Written For Mission Insane Prompt "Depression"

Part Three: Apocalypse Please

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Blood, Sweat, and Tears

For what seemed like the thousandth time on this little round-the-world outing, Peter awoke in despair.

This time, however, it wasn't from a dream. It wasn't from depression. It wasn't from a physical pain. It was more like the memory of his brother's tormented screams of the previous night…the pool of blood he currently resided in…the lights leaving Claire's eyes as she was shot in the head from behind…

Peter let out a moan of recollection, which was soon answered with the familiar relief of a voice.

"Peter! Oh, thank God!"

Adam's shots didn't stick around for long. Because hovering above him with a face like a pale moon was just the woman he wanted to wake up to. Claire, hair streaked with red and eyes full of worry, but she was still his girl. His love for eternal life who knew better than anyone what waking up from a bullet felt like.

A huge weight lifted right off his pained spine as soon as they locked gazes. Peter grinned lopsidedly, not knowing much else to do at the moment, and managed to sit up.

"Claire," he panted, cupping her bloody cheek in relief. "You're alive."

Claire let out a weak moan and crashed her mouth down on his, smothering him in a grateful kiss. Peter's arms immediately wrapped around her with boa constrictor strength, savoring that tiny sensation of her warmth melting into his.

Just let me have this one thing…

Their kiss ended on Peter's reluctant terms.

"What's going on?" he gasped, chest heaving with new life. "Adam…I remember…I remember something with Adam. And you got shot- how'd you come back?"

"It was a shallow wound. Just enough to kill me. The bullet probably slid out." Claire wound an arm under his shoulders and hauled him up, taking them out of the empty bath. "The last thing I remember, I was in your arms in the hallway, and then I woke up in here. You were dead, on top of me. I just pulled the bullet out of your skull."

"Thanks," Peter murmured, straightening his back. He knew there was no real need to thank her anymore- saving each other was commonplace for Peter and Claire- but it still felt polite to. "Where's Sylar and Niki? And-?"

He stopped himself from asking about Hiro. No, he knew what had happened to his Japanese friend. The memory sunk into him like a toxin. The bullet wounds that had graced Hiro's broad chest, and the stains of red on black.

"I don't know about Hiro." Claire took him by the wrist and helping him climb over the rubble and splintered wood piled in the doorframe. "Sylar and Niki sounded like they were in trouble, but I never ran into them. I-I don't know. I don't know any more than you do."

Peter's throat was very dry. He didn't know whether this was a new sensation evoked by worry or if it was just a result of the regeneration. "Hiro's gone," he choked. "Adam shot him. I saw him…I was there when he…died."

Claire gasped and spun around, jaw dropped. "No," she whispered. "No..."

Peter merely squeezed her hand and bowed his head, now pulling her along as she had done with him. They crept down the stairs, noticing that the bloody footprints which marred the steps now ran dry. Peter still didn't know whose shoes they'd come from. Maybe Sylar's. Maybe Hiro's. Then again, maybe Adam's. Adam had big feet like that. Could have been…

Peter's story was proven for Claire's eyes to see at the bottom of the flight, where Hiro Nakamura lay rigid and white. Peter could hear her whimper and he stepped between her and his friend's body, hand still clasping hers, shielding her eyes from the grizzly view.

Once they were past Hiro, they entered a long hallway in the direction Sylar and Niki had been yelling. Hand-holding with Claire wasn't enough to sooth the butterflies in Peter's stomach anymore. He needed her closer, right up against his side, in his arms. He quickly readjusted their position so that they flanked each other, with one of his arms wrapped tightly around her shivering frame. One of her wide hips pressed against him, bone driving against bone through their clothes.

A horror-movie mood of suspense lingered in the air with every step. Each stride took them another inch closer to Sylar and Niki. The results of which could be a joyous, wonderful occasion, or it could make Peter empty the contents of his stomach onto Van's nice floors.

Two polar ends of the same spectrum. But at least, no matter what he found, he'd have Claire at his side to help him get through it- or to enjoy it with. Either way, Claire would be there…yes…

He held her tighter, so tight that she actually squirmed in discomfort. Peter halfheartedly loosened his clench, letting his arm simply rest on her shoulders instead of holding them in an iron grip.

There was a room at the end of the hall that made him stop in his tracks. A puddle of spilt blood, dried and maroon, stained the hardwood before the entrance. Peter's breath hitched so violently that he nearly coughed, and he felt Claire tense up too. Melancholy waves of energy absolutely radiated off this hall. Bad chi. If Peter believed in the paranormal, his creep-dar would've been off the charts.

"Whatever we find in there," Claire murmured, clasping his hand in her own as she read his body language flawlessly, "…I'm here, okay?"

Actions spoke louder than words and he knew she'd border him the whole long way. But such a statement was nonetheless heartfelt, reassuring. If the bloodstain on the floor was foreshadowing enough, then the fact stood that Peter lost everything in his life that he deemed important. All the people. Except Claire.

Which made her even more sacred than usual.

Peter pulled her slowly towards the ominous room, forcing every step. Nerves attacked his insides like hungry moths, eating away and leaving gaping, rotted holes. A layer of sweat was starting to form between his hand and Claire's, but that didn't unlock their clasp. Claire was not letting go of him, not going to let him forget her presence. Come hell or high water or spilt life of siblings.

They were inches away from the room. A crane of their necks would confirm the answers they already knew, but neither wanted to take the plunge. Peter looked down at Claire, eyes softened with sorrow.

"I know what we're gonna see." He closed his eyes. "And seeing it still won't explain it."

"Adam betrayed us," Claire answered. "That's what happened."

"Still." Peter peeked through his lids, eyes cold and free of tears. "I don't know. About anything. What he is. Why he would stab us in the back. What his motives are. He revealed his true colors, but that only led us on the path to more questions."

"That's life," Claire muttered back, giving his hand a squeeze. "We'll never have all the answers. Even in a couple centuries from now."

A long sigh racked Peter's lithe frame, bending his body at cracked angles. And then, regaining his composure, he drew in a lengthy breath which re-inflated his being.

"Let's do it."

Claire nodded, teeth worrying at her bottom lip the entire time. Peter took the first step into the doomsday room, head bowed, and Claire was right on his heels. Their gazes rose in unison, breath hitching in time. But it was Peter who fell to the floor as the horror overwhelmed him.

He buried his sobs deep with the assistance of Claire's comforting hand, which fell to rest peacefully on his shoulder. Normally, he'd feel ashamed to lose control so easily. But in his defense, seeing the massacred body of one's brother and sister-in-law would make anyone collapse into a fog of gloom.

xxx

Adam's yells of pained pleasure earned him and Elle a 'quiet down' knock from the neighbors, but such orders fell on deaf ears. The queen of ice was strattled upon her foxy lover, electricity flying around them like a lightning storm.

Their hotel had golden keys but torn carpet and a cracked shower. Luckily Elle didn't mind the shoddiness. They spent most of the time in the single bed anyway, and if the linins were clean before, they certainly weren't anymore.

"You always get to be so…controlling…" Adam wheezed. His nails dug into Elle's bare hips, puncturing the skin. She cried out and dramatically spread her arms, blue sparks exploding from her pores. They sprinkled upon Adam like electric acid rain, singeing him in minute spots from head to toe.

"Because I'm more powerful," she spat in reply, pressing her palms to his chest and sending a bolt of extreme CPR right to his heart. The immortal screamed and bucked, hips thrusting violently up. Elle moaned at the reward, twisting her hips to bury him even deeper inside of her.

"Just this once, though." Sweat-slicked, Adam propped himself on two elbows, eyes closing at the pleasure of Elle biting his neck. "I wonder what it would be like to have my way with you."

"Dream on," the girl scoffed against his skin. Adam felt a pleasurably painful jolt of electricity, literal electricity go straight to his loins. He fought to pursue his argument, wondering…what was he talking about again?

Oh right. Control. "I do believe I've earned it, haven't I?" he insisted. "I took care of Edmund and Leelee. Not Orson, but we'll catch that snake eventually. I killed those little toy soldiers that were after you."

He didn't give her a chance to answer, or even to process his request. Instead, in a rare show of fortitude (at least around this woman) Adam grabbed her by the shoulders and flipped them over, pinning her to the bed. She screamed and thrashed in a cocoon of voltage, but that didn't stop Adam from being clearly stronger than her.

"Got you the sword…" he breezily continued, now resuming his thrusts. "Can't forget that."

Elle continued to squirm under him, but there was no deferring a lofty man with muscles if you're a five foot tall pixie. When the kitten of war eventually realized that her temper tantrum hadn't swayed Adam in the least, she huffed and threw her arms over her head, slender fingers grasping the rails of the bedpost.

It was a gesture that she intended to convey annoyance, but Adam saw it more as submittance. She could whine all she wanted- but actions spoke louder than words. Despite their uncommon position, her hips continued to arch up in need for him. For him.

Looks like he wasn't the only one who liked to be dominated.

Adam tilted his head mildly, interested, and slowed his movements down to casual pistoning. Almost as if they were making love over tea and brunch. The key words being making love, which made Elle freeze, looking down at their bodies tangled in the sheets.

"Curious?" Adam inquired wryly. Elle's lips pursed, completing an expression of…disappointment. Like something wasn't quite right. In a passive-aggressive way.

Which definitely wasn't Elle. 'Passive' wasn't a word in her lexicon.

Adam halted in his pleasuring, frowning. "What?"

And as quick as she had left, the familiar Elle returned. "Did I tell you to stop?!" she snapped, rearing up and shooting a storm of blue sparks to dance with their tangled legs. Adam grimaced but obeyed, following orders at the snap of a finger once more.

Still, one final sardonic comment did manage to sneak out of him before he slunk back into compliant thrusting. "I think I quite like this position. The scenery is spectacular."

"Enjoy it while you can," she grumbled, biting him on the collar. He growled. "Cause in two days, when that other Horseman is dead and I'm queen of the world…trust me. You'll never top again."

xxx

When Claire came back from the bathroom, Peter had disappeared.

With the previous events of the day still lingering in her consciousness, she immediately felt fear. The blonde clumsily ran down the hallway, gaze scrutinizing every room she passed. No Peter.

She was distantly aware that her spaz attack was probably in vain. It was a big house. Peter was a man off a leash. He was around. But a sixth sense, a lover's intuition so to speak, told her that something wasn't right. Claire could be relatively certain that her astute friend wasn't in danger, but something remained to be wrong.

Something.

The young woman followed that internal tug on her gut- a tether to Peter that went through her navel, meandered in spirals through her insides, knotted around her heart. If she took a deep breath and relaxed, she could follow the instinct like a trail of breadcrumbs. And eventually, after stepping over what seemed like miles of polished marble and antique mahogany, Hansel and Gretel led her home.

Claire found Peter outside on the Roman steps. It was just as cold as all the other Arctic days, as was Peter, but he neglected his jacket and boots. The only insulation draped across his body was his pensive shadow, shape shifted into a sort of blanket.

"Peter?" Claire whispered tentatively. Every snowflake felt like a wasp sting. Luckily, she had slippers to protect her feet from direct frostbite, but Peter's soles were bare and painted cold for Mother Nature to torment. Claire couldn't even imagine such an ache.

Peter's shoulder blades rotated in acknowledgment, but he still sat curled up, knees to his chest, eyes on the St. Petersburg horizon. The Winter Palace was visible from Van's house.

"Peter?" Claire knelt beside him, instinctively huddling towards his body for warmth. But even Peter's pulsing, indestructible blood couldn't emit enough heat to dent the brittle throb of the temperature. His remaining clothes were still torn, his forehead and hair and everywhere else caked with blood from yesterday. Claire nearly worried that this temporary death had turned back to clock, right back to their emotionless revival in San Francisco.

When he finally made a noise, a bit of a low whimper if she had to describe it, his head bowed as if all support had gone out from underneath it. Only at that angle did Claire see the salty, frozen crystals clinging to his ashen cheeks.

"Why don't you come inside?" she suggested, wrapping a comfortable arm around him. Petey, still draped across his host, rested between her skin and his shoulders. The shadowflesh felt silky under her palm. "Come on, we can talk about this. We can figure something out."

He was anesthetized inside and out, opening his mouth to speak and merely letting out empty air. Claire's chest tightened in sympathy and she slung herself even further over him, trying to somehow wringthe warmth back into his body. Even when they'd scorned each other…even when Osaka was left in ruins…even when they'd all almost died in Cairo…through all that turmoil, Peter had stayed straight-backed and firm, never shedding a tear, at least to her knowledge. But in an instance like this, a moment of utmost desolation, she couldn't hold him at fault for crying.

Claire took his arm and slung it over her neck, helping him to a standing position. He was broken, and disheartened, and covered in crimson, but he managed to make his feet move across the frozen patio.

"Peter," she eventually murmured in gentle chide. "I'm not Niki."

He seemed to get the message, even without verbal reply, and stiffened his frame. Claire sighed as his body weight shifted off of her, and she could feel her lightly bruised shoulders start to heal.

"Inside," she directed superfluously as they were now arm-in-arm. She talked simply to hear the words, to reassure herself as well as him that they at least were survivors. They were still there. "Let's get cleaned up, okay? A bath'll feel good. Then we can talk about what to do…"

Peter numbly followed her into the mansion, trudging with every step, wavering on the grand staircase, the cracked soles of his feeling sticky against the rich marble floors. They didn't speak a word as they meandered through a labyrinth of ornamental eggs and suits of armor and posters of Russian royalty, all this time trying to search out a washroom that wasn't massacred by Adam Monroe.

Eventually, Peter and Claire found themselves in a spacious tiled room on the west wing. A large Jacuzzi tub occupied the corner, jets placed every half-foot or so around the rim. Claire sighed in contentment and guided Peter to the spacious basin, his body following her motions without much input. The blonde girl's eyes fell to the floor and she couldn't help but notice Peter's shadow sliding behind him on the floor, mated with hers. For a moment, she was startled and worried that Petey had disappeared. But on further inspection, Claire saw that the movements weren't quite aligned, because Petey was faking reality and he was too damn tired and robotic at the moment to really put forth a hundred percent.

Claire sat Peter the Human down on the lip of the golden tub and released him from her hold, hesitating momentarily in the fear that he'd simply fall over without her support. Like a plastic mannequin. Claire shuddered at the analogy and began preparing the bath, cranking on all of the taps to low settings so the noise of rushing water wouldn't overwhelm them.

While the basin filled, Claire went about her next task- peeling off Peter's clothes. He didn't protest, unshockingly, but he wasn't exactly helpful either. His face was expressionless, gaunt. Comatose, even, a little bit. Claire was distantly reminded of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, which was such a stupid and laughably ridiculous thing to be remembering at a moment like this. Still, she thought of Alan Ruck's character, Cameron. How glazed his face had become, unblinking and appalled, when he crashed his dad's Ferrari.

That's exactly what Peter looked like. As if he was sixteen years old, had driven Arthur's Lincoln Towncar right through the window of Petrelli Mansion, and his parents were on their way home.

Claire sniffed absently as she continued mechanically with her duty, his mechanical aura seeping into her own stamina. She took in a deep breath and forced herself to be the strong one here. It wasn't her brother, her best friend in the whole world who'd just been killed. It wasn't her sister-in-law. It wasn't her most loyal comrade and mentor. And it certainly wasn't her father who'd done it all in cold blood.

Angst plucked a melancholy tune on Claire's heartstrings, but looking at The Big Picture, she was merely a bystander. The pile of bodies downstairs was an attack against Peter and soley Peter.There was no way she could possibly realate to this, so she needed to simply be there as a torch of comfort.

Once she had him stripped of clothes, sitting naked and numb as the bath's humidity started to saturate the air, Claire stopped her fussing and took a good, hard look at him.

The elasticity in his face had melted, leaving his ageless skin sagging like dead weight. Such atrophy bared all his little flaws, the lopsidedness of his entire body. Peter normally looked like a Michelangelo statue- imperfect and human, but angelic and powerful all the same. His animated expressions masked his little hang-ups, normally.

Now though…one eye bigger than the other…crooked lips…wiry hair…bowed legs, one on each side of Claire...the ribs sticking out over his appendix. It was all, she was ashamed to say, so ugly. Not her Peter, not her handsome Peter.

But he was a car crash. She couldn't look away.

Finally, in a sign of life, Peter's glazed eyes flitted up to meet hers, eyelids drooping like a lazy Basset Hound's. Claire's chest tightened and she pressed her forehead against his, like a mother and a lover all wrapped up into one tiny blonde package.

She felt wetness on her cheek and knew it had to be his tears, because she was far to wrung out and exhausted and numb to be crying. Peter shifted his face against hers so his nose brushed her cheek, and then he brought up his hands to start undoing the buttons of her blouse.

Claire drew in a breath, nervous, tentative- all of which surprised her, because she loved Peter and he loved her and they'd seen each other like this far too many times before, so what was the big deal…?

Maybe it was the glum lack of assertiveness he exhibited as he undressed her. A purely un-carnal, un-sexual level of rawness. Raw emotion. Claire didn't stop him, didn't want to stop him, but a part of her still felt like they were doing this for the very first time.

Claire reluctantly pulled away to twist out of her jeans once her shirt was shed, saving Peter the struggle. She went back into the bare cradle of his body and he slid his arms around her, nimble fingers finding the clasp of her bra and freeing her from that item of clothing as well.

A shimmy later and she was as nude as he, resting tiredly against him- she standing, he still sitting on the rim of the tub. Claire reached behind him found the main knob to the bath, which she twisted, shutting off the faucets.

The miniature pool behind them fell to equilibrium as silence swallowed the room whole. Only now, when the jets were shut off and the thud of water against tile was hushed, could Claire hear the small cries convulsing from Peter's throat.

He inhaled sharply, and that one breath broke him like a snapped twig. Hiccups turned into sobs and Claire cringed, face tilted up towards the heavens in prayer. Oh God, please let him be okay. Please give us some way to fix this. Find a way to bring everyone back…don't do this to Peter; he doesn't deserve any of this. He's your saint. Start treating him like it.

No holy sign or magical miracle flew down from the sky, and the idealistic part of Claire couldn't help but be disappointed. However, there was no time to dwell on hope and prayers. Peter was solid and human and shattered in her arms, his dry palms of sandpaper molding to her hips. Claire let out a snivel of compassion and held him back, held his cheek to her bare breast as his cries of torment utterly replaced the sound of thundering taps.

xxx

Adam's face was half buried in the ripples of bed sheets, a sole blue eye able to peek at Elle through the material. Her naked frame was admirable, even with the ten foot distance between them and the blurry film fogging over his iris. Straw-colored hair shimmying over her elastic spine, shifting like the skirt of a dashboard hula figurine. Long legs that went all the way up to her hips, and looked even better with high heels. Which she, naturally, put on first, and then grabbed her actual outfit. Adam let out a low murmur into the pillow. After four centuries of thinking, and using, and coming up with leadership ideas, it was nice for, once in a lifetime, to sit back and be someone else's puppet. It gave him something to do, but it also gave him an outline of a plan while still allowing him crafty leeway. Working for Elle was pretty much the perfect job, even if he had to…well…sell his soul, so to speak.

She pulled on her strapped red dress and grabbed her lightning bolt necklace off the bedside table, long fingernails fiddling unsuccessfully with the clasp. Her teeth gritted as she struggled and Adam sighed, knowing the stairstep pattern of Elle's frustration. First, there was annoyance. Then, mild swearing and fidgeting. And last, an explosion of blue light that incinerated about everything within a five foot radius.

The immortal pushed himself off the mattress and swinged his bare feet so they touched the carpet. Adam stood, towering over her in six foot glory, blonde hair remaining ruffled from their morning of passion.

"Here, darling," he offered gently, holding out a hand and stepping behind her. "I'll get it."

She let out a slight scoff and thrust the necklace into his open palms. Adam smiled and took a side of the gold chain delicately in each hand, crossed his arms over her petite head, and lowered the choker to her pale neck. With the deftness that only an artist or a welder could manage, he effortlessly threaded the clasp on the first attempt.

Elle's hand instinctively went to her collar, covering the shining pendant. She caught a glimpse of Adam over her shoulder, still stark naked and smelling excitably of sweat and love-making. Her nose wrinkled at the thought. He was fun to screw with, but the last time they'd tangled in bed, Elle wasn't exactly comfortable. Being under him for once…under his slow-moving, gentle body as he whispered sweet words she would be a fool to believe…

It had never been 'like that' for them. It was always just sex. Sex and business and a dash of company. But the emotion welling in Adam's eyes when his body crescendoed in sync with hers was enough to make doubt churn her stomach. She didn't care about hurting his feelings; just, the whole idea of love made her want to stick her finger down her throat.

He hadn't said he loved her though, and he never had. He at least spared her that gag-inducer.

"Wanna put on some clothes any time soon?" she retorted, brushing past him with a dramatic flip of her blonde tresses. Adam's smile remained humble and warm.

"If you insist," he shrugged, gracefully sweeping his dark jeans off the floor and shaking out the wrinkles. Elle fought not to shake her head at his instant devotion. Adam was not an indecisive man. He was cunning and manipulative and had spent four hundred freaking years making his own decisions.

But on the other hand, he could be easily persuaded. He was her fox- sly, handsome, and quick, but also irrevocably loyal and obedient. A toy at her side, but only her side.

No time for that though. Elle's attention had wavered from her astute lover. For now, she only had eyes for the sword resting in the corner. The black-sheathed, leather hilted, godsend-branded katana of Adam's long lost past.

Adam tugged the pants up his narrow hips, studying her as she picked up the sword.Elle's brow was furrowed in curious interest, as if she wasn't quite sure what she was holding in her hands.

"This thing…" She slowly pointed to the brass helix emblem nailed to the grip. "It looks kinda like my necklace."

Adam tilted his head at her comment and stepped over, carefully adding his hands to the mix too. Her palms were open, as were his, and both of them supported the katana like a shelf.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed. "I can see it as a lightning bolt, yes…"

The young woman snorted and snatched the sword away from him, now holding it tightly to her breast. "Well, what else wouldit be?"

"It's Japanese," Adam quietly replied. "My alphabet is a tad rusty, but I remember it means great talent." His face was stern and ghostlike all of a sudden as the memories of Orson's in Osaka flooded his mind. Elle was a Horseman (or Horsewoman. Whatever). But the whole goal of sending Adam with Peter and Co. was to take down her three supposed allies- Leelee Lang, Orson Huxley, and Edmund O'Connell. All of equal strength as the clever Miss Bishop, and Elle didn't like being equal.

She was special, dammit. She hadn't 'manifested'- she had been born with her powers. And her daddy made her sure of that significance since the day she burned down her first house.

"Great talent." Elle's teeth shone brightly as they bit her bottom lip. That curvaceous mouth turned up into a delighted sneer. "I wonder if it'll come naturally."

"Your power?" Adam frowned, confused.

The woman rolled her eyes and clouted him lightly on the bare arm, brushing past him once again. She quickly answered, clipped, "No! The sword! I wonder if it's a part of me. Like I already know how to use it, somewhere deep down."

"Maybe that's why you have me," Monroe suggested, following her over to the other side of the room. He slid his hands to mold her shapely hips, pressing a nip on the back of her neck. "You can learn from me."

"Yeah right. When was the last time you actually used one of these? The American Revolution?"

"Don't be smart. The French Revolution. Much more recent," Adam breezily replied. Rounding to her front, he let his hands subtly slide back onto the sword, smirking at the feel of familiar metal and hide under his palms. "It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget. Especially if you've got regenerative memory."

Elle wasn't a woman who liked to be taught things. She was more of a follower than a leader, yes, robotically brainwashed by the Company…but that didn't scrub any rust into her dignity. Especially the idea of being instructed by the man who was working for her.

Then again, the idea wasn't all too dim-witted. Elle was haughty, but when push came to shove, she often made the right decisions regarding for the greater good.

Or, in this case, the greater evil.

"Okay, old man," she smirked. "Teach me your worst."

Adam, still keeping one hand on the sword, paced back around her starboard side and rested his chin on her shoulder. He lifted his arm, bringing the sword and herarm along with it, pointing the blade directly perpendicular to their bodies.

"This is the sharp end," he murmured inches away from her ear. "You can penetrate things with it."

A scoff thrummed the tendons in her throat and the vibration transferred to Adam's cheek.

"I think I've got that part," Elle muttered. "How do I attack someone?"

For a moment, Adam's expression morphed into a frown of deep thought. He slipped around her to face her front-to-front once again, eyes scanning from the tip of the sword to the top of Elle's head.

"You've got a petite frame. Not much bodily strength. Your real power comes from your ability, which you well know how to use, I'm betting." He gave her a pointed look, and she smirked a little in return. "Metal is an excellent conductor of electricity. Perhaps War was not blessed with a sword, but a lightning rod."

"Huh." Elle arched an eyebrow and brought the sword up to her face, inspecting it with interest. "Lightning rod, eh?"

Adam stood in anticipation, waiting for her to stab him with it, try it out, experiment like she so wanted to. But astonishingly, Elle did nothing of the sort. She merely turned around, eyes still studying the fascination of the katana, every little grain of steel.

"I'm not going to kill you," she eventually remarked, glancing at him from over her shoulder. When Adam put on a 'play dumb' expression, she explained, "You had on your 'confused' face. You were wondering why I didn't fry your insides."

"I was mildly surprised," he admitted. "I've been on fire dozens of times."

Elle's laugh was mirthless. She turned on her heel, facing him with steely blue eyes, a high bust, and rugged cheekbones. "You do realize that this sword will cut through anything? And whatever it cuts through won't grow back?"

The immortal man blanched. "Even me?"

She scoffed. "Oh, please. Even me. So don't let me fall on it."

"Alright, Antony," Adam quipped, smiling at the Shakespeare reference that went over Elle's head. He stepped over to remove the lethal object from her feminine hands before delicately setting it down upon bed stand, blade steered towards the wall. "I'll just have to teach you without the sword itself."

"I dunno," she growled, slithering her way into his arms somehow. Adam wasn't quite sure how she ended up there. One minute she was on the other side of the room, and the next, he had an armful of sparkle. "Maybe we should work on some cardio first."

"You are insatiable," he chuckled as she pushed him back onto the mattress. But a nice electric shock to the abs reminded him that, yeah…so was he.

xxx

"I remember the day my father died. It was noon. Nathan was the one who told me, right before we were about to testify to the DA." Peter's voice was flat, monotonous. His shadow sat on the vanity, elbows on its knees, chin in its hand. Looking much like the Thinker, except more bored.

"Not even twenty-four hours later, we were picking out a coffin."

Claire looked at him sympathetically, but didn't stop in her gentle strokes, rubbing the wet washcloth from his temple down to his collar bone. For the second time in the past hour, she and Peter shared a tub. Luckily, this was a bit more pleasant than the previous encounter, seeing as they were…alive and all.

She'd heard this story before, and he knew it, so he didn't aim to hold her attention. Just mumbled and ranted on about nothing specifically while Claire gradually cleaned him up.

She dipped the cloth back into the water surrounding them, letting the blood seep out into the rapidly pinking bath. Disgusting. This wasn't the best idea- cleaning off such a copious amount of grime in the confines of a still-watered basin. But Peter didn't seem to mind, so neither did she.

"You cried, though," she said, bringing the half-clean washcloth back up to his face. There was a particularly stubborn spot on his cheek that just wouldn't come off. "I remember you telling me that."

"I was a nurse a week out of college. Of course I cried. Nathan didn't, though. Not until a week later. He said it had to…sink in." Peter scoffed and shook his head, inadvertently turning his face away from Claire. "I cried over that old man as soon as I heard, and I didn't like him at all. And now Sylar's…and it took…"

"Shh…" Claire lowered the cloth and replaced it with her hand, wrinkled and ivory from the prolonged exposure to the water. "It's normal. It's more of a shock."

"Or maybe I'm just not as sensitive to death as I used to be." Peter's voice was bitter. Ugly. Claire flinched. This side of him reminded her too much of the soulless Peter she'd had to deal with earlier that week, and she had to glance over her shoulder in paranoia just to make sure that Petey was still there, perched on the rim of the porcelain sink.

On a more extreme note, Claire half-wished she could find the Haitian to erase that part of her memory like a magnet to a computer console. Just wipe it all clean. Every bad thought and lack of love she'd harbored towards Peter. It was worth forgetting.

"It doesn't make any sense though," Peter suddenly grumbled, brow furrowing in the most animated of expressions she'd seen yet that day. Claire's face shifted into one of curious intrest and she pulled away, studying him. Something in her tone suggested that he wasn't talking about his apathy anymore.

"Hmm?"

Peter swiveled his neck back to look at her again. The sides of his eyes crinkled with confused deliberation.

"Everyone should be alive. They should live through this. They can't be dead if they're alive in the future."

He slumped a little, body sliding down the pale tile of the bath. Claire tilted her head, dissecting his words, wringing yet another cup of blood out of the rag.

"What do you mean, in the future?" She raised her hand and reapplied the washcloth, now moving on to clean his chest. He flinched a little, smirking, when she rubbed one of his mid-ribs. She glanced up and met his eyes in playfulness. Hewas ticklish there.

"Like…how can you know where they'd be? You haven't been there, have you? At least not recently."

Peter moistened his lips and looked a little weary, cheeks starting to turn as red as the bathwater they were lounging in.

"Actually…I did." Off Claire's appalled gape, he quickly expounded, "The day I went to Barcelona, to the holy water fountains. I dunno. I was just thinking about you, and the Horsemen, and my powers were all messed up. I accidentally jumped to the future instead of back to Cairo."

Claire was the catatonic one now, the weight of such a revelation threatening to break her indestructible shoulders. Her face didn't betray anger. There was no reason to be mad at him, except for not telling her about this, but Claire wasn't so petty. However, excitement did bubble in the base of her gut, wondering oh what could he have seen.

Which was basically what she asked next. "How far? And where to? And what was there?"

"Thirty-five years. Manhattan. Us."

"You're still hanging around me in three decades?" Claire winked, abandoning the dirty washcloth and rubbing him down with her bare palms. She sprinkled a handful of water over his black hair, slicking the wild wet locks back from his forehead. "I guess there's just no ditching you."

"Guess not," he smiled back; a sweet, secret little I know something you don't smile that Claire had recognized a few times recently. She thought back to his letter, where he'd spilled his heart out so elegantly with the ink of a pen. And even more specifically, to Angela Petrelli's engagement ring. He'd mentioned that he'd give it to her as a keepsake. She hadn't thought much of the offer at the time- just an heirloom through her family, right? Her grandmother's ring. Passed from Angela to her "son," and then to her granddaughter.

But all those covert little glances and smiles…Claire wondered, connecting the dots, if maybe…maybe that ring was a little more significant than she had first presumed. And not nearly as familial.

"What were we doing in the future?" Claire asked coyly, eyes trailing downward in self-consciousness.

Peter's smile dropped, remembering Sylar's fate. He said, tightly but sincerely, "We're fantastic. I promise. But I won't spoil it for you, Claire. I'll just say that Niki and Micah were there. I guess you could say Sylar was there too. They all make it through this. They grow old. And that's what I don't understand. How they can be dead if they're supposed to live on with us?"

Claire offered him a weak shrug, helpless. "Maybe Adam magically decides to be good again and he comes back and heals everybody?"

Peter snorted at the concept. "I've seen stranger."

Then, like the crawling stain of burgundy that poisoned the tiles around Peter and Claire, a realization dawned on him. Yes…Adam…and Adam's blood, the same shade and genes that had clung to Peter's skin and was now washed away with Claire's gentle caresses…

"God…I love you, Claire," Peter said in awed respect. He abruptly rose to his feet before stumbling naked out of the tub and grabbing a terrycloth robe from the corner of the room. Petey was right behind him, leaping off the sink with lightness that no human being could manage. The shadow slithered after its host without acknowledging Claire in the least, its opaque form buzzing with revelation as well. It'd been a while since the young woman had felt this left out of the loop.

"What…?" Claire gaped, following him, finding a spare dressing gown in the linen closet. "Peter!"

The empath's wet body left a slick trail despite his robe, making it easy for the girl to follow him. What the hell was he up to? One minute, they'd been musing over Adam, and the next, he looked like he'd just seen a ghost. A friendly ghost, who'd snapped its fingers and poof!- shown him the meaning of life.

Claire mentally ran over all the things they'd previously talked about, but none of them struck her as a trigger. Certainly not Adam, right? Adam was miles away, turned to the dark side of the Force. She had been joking, albeit grimly, in the suggestion that he could possibly help them now…

Unless. Huh. Claire arched an eyebrow, still prancing after Peter's slippery path. He could maybe go back in time, ask Adam for blood then and bring it back with him. But would that create some sort of like, paradox? Would the blood still work? And how could he convince Adam to do that?

They hurried down the stairs, and rounded the corner to the mansion's opposite wing. Claire followed briskly behind him, and wasn't surprised when he turned into the billiards room, where the bodies of their friends had been so gruesomely piled up.

"Peter, what's going on!?" she unsuccessfully called again, entering the chamber as well. The sight of Sylar, Niki, and Hiro's corpses made her stomach lurch a little, but she was more distracted by Peter, who was rapidly ripping off his brother's clothes and going through the pockets.

Her brain just about shut down. This definitely didn't look like time traveling.

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but Peter beat her to it. He finally found what he was looking for in Sylar's skinny jeans. A six-inch long Plexiglas vial filled halfway with deep crimson.

"Adam's blood," Peter breathlessly described. "I stole three vials of Adam's blood and gave it all to Sylar. It goes back to that future visit, you know? He…he was dying in the future and it made me want him to live forever, like us. But two of the vials already got used- one when we saved Van, and the other when Sylar teleported here. This is the only one left."

Shock and relief and a dozen other emotions hacked into Claire's sensors like a virus, overtaking the cells and tendons in her face. She took a step forward, fingers stretching towards the vial. Peter approached her as well, letting her touch the object in his hand. As if to make sure it was real.

"How many will it heal? There's not much left."

Claire's heart contracted as she watched the relief sink off Peter's face in a landslide. He clearly hadn't thought about that- he just had an idea. Which, pity the boy, was typical of Peter. Having a wonderful dream of a plan, but not realizing the lack of practicality until it was too late.

Stopping a meteor via super-strength and crossed fingers sprang to Claire's mind. She loved Peter of course, and he was a good leader because people liked working for him. However, he wasn't exactly the smartest planner in the world. That's what Sylar was for- the brains of the operation.

Claire cocked her head towards the sky in revelation. It was obvious that Sylar and Peter were connected, but she'd never recognized how well they complimented each other.

Sylar alwaysknew what to say, or how to look at a situation. He wasn't a spontaneous man, never knowing how to act. Yet his mind was wise and his tongue silver and his ideas bright. On the other side of the spectrum, Peter was the one who always knew what to do, though words were often knots in his mouth, coming out in a garbled, awkward bundles. So together, they really were one full person- a person who could win in a battle of chess but still kick-box the shit out of supervillians. A person who could woo the heart of a kindly widow, or a crime-fighting cheerleader. A person who could not only feel the emotions around him, but also see how his comrades ticked, and how he could make things better.

She knew Peter wanted to bring back his brother more than anything in the world. But he was the do-er and this was the most diplomatic he could manage to be.

"I don't know," he finally answered, head bowing. "One. Maybe two, if we're careful."

"Not three?"

Peter's voice came out in an undertone. "Not three."

"Well…we can't do this," Claire immediately declared, crossing her hands over her chest. There was no makeup on her face and her hair was wet and unstyled. Even then, she managed to look old. "We can't decide which of our friends gets to live and who gets to die!"

"Shh, please," Peter begged, rubbing a palm over his face. "Let's just weigh our options here for a moment okay? We're saving all of them. We've just gotta decide who comes back first."

With that notion in mind, Claire's protests at least halted for the time being. Her mouth was screwed up in thought and she watched Peter as he strode back and forth across the room. Peter was the antsy type- a pacer. Claire, on the other hand, was a statue while in deep thought. Completely still, eyes flitting, cogwheels working behind green eyes.

"Who would be the most okay with dying?" she finally offered, hating the morbidness of such a question. Who would be okay with dying…pssh. Who wasokay with dying at all?

"Hiro," Peter replied automatically. "That's easy. He wasn't afraid of it, but I know Sylar and Niki were." The remembrance of his friend's actual demise, however, made Peter backtrack. "Still. It was a horrible death. He got killed by the one man it would be a total dishonor to die by. And from a 'world-saving' standpoint, his ability could probably be the most useful."

"Hiro doesn't have any attachments, though," Claire mused, neither for nor against bringing back Nakamura. Simply stating the facts. "Niki has a son, Peter. And I know you want to bring back Sylar. Don't lie- you love him the most."

"I do," he admitted. It'd be moot to argue that point. Sylar was his flesh and blood. "But I don't know how I could bring back Sylar without bringing back Niki. He can't live without her ; it'd kill him all over again. Hiro, though…he deserves so much better. And we need him." He buried his hands in damp hair, sitting down hopelessly into one of the decadent Russian recliners, crafted circa 1787. "God, Claire. What am I supposed to do?"

Claire made a soothing noise and sat down next to him on the armrest, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. "Do what you feel is right. I know that some part of you already knows the answer. Like you said, we're gonna save all of them eventually. But for now..."

She could tell Peter was ignoring her. Instead of taking in her words, her lover's eyes were fixated on the opposite wall's mantelpiece. Resting upon it were several framed pictures, a deck of cards, and a stack of traditional dice.

"No. You were right to begin with, Claire. We can't decide who lives and who dies." Peter frowned deeply, standing up and stepping over the bodies to approach the mantelpiece. He wrapped his right hand around a single die, and looked at Claire from over his shoulder, holding the game piece on his palm for her to see.

"It's up to destiny. To God."

Claire shook her head, knowing what he was about to do. What he was about to leave up to chance. It was a fair idea, yes, and how else were they supposed to decide…she knew all of that, she knew it logically. But something about this idea couldn't help but make her feel sick to her stomach.

"One and two are Niki. Three and four are Hiro. Five and six are Sylar." Peter swallowed and turned towards a card table in the center of the room. He tightened his fist around the die and readied his hand, already swinging it up and down. "I'll roll twice. We can stretch Adam's blood to heal two people."

"Peter," Claire said meaninglessly. She wasn't going to stop him. She didn't have a good enough reason to stop him, at least yet. All she wanted to know was, "Are you sure?"

He shut his eyes as he opened his hand, sending the ultimate die tumbling across the desk. And that the closest thing to a yes he could manage.

xxx

To be continued…