Chapter 2 – That doesn't even work
"I'm married to Peter," Claire muttered indistinctly into her comforter as she attempted to smother herself. It was floral and warm, with a ridiculously high thread count and would leave her a pretty corpse. She couldn't think of a better way to die.
Too bad it wouldn't stick.
"You can't be married to Peter. He's your uncle," May reminded her, briskly moving about the room. Packing.
"I'm married to my uncle."
The giant teak wardrobe Nathan had given them creaked as May opened it. She shoved her own hangers to the side and lifted Claire's out in one huge armload. Methodically, she removed the hangers one by one and tossed them into a pile where they clicked against the hardwood floor.
May contradicted Claire, "You can't be married to your uncle. That's incest. And illegal."
"Oh God," Claire moaned, clutching the comforter tighter – a comforter, incidentally, that Nathan had also bought. He, and one of Heidi's favorite interior designers, had outfitted their entire apartment, turning a mildewy, cramped Brooklyn rattrap into an elegant, singularly beautiful rattrap. Wall paper was stripped and plaster scored down to the surprisingly interesting red stonework; drab white and hospital green painted over with autumnal colors, accented with tasteful cream curtains. Every special occasion – birthday, holiday, or grade report – was met with another expensive piece of furniture from her biological father.
Nathan was still most comfortable displaying affection via charge card (also overbearing criticism), and it was truly the only form of parenting that Dad would stand for. Nevertheless, it was Noah Bennet's name on the lease of the apartment, not Nathan's, because any permanent seeming commitment tended to get his ire up.
Permanent commitment. "Oh God. Dad's going to kill me."
"Hey." The clatter of falling hangers halted and the bed dipped down next to Claire's side. One of May's artful hands reached out, stroking Claire's curls aside to gently touch her cheek. "It's just a mission. It's not real. Your Dad will totally get that."
Claire managed a half smile, and leaned into the touch a little. She resolved herself to making sure there was no way in hell Noah found out about this mission, saying, "You really don't know my Dad very well."
"I know that the only thing more important to him than the mission is you – so hey, twofer!" May grinned, and her dark hair fell attractively into her eyes. "You're on a mission, which is good for the world, and you will be good at the mission, which is good for you. You always say that you don't know what to do with yourself when you aren't helping."
Without noticing, May's hand had gone from merely touching Claire, to cradling her jaw. Her fingers stroked across Claire's pulse, suddenly leaving Claire breathless.
As if jolted, May pulled back.
Some people would say that continuing to live with your ex-girlfriend after she dumped you because, in her words, "You're just working out all your Elle-and-Peter issues on me," would be awkward.
Those people would be right.
Both of Claire's fathers had been surprisingly amenable to the girls living together for college. Of course, their reasoning had far more to do with Claire's inability to remain uninjured for three days straight than with their feelings toward her relationship with May. It was simply safer for her secrecy, they said, if she lived with someone who already knew about her ability.
And, she was fairly sure, neither believed Claire and May ever did more than cuddle.
Disappointed and put out, Claire slid from the bed, and resumed May's packing efforts. Folding cardigans was calming, as long as she didn't think of exactly where they, and she, would be going. It was hard to tell how much in the way of clothing she would actually need – and knowing Angela, her entire wardrobe would probably be dismissed as inappropriate for the role she was playing, anyway – but the last thing Peter had told her to do when he dropped her off was to pack. There was certainly nothing else she could do to prepare.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Claire saw May fumble toward the bedside table, snagging Claire's pink iPhone with her fingertips. She fiddled with it momentarily.
"Okay," she started weakly. May cleared her throat, and tried again. "Okay. I can prove it to you. According to the New York City Marriage Bureau you have to appear in person at the Bureau to apply to get married and must 'list various personal details such as their name, address, and birth place, date of birth, social security number, and marital history and make a sworn statement that there are no legal impediments to the marriage.'"
Claire stopped her maniacal folding. "We didn't do any of that."
"See, I told you! And I Googled it, so it must be true!"
Breathing easily for the first time since she'd left the Kirby building, Claire casually stuffed the blouse she was folding in her bag, and crawled onto the bed to hug her friend. This was good. This was really, really good. The meeting had just been half mission prep and half crazy mind games from Angela. That she could deal with.
Considerably cheered now that Claire wasn't quite so emo – all too often May's mood depended on the moods of people around her – May joked, "It probably wouldn't be a real problem anyway, you know. Your Dad has always liked Peter. I bet he'd think he's a great son-in-law."
Claire glared balefully at her. "Too soon, May."
Hours later, a significant portion of the apartment had been packed away. Looking around the now bare space, seeing the places that she no longer filled in, Claire couldn't help but feel anxiety tightening along her nerves. Her fingers twisted into the long hem of her shirt.
Peter's sharp rap on the door startled Claire from her seat on her four somewhat overstuffed bags. Stumbling, she kicked one over. As she was righting it, another knock came at the door, and May poked her head out from the bedroom.
Grinning, she darted toward the door. "I'll get it!"
Twisting to stop May, Claire knocked over another bag and before she knew it, May was greeting Peter, hands fisted behind her as she rocked back on her heels in mischievous glee.
"Hi, Peter," May crooned.
Forgoing righting the other bag, Claire straightened to wave at him. He didn't seem to see her at first, instead looking rather nonplussed at May's enthusiasm. Peter looked much the same as during the – her minded tried to shy away from the word – wedding. Clean cut, only slightly brooding. And yet, there was an added look in his eyes since the morning. Apprehension, or maybe guilt. It tightened his features, making him look as tense as Claire felt.
"It's good to see you, May," he said quietly. He caught Claire's eye over May's shoulder, and sent her a questioning look. She shrugged back helplessly. Since this morning, it had become clear that May found this entire situation hysterical, and, equally clearly, nothing Claire did would dissuade her from seeking her fun.
"So, I heard the news from Claire. I always hoped you two crazy kids would work it out," she said, adding a wink at the end.
Peter ducked his head, and forced a smile. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear at least one person is happy for us. You wouldn't believe the rants my mother has been making me endure every time I pick up the phone."
Claire's eyebrows climbed toward her hair line. "Really?" she asked. "She didn't seem angry at all when I saw her."
Peter laughed without humor – a harsh sound that Claire hated, no matter the context – and walked in from the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Trust me," he said, locking eyes with her. "I just know that she spent every moment she wasn't talking to me raging to her society friends about how her youngest ran off with some 'blonde trollop' he met on his 'search for spiritual enlightenment.'"
Oh, Claire thought.
"Great. Now everyone will be talking about us," she said, flatly.
Peter nodded and sighed in sympathy. He stepped closer, intimately so, and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. Claire shivered under his touch. Over the past several months, she'd gotten used to the new, closed off Peter. The one who didn't call and didn't laugh and, above all, didn't touch. Even the brief sensation of his skin against hers was now as surprising as it was once familiar and welcome.
"I've been through this before – the stares, the disapproval, the whispers that follow you everywhere. And it gets to you, because it follows you home, even when you try to shake it. But..." Here he smiled a genuine smile, "I know you're strong enough to make it through this, Claire."
Playing along, Claire nudged him. "Hey, I'm not the only one."
"Right," May interjected, and the pair turned to look at her, still standing close enough to embrace. "Yeah. Everyone here is real strong. Because being strong in our own homes, when no one is watching is important?" she added, ending on a bemused note.
"Always," Peter replied.
"O...kay. So!" putting her hands on her hips, May switched tacks in her continuing quest to milk some enjoyment from the situation. "I've heard so much about the wedding, and obviously about you, Peter, but I hadn't heard about your 'search for spiritual enlightenment.' That sounds intense. Where exactly did you meet?"
"Malaysia," he answered easily. "I'm surprised she didn't tell you the story."
"So am I," May said with mock sadness. "Sometimes I just feel that we're drifting apart."
Scowling, Claire left Peter's side to smack May on the arm. May pouted.
"You never send me roses anymore?" she tried.
Shaking her head, Claire smiled, "That's better done at a distance, anyway." Fiercely, she pulled May into a hug. "I'm going to miss you."
Behind her, she heard Peter hefting the weight of her bags – without powers, of course. Niki's wasn't one he dared tap, nor was Sylar's.
May kissed Claire's cheek, and then pulled back to hold her by the arms.
" I'll miss you, too. Enough that I might be persuaded to visit your swank beach house."
"We'll fix it up for you," Claire promised, loathe to let go. Emotion seized her heart. Despite all of May's assurances – despite laws of men, morality, and New York state – this was a real goodbye.
"Claire," Peter beckoned softly, laden with three of her bags, one in each hand and one slug across his shoulders.
Suddenly anxious and scared and afraid, Claire wiped away escaping tears. "I'll call you tonight."
"Yeah. You will," May affirmed, letting Claire go and pushing her away slightly.
Sniffling, Claire collected her remaining bag, and joined Peter by the door.
"We'd love to have you over some time, May. We'll have to call and set that up," said Peter.
Nodding, May said, "I'll talk to you later, then."
"Later," Claire said, hugging herself.
They turned to leave, the sound of the door creaking closed playing painfully up Claire's spine. Then, abruptly, it stopped. Claire turned to glance back just as May called out, "Before I forget, have fun saving the world...in bed."
The hand clutching the shoulder strap of her bag convulsed, and Claire's tears were momentarily overwhelmed by a guilty laugh.
"Still not funny!" she shouted back, but May had already closed the door, leaving Claire and Peter alone in the stuffy hallway, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with each other.
Silently, they made their way down to the street level. Instead of a rental, as she had expected, one of the family town cars (discreet, unfamiliar driver included) greeted her.
"Gleason," Peter acknowledged with a short nod, handing the bags off. The driver, a broad, balding man with a solemn face, nodded back, and offered Claire a cordial look before packing the bags away.
Opening the backseat door, Peter guided Claire inside. Like most Petrelli family cars, the interior was plain, but expensive leather. Scooting across, her hip bumped into an opulent, cherry wood box, topped with a pair of manila folders.
"Sorry about that," Peter said stiffly, edging as far as humanly possible away from Claire on the backseat bench.
Stung, Claire wrapped her arms around herself. "Yeah, I get it. We're always on the job."
"And we need to establish our cover quickly," he said, looking out the window. "Fusor has already taken two couples. A third one is probably already pushing it, so she'll definitely move on after. We have to be her next target."
"Peter?" Claire asked, trying to get him to look at her. She saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he willed himself to stay distant, and waited for him to give in to her as he always did.
"Peter?" she asked again softly, and this time he forgot about his stoicism and looked at her, hazel eyes slightly afraid.
Scooting down the bench, Claire forcibly wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He didn't struggle, but she kept one hand clamped firmly on his forearm, keeping it in place. Incrementally, she felt him relax into the pose.
She titled her face up to examine his, saw the silent question why? forming in his eyes. Heart constricting painfully, she lied, "We have to establish our cover."
A disappointed yet relieved light flickered in his eyes. He didn't move his arm.
"So," Claire began, deciding to avoid the issue, "why can we talk now? What, chauffeurs never gossip? And why not just teleport over?"
"Appearances. And no, not if they work for my mother, they don't," he replied, tone lightening as he silently consented to the change of topic. "You've clearly never read the staff contract for family employees."
"No, actually, I haven't. And speaking of contracts that I haven't read," she kicked him, "what the hell was all of that about? It's not like any of those hoity toity society biddies are going to demand to see our marriage license."
Peter fumbled for a moment, searching for a justification. Finally, he sighed, "You'd be surprised. Honestly, we just need it to be on file. The Social Register is an actual book, not just a concept."
Slumping against him, she grumbled, "Still. You could have warned me about Angela's mind games. I would have signed it even if I knew what it was."
She felt him move, turning his head to stare at her. His breath stirred her hair. "You went to a meeting with my mother and didn't expect mind games?"
Put that way, it did make her sound a bit dim. Without moving, Claire snagged the case files with her fingertips. "So what's the plan?"
Peter brought a hand up to her eye line, and ticked off the points one by one on his long fingers, "Get married. Nervous breakdown. Move to Nassau. Make our big debut. Get stalked. Catch the bad guy, hopefully with minimal disintegrations."
"Is the nervous breakdown part optional?" Claire asked hopefully.
"I don't know, was it?"
"Well, I didn't actually suffocate myself earlier."
"I hear that's a bad way to go." Hearing an unwelcome note of pensiveness, Claire repositioned herself to look at him. Peter's gaze had drifted to the tinted windows of the town car, watching barely visible buildings pass as they left the city.
Really? Talk to Elle lately?, she didn't say. Too soon. Too soon for jokes about choking girlfriends, even if it wasn't really him, and marriage, even if it wasn't real, period.
Distracting herself, Claire flipped the first file open. Instead of the dossier on Fusor she expected to see, she found herself looking at pictures of herself and Peter. Dozens of pictures of them laughing, lounging on a beach, showing off their glinting rings in the purple-red light of a tropical sunset.
"Wedding photos," Peter said, breaking into her thoughts.
Claire's fingers traced over the light blue sundress she wore in the picture of their vows. "How?"
"René in Paris. One of his operatives is a psychic photographer. Mom had him whip these up before she talked to us."
She looked away from the pictures briefly to smile at Peter. "So we met in Malaysia?"
He nodded, and Claire settled comfortably against him as he began to explain their romantic back story.
"Claire Bennet is the kind of conscientious, new money sorority girl who splits her vacation time between partying at beach wide raves in Malaysia and building houses for charity in the villages," Peter recited.
"New money?" Claire asked.
"Out west. And bear in mind," he added, before she could pout about disliking her California cover story. "To these people, 'out west' is anything beyond Pennsylvania."
"So who are you in all this?"
Claire felt him shrug slightly against her. "I'm Peter. Troubled son of the somewhat scary Petrelli family, who has been battling depression for a few years now and keeps dropping off the planet every couple of months.
"I was volunteering as a nurse in one of the villages you built a house in. We passed by each other a few times without noticing, and then you talked me into going to a Full Moon Party. Between a bucket of booze and several tablets of ecstasy, we fell in love. Two weeks later we got married, and flew home to face our families' disapproval."
"Families' or family's?" Claire asked.
Somehow hearing the difference, Peter butted his head against hers gently, "Clearly that's our secret."
How am I joking about this? This is insane. It was. Some insane, private joke that felt like it couldn't really touch her as long as she felt Peter smiling against her hair. Reaching down, she laced her fingers with his – only to have him pull away suddenly. The movement hit Claire like a gunshot, and tears unexpectedly filled her eyes.
Peter, not oblivious, but stubbornly ignoring her pain, said, "That reminds me. Can you hand me the box?"
Furious with herself, Claire turned her head to scrabble at the tears and grab the box. Hair still shading her face, she thrust it at him. Smoothly oiled hinges worked open beyond the periphery of her vision.
Then Peter gently moved her curtain of hair behind her shoulder, presenting her with a box of glittering gold and diamond against velvet. Rings. Claire's hand reached out to touch the brightest, a thin gold band set with a very large tear shaped diamond, and then hesitated.
"That's your engagement ring," Peter whispered, plucking the ring from the box. "It was Nana's. Mom's mother, not Dad's. Heidi's got that one already, sorry."
Claire watched silently as he slipped the ring onto her left hand. It fit perfectly, although heavily, on her finger. Undoubtedly, Angela had it altered before the mission, just as she'd had the wedding photos produced.
"I didn't really think you were a diamonds kind of guy, Peter," she said, lifting her eyes from the light of the ring.
He gave her a half-smile. "I'm not. But I never turn down a good heirloom."
Already, Claire's eyes were drawn back to the jewelry box. Several sets of wedding bands gleamed inside – a pair inlaid with delicate filigree, a pair of thick, squarish bands, thin woven bands, some set with still more diamonds and some plain.
"Am I supposed to choose?" Claire asked. "Which ones do you like? Whose were they?"
"My grandparents', on both sides. Nathan and Heidi had their own rings made. Some sets are from further back. Those two," he added, pointing to the square bands, "were my uncle and aunt's – Dad's brother."
"I didn't know Arthur had a brother."
"Well," Peter coughed in embarrassment. "He may have died mysteriously, not long after Mom married Dad, leaving Dad as the only heir."
Claire covered her face and let a familiar, horrified laugh bubble up in her. "Oh. My. God. That explains so much about you people."
Letting the opportunity to remind her that she was one of those people pass him by, Peter instead tapped the box and asked, "So, which will it be?"
Claire's fingers skimmed over the rings, smudging the perfect golden polish. They lingered on an older looking pair, engraved leaves rubbed down to near invisibility. The rings really weren't the classiest in the box. Certainly not the most expensive. But they had been worn.
Noticing her choice, Peter removed them from the box and explained, "Those were your great, great grandmother and grandfather's."
Stomach churning at his words, Claire watched as he slid the wedding band on to fit snugly next to the engagement ring on her finger, and then took the man's ring from Peter's outstretched hand. Concentrating just on his hand, kind and able but maybe not as strong as it needed to be, Claire slid the ring onto his finger.
Peter's hand turned under hers, grasping it, and he leaned forward, kissing her on the forehead – leaving Claire trembling.