Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.
AN: Thanks maxwell02, I'm glad you like Elle too! She will definitely make more appearances in this fic, starting now! Thanks to sarahroseserena, faithfulwriter and maria, and thanks Ambrosien – I would love to get another, longer review from you! Thanks Lucas4everPeyton – I wasn't completely sure what you didn't like about this fic – is it the interaction between Peter and Claire that you feel is off base, or is it the whole relationship you don't think is plausible? Can you please make it a bit clearer, I enjoyed getting your criticism, and I'm glad you find it creepy. Special thanks go this chapter to Miss S for most of Elle's disgustingly phrased comments (including last chapter's), and for Sylar's Scripture Knowledge prize (we figured having a religious mom he would know the sexy bits – for those playing at home, please refer to the Song of Songs and Julian May's Galactic Milieu trilogy).
18
"The Bennets have left Costa Verde."
"I know, Adam." Peter replies, looking around. He shuts his door. Lowers his voice. "She's safe. You still being followed?"
"Think so. They didn't get disappeared by the Company?"
Kind of. Peter's still scared by how pleased with herself Claire has been since yesterday, how much like Noah Bennet she seems sometimes. Peter, of all people, knows how addictive power can be. He doesn't like how much Claire likes the taste.
"They're safe. I told you."
"Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Adam." He says sarcastically.
Peter has to take a breath and remind himself that he'd have wanted to know. "Thank you."
"See you Monday. Bring Claire." Adam suggests, as an afterthought.
Peter hangs up. It's a moment before he realises that Adam knows Claire's with him. Now, how could he know that? Unless it was a lucky guess – but nothing in Peter's life ever seems to be coincidence, these days, and he doesn't like this.
Peter knocks tentatively on her door. When Claire opens it, he just sort of stands there. Like an idiot. They haven't talked since the other day, and he doesn't really know what he came here to say. He wants to make it right. But how to do that, other than… how to do that in a way he can live with, Peter doesn't know.
"Hi."
"Hey."
There's an awkward silence. There's so much Peter can't say. The last thing Claire said to him in this room was I hate you.
"So. How… are you?" Stupid. Peter knows how she is. He's seen three of her in the last two days, and all of them are melting together in the girl before him. "How are we?"
Claire folds her arms. Her eyes are downcast. "We're okay."
"Are we?"
"I don't know," she admits. Meets his eyes. "Are we?"
He doesn't know either. "I want us to be."
"Yeah." Claire unfolds her arms, tucking her thumbs into her jean pockets. "Me too."
That seems to be all he's going to get. He can't say sorry for what's happened, not again, and Claire's not apologising for what she did, for what she said. They're hurt. But they heal.
"Here you are." Ma says, coming down the hallway towards them. She looks slightly apprehensive. "Noah's been called away. Bob's assigned a new agent to Gabriel for this assignment, but I want the two of you to go along as well."
"Called away? Where?"
"Family emergency. Poor Sandra's cracking up again under the strain. Noah and the Haitian may be gone for a few days."
"That what you told Bob?" Peter asks.
Ma smiles. Pats his cheek. "Exactly. Our man in Primatech has located paintings three through seven – but no one outside this family is to know. Not Gabriel, either." She adds.
When Peter catches Claire's eye, there's an excitement there that he doesn't like. Ma sits them down in Claire's room and briefs them quickly. They're driving to Maine to ensure a woman called Victoria Pratt is safe and aware of the danger Company founders are in. They're to bring her back, if she's willing, to stay under Company protection until they catch the killer.
"And our real assignment?" Claire asks. She's getting used to the way this family works.
"That was Noah's job. It's yours now. You and Peter are to persuade Victoria to tell you the codes to the Company vault, without exciting the suspicions of Gabriel or Elle."
"Elle?" Peter says, dismayed.
"Gabriel's new partner." Ma turns to Claire. "You're also to watch Gabriel closely. Whatever you do, don't let him kill Victoria. We were friends once."
Victoria Pratt. Unlikely that there'd be two Company founders called Victoria. Peter's not sure what to do. Should he call Adam? But Adam's surely still in California… and then there's that unsettling business of the phone call… no, better not.
"Elle can zap Sylar with lightning if he gets out of hand," Peter thinks aloud. "But maybe I should absorb a different ability for this."
"No."
"Why not?"
Claire gets up and goes over to the mirror. "I don't think it's necessary."
And after that she goes cold on him again. Peter can't figure her out. Ma provides them with tasers and tranquilliser guns, but vetoes actual firearms until they've learned to use them properly. Claire won't allow any discussion of Peter taking on a different ability, and Ma seems to agree with her, and by the time the car pulls up to meet them Peter's irritable and frustrated. He can see Elle in the driver's seat. Sylar's sitting in the passenger seat, looking totally relaxed and at his ease.
Claire and Peter get into the backseat, and Peter tries not to feel like this car is a trap.
"Great," Elle says acidly. "We're double-dating with Touched by an Uncle Barbie."
"Nice to see you too, Elle." Peter replies.
She doesn't know anything. She's just taking cheap shots at them. Sylar doesn't say a word, but he meets Peter's gaze in the rear view mirror and smiles.
"I'm not saying me and Sylar'd be a fairytale romance or anything, but you guys are like… daytime talk show back there."
"What makes you think you're here with Sylar?" Claire retorts. She's just needling Elle back, but Peter sees a flash of interest in Sylar's eyes. Claire catches it. Looks away in disgust.
"I was here first, you don't get to shotgun the serial killer." Elle teases, with something underlying it – oh, no – Elle's jealous. Of Claire. Could she get any crazier? "But he's your uncle too, anyway. Man, your family is more screwed up than mine. Especially if all that sexual tension between these guys is going somewhere, am I right?" Elle indicates Sylar and Peter with a nod.
"Can we just – do this in silence?" Peter asks.
"Wonder how many lucky ladies have gotten to hear that."
"Elle, shut up."
They drive in silence for almost ninety seconds before Elle comes up with, "My niece is my babymama… and our baby can fly!"
"Shut up, Elle."
Claire turns to Peter. "How long is this trip going to take?"
"About seven hours." Sylar replies. He smiles at her. "Might as well get comfortable."
"Oh my God." Claire says loudly. She digs a scratched old ipod out of her purse and jams the headphones into her ears. Curls up into the side of her seat and closes her eyes. There's a tinny, abrasive noise of her music going up loud enough to damage a normal person's eardrums.
"No professionalism." Elle says, disappointed. That leaves Peter as her only target. She shifts tack. "You fell off the radar back there in Texas. One minute the Haitian was after you, the next you were gone."
"I teleported. To Claire." Peter adds, to annoy her.
"That's so sweet. The family that teleports together… I don't know. Probably does crazy perverted shit together with their powers, I guess – I mean, you'd know."
Is she seriously going to bait him for seven hours? Peter feels a surge of resentment towards Claire for abandoning him.
"It's my family too, you know." Sylar murmurs. But he's looking at Claire in the rearview. Elle catches his remark. Follows his gaze. And as if venting the irritation Peter feels, a burst of crackling blue electricity fries Claire's ipod, sparking and popping, shooting up the white wires.
"Fuck!" Claire leaps upright, yanking the earbuds away from her. The damage to her skin is healing already, but her ipod's screwed. "Why are you such a bitch?"
Claire looks like she's about to murder her. But Elle just smiles.
"I can fix it." Sylar offers. Elle's smile disappears.
"No." Claire shoves the broken ipod back into her purse. She goes back to how she was sitting before, but now she's staring out the window.
"Stings, huh?" Elle asks helpfully.
Claire doesn't say anything. But Peter saw her jump when the light exploded, and he saw only surprise on her face. Still no pain. "You could try to get some sleep." Peter says.
In response, Elle turns the radio on. And up.
It's going to be a long seven hours.
After a little while Peter realises Claire's fallen into a troubled sleep, despite the loud music. She hasn't been sleeping well lately, but even knowing that he feels warm and pleased, because falling asleep here, in this car, implies that she trusts him to protect her. Her head's at a weird angle. It won't be hurting her. But Peter balls his jacket up anyway, and moves over to pillow it under her head. He murmurs her name to get her to lift her head. Claire mumbles something incoherent. Just when he's got it arranged right she follows him back to his side, the jacket dropping uselessly to the seat as she curls into him, cushioning her head on his chest. He has to lean back against the door, shifting to get her comfortable, and even though Peter knows she's going to be mad when she wakes up he can't bear to push her away. She's so soft and heavy with sleep. And when Claire's settled in his arms, her dreams seem to settle too.
It's sort of perfect.
Except for the killers in the front seat. Elle catches his eye in the rearview, and Peter gives her a death glare. If she wakes Claire… but Elle just gives him a knowing smile. Sylar's watching the world go by and doesn't seem to have noticed. But Peter's not fooled. His arms tighten around Claire. He checks his hands out of habit – but they're not glowing. Of course they're not.
Claire sleeps for an hour, nuzzling closer to Peter a couple of times, making him wonder if you can die of never wanting something to end. But in a way, he's actually glad Elle and Sylar are here. When Elle drives faster than she needs to over a bumpy patch of road and Claire stirs, if it weren't for their glowering presence in the front Peter thinks nothing could have made him let her go. She pushes herself off him unsteadily. Her hand on his heart.
"Hey."
Claire smiles sleepily at him. "Hey."
It's sort of perfect.
Until Peter sees her remember where they are. Who they are. Claire moves back into her own seat. Reaches for the seatbelt, then drops it. Busies herself with her purse, her compact, smoothing her hair, tidying the smudged liner under her eyes. Doesn't look at him. "How long was I asleep?"
"Long enough for us all to get diabetes off you two." Elle says. She simpers. "It was so sweet. Wasn't it sweet, Gabriel?"
Sylar gives her a sardonic look. Peter feels hot and irritated.
Elle sighs. "Worst road trip ever. I'm stopping for lunch."
They eat in silence. Except Claire, who buys five bottles of diet coke instead of food. When they're ready to go Elle checks her watch and decides it's too late to call this meal lunch – and apparently, if what they just ate was dinner, it's not only appropriate but imperative that she have dessert. And then she wonders if she wants to buy a drink. Reads the back of every bottle of diet soda in the store. Complains loudly about how no one carries the specific brand of soda she likes anymore. Covertly fuses the lock on the ice-cream freezer. In the end, Peter tells her he's going to go see Victoria Pratt now, if she doesn't mind, and if she's that busy here he's happy to pick her up on the way home.
On the way back to the car, Sylar stops Claire by offering her a small white object. It's her ipod. He must have taken it out of her purse.
"Consider it a down payment on that favour I owe you."
Claire looks torn. Her hand rises uncertainly. Sylar takes it, ignoring her flinch, and puts the ipod into it. The earbuds swing from her hand on wires like skipping ropes.
"Can you fix it?" She asks, in a low voice.
Sylar smiles. "I can fix anything."
Then he leans down and murmurs something into her ear that makes Claire's face change. Horror. Then – something else. She nods. Not looking at him. Elle catches up with Peter as Claire gets into the car.
"What's going on?"
Peter brushes her off. He's really not in the mood to talk to Elle right now. When he gets into the backseat Claire's drinking diet coke through a red straw, and she's laid the other three bottles on the seat between them like a barrier.
"Can I have one of those?" Elle, again. Claire hands her one without argument.
Peter sits there wondering what favour it is Sylar owes her. What Claire wants him to fix. And he sits there feeling light, without her weight. Cold, without her warmth. Dead, without the steady beat of her heart, the deep, even rhythm of her breath.
And the way Claire bites on that straw is seriously distracting.
It's going to be a long six hours.
X
It's dark when they arrive at Victoria Pratt's address. The lights are all out. It doesn't look anything like that nightmare house where Claire was murdered one fine morning, so why can't she stop hearing those whispered words? I can fix anything, he said. Leant in, far too close. But I might have to take another look under the hood.
Thinking about submitting to that again – no. She can't. But the nail file Claire keeps in her pocket still didn't do a damn thing to her arms in the bathroom, and she's spent the last six hours thinking it over. Control. She needs control. If life was nothing but sleeping soundly in Peter's arms… but it's not, and she can't think about that, either.
"Maybe she's not home." Can't Elle ever shut up?
Sylar surveys the house. "Something's not right."
Claire's taser is in her hand. The night air's cold. She's not even sure she knows how to use the damn thing. Elle's the one with the gun. The lightning. Sylar's the one with the telekinesis. So why is Claire the one walking up the drive?
"Slow down." Peter says quietly, by her ear. "Listen."
She is listening. There's nothing. Her nerves are starting to sing, and Peter's presence beside her is electric. She's vaguely aware of the others following them.
The door's open. Inside it's pitch black. Claire very deeply does not want to be the first one through that door. Peter has a torch. But the narrow beam of light makes Claire more frightened than the total darkness did. She can't help imagining things just outside the range of that beam, things that could shudder into sight – decaying things, pallid things. Worse things.
Sylar.
Which is stupid, because with Peter through the door, torchlight playing over the blandly furnished living room, Sylar is right behind Claire. Elle lights a crackling blue orb in her cupped hand, Claire can see the glow of it at the edges of her vision, and she knows that if she turns around now she'll see him in that flickering light.
Claire moves away from the devil she knows. Follows Peter. The living room's clear. "Better split up." Peter says softly. He's right. One of us, one of them – one passive regenerator, one active murderer.
Elle gestures for Claire to follow her. Peter and Sylar check the kitchen, while Claire and Elle go down a narrow hallway. The bathroom is clear. Claire has a bad moment when Elle whispers to her to open the shower curtain, but the shadows shift to reveal only an innocent white tub. They move on to the master bedroom. And somehow Claire knows what she's going to see before she sees it.
A darker shape outlined on the dark bedspread slowly comes clearer as Elle and her light come closer. It's a woman. Victoria Pratt. Her chest is obliterated in a confusion of black blood and torn colourless fabric, and there's a small dark hole in the centre of her forehead, for good measure. In her outstretched hand there's a small ripped out square of a photograph. They're too late.
So much blood. Not Claire's own. Claire carefully takes the photograph, but her fingers encounter something slick on the glossy surface. She brings it closer to Elle's blue light. The helix, like Angela described it, like the one around her neck – smeared on the picture in blood, yes, that's the way Angela described it too. And then Claire realises what's wrong.
"Come on." She whispers urgently, taking Elle's arm and dragging her from the room. They meet Peter and Sylar in the hallway. "We gotta go."
"You found her?"
In response, Claire gives Peter the photo. Her fingers come away red. Peter looks at her, startled. The blood's still wet. "He's still here."
"Could be."
Peter's face hardens. "Then we can still catch him."
And Claire remembers, too late, that whoever shot Victoria Pratt attacked Peter's mom. Sylar makes a twitching motion with his fingers and a series of slamming noises fall over and over each other in this small house – every door and window has shut itself tight. If he's still inside the house, he's trapped. Sylar's face is deeply unpleasant to look at.
And Claire remembers – far too late – that Angela is his mother too.
But when they take each room, each closet in turn, the whole house turns out to be empty – apart from the late Victoria. Claire leaves the bedroom, preferring the scary dark living room to the poorly lit bedroom that smells of guns and blood. She can't stay in that room. They were too late. And now Victoria Pratt is dead.
Claire's son stares at her accusingly across the timelines.
"What now?" Peter's asking Elle.
"Now the regular police take over. There's no evidence of any ability here, she got shot a couple times, could happen to anyone. I got pics for our records, and we file the photo with the helix on it, but the rest is a job for the cops."
The others come back into the living room. Claire hates that dim light.
"Our fingerprints are all over this house."
"Good point." Elle thinks it over, then smiles happily. "In that case, time to hand this one over to the fire fighters."
She heads back down the hallway before Claire can figure out what she meant. But then she can smell fire. Light flickers at the end of the hall – not a blue, unhealthy electrical light, but the clean, devouring light of a campfire. Elle makes a stop in every room, and when she comes back, she's like an angel bringing fire and the sword to a sinful people. Lightning bursts out to the curtains, the couch and chairs. Fire takes everything.
"Come on, let's go." Peter urges her.
With a disoriented feeling, Claire realises Elle and Sylar are gone. How long has she been standing here? The fire has spread quickly. Peter's standing in the doorway, and everything behind him is cold and dark, but here in the living room Claire feels only a pleasant warmth. The light's so beautiful. All their mistakes are being wiped out by this beautiful light. Peter lunges towards her and grabs her hand. "Let's go."
When the icy air hits her Claire wonders what the hell she was thinking just now. She drops Peter's hand and follows him to the car. And the misery comes for her again. Peter goes to call Angela, tell her what happened, but Claire takes the phone from him. She should be the one to do this. She should to be the one to tell Angela she's failed their sons. The phone rings once. Twice. "Peter?"
"Nathan?"
Claire listens. Streetlights go by, one by one, outside her window. The pain in her stomach, behind her eyes, is very close to physical. "Okay. Okay. We're on our way."
She cuts the connection.
Claire turns to Peter. "Your mom was attacked. She's in a coma. Trapped in her head, somehow, she's not responding to any stimulus. Nathan said – Nathan said to come home."
Her eyes fill with tears and she can't go on. Claire doesn't know why she cares so much about Angela, but after what's happened today this is a blow she just can't take. She wishes she were still inside the burning building, in that bright light, with the cleansing fire purifying everything it touches. Peter draws her into his arms. Claire doesn't care what they think. She never realised how much she's come to depend on Angela being there, these last few days.
"Two killers." Elle says.
"One killer, one person with some kind of mental ability." Sylar corrects her thoughtfully. He's taken over the driving. He watches the road, intent on something else, and it's strange to see that clever mind turned to help them.
Claire knows she should sit up. But she can't. Not yet. The world only ever gives Claire Bennet perfect moments so it can rip them away – Peter, back from the dead – her son's small hands, his soft hair – her family, together and functional for five full minutes. There'll be time to let go of Peter when they get home. All the time in the world.
"You tired?" Peter murmurs. She shouldn't be holding his hand. But his knuckles are healed, unbroken, and when she's touching Peter it kind of feels like nothing bad has ever happened. Or ever will.
"No." Claire says quietly, so those two in the front can't hear. "You should sleep."
She doesn't say she'll protect him. But it's implied. And despite everything Peter smiles at her. Her heart breaks a little. Claire settles back down against his chest and listens to him breathe, watches the streetlights go by, tries not to think about anything. After a while Peter falls asleep. She didn't really expect him to, and Claire feels touched by his trust in her. Sylar and Elle are silent in the front seat. Elle's blonde head is resting on the passenger window. She's asleep too. She's going to wake up with a hell of a headache. Sylar meets Claire's gaze in the rearview, and she feels a sudden fierce surge of protectiveness for the man beneath her. Sylar turns his attention back to the road. But he looks amused, and she remembers the last time she was alone in a car with him, and she must have done something because Peter stirs and strokes her back drowsily before dropping off again.
Claire lies there, watches fewer and fewer sets of headlights pass as the hours tick by, and tries not to think about the long strand of blonde hair caught in Sylar's hand when they brought him in. By the time they arrive at the hospital Elle and Peter have woken up, and Claire's disentangled herself reluctantly from Peter. Fixed her hair. Her makeup. Getting out of the car feels like something's come to an end.
X
Funny how the only Petrelli Sylar doesn't feel remotely connected to is Nathan. At two in the morning, under the hospital's fluorescent lights, Nathan Petrelli doesn't look quite so smooth and charming as he does on TV. He gets up from his seat beside Angela's bed and hugs Peter. Sylar doesn't miss the flash of jealousy on Claire's face.
"What happened?" Peter asks.
Nathan shrugs. "We don't know. Ma was in her office, I went in to check on her, and she was…" He stops. Stares at Sylar. "What is he doing here?"
"She's my mother too." Sylar says coolly. Angela looks so small, lying there under that stiff white sheet, her hands folded neatly over her stomach. Her nails are as red as the cuts on her face. It still feels strange to think of her as his mother.
"Victoria Pratt was dead when we got there." Claire says, distracting Nathan. "Shot in the chest, then the head – I think she was already dead when he did that."
Leaving that brain of hers destroyed. He doesn't know what Victoria Pratt could do – and now he never will. It could be a coincidence. But it's not. Someone knew he would be there, someone knew they were coming for Victoria, and someone knew they were leaving Angela unprotected. Sylar tells Nathan that. He responds by stepping in front of Claire and glaring.
Elle makes her excuses and leaves. She looks profoundly uncomfortable to be there, and Sylar doesn't blame her. From what he knows of Elle's history, being around a family who actually care about each other, in however dysfunctional a way, must be difficult. He's not enjoying it that much either. Peter sinks into the chair Nathan left. That leaves Nathan standing between Sylar and the rest of his family – Claire's almost entirely hidden behind him.
Peter takes Angela's hand. Kisses her forehead. What's a little planned mass murder between a mother and her son? Sylar thinks he got off pretty lightly being abandoned, all things considered.
Claire sits down on Angela's other side. "Victoria Pratt's dead, Angela. She died before we got there. I failed them. I'm so sorry." She says, in a low voice. She looks up at Nathan. "Did she tell you who he was? The guy who wants to release the virus?"
"No."
"This family has serious issues with information sharing. Did you try Matt Parkman?"
"Yeah. He went home, couldn't find a sitter for Molly. He got nothing. She's not asleep, she's not comatose, her mind's just… locked."
Angela's face is locked. Closed off. And Sylar's momentarily back in that house, looking at her granddaughter lying there – locked. Staring without seeing at the blood spray on the ceiling. That line on her forehead… and he still can't explain that feeling when she slowly sat up, those unseeing eyes so green under that red dripping line, and he saw her live and breathe despite everything he'd done. Special. The way he was special, now. But locked away, her mind as completely inaccessible as the workings of her brain had been open to him moments before.
A garden enclosed. A fountain sealed up.
My sister, my spouse.
Truer than he knew. And then that damn song again, when he felt the sting of the hypodermic and saw her eyes, not dead this time but furiously alive – thou hast wounded my heart with one of thy eyes, he thought, dazed.
Welcome to the family.
Soror mea. Sponsa.
Sylar focuses on the moment. Peter's just looking at his mother, not doing anything particularly helpful or heroic. Nathan's telling them he's got nothing, knows nothing. Claire's the only one attempting to take charge of this situation, and Angela was right - her sons have disappointed her. Sylar and Claire are the only ones worthy of her. Reluctantly, Claire looks at him. "Do you have any ability that could help us?"
"No." Stings, having to admit it. Matt Parkman's ability might help – used by someone who knew how to get the most out of it, and he's on the point of saying that to Claire when he realises it wouldn't do any good. She's not ready to hear that kind of thing right now. And he's surprised to find he doesn't really want to say it to her.
Claire's phone rings. "You're not meant to have that on in here." Peter says automatically. That's right – Sylar always forgets Petrelli used to be a nurse.
Claire leaves the room to answer. "Dad." She says, relieved. Nathan gives Peter a warning glance and follows her out into the hallway.
Peter and Sylar are alone with Angela.
Even locked away in her own mind Angela's face is regal, indomitable, and Sylar feels a glow of satisfaction knowing that this extraordinary woman is his real mother. He wonders if she's dreaming true dreams in there. If she knows, now, how they're going to get her out. He wonders why she told him about her ability when she hasn't even told Peter.
Peter catches him looking at her.
"Uh – you can hold her hand. If you want."
"You'd trust me?"
"Yeah." Peter admits. "I guess I would."
Now that's – interesting. Does Peter think Angela's safe from him if she doesn't have an ability? Sylar takes the seat Claire left. But he doesn't take Angela's hand. It doesn't feel right. "Why?"
Peter runs a hand through his hair, looking lost. "She's right," he says, not looking at Sylar. "We have issues with the information sharing. Ma told you about the virus?"
She did. But as Peter goes on, Sylar realises Angela only told him the bare minimum about the virus. She didn't mention Peter's precognitive dream, for one thing, and she certainly didn't make any mention of him seeing Sylar's son die of it – he's pretty sure he would remember a small detail like that.
"A son."
Peter nods. Still won't look at him. He doesn't seriously believe it – not until Peter goes on to tell him about assassins from the future coming for Nathan, and the trip he took with his future self to a world six years gone. It's a story so stupid it must be true.
"And his mother?" Sylar's not particularly interested in the boy. He's never liked small children, and the idea that he'd give up everything he is and be content to be Gabriel Gray, waffle-maker, for the sake of one does not appeal.
"You killed her." Peter says shortly. Not too surprising. "Look, the point is, I know who you could become, Gabriel. Someday you could be a man I could trust with my family – our family. You're my brother."
He says that like it's shorthand for a entire debate's worth of arguments. You're my brother. And just like that, Peter's bound to do whatever he can to make this work. No matter what Sylar's done. In Peter's world, it really is that simple. Watching Peter Petrelli's mind work is alien – it's kind of touching, and it's also kind of like watching a retarded kid herd cats.
"Dad called," Claire says, coming back into the room with Nathan on her heels. "And then I called Elle and Bob. We're all on the buddy system until Dad gets back. No one's alone. Angela's never alone. Are you okay here?"
She's formally asking both of them. But Peter's the only one whose response she cares about. "We're good."
"Then you should get some sleep." She says, turning to Nathan. He looks tired. And relieved, to have Claire take charge, tell him what needs to be done. "There's a room next door we can use, is that right?"
"Yeah." Nathan clasps her shoulder gratefully. He finds it a relief, having Claire act like Angela. Personally, Sylar finds it sexy as hell. That should feel wrong. Or at least weird. But it doesn't. "Single bed and a couch."
After some argument and stalling, it's decided – by Claire – that Peter is to be Nathan's buddy in the far-off, dangerous zone of the room next door. She's worried about leaving either of them alone with Sylar too long. That's what it boils down to. Even though Peter's empathic mimicry seems like more trouble than it's worth, and thanks to that kid in Costa Verde, he can already fly. Peter doesn't want to go. But it's cute, seeing her clumsily play on Nathan's protective instinct, pointing out how tired Peter is, unconsciously adjusting the way she moves, talks, so she's enough like Angela that Nathan agrees with her.
When they're gone, Claire sits down opposite him, in Peter's chair. Angela lies between them. Sylar casts around for a topic of conversation. Three generations of Petrellis in this room, and maybe it's inevitable that he return to the perplexing subject of Noah Gray. "Peter tells me I have a son, in the future."
Claire looks at him, startled. "He told you that?"
"Seemed to think it would give me a vested interest in stopping the virus." Sylar shrugs. "A second-hand story about an imaginary relative."
"Yeah." Claire looks down at Angela's hands, left neatly folded by Peter. Her face softens. "But you haven't seen him. It didn't mean much to me, either, when Peter told me about his dream – but when I saw him..."
"You saw him?"
"He didn't tell you? When his future self brought Peter back, he had Noah with him. Agents were at the house – they wanted him to be safe." Claire's not looking at him, and she's wearing the strangest expression. It's unsettling. Her voice lowers as she speaks. "You can't understand. I didn't understand. But then he was there, and he was so real – he was so small. His hands had syrup on them. He'd spilled syrup down his shirt. He was – the most beautiful… he was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. When I touched him I knew – I would do anything for him. Anything. It was terrifying. And wonderful."
And Sylar understands, now, why Peter didn't tell him this part. "You were his mother."
"Yeah." Claire says softly. "For a moment there, I was."
You killed her. Technically, not a lie. The way Claire talks about his son – their son… This fucked up family is a little too close, but Sylar's not sure now he'd have them any other way. And his gaze keeps straying to the smooth skin of Claire's forehead, to the pale, clean glow of her blonde hair, and he thinks about how strange and unlikely it is to see her sitting there across from him, telling him about the son they have, the son she so clearly loves, showing no outward sign of the violence of his attack. Survivor of his hunger. His niece. His only equal.
Thou art all fair, my love – and there is not a mark on thee.