its_notabigdeal | self-inflicted exhile } { oh my fair North Star, I have held to you dearly

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self-inflicted exhile } { oh my fair North Star, I have held to you dearly

[

heroslayer is used with permission while Peter is an NPC because ... well, yeah.]

Peter Petrelli is dead.

Claire isn’t even sure when it happens, but it does.

One minute, he’s standing right there in front of her, and the next he’s gone, scattered into the tiniest of pieces across the room. His blood hangs in the air like a fine mist that catches in her mouth and weighs heavy and coppery against his tongue. She can’t even make a sound when it happens because it’s all too fast. There’s no warning she can issue, nothing she can say. It’s just—over.

Odessa is where it began and Odessa is where it ends.

Peter is dead.

In one fraction of a second, her family is gone.

***

It's fifty years after she takes their powers public that they’re approached.

It’s probably the biggest mistake she’s ever made, but they’re living with it. Her, Peter … Sylar. The balance is tentative and most of the time Claire doesn’t trust him, but Peter holds them together. He reminds them why they have their abilities, why they do the things they do. For a while they hide. They bury who they are so far down that sometimes Claire forgets, or can delude herself into believing she’s normal for a little while.

Then Peter will do something … heroic. She’ll have to give him her ability, and they’ll relocate and start from square one all over again. Peter can never seem to hold on to her power for long. It’s a thing with him. He takes advantage of what’s in front of him, and she always jokes that one day, that’s going to get him killed.

Years go by, and one day, a man in a suit tracks them down and makes them an offer. The government needs people with powers to help police the people with powers. Claire’s revelation all those years ago sent most of them into hiding, but there are some that use it to their advantage. They terrorize. The government feels that people could stand to learn a lesson from the master.

They’re hesitant. Sylar’s been driving the hard road to redemption for almost as long as Claire has been with them, and placing him back in that line of temptation is dangerous. But redemption takes risk, and risk often comes with reward. They agree.

Their handler is stiff, but friendly, and the way he speaks reminds her of her father. At first, the missions are easy. People with abilities like Elle’s, or Meredith’s, just looking to cause damage more than actual evil being present. Slowly, the three of them become a team. A well oiled machine that does more good for the world than they could have dreamed of doing in their past fifty years of hiding. They were heroes. Maybe they didn’t have a cape, or wear tights. Maybe aren’t the grand scale heroes of comic book lore, but they help, and they believe that that, one way or another, has to count for something.

And more than anything else, they are a family. They’re all that each other has left, and for once, the world seems to be a bit more of a welcoming place.

***

Johan Resnick is not their average target.

His ability is destructive in a way no one can anticipate. Everything he touches simply disintegrates in his hands. All it takes is a bit of bare skin contact, a small puff of an explosion, and whatever it was is gone. Resnick is a terrorist, and his attacks are pointed and messy, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake that makes Claire sick to her stomach. She’s almost a hundred years-old and has seen the worst that the world has to offer, but the way Resnick strikes stirs something in her that she thought she has gotten past.

She blames Peter.

He holds onto his humanity like a coveted piece of gold, clinging to it like it’s the last good thing in his life. It’s so easy for Claire to just shut it all off, to tell herself that in a hundred years, they’ll all be dead and she’ll still be there, but Peter reminds her what it’s like to smile. He reminds her how to be happy, how to love again, and she holds on to those parts of herself for him. She tells herself that he’s doing it for her and Sylar, so they don’t go cold like the rest of the world seems to, but she knows that that’s wrong. That humanity is who Peter is. She’s scared of the person he’d be without it.

It takes them three months to find Resnick, and when they do, they corner him in an empty warehouse not far from Odessa, Texas. She doesn’t even realize that’s where they are until they pass the sign on the way in to town. The town has changed so much she barely even recognizes it, but there’s something about it that still feels like home. It brings a smile to her face while she’s working a case where she shouldn’t be smiling, and it feels good. At least for a little while.

She and Peter take point and go through the front door, while Sylar goes around the back. Peter is always with Claire, just in case he needs her ability after doing something … heroic. Peter always teases her that he doesn’t need a babysitter—up until he gets hurt and needs her to heal him all over again. They’re slowly making their way through each of the rooms, and it takes Clare a minute to register the fact that she knows where they are. She knows exactly where they are.

“This is Primatech.”

Not the original building, no. Not the one that Meredith blew up when Sylar dosed her with adrenaline. But it is still Primatech, a company building that was rebuilt in its place so that they could continue to do the work they did. Angela never had been one to give up without a fight, and Claire knows that in the end, the Company did as much good as they did harm. Being back in those walls, though, brings back a flood of memories she hasn’t even thought about in years. It reminds her of a simpler time—a time when she felt a little more human.

“It is?” Peter glances around, following her eyes to try and find the familiar indicators, lowering his weapon for all of a moment. It takes him a minute before recognition follows, and he smiles. “Wow. Funny the things that last.”

She nods for a moment, before looking over at him with a smirk, moving ahead with her gun poised. “You know, we first met in this town. All three of us.” She then makes a face. “If you had told me back then that I’d be used to sharing a car with Sylar, let alone living with him? I probably would have called you crazy.”

Peter laughs. “Things do have a way of working out for the best, don’t they?”

She’s quiet for a moment, before a small smile crosses her face, and she nods. “Yeah. I guess they do.”

They come up on the door where Resnick is holed up, and Peter puts a finger to his lips, before signaling that he would go in first. He always went first. It is his way of protecting her, even though he knows she doesn’t need it. She nods, and he pauses, before kicking down the door and making her way inside. He angles right, and she goes left. Her side of the room is clear, and just as she turns to check on him, she sees him.

“Peter, look—”

She can’t even finish the sentence, before Peter is just gone. The only evidence anything has happened lies in the fine red mist that now covers her completely. She has gotten used to wearing her own blood—it comes with her ability—but the feel of someone else’s is foreign and uncomfortable. The smell of it alone is enough to make her sick, and she can feel the bile rising in her throat.

“Don’t you all know by now,” Resnick says slowly, starting to advance on her as he pulls the other glove from his hand. All it had taken was one touch. One touch to kill one of the few people in her life she had left, and she wants to hurt him, but she can’t even bring herself to raise the gun in her hand. It suddenly feels like a hundred pound weight, and she’s frozen in place, unable to move. “It never pays to be the hero.” He’s telling that to the wrong member of their merry band.

Claire learned that a long time ago.

Doesn’t stop her from trying anyway.

There’s something in the way he says it that snaps her out of it, and the gun is suddenly up and firing. It’s two solid shots to his shoulder that aren’t quite fatal, but enough to blow him away from her and has him stumbling to the ground. The panic has passed, and now all that’s left is rage. She keeps the gun poised in front of her, a heavy glare on her face, as she advances on him.

“Stay still. This is going to hurt.”

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No. No, she is not going through this again. She's not going to have Peter only to lose him again when Sylar decides he wants to be in control again. She's not going to deal with this madness when she's supposed to be grieving. She can't.

She moves forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around, before delivering a square punch to his jaw. Years ago, it may have been a slap, but she knows he can take more than that.

"Snap out of it," she growls, looking him dead in the eye. "And get it together."

He stares at her for a moment, stunned, and his skin crawls again, threatening one final revolt against him before stilling finally. He grits his teeth, getting the handle on himself she demanded, and pushes past her, something between hurt of the emotional variety and anger painted on his face as he walks away. Not that he goes very far -- he just marches off away from her to study one of the walls intently.

She's pretty angry herself. The punch helps some of the rage subside, but there's still anger there. How he even considered that a viable option escapes her, but then again, she realizes that she gave up trying to understand the way his mind worked a long time ago.

"You can't be him," she says, words tight and tense. "You can't just shift into him had have it fix things. That's not the way the world works."

"You need him more than you need me. You always have," he says softly, echoing what he told her as Peter a moment before. "I don't blame you. He's all the family you have left. He's a better person than I could ever be. I've tried so hard to be like him, for him, but he's still Peter. And I'm still just me."

He pauses, taking a shuddering breath, and leans his forehead against the wall, his eyes falling closed again. "I've never asked you or Peter for anything. Anything I've ever wanted, I've kept to myself because half the time I still don't know what I'm allowed to have -- what's selfish, what's like I used to be -- but I'm asking you for this. Peter, he's -- I need him just as much as you do. It wouldn't hurt either of us to lose me. If it had been me instead of him ... "

Another pause, another shuddering breath. "Please."

She may be angry, but she listens. She understands. She gets it. But she can't give it to him, no matter how much he may want it. She makes her way over to one of the beds and sits down on it, burying her face in her hands, trying to just breathe for a minute. There's a part of her that wants to say yes! and just let him do it, regardless of the consequences, but she knows that it won't fix anything.

Not really.

"No," she says softly, as her face reemerges. "It won't be the same. You know it, and I know it." She looks up at him, eyes soft, and just sighs. "He's gone, Sylar. We have to accept that."

He makes a small noise at the back of his throat, chokes on it, and turns to put his back to her, so that she won't be able to see that he's crying. It takes him a good few minutes to be certain that his voice won't betray him, either, and when he does finally say something, it's even softer than before. "I'm not sure I can."

"I think you can." She hopes she sounds as sure as she needs to be, but she's not sure if she's succeeding. "It's just going to take time. We need time."

She's reassuring herself as much as she's reassuring him, trying her best to believe it, even if she doesn't think she can. She doesn't want to accept it, but she needs to convince him that it's possible. Her grief will do much less damage, in the long run.

He huffs out a sigh of a laugh, the sound stained with bitterness, and leans his head back against the wall, wiping furiously at his eyes and still not able to turn to face her. "Guess it's good that we have all the time in the world, then."

It's also good on another level -- he has all the time in the world to search for someone like Nakamura. He'll get Peter back, whatever it takes, even if it means going back to murder. He's not about to tell her that, though. Let her think he believes her or, at very least, that he's willing to try.

She huffs a laugh herself. It's a cold reminder of what's waiting for her, but she doesn't acknowledge it. She's so tired of not getting any older, but that's not what's important now. What's important is making sure that Sylar doesn't do anything stupid in the interim. Which she knows is going to be harder than it looks.

"Guess so. We should be the most zen people on the planet."

She has a feeling that they're the most screwed up, but she isn't going to say that out loud.

Sylar, on the other hand, has no problem saying it -- not with the mood he's in and how off balance he still feels. "Or the most screwed up."

Well, at least it still isn't her.

"That too."

It's ironic, really. They say time heals, but they have all the time in the world, and in the end, it really just makes them worse. It sucks to have the brain of someone who's human, and the body of someone that's ... not, for lack of a better word.

Humming, he wipes the last of the tears from his face, and turns to face her finally. He studies her for a moment with idle interest, not really looking for anything, just at a loss for what to do now and exhausted, and then sighs, moving over to the bed to sit down next to her. He casts her another glance, then looks down at his hands, words still failing him. Lucky for him he's never been overly chatty.

She's not too sure what to say either. She just sits there, quietly, with him, just soaking in the silence and reminding herself that she isn't completely alone. He may be Sylar, but he's still been there, throughout the years, and like it or not, he's part of her family.

The moment lapses, and she shifts, her hand finding her way into one of his. He's not alone either. She may not be Peter -- she could never be Peter -- but she's still there. And for now, she's not going anywhere.

He stares down at their hands, as seemingly stunned as he was when she punched him, and swallows thickly, emotion threatening to overwhelm him again. He manages, somehow, to keep himself from breaking down again, albeit barely, and squeezes her hand lightly, looking away, something far more interesting on the floor catching his attention. And after a moment, he offers softly, "I'm sorry. I should have been faster."

"Me too. We should have been more careful."

There is plenty of blame to go around, but in the end, dividing the blame isn't going to get them anywhere. It just might make them both feel better.

"Yeah."

He's willing to concede that they all made mistakes, that there are things all of them could have done to prevent this, but he's still pretty sure the blame ultimately lies with him. He's long since stopped thinking he's God, but he's still more powerful than Claire or Peter. There had to have been something he could have done, something he didn't think of, and now Peter is dead because of him. It's part of why he's so hellbent on fixing this, even beyond his little breakdown from a few moments before. It's his fault and it's in his power to fix this, even if it means killing again, so he has to. He owes it to Claire and the memory of Peter.

She sighs, her hand staying in his, and not really sure what to say. If she knew what he was thinking, she would have been upset, but for right now she's just soaking in the silence and trying to do the best she can not to fall apart.

"So what now?" he asks after a long moment.

He knows his options -- he either has to bide his time until they're given an assignment regarding a time traveler or break into their benefactors' offices and look for one -- but he wants to know how well her plans line up with his. He has to figure out which one will be easier, which one will draw the least amount of suspicion from her, on the chance that she'll deny him this as she denied him taking over for Peter in the first place.

She takes a breath, trying to think that far ahead when all she still wants to do is cry.

"We regroup. Take a little time, then go back to work." She hopes she sounds more confident on that than he feels. "That's what he would have wanted."

He makes a small noise at the back of his throat, willing to accept that and not press any further because he can feel the upset stuck under her skin still.

He's okay for now, content in his plan, knowing he has the means to fix this, that he will fix this, but she doesn't have the comfort of that knowledge. She's still hurting and he doesn't blame her, even if he's not sure what do to about it -- it's not like he can tell her what's going on in his head, after all. And so he just brushes his thumb over the back of her hand slowly, soothingly, hoping that helps, even if it's only marginally.

It does help a little, makes it feel like she's not as alone in all this, but eventually she needs to break the contact and get a little of her own space. Suddenly, after everything, she's exhausted.

"We should get some rest," she says softly. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day, I have a feeling."

"I wouldn't be surprised." He figures there will either be more questions -- a proper debriefing in a room with a one-way mirror -- or that they'll have another assignment handed to them, their superiors not wanting them to have time to second guess their career choices or dwell on what happened. Either way, though, Claire's right. They should try to rest, even if he's pretty sure he won't get very far in his efforts, far to much to plan and to think about spread out in front of him in spite of how exhausted he is.

Sighing, he glances at the other bed, trying to drum up the motivation to actually get up and move to it. It takes him a moment, but eventually he pushes to his feet, crossing the distance to the other bed. He pauses beside it long enough to kick off his boots, then flops down on it, face first.

"Night, Claire," he mumbles into the pillow. He'll get the lights after she settles and says good night back.

She does just that, taking the time to slide under the covers, before rolling onto her side so that she is facing him.

"Night, Sylar," she says softly, before closing her eyes and starting to curl up and go to sleep.

He makes a vague gesture at the light switch on the wall, not bothering to look at it, his face still buried in the pillow, and the lights snap off. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening to Claire breathe in the dark, and then rolls over onto his side, watching as the wall slides out of the gloom as his eyes adjust. And once he can see it well enough, once he has that blank canvas to imagine the results of whatever plans he comes up with upon, he sets to work, his mind running numbers and scenarios rapid fire.

As fast as his thoughts work, though, he glad he's never needed much sleep. This isn't exactly going to be easy.

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self-inflicted exhile } { oh my fair North Star, I have held to you dearly

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