A/N: This fic is set in the IABD universe, but some things that happened in that episode, such as Claire apprehending Peter in the Bennet house, are omitted. Also, Future Claire confronting Future Peter in TSC is omitted in this as well. Excerpts in italics signify the past that Claire doesn't remember, and the excerpts in normal font signify present time for Claire. This is my first time writing good!Sylar, towards the end, at least, so hope you enjoy!

Lapse of Memory

She splashes the water onto her face, her eyes coming to rest on the reflection in the mirror before her.

The brown hair, even after these years, is still something she can't fully get used to.

The bathroom door opens with a slight squeaking sound 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, for she's not exactly the talkative type, not for quite a while now.

She finally looks over at Daphne. "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 starting to babble a bit now. 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."

"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 further 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 oddly feels satisfied at seeing his face tighten.

"Claire?"

She looks upon Angela Petrelli, who 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 all right with you, Noah."

Her father nods stiffly, 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 doesn't care.

"Have a seat, dear," Angela indicates at the chair opposite the desk, and she does so, and Angela moves around behind her desk to take her own seat.

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

"How have you been, Claire?" Angela asks, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

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

Angela goes along with it. "There are some news that I feel the need to inform you of."

She 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. "What do you mean?"

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

"No stalling. Just tell me the truth, for once."

Angela frowns at her, but complies. "You're not Nathan's daughter."

And those four words shatter her world completely.

"But Meredith said," She stumbles over her words. "She said I was Nathan's--"

"She was wrong, dear."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 hers. " 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 inquires, 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 she 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 all she can think is that her 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, she looks up at her. "The man you know as Sylar is my son. I gave him up for adoption when he was a baby."

"Why?" She asks, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

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

"Gabriel?" She questions. "That's his real name?"

Angela nods.

"Why are you telling me this about him?" She voices quietly. "What is the point in me knowing?"

Angela smiles at her, a failing 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, because she doesn't know what she could 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, getting 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, and she's disgusted. "Claire, listen…"

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

"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, her ocean 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. "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 kitchen table, the papers and books spread all over it.

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, and she nods.

She enters Daniella's room, gazing around at the walls coated in hot pink. Teddy bears seemed to be in every corner of the room, and a white rocking chair was put towards the far left of the room. The crib was set in the center of the room, by the wall.

She approaches the crib silently, looking down at the ten month old baby swaddled in white blankets.

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

The sudden visions startle 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.

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

"Claire?" Daphne asks, concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yeah," She attempts to reassure her 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. "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.

"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. "Since you're not daddy's little girl anymore, why do you keep volunteering to do these missions with him?"

The sun shines bright 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. "I am nothing like you."

He squints at her, his brown eyes twinkling from 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 lengthy amount of seconds has passed, spotting her father exit the building and walk 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 his briefly in the rearview mirror.

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

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 where she can't remember anything specific that happened a few years ago, then there are some days where snippets of things 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 real 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 to someplace like 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 something in her life would make sense.

There are times that she wants to sleep, and other times that she doesn't.

But it really doesn't matter either way, because she already feels like she's walking around in a slumber every day.

Nothing brings her relief anymore.

Her eyes feel heavy all of a sudden (finally) and she's able to drift off to sleep for, hopefully, a night of peace.

"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 gun-shot and her screaming ringing in her ears.

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

11:53.

Seven minutes to midnight.

When Peter died, then came back to life, because of her.

That she remembers.

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

"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 him, sighting 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 declares desperately. "It shouldn't take 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.

"It won't work," She whispers.

"Why not?"

She opens her eyes and discards the syringe, despair and guilt swelling in her chest. "He used my blood before."

He doesn't say anything, and 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 leave.

"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.

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

"Our next assignment," Daphne says, handing her the file.

She opens it, a picture of Peter popping out into view.

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."

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

It's an uncomfortable feeling.

She closes the file and begins 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."

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, 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.

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, and she can tell he said it that way in an effort to make her laugh or something.

She wants to, but just can't bring herself to do so. "So you're free now, huh?"

"You could say that."

She looks over at him. He was dressed in a simple t-shirt and blue jeans, which was a stark contrast compared to the suit she's usually seen him in.

"How can you even trust yourself right now?" She inquires. "How do you know you won't go back to the way you were?"

He looks away towards the playground, and she waits.

"I can't," He murmurs after a moment. "But I think I've found a way to fight it, to control it."

"Why are you here?" She asks softly.

He sighs. "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 she absentmindedly brushes a blonde strand of hair out of her face.

"Yesterday."

He says nothing in return.

"You made a mistake, you know," She declares, and his face wrinkles in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Having my ability… it may seem great at first," She mutters. "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 inquires, 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 tries to reassure her. "Doesn't that mean something to you?"

She shakes her head. "No, it doesn't. I don't want to be special. I never wanted to be special; I just wanted to be normal."

He's looking at her oddly 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 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 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 facial expression contorts into that of sorrow, of 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, his hand briefly brushing against hers that rests on the bench.

She watches as he retreats from her.

Suddenly she feels much more empty inside than she had before he showed up.

She looks vaguely around Peter's apartment, taking in all his belongings strewn around the room: clothes, paper, 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 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 further into the living room.

Catching sight of the framed pictures placed on the long, 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.

At the far right end of the table, there's one last picture frame.

But it's laying face down against the table, making the picture obscured from her sight.

This one doesn't seem to have as much dust on it as the others.

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

Then Daphne's fingers close 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, and she 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. "Yeah, let's go."

Daphne smiles, a bit relieved, she notices.

Knox comes to stand at one side of Daphne, grabbing hold of Daphne's arm, and in turn, Daphne's hand encloses around her arm once again.

She looks back at the overturned picture frame, then everything is a blur of color and sound as Daphne speeds them away.

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 like that.

She retrieves the money she's saved from special occasions from the hiding place in her closet, and stuffs 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, and leaves 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.

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

The lone car waits at the end of the driveway.

She approaches it, 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, taking 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.

She leans against the building, letting out a deep breath, seeing it form in the air due to the cold.

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

A movement to her left catches her eye and she turns a little 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 declares, 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?"

"It's time for you to know the truth, Claire."

She can't help but find herself a bit bothered by the intense serious look on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"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 chokes out, her eyes widening.

He looks around briefly, then returns his gaze back 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."

They sit on the exact same bench at the exact same park, and for many minutes they say nothing, just stare off 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 because of 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, and the sound of cars starting in the distance invade her ears.

"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.

She looks around during the meantime.

"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 almost 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, and birds begin 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."

A faint light shines out from the crack underneath the door to Peter's apartment and 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 she sees him, standing stock-still at the window, his back to her.

"Peter?" She utters, and he turns.

The 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 he's nervous all of a sudden.

For what reason, she doesn't know.

"Did he?"

"The things he said to me," She continues, dwelling on it. "They were very odd. By telling me to find you, I'm assuming you can make more sense of it than I can."

He folds his arms against himself, the black overcoat shining in the light of the lamp inches from 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.

She brings her hands to her face.

After a moment, when she collects herself the best she can, she 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!"

His eyebrows are furrowed and he moves towards her, 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, and it's clear to her that he's conflicted.

Then he rubs his forehead, giving in. "Because you had a life with him, Claire."

She simply stares at him, completely shocked.

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

Peter laughs, seeing the look 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. "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."

"Where to?"

At the sound of Sylar's 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.

Afterward, he would take her and the family out for ice cream.

That was one of her fondest memories, because there was nothing to worry about during that time.

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 she was basically invincible, 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 is now gone forever.

The tears slide hot 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.

"Claire," Peter says, his hand rubbing against 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. "That was our only intention."

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

"It was that or either 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.

Peter opens his mouth, then closes it, and 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 an icy 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. "And when you had Noah, I just knew that if he found out about him, he would take him away from you and Gabriel."

"Why?" She inquires. "Why would he take my son?"

"Claire, you and Gabriel having a child is something that he would have desired," Peter explains. "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. "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."

At this Peter quiets, and she simply sits there, being quiet with him.

After a moment, he looks up at her 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, relieved.

"So," She adds, hesitant. "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. "I can't believe I ended up with Gabriel. I hated him."

"Well," Peter laughs as well. "Over time, you both were actually able to bond. You may have hated him 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 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 again, and she closes her eyes briefly.

She can't break down right now, not when there are still things she's desperate to know.

"About Noah," She says, and struggles 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 the tears, letting them fall. "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.

"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 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. "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, and his face is questioning. "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. "When a person has an ability like that making it easy to sneak up on you, it's kind of hard to keep things in secret. But she promised to keep it to herself. And apparently she did, since she never said anything to you about it."

She nods, glancing 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 there are more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

She looks hard at the photograph and after a minute or so, nothing happens, and, heartbroken, she thinks of giving up.

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 the brain clicks into place.

She looks up at Peter, grinning, and as he sees it worked, a smile breaks free from him in return.

"Take me home, Peter."

"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, curious, and she vividly remembers the time her fist accidentally punched through glass, and the cut that 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.

Her laughter combines with Gabriel's.

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

"Thanks for letting me name him Noah."

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

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 she suddenly feels extremely apprehensive.

Gabriel and her son have lived almost three years without her, and now she's walking right back into their lives.

Besides, she has no idea how much things have changed for them, and she's scared to see how.

And Noah… he won't even recognize her.

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 streetlamps.

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.

Peter and Gabriel are talking in the kitchen and, 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 over at Peter. "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, and they're only a few feet apart 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 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.

Noah shuffles closer, directing his light brown eyes up at her. "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 she 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.

They sit together on the couch for the majority of the night, and after countless questions on both Gabriel's and Noah's parts, all three of them lean back onto the couch, 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 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, and winks at her. "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.

FIN.