The art of making pancakes had all to do with patience and timing. You have to be patient enough to wait until the right moment to flip the pancake, and you must also know when the right moment is. Flip too early, the inside isn't done and the pancake is doughy. Flip too late, and it's burnt.

Claire was not patient, and she didn't have a good sense of timing.

Breakfast was interesting, to say the least. The only saving grace of the morning was that Peter wasn't there to watch her fail miserably and the first truly disastrous results were shoved down the garbage disposal (the spell was still very apparent).

Placing a mound of alternating crispy and doughy pancakes on the Peter's kitchen table, Claire smiled as she heard the front door open. "Peter? You back already?"

"Yeah. I had to go grab some things before I went over to Isaac's," he called from the hallway, an odd rustling sound echoing back with his voice. Claire looked around quickly, making sure no signs of her battle with pancakes remained and was pleased to find that none did.

She pulled down Peter's shirt, it was all she wore, and ran a hasty hand through bed-tangled hair and tried to look like anything other than a little girl in daddy's shirt. Fortunately, when Peter stepped into the kitchen all he saw was a half-dressed beautiful woman.

Claire grinned and gestured to the spread on the table. "I figured you'd be back so I made some breakfast."

Peter slid his arms around her waist and viewed the food with some wariness. "That's supposed to be food?"

"It's considered edible in some countries."

"Not this one."

She sighed and leaned into his arms, pouting prettily. "I tried."

Peter grinned and nibbled at her ear. "I've got an idea. Let's go out for breakfast."

Claire gazed over her shoulder into his face, confusion marring her perfect face. "What do you mean? I'm not allowed outside. What if someone recognized me?"

Peter smiled and pulled her toward the hall, where he'd dropped a large paper bag. "I've got a solution." Grabbing the bag, he dragged her further down the hall, to the living room. "I think it's been long enough that it might be okay for you to go out, as long as you're disguised."

"What do you mean disguised?"

Peter released her long enough to reach into the mystery bag and to pull out a large hairy creation. Within seconds, he'd fussed with it enough to reveal it to be a well-made wig. It was dark brown and shoulder-length, and with a small "voila!" he placed it on her head.

She could only tilt her head and glare at him mockingly. You think a wig is going to fool anyone who's really looking for me?"

"No, but I've got some other things in here. Glasses, make-up, clothes."

"This is what you spent the last two hours doing?"

He nodded, excitement making him appear almost puppy-like. "You have to be ready to get out of here by now."

Claire pulled the wig off and sat softly on the couch. "What if it's not safe? What if...Sylar sees me?"

Peter knelt and wrapped his arms around her legs, kissing her hands where they clasped in her lap. "I'll protect you. Besides, we don't even know that he knows you're here. No one knows you're in New York. They won't expect to see you here, thus, they won't be looking for you." Claire smiled and pressed her forehead to his, nodding and rolling her eyes.

"Okay, but if the top of my head gets cut off, I'm blaming you."

Peter wasn't amused anymore, and he brushed a curl off of her smooth forehead before covering her cheek with his hand. "I'll never let that happen."

Claire kissed his palm, and stood abruptly. She grabbed the mystery bag and swiped the wig as she walked into the bedroom, tossing a careless grin over her shoulder. "Hey, stop dilly-dallying. You promised me breakfast."

"That I did," he replied, following her into the bedroom with a lusty look and thus ensuring that they would not be getting breakfast. It was more like a late lunch.

The air was mostly filled with exhaust, the sky was blocked out by the miles-high buildings, and there wasn't a tree as far as she could see, but Claire had never been happier to see such a sight. The sun was blazing ahead, the temperature high enough to immediately have Claire breaking out into a sweat. It wasn't the same heat of Texas, a dry heat that was easily combated with air conditioners. New York had a wet heat that felt almost like moving through cement. The cool air of various shops on the street rushed out with every new and exiting patron, but even those fleeting feelings of coolness didn't help.

Claire clasped Peter's hand and they walked down the busy sidewalk, smiling at each other every other odd moment as the people around them alternately smiled at them, ignored them, and avoided them. Peter had been right when he'd said no one would recognize her, because no one did.

They were almost to Isaac's when Claire caught sight of the corner vender. Instead of hot-dogs and the usual fast-lunch fare, the man was offering Sno-cones in a variety of flavors. Claire pulled Peter to a stop and pointed. "I want one."

"We're almost to Isaac's."

"I'm dying from this heat, Peter."

She grinned and nipped at his chin, taking the five he pulled from his pocket and ducking into the crowd. Peter watched her go and felt a strange stirring in his stomach. He'd like to blame it on the protectiveness he felt for Claire, but he recognized this feeling for what it was.

He was being watched.

Ducking his head and waiting impatiently for Claire to return, Peter surreptitiously looked around, trying to figure out who he felt. Most of the crowd wore suits and moved quickly; Peter couldn't get a good look at faces even if he wanted to. Turning around to try and get Claire's attention, a small poke in his side had Peter turned back. A man stood before him, tall, pale, with horn-rimmed glasses, and a serious expression. The poke Peter had felt was a small gun poking in his side, and naturally, no one in the crowd around them noticed.

"Don't try to make any trouble, Mr. Petrelli. I don't want to hurt you, but I think you can help me."

"What are you talking about?" Peter hissed, infuriated and worried as the seconds passed and Claire returning to a bad situation became more likely. Behind him a tall black man with a bald head and a blank gaze stepped up and grasped his arm.

"As long as you don't make trouble, your friend won't be hurt. Just come along quietly."

Peter let them drag him down the street towards an abandoned alley off the beaten path. He could hear Claire call out his name in the crowd, confusion and panic coloring her voice. He only prayed these two strangers didn't hear her and that she didn't see them.

His luck wasn't that good.

The man in glasses shoved Peter into the alley, aiming the gun expertly. "Two weeks ago, you were in Odessa, Texas. A girl was murdered and another went missing. All within the same day you arrived and left. What do you know about it?"

Peter held his hands in the air, his bangs falling in his face as he ducked his head and tried to think of what he could do to get out of this situation. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The man stepped closer, "Don't play with me, Mr. Petrelli. You won't like my rules."

"I don't know what you're talking about! I was there on business. It didn't pan out, so I left."

"What do you know about a man named Sylar?"

The name was unexpected and it reflected in Peter's gaze. The as-yet-silent man turned to the other and gave some sort of signal. With renewed determination, Horn-Rimmed Glasses-man pushed Peter farther into the alley and the shadows. "Did you help him escape? Are you his accomplice?"

Peter's eyes widened. "Escaped? What do you mean escaped? You had him in custody? Are you a cop or something?"

"Or something," he explained snidely, "And I'm asking the questions here. Where's Claire?"

Peter definitely knew that name but refused to let it show. All emotions cleared from his face as he went cold mentally. "You'll never get your hands on her."

Rage colored the older man's face and he slammed the butt of his gun across Peter's chin, sending him flying to the ground. "Tell me where she is!"

Behind him a small scream sounded as Claire, who'd seen and followed at a safe distance, saw Peter go down. She ran into the alley, pushing past both the Haitian and the other man and went to her knees at Peter's side. "What are you doing to him?!"

Peter grasped her hands, desperate that she get away. "No, Claire! Run!"

"Claire-bear?"

Claire froze in the act of examining Peter's quickly-healing facial contusion. Her head turned slowly and she watched with shock as her father stooped down at her side.

"Are you okay, Claire?" Mr. Bennet asked with relief as he crushed his daughter to him, forgetting the gun he still held in his hand. "I was so worried!"

"Dad?" She asked with a worried smile.

Peter sat on the moist alley ground and had enough sense to look worried. "Dad?"

Claire looked at him, then at her father, and grinned. "Um...Dad this is Peter, my boyfriend. Peter, this is my Dad."

Peter rubbed his jaw. "We've met."