Archive of Our Own

*****

Seven years in the future

Claire is 24

If there is one thing Claire remembers her mother telling her, it’s the importance of, no matter what, having a good, kind heart. She worries sometimes that she has failed miserably to heed that advice.

She splashes the water onto her face, looking up at her reflection in the mirror before her, her brown hair (something she still can’t fully get used to, even after these years) somehow making her face look sadder.

The bathroom door opens with a slight squeak and Daphne comes to stand at her side.

“Mr. Petrelli said we did good today,” Daphne declares, and she nods.

A moment of silence passes by as it usually does, for Claire has long since given up being the talkative type.

But she has no problem with Daphne, so she forces herself to make an effort, finally looking over at the woman next to her. “How’s Daniella?”

A fond smile tugs at the corners of Daphne’s lips as she studies herself in the mirror, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Really good. She’s babbling more than ever. Matt’s hoping her first word will be ‘dada.’”

“That’s great,” She answers in response and Daphne turns to look at her, her face hopeful.

“You should come visit again soon.”

She stares at herself in the mirror, at the blank eyes and the bags that hang under them: the face that looks as if it belongs to someone else.

She puts on the best smile she can. “Sure. I’d like that.”

*****

 Seven years in the past

Claire is 17

“This is where they all escaped from,” Her father says, after Sylar has willingly returned to his own cell, and she looks around through the dim light at all the glass windows of the cells, each devoid of an occupant.

“How many of them are still out there?” She asks, walking a little farther down the hallway.

“Close to a dozen.”

“And you’re sure all of them really belong here?”

“Claire,” Her father answers, his voice stern as it always is when he wants to get his point across. “Like I told you earlier, I would never put anyone in here who doesn’t belong here.”

“Say that to Stephen Canfield,” She replies, her eyes meeting his, and she feels oddly satisfied at seeing his face tighten.

“Claire?”

Claire didn’t hear her coming, but Angela’s demeanor is icy and Claire shouldn’t be surprised that the woman only makes her presence known if she wants it to be. Angela comes to stand between her and her father.

Angela puts on that eerily calm smile of hers. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

Angela’s eyes lock with her father’s briefly. “In private, if that’s alright with you, Noah.”

Her father nods stiffly, a flash of something in his eyes behind his glasses, and she gets the sneaking suspicion that whatever Angela wants to talk to her about, her father already knows of it.

She approaches Angela reluctantly and Angela’s hand comes to rest against the back of her shoulder lightly, leading her along.

When they reach Angela’s office she pulls away from Angela’s grasp a little more sharply than she intended, but she knows that manners mean very little to Angela when she’s got all the power anyway.

“Have a seat, dear,” Angela indicates the chair opposite the desk and Claire does so; Angela moves around behind her desk to take her own seat.

She watches as Angela leans forward with her elbows on the desk, clasping her hands together.

“How have you been, Claire?” Angela asks, almost grandmotherly-like, and Claire shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

She changes the subject, knowing full well that Angela’s concern is merely an act. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Angela goes along with it, reverting to pure professionalism. “There are some news of which I feel the need to inform you.”

Claire ignores the anxiety building in her and raises her eyebrows. “Good or bad?”

“Well, that depends on how you view it.”

She remains silent, waiting, so Angela continues.

“You’ve been told some things about your relations to people that are not true.”

She tenses, hands instinctively clutching the arms of the chair. “What do you mean?”

“Claire, first I want you to know--” Angela begins, but Claire cuts her off.

“No stalling. Just tell me the truth, for once.”

Angela frowns at her but complies. “You’re not Nathan’s daughter.”

Looking back on this moment, Claire will always marvel at how only four words could turn her world upside down.

“But Meredith said,” She stumbles over her words. “She said I was Nathan’s--”

“She was wrong, dear,” Angela’s pitying smile doesn’t match her dark eyes.

After seconds of prolonged shock, she shakes her head. “No, this can’t be true.”

Angela’s face is impassive. “A simple DNA test would tell you that it certainly is.”

“Then why?” She asks breathlessly. “Why did you pretend that I was a part of your family? Why did you tell Nathan that I was his daughter?”

“It was essential that, with your bloodline, you were to be in our lives,” Angela explains, her eyes boring into Claire’s. “Your very presence did save Peter’s life that night at your high school, after all.”

“How long have you known that I wasn’t Nathan’s daughter?” She asks, her head beginning to pound.

“Ever since you were a baby. Giving you to Noah to raise was the only way to ensure that everything would play out the way it was supposed to,” Angela responds, and her tone is so relaxed that they might as well be having a nice chat at dinner. Claire stares at her, incredulous.

“How could you have possibly known all that when I was only a baby?”

“I can dream the future, Claire.”

She swallows thickly. “Then who is my real father?”

Angela leans back in her seat. “A man named Adam Monroe. He was the founder of this company. You have his ability.”

She tries to process this information the best she can, but only one thought relentlessly fights its way to the forefront of her mind: ‘My life has been a lie. Again.’

“And there’s one more thing you should know,” Angela’s voice breaks through her thoughts, and, as if through a haze, Claire looks up at her. “The man you know as Sylar is my son. I gave him up for adoption when he was a baby.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I saw a disastrous future for everyone if Peter and Gabriel were raised together.”

Angela’s dislike of indulgent, excessive explanations couldn’t be more evident at this moment.

“Gabriel?” She questions. “That’s his real name?”

Angela nods.

“Why are you telling me this about him?” She asks quietly, pushing the image of his dark figure out of her mind (that’s how she always dreams of him now, face away from her probing eyes, standing stock-still in front of her, shrouded in darkness, the only way of knowing that he’s real being his steady, soft breathing). “What is the point in me knowing?”

Angela smiles at her, a failed attempt at being endearing. “I just thought, after the shock of what I told you previously, that it would be quite a relief knowing that you don’t have to carry the burden of being related to the man who terrorized you.”

The room is deathly still for the next minute or so as Claire struggles to come to terms with this. What could she possibly say at this point?

“Claire,” Angela begins once more. “I want you to know that I still care about you. You’ve been very helpful--”

“Don’t,” She says forcefully, suddenly fired up with rage at the nerve of Angela to even hint at thanking her as if she had any choice in this whole damn thing. She gets up from her chair. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

“Claire?”

She turns to look at the man who raised her and by the look on his face, she knows the truth instantly.

“How long have you known about this?”

“Only recently,” He replies quickly, shoulders slumping, and she’s disgusted. “Claire, listen…”

But she walks swiftly past him out the door, not giving him the chance to finish.

*****

 Seven years in the future

Claire is 24

“I’m glad you decided to come, Claire,” Daphne declares, inserting the key into the lock on the door to her apartment.

As soon as Daphne opens the door Molly is there, blue eyes alight at the sight of them. “Hi, Daphne.”

“Hey,” Daphne says, smiling. “You help your father with Daniella today?”

“Yeah,” Molly replies, looking at her. “Hey, Claire.”

“Hi, Molly,” She greets, fighting the impulse to turn around and walk out the door. Her discomfort around kids wasn’t something she always had and she’s failed countless times in trying to rationalize why the feeling developed. “How have you been?”

Molly shrugs. “Okay. Lots of homework from school, though.”

“Which you need to get started on,” Matt says, walking into the room.

Molly rolls her eyes but sighs and gives in, walking back to the papers and books spread out on the kitchen table.

Matt smiles warmly at her. “Hi, Claire. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, I know,” She answers in response, apologetic. “It’s been a very busy time these past few months.”

“Tell me about it,” Daphne agrees with a heavy sigh, plopping herself down on the couch.

Matt moves towards Daphne, leaning down to greet her with a kiss.

As Matt sits down next to her Daphne suddenly proclaims, her eyes wide, “Oh, we just decorated Daniella’s room! You can go see if you like.”

“Just be as quiet as you can; I just put her down for a nap,” Matt adds quickly, and she nods.

She enters Daniella’s room, gazing around at the walls coated in hot pink, the color saying it all: it’s a girl! From her brief assessment, there seems to be more than ten teddy bears in every corner of the room, propped on shelves and the white rocking chair in the far left of the room. The crib, ivory white, is set in the center of the room by the back wall.

She approaches the crib silently, looking down at the ten-month-old baby swaddled in blankets decorated with smiling bears.

Daniella’s face is peaceful in sleep, her thumb in her mouth, the other hand clutching her blanket.

The visions suddenly hit her, startling her: for a moment, she’s not looking down at Daniella, but a baby boy with wide brown eyes and a gleeful smile on his face, his fists waving in the air. And she hears her own laughter, mingled with someone else’s, a male, whose voice sounds familiar but cannot be placed.

She blinks rapidly, backing away from the crib, her heart pounding wildly.

She hurries out of the room and into the living room.

“Claire?” Daphne asks, looking concerned at what she knows is her obvious fearful disorientation. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” She attempts to reassure Daphne and Matt, who is also looking at her in solicitude. “I just realized I forgot to do something, so I have to go.”

“But--”

“I’m sorry but it can’t wait,” She cuts Matt off, shaking her head, wanting nothing more than to just get out of here. “I’ll come again soon.”

She looks at Daphne. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with what she hopes is a convincing smile, she opens the door and steps out of the apartment.

She walks down the hallway, taking a deep breath, and it takes all of her restraint to not start running.

*****

 Seven years in the past

Claire is 17

“What is it going to take for you to not stare at me like you want to kill me with your eyes?”

She looks away hastily as he looks over at her from the rolled down window, and she knows he’s smirking.

They’re waiting in the parking lot (he in the backseat of the car; her outside of it) as her father goes into the Company building to retrieve some things, as well as speak with Angela about something (she doesn’t care what they discuss anymore; she stopped trusting both of them a while ago), after it took a good five minutes to convince her father that she could stay out here with Sylar alone, that is.

“Don’t you remember what my father said?” She reminds him. “Don’t talk to me.”

He laughs. “If you don’t listen to your father then why should I?”

She turns away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a retaliation.

“You know,” Sylar states after a moment with what seems to be genuine curiosity in his voice. “Since you’re not daddy’s little girl anymore, why do you keep volunteering to do these missions with him?”

The sun shines brightly over her, making her regret wearing black. “It’s better than sitting around and doing nothing.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess we have that in common then.”

She finally looks over at him at this, stating the words vehemently and emphatically, “I am nothing like you.”

He squints at her, his brown eyes twinkling in the sun. “I know you won’t believe me, Claire, but I realize now the pain I’ve caused you. If I could take it back, I would.”

She scoffs, turning away again. “Psychopathic killers like you don’t tend to feel remorse for their actions.”

“I’m trying to change,” He says, and she’s a little taken aback by the pure honesty in his voice. “I don’t want to be that anymore. I think there’s a different purpose for me now.”

“Sure,” She finally says after a moment, spotting her father exit the building and begin walking towards her. “Whatever you say.”

When her father reaches her he looks over at Sylar peering out of the car window then at her. “Did he say anything to you?”

She shakes her head. “No, let’s just go.”

She opens the car door and slides into the passenger seat, her eyes meeting Sylar’s briefly in the rearview mirror.

She doesn’t look back at him again at all during the drive.

*****

 Seven years in the future

Claire is 24

She stares up at the ceiling from her bed, trying, but failing pitifully, to fall asleep.

She wonders how her life could have ended up like this.

There are days when she can’t remember anything specific that happened a few years ago, while on other days, snippets of memories will come back to her.

And while that’s good, she doesn’t really mark it as progress because what’s the point in remembering certain things if you have no idea what they mean?

All she basically knows about her past at this point is what people have told her.

Her adoptive father is dead, although she doesn’t know how or why he died.

Her biological father, the one she never got the chance to meet, is dead, by the hands of Arthur Petrelli.

Her adoptive mother and brother are gone, but she has no idea where.

Meredith has once again disappeared on her own, probably to Mexico.

And every day she has no choice but to be surrounded by people that she doesn’t even remember meeting in the first place.

She wishes desperately that something, anything, in her life would make sense.

Sleep usually evades her when she wants it but she supposes that doesn’t really matter. She already walks around in a slumber every day, inexplicably feeling that something important has been stolen from her.

But the baby boy. Who was the baby boy? Why did she hear herself?

Her eyes feel heavy and she can finally feel herself drifting away.

Hopefully she won’t dream tonight.

*****

 Seven years in the past

Claire is 17

“Why would he do that?” She cries in anguish, inserting the syringe into her father’s arm. “Why would he move in front of me like that? He knows I can’t die!”

“Instinct, Claire,” Sylar answers, and she looks up at his grim face. “He’s your father. He just wanted to protect you and in the moment he must’ve forgotten.”

She looks upon her father, the panic setting in as she sees that her blood’s not taking effect.

“It’s not working!” She cries desperately. “It never takes this long!”

Then it hits her hard: her father had admitted to using her blood to bring him back to life before. This would be the second time.

She closes her eyes, defeated, dropping the useless syringe to the concrete floor.

“It won’t work,” She whispers.

“Why not?”

She opens her eyes and kicks the syringe away, despair and guilt swelling in her chest. “He used my blood before.”

He doesn’t say anything.  She merely stares at her father lying on the cold, hard table.

She reaches out to grasp her father’s limp hand, nearly flinching at the icy feeling.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” Sylar remarks quietly.

The tears begin to rise in her eyes and all she wants is for him to go.

“Can you just leave me alone right now?” She says, and can’t hold back the pleading in her voice. “Please.”

After a moment the sound of his footsteps diminish and the door shuts with a click.

Her father’s glasses are lopsided on his face. Her hand reaches out of its own volition and straightens them on the bridge of his nose.

And she kneels there, alone, crying over her father’s dead body.

******

 Seven years in the future

Claire is 24

“We have to be very careful with this one, Claire. He’s very unpredictable. So I’m going to go in first.”

“Dad, I know how to do this. Let me go in first.”

“No--”

“She can’t die, Noah. Listen to her. Let her go in first.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Sylar, I was talking to my daughter. So just keep your mouth shut.”

“I don’t care what either of you say, I’m going in.”

“Wait, what--”

“Noah, no!”

“Dad!”

She wakes with a start, gasping, the sound of the gunshot and her screaming ringing in her ears.

So much for her wish to have a dreamless night of sleep.

She looks over at the alarm clock next to her bed.

8:12.

When Peter died then came back to life because of her. Peter. Her hero with the warm brown eyes and sweet smile. Her heart aches at the thought.

Those things she remembers.

It takes a moment of trying to calm herself for her to realize that she’s crying.

*****

 Seven years in the past

Claire is 17

She sits on the park bench, staring vacantly off into the distance at the kids playing.

It’s been a week since she told her mother and brother that her father was dead, this time for good.

The funeral was yesterday.

She doesn’t see him but she’s sure, more than anything, that he’s there.

“How did you find me?”

He moves from behind her, coming around the bench and sitting down next to her.

“You’re pretty easy to find,” Sylar responds simply.

She continues to gaze ahead at the playground. “Did you escape from Level 5 or what?”

“No,” He says, solemn. “My mother said if I behaved, I could stay out of there.”

It’s such an odd statement to hear from a grown man that she nearly laughs. Something tells her he said it that way in an effort to make her do just that.

She wants to laugh but just can’t bring herself to do so. “So you’re free now, huh?”

“You could say that.”

She looks over at him. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and blue jeans, it’s certainly a different sight compared to the suit she’s usually seen him in.

“How can you even trust yourself right now?” She asks, her voice low. The dark figure of him in her dreams rises in her mind again. “How do you know you won’t go back to the way you were?”

He looks away towards the playground, clearly lost in his thoughts. She waits.

“I can’t,” He murmurs after a moment. “But I think I’ve found a way to fight it, to control it.”

She stares at the side of his face. “Why are you here?”

He sighs, bring a hand up to rub his forehead. “I wanted to see how you were.”

“Well, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I would know whether I was fine or not,” She says, annoyed.

“When was the funeral?” He tries again awkwardly, and a strand of her long blonde hair whips against his arm from the sudden breeze. She quickly pulls it back, pushing it behind her neck.

“Yesterday.”

He says nothing in return.

“You made a mistake, you know,” She declares, having to say it, to make sure he knows this, and his face wrinkles in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Having my ability… it may seem great at first,” She mutters, digging her nails into her clasped palms. “But later on, you’ll just start to hate it. You’ll wish you never got it from me.”

“Why do you think that way?” Sylar asks, bemused. “You talk about it like it’s a curse or something.”

“It is a curse!” She cries, looking over at him. “Knowing that you aren’t really considered human anymore; knowing that you’ll outlive your entire family and friends, and end up being alone… How is that not a curse?”

“But you’re special, Claire,” He says, clearly trying to reassure her. She can tell that he, at least, believes it. “Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

She shakes her head, bitter. “No, it doesn’t. I don’t want to be special. I just want to be normal.”

He’s looking at her oddly, taking in her words, and it bothers her. “What?”

He smiles a little and shrugs. “It’s just weird to hear you say that. I would have said the exact opposite.”

“Well, that just shows how different we really are.”

“We’re not as different as you think, Claire.”

Her blue eyes meet his dark brown ones and, perhaps for the very first time (but then again, when did she really have an opportunity to be this brazen towards him?), she lets herself truly look at him.

His dark hair is slicked back in a manner that suits him pretty well; he’s young and handsome, she has to begrudgingly admit. She never got a good look at him at Homecoming, so from then on she always assumed he was an older man with a harsh, unappealing face.

She never imagined he’d look like this.

She gazes unflinchingly into his eyes. “When I was being pulled into that vortex, I wish you hadn’t saved me. I wish you had just let me go.”

His face contorts in sorrow, in concern even, and she’s repulsed by it.

“Don’t you dare,” She says spitefully, looking away. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

“Just go,” She adds angrily, before he can say anything. “And don’t bother coming back.”

After what she guesses must be hesitation, he gets up. But before he does, he reaches out and his hand grazes her own resting on her lap, his thumb sliding softly across her skin, a bold move. She moves her hand away, ignoring how it tingles when he does this.

She won’t look him in the eye; she’s done with that. But when he retreats, she turns slowly and watches him go.

Suddenly, and she’s angry at herself for acknowledging this, she feels much more empty inside than she had before he showed up.

*****

 Seven years in the future

Claire is 24

“Our next assignment,” Daphne says, handing her the file.

She opens it, a picture of Peter popping out into view, his face solemn and hardened, eyes devoid of warmth. A stark contrast to the man she used to know.

She can’t hide her shock.

“I know, right?” Daphne says, seeing her expression. “I totally didn’t expect this one.”

“He’d actually do this?” She questions in disbelief. “Have his own son killed?”

“You know what Peter did, Claire,” Daphne reminds her, her face serious. “He blew up a Pinehearst facility and it killed two hundred people. He’s on his own mission now and that’s to bring Pinehearst down. Besides, you know he’s been against this company since the beginning.”

“Are you the one? By saving you did I save the world?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a cheerleader.”

Her eyes roam over the picture of him; she feels like he’s looking right back at her, scrutinizing her.

It’s a deeply uncomfortable feeling.

She closes the file and steels herself, beginning to walk down the hallway. “What Mr. Petrelli wants, Mr. Petrelli gets.”

Daphne laughs, falling into step beside her, but the sound of it is nowhere near happy. “Exactly.”

*****

 Six years in the past

Claire is 18

The day after she turns eighteen, she makes her decision.

The boxes have just been packed and sealed tightly; tomorrow they’re going to move back to Texas.

Well, her mother and brother are. Not her.

They just don’t know that yet.

She packs her own bag by flashlight in the dead of night because she doesn’t want to risk turning on a lamp and waking up her mother.

Her mother is a light sleeper, something Claire learned a few of the times she tried to sneak out to go to parties. The remembrance evokes a sense of longing inside her; she’d give anything to go back to the days of merely worrying about how to look for that cute guy she was going to the parties for in the first place.

She pushes the thought away. She retrieves the money she’s saved from special occasions from the hiding place in her closet, stuffing it in her bag as well.

She takes the family portrait out of the frame (she snuck it out of one of the boxes) and tucks it into her blue jeans’ pocket, her one and only reminder of a normal, happy life.

She picks up the bag and descends the stairs as quietly as she can, leaving the letters (one for her mother; one for Lyle) on the kitchen counter.

She knows that, when her mother and brother wake up and discover what she’s done, they’ll be devastated.

But, eventually, they will heal.

They’re better off without her, safer without her. Claire knows this; it’s one of the few things she’s absolutely sure of and she can only hope that, over time, her mother and brother will realize that too.

She makes her way to the door and opens it, walking out onto the front yard, suddenly enveloped by the humid air.

The lone car waits at the end of the driveway.

She approaches it without any hesitation, opening the passenger side door and getting in, stowing her bag by her feet.

“You sure about this?” Sylar asks and she looks over at him. He’s looking at her intently.

There was something else she realized recently too, an absolute truth, and one she had to come to terms with. She and Sylar will always have a pivotal thing in common, whether they like it or not: they are immortal. When everyone else ages and dies, they both will remain, forever linked by their ability. Claire doesn’t want to be alone. But with another immortal, she might not be. She could have someone to share the pain of having to live on.

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

And with her confirmation he turns the key, the engine coming to life.

As they round a corner and her house disappears from view all she can hope is that, over time, her family will find a way to forgive her.

*****

 Six years in the future

Claire is 24

She looks vaguely around Peter’s apartment, taking in all his belongings strewn around the room: clothes, papers, books…

“Well, judging by the way this place looks,” Knox says, emerging from the kitchen. “We just missed him.”

She watches as he proceeds to pick up a book laying on the floor then toss it back down after skimming the title, and she feels something unmistakably like strong disapproval creep up within her.

These are Peter’s things, and even though Peter is technically labeled as her enemy now, she can’t stand to see his belongings handled so carelessly.

She’s also not very comfortable around Knox, but she knows that that’s pretty much expected, considering what his ability is.

His ability is the reason he’s with her and Daphne on this mission to begin with.

When dealing with someone like Peter, you need all the back-up you can attain.

“He’ll come back sometime, though,” Daphne chimes in, confident.

She turns away, silent, venturing farther into the living room.

Catching sight of the framed pictures placed on the long and narrow mahogany table at the far end of the room near the window, she approaches them.

One picture she immediately spots is one of Nathan, Angela, and Peter. She looks away quickly at the sight of Angela’s smiling face.

The next one she sees is one she’s familiar with: Peter and Nathan standing side by side in suits, grinning at the camera on Nathan’s wedding day.

All the frames appear to be covered in thick layers of dust.

Peter may have been here previously but it’s clearly been quite a while since he’s picked up these pictures to look at.

For some reason, this realization makes her forlorn. Oh, Peter.

At the far right end of the table there’s one last picture frame, but it’s laying face-down against the table, the picture obscured from her sight. She immediately sees another reason why it stands out: it doesn’t seem to have as much dust on it as the others.

She reaches out for it, feeling oddly apprehensive, her hand merely inches from grasping the frame.

Then Daphne’s fingers enclose around her upper arm. “Claire, we better get going.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Knox questions, and the curiosity in his voice gets her attention. Claire looks over at him.

He’s looking straight at Daphne, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you afraid all of a sudden?”

Daphne‘s shoulders stiffen. “I just don’t want to keep the boss waiting. You know how he gets.”

Knox raises his eyebrows but Daphne turns back to face her. “Ready?”

She nods, the whole situation peculiar and unsettling. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Daphne smiles. The relief in it isn't missed by Claire.

Knox comes to stand at one side of Daphne, grabbing hold of Daphne’s arm, and in turn Daphne’s hand grips Claire’s arm once again.

She can’t help but look back at the overturned picture frame, as if there is an invisible link between them, then everything becomes a blur of color and sound as Daphne speeds them away.

*****

 Six years in the past

Claire is 18

They sit on the exact same bench at the exact same park and for many minutes they say nothing but just stare into the darkness.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” She asks, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean,” He says, but clarifies anyway. “Why did you leave your family like that?”

“I didn’t really have a choice at this point.”

“Everyone has choices, Claire,” He disagrees softly.

Despite herself she laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

He laughs too, the sound of it oddly comforting to her in their quiet surroundings. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“You didn’t really answer my question, though,” He continues, shifting a little on the bench.

“My father died protecting me,” She gives in. “I wasn’t going to risk the same thing happening to them because of what I am.”

“Of who you are,” He corrects. “Not what you are. You shouldn’t refer to yourself that way.”

“I meant what I said,” She rebuffs him, fixing her eyes on the pink horizon signaling the arrival of morning.

“You really don’t appreciate your ability at all, do you?”

His voice is curious, thoughtful, the sound of cars starting in the distance.

“No, I don’t. How can I appreciate something that only results in the people I care about getting hurt?”

He’s silent at her words, pondering, she assumes, and she looks around during the meantime, folding her arms against herself.

“You’re a very selfless person, Claire.”

A light wind blows against her. “I suppose you think it’s pointless for me to be so.”

“No, I envy it,” He proclaims truthfully, and she smirks.

“See, I told you we were different.”

She can sense his smirk in return.

“Then why did you ask for me to come get you?” He challenges her, and she can hear the amusement in his voice. “Why are you choosing to stay with me?”

She thinks, wondering how exactly to phrase her response, but then she realizes that it doesn’t matter how it’s said. The meaning will be clear either way.

“I thought it was time to start a new life,” She says, and the sun rises in the distance, birds beginning to chirp around her. “You being involved in that is as different as it gets, I guess.”

He lets out a sigh, her eyes meeting his as he leans back lazily against the bench.

“Well, there’s no point in hurrying,” He reminds her, the first true smile she’s seen him wear appearing upon his lips. “If there are any people who have all the time in the world, it’s us.”

*****

 Six years in the future

Claire is 24

She leans against the building, letting out a deep breath, the icy cold making it form in the air.

She pulls her jacket tighter against herself then releases her dark brown hair from the tight ponytail, tangling her fingers through it, smoothing it out.

A movement to her left catches her eye and she turns slightly to see what it is.

The Haitian reveals himself, walking towards her at his slow, leisurely pace.

“I knew I’d be seeing you again sometime soon,” A wry smirk forms at her lips. “So you’re going to help me catch Peter?”

He shakes his head, coming to rest a few feet from her. “Things have changed.”

“Really?” She asks, finding herself still as uninterested as she was when she was informed that he would be assisting her in the attempt to apprehend Peter. “How so?”

He’s quiet for a split second too long and she can’t help but find herself a bit bothered by the intense, serious look on his face.

“I admit that I made a mistake,” He answers, his voice low. “I thought, at the time, that it was the only way.”

“What?” She asks, her eyes widening.

He looks around briefly, his body clearly tense, then returns his gaze to her.

“This is not the life you’re meant to live,” He says matter-of-factly. “Your father, he would not wish to see you like this.”

“I don’t understand,” She responds, feeling both alarmed and annoyed. “What exactly are you saying?”

His eyes lock with hers, determined, and a vision hits her, one where he’s looking at her exactly like this.

The only difference in it is that his hand is extended, moving over her face.

“Claire, you need to find Peter.”

*****

 Six years in the past

Claire is 18

“Where to?”

At the sound of his voice she turns away from the window.

He’s waiting patiently, his hands resting against the steering wheel.

“It doesn’t matter,” She tells him, and he nods.

As he starts the car, she resumes peering out of the car window at the kids playing in the park.

After her father’s funeral, she had gone to the park because it’s the one strong memory involving him that she has from when she was little.

When she was six, her father and mother would always take her and Lyle to the park. Lyle had been three; he was a quiet child who usually preferred playing in the sand with his toy shovel and bucket.

She, however, much preferred going down slides, climbing the monkey bars, and jumping out of swings.

She was a very active child and it had made her father very nervous.

‘Noah, just let her have her fun,’ Her mother would say with a sigh. ‘All children are bound to get bruises and scrapes. She knows you’ll be right there if something happens.’

‘I just don’t want to see her get hurt,’ Her father would use as a defense, his eyes never wavering on her.

And when she did get those scrapes, her father would always be there with a band-aid ready.

‘There you go, Claire-bear,’ He would say, kissing her on the forehead. ‘All better.’

And she would grin, reassured, the pain forgotten.

That was one of her fondest memories, because there was nothing to really worry about.

Things were normal.

She was happy then.

And so was her father.

All he ever wanted to do was protect her, even after she had discovered the truth about her ability, and she had mistrusted him because of it.

Now he lies six feet under, with no chance of her ever telling him she’s sorry.

And she’s left her mother and brother, in the hopes of them achieving a better life without her, the life she once had with them gone forever.

The tears slide hotly down her face as she presses her face against the window, taking even breaths.

Sylar’s hand covers hers but he says nothing. She can’t help but be grateful.

And so they continue on together. Sylar seems to stick to his promise to refrain from taking other people’s abilities, and she starts to feel as if she is beginning to glimpse pieces of the man he once was before special abilities were ever a thought in his mind, when he was just an ordinary, shy, lonely watchmaker. He tells her about that, about the shop he took over from his father, when he thought his ability to fix timepieces effortlessly just by the sound of their ticking was merely a talent, nothing particularly special.

“I do think about the way I was then, what I could’ve become if I never found out about abilities,” He admits quietly at the diner, in a secluded corner (he goaded her with the game ‘twenty questions,’ which she only agreed to do when he promised that he would answer any question she asked, even if he didn’t want to), absentmindedly twirling his index finger around the spoon in his coffee, his telekinesis doing the work. “Things were simpler. I wasn’t particularly happy but there was some normality, and I do miss some of that. Not that I would give up my abilities, though.”

He looks at her pointedly, as if she’d be crazy to think for a second that he actually would, and she smirks, sticking her fork in her cheesecake.

“Now it’s my turn,” He declares triumphantly, bringing the coffee mug to his mouth. “Would you want to go back to before all of this?”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “You know my answer to that. Ask me something else.”

He studies her for a moment. She looks away, focusing on her dessert.

“Tell me,” He tries again, and she hears the slight reluctance in his voice. “When you found out you were adopted. How did you feel?”

She remembers the moment vividly, her father finally admitting he needed glasses after Claire caught him constantly reading books inches from his face, the different frames spread out on the kitchen counter. She remembers helping him pick one, him trying them on, and the way his face looked, full of trepidation and softness, when she asked if, since she was his daughter, she would ever need glasses too. She remembers the initial shock when he told her, the way she handled it when she reminded herself that, no matter what, he was the man who raised her. She remembers handing him the frames she liked, the one he chose simply because she liked it, the glasses she straightened on his face even in death. She remembers the tenderness in his face, his smile when she told him that the truth didn’t really matter, that it changed nothing. She remembers the tears in his eyes before he turned away.

“I was shocked, of course,” Claire begins, putting her fork down and leaning on the table, her face in her hand. “But I didn’t care in the end. Not really.”

Sylar tilts his head. “Why not?”

Claire shrugs, meeting his gaze, the answer simple. “He was my father.”

*****

 Six years in the future

Claire is 24

A faint light shines out from the crack underneath the door to Peter’s apartment. She turns the knob and to her surprise, it’s unlocked.

She gives the door a push and it springs open effortlessly.

She steps in quietly and immediately sees him standing stock-still at the window, his back to her.

“Peter?” She utters, her heart in her throat, and he turns.

The diagonal scar is prominent on his face; it’s the first thing she notices and she wonders how he obtained it in the first place.

Despite his empath ability, he actually looks the years he’s aged, perhaps even a bit older, most especially with his dark hair slicked back the way it is.

She supposes all of the experiences he went through over the past couple of years has done that to him.

“Claire,” He returns, and the way he says her name makes her feel like he had been expecting her. “I knew they’d send you after me eventually.”

“I’m not here for that,” She says, truthful. “I’m here because the Haitian told me to find you.”

Peter looks away at her words and she can tell, easily: he’s nervous.

“Did he?”

“The things he said to me,” She continues, dwelling on it, the foreboding rising in her, unbidden. “They were very odd. By telling me to find you, I’m assuming you can make more sense of it than I can.”

Peter folds his arms against himself, his black overcoat shining in the light of the lamp on the table next to him.

“He told me I needed to know the truth,” She announces, her voice stronger. “I know you’re the one to tell me it, Peter.”

“Claire, I…” He falters, and by the look of desperation on his face, she realizes instantly.

“He did it, didn’t he?” She says lowly, her heart sinking horribly. “He took my memories.”

Peter takes a deep breath and all of a sudden he looks so tired, so defeated.

“We thought it was our only choice.”

At his affirmation she staggers over to the couch, slumping down on it, bringing her shaking hands to her face.

After a moment, when she collects herself the best she can, she takes a deep breath and looks up at him. “What did he take?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s not as simple as that, Claire.”

“You,” She declares, it fully dawning on her. “You knew about it. You let him do it. How could you, Peter?”

“I did it to keep you safe.”

“And living like this is supposed to be the better alternative?” She questions harshly. “Every day something comes back to me but I have no idea what it means. Do you even know how that feels, Peter? I don’t even know myself anymore!”

He moves towards her, eyebrows furrowed, sitting down next to her on the couch. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

His change of subject catches her off guard but she ponders, regardless. “When I found out my father was working with Sylar, I guess.”

An odd expression comes over Peter’s face for a split second and she catches it. “What is it?”

To her surprise, a small smile appears on his face. “It’s just weird to hear you call him that instead of Gabriel.”

“Why would I call him Gabriel?” She asks, confounded.

Peter hesitates, clearly conflicted, but then he rubs his forehead, giving in.

“Because you had a life with him, Claire.”

She simply stares at him, stunned.

She had a life with Sylar? How is that possible?

Peter laughs (there’s a hollowness to it she’s never heard before), seeing the expression on her face. “I know. I had the same look on my face when you told me.”

But the smile is gone as quick as it had come and he gets up from the couch, moving away back towards the window.

“Then Noah came and things began to get dangerous,” He finishes, so softly that she almost doesn’t hear it.

“My father?” She asks, confusion setting in once again. “What did he have to do with it?”

Peter reluctantly faces her again, his brown eyes glimmering.

“Not your father, Claire,” He corrects her, solemn. “Your son.”

*****

 Six years in the past

Claire is 18

She’s been with Sylar for over a week. From the park near her home he’d driven the both of them from Los Angeles to Olympia, Washington. They drove about five hours a day, stopping at gas stations to pick up junk food and staying in motels along the way.

The first day he’d driven them to Sacramento, and it was that night in a motel room that she thought of the idea to go to Washington. The reason was simply silly and only two words: Twin Peaks. She watched the show when she was fourteen, as a teacher had recommended it in a media class. She fell in love with the setting, the place where, almost outside of reality, anything could happen; she lost herself in the sheer mystery and sense of dread that seemed to permeate the very air around the characters. She knows it sounds morbid but she developed an affinity for Laura Palmer, the girl who felt she had to play a part for everyone to make them happy, who felt that no one would truly understand her. The tragedy concerning Laura haunted, both figuratively and literally, everyone in that town, whether they had interacted with her much or not, and it made her, in death, forever special. Claire admits she envied that at the time, that a girl could have so much power, even when buried in the ground. But now, after knowing the truth about what she is, she may have gotten her wish: she is more like Laura now than she ever was. The inherent sadness, fear, and confusion that thrived in Laura, the secrets she was forced to keep, control eluding her, running far out of her reach… those things are no longer unfamiliar to Claire. But Claire can never be like that fictional teenage girl in the most important way, for there is a vital difference that divides them: Claire can never die. And as Laura’s story showed, you have to die to make people start caring, to wield the most power.

When she tells Sylar that night in the motel room about her destination idea, he simply looks at her. “Why Washington?”

She feels self-conscious but stares right back. “I always thought it was a beautiful place, the trees…”

He continues to stare at her, waiting patiently.

She sighs, giving up on her half-hearted explanation. “You know…Twin Peaks?”

“Ah,” He nods, reaching out for his soda on the bedside table where he sits against the wooden headboard of the bed (the first thing he did when they entered the room was strip the comforters off their beds, throwing them to the floor quickly, clearly not willing to touch them any longer than he had to, and she couldn’t help but agree), legs spread out in front of him. “I liked that show.”

She leans back on her bed, relieved that he apparently had no judgment or quip to make. “Me too.”

And so they get there in a little less than a week. They get an apartment and begin putting in furniture, keeping it simple and uncluttered.

Sylar made dinner last night so she elects to wash the dishes today; it’s only fair but Sylar doesn’t know her other reason, how washing the dishes the old-fashioned way (there’s a perfectly good dishwasher right next to her, but, to her, it may as well not be there at all) reminds her of her mother, how sometimes both she and her mother would stand side-by-side at the sink, one washing the dishes and the other drying them, chatting about what they had separately done that day, even making plans together for later in the week.

She takes her time, reminiscing on this, slowly washing each dish, the water warm, the soap suds coating her hands.

“While your father’s out of town again and Lyle’s out with his friends this Saturday, I thought we could go catch a movie, maybe even go to the mall. Just us girls.”

“Sure, Mom. What movie would you like to see?”

“Romantic or scary. You pick this time.”

“Scary? There’s this new movie out about a haunted house…”

“Does it have sexual content? Because the last one we watched--”

“Mom!”

“I’m just kidding, Claire. You’re almost a grown woman now, anyway. Time goes by so fast…”

Claire yanks her hand back out of the water, sucking in a sharp breath. The cut is small on the pad of her index finger, tiny trails of blood leaking down her hand. She watches as the cut closes itself up, her skin flawless, the pain gone instantly.

She reaches into the soapy water carefully and picks up the serrated knife, holding it up by the handle. Sylar had cut potatoes and carrots last night. Underneath a plate, she had forgotten it was in the sink when she filled it up. Her mother would have lightly reprimanded her.

She doesn’t really think about it; she just does it. She grips the handle tightly and brings the sharp edge to the palm of her left hand and slides it across slowly, gritting her teeth at the pain, closing her hand into a tight fist over the knife. Blood leaks down her hand and into the water; she becomes oddly mesmerized by the red swirling in it, letting her hand unclench, palm open, the cut slashed horizontally along the skin.

She jolts, nearly cutting herself again, when a hand reaches out from behind her and closes around the one in which she’s holding the handle of the knife. She whips around, trying to pull away from Sylar’s grasp but he holds on firmly, looking her right in the eyes, managing to extricate the knife from her.

The silence is deafening.

She pulls away, attempting to turn away first, refusing to offer an explanation (what could she possibly say, anyway?), but he pulls her to face him again, forcing her to open the hand she cut, which she closed instinctively to hide what she did.

“Look,” Sylar orders passionately, voice low, still looking her straight in the eye. “Look at what your body can do.”

She reluctantly looks away from him, following his gaze to her palm. The cut, of course, is gone. The skin looks the same as it did before she cut into it. The only evidence of what she had done is the blood, still dripping from her hand and now to the floor. Sylar’s fingers smear some of it.

She succeeds in pulling away this time, her face tightening. “You don’t understand.”

“Your ability is remarkable, Claire,” Sylar says, his voice steady. “The number of people who would love to trade places with you is no doubt staggering. You are invincible--”

“I don’t care!” She whips around to face him again, closing both hands into fists, her blood sticky and seeping through her fingers. “I don’t care that other people would want what I have! That’s what they want! Not me! This feeling, this constant awareness that there is never an end for you, a time when you can just rest, when it is finally over! The isolation, this loneliness that always stays with you, reminds you that you will always be set apart from everyone else, always be alone--”

Sylar’s dark eyes flash in anger; he brings his arm up, his forearm facing her, closing his hand into a fist, and with one swift movement with his other hand he slides the knife vertically on his arm, the effective and quick way to commit suicide, to ensure you copiously bleed out.

She stares at the long cut, transfixed by the way his skin splits open, unleashing the dark red blood that pours down his arm, dripping heavily to the floor to mix with hers.

Then, in the next moment, the cut begins to rapidly heal, closing itself, pink then back to the color of Sylar’s skin.

“You forget.”

She meets his eyes, unable to push away the shame that swells in her, but she moves forward regardless so that they’re inches from each other, keeping her eyes locked with his.

“You had a choice. You made the choice to get my ability. I never had a choice.”

She walks away, wanting nothing more than to get out of the room, away from his eyes. The conversation, as far as she is concerned, is over. She regrets that it even happened in the first place. Sylar doesn’t follow.

“You’re not alone, Claire.”

She stops in her tracks, her shoulders tensing, then continues on her way to her bedroom.

The next morning, the kitchen is as clean as it ever was. He’s cleaned up the blood.

*****

 Six years in the future

Claire is 24

“Claire,” Peter says, rubbing her upper back soothingly. “I know what you must be thinking…”

She blinks up at him, her expression anguished. “No, you don’t, Peter. You’re not the one who’s just found out the memory of having a son was stolen from you.”

“We did it to protect you,” Peter repeats, desperation in his voice. “That was our only intention.”

“Taking my memories?” She inquires sadly. “That was the only option?”

“It was that or taking you away and letting you keep your memories, knowing that you’d never see your son again,” Peter declares, and the thought of that makes her sick to her stomach. “Would you have rather gone through that?”

She evades the question because she knows he’s right.

“You still haven’t told me why you did this, Peter,” She says quietly.

Peter opens his mouth then closes it; she waits while he fumbles for the words.

“My father,” He finally says wearily, “is the worst of all the villains. Abilities passed down through genetics means everything to him. He’s even gone so far as to plan out people’s relationships, making sure that they have at least one child together. He’s convinced from a prophetic dream someone told him about that there’s going to be a child that will grow to be his rival, the most powerful of us all.”

She’s only met Arthur Petrelli a couple of times when she had to report the progress of her assignments and every time he never failed to terrify her. There was just something about him: he was a calm, proud man with a cold smile, a smile that he would continue to show even as he stripped you of your ability. When you worked for him, you did as he said, or else.

She wasn’t the only one afraid of him. Everyone else at Pinehearst secretly was too, she knew it.

She had heard from Knox how Arthur had taken Adam’s ability. He had described it in full detail, having no idea of her relation to Adam, and she had been forced to listen to it all, her stomach churning.

Arthur had sucked Adam dry and, after four hundred years of living, Adam had disintegrated into dust on the floor.

And Arthur had stepped right over it afterwards, ready to get back to business.

“To him, it’s all about lineage,” Peter continues, his face lined with disgust. “If you and Gabriel kept running, you both might have been alright. But Noah was born and the three of you had to settle down. You both couldn’t be on the run with a child. Those days had to be over. And I just knew that if my father found out about Noah, he would take him away from you and Gabriel.”

“Why?” She asks, a chill coming over her. “Why would he take my son?”

“Claire, you and Gabriel having a child is something that he would have desired,” Peter explains, the words rushing out of his mouth (she can’t imagine how long he must have wanted to say this). “Gabriel being his son is already reason enough. But you being a descendant of Adam Monroe, and his ability having been passed down to you, there’s no doubt that my father would have wanted to see your son. He’d want to study him, experiment on him…”

Peter trails off and she’s grateful. Her imagination is already horrific enough.

“So, you see, Claire,” Peter starts again, looking her full in the face. “Taking you away, erasing your memory… it made sure my father would never find out, at least through you, that you were Noah’s mother. Because if he did, he’d take your ability away then kill you because he’d know you’d fight for your son. Any sign of a threat to him he eliminates. Gabriel would have been alright. But, especially considering who your biological father was, my father always had an interest in you.”

At this Peter quiets, his face resigned and sorrowful, and she simply sits there, being quiet with him.

*****

 Six years in the past

Claire is 18

They’ve gone on for almost a year. Alternating between motels and apartments, they never stay too long in one place. They usually don’t need to worry about money, because Sylar has the ability to persuade. The first time she saw him use it was one of the oddest moments of her life, watching someone do something they don’t want to do just because you merely tell them to. She doesn’t bother asking Sylar who he got it from in the first place.

They change their names from time to time, even though they both know it’s not exactly necessary. They did it once, in the early days, when they were in Washington and had persuaded a landlord to give them an apartment for no rent. Claire got it in her head to change her name in case she was being looked for. She even got Sylar to do it too. She dyed her hair a mousy brown and had a few inches cut off. She named herself Lindsey, after the name of one of her old friends’ pet cat, way back when she was in the early years of elementary school. The cat was a snarky asshole, never letting her hold it, but she liked the name. Sylar named himself David. Neither of them asked the other why they each picked the names they did.

And so the routine stuck. Claire knows that they could just stop but she feels they both secretly find some amusement in it. It can be a bit fun pretending to be someone else, feeling the thrill of telling unsuspecting people, ‘Hi, I’m Lindsey, and this is David,’ or ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Alice, and this is Tom’ and watching them smile in return, all innocent, when you know that you are giving them complete bullshit. On some nights, as a kind of game, she and Sylar even come up with backstories, elaborate or brief, for their aliases. Lindsey is an only child, was a straight-A student, and is still thinking about where to go to university, planning to major in both political science and women’s studies. David’s parents are divorced, he has an older sister and attended university in San Francisco, and now works as an IT consultant. The second person they told that to, an older male tenant, had grinned and insisted that ‘David’ could easily apply his tech knowledge to setting up a desktop computer he had finally decided to get, after convincing from his son. ‘George said he would set it up for me later this week but he’s going through a nasty divorce, and if you would be kind enough, it would be just great if you could help me instead,’ the man said. Claire knew Sylar wanted more than anything to say no but she gave him a look after the man disappeared back into his apartment, leaving the door open. Sylar, of course, did manage the task, and Claire watched, trying so very hard not to smile, as the man babbled on and on as Sylar sat on the floor, asking him, ‘So what does this do?’ and ‘Where does that go, again?’ It was only when, after close to an hour, Sylar got up with relief that the man handed him a disc, saying, ‘Oh, and this is some sort of virus… no, ANTI-virus thing, and my son says it’s important that it’s installed…?’ Claire had to walk quickly out of the room, hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter at the fact that if he had the ability, Sylar’s very eyes could set the room on fire. That night Sylar emphatically declared that they really had to pick careers for their aliases that no one could possibly ask someone to do right then and there, and right before Claire drifted off to sleep in bed, she realized that day was the first time she happily laughed like she had before her father’s death.

As time went on, they learned from their mistakes and their aliases and backstories got better and much more elaborate. ‘Alice’ and ‘Tom’ were brother and sister (they were tired of people always assuming they were a couple, and it was just awkward), he older, she younger, and they had decided to share an apartment on some money they had saved up while they looked for jobs. Both ‘Alice’ and ‘Tom’ were applying to be servers in different restaurants. In actuality, they were doing no such thing, but strangers don’t need to know that much, and Claire feels a strange, guilty satisfaction at lying to people’s faces and knowing they’ll eat it up, because why would someone lie, with so much detail, about their name and background just for fun? Claire sometimes worries that she’s becoming hardened, but she takes the fact that she still feels shame to be a good thing. The day she stops feeling that is the day she knows there’s no going back.

“You say I’m going too far with it, but I know you enjoy this game as much as I do,” Claire states, perusing the rows of horror novels in the bookstore. Sylar follows behind her, suddenly stopping to pluck a book off a shelf, lazily scanning the summary on the back.

“I’m willing to admit that, but I don’t think as much as you about the backstories. You even come up with your aliases’ idiosyncrasies, for god’s sake.”

“Okay, ‘Tom’, with your intense, weird dislike of warm lettuce.”

“Warm lettuce is disgusting. That’s a fact. Anyone should know that.”

She smiles, turning to him and taking the book from him, reading the back for herself: Victorian ghost haunts Victorian house that has been renovated sixty years later. Brilliant. “You should tell that to ‘Richard’, since he has the compulsive need to carry a pad and pen in his pocket wherever he goes. He could write it down.”

He smirks at her, dark eyes filled with mirth. “Well, ‘Richard’ is majoring in psychology, so he can always sit down with ‘Elizabeth’ and break down her bizarre aversion to dandelions just because they remind her of her step-sister, ‘Olivia’, whom she hates.”

She puts the book back on the shelf and walks to the end of the row, turning into the romance section. “Touché.”

Right beside the romance section is a revolving rack of Harlequin romance paperbacks. She and her friends used to giggle over these, surreptitiously whispering bits and pieces of the smuttier parts to each other, always checking to see if anyone else was near them. Claire’s personal favorite is still ‘dick aneurysm’.

She gives in to the temptation to pick one off the rack, studying the cover: Conventionally attractive bare-chested man with abs and shoulder-length hair holding against him a conventionally attractive woman with flowing long hair, cleavage, and a huge bust. Of course. As if the cover couldn’t scream it enough: this is about naughty, naughty sex!

Sylar peers over her shoulder. “Women actually like these?”

She shrugs, putting the book back and moving on down the row. “Women usually prefer reading to watching that kind of stuff.”

“Hmm.”

Claire feels an urge to change the subject. “So, ‘Alice’ hates the taste of watermelon, loves the smell of freshly-laundered sheets, is introverted, and prefers science-fiction movies. Her favorite color is cerulean, she loves instrumental music, and if she had one food to eat for the rest of her life, it’d be roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

She turns to Sylar, arching an eyebrow. “What about you, ‘Tom’?”

He shakes his head, that smirk still fixed on his face, and she knows he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

She turns and walks into another aisle, Sylar following. “Decide soon. We need to get our stories straight.”

Claire catches a cat on the cover of a book in the corner of her eye. She thinks of Lindsey, the pet cat of her old friend’s that always hissed at her when she visited.

“Oh, and ‘Alice’ is allergic to cats.”

But in private, what strangers don’t know, is that ‘Alice’ cries at night when ‘Tom’ is asleep because she still misses her family, and most of all, her father. And in private, what strangers don’t know, is that ‘Tom’ isn’t sleeping when she does this at all, but listening to her vain attempts to stifle her sobs and not knowing what to do, and knowing that, once again, he will, for ‘Alice’’s pride, have to ignore the way her eyes are rimmed with red the next morning.

*****

 Six years in the future

Claire is 24

After a moment, Peter looks up at her again and there are tears beginning to form in his eyes that she can tell he’s trying to restrain. “I just wanted to keep you safe. I hope someday you can forgive me.”

She attempts a heartfelt smile, wiping away her tears. “I understand. Thank you, Peter.”

Peter smiles back at her, his shoulders slumping in relief.

“So,” She adds, hesitant, clasping her hands together. “How are they? Noah and Sy-- Gabriel, I mean.”

“They’re doing fine,” Peter answers. “I visit them as often as I can.”

She nods but can’t help but laugh a little, rubbing her forehead. “I can’t believe I ended up with Gabriel. I hated him so much.”

“Well,” Peter smiles, “Over time, you both were actually able to bond. You may have hated him at first for taking your ability, but after a while, you seemed to be glad of it. I guess it reassured you to know that he could live forever too.”

A painful thought suddenly occurs to her. “Did the Haitian take some of Gabriel’s memories away too? The ones about me?”

Peter shakes his head. “No. He remembers everything. He agreed with our plans in the end.”

“He agreed?” She asks, startled.

“He told me he would do anything to keep you safe, Claire. Even if it meant losing you.”

She looks away, her eyes stinging with tears once more, pressing her hands against her eyelids.

“About Noah,” She says, opening her eyes again, struggling to find the right words. “Is there anything you can tell me about him? Anything that you think I’d like to know?”

Peter’s smile is understanding. “He’s three and very smart for his age. He has blonde hair, but it’s a bit darker than yours was. He has the same smile as you too. When I look at him, I see you.”

She relinquishes her control over her tears again, letting them fall, choking back a sob. “I’ve missed so much, Peter. I don’t even know when he was born.”

Then she remembers: that one day, when she visited Daphne and Matt’s apartment, when she had seen a baby boy in Daniella’s place in the crib.

She knows the truth now. The baby was Noah.

*****

 Five years in the past

Claire is 19

A little over a year, Claire finally begins to see Sylar as only a man (in her dreams he’s no longer the figure waiting in the darkness, for she can now see his face; his eyes aren’t cold, and she is not afraid), one that wants to start again.

They’re in another apartment now, this time in New Mexico, and Claire sits at the kitchen table, adding more to her list. It was something she thought of to do, felt compelled to do, a few months ago. To help with her grief, she lists every memory she can remember of her family. Lyle being born and her father bringing her to the hospital to see her baby brother for the first time is number 21. Her mother sitting with her on Saturday nights, a bowl of popcorn between them, while they watched a romance or scary movie is number 54. Lyle’s first word being ‘mama’ and her mother happily joking that now it was finally even, as Claire’s first word had been ‘dada’, and the proud smile on her father’s face as he remembered is number 11. So far, she has 317 on her list, which she tries to add to a little more every day so that if she ever forgets, she can refer to her list and know that, even if she can no longer recall it, even if the family picture she took from the house isn’t good enough, she was Claire Bennet, a girl who had a loving family and a good life. Sylar is out getting take-out for dinner, so Claire seized the opportunity to add a bit more to the list before he gets back. She can’t always continue her list in private, but to her relief he never asks her about it, which she has to admit is surprisingly thoughtful. She hides her papers underneath her mattress when he’s not looking.

She hears the key turn in the lock and hastily gathers up her papers, slipping them into a tote bag with a snowy owl on it that she spotted at a store a month ago and picked up.

She stands up just as he enters the apartment carrying a brown paper bag of chinese food. She gets some soda from the fridge and sits down at the table as he sets the bag on it. Once he’s seated as well, both of them with orange chicken and sodas, they begin to eat silently. One thing about her and Sylar is that they don’t ever feel a need to fill every silence.

After a few minutes, Sylar asks, “So, ‘Hilary’ and ‘Jacob’?”

She nods, swallowing a piece of chicken. “Yeah. You want to do the brother/sister thing again?”

“I think the first time we did that people had a hard time buying it at first. We look nothing alike.”

She concedes he has a point. “Okay, so…” She’s suddenly embarrassed, then she’s embarrassed at herself for being embarrassed. “A couple, then?”

Sylar goes back to eating, his face impassive. “Sure.”

That night, as she brushes her teeth, she thinks she has a backstory for ‘Hilary’ pretty much put together.

She rinses her mouth out and leaves the bathroom. “I’m thinking ‘Hilary’ should be an artist--”

Sylar is beside the kitchen table, reading a piece of paper, and she sucks in a sharp breath as she realizes instantly what it is.

He looks up at her, seeing her staring wide-eyed at him, and he actually has the decency to look almost sheepish.

“I found it under the table, against the wall,” He explains, holding the paper out to her. “You must have dropped it.”

She walks quickly up to him and grabs it out of his outstretched hand. “Thanks,” She mutters, refusing to meet his gaze.

She clutches the paper tightly, making her way to her bedroom to put it in her bag. What she doesn’t expect is for Sylar to follow.

“Claire, I…” Sylar sounds so unlike himself, all confidence stripped from his voice.

She folds the paper up and puts it on her dresser instead, turning to face him, forcing herself to look into his eyes.

“Sylar, it’s just a list I write to help myself cope,” She has to get there before he does, shut the conversation down. “It’s no big deal; I just wanted to keep it to myself.”

“But you don’t have to hide it from me,” Sylar says, his eyebrows creased. “You act like you’re ashamed.”

Oddly, anger flares inside her and she moves a bit closer to him, suddenly argumentative. “I’m not ashamed.”

Sylar holds his ground. “Yes, you are.”

She grits her teeth. “Why would I be ashamed?”

“Because you still feel responsible.”

She turns away, hiding her face, pulling the covers down on her bed. “Whatever you say, Sylar.”

“You feel extreme guilt over what happened. You beat yourself up over it. You think it’s your fault--”

“Of course it’s my fault!” She yells, rounding on him, wanting to sob. “It’s all my fucking fault! If I didn’t fight so much to go in first, he never would have tried to stop me. Then he wouldn’t have jumped in front of me. So, yes, it’s because of me that he’s in the ground!”

Sylar merely stares at her, but his eyes are softened. “No, it isn’t. I know you think--”

“Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel--”

“He was your father,” Sylar cuts over her, shaking his head. “Fathers protect their daughters. That’s all he ever wanted to do, and that’s exactly what he ended up doing. Your father would’ve thought it was worth it if it meant it kept you safe, and you know that.”

She hugs herself, sinking down on the bed in defeat. She will always feel guilt, but she can’t deny the truth of his words. Her father would have agreed with Sylar one hundred percent; she can easily picture her father’s lips curling in distaste as he realizes that he and Sylar actually agree on something regarding Claire.

She stares at the folded up paper on the dresser. From a glimpse she had noticed that the page was half-blank, the last page so far. Number 317: Her father coming home from every one of his trips to present, without fail, a new stuffed animal for her to add to her collection on her bed.

Sylar sinks down on the bed next to her and, after a moment, brushes strands of her hair, now back to blonde, behind her ear. She turns to look at him, right into his face, not shying away from his touch.

“I am sorry for everything that happened to you, Claire,” He says, sincerity laced in his voice, and she fully understands now, beyond a doubt, that he means it. “I’m sorry for the way I used to be--”

She shakes her head, showing she understands, and he stops himself.

His eyes roam over her hair. “I like that you dyed your hair blonde again. That color looks best on you.”

She reaches out for his hand and when he closes the distance and kisses her, she lets him.

Ever since she ran away with him, Sylar had always respected physical boundaries, but she doesn’t see why they should maintain them anymore. She realized this as soon as her dreams of him finally began to change.

She lies back on the bed, pulling him with her, and takes his hand, resting it on the waistband of her sweatpants.

He gets the message, pulling them off, and she helps him along, pulling her underwear down too, unabashed. She’s tired of waiting; she’s tired of how she watched her friends date and hookup with guys while she always hung back, too shy to make any move, too timid and consumed with naive thoughts of ‘the one’ to pursue any of that behavior.

She bites down on his lower lip, shocking herself, and Sylar pulls back, startled.

“Sorry, I--”

He kisses her again, hard, his tongue sliding against her lips, and she opens her mouth for him.

His hands reach under her shirt, sliding over her breasts, and she immediately responds, a warmth between her legs.

In another act of boldness, she pulls one of his hands down, away from her breasts, and puts it between her thighs; he kisses her neck, sliding a finger inside easily, making her arch against him. He pulls his finger out slowly then adds another, sliding them in and out, curling them inside her, making her shudder.

“Stop, stop,” She pulls back, grabbing his hand between her legs, his wet fingers slipping out of her. “I want to…”

God, she thinks, how the fuck do people talk to each other about what they want sexually without dying of embarrassment?

Sylar saves her from having to say it, pulling back as well and unbuttoning his jeans, pulling them down. She pulls his boxers down, eager to feel him; she wraps her hand around his cock, feeling it harden to her touch, hearing his sharp intake of breath. She pulls him down to her again, wrapping her legs around his waist, ankles resting against his sides.

She feels him, warm against her labia, and just as she’s about to ease him inside he stops her.

“You’re absolutely sure?” He asks, looking into her eyes.

She nods. “Just… be easy.”

She feels herself blush a bit at having to admit that she’s a virgin, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He says, and slowly pushes himself inside.

It doesn’t hurt. But, given all that her body has withstood, she’s not surprised.

He pushes in a little more every few seconds, giving her the chance to adjust; once all the way in, he slides back out again, then eases in once more.

She moves against him, getting used to the feel, and, seeing that she’s alright, he begins to pick up the pace, the sensation feeling so good, and she finally understands why people want this so much.

He shifts against her, changing the angle slightly, grinding against her clitoris as he pushes back in again and she jolts, hands gripping his back.

He does it again and again, her eyes shutting tightly to focus intently on the friction, and she feels it, the thing she would feel when she rubbed herself in her bed at home.

She arches against him, meeting his pace, trying to reach it, and with one final thrust she throws her head back, slapping her hand over her mouth as she moans, clenching around him, legs locking tightly around his waist.

As she comes down, her body becoming limp and relaxed, he thrusts a bit faster into her a few more times then stills as he comes inside her, groaning against her neck.

They lie there silently for a moment then he slips out of her, rolling off of her carefully and lying on his back beside her.

“Are you alright?” He asks softly, breathing heavily, and she feels his hand reach out and grasp her own, his thumb sliding across the top of it, just like it did that day on the bench after her father’s funeral.

“Yes, Sylar,” She says, closing her eyes, gripping his hand right back.

Sylar is silent for a moment, the after-sex ache between Claire’s legs making her pull her legs more tightly together, pleasurable as it is, their breathing being the only sound in the room.

“It’s Gabriel,” Sylar says after a moment in the darkness and there’s something new in his voice, something like relief. “My name is Gabriel.”

*****

 Five years in the future

Claire is 24

“A few weeks ago,” She voices her thoughts aloud. “I had this vision of some sort of when Noah was a baby.”

Peter’s face takes on a very interested expression. “You did?”

She nods, recalling her other visions as well. “Yeah. And there are others I have… one, I think, of the moment my father died.”

Peter’s excitement practically radiates from him. “The Haitian, he can also suppress people’s abilities. That was why he was able to take your memories without your ability taking effect in the process. But now it appears that your ability is slowly causing them to come back.”

“Really?” She utters incredulously. “You think that’s it?”

“Yeah,” Peter confirms, smiling, eyes full of hope. “They’re just coming back to you so slowly because the Haitian went so deep.”

“They only come to me in parts,” She informs him. “But never altogether. It’s like--”

“Puzzle pieces,” Peter finishes for her, a look of realization on his face.

“Yeah! Exactly.”

At her words Peter turns from her and walks towards the long table with the picture frames propped on it. He grabs the overturned one and hands it to her.

She nearly gasps at the sight of it.

The picture depicts Sylar (Gabriel) in glasses, smiling heartily, and herself, just as happy as him, holding a baby Noah in her arms.

And it hits her.

“Daphne,” She exclaims, looking back up at Peter. “When she and I were here, she acted like she didn’t want me to see this picture. I thought I was just suspecting too much at the time, but…”

She doesn’t bother finishing her sentence because Peter seems to understand.

“Yeah, she knows about everything too,“ Peter verifies. “We needed someone to be there for you, to make sure you weren’t alone. Daphne volunteered. She was the one who gave me the heads-up that my father finally decided to get rid of me.”

She nods, her heart full of gratitude for her friend, and glances back at the picture.

“Just keep looking at the picture,” Peter advises her. “If you focus on it hard enough, there’s a chance it will all come back to you. It’s worked for me before.”

She thinks of asking how it helped him but tucks that thought away for later.

She looks hard at the photograph and after a minute or so nothing happens. Her heart sinking, she thinks that the Haitian may have permanently succeeded after all.

Then it all comes to her, rushing to her, all the memories she lost for so long now flashing before her eyes, and that part of her brain clicks into place.

She looks up at Peter, grinning, and as he sees it worked, he smiles in return.

“Take me home, Peter.”

*****

 Three years in the past

Claire is 21

“You wonder what his ability will be?” She asks, gazing down at Noah in the crib.

“A little,” Gabriel admits from next to her. “Who knows, maybe it’ll manifest early.”

She scoffs. “He’s only two months old, Gabriel.”

“What, a father can’t hope?”

She laughs. “Well, I suppose you can.”

“How old were you when your ability manifested?” Gabriel asks curiously and she vividly remembers the time her fist accidentally punched through glass and how the cut mysteriously disappeared only a few days afterward.

“Fifteen.”

When he remains silent, she asks, “How old were you?”

He fidgets next to her. “A little older than that.”

She can tell he’s not being so honest by the reluctant tone in his voice and she smiles.

“It’s not funny,” He exclaims, a hint of a whine in his voice.

She shakes her head, trying to hide the smile. “I didn’t say it was.”

Noah smiles up at her; she reaches down and he grabs her finger, bringing it to his mouth.

She and Gabriel laugh.

The silence that follows is peaceful and she turns slightly to look at him.

“Thanks for agreeing to name him Noah.”

He takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it. “Sure.”

*****

 Three years in the future

Claire is 24

As she and Peter appear on the driveway to her house she’s practically running to the front door, but as soon as she gets there, apprehension takes over.

Gabriel and her son have lived almost three years without her and now she’s walking right back into their lives, having no idea how much things have changed for them and scared to see how.

And Noah… he probably won’t even recognize her. He was just a baby when she had to leave.

As Peter comes to stand at her side she backs away, shaking her head.

“You go in first,” She tells him. “I’ll follow you in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” He agrees, nodding at her. “I’ll leave the door open a little.”

At his words she retreats, moving out of view of the front door.

She hears Peter knock on it then a murmur of voices, and when she recognizes Gabriel’s she closes her eyes, her stomach in knots.

As the voices lessen in sound then stop entirely she looks around at the dark neighborhood brightened by street lamps, trying to calm herself.

And when those minutes go by all too quickly, she finally approaches the front door.

Peter had left the door slightly ajar like he said he would and she pushes it open, careful not to make any noise.

As she steps in she takes notice of all the colorful children’s toys laying haphazardly against the walls and throughout the living room.

She hears Peter and Gabriel talking in the kitchen. After taking a deep breath, she emerges into view.

The look on Gabriel’s face as his eyes fall on her is blank shock.

His eyes widen behind his glasses and he looks quickly at Peter, his tone wary. “I thought we agreed.”

“It was time for the whole lie to end,” Peter says, his eyes determined. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

She walks up to Gabriel, putting on a timid smile, and he merely stares at her.

“It’s me, Gabriel,” She assures him, only a foot or so from him now. “I’m home.”

When he grabs her it catches her off guard but then his lips move against hers with fervor and she closes her eyes, raising up on her toes to put her arms around his neck.

“Daddy?”

They break apart at the sound of the little boy’s voice and, her heart pounding, she looks over at the boy in race car pajamas.

A prolonged, awkward silence passes.

“Noah, this is your mother,” Gabriel finally proclaims, and she has eyes only for her son.

*****

Four years in the past

Claire is 20

The pain is excruciating but it is a familiar pain, a manageable one to a woman who’s had her brutal and sometimes even fatal fair share of it.

“One more time, Claire,” The doctor tells her (Gabriel found him, as she would need someone with medical training that knew of abilities), and she takes a deep breath, Gabriel smoothing back the blonde hair plastered to her face in sweat. “Push just one more time and it’s over.”

She does as the doctor says, gritting her teeth and digging her nails into Gabriel’s palm, pushing as hard as she possibly can, and then she feels it: it’s over.

The baby wails, the sound filling the room, and it’s the best sound she’s ever heard.

The doctor smiles up at her. “It’s a boy.”

Gabriel gives her a lingering kiss on the forehead then gets up to cut the umbilical cord, his brown eyes full of tears.

She leans back, exhausted and dazed, closing her eyes.

“It’s a boy,” She whispers, smiling. “A boy.”

*****

Four years in the future

Claire is 24

Noah shuffles closer, looking up at her with light brown eyes. “Mommy?”

“Yes, it’s me,” She says, not bothering to stop the flow of tears. “It’s Mommy.”

And with that she reaches down and picks Noah up, holding him tightly to her.

Noah’s arms wrap themselves around her neck and she leans against Gabriel as he puts his arm around her.

There’s movement towards the hall and as she looks she sees Peter making his way to the front door.

‘Peter,’ She resounds in her head and Peter stops in his tracks, looking over at her.

‘You’re totally my hero,’ She finishes in her thoughts, the words so familiar to her even after all these years, and smiles.

He breaks into a grin as he gets her message and with one last nod, he’s out the door.

And she, Gabriel, and Noah continue to huddle together, clutching each other securely, solidifying their family.

*****

Early the next morning

They sit together on the couch most of the night and after countless questions on both Gabriel’s and Noah’s parts, all three of them lean back, relaxing.

“Oh,” Noah suddenly exclaims once more, jumping up from the couch. “I can move things without touching them just like Daddy, Mommy! Look!”

She watches, amused, as Noah waves his hand at one of the toys on the floor and it soars to the other side of the room.

Noah looks back at her, smiling proudly. “I just have to think about it moving somewhere else and it does it!”

She can’t hold back the grin that spreads across her face. “That’s great, sweetie.”

She looks up into Gabriel’s face. “When did he start being able to do this?”

“Only a week ago,” Gabriel answers, grinning as well. “So you weren’t too late.”

“Why is your hair brown, Mommy?”

At Noah’s question she turns her attention back on him, absentmindedly reaching for a strand of her hair.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just wanted a change, I guess. You don’t like it?”

Noah shakes his head. “I like your yellow hair better, like in the picture where you’re holding me when I was a baby.”

“All right, then. I’ll dye it back to yellow tomorrow,” She promises, resting her head against Gabriel’s shoulder.

‘You’ll have to run if you want to keep this life,’ Peter had said, hours ago, and she knows, inevitably, that they will have to.

But, as Noah settles himself back in between them on the couch, she’ll let themselves have this one night of peace.

After all, they have all the time in the world.