Disclaimer: Still don't own.

"There's something wrong with Nathan." Peter blurts out as Claire opens the door. He slips by her without waiting to be invited in and begins pacing anxiously. It doesn't bother her; she can feel the anxiety coming off him in waves. Her parents are out; trying to mend their marriage and her brother has locked himself in his room until he can complete the next level of his game.

"What do you mean?" She asks, but Claire already has an idea about what he's talking about.

"Last night," Peter runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up. It makes him look even younger. "His eyes changed. Like actually changed- they were darker…familiar." Darker. There's a hesitation to him that tells her all she needs to know. He recognizes the eyes, but won't say anything.

"He knows there's something wrong with him," Peter continues, crossing his arms and staring sightlessly out the window. "But I don't know what to do. I can't lose him, Claire." He admits quietly. She pretends not to hear the desperation in his voice.

"Peter, I don't think it is Nathan." He turns and stares at her, disbelief colouring his features. She sits there patiently and waits for him to say something.

"What are you talking about? Of course it's Nathan- it's the same hair, eyes, freckles…" He trails off as he remembers the shape shifters they've come across. "He was doing his Harrison Ford impersonation last night; he knew the punch lines to all of my corny jokes! It's Nathan."

She doesn't know how it's possible, doesn't know how to prove it to him, but she knows without a doubt that it's not Nathan; not really.

"Peter…"

"If it's not Nathan, then who the hell do you think it is?" Just the fact that he's asking means that there is a sliver of doubt in his mind.

DI

He wakes with a jolt, sitting upright in bed and frantically searching for whatever monsters are lurking in the dark. His skin is slick with sweat raising goose bumps on his arms from the chill. His blankets have wound their way around him, trapping him and adding to a claustrophobia he can't explain. He fights with the blankets, coming close to ripping them as he frees himself.

His heart is racing a mile a minute, thudding painfully in his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

His nightmares are getting worse. He dreams of Claire's blood, of Peter pinned to the wall, helpless, of Mohinder, battered and bruised on the ceiling, of countless people he cannot name, dead- blank eyes staring accusingly up at him. At first in the dream he feels excited; intrigued with the prospect of pulling something apart and discovering how it works. Remorse doesn't hit him until the very end right before he wakes.

He dreams again of his own death, sees himself sitting there, blood pouring from the gaping wound and knows he is dead. Being awake does nothing to reassure him.

He sees his mother and Bennet and Matt Parkman leaning over him, talking frantically but everything is distorted and he can't hear them properly.

The worst part of these dreams is that they feel like memories.

"Nathan?" He jerks, surprised as the door to his room is pushed open and light from the hall spills in. "I heard you yelling."

Peter stands there, hand rubbing at his eyes in a vain attempt to wake up, to help his brother. Nathan swallows, noticing how his throat feels raw, like he's been screaming in his sleep. Peter should be back at his apartment where he can't hear his brother screaming, running from some monster that doesn't exist anymore.

"Nightmares." He grunts out. Peter nods and steps further into the room, letting the door close behind him. The bed sinks next to him as his eyes adjust to the dark again.

"Shove over." Peter instructs. Nathan hesitates. If the dreams come again, he doesn't want Peter there to witness them first hand. But his brother persists, so Nathan slides over and holds up the covers for Peter.

His brother manages to take up half of the bed and most of the covers and still drape himself half over Nathan's side. He lets himself drift, calmed by Peter's steady breathing and almost falls back asleep before Peter speaks again.

"Do you ever dream of Sylar?" Nathan tenses, thoughts rushing. The room is suddenly stifling.

"Sometimes." He whispers.

DI

Mohinder isn't expecting visitors. He's buried himself in his research, as both a way to cope with his mourning and a way to forget who he is mourning. He's vainly trying not to wonder if he had helped Sylar, had offered a friend even after he had found out who he was, if their paths wouldn't have been different.

It's ridiculous, Mohinder needed to feel the rage and helplessness about his father's death or he would not have been the man he is today. Things happen for a reason.

Peter showing up at Mohinder's door is unexpected.

He opens his door, staring, confused at his friend for a moment, before opening the door wider to let him in. He doesn't for a second believe it to be a simple visit, not with the way Peter's shoulders hunch or the dark rings under his eyes make him even paler than normal.

"What can I do for you?" Mohinder asks. "Would you like some tea?" Peter looks like he could use it.

Mohinder heads for the small kitchen, trusting Peter to follow. Feet shuffle from behind him as he reaches for the kettle and pours water into it.

"How would you describe Sylar?" Mohinder pauses, watching the water fill the kettle. He's not sure where the question is coming from, but when he turns around Peter is watching him, determined. Mohinder swallows around a suddenly dry mouth and turns back to the stove.

"A cold blooded killer," He begins, except it doesn't sound right. There was something wrong with Sylar, something that needed to be fixed. "Clinical, brilliant, someone I once thought I loathed but now I cannot seem to forget."

He sets the water to boil and turns back waiting to see the rage and disbelief on Peter's face once he realizes what Mohinder means.

"Someone I do not wish to forget." He adds half to himself. Thoughts of Sylar keep him company and some part of him realizes that this must be what going mad feels like but at the same time he feels like he's finally seeing things clearly.

"Sylar was a murderer." Peter sinks into one of the seats at the rickety table he picked up at a yard sale a few weeks back. There's less conviction to the statement. Mohinder wonders what has changed. His voice reminds him of Mohinder after the funeral when he first began fighting his every thought.

"He was." Mohinder agrees, pulling the kettle off the stove when it begins to scream and takes a moment to make two cups of tea. It brings back memories that he cannot force aside and has to endure for the moment. "But you already know this."

He's not about to rush to Sylar's defense but there are some things that one cannot fully understand, or judge, without the rest of the story. Unfortunately it appears that in this case the story has been lost.

"There's something wrong with Nathan." Peter blurts out, but he seems resigned. It makes Mohinder wonder how many others Peter has had to repeat this to. He obviously hasn't found the answer he's looking for yet. He's still searching for something he may not want found.

"How so?" Mohinder places one cup in front of Peter, then sits and takes a tentative sip from his own. It gives his hands something to do.

"He's not sleeping and when he does he has nightmares. I can hear the screams from my old room." Mohinder raises an eyebrow; he hadn't known Peter was staying at the Petrelli house. It's beginning to seem that no one is free from nightmares recently. "And his eyes," Mohinder nearly chokes on his tea. Peter doesn't notice. "They've changed colour a few times, turned darker- they almost look like…"

Peter trails off appearing to rethink whatever it was he was about to say. He looks ready to dismiss it; Mohinder can't let him do that, not if it's what he thinks it is.

"I thought I was imagining things." Peter looks up sharply at Mohinder's confession. "After the dinner, I saw them change. But only for a second."

"I don't know why it's happening." His friend looks broken, lost. He feels the need to fix him rush through him. "Claire thinks…Claire thinks it's not Nathan at all."

"Not Nathan?" Mohinder repeats, barely daring to believe, to breathe.

"She thinks it's someone else, but it's not possible." No- it isn't possible.

DI

The room is tense. He figures he's largely to blame for it but he's not really sure how to change it. Claire won't even look at him, she sits on one of the sofa's, every so often looking to his left to trade a glance with Peter, but her eyes never land long on him. Nathan isn't sure what he's done to deserve it.

Mohinder alternates between sitting so still that he appears to not be breathing to shifting in his seat, a bundle of nervous energy- he's not sure he's ever seen the doctor this way before.

Peter sits perched on the side of Nathan's chair, one hand planted firmly on Nathan's shoulder, reassurance- for both of them, he decides.

The door opens quickly as the person on the other side looks around for an attack that he knows to be there.

Every gaze in the room turns to Matt Parkman as he takes in the scene before him with a wary gaze. Nathan slowly realizes that his dream of his mother, Bennet and Parkman standing over him isn't just a dream.

Matt looks panicked, glances to the door and appears to be trying to decide whether to run or not.

Nathan reaches out and flicks the door closed with an invisible force; then he freezes, realizing what he's just done. He can fly; he shouldn't be able to do that. It was just instinct.

He's aware of the others stares on him but he meets Matt's squarely.

"What's going on?" Matt asks, the question is for whoever will answer him, but his gaze doesn't leave Nathan.

Tic-tock.

Not now; the clocks are starting up again.

"What did you do?" Peter asks voice hard. His hand clenches almost painfully on Nathan's shoulder. He fights down the urge to reach out and cover the hand in his own.

"I didn't- nothing!" Mohinder stands from the couch, something indiscernible on his face as he faces Matt. "Nothing- I didn't do anything."

"Matt." Mohinder speaks quietly, gently, reminds them all that they're all supposed to still be friends. Supposed to be family. "Did you do something to Nathan's memories?"

Tic-tock.

Do what? Suppress them? Add in other memories- add in his own death?

Tic-tic-tock.

"I- I just…" The man looks around, eyes wide, hands shaking. Peter is up and off the edge of the seat in an instant, moving faster than he had thought his brother capable of. The next instant he's removing his hand from the skin at the back of Matt's neck, an unreadable look on his face.

"Don't even think about using your powers on us." He says quietly. Don't even think of using your powers on Nathan is what he means.

Tic-tic-tock.

"Bennet and Mrs. Petrelli, they thought it was for the best." His ma wanted them to do this? All these nightmares and hallucinations- it was his ma?

Tic—tic—tic—tock.

He can feel it fighting to get free- whatever they suppressed; it's inside of him, trying to claw its way out. He can feel the fight inside of him weakening, he just wants to give in, let it take him. He can't live forever with the nightmares and the visions, hell- he just used a power he knows he doesn't have.

Tic—tic—tic—to-

He just wants to be himself again.

"Fix it." Nathan's voice isn't as loud but everyone hears him. The room goes silent. Peter is the first to break.

"No- Nathan, you don't know what they did to you!"

"Fix it." Nathan repeats, steely gaze on Matt, then Peter. "Change it back. Make me, me again." Across the room Claire freezes. He pretends not to notice how his voice just dropped.

"Your eyes." Mohinder whispers. There's a look on his face, like he's trying so hard not to believe. Believe in what Nathan wonders.

Matt swallows, face grim, lips pressed tightly together. Then he nods. He crosses the room, slips around Peter who looks ready to fight but doesn't for Nathan's sake and places a hand on the side of his face.

"This will hurt." He tells him.

Tic-tock.

And it does.