Just a tiny exercise in writing Heroes fic, specifically Claire. Implied Peter/Claire at the end, Claire & Zach friendship. Set some indeterminate amount of time after "Homecoming," of course.

I was purposely extremely vague about what it is that sends Claire off because I don't want to be tempted to write a sequel--I haven't the time. :(

After All

a Heroes short

by elle rita

She was determined for it to be a normal day. At least, as normal as any day could be when you were Miracle-Gro Girl, the Cheerleader Who Wouldn't Die.

Waking up. Showering, getting dressed. Coconut-scented shampoo and the new stressed jeans she'd bought during last weekend's shopping trip with her mother, which she'd made little noises of disapproval over ("I'm sorry, but I just don't understand why anyone would charge $50 for worn-out jeans. Can't we just take a pumice stone to a pair of Levis?")

Breakfast, during which her father was not present (another business trip; Claire wondered dryly what major crisis down at the paper factory could have sent him across state lines this time), her mother and Lyle argued over his English homework, with her mother taking the position that yes, it was unethical for him to pay someone for a pre-written paper on Huckleberry Finn even if said someone had volunteered to write it for him, and Claire herself pushed her food listlessly around on her plate, dragging her scrambled eggs through ketchup until they resembled a gore-soaked mess. Scrambled brains. Jackie.

Claire dropped her fork, the remainder of her appetite vaporized.

After surreptitiously diverting the contents of her plate to Mr. Muggles' food dish, the morning continued more or less as it was supposed to, at least up until the getting-to-school part. Zach was waiting for her outside the library.

"You're seriously going through with this," he said, arms folded defensively, but face clearly displaying worry and concern.

Claire nodded.

Zach sighed. "I—yeah. I just, I get why you're doing it, but why does it have to be like this? Can't I even come see you off? I mean, what if the cab driver turns out to be a scalp-collecting weirdo who happens to jump you right there in the—"

"Zach," Claire cut in forcefully, although she couldn't help the tiny smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. She was going to miss him, all right. Had she shucked off the cheerleader herd-mentality sooner, she'd have realized all along that he really was her best friend. "I know. I'm sorry. I wish you could come too. But it's just easier like this. And I'll be okay, I promise. I'll call you as soon as I get there."

Zach's mouth twisted a bit, seemingly on the verge of crying; then his eyes flickered up and down the hallway, as though he expected a re-animated Jackie to come striding up to them, scalp-less and caked in funeral dirt, solely to inform him of what a sissy faggot he was. "Sooner, if anything happens. Seriously, if you see anyone—anything weird-looking on the way, just call me. And find someplace to hide."

Claire shook her head, but her smile had broken through. "I'm going to be okay," she reiterated, leaning forward to wrap her arms around him. "Don't worry."

"You don't really believe it yourself," Zach stated as he reciprocated her embrace, somewhat awkwardly.

"No, but I'm choosing to stick to optimism and hope instead of running around yelling 'Oh shit, there's a complete psycho after me—I think I'll go find a nice root cellar somewhere in the middle of Kansas to live in."

They laughed as they pulled apart. "Hey, don't knock Kansas," Zach teased. "That's how you get to Oz. No guarantee you'll find any yellow brick roads in New York." There was a pause, and Zach looked uncomfortably down at his sneakers. "And you know, that would have been the perfect cue for Jackie to respond with, 'Well, gee, Zach, you'd know, being a Friend of Dorothy and all.' "

Claire's grin faded a bit, weighted down with regret. "You don't really miss that."

"No. But I'm going to miss you."

Fortunately, she made it to homeroom that morning without the tears spilling over.

Second period went exactly as scheduled. At 8:47, she dutifully pulled her algebra homework from her backpack (hadn't checked any of the answers, but what did it matter?) and handed it forward for the teacher to collect. At 8:54, she was sitting slumped in her chair as the teacher gestured to an equation on the chalkboard, a faint grimace playing on her lips.

At 8:59, it was time to bring out the big guns.

"Ahh—ahh—owwwwwwwwww!"

Claire wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked back and forth in her chair, wincing in pain, oblivious to the twenty-seven puzzled, curious, and/or derisive stares her performance was rewarded with.

The teacher frowned in concern. "Claire, what's wrong?"

"Sharp…kind of stabbing…right here…" Claire gasped, pointing to the spot where she certainly hoped her appendix was. "Hurts…really bad."

Claire was careful to maintain her doubled-over posture and agonized moaning long enough to collect her hall pass and hobble to the office, where a clucking receptionist directed her to the tan touch-tone on the counter so that she might call her mother to pick her up. Sixteen minutes and three crumpled paper water cups later, she waved goodbye to the office ladies, hobbled back outside, and opened the back door of a yellow cab, tossing in her heavier-than-usual bag first as she slid onto the seat.

The driver glanced at her in the mirror. Graying hair, unshaven, surly-looking…he didn't look like a superhuman scalp collector, Claire thought, but then again, how could one tell? "Where to?" he grunted.

"MAF," she said.

The day continued to tick on by, but it had long since ceased being anything resembling normal, or what generally passed for normal, anyway.

The dinner hour this evening found Claire in a window seat somewhere high above Pennsylvania, very slowly nibbling the last of the honey-roasted peanuts conserved from her first flight that morning. She wished she'd bothered to pay extra for the in-flight meal, even if it was most likely a lump of gravy-soaked newspaper masquerading as Salisbury steak. At least the soda was free.

If she'd gotten this far, she was home free, right? Well, except for the fact that her father could very well be waiting there at the gate for her with his Horn-Rimmed Death Glare. It wouldn't surprise her to somehow find he'd gotten there before she had. She'd never been able to understand how he could seemingly zip all over the country and still make it home in time to pass her the mashed potatoes, especially not with the god-awful layovers that always seemed to accompany flights out of Midland—like the two hours of loitering in Dallas/Fort Worth that morning, most of which had been spent hovering in the bathroom. Just in case.

And if her dad wasn't waiting for her…someone else could be. Someone who'd wait to pounce on her until she was alone and helpless. Her freakish abilities aside, an unaccompanied minor from backwater Texas stumbling through the big bad dark streets of New York might as well have a target painted on their back. And nobody'd find her until the next day…missing the top of her head.

Argh. Claire. STOP it. You're being paranoid. This so isn't helping things.

Still, she wouldn't have been wringing her American Airlines napkin into tiny confetti shreds right now if she'd just been able to to talk to him before she'd left.

She hadn't wanted to call from the house, so she'd tried from a pay phone on the concourse at MAF. It had just rang. Sixteen times before it ate her change and demanded more. Claire had swallowed, feeling her insides curdle a bit. What if he couldn't get to the phone? What if something had gotten him first? Then what?

Attempt #2 came during her layover in Dallas; ducking behind a sheaf of wavy blonde hair and watching passersby through the individual strands, counting the rings, tapping the receiver impatiently. Her breath caught as she heard a faint click on the other end.

"Peter, is that—"

"Hi, this is Peter Petrelli," came his recorded voice through the wires. "I'm not here right now, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

If you can. Oh, God, I can't even go there. "Yeah, Peter, um, it's me," Claire found herself babbling as soon as the answering machine beeped. "I'm, um, kind of…well…I'll explain everything later, but in the meantime, I'm on American Airlines Flight 2212. I'll probably be getting into JFK around, um, seven. I'll see—I hope you get this. Thanks."

She'd hung up, paused for a few fleeting seconds to bury her flaming face in her marginally cooler palms, then regained her composure and headed to the gate.

And now she was here. Out of food (unless the greasy peanut bag proved to be edible), out of money, out of ideas, completely alone. She'd left everything behind. She'd been sorely tempted to write letters, at least notes, to her mother and Lyle, explaining why she'd done it—but in the end had chickened out, instead simply opting to scrawl a few Post-its in purple ink: "I love you. Claire." She did get a slight chuckle out of imagining Lyle's horrified face upon first discovering his sister's admission.

She didn't see how she could go back. Not after the discussions she'd overheard. Not after the things she'd seen, for God's sake. What else did her father have hiding in his innocent little paper mill? Who else, for that matter?

Face it. Your life as Claire Bennet, The Decidedly Average Texas Cheerleader, was over the second you realized you could pop your ribs back into place without so much as a scratch. There's not going to be any senior prom. No graduation ceremony. And next year, well, you can forget about the carefree co-ed life. The game's all changed. Wave bye-bye, Claire Bear!

Claire bit harder on her lower lip, oblivious to the kindly stewardess now asking her if she wanted another shot of grenadine in her Coke.

Everything now counts on getting to Peter. You just have to get to him. We'll figure it all out, but now…Now…it's up to him. It's up to you.

Claire slumped back into her seat. This saving-the-world business was highly overrated.

It took an excruciating amount of time for the plane to finally park itself at the gate, by which time Claire had gotten no further in formulating Plan B: What Exactly To Do If Peter Doesn't Get Your Message, Because You Have No Money Left For Cab Fare, Let Alone Enough For a Hotel. Maybe she ought to take up residence in the airport; it was big enough that she could probably go unnoticed, for a while anyway. It was too bad she didn't have a guitar or some other instrument with her; she could've taken up busking and earned her cab fare in a couple of hours. Oh, why did I quit beginning band back in fifth grade? 'The clarinet's too hard and I can't remember the buttons.' What a lame excuse.

Chastising herself for both this childhood lapse in judgment as well as letting her thoughts veer horribly off course, Claire struggled back into her heavy backpack. Look on the bright side; at least you won't have to go down to the baggage claim.

She blinked into the sudden cacophony of light and noise and people as she shuffled off the plane. Everywhere you looked, people hugging. Families reunited. Friends laughing and clapping each other on the back. No Peter. No place for Claire Bennet.

Claire closed her eyes. Maybe it's time to admit defeat. Maybe I should just go home…pretend I don't know anything. Dad doesn't know I know, after all. This was stupid. You're stupid, Claire. Just come up with some excuse to cover your ass and then go home.

Except…you had a one-way ticket.

It was suddenly too much. All the minutes and hours compressed themselves into a giant weight that settled on her chest, crushing, chasing out her breath. Claire stood there, in her hooded sweatshirt and brand-new jeans, hair limp and stringy from a long day's traveling, clunky backpack dangling from one shoulder, in the middle of all those smiling, hugging, happy, perfect families, and started to cry.

And then…

"Claire? Claire!"

At first she was sure she'd imagined it, or that there had to have been a dozen Claires in this crowd. But no, through the cloudy film of hot tears, she saw him all of a sudden, striding into view, dark hair flopping into his eyes, expression going from puzzled to worried to relieved in the space of a few seconds. Much like her feelings.

"Claire? I just got your message, god, less than an hour ago, and I came straight here—what's going on? What's wrong? Are you okay?" Words tumbled from Peter's lips, one after another, and Claire wasn't certain that she was comprehending all of them, but it was enough to just stand there and let them wash over her, warm and strangely comforting. She hadn't realized she'd been craving the sound of his voice ever since it had last passed, recorded and tinny-sounding, through the telephone wires.

Peter reached out and tucked a loose, straggly lock of hair behind Claire's ear, then looked vaguely surprised at himself for doing it. "Are you hurt? No, wait, that's a stupid question…"

Claire laughed, a sudden staccato chortle, tracks of saltwater still streaming down her face, and she vaulted herself at him. Threw her arms around him, squinted her eyes tight to dam the tears, and sobbed wordlessly. A moment's hesitation later, Peter hugged her back, no less tightly.

"Hey, it's okay. Whatever it is, we'll fix it." She sensed rather than saw his gently amused smile. "We're each other's heroes, after all."

Footnotes, because I am that kind of nerd:

1. Apparently some folk consider it bizarre to eat scrambled eggs with ketchup. To them I say, don't knock it til you've tried it.
2. MAF is the abbreviation for the Midland-Odessa airport.
3. Friend of Dorothy equals gay guy. (Obviously)