The first few seconds are all right. He wakes up, stretches, pushes his arm out.

Hm. Claire isn't there.

And he's still wearing pants. And shoes.

Ohhhhh . . . shit.

Sylar believes he may be the only man in past or present existence who ever awoke sorry to find himself without a hangover. This morning a good, skull-cracking headache might have been a welcome distraction. Alas.

He spends a couple of minutes alternately cringing and trying to convince himself he has no reason to cringe.

It wasn't my fault. I didn't ask her to crawl all over me. What am I supposed to say, Sorry? More like Sorry I allowed you to molest me.

Of course, he did allow it. Maybe encouraged it. Maybe felt her up a little.

He cringes.

Okay, it wasn't entirely her fault. But . . . well, it wasn't anybody's fault, really. The tequila . . . People do such stupid things when they're drunk. My god, people plow into pedestrians when they're drunk. That little fiasco was nothing.

Of course, he did buy her the tequila for the express purpose of getting her drunk.

Cringe.

But at least no pedestrians were injured. That's something.

Screw pedestrians.

He rises slowly, reluctantly. When his shoes hit the floor, he rolls his eyes and pushes them off with his heels. He shambles to the door, drums his fingers on it for a few moments. He doesn't want to go out there.

With a sigh, he unlocks the door and pushes it open, clearing his throat to address the issue at hand.

"Cl—motherf—!" He swears, shouting into the bleak silence of the living room.

Falling with his shoulder against the doorframe, Sylar turns up the bottom of his foot and sees a large, jagged piece of glass jutting out. Glancing down, he realizes the area immediately in front of the door is littered with the remains of a tossed tequila bottle.

With a small grunt of pain, he plucks the glass out and watches as a brief flow of blood soaks into his sock. Peeling it off in time to observe the skin knitting shut, he hops over the worst of the mess, leaving a small scarlet track.

"You're here a week, and I need new flooring," he calls toward the back of the couch.

Claire doesn't answer. She isn't there.

He strides over to the bathroom, and the door isn't locked. She isn't there, either.

Sylar should take the opportunity to go in, shower, delay the inevitable awkward confrontation as long as possible. He goes as far as to enter and lock the door, then pauses at the light switch, running the tip of his index finger over it. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Yanking the door open, Sylar goes down the staircase, one sock on one foot and the other bloody article still clutched in his fist. He checks the kitchen, the foyer, even his room with all the timepieces.

She doesn't seem to be anywhere.

[] [] []

I came onto him.

Claire walks down the sidewalk, aimless step after aimless step. Her face is frozen in an expression of incredulous shame, as if she's viewing a projection of her own brazen behavior on the concrete.

I was serious, too. I wasn't even messing with him. I was actually going to sleep with the demented son of a bitch. I was going to make him beg for it, and then I was going to screw him on the floor.

Good god.

She doesn't consider it rude, or even ungrateful, to think of him in such terms. He is demented. That much is fact. He may be fun—

Oh, god, when did I start thinking he was fun?

She may even like him . . .

Shit, when did that happen?

. . . but the truth is, the man's brain is a mess of twisted wiring. Twisted. Frayed. Probably letting off the occasional spark . . .

And, though she sometimes allows the knowledge to settle in the very back of her mind, the man kills people. Hell, he killed her once. Sort of.

You killed people I cared about.

She said that to him once. A long, long time ago.

He came to see her. Uninvited, as always. Unwelcome.

In guise, he came to laugh at her folly, her engagement—though he wouldn't use that word. He said mistake, he said impulse, he said hormonal whim. So she wanted to be a woman, wanted to play house and feel all grown up, but she was just a silly teenager, now and always, and dear god, she was amusing.

Then the laughter went away, and somehow they were at each other's throats, he shouting that it wasn't going to last, and why would she even want it to, someone like that, someone weak and pathetic, and what if it did last, he'd die, god damn it, he'd just drop dead one day and she'd wake up to a cold, crinkled old corpse moldering away next to her, and then she'd wish she had listened to—

And Claire shoved her fists into him, yelling, How dare you talk about death to me, you bastard! You killed people! You killed people I cared about!

He pushed his face back into hers. The ones I didn't kill died anyway. Didn't seem to need my help.

She slapped him. Repeatedly and with all the force she could muster. He took a few blows, then got sick of it and gave her a single telekinetic shove that sent her crashing into her couch, hard enough to scoot it backward a few inches.

Claire tried to get up. Flicking his fingers out, he pushed her back down onto her backside. She tried again. He responded the same way.

I can do this all night, he said.

Get out! Get out! she screamed, fingers digging into the cushions. I hate you! I hate everything about you! I hate your face, god damn it!

She wished she had a board. Just like Noah had tried to teach her at the Canfield house. She didn't care if it was useless, she'd beat him until he was a mass of ever-healing warped appendages, until she couldn't lift and swing anymore.

Breathing roughly, he snatched up that stupid, long coat—Claire thought he was clearly under the impression it looked amazing on him—and slammed her door open, straining the hinges.

And don't you come to my wedding! she blurted at the last second, leaping off the couch. If I so much as sense you lurking around there—

He turned back with a sneer. What're you going to do? he goaded her. Kill me?

Claire clenched her teeth. She felt the veins in her neck standing out.

Just don't come! she ground out.

Claire Bear, he said condescendingly, you honestly believe that the world revolves around you. Do you really think I don't have anything better to do than sit around with a roomful of fat, drunk relatives and watch you trip over your dress?

Promise, she insisted.

He laughed, a long, mirthless series of dark chuckles.

Does it mean something to you when people promise things, Claire? he asked, grinning. God, you are naïve . . . No wonder you're throwing yourself at that fool. I bet he promised you things, too.

He turned and began to fade into the darkness. Claire stomped after him, catching herself at the doorframe.

She opened her mouth again, but he stopped her.

I won't show, he called back over his shoulder. I promise.

Now, Claire catches herself shaking her head at his misdirection, since it falls squarely under the category of fool me twice. She halts in her steps, and someone jostles into her.

"Oh, excuse me," says a male voice at her side as the person steps around her.

"Sorry, I—" Claire looks up to apologize. He's already hastening onward, but she catches his eye as he's turning. Her lips part, and he seems to do a bit of a double take, looking at her curiously for a second.

Peter, thinks Claire. She recognizes the same young man she waved at the day she arrived in New York with Sylar. Then, he was across the street. Up close, he isn't so similar, but it's still rather striking. It's his build. Even more so, it's his eyes. They seem kind, compassionate. So earnest it's almost comical. The bangs help, too.

Seeing him—even if it isn't him—fills her with glee and sorrow all at once. If Peter was here, he'd save her. Not that she needs saving . . . but he would. It's what he did. It's who he was. If Peter was here, then he would be here, damn it, and she would never find herself drunkenly rolling around on the floor with the man who terrorized her for years.

Of course, Sylar gets the last laugh, anyway. Yes, Peter died, no help required, and that's that.

The young man half-turns to peer at her again. He catches her staring and blinks. After a second of indecision, he sticks his hands in his pockets and approaches her.

"I'm sorry," he begins, somewhat timidly, "I feel like I know you from somewhere."

"Yeah," Claire confirms, smiling. "I think I waved to you last week. I just got here—I was getting out of a cab, and—"

He snaps his fingers, remembering.

"That's it! Hey, what was that about, anyway?"

"Um . . ." Claire laughs, embarrassed. "Sorry, it's just that you reminded me of someone I used to know."

I always loved you, Peter.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Lifting her eyebrows, she gives him a parting smile before continuing on her way. "Well—thanks for waving back."

"Hey." He falls into stride beside her. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Oh, no. I guess it's pretty obvious."

"A little." He shrugs, and his smile is suitably lopsided. She can't help grinning back. "It's your accent, mainly."

"Texas," she says. "Is it completely atrocious?"

"No, no. It's understated, pleasant, actually. It's—it's kind of cute, to be honest."

His eyes are warm.

Claire could never tell if Peter was flirting or not, or if he was even aware it often seemed that way, and she knew that was best for the both of them. If he was flirting, well, what the hell was she supposed to do with that? That possibility expired the day she learned he was her uncle, leaving her with nothing but the skeleton of a school-girl crush and an enduring case of hero worship.

But this one is flirting, in his own quiet way.

"I'm Claire," she tells him. "Claire Bennet."

"Joshua Gallo. It's really nice to meet you, Claire."

She stops walking. Touches his sleeve. He looks at her in uncertain anticipation.

"Are you on your way somewhere?" she asks.

"Nowhere that can't wait."

"We should get coffee," she suggests. "I mean, I could use some."

[] [] []

Claire sits in the booth, staring across at Joshua and reminding herself every few minutes that this is not Peter Petrelli. It's rather futile, though, since Peter's memory is the only way to explain the utter comfort she feels in this man's presence. Strangers shouldn't bond this quickly. It isn't natural. Not that much in her life has ever seemed natural.

Peter always had a way of easing her mind. She forgets the fact that she tried to kill herself less than two weeks ago. She forgets her earlier shock at last night's events, the only reminder being the knit top she's still modelling along with a pair of jeans she pulled from the hamper. She forgets she'll have to go back to Sylar eventually and face the music.

She forgets Sylar. It feels nice.

"What do you think happens to us when we die, P—Joshua?"

The question pops out of her in the middle of a conversational lull, when the sunlight is streaming in the window and making her feel warm and drowsy. It isn't something she'd ask just anyone.

He looks down at his coffee, stirring it with the swizzle stick. She hopes she hasn't made him uncomfortable.

"I don't know," he says truthfully. "I guess I'd like to think we're reunited with everyone who's gone before us." He raises his soft brown eyes to hers. "People we love—who loved us."

He smiles in a sheepish way, as if he's admitting to something embarrassing. Claire's entire torso is flooded with warmth at the sight of that smile.

"I don't know, maybe that's a little—soppy, I guess," he says, shaking his bangs over his face.

"No," Claire assures him, and some of his bashfulness evaporates.

"I mean, we've all lost someone, right?"

"Someone . . ." she agrees.

She lingers over her coffee, pensive, and the last inch or so grows cold in her cup. When they rise to be on their separate ways, Joshua asks:

"Can I see you again, Claire?"

An almost rueful smile crosses her lips.

Oh, Peter. You have no idea how many times I've asked myself that same damn thing.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Joshua." She looks at him apologetically—she truly is sorry.

"Your boyfriend." He nods, disappointed but understanding.

"Who—?" Claire blinks, startled out of her wistfulness. "Oh—oh, no, god—I . . . I mean, yeah . . . He wouldn't like it. He's . . ." so far off his rocker he's floating "jealous like that."

"Ah . . ."

"But he's not so bad, really." She doesn't know why she adds that. It sounds superfluous.

"Well." He smiles at her, anyway. Peter was endearing, always—no enmity but what was forced from him. "Still, if you ever feel like coffee and conversation, I live just a few blocks from here. You can have my number." He takes his cell phone from his inner jacket pocket, locates his number, and passes it to her with a shrug. "If you want it."

Just as it's obvious she isn't a New York native, it must be quite plain that Claire has few acquaintances here. He looks like he's extending simple friendship, if she doesn't want anything more.

Claire memorizes his number.