You don't see what you possess/

A beauty calm and clear/


It floods the sky and blurs the darkness/

Like a chandelier/

"I don't get it!" Claire said loudly from her perch on the white plastic chair at the edge of the tennis court. Both men looked up at her as if only just remembering she was there, pausing their brutal sparring session to address her concerns. Peter swept his sweaty hair out of his eyes (even with the forced Sylar-haircut, it was still long enough to fall endearingly all over his face—he'd threatened to cut it off, but she didn't think he'd go through with it, or at least she hoped not) and came over to rest on the arm of her deck chair, and Claude trailed half a step behind, looking dangerously vibrant in the apple-crisp autumn air.

"What don't you get, sweetheart?" Claude asked with surprisingly real interest—in many ways, Claude seemed like another uncle these days, or third father (God forbid, she was confused enough already). He seemed to take a nearly-forgotten joy in her existence, never too busy to explain or comfort.

"Well," Claire said, swinging her feet where they dangled off the edge of the chair, "I understand the drilling and the focus exercises just fine—they make sense to me. What I don't understand is how it's helping Peter for you to beat his head in."

Claude flipped his staff over in his hands, grinning at her. "Right, I forget sometimes," he said. "You two are from a generation where it's believed that children should be coddled and kept indoors, protected from internet predators and skin cancer and papercuts. Sorry, but I don't buy that. You can't filter life, can't water it down, or it's not living. I believe in preparing for reality, in not pulling my punches even if I break some bones, because sooner or later the world is going to get at you, and isn't going to care if you're not ready."

"I guess that makes sense," Claire said dubiously. "But—do you have to hit him so hard?"

"What do you want me to do, mollycoddle him? Because you can bet your Sylar isn't going to. Besides, there are some people who need to be hit on a regular basis, and your uncle is one of them."

"Hey," Peter protested, busy healing a nasty fist-sized bruise on his arm.

"In any case, I think the proof is in the pudding," Claude said with satisfaction. "He's getting better every time we practice. You should have seen him when we first met, he was a walking land mine. He needs the external stimulus, the bruises, the immediate consequences."

"I still wish you'd let me use my telekinesis," Peter complained. "It would be a completely different story, believe me."

"That's the point," Claude explained. "You've got a handle on the telekinesis, it doesn't need any more work. What we're trying to find out is what you picked up from that Sylar character, what new abilities you have."

Peter saw Claire recoil slightly at Sylar's name, and he hugged her around her shoulders, feeling an instinctual twinge of angry protectiveness. "Don't worry about him, Claire," he told her, though privately he sympathized with her reaction. "The police have him, he won't be bothering you again."

She smiled sadly, fear still burning like a pilot light, unextinguished, in the back of her eyes. "They can't hold him," she said, choosing not to swallow Peter's reassurances. "They don't know what he's capable of."

"True," Claude admitted freely, "but I very much doubt he's still in police custody. If I know my old boss, he's got him tucked away in some holding cell by now—and believe me, Sylar will find it rather harder to get away from Linderman."

Peter thought she still looked unconvinced, but before he could continue arguing her down to security, she caught sight of her father crossing the lawn, headed towards them. She jumped up from the lawn chair and ran to meet him—seeing him was still a novelty, after their days of separation, and she had to admit that his presence was more comforting than all Peter and Claude's words put together.

"Hi, honey," he said, hugging her. "Are you busy? I thought I might take you shopping, get you out of those clothes you've been wearing for two days."

"I am never too busy for shopping," she said, mock-seriously. "Claude and Peter can do without an audience."

She waved a cheerful goodbye to her uncle and her adoptive uncle, leaving them on the tennis court with the distinct feeling that someone had taken the sun away.

"Well," Claude said briskly, raising his staff. "Shall we?"

---

Claire was glad that Nathan had come on the shopping trip—she needed to get used to seeing her two dads in the same room, standing side-by-side, since neither of them seemed likely to leave her life anytime soon. Besides, she was starting to genuinely like Nathan, his clever snappy conversation, his intelligence and easy confidence. If nothing else, it was good that he'd joined them simply because her father had absolutely no taste in clothes. He stuck grimly to his basic three-piece suits, and even those usually had to be picked out by her mother. Nathan, however, knew everything there was to know about image, and always looked razor-sharp in whatever he wore. She had a feeling that if she were to ask him if a peach top went with a cream shoe, he would do more than stare at her blankly or laugh, as her father was inclined to do.

Being the homegrown Odessa girl that she was, she wasn't entirely prepared for the massive shopping complex Nathan took them to, a towering giant of commercialism that made her teenage heart skip several happy beats. She dove into it with gusto, dragging the unfortunate men to and fro as she tore through store after store, eating through glossy chain shops and localized boutiques like she thought they'd disappear. They followed protectively behind her, intently discussing politics and global issues that Claire automatically blocked out, ignoring them and their adult world in favor of jeans that fit her just right at the waist.

As Mr. Bennet and Nathan waited for Claire outside a dressing room, Mr. Bennet asked. "You're married, aren't you? I haven't met your wife."

Nathan gave him a sardonic smile, leaning on a nearby rack of clothes. "My mother cleverly sent her off to a retreat when Claire showed up. The last thing she needs to deal with is a sixteen-year-old love child—I've already given her enough grief to last a lifetime."

"Funny how that works," Mr. Bennet said thoughtfully. "No matter how hard you try to protect them, your family always suffers side effects from your actions."

"I hate it," Nathan said broodingly, putting his chin on his hands.

"So do I," Mr. Bennet said, "but what can you do? There are some things that cross the lines most people try to draw for themselves, but people like you and me know when you have to kill your conscience and step over."

"Exactly," Nathan said. "It's not a matter of ethics, it's a matter of survival, and if blurring the lines is what it takes, then you blur them. I've always been comfortable with morally gray."

Mr. Bennet's head snapped up to Nathan, startled by the unexpected blow of déjà vu, and then he smiled, realizing that this was a man he could work with, could respect, even.

Claire came out of the dressing room, walking toward them with an exaggerated runway strut, and both men blanched visibly, standing straight up. She was wearing a tight red dress with a slit up the side that made her look five years older, and consequently gave both her fathers palpitations of the heart.

"Absolutely not, young lady," Mr. Bennet scolded.

"Take that off immediately," Nathan said, scandalized. "You look like a prostitute."

Claire, who had prepared for this reaction (barring the 'prostitute' comment—she wasn't used to that kind of bluntness), stuck out her chin and turned to the mirror, examining herself.

"I think I look great," she defended. "I am sixteen, you know, I'm not going to be wearing sweats and kneesocks."

"I don't care what you wear, as long as it covers you fully," Mr. Bennet said sternly, "and that dress does not meet the requirement."

Sulking, she stalked back to the dressing room, and the men exchanged meaning glances. "Sometimes I forget that she's a teenage girl," Nathan said with a sigh. "This is going to be harder than it looks, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Bennet assured him, sounding amused. "A lot harder."