Part Five
Claire doesn't think twice about stripping Peter's dank and dirty clothes off his sodden body. She wants him in front of the roaring fire as quickly as possible and she gets quite angry when her dad lays a cautioning arm on her.
"Claire." It's only when she hears the amused warning in his voice that she realises she's about to pull Peter's trousers off. In any other situation she would've blushed and giggled like a high school girl but she doesn't. Firstly because of the obvious and secondly because she doubts she's anything like a typical high school girl anymore.
Her only concession to propriety is a wry smile, followed by terse instructions. "We should put him in front of the fire. He's freezing."
"I know." Her dad's more amused than concerned now that she's stopped undressing her uncle (ew, it's not like that). He kneels next to Peter with two huge bath towels he'd taken from the bathroom and starts drying him off, all the while keeping a wary eye on his wayward daughter.
"He needs to get out of those wet clothes." Claire sounds just like her mom right now but she doesn't care.
She almost can't see her dad's expression because the firelight's bouncing off his glasses but hears the exasperation in his tone anyway. "I know Claire." He tosses a towel at her, motioning to their lone bathroom. "You should see about getting yourself dried off. You're dripping all over the carpet."
"I need to make sure he's okay." Claire can be obstinate when she wants to be. It's something she learned from her dad and although they're not related by blood she's every bit his daughter in this respect.
"Peter will be fine. Your power probably helped him quite a bit."
"But he's still wet."
"So are you."
"I'll be fine. I can't catch cold, remember?"
There's an odd beat, and her dad sighs. "I'm just worried about our deposit."
She throws the towel back at him then regrets it the next second because she is wet and her shoes and socks are soaked. Every step she takes she makes uncomfortable squishing sounds that only ends when she yanks the offending articles of clothing off.
When she steps in the shower and sees the thick curtain of steam rise before her, she worries how Peter's going to feel when he finally wakes up. It's odd that she doesn't care how he survived the explosion or the fall from the sky or how he ended up where he had; she just wants to know he's okay.
When she comes out of the bathroom Claire does feel a lot better, or a lot warmer at least. Her dad's kneeling next to Peter's limp body, one hero has dragged the other directly in front of the hearth and the flames now crackle merrily in the stillness.
A cloud of steam accompanies her entrance, thick and warm enough to alert her dad to her presence. "He's fine, he's sleeping." He wryly pre-empts her melodramatic concern and she has to smile grudgingly; he's got a point because she has been more than slightly obsessed about finding Peter over the last few days.
"Thanks." She can't say anything more because she's so content and tired now and seeing the steady rise and fall of Peter's chest bared in the firelight oddly relaxes her. Comfort and warmth permeate the room and all Claire wants to do is sleep and dream.
Her dad eyes her weary form, nods to her slumbering hero. "You should go to sleep Claire-bear. Get some rest. You deserve it." His voice hitches slightly then, something's caught in his throat and anyone who's not his daughter wouldn't notice, but she does. "You saved a man's life tonight. I'm so proud of you."
She hears the fierce pride in his voice and it sings to her exhausted heart, but all she can do is stand on her tip-toes and kiss her dad's cheek as she pads wordlessly past him to the bedroom.
She has an uncomfortable few hours full of blankness and it doesn't makes sense. It's only when she jolts awake in the midnight darkness and pads out of her room that she realises why the blankness was so disconcerting.
She hasn't dreamed for the first time since it happened; it's the first time Peter hasn't graced her dreams with his living presence, the first time she's been alone since the darkness that enveloped her like a glove that fateful night.
The realisation is bittersweet because finding him last night probably means a stop to their dreams together and she regrets that. It's selfish but she can't help the way she feels; a part of her enjoyed the time together, liked the feel of their connection pulsate through her veins like a living, breathing thing.
She goes to check on him but he isn't by the fireplace. For a moment her heart stops in panic and hysteria crawls through her insides until she hears the shower in the bathroom. Claire breathes again until she hears a sudden crack, something that sounds like an explosion but can't really be; until she remembers Peter's only one of two people in the world who actually can explode.
She rushes to the door but an awful, haunting scream stops her short. It's so full of primal rage and fury, hurt and pain and loss and of so much more she can't describe; her heart trembles at the pathetic fury locked inside that scream.
She doesn't think, just bursts through the door and never mind Peter may be entirely naked in the shower. The potential embarrassment's worth it only to know he's okay. She won't mind being the butt of all future family jokes, if only Peter is all right.
But he isn't. She finds him cowering in the bathtub, she can't quite see his face because his back's half turned, pale and glistening in fluorescent light. He huddles, head in his hands; wet tendrils obscure his face but Claire can feel his unending pain. Feel it wafting from him; the stench of it almost makes her gag.
Streaks of red on the wall just above his head catches her eye and she gasps; it's like the very walls are weeping blood along with Peter's anguish. The tiles are cracked and broken and even without checking his hands she knows what she heard before was her hero trying to shatter his pain by slamming already broken fists through the wall. The thought of his torment almost brings her to her knees but she doesn't buckle, not yet.
Because the shower is still running; she winces as the jet of water hits her when she moves to turn it off. It's scalding hot and she doesn't know whether he did it deliberately or not, tried to scorch the guilt right out of his soul. His skin's blistering but it heals almost immediately in her presence.
Claire crosses to him on shaky legs. She's not equipped to deal with this. Peter's the caring one in their dysfunctional biological family and she has Nathan's ruthlessness running thick through her veins. She's also a 16 year old girl who only a few short weeks ago was practicing cheers out in the open sunshine and she shouldn't have to deal with any of this, heroes and villains and real and adoptive dads and an uncle who lies broken before her.
She can't do this, but she will because Peter needs her. It takes almost an eternity to get to him, yet another one to gingerly crawl into the tub and she endures the scalding hot water on her arms as she turns the shower off. She kneels softly in front of him with downcast eyes, tries to catch his gaze but he's not there, not really. He's trapped in his own private hell and it's not even a dream or nightmare; Claire's can't reach him.
"Peter." She whispers; she doesn't know what else to say. She's never seen anyone like this before and it frightens her more than she cares to admit. She wants to cower but she can't, she won't. Because it's Peter and he's her hero and if there's one thing she's learned from all the craziness of the last few weeks it's that the world only gets saved when limits are tested and pushed. Nothing, not even the future, is written in stone.
She shakes him ever so gently. She's genuinely frightened he'll shatter but she chances it anyway. Her gambit works because he shudders once, twice before the fog in hazel orbs clear and suddenly he's back, the handsome stranger who had rushed to her rescue and saved her from ultimate evil.
His eyes are clear now but they're anguished; Claire feels his guilt, remorse, agony, grief and everything else she can't quite name roll off him. Wave after wave assaults her but she stands still and resolute, a rock in a fiery, tormented storm.
Suddenly he breaks; shatters and crumbles like a statue made of sand. He's still wet and soaked from his shower and tears that start off trickling down his handsome face soon melt into rivers of free flowing guilt and agony; Claire's helpless to do anything but watch and be witness to the breaking of a kind and gentle man.
Finally she gathers all her tendrils of courage and draws him to her, strokes his hair as he clings to her. It's tentative and feather light at first then he's grabbing and leaning against her with increasing desperation, weeping and sobbing into her neck. He rests on her shoulders and he's shaking and shuddering; from cold or emotion she doesn't know but it scares her all the same; the need with which he's clinging to her makes her wonder whether she's up to this.
Her words to Peter back in Odessa ring discordantly in her mind. She's just a girl.
She can't do this. He's clinging to her like she's his hero and that's laughable really. She'll be glad when this is all over and she can tease him about this, and she really wants this to be over and things to return to normal. What's normal in her life she doesn't know but it can't be this.
She doesn't know how long she holds him, endures the shattering of his soul. She doesn't remember when she starts rocking him, doesn't know when exactly she starts weeping herself but one minute she's not and the next Peter's sobs and hers are echoing in synchronicity around the room like a doomed symphony. She's doesn't ever want to see a man this broken ever again in her life and if her life lasts forever that's okay by her.
She holds him until his sobs subside. She's pretty much soaked by now between the shower and Peter and crying and kneeling in the tub but that isn't really her concern right now. When she feels it's okay to let him go she quickly clambers over the side and retrieves more dry towels from the cupboard. Wraps them gently around his bent and hunched shoulders and coaxes him, ever so quietly, out of the wetness.
By the time she manages to get him out of the bathroom she's exhausted and wonders how Peter managed to do this, being a nurse and caring for people unable to care for themselves day after day. It's like he's on automatic pilot and she ushers him without thought to her bed, struggles to tuck him in under a mass of blankets and wonders whether her dad will be mad or annoyed she spent the night with a man in the same room, albeit with her uncle.
But it's a trite concern because Peter's safe and she's warm. As she drags Peter's discarded blankets from the fireplace and makes an impromptu sleeping bag on the floor in her room, she thinks she'll cope if her dad's angry about the sleeping arrangements. Because as long as she hears Peter's steady breathing, she thinks everything will be fine.
She doesn't get much sleep and she's still wide awake when her dad creeps into the room. She knows he has a habit of checking in on her and so she's prepared for disapproval when he spies Peter sleeping soundly in her bed.
But he doesn't, and once again she's so glad to have him. She keeps her eyes closed, pretends to be asleep because she's not ready to give answers to questions she doesn't want to form. Claire's heart still shakes from seeing Peter like that and she wonders whether she'll ever recover, then knows in the next moment she'll recover if he does.
Strong arms envelop her and she's being lifted up; as her dad gently carries her to his room she somehow feels a weight lifting off her. When he places her gently onto his bed she opens her eyes at last, meets his intense gaze unerringly in the darkness.
"Are you okay, Claire-bear?" It's Claire's turn to break because one minute she's staring up into her dad's worried eyes and the next she's clinging to him and sobbing her heart out; and she didn't know until this moment how hard it is to truly care for someone. Because when they cry she cries; when they shatter she shatters and she doesn't want to feel this, doesn't want to feel Peter's unending pain.
He allows her to sob into his chest, strokes her hair and makes shushing noises just like he used to when she was younger and still capable of fitting neatly onto his lap. She's not that much bigger now in any case and he endures her broken weeping until it finally subsides. Red-rimmed eyes meet kind, loving ones and he patiently looks on, allows her to recover.
"Dad." She cries brokenly. "Peter –"
Her dad shushes her. "I know sweetie. I know." She rests her head on his chest, feels the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. She knows she can always depend on him and it makes her feel slightly better. "I'm so proud of you. You took care of him." He sighs and something like regret colours his voice. "I'm proud of you."
There's really nothing she can say to that. She doesn't feel like she's done anything worthy of commendation, especially when Peter's in the next room, alone. "Dad, I don't want Peter to –"
"I'll stay with him." He cuts her off, makes her blink in wonder how he knows her so well. "You get some rest." Off her frustrated blinking his tone grows sterner. "I mean it Claire. You need to sleep."
"But –"
"Don't worry, I'll pull up a chair. Stay close to him. But only after you sleep."
His ultimatum is so like him, but oddly she doesn't mind at all. Claire's slightly light headed from all the crying and weeping and she really doesn't mind the idea of drifting off to sleep, especially when she knows her dad will keep his word and look after Peter.
So she nestles deeper in her dad's arms, closes her eyes, and sleeps.