Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.
AN: Alex is not the comic book guy, I chose the name (and the glasses) ages ago.
13
A week passes. Nathan calls Claire twice to tell her everything's okay in New York. That's two more times than he's ever called her in her life. She gets up, goes to school, comes home, goes to bed. The helix warms to her body and apart from the weight of it, very soon Claire can hardly feel it on her. Mom and Dad look at it sometimes, but they don't say anything. Lyle tells her she should have asked 'the bio-dad' for a new car. Her birthday comes and goes. Nathan calls. Three times now. Creepy West asks her, tentatively, if she'd like to go flying again. She says, "Maybe later."
One day Dad sits her down and asks her what happened between her and Peter. He asks her if they had a fight, but from his tone and the look on his face Claire knows that he knows that wasn't it. Claire tells him Peter tried to kiss her by mistake. It's partly true. Dad's face darkens, and he says, in a level voice, "I see."
She plays up the remorse and the guilt and the awkwardness, and after a little while Dad softens, tells her that he understands, that it's not her fault, and that he knows she and Peter will be friends again. After some prompting, he says he's not mad at Peter. His memory was wiped, after all, and Dad of all people should know how that affects people. He says he's not mad, and Claire pretends to believe him.
Claire keeps busy and tries not to think, taking her ipod with her on the walk to and from school, despite everything Dad says, because it's some kind of distraction and she needs it right now.
On Wednesday, there's a man waiting for her outside the school.
"Claire Butler?" he asks. He's a tall man in a suit. He wears glasses. He doesn't look like a company man.
Warily, she nods.
The man smiles. It's a nice smile. "I'm Alex Manion, Claire. I'm a school psychologist. I hear your car was stolen recently."
Claire relaxes, but not entirely, and shakes the hand he offers her. She thinks he holds it a moment too long, but maybe she's just not used to shaking hands. He asks her if she'd like to talk about it. She means to say no. But pretty soon Dr Manion is coming back from the coffee cart with two cups, and he settles down next to her on the bench and hands her one, and she's agreed to a five minute chat so she guesses she'd better go through with it.
"I'm not really sure why the school thought I'd need a psychologist, Dr Manion," Claire confesses.
"Alex, please." He offers her a disarming smile. "I'm actually not a doctor. Psychiatrists have medical training, they're the ones who push the prozac."
This gets a smile out of her. Claire realises it feels strange to smile, like her face has forgotten what it feels like.
"Theft can be a traumatic experience," Alex says. "I understand you're new to Costa Verde? Had you had the car long?"
"No – about a day. It was a birthday present from my parents."
Alex tells her he's sorry to hear that. He wishes her a happy birthday and guesses she must be seventeen. He says a lot of other things that don't sound much like what Claire imagined a psychologist might say – just chat about how she's finding school, what she likes to do outside of school, what friends she's made here. It's nice to have someone to talk to who isn't part of this whole mess, and Claire finds herself warming to Alex Manion.
She still lies. She doesn't tell him, for instance, that she goes to a certain store at a certain time after school on Mondays for a chocolate milkshake, or that she walks to and from school. She implies instead that her dad picks her up and drops her off most days. And she resolves to skip the milkshakes from now on – just in case. She also doesn't tell him that the cheerleaders are stupid bitches or that creepy West is a huge creep, or that she basically has no friends here. The first part is to protect herself from the Company, if that's who he is. The second part is to protect herself from the school psychologist.
She says instead that she's made friends with a nice guy called West. She says she was a cheerleader at her old school, but she's decided to concentrate on her schoolwork this year, hoping to pull her grades up in time to get into a good college. He asks what schools she's been thinking about, and choosing a name at random, she says NYU. Alex asks if she likes New York. Claire says she's never been.
The five minutes she'd agreed to give him has turned into fifteen, and it's five more minutes before Alex has finished giving her his card, scribbling the number of his cell on the back, and making another appointment for Friday afternoon. He tells her he's happy to meet out the front of the school, or even at the Starbucks down the road. Claire's glad. She doesn't want to be doing this in a guidance counsellor's office. She had enough of that when Jackie died.
It's only much later that she thinks of walking back and saying Oh hey, Alex, I forgot something. And telling him everything, from Sylar to Peter. Adoption, bridges, guns, fire, blood on the Homecoming banner, blood on the ground where they never did find Sylar's body. Oh yeah, and I had sex with my biological uncle while I was underage and he had amnesia.
But still, it's that empty patch of bloody concrete that haunts Claire. She was afraid she'd dream of Peter. Didn't know if she could take it. But all her dreams have been of a faceless man in a cap. All week, every night since Peter left. She dies again and again, and he never speaks, because she's never heard him speak, either. Voiceless in the dark, he kills her. Voiceless in the dark, Claire wakes covered in sweat, her scream never quite escaping to tear the night apart.
Try telling Alex that. He probably trained to deal with breakups and finals stress.
X
A week passes without word from Adam. No Elle, either. Nathan's moved out of Peter's apartment, and they've both gone back to the house – just for now, Peter tells himself. Ma's sticking close to him. He knows she's probably still scared by the attack, which boils his blood when he thinks about it. He and Nathan still haven't found out anything new about it. Matt Parkman's been in contact only to tell them he's got nothing. And Ma stays close to Peter. She barely gives him a moment alone these days. All the same, Peter manages to teleport out to the warehouse in Montreal, first day he's back; he gets Adam's note – The World is in danger – and leaves one of his own, just his number and an initial. On Wednesday afternoon Adam calls.
"I've found Claire Bennet."
This is not what Peter expected to hear. He sits down heavily, listening for Ma's footsteps outside the door. "Claire?"
The voice on the other end of the line is amused. "Didn't you think I'd know about Claire? Poor Elle's always been a bit chatty for a company girl. Besides – a woman with my ability? When you've outlived nine wives, Peter, an indestructible girl doesn't have to be a gorgeous blonde for you to sit up and take notice."
It takes Peter a moment to reply. He doesn't want to say anything he'll regret. But he knows Adam will find the silence itself interesting. "I thought we were saving the world."
"We are." Still a smile in his voice. "I just thought you'd like to know. Weren't you close?"
Peter's had enough. Gives Adam the reaction he wanted, because if he doesn't, Adam's just going to push it until he does. "She's my niece, Adam." He says, in a low voice. "Stay away from her."
"Is she?" Adam sounds genuinely surprised. "Well, that's interesting. She's – what – seventeen? Seeing we're in America, how about I wait a year, then… Uncle Peter."
Through gritted teeth, Peter says, "How about we save the world, Adam."
Adam sighs. "Business before pleasure."
Peter checks himself before he throws the phone at the wall. He tells Adam, in a few words, about the attack on Ma and Kaito's murder.
"Someone's taking out Company founders," Adam concludes. He tells Peter about a woman called Victoria. He knows where to find her. If they can get to her before the killer, she might give them valuable clues. "God knows Angela won't."
"You know my mother?"
Stupid question. "I knew her. You know, she was extraordinarily like your Claire."
Peter cuts Adam off before he can go on. He doesn't like the tone of Adam's voice. He doesn't like the heat in his hands. He fights to control it. "When and where?" Peter asks tersely.
"Monday. I won't come straight to you, think someone's following me."
Peter forces himself to ignore his suspicion that Adam wants to linger in California. His hands look normal, but they're warm, far too warm as he scribbles down the address Adam gives him. "Monday."
Adam turns reflective. His voice lowers. "Being her uncle, and everything… still. Do you ever just watch her walk away? That girl is built for - "
The mirror explodes.
Peter cuts the connection, staring at the glass. Shattered glass everywhere, just beautiful, and there are pieces embedded in the wall and in his arm, in his cooling hands.
"Peter!"
Ma. She stares at the mirror, at the bloodstained shard Peter has pulled from his hand. He just shakes his head.
That night Peter has a dream.
Ma, looking tired and old, is talking quietly to a girl with long dark hair. "It's the virus. We need to move him."
On the couch, a toddler is sleeping fitfully. He's ghostly pale under his dark hair, and the soft skin around his eyes is reddened, bruised. "No." the girl says.
Ma comes closer to the girl. She reaches out. But the girl turns around, and Peter realises it's Claire – older, paler, flinching from Ma. She goes instead to the boy. She kneels by the couch. "No," she says again.
"Claire," Ma says gently. "I've lost a son."
A son.
"It's not the virus."
"We need to move Noah and disinfect the apartment. Pick him up, Claire."
Claire reaches out to the boy. She strokes his sweat-damp hair. Peter can't see her face. "No."
"Claire – "
"Leave us alone, Angela."
Ma looks like she's going to move towards Claire again, or to speak, but she doesn't. Peter can see tears in her eyes. I've lost a son, she said, and he doesn't know if she meant him or Nathan. Ma leaves the room. Peter follows her out into the empty hallway. She closes the door, quietly, and uses a marker from her purse to mark a large red X on the door. She looks at it for a moment. Then she walks down the deserted hallway, past X after X on the front doors.
Peter goes back inside.
Claire is cradling the boy in her arms. She takes him into a bedroom. She lies down on the unmade bed, cuddling her son close to her, his small head rising and falling with her breath, her dark hair stirring with his. She strokes his hair and his small back. She looks at him with dry eyes.
After a while, Claire's hair is still.
Peter wakes struggling for breath, fighting off the covers that have gotten tangled around his legs in the night. He sits bolt upright in bed, staring into the dark. The virus. I've lost a son. Noah.
That hallway. His mother.
The future.
He knows this is a true dream, not a symbolic disaster. Somewhere in the future that hallway exists, and that dark-haired girl, and her son. Oh God, he's been so stupid.
Peter dials the number quickly, fumbling with the tiny buttons, and when she answers her voice is thick with sleep. "Peter?"
"You're pregnant," he tells her urgently.
That wakes her up. "What?"
"We didn't use anything."
Claire groans. "Peter, for God's sake," she says irritably. "It's four in the morning. I'm not pregnant."
"I had a dream."
"I've been on the pill since I was fourteen. Go to sleep."
"What? Why?"
"My mom insisted. Probably Dad's idea. Go to sleep, Peter."
"Get a test."
"Leave me alone."
"Get a test, and I'll hang up."
"Fine. Okay."
But he can't. Softly, so she can pretend she didn't hear it, Peter says, "I love you."
She's quiet for a moment. "I love you too," she says then. "Go to sleep."
He can't go back to sleep. His son is waiting for him. Peter dresses quickly and tries to figure out how to get to the future he dreamt. He's not good at guessing the ages of children. Three years old? Four? But he was sick then. Peter aims for three years from now. So much for time. And in space… Claire. That's obvious. He'll go to Claire. Peter shuts his eyes tight and thinks about her, hard. Three years. Three years.
The hallway.
He did it. Only some of the doors are marked, which means he got here before the dream. Claire's door is unmarked. Before he can think twice about it, Peter knocks.
She answers. And it happens again. "Peter, oh my God."
Claire throws herself into his arms. It's brown hair spilling over his hands this time, a long dark strand that will be caught in his fingers when he pulls away, and this time Peter has the sense to bury his face in her hair, and not to let her go until he knows he won't kiss her.
"Oh my God," she says again, pulling away, reaching up to touch his face. "Peter."
Older, but not hollowed out with anguish. Beautiful, her green eyes with that dark hair, her skin paler without the California sun. Claire glows. He can't do this. Peter moves her inside, because she still looks dazed, and he shuts the door behind them and looks around for the boy.
"I came to save you," he tells her. "From the virus."
Claire comes to herself. "The virus?" she shakes her head. "Peter, the virus has taken almost everyone. Where have you been?"
"Three years ago I had a dream. I came forward to stop it. What do you mean, everyone? Ma? Noah?"
"Three years ago you left me." Claire says. When he thinks to check, she's wearing the helix. Three years gone.
"No. I came to you."
She stares at him for a moment. Then she sits down on the couch – the same couch – and tells him to take a seat. "Your mother is alive. Nathan's a senator, we were all protected early on. My dad sent me to New York. He's dead now."
"I'm sorry." There are no toys, no kids' books, no mess in this small apartment. There is a man's aftershave in the air, and books Claire would never read on the shelves. Peter has come too late for Noah.
But he has to ask. "And – our son?"
"Our son? Peter, we don't have a son." Claire looks at him strangely. "There's me and Nathan, and Angela, and Alex. That's all. That's all that's left."
"Who's Alex?"
Despite the longing in her eyes, Claire smiles. "My boyfriend. He's due home any minute. I thought you were him when you knocked. I met him in Costa Verde. We kind of snuck around for a while. And then he followed me to New York. He helped me get through it, when Primatech burned – when Mom and Lyle – I don't know what I would have done without him." Her smile fades. Softly, she says, "I don't know what I'll do without him."
Noah is not his son. Peter can't quite come to terms with the thought. Noah – if he will exist at all – will be the son of the man whose books sit neatly by author name on their shelf.
"Is he sick?"
"No. But the virus – people are dying. Fast. There's no cure. We've been so lucky here, but every time I look at him, Nathan, Angela – "
As the magnitude of it hits Peter – the stats she quotes, the marked front doors – he realises that the way things are going Claire might very soon be the last woman on earth. He thinks, uneasily, of Adam and his nine wives.
Claire gets up and goes into the tiny kitchen. He follows. Watches her make coffee. "Alex. What's he like?"
Claire shrugs. "I guess he's kind of like you," she says, not looking at him. "Older than me. We had to sneak around behind my dad's back in Costa Verde, and I regret that now. I wish my dad had had the chance to meet him. But I was only seventeen, and it seemed so important then. As if any of it really mattered." Then she does look at Peter, and he understands that she's not just talking about her age. Not just talking about Alex.
He hears footsteps in the hall. Claire gives him a small smile, and goes out to get the front door. Peter decides to give her a minute to tell this guy what's going on.
"Hey."
"Hey."
No. He can't help it.
Peter comes out of the kitchen. Claire's at the door. There's a briefcase on the ground. And she's kissing him – easily, comfortably. On her tiptoes to kiss him. A guy in a suit, kissing Claire hello like he does it every day.
Sylar smiles down at her. Then he looks over her head.
And sees Peter.
"You son of a bitch," Peter hisses. Blue lightning arcs from his hands, shatters the mirror, the television, and there is glass everywhere, just beautiful, he thinks it just gets more beautiful every time, and there's a scorched hole in the hallway where Sylar's head was half a second ago.
"Peter!"
He stops. Didn't know he was going to do it, didn't know he'd done it until – there is glass everywhere. Peter holds out his hand and a long shard of mirror leaps into his grasp.
"That is not Peter Petrelli," Sylar says to Claire. He's holding her tightly, but he's looking at Peter. His eyes are dark with satisfaction. "He's a shapeshifter. I've read his file."
"So you're a company man now?" Peter challenges. "Sylar?"
And suddenly Peter remembers that little boy with his dark mop of hair, so like his and Nathan's that he never thought twice about it.
Claire's staring at Peter. "Sylar?"
"Don't listen to him. Sylar's dead, Claire, you know that. He's lying to you."
His voice is urgent, but there's a smug smile on his face. Peter wants to wipe that smile off with his fists. And Claire –
Claire is starting to doubt. She's in front of Sylar and he can't get to him without hurting her, and Peter is never going to hurt her. Not again. But she's looking at him like she doesn't know what she's seeing, and Sylar must feel her body shifting because his smile grows.
"Claire. Four months after Kirby Plaza, I came to your window. Three years ago. I never told anyone. Did you? Did you tell him that?"
Claire starts. Sylar's smile twists into a glare of murderous rage. With a snarl he throws her aside, drawing his gun in a smooth, practised movement. Peter charges him. He takes the shot like a punch to the shoulder. The glass shard is whipped from his hand. He tackles Sylar into the hallway. The second shot displaces plaster from the ceiling, and it falls on them like snow. Sylar is struggling in Peter's grip with animal fury. Peter punches him. And again. Any minute he expects a telekinetic blast to pin him to the wall, but it doesn't come, Sylar grabbing Peter's elbow instead and pulling hard, shifting his weight suddenly, sweeping Peter onto his back with a hard smack. He's dropped the gun, and Peter thinks he's reaching for another and the lightning flickers on the edges of his vision. He's going to fry the bastard.
Sylar stabs him.
The mirror –
The lightning goes out. And somewhere far away, Peter realises it wasn't the mirror. In slow motion he feels himself slip away, tranquilliser shooting through his system, and he sees Sylar feel around on the ground behind him and come up with the gun. It feels cold on his forehead.
This is why I never came back.
I'm so sorry, Claire.
X
Waking up this time is harder. It's slower, and strangely familiar. It feels like – being drugged. Peter struggles towards the surface, and the voices come clearer.
"All this time. You never said a word."
Sylar throws it back at her. "Like you didn't have anything you kept from me. Three years ago? What exactly happened three years ago that you didn't tell anyone, Claire?"
He sounds angry with her. Peter can't understand it. The cushion is scratchy, and he realises he's lying on the couch. The same couch.
"Don't talk to me about three years," Claire says venomously. "I let you into my home. My bed. I should kill you."
"You're not going to kill me."
Peter opens his eyes, seeing them through a haze. Sylar is tied securely to a wooden chair. There's blood running down his forehead. Peter realises Claire must have hit him with something, and he feels suddenly, savagely happy. Claire is in the chair opposite, and despite everything Sylar is looking self-satisfied.
"And why's that?" Claire tilts her head.
"Because in case you haven't noticed – and, clearly, you haven't – you haven't had your period since May."
Claire's eyes widen. She stares at him. Then she lunges out of her seat and smacks him hard across the face. Peter's blood fires at the blow. But Sylar is laughing.
She hits him again.
Then she walks away and paces up and down, restlessly. Her eye falls on the coffee table. On the gun.
Sylar follows her gaze and the laughter dies.
"Do it," Peter manages, struggling to sit upright. "Kill him, Claire."
Claire looks at him, helplessly.
"Why did you come back?"
He tries to stand, but it's not going to work, so he just sits there and stares at her. "To save you. I dreamt your son died. He got the virus."
Claire's hand drifts to her flat stomach. May. Peter doesn't know what month it is here, but it's clearly been long enough that Claire's pretty sure she's –
"Our son," she says. "That's what you meant."
Sylar glares at him. It looks like – good Lord. It is. It's jealousy.
"Sylar. You never tried to take my ability."
"My powers are gone." He tilts his head. Like Claire. Or maybe Claire did it like him. "I thought about it. I can understand the powers, I just can't manifest them. I thought about opening up your skull, and trying to think fast enough to heal whatever it is that they did to me."
"Why didn't you."
"Claire," Peter says. "The gun."
"I didn't know if you'd survive it."
"Bullshit." Claire spits.
Sylar smiles. He likes this, Peter can tell he does. He wants her to demand the truth. "I didn't know if it would work. The virus hasn't touched me yet – but if it does…"
"Claire, pick up the gun and shoot him in the back of the head. Pick it up."
She ignores him. And he can't make it to the coffee table yet. Peter looks at the gun and wants it, with everything he's got. The gun moves. Just a little.
"I would have given you anything," Claire says, in low, impassioned tones.
"You still might."
She stops her pacing and stands still, her arms folded. Slowly, she turns her head to look at Sylar. Blood on his forehead and on his mouth, blood matted in his hair and bruises rising on his cheek. He looks up at her from under his eyebrows like he knows what she's going to do. Which is more than Peter does.
Three years, he thinks. We had days.
The gun slides. Slowly. Hesitantly. But then Claire comes over to the table and picks it up. She holds it like her father's daughter. Peter tries to summon the strength for electricity, or something, but Claire isn't even looking at him. She throws the gun over to the briefcase and Peter slumps. His head is swimming and he'll never be able to get it now.
"Go home, Peter."
"What?" He can't have heard her right. She can't have told him to go home.
"Go home, and stop this from ever happening." Claire says. "That's all you can do for me now. For us."
Go home? How can he go home when he can't even stand?
"What about him?"
Claire sighs. She looks utterly defeated. "This is my life now. A world with no Peter. No parents, no brother. And I have to do what I can with it." She leans down and touches his face again. Her eyes are locked with his. "Don't let this happen again."
"Sylar."
The sadness on her face is unbearable. "Sylar is my problem. Go home to me, Peter. Please. Go home."
And he thinks of her – younger, that long blonde hair, her eyes and her smile – and Peter knows he'll always be able to go home to Claire. This older one kisses him. It's sweet, and strange, and sad. And then she moves away, and starts to untie Sylar. Doing what she can, untying the monster she loves. He won't let this happen again. He can't. Sylar's eyes gleam with triumph, and Peter knows what he's going to do to him when he finds him – at home.
Home. To Claire.
"Goodbye, Claire."
"Goodbye, Peter." Claire says. That sadness. "I always loved you."