Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based (up to S2).

Starts off as Claire-centric, Peter and Nathan included. Other characters and storylines are coming in as the story progresses.

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Status: Completed (09/07/08); Edit (08/28/08): Reread and made some minor corrections.

Spoilers: all the way through S2

Rating: T+

Warnings: none

Pairings: General, some possible relationships later on

Category: Angst/Drama/Mystery/Action/General – depending on the chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All the characters you recognize from Heroes are the creation of Tim Kring. Just borrowing. I promise to return them for the actual season 3.

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Perhaps heart strings resuscitate

The fading sounds of your life

Lyrics by Interpol

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Chapter 1: Waking the Dead

Losing two of your fathers within a week's time must surely have an impact on your life. That's what they say. The truth is a lot more complicated. Another reassuring hand presses on Claire's shoulder while she shoves clothes into her duffel bag – mostly black, as has become the norm lately. "Mom, you need to stop worrying about me," she moans half-heartedly, picking a pair of blue jeans for a change. "I'll be just fine."

"I know. It's just what mothers do." The hand slips away and she turns to see her mother wringing her arms, a little paler than usual, exhaustion pooling into faint circles around her eyes. She shrinks at this image of her. Nobody should ever see their parents vulnerable. "Whatever you choose, Claire honey, you're doing the right thing." There's no pretense to her admissions. She'll miss her.

Claire drops the packing to embrace the aging woman, who despite all her resilience is but a simple soul and never expected anything other than a normal life. Claire does not know what to say to make it all better. The wind rips at the curtains in the afternoon sun.

They disentangle after a while, the air heavy with words unspoken. The older woman offers a faint smile before leaving to cook her last plate of waffles.

Lyle mopes on the porch, Mr. Muggles whining at his feet. "You'll be gone a whole week, right?" he mutters and rebuffs her hug. That's no proper occasion for familial teases him, messes up his hair with her free hand. "You wish."


Nathan's funeral is in just three days. A last glimpse at the Californian sun before the gloom of New York swallows her whole. Peter meets her at the airport, taking her bag that has almost nothing in it. Everything from the past few days is left incomplete.

They've both changed. There's no denying that now. His arms are still warm around her.

"I'm sorry about Noah…" he offers quietly.

"Yeah," she mutters against the sleeve of his jacket, hiding the guilt in her voice.

There's not much conversation during the flight. Snippets of Adam, the Virus, some messed up business with the Company. "Tell me about it," she marks, a tad more cynical than she first intended. Peter huffs, amused. They're always the same. Even as they embitter.

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The rattle of the catering cart draws nearer and they think about their orders. He has a JD on the rocks, while she sticks to Pepsi, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. "For the sleep," he explains. She's not convinced, though. – "Sure."

Peter's eyes linger on the mush of clouds for most of the time. Claire lacks the necessary distraction and listens to her stomach growl. She swears she sees a ghost of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

It's the pastry that cracks her. "I need to talk to you about something…" she states cryptically, opting for a cupcake. He pays for them both and waits for her revelation. There's something itchy about this phrase that never bodes well. "I didn't tell you before–I... we promised to keep it secret, from everyone. Even you. But I think you need to know."

When she tells him, he's not as shocked as she thought he'd be. Surprised, yes, but not amazed how her blood can raise dead people. He picks at the plastic cover of his sandwich, while she keeps her stare steady on him, and admits to having seen something like this before.

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They both agree that it should be done as soon as possible. He wants to call Suresh for advice, but she refuses to have anything to do with that man. "You can't trust him. He's with them now."

"I know Mohinder. He's not gonna betray us."

"Peter, he killed my father." – "He revived him." – "And that makes it all right?"

He doesn't respond. He'd slice the man who shot Nathan without giving him as much as a last thought.

"Can't you see?" she whispers hoarsely, leaning over the hand rest. "We can't trust anyone. The less people know about this the better."

It makes sense. He accedes.


They disembark the plane, both buried deep in thoughts. Hope is a dangerous thing and they handle it with caution. New York is dark by the time they get there. She's tired, but keeps her head up, the cab rushes through the lights of red and yellow.

A quarter of an hour later and they are effectively stuck in the traffic. She yawns for the tenth time and he beckons her to dose off on his shoulder. In this twilight zone of dreams and reality, she mumbles without thinking, "With your powers, we could be home by now."

He looks at her, bemused. "What?" She feels mildly ridiculous.

"I mean. There's a guy who… he used to... I–," she suddenly remembers the image of him soaring up for the last time – his secrets be damned – and decides against it. "Never mind."

Peter chuckles and she's afraid he's reading her mind just now.

"I'm a little tired that's all."

She doesn't answer.

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Last time she was carried to her bed happened when she was seven and it was her dad. She winces at the saccharine memory and gropes for the light. She finds it. Claire recognizes the room she's been put up in – the same old attic chamber at the Petrelli mansion. Paneled walls and windows that open easily.

Her bag is set on the floor, along with a note on the nightstand. She picks it up.

2:30. Be ready. Sleepyhead.

She glances at her watch – it's 1:24 AM.

The house feels hollow. Claire haunts the stairs, the steps cold under her feet. The glass chandeliers are silent as she passes doors and empty corridors. It's what people refer to as the mourning presence. In the living room she sees Angela sitting, with her back towards the door, in an armchair, clad in her customary black. Her neck is taut as a wire and shaking ever so lightly. It's strange to see her in such a state: the proud lady of the house and still nothing but human. Somehow, it seems utterly pitiful, but Claire can't quite bring herself to truly feel sorry for her. Maybe she got that one from her, too.

She takes some clothes from Nathan's room – or what used to be his room. The closet is still filled with some vague scent of Cologne from the suits and shirts and she can easily remove some without drawing attention. Kneeling on the floor with his folded clothes on the lap, the reality finally hits her, hard. He is dead. Dead. Dead, just like she is alive, right at this moment.

And for all they know, it may stay like this. For good.

When Peter meets her at the rooftop, she is already shivering. The hooded sweater casts shadows on her face and hair, and for tonight, dark colors serve them well. He takes the things she brought and puts them in his bag. The night is loud around them, cars and the undying traffic and people clamoring in the distance. She inhales, before taking the step.

"OK. Ready now?" Peter doesn't look half as assured as he sounds. He opens up his arms and she knows this part too well.

She nods silently before the takeoff.


The morgues smell slightly different from the hospitals. The air is sterile and reeking with detergent, fluorescent lights flicker green shadows, painting years on his face. Peter's grip tightens around her arm as they dive through walls of concrete and cement like mere ghosts.

The workers don't seem to take notice of them: they pass by as if she's not there, nearly hitting Claire with a gurney. He pulls her aside at the last moment, slumping into the wall. She watches the molested body being wheeled away and looks up.

Claire wants to ask him what's going on, but his fingers press on her mouth, a gesture to stay low and keep out of the way.

Without any resistance, they reach the inner circles of the underground labyrinth. He lets go of her and ends the cautious act, two steps ahead as she struggles to keep up. His dark coat flaps behind him; jaw set, look determined like that of Orpheus and he doesn't glance back to see if she's following.

"Peter," her voice echoes far in the distance and they pass another row of dead bodies. "What do you think about euthanasia?"

He stops to look at her. Her hair glows chlorine green in the sapphire light. Wrong person to ask this question. "I never think about it."

She continues, lightly, soft steps against the tiled floor. "Funny, I always saw you as the Dreamer."

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This must be it, he concludes, standing before a steel cabinet C29 that matches with the number on the paper. He flings the hatch open with his mind and the board rattles out, white cloth over the body, two untucked feet sticking out. It's chilling, when they read the 'Petrelli, Nathan A.' hanging on the right toe.

Waiting no longer, Peter shifts the sheet to see the face of his late brother: calm and lifeless, just like in his dreams. It's all and all but Nathan, that greenish-purple body of a dead man. A soft nudge wakes him; at his side there is Claire waiting silently with the medical kit. He unwraps the package with two shaky hands: a syringe, some cotton wads and rubbing alcohol.

Brushing something invisible off his forehead, he fumbles with the needle. Claire's eyes stay fixed on him the whole time, he draws her blood, and she won't flinch. It shines bright red – the precious elixir of life. Her arm heals in an instant.

They consider once more before injecting the liquid into that stiff pale body. What they are about to do, what he is about to do to his brother, defies all laws of nature and men since the age of Christ and Lazarus. She tries not to think of Frankenstein.

"Do it." Their free choice is a feeble excuse.

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They wait for a few seconds of an eternity, all the while nothing happens. Her blood is still in the dead body and the lips stay blue and lifeless. Peter swallows, hard. It was impossible to realize the full extent of their hope in this endeavor up to this final moment. It hurts bad, and the world starts swimming before his eyes.

Claire seems equally frozen, but not hopeless. It may take time for the active cells to reach his heart and revive it. Returning takes longer with the time spent 'away'. Then, something happens – first a stir of fingertips and the whole expanse of his chest muscles convulses in a violent spasm, the air filling his lungs with a long wheezing sound. What is first an uncomfortable tingle of the paralyzed limbs soon turns into a full-fledged pain as the dead brother wakes to new life.

And just like his dying image, Peter's face is the first and only thing he sees when he comes back. Again.

"Peter," Nathan croaks his name, his voice restoring, "You saved me."

"No," the younger brother shakes his head, breath ecstatic. "Claire did."

His eyes blink and travel across the room to find the blond with reddened eyes, smoothing gently the overgrown locks on his forehead.

"Claire?" The name sounds frail and too soft in the harsh light.

On the false autopsy reports, they say her pulse is hard to find.


Thank you for reading. Feedback is much appreciated!

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Notes: I made up Nathan's middle name, middle initial, that is. A for Arthur (his father), or Adrian ... or anything else for that matter. I just needed it for the story.