Claire accepts the white shirt and black pants and locks herself in a bathroom that probably costs as much as the entire Odessa house. (She can't quite bring herself to call it home again, because words have meanings and that place doesn't signify safety any more). She showers behind a spotless glass curtain and quashes an urge to leave fingerprints all over it, marking a trail of Claire-was-heres. That would achieve nothing, she thinks, and they'd be gone before morning.
She ignores the comparison between it and herself.
Instead, she dries herself off with a thick, creamy towel and slips on the new clothes. They're soft and expensive and she hates them on principle because they've sucked away her identity and already she feels halfway to France.
She doesn't want to go there, doesn't want to be here and the girl (woman) in the mirror doesn't look like her. She steps away from the vanity and her foot nudges her old shirt, an eyesore on the pale tiles, all dirty and crinkled and gross. There's (Peter's) blood on the sleeve and she thinks it probably stinks of nervous perspiration but at least when she was wearing it she felt like herself.
After a moment, she bends down and scoops all the dirty clothing up, rolling them into a smelly ball of Claire. She lets herself out and returns to the bedroom, ignoring her grandmother's disapproving look.
"You can throw those out," she says, waving a dismissive hand at the bundle.
"I know," Claire replies, tucking them into her suitcase.
- - -
It isn't that she didn't want to say goodbye, it's just that she can't find the right words. What do you say to a man who has saved your life? How do you thank someone who has died for you? Who would have stayed dead, forever, were it not for convenient flaws in your (matching) DNA?
"Goodbye," she says sarcastically, and it is so far from what she means that she's half-tempted to take the gun and use it on herself. After all, she's been shot before. She could probably get used to it, after a bit.
Deciding that such a display would be in poor taste, she settles for sliding the gun into the waistband of her expensive pants, and the contrast is so ridiculous she wants to throw her head back and laugh. But Peter is being earnest and it seems they have a destiny so she frowns and nods attentively instead.
They can laugh when it's over, she decides. After they save the world.
- - -
Peter's thumb is soft against her cheek and for a second, when she looks up at him, the film of tears twists reality and it's not her uncle that she sees. But exploding men and thoughts like that are as dangerous as each other, and she's relieved when her eyes dry and familiar glasses come into view.
"Dad!" she cries and flies and flings herself into his waiting arms. For an instant, all she feels is warmth and comfort, but then the cold hand of destiny is pressing against her back again.
They both pretend to ignore it and take a turn around the plaza, their casual stroll incongruous in the face of the fate that they're trying to stop.
"So, Peter's your uncle," her father says, and she almost answers of course not, silly, he's not your brother, is he? but then she remembers his blood on her t-shirt and how it runs through her veins.
"Yeah," she replies, noncommittal. She has more important things to think about.
- - -
They can't see Ted's body through the wire fence and milling policemen, but Claire has a vivid imagination and can fill in the blanks.
"He got him," Peter whispers beside her and she wonders if he's acquired super-vision too. She doesn't get a chance to ask - and it's hardly appropriate, given the current circumstances - because he shakes himself and looks at her and his eyes are harder now, determined. He's ready for this fight.
"Come on," he says, hands on her shoulder.
She lets him fade them both from sight and dwells on the novelty of invisibility as he herds her away from the scene. She tries very hard not to think of severed heads or dripping blood or bad guys who were really good guys who didn't deserve to die.
Strong fingers, she thinks as they slip into an alleyway. Dark hair, she muses as they break into a run. Brown eyes, she considers, breath coming hard in her chest.
Soon after, she lets her thoughts return to the murder. Apparently her imagination is as cruel as it is strong.
- - -
I trusted you, she thinks bitterly, feeling the betrayal twist across her face.
Peter's eyes slide away from her and he swallows, once, before pulling on the handle and stepping out of the car. She watches him as he leaves her, as he makes a path across to Na-- that man, and then she can't watch any longer so she gets out as well. Picking her way across the garage - she hates her new, imported boots - she's this close to something when a familiar barrier plants itself in her path.
"Hello, Claire," says her grandmother, her tone tired but triumphant.
Claire waits for Peter to save her, but he never comes.
- - -
It isn't until they're in Nath-- that man's office that she realises she's had it all wrong. "Save the cheerleader, save the world," Peter had said, back in Texas. They've done it together so far, and that's how they'll do the rest, because there's more for her to achieve here, more to do at his side. They can't stop a bomb from a distance, and she can't do anything without Peter's help.
"The future isn't set in stone," she accuses him, warns him, ignoring the warmth her cheek can feel beneath the fine wool of his suit. Then she's pushing and running and pushing again, but the glass offers only a token resistance before shattering like their promises and she's falling down, down, down.
The ground is unforgiving, but she can deal with that, so she gets up, snaps back and hobbles off into the unknown. Her collarbone takes a while to knit itself back together and she only notices her broken wrist after two streets to the left in the wrong direction.
She asks a pretzel man for directions to Kirby Plaza. He doesn't bat an eyelid at her dishevelled appearance but he seems insulted when she leaves without buying anything.
She decides to come back when it's all over. She'll share one with Peter, if he wants.
- - -
Her dad is down and Peter's glowing and there's a gun in her hand again but she doesn't know what to do. It should be so easy (point and click) and in theory it is, but theory isn't real or frightened or telling her there's no other way.
And then another way lands between them and tells her it's all right, it'll be okay. Claire's never trusted a politician before but for some reason she believes him and her gun hand lowers without any conscious effort on her part. For some reason Nathan is the hero, and she wonders if his dad would sound different on her tongue.
"I love you, Nathan," says Peter, and Claire does too, in this moment she never thought would come.
"I love you, too," says Nathan - her father - and Claire feels something in her chest crack because she does too, except it's wrong and it's different and it's all for nothing, because everything is over before it could begin.
Peter steps into Nathan's arms and Nathan flies them both up, up and away. Claire is left behind, alone, until her other father comes over and holds her like he's always done.
She appreciates the gesture, but something is missing, and she's pretty sure she just saw it light up the sky.
- - -
"Let's go back," her first-second-real-other father suggests as they sit on the fountain ledge in the aftermath of it all. She wants to tell him that it's impossible, that everything is different now that she's been lost, found and lost again. Instead she makes some comment about the house being gone - like a house is important now that Peter is gone - and lets him reassure her, lets him steer her away.
His touch is still comfort, his warmth still makes her safe, but she knows there's something more now, and she has to get it back.
He has a plan, he tells her, speaking volumes with just a look. He's going to do something about it and that's good to know. Because this time, she won't just wait for someone to save her.
This time, Claire has a plan too.
-----------------------------------
I'm not sure what that plan is, exactly, but this was more an exercise in writing Claire than any attempt to solve the mysteries of the show. (Although I would like to know why she was so collected after everything went down!) Anyway, thanks for reading! This is definitely a oneshot but I may at some point write Peter's perspective on the events of the finale...have to do something during the break, right?