse than mutilating himself, and she thought he could use a reminder.

"Does the blood get your motor running?" she asked. She regretted the words almost immediately, yet somehow unable to stop. He stopped, staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face. "Is that why you killed people? For the excitement? I know it was for the powers, but it must have done something for you, too. Did it make you forget who you were? How insignificant and powerless?" She caught a hint of hurt on his face, but he quickly pushed it down, and she ignored it, despite the tightness in her chest.

"You don't get to judge me for what I do to myself," she finally said. "I'm not hurting anyone else."

"You're acting like a child." Those were the worst words he could say, and he knew it. Claire glared at him, grabbing the closest object and throwing it at him, knowing she was only proving his point as the book bounced off his chest and onto the floor.

"Fuck you, Gabriel Gray." She could taste the venom in her words as she spat them at him, the anger overtaking any other emotion she could have felt.

He turned away, leaving her there to deal with her own mess, and that was somehow worse than if he had stayed to yell at her.

Claire woke in the middle of the night. She turned over on the couch, looking through the darkness at the clock. 4:15 AM.

She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as she walked into the kitchen. Normally she would go to the diner near her apartment, but even that was off limits now. The anger she thought she'd slept off came back as she began to make a pot of coffee, thinking of all of the things she couldn't do now that she was under house arrest.

He's trying to protect you, a voice in the back of her mind reminded her, but she ignored it. She could protect herself.

She should have protected Peter.

She nearly dropped the coffee mug she'd taken from the cupboard, pushing the thought as far back in her mind as it would go, locking it away for another day.

She was on her second mug of coffee when Gabriel came into the kitchen.

He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, though no shirt. Claire quickly looked away, feeling a flush creep up the back of her neck at the sight of his bare torso. The dark hair continued across his chest and farther down than she would allow herself to look.

"Making yourself at home, I see." His voice was light-hearted, and Claire felt the anger deflate out of her as she took another sip.

"You told me to," she reminded him. He made a soft noise of assent as he poured himself a mug of coffee before sitting down at the table across from her. She kept her eyes down, feeling a small tug of guilt in the bottom of her chest at the thought of earlier that night. She was still angry at him for keeping her locked up, but she knew she'd crossed a line with her words.

"...I'm sorry." She said the words quietly, but she knew he could hear them; another perk of super hearing. He didn't respond right away, and she continued. "I was pissed. I still am pissed. You're driving me crazy with all of your rules, but I get it. We don't know what's going on yet. …But I shouldn't have said what I did, about your past. I'm sorry."

The silence fell over them, nearly deafening. She was about to go back to the couch when he spoke.

"You weren't wrong." She felt a chill run down her spine as she looked over at him. He turned his gaze towards hers, his dark gaze pinning her in place. "I did take powers because I felt insignificant. Powerless. With every person I killed, I got that much stronger. Their blood was intoxicating." Something in his eyes put her on edge. She felt like she was looking at Sylar again, and the thought was terrifying.

"Sometimes I still feel that way. Even though empathy works just as well, sometimes I miss the intoxication of killing." He flinched, as though the words physically hurt him to say. "When people remind me of who I used to be, it gets harder to remember why I stopped."

"...You don't mean that," Claire protested, but he laughed, the sound ragged and broken.

"I do," he said. "And that terrifies you, doesn't it? Undoes everything we've fixed over the past twenty years. And all it took was a bit of honesty."

Silence fell over them. Claire stared at him, unsure how to respond. The thought that he could be turning back into Sylar was equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. There had been moments over the years where she saw hints of his old self, a look in his eyes or a moment of anger, but nothing that could have convinced her that he could ever go back to the monster that had haunted her teenage years. Yet here he was, admitting it himself.

Peter would know what to say. The thought was a desperate attempt at a solution, but its truth hit her like a punch to the gut. Peter would know how to fix this, how to pull his friend back from the edge; he would have reassuring words and inspirational speeches, but he didn't have anything because he was dead.

Claire felt a noise of frustration escape her throat as she gripped the coffee mug tightly in her hands, knowing that nothing she could say would fix Gabriel Gray. She dug deep for the anger, even the fear, but she felt nothing; she felt only a strange mixture of guilt and pity, and knew that he would hate her for either of them.

"You haven't undone anything," she finally said, knowing that her words would have little impact on him. "Everyone struggles." The words sounded lame and ineffective as they fell from her lips, and she knew they had failed as he laughed.

"With taxes and what to eat for dinner, Claire. Not with their desire to kill people."

"Well, we're not like other people, are we?" Claire wasn't sure when they had become a 'we,' though surely they had been one for a long time. It had been her, Peter, and Gabriel against the world, and with Peter gone, it was just them left. She wouldn't let him become Sylar again; she wouldn't allow herself to be alone.

"Tell you what. If you ever feel like killing someone, you can kill me. I'll always come back, no harm done." Her attempt at a joke clearly fell flat. She saw his nostrils flare as he set his mug down with more force than necessary, standing up.

"Is this a joke to you?" he asked, and the anger in his voice made her shiver. "This is my life, Claire." She suddenly remembered him saying the same thing to her in a college classroom years ago, with her name written over and over again on a chalkboard behind him.

"No, it's just–"

"Just what?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Sometimes I think you've matured, and other times you're acting just like the teenager I met years ago—"

"The teenager you stalked and tortured," she interrupted, feeling her anger rising to meet his. "Our relationship has never been normal, Gabriel. You can't pretend that my acting out wasn't even partly your fault."

He groaned, clearly frustrated.

"You're impossible sometimes," he said finally. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, shaking her head quickly.

"You're not much better."

Silence fell again, and after a moment Claire felt the tears pricking the corner of her eyes. Peter would know how to fix this. It was quickly becoming apparent that they had not spent enough time alone, just the two of them. Their morning coffee runs were quiet and comfortable, barely scratching the surface of their relationship, their trauma. Despite everything they'd gone through 20 years before, there was clearly so much more to unpack, and Claire didn't know how to do it. She needed Peter, and the thought made her want to scream and cry at the same time because she could never have Peter again. She'd failed him in such a spectacular fashion that he would never come back.

"Damnit!" she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, pressing the tears away, willing them away with the force of her anger. That only made them fall freer. She could hear his footsteps before she felt his hand on her arm, cautiously searching for permission. She shook him off, turning away.

"Just…give me a minute."

She turned her back to him, taking long, deep breaths to calm herself until the tears dried up. She slowly lowered her hands, glancing back at Gabriel. He was still standing near the entrance to the kitchen, waiting for her. She felt a sudden surge of shame at making a scene when he was the one with the problem that needed addressing.

"You won't be Sylar again," she finally said. His eyebrows raised in surprise, but she continued. "I won't let you. We need to find out who those people are and get justice for Peter, and we can't do that with you running amok." She was making another joke, but she caught the hint of a smile on his lips, a sight that brought a sudden and almost crushing wave of relief to her body.

"Thank you, Claire."

She nodded slowly, grabbing both mugs and bringing them to the sink. She set them down before turning back to him, feeling a grim resolve settle into her bones.

"Now we just need to find them."