Sam had expected that staying in Peter's apartment would feel strange, but he hadn't expected the strangeness to be sharing the apartment with Nathan. Still, they'd managed to get along for the last few days, bound by their common interest in Peter's whereabouts, and by being the two people who cared about him more than anyone else in the world.
As much as Sam didn't mind having Nathan around though, he couldn't help but perk up a little when Nathan had hung up the phone and said he had to take care of something, and that he might be gone for a while. When it turned out that "something" was Angela Petrelli getting arrested, well, Sam was just glad he had maps to look at to hide any inappropriate smirking he might have failed at holding back.
Being in the apartment on his own was a lot different, and although Sam felt a duty to do nothing but search for Peter, he ended up in Peter's bedroom, going through his closet like touching Peter's things would keep them connected somehow, like as long as Peter's things were still around where he could hold them, Peter had to be around too.
After all the reading he'd been doing, Sam wasn't surprised when he started to feel the first inklings of a headache, but this pain was too sharp and too sudden, and he had just enough time to realize what was happening to get to the bed before everything went white.
There were three of them standing there, two men and a woman, laughing over a metal box full of money.
"Look at that," the taller man said in a clear Irish accent, smiling as the other man handed him a beer. "I'd say we earned these."
"Damn right," the other man said, and Sam could see the gun tucked into his jeans even before he pulled it out and aimed it at the others.
The taller man laughed, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Oh, right, Will the traitor," he said, putting his hands up. "Please, don't shoot."
"This is no joke," the other man said, and something in his tone seemed to make the other two finally realize that he was serious. "Now give me that damn money or I swear I'll shoot you dead."
And then, almost out of nowhere, there was Peter. His hair was too short and his clothes were all wrong - like he'd found something Sam would wear but couldn't fit into - but it was him, alive and well and assessing the situation as best he could. "So I was right."
"Yeah, that you were. Congratulations," the man said, and before anyone could move, he fired and shot Peter twice in the chest. Peter fell back, stunned, and sank to the floor, like nothing but dead weight.
The vision ended just as sharply as it had started, and Sam found himself on the floor, his back pressed against the bed as he tried to catch his breath. For all that he'd tried to convince himself that Isabel was right, the sense of acceptance that Peter was really alive didn't hit him until now - and now Peter was in trouble and about to get hurt, or worse. Sam scrambled to get back out to where his papers were, two steps away from panic mode, and tried to write down everything he'd seen before he could forget a single detail. Peter needed his help all over again, and this time, he wasn't going to let himself be somewhere else.
- Peter's Apt, NYC, Wednesday afternoon