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"Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago - the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider... It doesn't seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we've traveled."
--Jane Mersky Leder

Chapter 8

Ever since Peter turned the Manhattan skies into a nuclear holocaust Claire had trouble sleeping. Irritated at the affect of the insomnia on her eyes she at first attempted to force herself asleep. When all she managed to accomplish was toss and turn she got up to order breakfast, showering and dressing while she waited. Oatmeal mixed with raspberries and blueberries and a swirl of brown sugar. It was the best thing she'd ever tasted outside of her mom's waffles.

Sitting at the small circular table, she tucked her legs beneath her in Indian style and flipped through the channels on the TV, boredom marring her natural attractiveness. There wasn't even a decent channel let alone anything worth watching. Since her dad was lucky enough to still be asleep she kept the volume at a minimum. Settling on Good Morning America she barely paid attention to the program as she toyed with her oatmeal and occasionally popped a spoonful into her mouth.

Her thoughts drifted to what Peter might be doing right now. With a few days now passed she didn't want to admit that she was losing hope at ever finding him. She knew that if missing persons were not found within the first twenty-four hours then it was highly unlikely that they would be found alive. She pictured a dishevelled, destitute Peter roaming the streets wearing an expression of shock on his face. Then terror clutched her heart when she thought of him dead, his life cut short by the head trauma which exclusively was capable of killing him.

No! I cannot think negatively like that! I refuse to!

The photograph of Peter that she presented to people on the streets, alongside the Grace Moriarty autographed napkin, had been left on the table top overnight and her eyes dropped winsomely to it. Her want of him was unbearable. For the last month when her world crumbled beneath her feet Peter was the steady ground upon which she stood. They were alike in their difference and the same in blood. He was the only one who understood her yet they barely knew each other.

All this time I thought it was just me. Now there's you? Is that why you came for me? Is that why you asked me if I was the one?

No, I just…I knew I had to save you.

She trusted Peter unconditionally and she wished she could trust her dad in the same way. She understood her dad's motives, she really did, but he proved himself unworthy of her faith by building imbrications of lie upon lie until there was not a scratch of reality in her life. With so much dissonance between them she couldn't confess to him that she was starting to believe that Peter was a lost cause or else they would be on the first flight back to Texas.

"Good morning, Claire-Bear," her dad disrupted her musings out of the blue. "What are you doing up this early?"

She gave a rather weak smile as he sat up and put his glasses on.

"I was a little hungry so I woke up," she fibbed. "I ordered breakfast. I didn't order any for you because I didn't have the heart to wake you and I didn't want yours to get cold."

"That's very thoughtful of you. I can't believe you're still hungry after that humongous cheeseburger you ate last night. The metabolism of youth should be bottled and marketed."

"It's called breakfast because you're supposed to break the overnight fast."

She smiled widely to hint that she was simply being a wiseass and he returned the warm gesture with one of his own.

"What's on the agenda today?" he asked.

"Agenda?"

"Which section of New York do you plan on whisking me off to today in your noble quest to find your uncle?"

The acknowledgement he made of Peter as her uncle touched Claire. It had been a first and it verified that perhaps she underestimated him after all. She gave him a thankful smile.

"Thanks," she appraised softly.

"For what?"

"You've never called him my uncle before."

"I know how important he is to you."

"But you've always ignored the fact of who he really is in relation to me."

Noah looked long at his daughter and Claire waited for a response.

"Watching you on the boardwalk yesterday unremittingly seeking him out made me realize how much he means to you. It's only fitting, I admit. He saved your life. He became a confidant. He genuinely cared about and loved you."

"Please don't talk about him in that way."

"In what way?"

"In the past tense. Like he's dead."

"Claire…"

"He isn't dead, dad, you know he isn't. He can't be."

"I am aware that he absorbed your restorative powers but you also must remember that being able to heal doesn't make you indestructible. You can die. So can Peter."

This topic was not the first thing in the morning Claire wanted to discuss.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Are you forgetting what happened with Brody?"

Claire furrowed her brow. "There was a car accident…"

"Before then. The reason the car accident happened in the first place."

"What are you talking about?"

"The night he tried to rape you. There was an accident and he killed you. You woke up in the morgue during your own autopsy after a large piece of a tree branch was removed from the back of your skull. Does any of that jog your memory?"

She glared at him agape.

"How did you know about that?"

"I'm a parent. It's my job to know more than I let on. Our mutual friend the Haitian cleaned up that small disaster. He needed to work overtime in order to locate the correct people involved; he had to erase the memories of all the detectives and medical staff who were on the case. Then we needed to locate all the files and evidence that was taken on your death and burn everything. It was no easy task but it was certainly necessary."

Ever since the manifestation of her powers and the unveiling of her dad's true occupation, Claire understood that he consorted with others who closely monitored those like her and he had access to information that proved to be the deepest secrets of those people. Perhaps it had been ingenuous of her to believe it but she always hoped that being his daughter granted her the right of privacy. Now the gossamer miasma of denial lifted and she was pissed.

"What else do you know about me that you're conveniently hiding?"

"Don't be upset, Claire. Everything I've ever done was to protect you."

"You know, dad, that excuse just doesn't cut it any more."

Rising from the chair, she stormed to the closet to fetch her jacket, slipping it on with irritated trouble.

"Where are you going?" Noah asked.

"Why don't you just have someone follow me?" she returned, her words heated by insolence at how swiftly a good moment turned bad.

"Cooperating by telling me voluntarily would make things a lot easier on everybody."

She stomped to the table to grab the photo of Peter which she stuffed into her purse with renewed endearment.

"I'm going to visit my family," she inveighed between clenched teeth.

Then she was out the door.

--------------

Peter felt the euphoric warmth of a naked body beside him and, smiling, nestled closer against the delicately scented female form, burrowing his face happily into the long hair and the back of the neck of whoever was next to him. At first his mind tricked him into believing it was Simone until he realized that this woman didn't bear Simone's scent, the single thing he could recollect about the missing woman. Opening his eyes he saw who his bed mate truly was and could be fooled no longer. He repelled as if she was acid but Elle stretched and groggily called his name.

"It's kinda cold when you're not against me," she testily complained and he heard the pout in her voice.

"Sorry," he muttered before returning to encircle her in his arms.

Feeling disembodied and as if he were imposing on someone else's territory, he didn't know what to make of this scenario. He loved Elle and was indebted to her and Alex for all they'd done for him. However, he was not in love with Elle and felt he wronged her by sleeping with her and that he caused Alex a great injustice by having sexual intercourse with his sister in his bed. If his place had been reversed with Alex, he would launch a furious defence for hurting his sister. He imagined that in his forgotten life he was as protective of Claire as Alex was of Elle and identifying with the other man's point of view truly bothered him. The couch could've easily been left for Peter last night but it wasn't. Alex elected to sleep on the couch, allowing Peter to sleep comfortably in his bed with his sister, trusting the amnesiac would not partake in the enjoined lusty activities with the younger sibling. This breach would be the coup de grace with the hot tempered Russian-American male.

Then there was Elle. She would no doubt be devastated and accuse him of using her. His selfish temerity would cause her to disown him and cast him back out on the streets, leaving him to fend for himself with limitless possibilities and a psychotic superbitch hot on his tail. The one existing relationship he had that was pure was destroyed in a single moment of weakness. He should've been stronger. Good lord, he didn't even have the decency to use protection!

"Elle?" he broke their silence.

"Hmm?"

"We need to talk."

"No we don't. We need to rest so we can have a repeat performance. You were pretty damned good for a man who couldn't remember his own name."

"That's what I need to talk to you about. I don't think there should be a repeat performance. I don't think there should've been a premiere."

She turned within his arms so she could face him.

"What?" she asked. "Tell me you did not just say that to me."

"I like you, Elle. I love you. But I'm not…"

"In love with me? I know."

"You do?" He was clearly taken aback.

"Yeah. I know you're still in love with that Simone woman. You would have to be. You're too sweet and good not to be. And plus you were moaning her name in your sleep a night ago."

"No I didn't!"

"Dave. Yes, you did." She sat up and peered down at him, forfeiting her jocose personality for a serious one. "Listen, we're both adults even though I don't act like one often. But I only act immature. I know when to be grown and I know this is one of them. I know you and I can never have anything beyond friendship. Fuck buddies like this is fine with me." These words were spoken with a startling absence of malice. "I know you needed the comfort and the sex was consensual. I was glad to make you feel better. If I can't have you as anything deeper then I can be satisfied with being your comforting fuck buddy. I know in the macho world of men everyone sees you taking advantage of me when the truth of the matter is you're the one with a memory loss and I'm really taking advantage of you. Besides, I'm not in love you either."

The oddly disappointed appearance etched across Peter's handsome face was priceless.

"You're not?"

"No. I'm still in love with my ex. I needed comfort too."

"I admit, Elle, I don't know what to say. I feel like a jerk in every way now."

"Regardless of how much of a sweetheart you are, Pete, you're still a guy and therefore hardwired to think you're more important than you really are. Women can live without you; I know it's hard for you to believe."

Peter detected a hint of dejected bitterness in Elle's voice but was sympathetic enough to know it wasn't directed toward him.

"I'm sorry, Elle, I didn't mean…"

"Forget it. It's fine. But you can make it up to me."

Her hand caressed up his inner thigh and he intuitively parted them farther for her progressive advance.

"We needed each other," she assured. "You needed consolation. I needed to feel like a woman. We both got what we wanted. Why does it need to be more than what it really was?"

"I just don't want it to ruin our friendship."

"Neither do I."

Shifting in his arms, she wrapped a leg around his waist and Peter shamefully felt himself growing hard again.

"I think," she persevered, reaching down between his legs and firmly massaging him there, "that we should stay in today, forget all of this insanity for a while and enjoy ourselves." She leaned in and pecked him seductively on the lips. "I think it would do us both some good."

Releasing a moan of enjoyment and writhing beneath her touch, he smiled and weakly admitted, "That would be nice for a change."

She smiled as he took the initiative and kissed her back. But her smile waned when he withdrew from her and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing his bangs out of his eyes with a semi-shaky hand. Peter recalled Alex's words before the enraged brother had even set eyes upon him:

"Did you bring a guy in here? Where is he? In my bed Elle, please tell me you did not have sex with some guy in my bed!"

"I can't, Elle," he defied. "It's wrong."

"You want to."

"That doesn't make it right. You know it doesn't." He paused, sighing. "We didn't even use protection, Elle. I'm not that kind of guy. I'm not and I refuse to be. I'm more responsible than this."

His eyes fell upon her still bandaged hands and more remorse filled him. Reaching out, he took them gently into his and stroked her wrists with the pads of his thumbs.

"I'm more responsible than this too," he murmured hurtfully.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to wish you into the cornfield or anything. Everything will be fine, I promise."

"You can't promise that. What if you're…pregnant?"

"Let's not think of that right now."

"No, we have to. We have to, Elle, because then we'll have some awfully big decisions to make."

"I will take a test. But I won't worry about it until then."

"If you are you let me know and I will step up to the plate. I will do my very best to be there for you and be supportive. I will not force you to go through it alone."

"You are over thinking a maybe way too much, Peter."

But the young man's sincerity would not be dissuaded.

"I won't abandon you, even if the entire Petrelli family hunts me down to castrate then disown me."

"Do you really think they would go to that extreme?"

"They're lawyers and politicians. They're liable to do anything."

Another pause fell between them and Peter could not raise his eyes from her flayed hands. Not until she spoke.

"I saw the painting. The one of Isaac and Simone. You took it from the loft."

He cringed at her words despite the perfunctory tone they carried.

"You think that it'll help you remember something of her. The texture of her skin. The sound of her voice. The color of her eyes. Something. Anything."

A mosaic of likelihoods routed through Peter's mind and he involuntarily shivered.

"Everything is so uncertain for me and it scares me," he explained. "Regardless of how I used to feel about her in my past, I don't know if I feel the same way right now. I'm just clinging to her because she's one of the few things I have left from a missing life." He breathed deeply, almost as if meditating, then continued, "I don't think what we did was a mistake, Elle. I just don't think it was right."

"Same difference."

He turned to confront her.

"No, it isn't. If I thought we made a mistake our conversation would be very different. You were right. We needed each other and I can't condemn you for it. The sex served its purpose and there isn't anything wrong with that. But sex changes everything and it usually isn't for the better. I love you and I respect both you and Alex. For christ's sake, Elle, we had sex in your brother's bed. Don't you find that creepy?"

"Not as creepy as if I were having sex with my brother."

The comment confused Peter a little as he at first thought she was referring to the malign statement about him having sex with Claire that she made while looking at the paintings earlier. A minuscule scintilla of the Elle he'd grown familiar with and loved peeked through when she brightly smiled at him. He returned the gesture with a half smile.

Leaning down to the floor he reclaimed the boxer briefs she'd stripped him from before their improper escapade of comfort sex began and slipped into them.

"Where are you going?" Elle asked with a waver in her voice.

He drew the blankets up to cover her exposed breasts then reached up to stroke her face.

"Nowhere," he retorted, scooting back into the now cold place he'd slept in.

"Great," she yawned. "I'm still tired and I wasn't lying when I said it was too cold without you against me."

Peter intended on stretching out atop the blankets but Elle raised them in invitation for him and the room was cold enough for him to want to risk getting back in with her. As she turned her back to him he secured her in his arms. But while she slept he didn't.

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Guilt ridden and depressed over his adulterous betrayal, Archer did the only thing he could do to take his mind off of Grace Moriarty: he worked. Strange indeed it was that the very thing which took the movie star off his mind was the same thing that had brought them together. He tried to sleep but could only manage the blameworthy tossing and turning of his offense. If he moved closer to Rebecca then maybe it would alleviate his wrongdoing and perhaps win him some type of affection from his dozing wife. After all, she was authentically worried about him when she placed her call that night. He nestled against her back, embracing her while dotingly kissing her neck and shoulder. She stirred and he continued, desire swelling his loins. He pressed firmly against her to show his interest but it was an interest she did not share.

"What are you doing?" she sighed sleepily.

"It's been a long time," he muttered in her ear. "I need you right now. Please."

It was humiliating that a husband of twenty-three years needed to beg for affection but his loneliness made him desperate.

"You need me right now?" complained Rebecca. "At three-twenty in the morning?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does if I have to meet up with a client at seven."

Frustrated, he pulled away.

"It never used to matter," he grumbled. "You used to want me once upon a time. Back when time and people never mattered because the only thing that mattered was each other."

"Ryan, it's too late to be nostalgic. We're both older now. Have more responsibilities…"

Archer knew that the conversation was rapidly growing into a heated argument. At least she has enough energy for something, he thought resentfully.

"First and foremost our responsibilities should be for each other," he disputed.

"This is ridiculous…"

"Yes, it is ridiculous, Becca. I shouldn't have to beg to make love. Or for something as small as a kiss. Any sign of affection would due for me. We used to be passionate and unable to keep our hands off each other. Now there's nothing at all."

"Such as the life of career-driven people."

Her unattached indifference disturbed him.

"We agreed not to have children," he averred. "Not to stop being affectionate."

She sighed again, underwhelmed, and rolled over onto her back so that she could glare at him. The detestation he found in her eyes startled him.

"If sex is so important to you," she concluded, "then go find it elsewhere."

At a loss for words and deeply hurt, he rose from the bed quietly and chose to end the argument there before it worsened and extirpated their relationship. Rebecca fell back asleep, at least he believed she did, while he showered, dressed and left the apartment, all without checking her.

First he went to the precinct to catch up on the paperwork. The contradictory nature of the beast at fault for bringing him and Grace together was what he now counted on to obliterate the problems from his mind. He was the only one in the office that early which he liked because he could better concentrate but an hour into his work he found his mind straying, due in part because his eyes ached from lack of sleep. Staring at the Internet icon on his desktop, he contemplated taking a break from his report.

Hell, she told me to get it from somewhere else.

Clicking on the icon, he waited for Google to pop up and when it did he typed in a search for images of Grace Moriarty. He found a fan site that featured a photo shoot from the year before of Grace in a white bikini and his arousal reawakened at the memory he had of how her skin smelled of raspberries and how her body radiated exquisite warmth that he savoured, how a more specific part of her anatomy was warmer still.

"Detective!" The voice utterly startled Archer which was not an easy accomplishment given his years on the force. "What are you doing here this early? Aren't you due in later?"

Archer looked up to find Ernie the janitor standing in front of his desk. He quickly minimized the incriminating window to conceal his search results from the other man's roving eyes.

"Couldn't sleep," he responded minimally.

"Case keeping you awake?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

It wasn't unusual for a detective to be haunted by a case to the point of overnight obsession.

"Well, don't work too hard," Ernie discouraged. "I'll tell you what I tell all the others. You're only human. You can do only so much."

Archer simply nodded that he understood and agreed.

"I'll go ahead and get some coffee brewing for you, detective."

"Thanks, Ernie, I would greatly appreciate that."

The janitor shuffled away and moments later as he maximized the window to ogle Grace's photos again he could smell the coffee percolating only feet away from his desk. He sent three pictures of Grace to print on the color printer behind him and went to make a cup of coffee.

Three more cups and an hour and a half later he found that he could not concentrate fully on his work. Images of Grace would not stop bothering him and he intermittently drooled at her on the internet. Finally he decided that it would be best for him if he no longer sat idle and gave memories the opportunity to torment him. Hiding the prints of Grace in his desk drawer and locking it, he thanked Ernie for the coffee and headed out to his car, aiming to visit Isaac Mendez's loft. Perhaps there was something he could find there that had been missed.

--------------

Restless and fresh from her electrocution of Amber Romerovski, Grace had no desire to return to the Millennium to sleep. After the fire engines came and the crowds of gawking viewers gathered around to watch the scenario play itself out, she stuck around incognito hoping that the tragic event would draw out Peter Petrelli. His little bitch companion Elle Miasnikov did show up but interestingly enough she somehow blinked out of sight before the celebrity's sunglassed eyes. Was the bitch special too? Grace never believed that she and Gabriel were the only ones in the world with powers, not unless they were extraterrestrials but that would be ridiculous.

Puzzled, Grace strolled through the crowd, trying to blend in, but when she reached the spot where she saw Elle she doubted her own sight. Rather than risk drawing attention to herself she joined the others in watching the house burn, her eyes discreetly roving around for a glimpse of the unseen young blonde. Alas, she'd done a fabulous disappearing act and, like that infernally evasive Petrelli, did not want to be found.

The entire situation was angering her like nothing ever had before. All she wanted was answers about her brother's death and, perhaps, a little vengeful satisfaction; then she could return to Hollywood and resume her normal life. Archer deserted her in the middle of the night at some point without leaving so much as a note explaining why he'd left or thanking her for the night of fanatical sex. He was probably simpering somewhere about his frigid wife which incensed her despite the fact that Grace only used him to get herself off. That meant she'd been the exploited as well as the exploiter and it really pissed her off because nobody used Grace Moriarty. Nobody.

Thoughts of such nature were what sent the exasperated, desperate woman calling for car service with the barked demand to be taken to 215 Reed Street, where she knew the deceased painter Isaac Mendez once resided. She wanted answers and if nobody, not even Ryan Archer, was going to give them to her then she would seek them out herself.

Although she remained silent during the cab ride she needed to concentrate hard to block out the insipid club music pouring from the radio at this unusual and ungodly hour. Half way through the ride she got so fed up with the pulsing music that she sent a current twisting over the door she leaned against, passed the driver's door and across the dashboard, shorting out the radio that mercifully went dead amid the hum of static and sizzle of electricity. The perplexed driver cursed then slammed the base of his hand repeatedly against the radio but to no avail. Grace slumped down in the seat and smiled deviously.

When the taxi arrived outside the building she paid the fare and exited as fast as she could, staring up at the top of the building briefly before stepping in. Wrapping the scarf tightly around her neck and adjusting the dark sunglasses over her eyes, she stepped through the door. Top floor, loft seven.

There was no problems caused by passing tenants from other lofts and she strolled onward with head held high. To them she was merely another pretentious tenant or visitor. Then she found the Mendez loft, the door open but the entrance blocked by a web of yellow crime scene tape. Déjà vu. Glancing behind her, she stepped inside, knowing fully well that with the lights on and door open that some police official would be in there too. She decided that when she crossed paths with the cop then she would give him a friendly jolt to knock him unconscious before searching the loft herself. If Archer was right and Gabriel was involved with Mendez, then she wanted to walk the floors that the feet of her beloved brother once touched.

The vile scene of a disturbing murder was not what met her, however, to her shock. Instead the dizzying, overwhelming scent of bleach pierced her nose sharply and sent her into a sneezing fit with watering eyes. Goddamn it!! The cop would beyond doubt come out of wherever he was to investigate the source of the sneezes.

"Grace?"

The voice of her purloined lover was not one she expected to hear.

"Hi, Ryan!" she replied with a sweet smile, trying her best to appear like a naïve child who'd been caught snooping for Christmas gifts in her parents' closet. "What are you doing here?"

"I believe the matter in question is what are you doing here?" returned Archer as he and the beauty met at the center of the doomsday in Manhattan mural on the floor.

"Forgive me, I just couldn't help it. I needed to come here. Discover what Gabriel found so irresistible in the artist. I'm impressed with your work ethic. Ever the pedantic detective seeking out what can be germane answers to a complex case. I find that immensely attractive." She leered at him predatorily, satisfied when she actually made him fidget. Showing atypical mercy, she asked, "What happened to the grisly death scene?"

"Forensics was finished gathering evidence so the clean up crew came in. Routine procedure."

"Then why are you here?"

Archer shrugged.

"Thinking. Couldn't sleep so I needed to work."

A long, awkward and brutal pause settled between them. Grace's eyes trained on the handsome detective who squirmed uncharacteristically beneath her acute gaze. The diva knew that it took a great deal to make a man like Archer react in such a manner and the strength of her intense allure made her proud.

"Look…Grace…I didn't mean to leave like that."

"Umm hmmm."

"It was the first time I've ever been with another woman other than Rebecca since I married her and it was the first time for me in a long time…"

"I know."

She reached out to give his face a soft but condescending stroke, similar to how someone who didn't like animals would pet a cat.

"I didn't know proper conduct, I suppose," Archer soldiered on, grudgingly leaning into her touch.

"That's fine. You can make it up to me."

Grace leaned closer and pressed her lips firmly against his. He stiffened and tried to pull away but she held him in place, coaxing him into a series of heated kisses. She was pleased with herself; Archer was forgetting that bitch of an ingrate wife again in favour of tending to a real woman's needs.

"I can't," Archer muttered against her mouth but she ignored him.

"You can," she insisted. "You want to and you will."

For all of his objection Archer's resistance was weak as he engaged in a second sequence of kisses with the seductive star, inflating her ego to larger levels. Just when she felt as if she'd triumphed over the love-starved man's hang-ups for a second time the sound of a cell phone on vibrate interrupted. She felt the sensation against her thigh as she tried to force him to continue but Archer pulled away, grateful for the pretext.

"Excuse me, Grace," he requested, reaching into his pocket for the phone.

Annoyed by the disturbance, Grace stepped back to give him room, disappointed that he would shove her aside so willingly. She was nonpareil, particularly with a frigid bitch like Rebecca Archer.

"Rebecca!" she heard him murmur under his breath. Then louder when he answered the call, "Hi, Becca. Is something wrong?"

Grace glowered at the floor, trying to do her best to eavesdrop with discretion yet act like she didn't care.

"Yes, I'm working. I'll be home when—" His callous tone turned into a sweetened one as he continued, "Alright, I'll be home in an hour or two. We'll discuss things then. I promise. We'll work things out no matter what the cost." Passing a quick glance at Grace, he barely whispered into the phone, "I love you too."

Then the call was ended and Grace peered up to meet his regret with aloofness.

"That was my wife," he needlessly informed. "Becca."

Grace delivered an oleaginous nod, choosing to not dignify the detective with words.

"I know you realize I want this with you," he continued, "and I do. But I can't keep this up. I love Becca and I must honor my marriage vows. She doesn't cheat on me, I know it in my heart she doesn't. She's just busy. So am I. We chose to be career oriented and we got too caught up in ourselves to remember our commitment to take care of each other."

"Your wife is neglectful toward you to the point of abuse," she recognized. "If you work things out then things will be fine…for a while. She will eventually fall back into her familiar pattern of neglecting your needs and I will be long gone back on the west coast having any man I want. By then, where will you be, detective?"

A stunned Archer was at a loss for words. Offended by his new strength, the impertinent actress simply turned on her heels and left the loft. Once in the hallway, she noted a man standing but a few feet away from the still open entrance to the Mendez loft. The man smiled at her but she gave him a confused then supercilious glare before stalking to the elevator, believing the flash of light to be merely a reflection of something caught by the sunlight outside the large windows.

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The door to the dark room on the top floor of Petrelli Mansion creaked open and Angela reached in to snap on the light, filling the bedroom with more than the false light of a bulb. Immaculate and neat, it was crammed with medical school text books, diagrams tacked on the wall and disgusting plastic models of human innards that decorated the room…Peter's room…and it was a wonder that the sweet dear could sleep in it without nightmares from all the horrible things he surrounded himself with. Sitting on the bed, her mind revisited her son's memory.

On a daily basis she came to this room before anyone else cracked open their eyes against the glow of morning and reflected on her precious baby boy. The room hadn't been slept in since Peter decided to declare his independence and move out of the mansion but Angela agreed to forfeit the space for storage of his old school supplies as his Lower East Side apartment was too restrictive in size for everything. It made her proud to walk in and see everything Peter had accomplished on his own; everyone considered Nathan the strong one but he took full advantage of the family's prestigious name and, in a sense, rode the coattails of his father. But Angela knew that her quixotic youngest was the real strong one as he took the risk of becoming a family pariah and made his own way in the world.

Beautiful Peter with his beautiful soul. There were many ghosts lurking in this room, ghosts that turned to demons when she remembered that Peter was dead. The holidays were soon approaching and her sweet baby wouldn't be there. Company would be scarce this year with Nathan missing in action as well. There was Heidi and the grandsons but it was never going to be the same with both of her own children gone. Peter always cheered her up, vaporized the bad deliquesce with a mere smile which was not an easy feat in the Petrelli household. That was part of what made Peter stand out, what made him exceptional long before he discovered his repressed special abilities.

In the quiet of the house, she swore she heard the sudden sound of a door being opened then closed with the stealth of someone who didn't want to wake its other sleeping occupants. This roused her interest as it sounded like it came from the ground level. It could've been the servants but she heard a voice that vaguely resembled…

Can it be? It can't be! It's too good to be true!

Rising from the bed, she gathered her wits, fixed her hair in the bureau mirror then exited the room, anxiously snapping off the light and carefully shutting the door behind her. Descending the stairs, she checked the hallway of each of the three floors as she passed to make sure it wasn't Heidi or the boys. All seemed clear, meaning it was someone from the outside who'd entered her home.

Please, dear god, please let it be him!

Nearly stumbling in her heels, she couldn't get downstairs fast enough, eager to see the face of her beloved son again. When she reached the ground level, her hopes soared then crumbled when she entered the parlour and saw that the one who stood before her was not Peter.

"Hello, mother," Nathan greeted in a voice that deflected the power he usually carried. It was casual, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired days ago and he was returning from a business trip abroad.

Similarly, Angela's deflated aplomb was equally evident.

"Where is your brother?" she asked succinctly. "Where is Peter?"

Nathan's face dropped at the greeting he was received with. He didn't expect her to be thrilled to see him but he did not expect such dismissive coldness directed at him either. He thought she would show some warmth and happiness at seeing her elder son and taking comfort in knowing that at least one of the sibling pair survived. Then he remembered who his mother was and believed himself ridiculous.

"He's gone," Nathan countered just as brusquely, pouring himself a glass of bourbon.

"You let him die?" accused the matriarch.

"I didn't let him die. I didn't have a choice. Believe me, I tried my best to protect him, to help him so he didn't have to live with the lifetime of guilt you were so dead set on forcing him to deal with."

Angela's dignified poise melted away.

"How dare you speak to me with an insolent tone?" she snarled.

"After what you've done to this family, I feel as if I can speak to you in any way I like, mother. Do you honestly believe that I think you're in mourning for him?"

He spat the reference to her in a bitter, acerbic utterance that made her cringe and he was pleased at himself for it. Clenching her jaw, Angela strode over to her older son and issued a sharp slap to the side of his face. Unfazed, Nathan swallowed the bourbon in a single gulp then poured himself another.

"You killed your brother!" she berated. "You killed him because you're a failure! And to think I put all of my trust and faith in you and look what you did! All you had to do was follow through on a few simple instructions and things would've been fine! Your brother would still be alive! But you didn't do what you were told and he is gone forever!"

Nathan chose to remain unresponsive, swallowing the second serving of alcohol before pouring himself another, larger portion. He did his best to pay no heed to Angela's seething, scathing gaze as she parsed the casual, unkempt form. He was a far cry from the distinguished representation of the Petrelli clan that he always had been, stuck in the worn and ill-fitting clothes of a Coney Island modern primitive. But he didn't care. He did not aim to please her any more. There were far more important things on his mind; his mother was right. In a sense he did let Peter die. He just didn't want to own up to it.

"Look at you," she scolded. "You're a disgrace on this family! At least now that you're home your outward appearance reflects what you are!"

Nathan sipped from his bourbon, raised the glass up for his mother to see then unleashed all of the tormented discord inside him by pitching the glass at the fireplace. Its shattering earned him silence but more disapproving glowers from the infuriated matriarch. Finished with the verbal lashing, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and headed upstairs to get away from her, muttering under his breath how good it was to be home.

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The Gordian knot of Noah Bennet's life tightened like a noose around his throat with each passing day he and Claire stayed in New York. It was passed time that they left and that was precisely what he intended on doing once he located her. The longanimity of fatherhood allowed him to tolerate his daughter's whims and obstinate behaviors but he'd finally had had enough. It was time to collect Claire and return to Texas.

Taking his cell phone from the table where Claire had sat prior to their argument, he pressed the speed dial number for his Haitian associate.

"It's Bennet," he said tersely when the Haitian answered. "I know she's at the Petrelli Mansion. I'm going to let her stay for a few hours while you and I conduct some business in Brooklyn. Meet me in an hour."

He hung up, thought for a brief moment then dialed the number of a failsafe member of the camarilla he belonged to.

It was time to cut the Gordian knot in half.

--------------

The day ebbed on like a thirsty man crawling across the desert and while the limpid Elle still dozed, Peter found his mind too jammed with worry to join her in the small luxury. His hand lazily but compassionately traced down her bare midriff as he concentrated so hard his head hurt. With all the powers he was discovering that he possessed, would it be unreasonable to believe that detecting conception might be one of them? He focused harder, trying to feel the multiplying cells of brand new life being formed within the womb.

Are you there, baby? I know it's too soon but if you are, I'd like to know!

The responsibility of a newborn would be colossal for an amnesiac still trying to piece his own life together but the noblesse oblige of his breeding instilled inside him was one thing that could not be forgotten. He would do the right thing and ask Elle to marry him so their child could have the benefit of a present mother and father. The neophyte parents would not receive a Petrelli blessing; judging from everything he could remember this tiding would serve to worsen his pillory status in the family. He didn't care. He would consign himself to a life of poverty, forsaking the benefits of being a member of a prestigious elite family, to have this baby. It was the right thing.

He pictured the ruly family's introduction to the rambunctious Elle and the numerous disapproving lectures he would take delivery of in secret from each individual Petrelli while Elle ignorantly chatted with the others in a separate room. There was no way in hell that they would accept her and it stung his heart. Would they then choose to turn their backs entirely on him as well? Would they not want his child to be a part of their lives? All he could hope for was that everyone tolerated each other and accepted Elle and the baby as vital pieces of the family, or at least of his family.

Elle squirmed backwards against him and he gently rubbed his thumb over the hollow of her navel, imagining what it would be like to feel the swell of pregnancy there rather than the concavity of implied virtue. This entire day found him agitated and hoping that his precognitive ability would kick in at any given point to produce a clue on whether or not Elle was truly pregnant.

I want to know! I need to know, damn it!

Part of why he had a frantic need to know was obviously because of the undefined hostility with Grace Moriarty. Terrified of the consequences brought on by an unknown wrong he committed against her, he did not want Elle or his possible child to suffer for a mistake he made. He needed to track Grace down and hoped that her grievance with him could be resolved diplomatically. It was his only shot at securing amity for his potential future family. Goddamn the prescient drawing! Why couldn't it function when he wanted it to?!

Then he recalled the news article on the back of the picture of him and Nathan from the paper. It was about Gabriel "Sylar" Gray, the man who was missing but entangled in this mess somehow. Leaning off the edge of the bed, his hand felt around blindly on the floor for his borrowed jeans in search of the clipping. Elle grumbled and stirred again, freezing him temporarily until she calmed. He carefully planted his feet on the floor and sat up, finally locating the article. But when he tried to read it he realized the room was too dark.

"Where are you going?" a crackly, groggy voice questioned as he rose from the bed.

"Out into the kitchen for a while. I'm hungry. Want me to bring back anything for you?"

"Nuh, m'fi-" was all she incoherently muttered before slipping back asleep.

"OK, then," he responded and went into the kitchen.

Alex was no longer on the sofa and had probably either reported to work or went out to run some errands so he finally had the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. Turning on the overhead light and flopping down in one of the white plastic chairs he began to eagerly read what was left of the printed columns on the rear of the brotherly portrait. From what little information he could salvage, Gray lived in Queens, took care of his mother, managed a family-owned clock shop Gray and Sons in Brooklyn…and had one older sister named Grace.

"Fuck!" he proclaimed to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Could Grace Gray be Grace Moriarty?! Explanations surged through his already crowded mind like a locomotive. If he was responsible for the death of Grace Moriarty's younger brother then there would be no rescinding an injustice of that magnitude. And now the shoe suddenly was on the other foot as Peter considered how he would've felt if Nathan was murdered and how adamant he would be at seeking to avenge him. His hope was that he wouldn't become homicidal but he understood that the bonds of sibling blood were all but impossible to break.

The idea crossed his mind that if he ventured to the clock shop then perhaps he would be able to find out any information on the Gray family. The address wasn't supplied by the article but one quick leafing through the phone book found on top of the refrigerator gave it to him. He scribbled it down on the scrap of paper found on the table and rushed back into the bedroom to get his clothes. To not risk waking Elle again, he accumulated the strewn clothing and scampered into the bathroom to dress without showering. There was no time to spare, he concluded, as he desired to learn as much as possible, as quickly as possible out of fear that either his amnesia would further deteriorate his mental capacity and he would forget everything or something terrible would happen to someone he cared about as retribution for Gabriel Gray.

Upon leaving the apartment, he confiscated a jacket from the closet to smartly fend off the chilly November air, turned the lock in the door and pulled it securely closed behind him. Once outside the building he searched the pockets of the jacket and his jeans but realized with dismay that he'd left the scrap paper with the address jotted on it in the kitchen on the table. Cursing, he thought hard and was surprised to note that he remembered the street and number without it. But how the hell was he supposed to get there? He didn't think to look at one of the maps at the front of the telephone book and at times like these his amnesia was an honest curse.

Stopping a man who was strolling down the street, he asked and was disgruntled to learn that he would need to take the subway up to Red Hook. He was pointed in the direction in which the station was and, thanking the man, hurriedly walked off.

Whereas his amnesia was a maddening curse, his invisibility further developed into a godsend since he had no money to purchase a MetroCard with. Slipping over the turnstiles without detection, he boarded the train in a sparsely occupied car and sat, rematerializing when nobody was paying attention to avoid being mistakenly sat upon. During the ride, he upturned the collar of the jacket and tried to conceal as much of his face behind it that he could to minimize the risk of being recognized, knowing that by doing so he appeared either guilty or cold. It was to his advantage that the day actually was chilly. Slumped over in his seat and eyes averted to the grimy floor, Peter prayed that he remained as subtle in presence as humanly possible.

His stop came quicker than he anticipated and he was thankful to exit the train, sighing deeply to relish the crisp air like an inmate finally free after years of imprisonment. Now he still was clueless on which direction the shop was in so he needed to stop and ask someone else. As luck would have it, the shop was only five blocks east of the subway stop. Thanking the man for his help, he began walking as fast as he could in the correct direction.

The exercise, he expected, would probably make his already aching body feel better but it served to weaken him which in turn frustrated him. How could he accomplish what he needed to if his body was going to fall ill? There was too much that needed to be done without needing to lie in bed and recuperate from a cold.

I have to do this! I have to be strong! I can't let anything prevent me from making things right! My family needs me to do this! What good am I if I can't protect them, even if I can't remember anything about them? I have to try! Everything depends on it! My new family will depend on it!

Then there it was: the unassuming clock shop Gray and Sons. From the outside, it was like any ordinary shop only dark and lifeless inside. Strolling to the main front window, he gawked inside, his hands cupped over his eyes to shield them from the reflective glare of the sun. The interior of the musty little shop was dead and Peter's heart dropped with disappointment. Had someone been at work inside then he could've asked a few questions, namely whether or not Grace Moriarty was in fact Grace Gray and the estranged sister of Gabriel.

Out of habitual force and for the hell of it, he tried the door knob and was taken aback when the door clicked open. A quick survey of the area behind him showed that nobody was around so he furtively slipped inside, a little bell above the door jingling as he shut it tightly behind him.

"Hello?" he called loud enough to rouse anyone further in the shop. "Is anybody here? Hello?"

There was no answer save for the steady and overlapped ticking of the many clocks hung on the surrounding walls. He walked deeper, fingers tracing whatever objects he passed, until he arrived at a desk larger than the others. It must've been Gabriel's. Pulling the chair out, he sat at the desk and assessed the instruments of trade left on its top with interest. What a lackluster, tedious form of employment this must've been; Peter imagined sore, tired eyes and cramped neck resulting from it.

Yet a hospice nurse's work couldn't be any better, what with the stress and anticipation of losing someone he'd grown to know and love at any given moment. There must've been a passel of psychiatric appointments under his belt that he was not currently aware of. He pondered how he dealt with tragedy on a daily basis and if he would ever be able to go back to it when he returned to his normal life. Being surrounded by a taste of death these last few days made him unsure if he had the heart for the work after all.

Then who was he to evaluate Gabriel Gray's work so negatively? Maybe the man found enjoyment in his work. Or maybe he didn't; visions of a crazed watchmaker searching for a certain greatness because his real work sentenced him to boredom rather than provided him with glory plundered Peter's head and he wondered what sort of man lay behind the manqué abomination known as Sylar.

If Grace Moriarty was in fact his sibling then her celebrity was what might've propelled him into his bloody rampage. Elle said that Sylar murdered countless numbers of people with special capabilities so he could rob them of their gifts with a voracious appetite for their brains as well as their power and that the missing man Hiro saved the day by killing the maniac with a sword. So far Peter knew he had the fatidic endowment of drawing the future, just as Isaac Mendez clearly had. He also had the powers of invisibility, telekinesis, rapid tissue regeneration, mind reading and the recently uncovered capability of flight. His heart sank when he wondered if he was like Sylar since he had this plethora of powers, at least one similar to that of another's, and if he stole them in the shared grisly method as Sylar did. If so, then it meant he killed Isaac and god knew who else. Yet despite the doubt playing in his mind, he couldn't believe himself to be a killer; he didn't feel like one and his current actions taken to save and help proved contrary.

With all the abilities he owned, it struck Peter that maybe he was a kind of source for these powers. Whereas everyone except Sylar had a single power, he was multifarious in his abilities so was it plausible to believe that Sylar could've been out to murder him to accumulate everything in one shot? He sighed and dropped his head to the desk, annoyed at the surge of never ending questions that always went unanswered. Confabulation of the gaps in what he knew was not acceptable. He needed to know the truth for once.

"Just one answer is all I ask for!" he cried aloud. "Just one!"

The bell above the door abruptly tinkled, indicating that someone else had just entered the shop. Heart slamming wildly into his chest, Peter sprang up from the desk as a definitive female form stepped from the shadow. He was in complete disbelief at who had come to join him in the fuliginous solitude of the clock shop.

"Well, well!" Grace Moriarty sneered histrionically. "Peter Petrelli. I finally make your most elusive acquaintance."

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Author's Note: As I presently battle a nasty case of bronchitis and pray with every fibre of my being that it doesn't turn into pneumonia, I would like to thank my loyal readers and reviewers, who help inspire me and make this story possible. Keep reading and I'll gladly keep writing. Also, no thanks in part to my ignorance about how FF.N's private messaging works, my offer for the magazine signed by Hayden fell by the wayside (since, it had been bequeathed to the home of a sweetheart of a girl who'd never had the chance to personally meet Hayden). The good news is, I am planning something else to make up for it as an apology but it will be sometime next month before I let you in on details. I ask for your patient and generous forgiveness for my mistake and hope it hasn't soured me in your eyes.