Chapter Four

“Judas’s Return”

Peter mentally sent his empty noodle bowl flying into the sink to join the others. The old house didn’t come with a dishwasher, microwave, or fridge, so the motley crew was forced to make a trip to Linins N’ Things after moving in. The dishwasher was still absent, however, so the plates were washed by hand. Or, by superpower if they were lazy.

He checked his watch, which read 8:32 under the SYLAR label. Peter’s biological brother tinkered with watches as a pastime, something Peter himself always found boring and odd. Sylar constructed a duplicate of his own Sylar brand timepiece, to replace his broken one, but couldn’t bear to part with the original. The new watch had quite some value, though, so he just gave it to Peter instead.

When the second hand crossed the nine, a loud bang startled the brothers.

The noise was rhythmic and only for a few seconds, but the sound richoheted throughout the abode. It took Peter and Sylar a second to realize that someone was at their front door, banging the kiss shaped metal knocker against the wood.

Sylar immediately dimmed the lights with his mind, and turned off all electronic devices. The abandoned brothel was as slient as a grave within seconds, making the continuing knocks on the entrance and pounding rain on the tin roof even louder.

“Wait,” Peter whispered, holding a finger to his mouth, with the other hand up in thought. Without warning, he hastened off to the door, leaving Sylar gaping from the living room.

“What are you doing?” Sylar hissed. “It could be the police!”

“Oh, so cops knock now?” Peter snap back, waving a hand down the side of the door and undoing the ten different locks. Sylar rushed off to the basement to wake up Hiro as Peter opened the door. What greeted the young man were not cops, or the FBI, or girl scouts selling cookies.

What really stood before Peter would cost him more then any of those, in the long run.

Claire shivered, already wet hair drenched even more by the pouring rain. Her clothes clung to her slim body, making her seem smaller and more fragile then usual. The rain also washed her make-up away, leaving her face fresh and youthful.

“I know you don’t want me here,” she barely croaked out at Peter, who watched her, expressionless. “But…I thought about you said, and you’re right. I’m sorry I was such a bitch about everything and-,”

“Shh,” Peter cut her off, but not unkindly. He sighed and slumped against the side of the doorway, investigating her some more. Had it been another woman, his eyeline would have remained on the tight, wet clothing hugging her curves, but not with Claire. He kept his gaze on her miserable face, chattering teeth that she tried to conceal, and the goosebumps on her arms. There would always be some sort of respect in that soft spot he harbored for the former cheerleader. She was more then just ‘the rest.’

“Guess we’re even now,” he finally replied, a little smile in the corner of his mouth as he threw her words from long ago back at her. Just that one response brought a beam to Claire’s face and a weight lifted off of her shoulders.

As much as he fought to get rid of the overprotectiveness and empathy, Peter was the same old sympathetic guy he’d always been. Perhaps it was a helpful trait, though. One must be self-sacrificing if they’re to waltz into a firefight and save their allies, like Peter had done so many times.

He stepped out, put a protective arm around her, and brought trembling Claire Bennet in from the cold.

xxx

Five minutes later, Peter was in full hero-complex mode, already having Claire wrapped up in a large blanket, with a mini-heater pointed at her blue tinted feet. Her face shone beet red all throughout his sudden fussing over her well-being, and Claire found herself trying to be polite as possible while telling him that no, she didn’t need his shirt; her clothes would dry themselves.

And even through all the helpfulness, barely a word was spoken between them.

The lightheartedness died a tad when Sylar came back from downstairs, his usually curious personality coming into action again. When he saw Claire curled up in the blue recliner next to Peter’s, his tick screwed out of balance.

She was a beautiful, blushing young woman on one side, but on the other, a vicious atom bomb and traitor to the world of them. Sylar personally didn’t know where to stand, but he was naturally polite to everyone he met either way.

“You’re back,” he noted lightly to her, fighting the temptation to shoot Peter a “WTF?” look.

Claire’s amiable expression drooped, and Sylar recalled her lack of warm feelings towards him. “Yeah.”

“Do you want anything to drink?” Sylar offered, beginning to feel slightly awkward as he rubbed his neck.

Claire wet her lips. “Um…sure. Is there any coffee?”

“Possibly,” nodded Sylar, noticing Peter’s steady gaze at him from the other side of the room. “There’s certainly enough chai to sink a boat.”

“Sylar’s boyfriend Mohinder keeps shoving it down our throats,” Peter wryly explained, earning him a dirty look from his brother. Sylar waved an arm and sent a vase flying at Peter’s head, which Peter managed to redirect at Sylar himself. The other man ducked, letting the ceramic split into crumbs after hitting the wall behind him.

It wasn’t over yet, though.

Sylar flicked a finger at his side, making Peter abruptly smack himself in the face.

“Ow!”

“Stop hitting yourself,” snotted Sylar, giving Peter a couple more self-slaps before turning on his heel and going into the kitchen to fix Claire some coffee.

Peter grumbled something incomprehensible, rubbing his cheek, which didn’t just redden from the impact.

Boys, Claire sighed.

“Hey Claire!” Sylar called, going back to the divide between the small kitchen and the chandaliered, cathedral ceilinged living room. “Want any sugar or…anything like that?”

Claire began to get up. “Oh, I can make it myself-,”

“No,” Sylar insisted a little too fiercly, holding up a palm. “Trust me; the coffee maker only works for me.”

The young woman sat down, head bowed. First, she’d pitched more than one tantrum to the two men, and ran away, and now she was being treated like some sort of guest.

By Sylar of all people.

And to think that twenty-four hours ago, Claire was getting home, stripping down to comfier clothes, and popping in a TV dinner before going to bed. Just another day in her everyday, normal life. Or, as normal as being the FBI’s super shield could be.

But, Claire had learned, normal was not about the standard of everyone else. It was about balance and habit. She went to work daily. She ate some bullets, and recovered. She stopped bombs (though there was the occasional failed mission, resulting in explosion), she drove cars, and she fired a gun.

For Claire, that was the epitome of normal.

However, having the man that tried to kill her in her cheerleading days being the brother of the man she thought was her uncle…a former uncle that now, instead of being her confidante, was now a snarky, multi-addiction holing murderer…

That was NOT normal.

As well as Peter’s short hair to replace those lucious emo bangs. Claire vaugely wondered if he was just trying to be like Sylar as much as possible. Same hair, same tactics…

Yet the Sylar of today didn’t seem like the cold-blooded killer. If Green Day barfed on Martha Stewart….well, that was sort of the best description to fit the lanky man. A red sweater vest over a black, long sleeved band T-shirt, with torn jeans. Converse All-Stars, which were so five years ago, but they were all Sylar knew. Kind, innocent brown eyes, but a glint in his smile that said “I can kick your ass and we both know it.”

It was just freaking bizarre. Almost like Jesus’s soul in Satan’s carcus? But though Sylar seemed nice, could he truly be trusted? Claire’s head ached with the possiblilities.

Peter, on the other hand, was much easier to figure out. He was more or less the same man, just without a conscience. And the Peter Petrelli that Claire used to know lived his entire life by Jiminy Cricket. So now that it was gone, Peter was a loose canon. Sleeping with whomever he pleased, not valuing human life at all, and feeling free to use Sylar as his taunting target on many an occasion.

The only person that Peter was his old self around, his TRUE old self, was Hiro Nakamura. The Japanese warrior remained to be the single person on the planet that Peter respected as an equal, perhaps even a superior. There was no real rhyme or reason for it; the two men simply connected on introduction and saved each other more times then they could count.

“You hungry?” Peter asked her suddenly, pulling her from her observations. 

Now that Claire thought about it, she was ravenous. Breakfast, a good eighteen hours ago, was the only thing she had to eat all day. So she timidly nodded in reply, feeling slightly undeserving of his attention.

Peter noticed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, unusually apprehensive. “I mean, you have a right to be mad. I…We owe you a lot so don’t…” He paused, trying to decide on the right words. “Don’t feel like you’re a burden.”

“I’ve felt like a burden for the past six years,” she confessed softly, eyes still on the floor. It was a little secret, nothing major, but she was still surprised to find herself opening up to Peter again so quickly.

Ever since that first time she saw her skin knit together, Claire felt like every person that ever cared for her ended up hurt. Peter was now a starving rouge that her father put on the run. God only knows how many sacrifices Noah Bennet, who she unfortunatly had no contact info on, made for her in the earlier days. Even Angela, for all her irateness, gave up so much just to keep Claire safe.

Which brought Claire back to the question that still plauged her, even after all these years.

What makes me so special?

“What do you…do?” Claire changed the subject awkwardly, not feeling like talking about herself in the least bit.

“We rescue people like us,” Peter explained emotionlessly. “All of the laws have got metahumans put into captivity left and right. There’s no way we can save all of them, but we do what we can.”

He shrugged slightly, a tired nonchalant weaved into his voice and limbs. The nighttime lighting and bags under his eyes aged Peter to his actual age of thirty-two, rather then the body and features of a twenty-six year old. Claire’s regeneration was to thank for that. It followed through as expected, stopping Peter’s aging in total when he hit his prime.

In a couple years, the same thing would happen to Claire, and the ten year age difference between the two would be invisible.

Claire’s eyes scanned him up and down, seeing him in a new light. The killing was still frowned up on her view, but at least he was doing something noble to sort of counteract it.

Peter swallowed, hard. “What about you? Why are you even in the FBI, Claire? Half the time, you’re preaching their Bible, and the other half…it’s like you’re some sort of prisoner. Which is it?”

Claire turned to face him at last. “I’m there because of Nathan,” she replied faintly. “After you left, (Peter winced) I didn’t really know where to go, or what to do. I just went wherever he led me and…I ended up here.”

“And since when do you go quietly?” Peter arched an eyebrow, remembering his Claire as being a firm activist in getting what she wanted. His Claire was not a follower.

Claire struggled with a response. “I’m not sure. I was just so confused. I couldn’t go my way if I didn’t know what I wanted in the first place. I hate these laws of course; it’s barbaric, but…,”

“Survive or perish?” Peter offered, finally starting to make sense of her life.

Claire nodded. “Kinda.”

Peter ran a thumb across his lower lip. “I think I get what you mean. So, you’re what; a double agent?”

“To me,” Claire agreed impassively. “They have no clue. Maybe some good has finally come of them failing to notice me.”

Claire’s entire persona slumped into one of the lonely, rain-drenched puppy with no home. The poor dog that had been put in a cardboard box and abandoned on the streets by someone who was too selfish to think about the well-being of something ‘beneath’ them.

If it was possible, more hatred then ever for Nathan pumped into Peter’s heart.

She read him like a book. “But I don’t hold it against him. He’s only trying to keep me safe.”

“Safe from himself,” growled Peter bitterly. “It’s Nathan Fucking Petrelli’s fault that we’re in this mess in the first place.”

Claire winced at his language. She was so used to Peter having the tongue of a monk that his coarseness took her by surprise.

Peter noticed and promised himself to watch his tounge around her from then on.

A loud groan of frustraction echoed from the kitchen before he could say anymore. “This thing won’t work!” Sylar grunted. Usually, the coffee maker only obeyed him. Today, it had the stubborness of Herbie.

“Give it some motivation,” Peter hollared back.

Sylar poked his head out of the doorway, confused. “How?”

“It’s old. What do you think?”

A few seconds later, a loud smack erupted as Sylar beat the coffee maker’s on the lid with as much force as he could muster. Right after came the soft trickle of brewing coffee.

A small smile crossed Claire’s mouth. “Motivation?” she arched an eyebrow, repeating his words.

“Violence always makes old stuff work,” Peter said, as if it was obvious.

Sylar waltzed in again, leaving the coffee to brew, and he filled up the last space in the triange of recliners. Immediately, his attention turned to Peter.

“Did you talk to her about Hiro’s sword?”

Peter sat up straighter, a buisnesslike aura emoting from him. “Yeah; I need to ask you about something, Claire.”

Claire was all ears, leaning in to hear him more properly.

“My friend down there…Hiro Nakamura? He lost his sword at the FBI. It was confiscated, and he wanted me to ask you if you had any idea where it is. Where they put stuff like that…”

“I’m sorry,” Claire slumped apologetically. “No clue. It depends on what it is. If it’s a weapon, it probably was examined for blood remains, to try to connect him to any murder cases. If it wasn’t evidence, then it would be destroyed. If it did have DNA on it, then it could go to any number of places…”

“What if it was stolen?” Sylar asked, cocking his head, and Peter internally pouted at his brother’s slick investigation skill. Where Peter got the smoothness and strength, Sylar inherited the logic from…whoever their parents were. And normally, Peter remained quite content with his side of the gene pool…but the mildly impressed look on Claire’s face directed at Sylar made him rethink Mother Nature a bit.

Claire’s mouth hung open for a second, partly contemplating the question, as well as wondering if she should trust Sylar. “I…” she began, and a memory from earlier that day flashed before her eyes like a revelation.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, holding up a palm in excited recollection. “I remember! I was walking down the hallway, coming back from break. These two agents that were carrying Hiro bumped into me and I overheard them talking.”

Peter’s brown eyes illuminated. “Wha-what? What did they say?” he blurted out.

The young woman squinted, as if peering at the memory and disecting it with her gaze. “They…the sword…it was sent back to its owner. The owner in Vegas!”

“Linderman,” the brothers yelled together, looking at one another. Claire recognized the name, having heard it many times in the Petrelli household.

“Wait a minute,” she frowned. “That old mobster that Grandpa worked for? Angela said that he died right before the explosion.”

“Yeah, but he had a will, didn’t he?” Peter pointed out. “He was filthy rich. His son or someone probably owns all his stuff now.”

“Whoever they are, they’re obviously in Vegas.” Sylar rubbed the light stubble on his cheeks, looking a little defeated. “But where? It could be any of those casinos, or locked up somewhere that no one would expect.”

“Uh-uh,” Peter shook his head. “Linderman loved to show off his wealth. I’d only expect his heir to do the same. Ten bucks says that the sword went right back into his gallery.”

“No,” Claire argued. “If it was stolen from there once, they’d be stupid to put it there again.”

Sylar moaned as his head fell into his hands. “Then how are we supposed to find it?” he said practically. “It’s not like there’s some trail of clues that’s gonna lead us there. Either we know where it is, or we don’t.”

“No,” Peter said softly. “But there’s one way we could jump right to the end.” His dark eyes were glazed over in thought, and he smirked a little to himself. Sylar wasn’t the only one with a good head on his shoulders.

“Well,” Sylar began frankly. “There’s always the technical way of doing things, but in this case-,”

“That’s the way to go,” Peter interrupted, adding a very different conclusion to Sylar’s statement then what was originally planned. “Think. There are cameras swarming the place. Surely you could hack into his system, right?”

Sylar mouth moved open and closed wordlessly and he gave a helpless shrug. Peter contininued and looked at his watch.

“Alright, so…Hiro was caught in New York this morning, about nine o’ clock. He arrived in D.C a few hours later. They would have examined the sword like Claire said too, even if it was stolen. There would have been no blood, because I clean Hiro’s sword every time he kills someone.”

“Water doesn’t get off all the remains of bodily fluids,” Claire  wisely noted. “There will always be-,”

Peter silenced her with his index finger and retorted a bit crossly, “I’ve got a power for it, okay?” He took a breath, recollected his thoughts, and went on.

“So they’d put it on a plane to Vegas after the examination, and we really have no idea when it happened.”

“But from New York to Vegas would have been a four hour flight either way, and even if they left at five, they’d be there by now,” Sylar said glumly. “What are you even getting at? It’s obviously already safe in it’s owners hands by now. And unless we see them taking it to its hiding place, then we still won’t know where it is.”

“It’s perfect, though!” Peter cried, standing up. “How can you not see this? It’s good that it’s already happened because-“

“-it’s already on record,” Claire squeaked, and Peter looked down at her genially.

“Yeah,” he breathed. Peter turned back to his brother. “All you have to do is break into their system, replay the footage, and search for where the sword went.”

Claire understood every word, having been close to Chester in the security camera booth. Nowadays, all the footage was downloaded directly to a database rather then onto VCR tapes. Though it was more convinenent, the FBI was forced to bring in the top hackers in the country to set up enough firewalls to protect the system. This was the very reason that Claire had a hard time believing that Sylar could hack Linderman’s camera system.

“Are you sure it can be done?” she timidly asked. “There’ll be a ton of firewalls and probably dozens of cameras. You’d have to search through days of footage if you could even get to it in the first place.”

“I can do it,” Sylar nodded nonchalantly. “The only walls I couldn’t get past were the CIA’s for some reason.”

“How?” Claire insisted, a little harsher then she intended. But he was Sylar after all, so what else did he deserve?

“I can see how thinks work,” he replied plainly.

“Then why couldn’t you make the coffee maker work?” she shrilly retaliated.

Sylar’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t fix things that are beyond repair.”

”Ahem,” coughed Peter, interrupting the spat. “Can we return to the point, children?”

The cold glint in Sylar’s eyes washed away with Claire’s pouty lips as Peter steered them back onto the road.

“Sylar. By this time tommorrow, have the location tagged, okay?”  Peter stared. “I’ll teleport to Vegas and fetch it. As for you,” he turned to Claire wearily. “Get some sleep, and help him tomorrow. You worked security, didn’t you? Your knowledge might be able to help get us in.”

Claire gaped at him like a fish, shooting an offended look from Sylar back to Peter. She had to work with Sylar? Dealing with the killer was one thing. Being civil with him was another. But getting buddy buddy in a work environment and spending hours trying to accomplish something?

Was Peter freaking insane?

Peter arched an eyebrow at her, daring her to snap back, and her mouth closed. Claire sighed and wrapped the blanket tighter around her, accepting her assignment. She’d spent three years doing something she hated. A project with Sylar would just be another day at the office.

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Make sure to get me up early tommorrow.”

xxx

That night, Claire decided to retreat to a room that used to be owned by a “Ruth.” It was on the far side of the upstairs, away from the staircase and the others. Ruth’s room almost felt like a separate wing or house itself; it was so large and far away. Claire vaguely wondered if the prostitute was the “Belle of the ball” in her day because of this. The ruby red walls speckled with diamonds might have had something to do with it too.

Unfortunatly, though Ruth had a lot of space and a room that remained rather clean after all the years it spent rotting in Boston, the woman had no clothes fit for Claire. The brunette agent would have been content with wearing her current clothes the next day (they just needed a little drying) but that still didn’t mean she had anything to sleep in.

So Claire stripped herself of her mismatched clothing and the uneven high heels that made her ankles ache, until she was down to her simple black undergarmets. A vanity across from the bed slumped against the wall, and Claire caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror.

But that wasn’t the only thing she saw.

“What are you doing here?!” she yelped, whipping her head around at Sylar. The young man immediately covered his eyes, turning redder then the chipped paint on the walls.

“Er, sorry! I-I just came to bring you this,” he exclaimed, eyes downcast and a large hand overhangin his brow. For his fault, Claire had to give him credit for at least trying not to get another eyeful.

“That?” she asked, a tad nicer, gesturing to the cloth in his hand.

“Just some clothes. For tommorrow.”

He outstretched his hand with the clothes in it, still refusing to look at her, and Claire tentitively took them from him. She had to admit that these were much better then the strange combination of getaway threads she grabbed to leave with. Sylar picked out a pair of jeans and red polo for her. Plain, normal, modern clothing.

“Thank you,” she told him honestly, unconciously hugging the clothes to her bra-clad chest. “These are really good.”

“Um…good,” Sylar replied awkwardly, now boring holes into the peeling ceiling. “Peter still had them lying around for some reason. They belonged to a girl about your size, so…they should fit. But if they don’t, just tell me and-,”

“I will,” Claire quickly said, beginning to feel embarrassed herself. Not only was the mental image of Sylar helping her pick out clothes utterly bizarre, but a good part of her wondered what ‘Peter had them lying around’ meant. Even in this messed up universe, Claire knew Peter wasn’t a freak like that, so they obviously belonged to a girl. A girl that Peter slept with…

A nasty feeling entered her gut and Claire tried to shake it off. Why wouldn’t he have a girlfriend or two? It’s been three years and he hangs out with a bunch of men. He’d go crazy without SOME girl around. It’s good that he found a bit of love. A woman can keep him straight.

But then the musings of ‘some girl’ came after. Did she have abilities? Did Peter save her too?  

“Well, goodnight,” Sylar mumbled, and he turned on his heel and left. Claire walked to the bed and let her body crash down upon it. The clothes that Sylar brought fell beside her, sprawled out across the comforter, and Claire idly ran a hand across the polo.

The soft rustle of jeans and loud creaks of footsteps could be heard behind her, and she turned around. Peter leaned languidly in the doorway with clothes in hand. Claire rolled her eyes and sat up, beginning to get sick of all these older men walking in on her while she was in her undies. Hiro better look out, because if he was next…

Peter, unlike Sylar, wasn’t quite as conservative. His eyes remained on her face, sure, but he was altogether careless about laying gaze to the round top of Claire’s perky breasts and her tanned curves. After all, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Within the first year of knowing Claire, he got to see her in a more revealing bikini than this lingerie when they went to Atlantic City. And he was her uncle then.

“What?” she sighed with irritation, and Peter held out the clothes. These, unlike the ones on the bed, were much more old, plain, and less feminine. Quite masculine, actually.

“Some clothes for tomorrow,” Peter explained, placing them in Claire’s hands.  The young woman held up the t-Shirt to her eye level. It was a man’s shirt, just as much as the black shorts in her other hand were boxers. Peter’s boxers, in fact, if the size and inviting smile on his face were any indication.

Claire gave him back his stuff, making Peter feel rather dejected, and she impatiently pointed to Whatserface’s garmets on the bed.

“Sylar already came by. He said they belong to you too.”

Peter’s face fell and he sheepishly scrathched his neck. “Oh. Right.”

“Who was she?” Claire asked indifferently, busying herself by slinging the wet clothes over the wardrobe to dry. Though her tone was casual, she secretly liked watching his squirm for once. It reminded her of the older Peter. Her Peter.

“Chick named Carmen,” Peter replied automatically, but then a doubtful look crossed his face. He looked at the clothes a little closer and chewed it over. “Actually, no. These were Linda’s.”

“Oh,” was all Claire could say to that. So there wasn’t a special woman alongside Peter. There were several nameless chicks that he obviously didn’t care much about. How could she have been so naïve to believe that after all Peter had become, he would have remained a gentleman to women?

“I remember now,” Peter pointed towards the polo and jeans, and Claire really didn’t want him to go on. “Linda Mars. Atlanta. She could control plants or something. Almost got ourselves killed getting out of that place, but I got her out alive in the end.”

“She was someone you rescued?” Claire confirmed quietly. “She was a mission?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter murmured absently, running a finger over the frayed cuffs of the jeans. He looked up and saw the lost expression on Claire’s face.

“Don’t be jealous,” he said resignedly. “I’ve saved a lot of people, but…” Claire met his intent look. “…you’ll always be my first.”

I’m an assignment, Claire thought gloomily. Just a weapon for the bad guys and a mission for the good guys. That’s all I’ve ever been. And Peter says a barcode is the only thing that can take away humanity…

“And, about Sylar,” Peter lowered his voice, changing the subject. “He’s really a good man. Better than me, at least. He doesn’t remember anything before Kirby Plaza, and we haven’t told him about it. Hiro and I are afraid he might relapse. So don’t go…mentioning anything, alright? Just try to get along with him as he is now, instead of thinking about what he was. Because that part doesn’t matter anymore.”

Claire reluctantly nodded, vowing to keep Sylar’s heart a secret from himself. But could she really get over his wrongdoings in her own heart? Could she truly forgive him for murderering her best friend in cold blood, harming her mom, and trying to kill her on many an occasion?

Perhaps Peter was right. She needed to simply focus on him as if he was a total stranger with an life history of the Pope.

“Well,” Peter chirped briskly, tucking the clothes under his arm. “Since you’re all good, I guess I can go.”

He went to leave, but a tiny hand on his arm stopped him.

“Wait!” Claire said abruptly. Peter wore mixed emotions, most of them being in the ‘confused’ category. Claire gently took the t-shirt and boxers from him, letting the old material slip out from his clasp.

“I need something to sleep in,” she said, trying to put on an amiable tone. Peter’s glumness illuminated back into his normal, smooth charm almost instantly.

“Fine,” he shrugged coolly. “They’re yours.”

Their eyes locked for second, reminding Peter of those stares that always lasted a little moment too long every time. This time, he broke it off before it reached that point, nudging her a little in the arm with his fist before leaving the room without saying goodnight.

Claire threw Peter’s shirt over her head and brought his boxers up her legs, surprised at how well they fit her in the waist. Then again, Claire was so curvy and Peter so narrow waisted, their measurements were probably rather close.

She flipped off the lamp and buried herself in the covers, pleasantly uncomfortable (if that was a plausible oxymoron) at the natural warmth Peter’ t-shirt seemed to emit. Claire breifly wondered if he was wearing it before he brought it over just to warm it up, but then banished that thought. It was revoltingly silly; a ridiculous thought from a silly little girl.

Meanwhile, Peter lay in his own king bed, tossing around and searching for sleep. It was a rare occasion that he slept alone, ususally having the woman they’d saved most recently spooned up against him. Sometimes there was sex beforehand; sometimes not. It really depended on the girl. Because for all Sylar’s scathing remarks, Peter wasn’t quite as promiscuous as he was branded.

To a degree. Peter did enjoy women.

Mostly, the feel of a female’s warmth, of her skin, the scent of her shampoo…the pulse of her ability being soaked up into his own body was what really intrigued him. It was Peter’s first addiction, the prelude of many other, different ones to come.

Tonight, he only had his ratty pillow to hug close to his body. Tonight stung more than usual, for he was so damn close to something he didn’t want to desire. So close to warmth and perfume as the ghosts of all the others still remained in his sheets.

A feeling was ignigted in his gut again, but this time, he couldn’t extinguish the fire. Abnormal was the fact that he didn’t even want to feel like this. Every time before, Peter welcomed that chemistry and attraction, practically invited women into his bed and arms. But no, not this time. This time was so much more…it scared, annoyed, and frustrated him all at once with its empty spaces and intrige.

He’d look back on this later as the loneliest night of his life.

xxx