Stranded (1/2)

[falsemurmur]

title: Stranded
fandom: Heroes
summary: Elle Bishop quit her job, packed a portion of her things, and left Illinois for New York to face whatever nightmare Nathan Petrelli truly was.
characters: Elle Bishop, Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli, Sylar (Sylar/Elle, Peter/Elle)
genre: Action/Drama/Romance
rating: T
note: Season three spoilers. DEDICATED TO retroblair. Hope you enjoy.
part: one. two.
~*~The air was as cold as an Alaskan night (from what she could tell, anyway). Her clothes were torn and tattered and there was no shelter in sight.

She was out of sorts, confused, cold, and scared. She thought maybe, she could go knocking on strangers doors, but asking for help was sort of beneath her, and besides, all they would ask was either “what happened to you?” or “who are you”, if not both. She hadn’t an answer for either of those, not at that point in her life (not at any point if she were to really look at the years that had preceded this road before her), and she hadn’t any explanations, so she decided not to go knocking anywhere. She just walked off that beach and onto a sidewalk, trying as hard as she could to not fall down and give up.

Elle Bishop walked for who-knows-how-long alongside that sidewalk that touched the beach’s sand, until a man stopped her on the street, with urgings of “miss, are you alright? Miss, can you hear me--are you alright?” - and that wasn’t something she had expected anyone to ask of her unless she bothered anyone to notice her presence - so it was a surprise that she did have an answer.

Elle stopped and shyly looked at the man, before she stuttered, “wha--yes, no, no, I’m not alright.” And a breath of a chuckle slipped from her lips.

The man, slightly older than Sylar but slightly younger than her father had been by her estimates, looked her over and then nodded. “If you need some help…” he began and offered her his hand, but Elle flinched away before their fingertips met and she moved away, not wanting to trust another man.

“I mean no harm,” he assured her, “look, my sister is waiting for me in that car over there. If you’d rather speak with her…”

“I’m, I’m okay,” Elle verbalized through the icy air. She shot her eyes to the floor, and tried keeping her hands from trembling.

While her eyes froze over the concrete sidewalk, the man signaled to his sister to come out and meet the girl.

Elle kept her head down, hoping the man would get the message and leave and when did she become that person who waited for others to act?

Instead, the man’s sister approached them, and she spoke in a soft calming tone to Elle. “Hi. I’m Nadine. Um, my brother was driving me down to my apartment when she spotted you and decided to stop. We’re only here to help if you so wish it.”

Elle eyed the woman cautiously, and opened her mouth to speak, but instead her jaw trembled. She tried breathing in, but found that to be even more difficult to accomplish.

The man pulled off his jacket and threw it over Elle’s shoulders immediately. Elle flitted her eyes to the man, but in what was supposed to be a blink, everything turned to black.

*

The mattress was a little firm, but the sheets were comfortable and the blanket was warm.

The walls were a light shade of brown, and the curtains were cold white.

She glanced around the wearily until she was met by the eyes of a woman her memory vaguely recalled.

“You’ve slept for a good 18 hours, which I suppose is not much given the state we found you in. Dear, those wounds…” the woman trailed off with a sigh.

Elle immediately shot up from the bed, despite the strain her muscles felt, and glanced around the room for a mirror. Upon spotting a dresser mirror, she stumbled a few steps to reach it and looked at her reflection.

“You should rest some more, hun,” the woman protested but Elle ignored her, hardly hearing her as she visually examined herself.

Her hair was an absolute mess, with a few burned ends, and she was wearing a terrible set of pajamas, but even those things barely caught her attention. Rather, it was the lack of scarring she had so expected that surprised her. On her forearm there was a bandage wrap which she gingerly touched and began peeling off until she remembered exactly how Gabriel had pierced her with an electric shock on that patch of skin. And on her forehead, above her left eyebrow, there were stitches. Elle raised a few fingers to the stitches, but didn’t have to touch the area. She remembered how the fire had burned her there.

“It was so dark last night,” the woman murmured softly, “we didn’t see the cut, or even the blood. Not until we carried you to the car after you passed out. And the burning on your arm. You had some burning on your kneecaps as well, but it won’t leave scarring. The cut above your eye perhaps, but the rest should heal up well.”

But the woman’s words glossed over her, for she was confused by it all--by her account, she should have been beyond scarred. She should be dead at the moment. To herself, Elle whispered, “He set me on fire. How--if he burned…he…”

She emphasized he quite strongly, just enough for the woman to hear the poison of the reference, and she inquired, “he?”

Elle turned to the woman. “Nothing.” She backed away from the mirror and sat back down on the bed, her eyes looking at her knees.

The woman went over and sat a small distance from Elle.

“You may recall that my brother and I stopped to see if you were okay. I’m Nadine, if you don’t remember exactly, and you can call my brother Jay. What’s your name?”

Eyes focused on her own skin, Elle weakly said, “Elle. My name is Elle.”

“Elle. So Elle, why don’t we get you something to eat?”

Elle shook her head vehemently. “No, I should go.”

“You have some place to go?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.

Nadine bit her lip and suppressed a worrisome sigh. “First let’s get you fed, and then we’ll figure that out.”

*

Elle wasn’t very hungry, but mindlessly, she ate whatever it was that Nadine set in front of her for her to eat.

Out of consideration for the young woman, Nadine allowed for the small lunch to pass in silence, and after the plates were washed, she sat back down next to Elle and said, “now, this isn’t the largest apartment, but I can absolutely make room for you until you get yourself gathered if you don’t have family or friends to call on.”

Elle shook her head and looked at the woman. “I’m fine. You’ve done a lot for me already. So thanks but I can’t stick around.”

“Sweetie…”

“No, really. I’m not your responsibility. And I’m not some charity case.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a person. A human who clearly needs some help. So stay the night, think it over, and we’ll talk again come morning. Hmm?”

Elle, prepared to say no, examined the woman, and realized that saying no could lead to another discussion, so she nodded, and decided on sneaking out when the woman was away or asleep. She was…grateful, but she couldn’t stay.

*

An hour or so after the woman’s insistence for Elle to stay the night, Elle had been given an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt to change in, and the woman headed off for work. Elle waited about ten minutes after she left to grab a water bottle, leave a thank you note, and then she raced out of the front door, and began jogging down the stairs of the floor she was on when she was stopped by a man on the stair step.

“Aren’t you that girl Nadine and I found?” he asked with a little smirk.

Elle swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’re Jay.”

“Yep,” he said with a smile.

Elle slapped on a smile and walked down a couple more steps to be at eye level with him.

“Thanks for everything, really. But I have to go now.”

She walked further down, but he called out to her.

“My sister know you’re leaving?”

Without turning her head to him, she replied, “no.”

“Got a home to head to?”

Elle sighed and turned on her heel.

“I’ll be fine.”

“That’d be a no,” he shook his head, then reached into his pocket.

Elle watched ass he took out his wallet and opened it.

“Hold on, I don’t want--”

“You’ll take it,” he said, slipping out a fifty dollar bill, then two twenties, and he pushed it into her hand, “it isn’t much, but it’s starting place. Wherever you go, use it wisely, make it grow, and just keep on.”

Elle looked at the bill then looked at him. “Thanks.”

“Good luck,” was the last thing he told her.

***

It was the first time she was given refuge and someone looked after her willingly. And it was hardly for a day, but it was more than she could remember getting from anyone. But following that, she wasn’t given refuse or a caretaker. She only had fifty dollars to get her out of California. Right away, she decided to head up to Nevada, which cost her forty dollars on a one-way bus trip.

All she knew upon arriving was that she had fifty dollars left, just for food and whatever cheap motel she would have to stay in. If she could afford to stay in any.

She looked around the crowds arriving and leaving the bus station, and suddenly her stomach was growling, but she pushed it off. She walked in no particular direction, until she walked onto a street and walked past the occasional shops and small restaurants.

She walked past a motel eventually, but just from seeing the outside, the last thing she wanted was to go inside. She walked around for forty minutes after that, knowing she would have to put off the inevitable and go back to that old motel, but after walking past the third help wanted sign, she muttered to herself, “okay, okay, I got the message,” and she turned on her heel, and walked into the shop to inquire about a job.

**

three months later

Elle wiped her brow, but then raised her eyes and continued smiling--she had quickly learned that an easy smile and warm tones meant bigger tips.

“Refill?” she asked the man sitting on the far left of the bar counter.

“Yeah.”

“Be right back,” she winked as she took his glass and refilled it. As she walked back to him with his glass, the door of the pub opened and in walked a tall man in a black suit, tie, and tinted glasses. Elle watched out of the corner of her eye as he spoke into the Bluetooth in his ear and the door opened again, and this time, none other than Nathan Petrelli walked in.

Elle’s face flushed for a second, momentarily fearful that the man was there to stir up a problem or two for her, but she quickly calmed herself and strolled over to where he sat. With a tactful smile, she asked, “what can I get you?”

Nathan didn’t even bother to look up as he adjusted his suit jacket and took off an earpiece whilst saying, “scotch on the rocks.”

“Sure thing,” she replied before turning on her heel and at an even pace, heading to make his drink. She put her paranoid thoughts of mind--she was bound to run into a familiar face eventually, even out there in the grand city of Chicago. Besides, it was only Nathan Petrelli. He probably didn’t remember her, and if he did, so what? Far as she knew, he had ceased the capture of people like her.

She finished his drink in a snap and took it to him. Upon reaching him, he finally glanced up, and she shot him a quick smile and readied herself to leave before he said anything, but he beat her to the punch.

“Slow night?” he said, with a disinfected tone.

“Yep,” she answered and couldn’t help but look directly at him.

“I remember you,” he said, his tone just the same, his face completely stoic.

“You do?” she said, with a weak grin.

“You worked with Sylar.”

Elle’s throat parched at the reference, and she didn’t fully realize the importance of her new semi-built life until he said that. She had worked in Nevada for only a couple of months before deciding to hitch a ride with an ex-coworker who stopped in Kansas, and from there Elle took a bus to Chicago--she never was meant to be a small-town girl. Not even a big-city girl, but it was better than the alternative in staying in remote places. Three months later, she was living in a small rented apartment, with a grouchy old lady as a tenant, something Elle would rather have than a prison cell.

Apparently Nathan read the alarm in her face, because he was quick to say, “don’t worry”, and although he didn’t explicate further than that, Elle inferred it sufficiently. Still, it didn’t suppress every worry.

“I’m not worried,” she said nonchalantly, blowing it off verbally, but when he looked straight in her eyes, she felt a chill run up her spine--she had the inkling she’d never completely manage to trust Nathan Petrelli.

“Good,” he said, but slowly his eyes trailed off from her face to the wall behind her, his eyes fixating on a spot high up on the wall.

Elle turned her head to the wall, and shifted her eyes to where his were fixed on, until she was eyeing the clock on the wall.

“That clock isn’t right,” he said just above a whisper

Nathan pried his from the clock and turned his attention back this drink.

Elle shook it off and asked, “so, Mr. Petrelli, what are you doing here in this little bar?”

“Meeting with my brother, who is three minutes late so far. I had some business in the area, but Peter insisted on us talking about something or another, so I told him to fly down and meet me here. I used to come down here years ago with a friend from college.”

“Your brother? You’re meeting Peter, here.”

As the words left her mouth, the door to the bar opened, and Peter walked in.

Elle raised her eyes at his entrance, and she mentally laughed. Of course the two Petrellis would have a meeting at the bar she worked in. She watched as Peter scanned the bar until he saw his brother sitting at the bar counter, and just seconds after that, he spotted Elle.

Peter walked over to them quickly, with a tight smile against his lips.

“Nathan,” he greeted his brother who briefly stood up to momentarily hug his brother. Nathan motioned to the stool beside him, and both men sat down. Before another word left Peter’s lips, Elle said, “Hey Peter. Want anything.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Hi…Elle. Water’s fine.”

“And I’ll have another glass of Scotch,” Nathan said.

“Coming right up,” Elle nodded.

She went for their drinks, and in the background, could only hear mumbled conversations of the Petrelli brothers and the other patrons. She handed them their drinks with a smile and went over to attend the other customers, which didn’t take long.

When she returned back behind the counter, she saw Nathan Petrelli standing up and putting down some cash on the counter. “Thank you, Elle,” he said to her, and Peter stood up as well, but only to lean over to whisper something into his brother’s ear.

“Don’t take too long,” Nathan grumbled back at his brother, shot one last glance at Elle, and left.

Peter turned to look at Elle, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?” she said.

Peter leaned over the counter. “What are you doing here?”

“Working,” she shrugged.

“With who?” he insisted.

“Some other bartender when it’s real busy…”

“You think I’m going to buy that you just happen to be working in a bar out here in Chicago?”

Elle stared at Peter in disbelief and scoffed. “I don’t care what you think or buy.”

“What are you up to Elle?”

Elle’s hands balled up into fists, and she felt sparks trailing through her fingertips, wanting to make their way to Peter. But she pushed her fingernails into her skin, her hands turning pale white, and she unfisted them, and through gritted teeth told him, “I’m up to trying to survive. Maybe even trying to live, but you’re not making that very easy right now, so get the hell out of this damn bar.”

Peter stared at Elle a full second, his hands gripping the bar counter, but he bit the inside of his cheek and nodded just once at her. He didn’t say another word, just turned his back and marched out of the bar.

She had expected to no one to believe her, to no one to have any expectations of her, for everyone to be suspicious of her. She was used to being seen as a weapon. No, she wasn’t looking for anyone’s opinion or approval, Peter Petrelli’s included. She was attempting to survive, to set herself apart from the weapon she was, for her own sake, and that was more than anyone had ever given her.

So Elle took a deep breath, hoping that was the worst of it, but she was the first to shoot down her hopes.

*

Two weeks passed without another significant event or incident, not that it was a long mark of time to mean anything. It was just a good sign, but Elle saw it more as a bad sign. Things were as quiet as usual, and still it had only been two weeks.

And that was when Nathan Petrelli strolled back in, this time alone, and dressed in more casual clothing.

Elle wiped her hands on her small waist apron and smirked at him. “Nathan Petrelli. Back so soon?”

Nathan shot his eyes to her and it took him a long second to respond, which put her on edge.

“I…had the sudden urge for a scotch on the rocks.”

Elle nodded, and prepared his drink without a word, but as soon as she set the glass in front of him, he ordered, “fetch me that clock.”

Elle looked over her shoulder to the clock, face frowning.

“The clock. Could I see it?” he said a little more politely.

Despite being confused, she was more curious than anything.

She grabbed a chair, pushed it against the wall, stood atop it, and pushed the clock off the wall.

She jumped down and handed the clock over to him, her other patrons and his drink forgotten.

Nathan turned the clock down on its face, pulled open the back and fingered the metal wirings of the clock.

Elle watched as his fingers so intricately pressed a spring here and there, and wound a wheel or two. It was with the same precision and concentration and intimacy that she had witnessed Gabriel perform what seemed to be ages ago. But Gabriel was dead. This was Nathan.

Elle traced her eyes back to Nathan’s face, and his eyes hardly ever blinked. Finally, he nodded to himself, picked up the back of the clock, and placed in its place.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered. He picked up the clock and handed it back to Elle. She reached for it in a slow motion, causing the tip of her fingers to brush his when she took the clock in her hand. Before the second was over, he snatched her wrist and held onto it in a tight grip, the clock falling to the counter.

Elle felt a cold sensation run amuck in her body, and she was half-distracted by the fear of whatever was occurring with Nathan, that prying her wrist free was proving a difficulty. Elle focused on the eyes of Nathan, only to find herself staring into the wide orbs of a man who often taunted her dreams. And she blinked, and those eyes were gone, and back were Nathan’s, who let go of her hand.

“I apologize,” he murmured, his eyes blank, cheeks pale white, throat straining. He pulled out his wallet, threw down some money, and scattered out before anything else was said or done.

Elle, meanwhile, stared after his hastened path as her memory replied the eyes she’d seen on him, and cold that had caused her hair to stand on end. And the clock that the man had returned to rectify.

She didn’t know how it was possible, but she knew from experience that anything was possible when superhuman abilities existed, thus she knew the man that had left the glass of the clock broken because he had opted to live a bruise on her wrist, was not Nathan Petrelli.

***

It made sense to run, but she wasn’t running away: she wasn’t going to hide for the remainder of her life in fear of some guy.

Elle Bishop quit her job, packed a portion of her things, and left Illinois for New York to face whatever nightmare Nathan Petrelli truly was.

*

Elle fastened the strap of her oversized bag as she exited the car she had bought prior to leaving Illinois. She kicked the back door shut, sighed, and looked up at the apartment complex where the room she’d rented over the phone was waiting for her. Already it looked like a bit of an upgrade from the last apartment she’d lived in, and sure it was probably small, but at least she would have an upstairs floor to call her own.

But Elle had only approached the doors to enter the apartment complex when a woman, wearing sunglasses on a drowsy day, stood beside her and said, “you shouldn’t be here.”

Elle immediately recognized the voice as that of Angela Petrelli, and Elle immediately felt sick to her stomach. The woman had the will and power to bring Elle down in a snap.

“Leave New York,” Angela added, “stay away from us, from this life, stay away from my son.”

“Your son, huh?” Elle kept up a bravado, “which one exactly?”

Elle looked at Angela from the corner of her eye to see Angela’s expression grow irate, and Elle grinned.

Angela went to stand directly in front of her. “Listen to me. If you want to live, and if you have any idea what’s best for this world, you will get back in that car, with your bag, and leave New York. Understand?”

“I’m sorry, I have a low learning curve,” Elle said, trying on a blank expression.

“Elle Bishop, if it weren’t for me, you would be dead. I did your father one last favor, maybe for selfish reasons, and I saved your pathetic life from Sylar, whom I led to believe had killed you. Perhaps you didn’t get off completely scott free,” she raised an eye at Elle’s scar above her eye, “but you’re alive thanks to my varying connections. Now, I only ask that in return, you leave the Petrellis alone.”

“You saved my--”

“Yes. Of course, at the time I thought my seeing you burned to a crisp on a beach was something to be remedied. Had I known you living would only cause complications, I would have allowed for the death to occur. Alas, it is too late for that. Therefore, you will do me this favor and leave before I handle your death in a different manner.”

“Wow,” Elle chuckled, “does this have to do with Nathan not quite being Na--”

“We are not discussing this further,” Angela looked away and took a deep breath, which only meant yes to Elle.

“Don’t worry Angela, I’ve got the message,” Elle said with a wink and a click of her tongue.

Angela studied Elle’s face and stared at the young woman for a minute, but when her phone rang and she checked the caller ID, she quickly said, “goodbye Elle,” and strolled to a town car parked in the lot. The car backed away and turned a corner, and Elle turned to the doors of the apartment complex. She turned the knob, walked through the hall, determined more than ever to go after Nathan.

*

Elle turned the key and locked the diner’s doors behind her. She turned her head up to the overcast night and let out a cold breath of air. She zipped up her jacket and began walking down the street, where she would cross a street, then turn a corner to reach her apartment. But at the light to the street, she saw Peter Petrelli leaning against a streetlamp. She rolled her eyes and ignored him when they were only feet from each other.

“Hey Elle,” he said.

“Stalking me now?” she only said.

“I saw you walk past a grocery store the other day, with your nametag on. It had the name of place, and I stopped by yesterday to ask when you were working.”

“Have really good eyesight?” she said, sniping at him.

“Elle, I just want to apologize.”

“I’m not stopping you,” she muttered, her eyes waiting for the light to change.

“I’m sorry for talking to you the way I did in Chicago. We all have the right to a fresh start, and it wasn’t right for me to assume you were doing something else entirely.”

Elle scoffed and the light finally changed. She crossed the street at a quick pace, but Peter was right behind her.

“I get that you’re mad Elle, but we should be able to talk.”

The two reached the other side of the street, and Elle slowed down until she was beside Peter. She didn’t stop walking but she did glance up at him sideways with spiteful eyes.

“Talk? Well sure Peter, what would you like to discuss?”

Peter sighed at her sarcasm, but he put it aside and asked, “enjoying New York?”

“Sure,” she shrugged.

“Got tired of Chicago?”

“Sure,” she repeated.

“That’s not really an answer.”

“And you’re really boring.”

“I’m just trying to have a normal conversation with you Elle.”

She stopped short and turned to him abruptly.

“What? So you can be my friend? Out of that infamous guilt complex I’ve heard about you?”

“I’m trying to be nice. We can be friends Elle.”

“No, Peter, we can’t. I helped keep you locked away from your family. I nearly killed your niece. I worked alongside a serial killer. I am not your friend,” she laughed.

Peter sighed and dug his hands into his pockets.

“We’re all capable of being more.”

Elle shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “This coming from the guy who’s already a saint.”

“I’m not a saint, Elle. I’ve made mistakes. I make mistakes.”

“And this one tops your current list--trying to befriend a girl who’s killed good people, manipulated people, used her powers for selfish things, and thought Gabriel the person still existed within Sylar the monster.”

“That’s not all you--”

“It is. And me saying sorry a million times over, or helping the good instead, or whatever, it’s not going to change any of what I have done.”

Elle licked her lips and let out a breath of air. She slapped on a smile and said, “thanks for reminding me of that, Peter. Bye.”

She walked backwards in her steps, waving at him, and she turned and disappeared from his sight.

**

Far as Elle could tell, Nathan Petrelli was impossible to get near to unless he went looking for you or something of the sort. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing. It made it difficult for Elle because she wanted to desperately prove her suspicions of Nathan being Sylar (personally, this was already confirmed, but she needed proof, she needed to get close, she needed to take him down). It also made it safer because somehow it seemed as though “Nathan” was not completely aware of the situation, but if he was, Elle could be dead before she executed any plan.

If he knew, however, why hadn’t he gone after her yet? Elle could only theorize that Nathan or Sylar or whatever that thing Nathan really was, had a more vicious agenda up their sleeve. She had no way of knowing until she got closer, though, she knew that much.

It took a couple of months before an opportunity for her to “run into” Nathan came up, and she wasted no time in getting prepared.

Nathan Petrelli was partaking in some charity event he founded. The thing was being held at the Grand Hyatt at Grand Central, New York, and from the press’ information, Elle knew spots had to be reserved and nice elegant dresses were key to fitting in.

Not that she enjoyed hand-me-downs (she leaned more towards despising them), but she bought off a tolerable dress from a regular customer, and Elle knew how to fix her hair and makeup right--that wasn’t the difficult part.

Elle called a round of people before being directed to the event’s supervisor’s to reserve a seat at the events, but after a dozen reasoning tactics and threats, she hadn’t succeeded in reserving a spot.

After the last call, Elle slammed down the phone and cursed an obscenity or two, in addition to zapping her phone to a crisp.

If she wasn’t going to get in the easy way, she would have to do it the hard way.

*

After curling her hair in soft waves and a last touch up of makeup, Elle lifted the skirt of her dress and hailed a cab to the Hyatt, and in the cab she played over the plan of shocking a security guard or two to get in. That is if the flirting didn’t work.

Once there, she meshed into the small crowd of arrivers as she eyed the security guards, wondering how to distract them both. She spun on her heel to observe the area and people, which is when her eye caught sight of Peter Petrelli pulling at his tie as he slowly ascended the stairs.

Elle grinned at her luck and wasted no time in approaching Peter Petrelli. When she reached him, she linked her arm through his, and whispered in his ear, “congratulations, you’re just snagged yourself the hottest date in town.”

Naturally, Peter awkwardly stood frozen beside her and peered down at her confused.

“What are you doing here, Elle?”

“You really thought I was going to miss this…whatever event your brother’s made such a big deal of? Please.”

Peter scrunched his eyebrows together and squinted his eyes at her.

“Come on, Peter, what’s the harm?”

He ran his eyes over her face and thought over how her saying ‘what’s the harm?’ wasn’t quite as rhetorical as it seemed, but ultimately he figured that it was just one of a dozen events he’d already attended that year with no one to mildly distract him, so he nodded, but warned her, “you’re not my date. If anyone asks, you’re an old friend from school. My brother likes to approve whoever comes with to me these things, so just don’t cause any waves.”

“Aye, aye,” she affirmed and followed as he walked up the steps, shot a smile to one of the guards, and entered without a hitch.

*

The place was chalk full of clearly wealthy attendees. Elle almost felt meek amongst them, but she rolled her eyes at that feeling, because she looked fantastic.

Once inside, Peter unlinked his arm from Elle’s and instead placed his hand on the small of her back and led her though the room, greeting some people in between. She didn’t know Peter all that well, but she could very well tell that he did not enjoy being in the company of these people. His posture was particularly stiff when he was stopped by others, and his words were short when he spoke to them.

Finally he took her to a table near the front of a podium, and none other than Angela Petrelli was already sitting at the same table.

The elder woman, after taking notice of Elle, set her jaw, nodded all too politely to Elle, stood up, kissed Peter on the cheek, and merged herself with the crowd of those conversing.

“That wasn’t rude,” Elle remarked, Peter pulling a seat out for her.

“My mom is just…” Peter trailed off as he took a seat beside Elle.

“I know what your mom is,” Elle said in quick breath. Peter raised his eyebrows at her, and saw the dark expression that faded over her, but he decided not to push the subject.

“You want a drink?” Peter asked her.

“Uh, sure. Surprise me.”

Peter smiled at her, and got up to grab a drink for her and him. Not even a minute after he got up, the lights began dimming, and the light was centered to the podium where a few men and women, including Nathan Petrelli, stepped onto the area.

A stout woman stepped up to the microphone, and Elle was hardly interested in the words, but she turned her body in the direction of the podium. Elle listlessly listened to the woman thank the charity-givers and those who prepared the ball, and then the woman looked to Nathan and thanked him for helping fund the organization.

Elle watched as Nathan strode up to the microphone, shook the woman’s hand, and with a proud smile, turned to his audience. Elle didn’t take her eyes off him, but he had yet to notice her presence at the event.

He began speaking of the organization and something about his goals, when his tone gradually shifted and he forcibly looked over his shoulders to his staff who stood beside the stage.

He cleared his throat, and said, “and knowing that it’s people like this who continually make a difference, who care about people with particular disadvantages, and take the time and effort to prove they aren’t just all talk, I made a decision in conjunction with my staff tonight, to make an announcement tonight. This announcement, well I’ve been deliberating it for quite some time, and even for a while, it was off the table, but eventually, you have to look at yourself, and look at what it is you are capable of, and how you owe that capacity to the world around you. And that is what I plan to do ladies and gentlemen.”

He took a dramatic pause to overlook the people, whether they were standing or sitting, he scanned them over, but when his eyes fell on Elle, they stayed there. Elle saw as his eyes diluted, and how cold they were on her. Then, he gave the smallest of smirks, and finished by saying, “I am running a campaign for the bid of presidency.”

He finally took his eyes off Elle, and Elle’s heart missed a beat when he said presidency.

Her eyes shot to the floor, and the shouts from the press mixed with the whoops and mutterings of the attendees. Elle brushed her hair back, stood from her chair hastily, and began marching away, but behind her, she heard Peter shouting after her.

Peter, having arrived back at their table, drinks in hand, mid Nathan’s speech, had noted when Nathan’s eyes froze where Elle sat. Peter watched as Elle kept her eyes just as focused on him, and just as soon as Nathan finished speaking, how dumbfounded Elle looked. He was sure he had the same surprise written over his face, because he couldn’t process the fact that his brother was going to run for president when Nathan had seemed to take himself out of the politics game. But first, Peter’s curiosity was peaked in regards to Elle’s affiliation to Nathan.

She ignored Peter’s calls, but he persisted until they reached the entrance and he pulled her arm.”

Elle didn’t put much of a struggle up, and she stood toe to toe with him.

“You alright?” he asked her.

“I’m fine,” she said, but still, she looked over her shoulder nervously.

“Elle,” he snapped her attention back to him, “why was he looking at you like that?”

“What?”

“Nathan. His eyes were glued to you.”

She chuckled. “You’re crazy.”

But her chuckle stopped short and her eyes widened at a sight behind Peter.

“Had to arrive late and leave early, huh Peter?” Nathan said next to Peter’s ear.

Peter turned sideways to look both at Elle and Nathan. “Na--”

“And Elle,” Nathan interrupted Peter, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Elle licked her lips and placed a hand on her hip. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Right,” he said, clearly not believing her. A man then came up beside Nathan and said, “sir, a man from the New York Times has a few questions.”

“Of course,” Nathan smiled arrogantly.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter,” Nathan squeezed his brother’s shoulder, and with a small ounce of venom, said, “maybe we’ll see each other again, Elle.”

Elle held a breath until Nathan turned his back and stepped away from them.

When Nathan was out of earshot, Peter turned back to Elle. “What’s going on?”

Elle shifted her eyes to Peter, shrugged, and turned on her heel, but Peter caught her arm again.

“Why is my brother acting strange towards you?”

Elle yanked her arm, and hissed, “he’s not your brother.” Elle clamped her mouth shut when the words escaped her.

“Not my--”

“Don’t--” Elle glared, grabbing his forearm. “Let’s go outside.”

*

At an open space outside, Elle stood near Peter, and in a low whisper, told him, “That’s Sylar in there, not your brother. Not Nathan.”

Peter’s head tilted back and he shook his head. “Sylar’s dead. I saw his corpse burn, turn to ashes. Nathan set the damn thing on fire.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense!” she yelled louder than she intended. She took a deep intake of breath and started up again, “I know it’s Sylar. Two weeks after you came by the bar in Chicago, he came back. He asked for the clock in the bar, and it looked like the right time, but he said it was wrong, and he fixed it. And then he, he grabbed my right wrist, so tightly that it left me a bruise that lasted well over a week. He looked at me with Gabriel’s--with Sylar’s eyes. And now he’s running for President, which I’m sure involves some big scheme of his.”

Peter shook his head again. “No.”

“You know what? I don’t care that you don’t believe me, but that you can’t see it? Go, talk to your brother. See if that’s the brother you grew up with and wanted to be president. Or better yet, leave it alone and stay the hell out of my way.”

With that, Elle marched away from Peter and whistled for a cab.

Peter stood staring at the ground. Then he walked up the steps, back into the Hyatt, and observed Nathan as he spoke to some reporter. Nathan was running for president. In a year, Nathan could be winning the 2008 presidential election, as his mother had once wanted him to. But Nathan was supposedly done with that--for what purpose would he be chasing the office? It didn’t make much sense to Peter, despite knowing that in some form or another, his brother would always be ambitious in garnering some position of power. Still. Unless it was in fact Sylar, but that would mean that the man whom they had cremated hadn’t been Sylar, and…then where was Nathan?

The only way it could be Sylar was if he--no, it couldn’t be. Peter’s brother was alive. And Sylar was dead. Not the other way around.

*

But Elle was right in one aspect: there were things Peter had missed, things Peter hadn’t taken too much notice of previously. It was nothing more than subtle mannerisms that Peter couldn’t recall Nathan possessing, but that was normal--they were brothers, not the same person, hence Peter didn’t know absolutely everything regarding his brother. So it was the colder tone with which Nathan more and more spoke with that disconcerted Peter. There was distance in his words, a distinct clean-cut tone and choosing of words that always sounded rehearsed, that sounded as though Nathan was always speaking to the media, rather than to his friends or family.

After a week or so of watching his brother operate around the press and maneuver around speaking to either him or their mother, Peter took his brother aside with a stern gaze and urging words of how they needed to speak.

“What is it, Peter?” Nathan said whilst playing with his cufflinks.

“Why are you running for president, Nathan?”

He chuckled at the question, walked over to a chair to sit in, and leaned back comfortably in it.

“I believe I can make necessary improvements to this country, and consequently influence the world’s perspective.”

“I’m not some reporter, Nathan. I don’t need to hear some vague, rehearsed answer.”

Nathan raised an eyebrow at Peter and leaned forward in his seat, suddenly acting as though he was concerned with Peter’s questions. “What’s this about, Peter?”

And that was another thing--Peter couldn’t remember the last time his brother called him Pete.

“I’m just confused, Nathan. I know you want to do something that matters, something important, but like this? After all the government has done to people like us?”

“That’s why I have to do this. Because of what they’ve done. We need a voice there, we have to be in some sort of charge.”

“Charge? A voice? Nathan, excluding the government, they don’t know that people like us exist. You have some plan of telling them or something?”

Nathan stood from his seat, smirked, and walked over to Peter. He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and condescendingly said, “Peter, I’m only looking out for our best interests. Don’t worry about the politics of it. I’ll take care of things.”

“Yeah, well I thought you were going to start taking care of things with your family before anything else. What about Heidi? What about your sons, Nathan? You’re just forgetting about them all over again.”

“My sons?”

“Yes, your sons. Monty and Simon. Do they ring a bell, Nathan?”

“Yes, yes, of course. And I’m already taking care of them. After all, if I am going to be president, my family has to be in line.”

Peter’s blood froze at the ease with which Nathan dismissed his family as being far from first priority, and the tact of his politics.

“Taking care of them?”

“Alright Peter, I’ve tolerated your questioning long enough. I have real important matters to tend to now.”

Peter suppressed his want to further question brother, and instead smiled tightly at him and offered Nathan a hand before Nathan departed. He shook Peter’s hand, and there was the traditional momentary embrace before Nathan left the room.

Peter waited a couple of minutes thereafter before opening the window. He was going to fly out of there. He had shaken his brother’s hand to absorb his power, and Nathan’s ability was to fly, hence, Peter was going to fly out of there.

But when Peter breathed in and prepared to fly out, nothing happened. He shook his head at himself, sure he was just over-concentrating. He let go, only rested on the feeling of air he had when he flew, but still, nothing.

Peter hit his palm against the window sill, only to have the wooden sill crumble in his hand. He pulled his hand back, then glanced around for any sturdy object, spotted and picked up a round, metal paper weight, and only squeezed it softly to have it break into pieces.

“Damn it,” Peter under his breath. He now had advanced strength as opposed to the ability to fly, something Nathan, the real Nathan, couldn’t have. It could be Sylar who would be able to impersonate Nathan Petrelli and simultaneously have another power, one being grand strength which Peter apparently got at random.

*

Peter put his phone to his ear, waiting for his mother to answer.

He had taken a few days to digest that Nathan wasn’t really Nathan, and was most probably Sylar. He had thought of going to speak to Elle on the subject, but prior to that, he had to know if his mother had a role in any of it.

“Angela Petrelli.”

Peter took a deep breath after she responded and began. “Morning mom.”

“Good morning, Peter. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Um…listen mom, this is going to sound strange, and it’s just a paranoid thought, but you did see Sylar die, didn’t you? Nathan was with you and you saw Sylar die.”

The woman didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Peter, I saw Sylar die. Why, something the matter?”

“I--” better started, but all thoughts lapsed when he felt a contrasting dark and bright light pass his retinas, and his head pounded worse than the most terrible migraine he’d ever had. He gasped for half a second, and then he could breathe again only to have every sound of the city tearing through his eardrums, and at the same time, he saw his hands glow with fire and then his feet disappeared and reappeared in a flash. And in the background, he heard his mother holler, “Peter, are you there? Peter?”

Peter forced himself to calm down. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and focused on controlling the abilities. He reopened his eyes, sighed in relief at seeing the fire gone, the noises muted, and his feet visible. He saw the phone laying next to his feet, and he promptly picked it up and put it back next to his ear.

“Sorry mom, I just got a splitting headache.”

“Oh well get some rest then. And forget this paranoia of yours,” she said.

Peter hardly listened to her verbal words, however. Instead, he listened to her inaudible thoughts that accidentally whirled in his mind--he couldn’t possibly know about Sylar.

Peter rubbed his head, quieting her thoughts, now certain of the truth.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks mom,” and he hung up after a quick goodbye. He set the phone aside and sat down on his bed, glancing at his hands. He raised them, and testing his theory, he thought on electricity, and small bolts appeared in his hands. He rubbed his hands together, extinguishing the bolts, then pressed his right palm against his bed, thinking about phasing, and his hand fell through.

Peter’s powers had returned.

*

Elle stood on her tiptoes after she dashed to the door at hearing the doorbell. She squinted through the old, tainted peephole, to make out a nervous-looking man with dark hair, some of it falling by his eyebrows.

Elle rolled her eyes when she recognized the guy as Peter, nonetheless she stood flat on her feet and turned the knob to open the door.

“Peter Petrelli,” she announced with a small cocky edge, as if she had been expecting him to arrive at her doorstep.

“Afternoon, Elle,” he smiled tightly and glanced into her small apartment, “mind if I come in.”

She didn’t reply, but moved aside and waved to the tiny living room, indicating for him to come in.

Peter stepped in, senses alert at the small space and thin walls, knowing even if they were immensely thick, one Gabriel Gray would have no problem listening in.

Elle began saying something or another about his “visit” being a surprise, and if he was there for a lecture or something or another, to not even bother. But Peter just took a deep breath, sat down on the little couch against one of the walls, and stared intently at her until she took notice and finally finished speaking.

“What?” she said, somewhat defensively, but Peter only kept his eyes steadily on hers.

I believe you, I believe that Nathan is…he’s not Nathan.

Elle bit her lip when Peter’s voice washed over her mind, but when she swallowed down his words, she immediately smirked and said aloud, “I told you, but no, Peter Petrelli refused to believe--!”

Peter shot up and jogged to Elle, to clamp his hand over her mouth.

Elle pushed it away and opened her mouth to yell again, but Peter went he could hear us.

Elle let out a harsh breath, and said in her mind, he could also read our minds.

Peter nodded at her, but told her, it makes it a little harder for him.

“Fine,” Elle said, rolling her eyes, and crossing her arms over her chest.

What do you plan on doing about Sylar?

Elle cocked her head at Peter and fought a grumble. But her answer was clear. She planned on doing what she should have done that night on the beach.

Fighting.

The words were very crystalline to Peter, even if they didn’t come across verbally. Just the sight of indistinguishable hate and determination in her eyes said about everything.

I want to help, he communicated to her, and there was only silence from Elle. So, Peter continued.

You can’t do it alone. And we have to be practical.

I can do this. I will. I don’t need you.

Aloud, Elle humped and strode to her door, which she yanked open.

Why do you have to be so stubborn-- Peter went on, but Elle yelled, “he tried to kill me! He thinks he succeeded! No, he thought he succeeded! I was changing. He was changing. We were…he and I were…But then he lifted his damn finger to my forehead, and see,” she pushed her bangs aside and pressed her right index finger against her scar, “this is what I got for turning a normal man into a monster.”

“You didn’t turn--”

“Yes!” Elle screamed, “I did it! It was me! I deserved to die. I should have died. But I’m alive. So if I’m alive, I’m going to do the one thing I owe this world, and that is to kill Sylar. I damn well don’t need Peter Petrelli’s help or support for that--especially if he doesn’t think I’m capable of anything more than causing trouble.”

Elle closed her mouth, and raised her arm, pointed the way out of her apartment, and strode away from the scene, into her restroom.

Peter didn’t move for a good minute. He bit his lip, stared at the door Elle had slammed, sighed heavily, and walked through the door’s frame before closing the door behind him.

*

“As reported this morning, Ms. Heidi Petrelli, wife of presidential potential Nathan Petrelli, passed away last night after a small bout of fighting against cancer. Although estranged from her husband, close friends and family of the two report that after reconciliation attempts, the two legally separated but continued what friends call a strong friendship, which had been ongoing for several months through her death. The two spent some time together prior to the detection of Ms. Petrelli’s skin cancer. Sadly, the detection came too late, and she hadn’t much time. Heidi Petrelli is survived by her husband and their two young children.”

Peter stared at the telecast, even after the news story changed. He had heard of Heidi’s passing when he walked past an electronics store, and immediately he went to his apartment. He flicked on the television first, looking for a news channel, until he found one which affirmed what he had heard spew from that television on display at the store. Still, he found it difficult to believe. Mainly because this was the first he’d heard of Nathan attempting to reconcile with Heidi. And skin cancer? Peter finally turned off the television, and he grabbed his phone, wondering why in the hell nobody had phoned him about this.

Then Nathan’s words of I’m already taking care of them slipped into Peter’s head, remembering the brief conversation with Nathan he’d had regarding Heidi and the kids. Nathan wouldn’t possibly--up until that point, Peter had vainly hoped that Nathan wasn’t concretely aware that in reality, he was Sylar.

But the facts spoke for themselves. Perhaps this wasn’t yet a fact--perhaps Heidi’s cancer had been real, perhaps it was only a coincidence that it was detected after the reported reconciliation attempts. But given all the other supposed coincidences, Peter couldn’t ignore this one.

It was time to stop lingering. Two weeks had passed since his meeting with Elle, and what had he done in the meantime? Other than not look Nathan in the eye?

Peter put away his cell phone, grabbed his jacket, and went off for Elle. He was going to help her, no matter how stubborn she was--because he needed help.

*

But Elle wasn’t there. He knocked on the door, and a young man opened the door. When Peter asked for Elle, the man said he didn’t know of her, that he had moved in just five days ago, but that maybe the tenant knew.

Peter trotted down the floor of the apartment to the bottom, larger complex. He instantly spotted an older man, taking his time in walking toward one of the two doors there.

“Excuse me,” Peter called to him, and the man waved him off, saying, “sorry, every place is taken.”

Peter jogged after him, saying in a quick breath, “actually I’m looking for someone who just recently lived her. Elle?”

“Had an Elle Marquez three floors up a couple of years back.”

“No, she was here just last week,” Peter said.

The man, clearly irritated, faced Peter. “You’re outta luck then.”

“She had blond hair, came down to her shoulders, blue eyes. Small. Had a scar on her forehead.”

The man squinted his eyes and offered, “had a bit o’ fire in her?”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded.

“Dee Bishops. Moved out ‘bout a week ago. But I don’t ask questions. She wanted to leave, so she left. That all?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” Peter smiled tightly and nodded. The man shrugged and kept walking on.

Peter rubbed his forehead, cursed, “fuck”, beneath his breath, and came to the conclusion that Elle was gone because she’d finally gone after Sylar. Either that or Sylar had come after her.

*

Peter landed on a ledge outside of the hotel building Nathan Petrelli was in. He was within feet of the room Nathan Petrelli would be using as a dress room for the speech he’d be giving later. Upon reaching the area of the room, Peter pressed his body against an adjacent room, and phased in whilst being invisible.

Peter looked at his surroundings, realizing he was in the (empty) restroom, but he could hear the voices of those bustling around in the rest of the room. Quietly, he walked through the space of the restroom, squeezed through the half-open door, and found himself in the middle of a bustling crowd.

He moved back against a well, so as to not have anyone run into him or vice versa. He stood back, watching, looking for Nathan, but he didn’t spot him. He crawled against the wall, turning into a corner eventually, getting a different perspective. That’s when he saw him, pulling at the earphone in his ear, and murmuring something as he looked down at a small pile of papers.

Peter felt a sudden rising of anger in his chest, and his fists clenched. His jaw tightened, and without thinking, he began marching toward Nathan.

Peter was only stopped because behind Nathan, a small, but self-possessed woman with shoulder-length blond hair and clean blue eyes appeared, and she stood at an angle facing Nathan.

Peter immediately recognized her as Elle, but still, he had to do a double-take. What was she doing there?

He stepped back, and calmed his nerves, anger, and confusion. He stood back against the wall for a few minutes, and then proceeded to walking along the wall, to get closer to Nathan and Elle, at least close enough to hear them. When he got close enough, all he heard from them was talk of how to handle the public, the manner in which he should address his wife’s passing, the matter of his children, business, etc.

In fact, amidst the staff and politicians, Elle and Nathan appeared normal. In a small motion, a young man mouthed something, handed a nametag to Elle, and she pinned it onto the suit she wore.

On the tag, Peter read it saying PERSONAL ADVISOR. And in a snap, Nathan was being rushed outside the door, along with Elle, and it was over.

*

Peter stood in the back of the audience--no cloak of invisibility, not even a suit. He stood, arms crossed, face stoic, watching Nathan Petrelli speak about his political agenda, and without a blink, Nathan moved onto the tragedy of his wife’s passing.

Peter looked between Nathan and Elle a bit, attempting to gather what was going on, but when he tried reading either one’s mind, all that came on was a white noise.

When the speech and questions finally came to an end, Peter pushed through the exiting crowd, ignoring the security guards, and yelled out, “Nathan”, fighting off the urge to yell “Sylar” instead.

Nathan turned to Peter, and a cryptic smile crept over his face. Elle too turned to Peter, and Peter noticed how her face went ghost-white for a second before she also gave him a small, knowing smile.

“Let him through,” Nathan ordered the guards.

Peter strode up to Nathan, focused on not looking over at Elle, and said, “she’s dead. She had cancer. But you never told me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you, Peter.” Nathan said nonchalantly, pulling his brother into a hug, but Peter was noticeably stiff.

“She was my family, too,” Peter said, pulling away.

Nathan scoffed. “And when was the last time you saw her? Or your nephews for that matter? Look, she and I decided to only tell a few about her cancer. She didn’t need the stress from the media, and she didn’t need you wasting your energy or worrying over her. You can only remember her as she was now.”

Peter’s jaw twitched and he shook his head. Finally he looked at Elle.

“You two are working together now? I really am out of the loop,” Peter said, half-chuckling.

Elle stepped closer to both of them, and in a low, but crisp voice said, ”great to see you, too, Peter.”

Nathan took a step back to stand shoulder to shoulder with Elle. “I ran into Elle not too long ago, and she told me about her effort to turn her life around. She’s been doing incredibly well and I commended her for that. And given her accomplishments despite her history, I realized she was just the sort of person we could use on our staff. It took awhile, but Miss Bishop took me up on my offer just about three weeks ago. And she’s been doing a wonderful job thus far.”

“Why thank you,” Elle said sweetly, offering him a sideways grin.

She definitely was acting odd.

Nathan gave her a firm nod, and he turned his eyes to Peter.

“The staff and I are heading to dinner. Care to join us, Peter?”

Peter shot his eyes to Elle, back to Nathan, and at last at the wall behind Nathan.

“I’ve got plans.”

“Alright well, I’ll see you at Heidi’s funeral. Tuesday morning, Peter. Head over with mom.”

Peter nodded and waved his brother and Elle off.

*

Nathan and Elle walked in silence for a couple of minutes after conversing with Peter.

It was only when they got off the elevator and onto the floor where his suite was that he said, in a low voice, “I think he’s catching on.”

Elle swallowed a little lump in her throat. “Want me to take care of him?”

Nathan walked without saying a word for 20 seconds. Twenty seconds after that, Sylar said, “I’ve got my own plans for him.”

Elle looked out of the corner of her eye, surveying the sight of Sylar for a moment. “Anyone could see you.”

“I’ve got it covered,” he said, giving a small shrug.

The two stopped some doors short of his suite, and Elle pulled out a key card.

“Don’t dress up too much now. Wouldn’t want you to catch a young fellow’s eye.”

Sylar raised a few fingers to Elle’s forehead, and he smirked. He traced his index finger over it, down her cheek, and Elle said sternly, “that isn’t part of the arrangement, Gabriel.”

He pulled his hand away, but his smirk remained--“At least not yet."