The Case of the Disappearing Gummy Bears, the Red Dress, and the Handcuffed Poodle

Purple.

Bennet hated purple.

Well… maybe hate was a bit too strong a word. After all, it was irrational to nurse a deep-rooted loathing for a certain color - even if it was purple - and he was nothing if not… rational.

Maybe it was simply a mental allergy of sorts; a mild irritation at the vibrant, artificial, visual-cortex-scarring shade of eggplant. Nothing more.

" Butler, the new employee doesn't talk."

Bennet looked up, slowly, raising an eyebrow in the most neutral of manners.

On second thought, hatred was the exact word he'd been looking for.

"I know."

He recalled patiently instructing his rat-faced wonder of a 'manager' to never speak to him again, but it appeared as though that sound piece of advice had completely slipped the poor man's mind. He would've suspected the Haitian's involvement - perhaps as revenge for making him wear the infernal purple as well (misery did love company, ex-Company included), which was certainly understandable - but his plummeting view on humanity made him more partial to the possibility that the man simply had the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer's.

The manger smirked, folding his arms in the kind of superior posturing only the truly inferior ever managed. "So do you really think it's the best idea to put him in reception?"

"He's very… dedicated."

He glanced over to check on the Haitian, and stifled a sigh.

Dedicated to the consumption of gummy bears, maybe.

Who would've thought?

"Right," the manager said pompously, clearly preparing to launch into a dubiously inspirational speech about the insurmountable importance of paper on the global scale. Bennet, deciding that he'd had more than enough exposure to condensed idiocy for one day, glared back at him mildly, simultaneously generating an aura of pure menace. He'd spent years perfecting the effect (really, it wasn't near as easy as it looked), and it was definitely coming in handy now. The motivational words died in the manager's throat - maybe his memory was finally coming around - and he concluded speedily, "Uh, right."

As the manager bravely shuffled off to badger the less intimidating employees, Bennet came to the realization that, in a very twisted sort of way… he was starting to miss Thompson.

Rock bottom was growing closer at an alarming pace. Flight would've been a useful ability to have, right about now.

But no. Normal was good. Normal was what he'd wished for, not long ago. Normal provided stability, safety, purple polo shirts.

Normal was… astonishingly boring.

And it was at that moment that the copy machine next to him started spitting up paper in a most dramatic and relentless manner - copy after copy after copy.

Each page exclusively featured just one word, printed in bold, giant font.

Wanker.

Well. That was charming.

Even the printer failed to appreciate the fine, colorful ambience that Copy Kingdom had to offer, claiming its rightful spot amongst the ranks of disgruntled employees.

Bennet's keen sense of paranoia (he would gladly have referred to it as his morally grey Spidey Sense, but he feared it wouldn't quite possess the required respectable touch) tingled; for a technical glitch, this was distinctly insulting, and distinctly British.

Calling tech support probably wasn't the best idea, then.

When the manager began his determined stride back towards his personal space, the printer hastily changed tactics and started producing far more intriguing images, most of them of a pornographic – and rather eclectically so - nature.

Bennet vaguely contemplated making a 'wanker' paper airplane and launching it into the manager's eye (his aim was, after all, impeccable) as a preemptive measure, but resisted the temptation. He had a cover to maintain, and while such an action would have been wildly satisfying in the short term, he would likely need to provide explanations to the authorities - so instead, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Rock bottom: collision imminent.

"God is not in Copy Kingdom."

Truer words, Bennet thought, had never been spoken.

"Maybe not, but we have to stick to the Plan." He always thought of his plans with capital P's – it gave them a more dignified, serious, immediate air. "Sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

The Haitian looked at him with an expression that balanced perfectly between incredulity and mystery; a rather cryptic blend, he found.

"Then I hope 'the Plan' comes into fruition soon."

There was something about the way he said it, a lurking, silent nuance of pronunciation, that made Bennet suspect he wasn't quite giving the Plan the respect it deserved. But the Haitian departed (not before stealthily relocating a handful of gummy bears into his pocket), and Bennet was distracted by the music that suddenly emerged from his cell phone.

The Mission Impossible theme.

Calls from Suresh were a special occasion.

He flipped the phone open. "Yes?"

"Doing anything… interesting?"

"Night shift. Installing toner carts."

"Kinky."

Suresh had the darnest reactions sometimes.

"If you say so," he replied evenly. "How's the Plan progressing?"

"It's great," Mohinder said. "I think Bob might be looking for something more, though."

Bennet was afraid it would come to that. "Don't put out," he instructed firmly. "We need you in one piece."

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

"I'm sure you do." Actually, that was the main source of concern.

There was a brief bout of silence, then -

"What are you wearing?"

"A purple shirt," he admitted blankly.

There was a prolonged pause with nothing but heavy breathing on the other end. In fact, it was closer to panting.

"How purple?"

This was getting mildly distressing. A change of subject was most definitely in order.

"…What are you wearing?"

Pause.

"Wait. I'm sending you a picture."

The cell phone beeped obediently, announcing the arrival of a new message.

…Interesting.

"You could've just said –" a suspicious sound in the back of the store rudely interrupted the course of the conversation. "I have to go."

Damn it. And they were just getting to the good part.

"It's not your color, rookie," said a voice behind him.

He froze, taking a moment to evaluate the situation. Wardrobe advice, even of the critical variety, wasn't quite what he had expected to receive upon reencountering Claude. The scenarios his imagination had come up with had been considerably more… physically discomforting.

Then again, if an elaborate act of violence had been Claude's intention, he could've picked a better location. Copy Kingdom lacked a certain dramatic punch. Though maybe Claude was planning on providing one of his own.

He turned around. It made little difference, however, as there was nothing but air in front of him from this angle as well.

"Aren't you going to punch me?" It wasn't the smartest thing he could've asked, but he liked being prepared.

"Don't think so."

"Beat my head against the table?"

"Nope."

"Tie me up and have your way with me?"

"Keep dreamin'."

Well, it was worth a shot.

"Shoot me with a staple gun?"

Claude snorted. "You're bein' paranoid, friend. Are revenge and bondage really the only things you can think of?"

"Well, I apologize for my failure of imagination."

He decided not to mention the matter of abrasive printers.

"No need to apologize for what you are, Bennet. Or is it Butler now?" 'Air' made a sardonic sound. "Actually, pathetic is what you are. Couldn't have even picked another letter? Should've just gone with 'Backstabbing Bastard' while you were at it. Double the B, double the fun."

"It doesn't quite work as a surname," he countered logically. "Besides, not everybody can be as creative as Claude Rains."

Claude flickered into irritated visibility. "There's unoriginal and there's classic. I think we both know which category you belong to."

Bennet sighed. "What do you want?"

"What, you mean mocking you isn't a worthwhile goal anymore?"

"As a secondary objective or a hidden agenda, maybe. You want something."

Claude frowned. "Need you to go on an assignment with me. Just like old times."

Bennet found the prospect simultaneously alluring and highly suspicious. "What kind of assignment?"

"Poodle rescue."

"I don't have time for poodles, Claude. I have –"

"Toners to install?"

"No-"

"TPS reports to file?"

Bennet gritted his teeth.

"Sexy Indians to harass?"

He hastily snapped the cell phone shut.

"- a Plan."

"Oh, I see. Made yourself one of your little plans then, rookie? Always were far too fond of those. Planophilia is what they call it, mate."

"It's not little, I'm not a rookie, and there's no such thing as Planophilia."

Planophobia, maybe. And he certainly wasn't the one suffering from that.

"Sorry," Claude rolled his eyes. "You're a big man now. Assistant manager," he poked at Bennet's tag for emphasis. Bennet stifled the urge to teach him a hands-on lesson regarding intrusive finger placement, and simply glared back impassively. "Fearsome, that." Claude shrugged, feigning calculated disinterest. "Guess I'm off, then. I'm sure superpowered empaths are of no interest to your precious Plan."

Bennet was at a bit of a loss.

"Peter Petrelli has turned into a poodle?"

Stranger things had happened. He often suspected that Mr. Muggles was an elaborately disguised mutant mastermind, but sadly had little in the way of proof, and Sandra hadn't appreciated that particular theory. In fact, he'd spent several lonely nights on the couch thanks to it.

"No, genius, do they give you monthly lobotomies as a job perk? Peter's in Ireland. And he's always been a poodle."

Bennet wasn't sure how Ireland made more sense than canine-transformation, in all honesty. And, as much as he'd disliked being stapled with variations of 'puppy' in the past, he was now mildly bitter (not jealous, though – no reason whatsoever for jealousy) to discover he was no longer exclusive in that category.

"Is he there for any particular reason?"

"Was shipped there," Claude explained helpfully. "Naked in a box of iPods to a bunch of gangsters."

Bennet shook his head, fostering a newly formed yet already keen headache. "Fine. Don't tell me."

Claude stepped closer, producing a daring, malicious grin. "You comin'?" he motioned towards the door. "Or can't bear to part with your treasured paper products?"

"Just let me call Sandra first."

"And tell her what? Don't think the good old 'business trip' excuse is going to hold too well here, mate."

"Tell her the truth."

"Well, that's a new one," Claude gave him a penetrating look. "You takin' honesty lessons now? Twelve step program?"

He raised a finger to shush Claude (the action had a ten percent success rate, give or take, but this time he got lucky) as he speed-dialed.

"Honey? I'm going on a mission to rescue a poodle. In Ireland. No, I'm not bringing him home; Mr. Muggles is quite safe. Don't worry, I've got backup. An invisible man. Yes, I think it's pretty cool. Love you too. Bye."

As he finished the call, he caught Claude glaring at him with a touch of disbelief.

"I'm working on it," Bennet elaborated.

Claude gave a bemused snort, going transparent. "Let's go."

Right before they left, the remaining gummy bears mysteriously faded from view.

The Haitian wouldn't be too happy about that.

Cheap, sleazy hotel rooms in Cork, Ireland were no different from cheap, sleazy hotel rooms anywhere in the US.

There was both something comforting, and something cheap and sleazy about that fact.

It seemed like Claude was strongly leaning towards the sleazy part of the ordeal.

"Take off your clothes."

Bennet narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"What for?"

Claude made a sharp movement, which resulted in Bennet's back being pressed against the wall (the wallpaper was a sickening shade of lavender, which had to be either subtle revenge on Claude's part, or karmic retribution of some sort), and in Claude breathing far too close to his ear, setting his skin on edge. "You didn't use to ask so many questions," he half-whispered, lingering for a moment before fading away, both visually and physically.

True enough. But that had been before certain incidents had taken place. Now, stripping in front of Claude held a far more tangible risk.

And yet arguing seemed like a profoundly bad idea, somehow.

Two minutes, a pair of shoes, slacks, and a purple polo (the one loss he wasn't mourning) later, Bennet stood in boxers and socks only, trying his best to expect the unexpected. He was suppressing a mild shiver, and his heart was beating too loudly for comfort. Not all of it could be attributed to fear or cold. Not even half of it.

Claude, fashionably and aggravatingly late, made an audio-only debut.

"Put this on."

Bennet cautiously looked down at the bright crimson fabric Claude had thrown at him.

"You're joking," he said numbly.

Claude materialized. "Do I have my funny face on, Bennet?"

"You don't have a funny face."

Claude did, however, have a very prestigious punch-me-please face, and its current presence was unmistakable.

"It's all a part of the Plan, rookie," Claude said in a grave tone, patting Bennet's bare shoulder reassuringly. "Sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

Bennet didn't attempt to murder him.

He knew he'd live to deeply regret it. And soon.

"Look at the bright side," Claude grinned wildly. "At least it's not purple."

"I would've preferred it if you'd just shot me."

It would've been infinitely more merciful.

"Don't see what you're complainin' about, mate. You look fantastic."

Bennet wasn't sure which part of his appearance Claude was referring to – the high heels he kept tripping over (he was far from clumsy, but Company training had never covered this – strange, really, considering some of Thompson's preferences), the excessive eye shadow and lipstick Claude had insisted on applying personally to maintain 'persistent cover' (Bennet suspected this had something to do with Barbie doll deprivation in Claude's childhood, but refrained from bringing it up) - or the skimpy red dress.

He'd fought to keep the glasses on, not so much as a vision aid, but as the only surviving element of his identity.

He didn't answer Claude, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Unfortunately, this didn't stop Claude from yammering on.

"Use your English accent on 'em. It's a killer."

"I thought you hated my English accent."

"Bollocks. Everybody loves your English accent. Bloody charmin', is what it is."

Use your English accent on 'em, Claude's phantom voice hovered at the edges of Bennet's injured psyche. It's a killer.

"You're trying to get me lynched," Bennet realized out-loud.

"Stop whinin', you big drama queen. Just need you to provide a distraction," Claude said. "And you're very," he gave Bennet an earnest look, instantly contradicting it with a gleefully sly smirk, "distractin' right now."

"You're an invisible man, Claude," Bennet pointed out patiently. "You don't need distractions."

"Doesn't hurt to play if safe," Claude shrugged innocently. "Come on, don't tell me you've never wanted to play it femme fatale."

Bennet glared.

"You're lovin' it. I can tell by the rosiness of your cheeks."

Before Bennet could protest – perhaps by accidentally slamming Claude's head into the nearest building – they arrived at their destination, and Claude's visibility quotient dropped to zero.

An invisible slap on his ass made absolutely certain that his last shred of dignity was now dead and buried.

"I love you, Honey Bunny."

"Go to hell, Pumpkin."

"S'cuse me? Can you tell me how to get to Buckingham Palace?"

It was a poor opening line, but the pub looked about as authentic as Mr. Muggles' recent manicure, so Bennet didn't feel obligated to put his best British game on.

The skinny gangster swaggered towards him, while the taller black one remained at the bar, observing in something akin to apprehension.

" Wrong Island, grandma."

Grandma?

Bennet felts his blood beginning to boil. This was no grandma dress, dammit.

"Oi!" called out the black gangster, apparently equally offended by the gross accusation. "That's the Boss's mum yer talkin' to!"

"Oh," Skinny Gangster's eyes widened. "Sorry, ma'am." He looked sideways in a highly shifty manner. "Ricky's not here right now."

Bennet didn't know who this 'Ricky' character was, not did he particularly care. His patience was wearing thin, and he needed to provide Claude with a distraction.

There was only one thing left to do.

"I'm not here for Ricky, love. I'm here for you."

He grabbed Skinny Gangster by the collar of his shirt, pulling him into a deep kiss. Skinny Gangster made a garbled noise of protest, but didn't put up an active resistance, going rather limp instead.

Bennet wasn't normally in the habit of kissing random Irish gangsters, especially not while wearing revealing dresses and high heels, but a little variety couldn't hurt. To be honest, this one wasn't half-bad. A bit on the squirmy side, but he could handle that. He tasted of scotch, cheap cigarettes and… lucky charms?

"What's Will doing snoggin' a scary bloke in a dress?" wondered a curious female voice.

Then several things happened at one. Skinny Gangster tore away in horror, Bennet's boot heel broke, and he lost (was deprived of, actually) his balance, stumbling towards the bar as the dress skated upwards in an insulting fashion, revealing his hidden gun holster.

It was hard to say what would be perceived as more of a threat – the gun or the strategic flash of thigh.

Either way, it was too late for camouflage, and the scene that ensued involved a lot of high pitched, poorly accented yelling, a fine dose of gratuitous violence, and a spectacular absence of invisible people.

One minute and twenty three seconds later, Bennet had a firm hold on the scalp of the nearest available Irish gangster, who happened to be the one he was most intimately familiar with - Skinny Gangster Will.

"I'll show you grandma, you little twerp," he shed his English accent, and emphasized by introducing Will's forehead to the bar surface in a none-too-gentle manner.

Alright. So he might have had taken that particular transgression a bit close to heart. Still, it was perfectly justifiable retribution. Ageism was not to be taken lightly.

"Where's the Poodle?" Bennet inquired calmly.

"I don't know no bleedin' poodles!" Will shrieked. "I swear!"

Before Bennet had the chance to put him through a grandma-style memory refreshment course, a gun pressed against his neck. "Peter's in the back room," Girl Gangster said in a manner that implied she was firmly accustomed to all manner of stupidity, and had run out of patience years ago. "I'd knock if I were you."

Bennet released his hold on Will, who in turn proceeded to valiantly run out of the pub. The pressure of metal was removed.

"Thank you."

As Bennet made his unsteady way towards the back room, he felt a headache coming up - one that enwrapped all of today's occurrences in a single, condensed, very painful shell.

Claude naturally picked that moment to finally make his appearance.

"You were helpful," Bennet said, hoping Claude would choke on the acid dripping from his voice. "The point of a distraction is that you take advantage of it."

"Oh, I was takin' advantage alright," Claude remarked joyfully. "Thanks for the show, mate. First class entertainment, that was. You could do it professionally, ya know. Drag wrestlin'. Far more illustrious a career than making copies."

They stopped by the door, and Bennet was barely restraining himself from applying mild to moderate physical pressure to Claude, when a shiftily Irish accent sounded from inside the room.

"Tell me where the iPods are, Boyo."

"I don't know," it was definitely Peter's voice, sounding daringly defiant. "What're you gonna do to me?"

"Guess we'll just have to find out, no?"

Claude, in an act of subtle restraint, knocked the door down.

The sight revealed to them was not for the faint of heart.

Bennet, however, was thoroughly schooled in moral greyness (and had caught an HBO show or two during his lifetime), so the sight of Peter Petrelli, stark naked and handcuffed to a bed with an equally nude Irish individual on top of him, failed to alarm him.

Naked Gangster – Ricky, he presumed – glared at Bennet with mortified disbelief.

"Mum?!"

Then Claude strode over and promptly made sure he wouldn't speak for the remainder of the evening.

Claude turned his attention to the damsel in distress, so to speak. "Sweet fuckin' Jesus," he whispered. "They shaved you?"

Peter squinted. "You know me?"

"Inside out, friend," Claude said proudly, and Bennet narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Claude glanced over to Ricky's slumbering and still very naked body, "Did the bastard hurt you?"

Peter sighed, phasing through the cuffs and sitting up. "We were role playing."

Claude blinked.

Bennet scratched his chin. He didn't recall any of his D&D sessions (which all happened a very long time ago, naturally) ending quite this way.

Close, but not quite.

"What do you want?" Peter demanded.

"Came to rescue you, mate."

"I don't need rescuing. I need the Box."

"The what now?"

"My life is in there-" Peter took on a wild-eyed look, words spilling over frantically. "In the Box."

Bennet's headache felt like a purple elephant performing Irish karaoke inside his head. "The meaning of life is in the Box?"

"No – I don't know. Maybe."

"What soddin' box?"

"Not a box! The Box. The Box with my identity in it."

"You're not makin' an ounce of sense, Poodle."

And Claude's fist drew the curtain on that little scene.

They walked silently.

To be precise, Claude walked.

Peter was slung unceremoniously over Claude's shoulder, still mostly naked but for the towel Caitlin had helpfully (albeit somewhat reluctantly) provided.

Bennet limped.

His jaw was starting to swell from a punch he'd taken during the drag brawl, his ankle was sprained, and his fucking mascara was running.

"Put the Poodle down," Bennet said.

"What for?"

"So I can kill you."

"Sorry mate," Claude spared him a brief look. "You've got it bad enough already, wouldn't want to kick the crap out of you for dessert."

"How very generous of you," Bennet hissed.

Peter made a muffled noise, and violence was postponed to a later date. Claude lowered Peter onto the pavement, getting a disoriented look in return.

"Where am I? Who're you?"

Bennet sighed. This was getting mildly tiresome.

"Amnesia," Claude appraised. "Well aren't you the little cliché magnet. Or is it cliché sponge?"

Even Bennet had to admit that amnesia was a tad… outdated.

"I need to get the Box," Peter stressed, blatantly ignoring all cliché-attraction accusations. "We need to go back."

"The box with your identity it," Claude said incredulously. "Been watchin' too many films, mate. Trust me, you don't need a box to get your life back."

"I don't?" Peter sounded doubtful, and increasingly annoyed.

"Nope, got a much better way," Claude assured. "I like to call it method recollection."

Claude reached over and smacked Peter upside the head, hard.

Bennet raised his brow. Claude's revolutionary method of battling amnesia was certainly straightforward.

"Ow," Peter protested, only to encounter a second, more vigorous smack. "Ow! What the hell do you think you're doing?" As Claude prepared for a third bout of 'recollection', Peter raised his hand, and Claude promptly flew several feet, crashing into the wall of a nearby building.

Bennet was rapidly warming up to the boy.

"Claude?" Peter blinked.

Well.

That was surprisingly and somewhat implausibly effective.

Claude groaned, slowly working on regaining his footing. "One an' only," he muttered unenthusiastically under his breath.

"I know it's tempting, but try not to kill him," Bennet instructed, cautiously placing his hand on Peter's shoulder. He refrained from adding the cautionary 'he'll only come back and force you to wear a dress if you do'.

Peter turned to him, eyes widening. "Noah?"

"Noah?" Claude mimicked, shuffling over, and somehow when he said it, it sounded like a particularly dirty insult, or at the very least a rare disease without a cure. "You two on a first name basis, are you? Very cute."

Bennet glared at him darkly.

"Nathan-" Peter started, panic crossing his features.

"He's just dandy," Claude reassured him. "Sporting a big bushy bird nest of a beard, but alive enough, last I checked."

"A beard? That's pretty hot," Peter appraised thoughtfully, before taking on a panicked expression. "You know – platonically hot."

Bennet and Claude exchanged glances.

Peter seemed to decide it'd be wise of him to switch subjects, and quickly. "Why are you…" he gave Bennet a long appraising look, trailing off as a phantom semblance of tact caught up with him.

Bennet just shook his head.

"I think you look good," Peter said earnestly.

Bennet attempted a smile, ending up closer to a grimace. That was sweet. Painfully humiliating, grotesquely ridiculous and wildly delusional - but sweet.

Claude gave a derisive snort, and 'sweet' became largely extinct.

Then it started to rain.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Bennet vaguely recalled what rock bottom looked like.

It was a fond, nostalgic memory to have. Especially now when he was buried several miles south of it. And it felt as if he'd dug his way there personally.

Altogether, he wasn't in the best of moods.

He lay on the ratty hotel bed, his jaw now completely swollen, lending him the lovely sensation of massive cotton balls stuck in his mouth. Logically, that should have provided him with an instant Marlon Brando impersonation, but instead it simply made speaking painful and suspicious sounding.

The thing he was wearing could no longer be classified a dress, but a dirty, sticky, highly insulting rag that clung to him wetly yet ever-persistently. He would've removed it if only he'd found the energy to move.

In addition, he felt a harsh cold coming on He hadn't suffered from something as trivial as a cold in over a decade.

Claude was, of course, entirely to blame for all of the above.

Peter had been in the shower for over twenty minutes now, and it was becoming clear that post-amnesic empathic poodles treasured personal grooming almost as much as pure-bred Pomeranians. Claude sat at the edge of the bed, watching the tiny television flicker in and out of reception as it made a valiant attempt to transmit a soccer game that neither of the room occupants had the least bit of interest in.

Bennet wasn't a man prone to bitterness, and generally sported a fairly calm demeanor – it usually proved useful (and occasionally enjoyable) when he needed to employ violence while retaining the element of surprise. He took pride in his patience, mental serenity and impeccable control.

But everybody had limits.

"You're a fthucking basthard," he informed Claude articulately, wincing as half of his face protested against the attempted speech.

Claude turned to him, an amused tilt to his mouth, "Watch it - you'll break the PG-13 rating. Or would, if anyone understood what you're sayin'."

Now was hardly time for censorship, Bennet thought.

"You dwagged me to Iweland, made me wear a dwesth, then left me in a bar full of lepwechaun mobsthers," he accused. He would have gladly blamed Claude for arranging the rain as well (he had no doubt his former partner was well connected in matters of orchestrated vengeance), if he hadn't thought it would make him sound like a petulant child.

"You shot me, mate," Claude retorted factually, leaning over and cautiously cupping his jaw. It didn't hurt, much, but Bennet still found his breathing come to a halt. "Besides, I think you look dashing. Train wreck effect does you wonders." He actually sounded genuine this time, and it disturbed Bennet to the very core.

He was going to show Claude a wonder or two – if he ever managed to get up, that is. At this point in time, however, it seemed highly unlikely.

"So it wath revenge."

He knew it.

"Revenge?" Claude snorted, looking offended at the accusation. "How petty do you think I am? I was just teachin' you a lesson."

"What lethon ith thwat?"

"To think twice before you shoot your partners and throw them off bridges."

Bennet sighed through his teeth, shutting his eyes in resignation. "I'm prethy thure thath called revenge."

"Semantics," Claude scoffed. "Should consider yourself lucky, friend. 'Least it wasn't a Nakamura-style lesson."

Bennet gave a violent shiver at the thought.

He spent the next few minutes in protective silence, wisely trying to suppress all manner of thought.

When he opened his eyes, Claude was watching him with a distracted intentness, providing the baffling and occasionally aggravating contradiction he excelled at.

Bennet made a strategic decision.

"I'm thorry," he muttered, hoping his less-than-ideal condition would prevent Claude from outright choking him, at least, "for sthooting you."

"Thorry, are you?" Claude gave a snort, but its mocking quality was diminished by a more serious ambience in his eyes. "I know, pup. That's why you're in a dress and not lyin' face down in a ditch somewhere, riddled with staple holes." Bennet swallowed (staple guns were in fact a great deal more dangerous than most people gave them credit for), and Claude grinned widely and a touch manically, "I prefer you in a dress, personally."

Finding himself hopelessly stuck between equally potent relief and irritation, Bennet caught a handful of Claude's shirt, tugging him closer. "You're a sick bastard," he realized half-whispering prevented much of the word distortion (and consequentially some of Claude's ridicule), though his jaw was still distinctly and vocally unhappy about it all, "and I missed you."

For a moment, Claude's face was blank, and Bennet wasn't sure he'd made the right move. Then again, he was already in a wet dress, so it couldn't get much worse, now could it?

"Yeah, missed you too, I suppose. When I wasn't too busy envisioning various colorful ways of murderin' you."

Fair enough.

Bennet pulled at his shirt again, and Claude's mouth encountered his, beard scratching ruthlessly against his skin.

The kiss hurt rather exquisitely, but it was well worth it.

Claude broke away, and Bennet raised his brow. "Still envisioning?"

"Actually, there are a few other colorful things I'd rather do to you now."

Well, that was definitely an alluring prospect, if worrisome to a certain degree.

Claude's hand made its not-quite-stealthy way under the dress, dangerously warm against his thigh, and Bennet's breathing accelerated. "When did you manage to sneak a holster in there anyhow?" Claude wondered with a faint semblance of curiously, sliding his hand upwards nonchalantly. "Think you've got a bit of a firearm obsession there, mate."

"I just like to have a Plan," Bennet insisted.

"Master strategist, you are," Claude breathed against his skin, making the tedious act of forming coherent thoughts both distracting and redundant. "Got a plan now?"

"Of course," Bennet lied without a hint of shame.

"So what's the plan?" Claude's voice was low, tickling along the curve of his neck - designed to inflame. Not as much as Claude's hand, however, as it was currently sliding inside his boxers and clearly was in possession of a very special Plan of its own.

"It's a," Bennet carefully appraised his options, finding them far too scarce under Claude's demanding touch, "highly classified Plan."

"C'mon mate," Claude urged, in more than just one way. "You love talkin' 'bout your plans…"

Actually, any manner of talking was entirely out of the question, not with Claude doing – things that fell under morally grey territory. Bennet pressed his eyes shut, trapping his breath and digging his hand roughly into Claude's shoulder.

A sudden absence of sound from the shower put an unfortunate halt to the proceedings.

A bout of paranoia was in order. "Are you and Peter," Bennet wondered what a subtle way to breach the subject would be, then opted against subtlety altogether, "intimate?"

"Not sure that's quite the right word for it," Claude snorted. "What's the matter, rookie - jealous?"

"That's ridiculous."

"'Course it is."

Bennet responded by grumbling something half-intelligible regarding cradle robbing and midlife crisis.

Claude frowned aggressively, retracting his hand as retribution. "Tad hypocritical of you, isn't it? How old is that pretty geneticist of yours, I wonder?"

"Long distance doesn't count," Bennet protested weakly.

Then the bathroom door opened and a very naked, very wet Peter Petrelli emerged. Apparently, gratuitous nudity was an ancient Irish custom Bennet was unaware of. That, or a Petrelli family habit.

He suspected the latter, but found he didn't particularly mind.

"Did I interrupt something?" Peter asked, nearly successfully feigning innocence, though a light tilt to his mouth suggested things that ventured far outside the realm of naivety.

"Not a thing," Claude replied, offering Bennet a flippant look before turning back to conduct a lengthy overview of Peter's artistically nude form. "Noah here was just preparin' to take a shower."

Bennet sat up slowly, briefly contemplating giving Claude a dirty look of the highest passive-aggressive quality, but deciding it wasn't worth expending energy over. A shower wasn't a bad idea. Much better than spending another minute in this room. Halfway there, curiosity got the better of him. "What are you planning to do?" he looked over his shoulder, absolutely certain he wouldn't find the answer even remotely pleasing.

"Teach the Poodle some new tricks," Claude said with a smug grin before going invisible.

Bennet closed the door behind him, calmly and quietly.

For some strange reason, the handle came off.

The post-Petrelli shower came closer to a sauna, really. Which was a probably a good thing, since Bennet was thankful for any distraction he could get right now.

Especially considering the wildly acrobatic invisible sex going on in the next room.

Not that he had any proof of such wildly acrobatic invisible sex, but his suspicions, he thought, were more than well-founded.

Well, at least the diabolical dress was gone. And the boiling stream of water was powerful enough to remove any trace of Claude-applied abuse.

The sound of the door opening was muffled by water and disgruntled mental clatter, and so Bennet only became aware of an intrusion as a somewhat visibly-challenged hand came to rest on his stomach, and a mouth pressed warmly against his shoulder.

There were many things that could've alerted Bennet to the invader's identity - the difference in heights, for one, or the lack of an irritating beard – but it was the distinct absence of a 'bastard' aura that struck him first.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

Bennet drew a curt sigh before speaking. "I think you might've gotten amnesia again."

"I know what I'm doing," Peter assured in a manner that Bennet found entirely unreassuring. There was far too much evidence to the contrary; including the direction in which Peter's hand was slowly and teasingly traveling.

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Just wanted to say thanks." Bennet could faintly feel Peter grinning against his back. "For coming to my rescue. It was very gallant."

Peter must have had an odd worldview, if an ex-company man in drag passed as a knight in shining armor in his book.

"You're welcome," he did his best to preserve his neutral and stoic demeanor, which was admittedly challenging, since Peter seemed keen on punctuating his gratitude with his tongue.

"Does Claude know you're here?" He suspected his former partner would object to his favorite pet poodle running around without a leash. Or a muzzle.

"Wouldn't teach the boy new tricks if I wasn't around to supervise personally, now would I?"

Well then. The situation was crystal clear.

He was ambushed. Surrounded and vastly outnumbered by naked invisible people.

Resistance was futile. And remarkably stupid at that.

Noah Bennet was a lot of things: morally grey (though lately tragically leaning towards purple and… burgundy); no longer wildly or even slightly enthusiastic about paper; a devout Planophile (though he'd never admit it to Claude); and surprisingly good-looking (for an elderly Irish woman) in a dress.

Stupid, however, was not one of them.

Cramming three grown men into a single hotel bed was a terribly impractical feat to try and accomplish.

Yet somehow, it worked.

Claude was already deep in slumber, likely dreaming of invisible sheep (no, not like that; at least, Bennet sincerely hoped it wasn't like that). Bennet was well on his way there, but his mind was determined to keep him awake a while longer, reciting the day's occurrences to him in great detail - some of it highly traumatic, some… less so.

Peter maneuvered closer to him, laying his head on Bennet's chest in a curiously possessive manner. "Tell me a bedtime story."

It was a baffling request, but it seemed almost normal in light of previous events.

"What about?"

Peter drew a ragged breath, "iPods."

"That's very unsubtle product placement."

"Oh," Peter muttered guiltily. "Sorry."

"That's alright," Bennet sighed. "Happens to the best of us."

Peter's eyes glittered in the dark, strangely reminiscent of fireflies. "You should put on a dress again," he whispered conspiratorially.

Claude's snore sounded more than vaguely mocking.

"Peter."

"What?"

"Go back to sleep."