Part Six

Her mind's not ready to sleep and despite her dad's stern instructions, she wakes again. It's still dark and she can't get the image of Peter falling apart from her mind so she gets up to check on him.

The door creaks slightly as she opens it, pokes her head in. Her dad's not in the chair but judging by the pre-dawn light it's most likely he's gone out to check the ferry schedule and maybe get some food; he's that kind of dad.

She crosses noiselessly to Peter, notes with satisfaction his calm and steady breathing. She's about to duck out again but she sees his blankets have slipped during the night; his bare chest and torso are exposed in the amber glow of the flames from the fireplace in the corner of the tiny room.

For a long moment she silently watches the long, even steady rise of his chest. Marvels at the smoothness of his skin; it's unlined and no marks remain of his dramatic plunge to the ground. Claire brings her hand up, gazes at her own flawless skin and flexes it, is entranced again by the gift she's been given. Her skin is the same as always, slight golden tinge from days spent in the hot Texas sun. Marvels at the damage this hand's been put through and yet it's still flawless, smooth and unblemished. Only she knows what it's been through, only she knows what it's like to feel her hand being diced by the garbage compactor or broken or cut.

She's just like that, and so is Peter. They're the only two people who can die and die again yet live to die another day.

She's transfixed by the steady rhythm of his breathing, his slightly pale, smooth skin, the definition of his chest and abdominal muscles as they work to keep him alive and frankly it's a miracle he's still alive. But then he shivers and she recalls why she's staring and so she reaches for the blanket and pulls it over his chest; the sun hasn't risen yet and it's still pretty cold.

He shifts, mumbles something but settles again. She feels protective and it's odd; the damsel in distress is now the hero and she must be in upside down world if that's the case. She reaches out to smooth jet black hair off his face; he mumbles at her touch and then his eyes flicker open.

When she hears his voice, it's hoarse but strong. Something like a song breaks inside her; it's only now she can really believe he's alive. That the explosion hadn't broken him, that there's hope her hero will recover. "Claire."

She's reminded of saving him that first time, when she pulled the shard of glass from his brain and his face's wearing the same expressive wonder then as now. It makes her think of the little boy he must have been, small and tiny and trusting. "Are you okay?"

He smiles a small, sweet smile, tries to sit up. She grabs his arm and helps him, somehow between the two of them they manage to haul him to a semi-sitting position. The blankets lie piled on his lap covering his modesty but Claire hardly notices, so entranced is she by the living, breathing version of Peter sitting in front of her. "I'm fine." He coughs, hoarse and ragged. "Now that you've rescued me." He coughs again which Claire takes as a sign that he's cold, so she skips to the fireplace and starts piling on more wood like there's no tomorrow. "Claire – Claire –" He has to reach to stop her frenzied fire making and she spies with relief the fire's back in his eyes. His other hand's busy securing the blanket around his torso. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me." Her voice is small and deep and she looks at anything but him. Because if she does she'll crack under the strain of emotion trailblazing through her insides, see if she won't.

"I know." He only using the simplest of words but somehow they carry so much more meaning, more than either of them can express. "But I want to anyway." He adds almost as an afterthought. "And your dad too."

It makes her giggle for some reason. "I'll be sure to tell him." He doesn't know how much Claire and her dad have been through but then again she doesn't know how Peter and Nathan's flight to save the world ended with Peter lying in the middle of the Atlantic. But the way he says to thank her dad makes it sound like he's her sidekick and she's the hero. Which is a pretty funny thing so she has to laugh because if she doesn't she'll cry and she doesn't want Peter to see her crying and still terrified of a future where she doesn't save him.

But tears are trickling down her face anyway and his eyes waver at the sight; reaches out to wipe them gently away. Trails the wet stream down the length of her cheek; they stare at each other in the amber stillness and suddenly the air's heavy and dense with emotion. "I mean it Claire. You saved me. I'll never forget that."

"You –" Claire wants to say so much, but there isn't enough words in her brain and she settles for a sad sigh. "You – I dreamed about you Peter. Was that – was that really you?"

His smile's sweet and trusting and wonderful, so warm and inviting. Claire feels like she's coming home for the first time. "It was."

Knowing their dreams were real – that they were real – makes her heart sing. Suddenly she spies the truth buried beneath everything and she's awed by the realisation. She and Peter carry their own tunes individually but together they're a symphony capable of playing endlessly on.

She's laughing and crying and suddenly he stills, tucks a stray bang behind her face. His eyes are murky hazel pools in the orange glow and there's something tortured about them, something broken. She grasps wisps of it flowing through their connection but he's too tenuous at the moment and she can't see what's wrong, what troubles him. "You saved me."

"We save each other. That's what we do, isn't it?" He smiles wanly and pulls her close; they hug in the light of the sun rising across the ocean outside. She's in his arms and it feels so good it almost steals her breath away.

A polite cough breaks them apart and Claire realises how awkward this looks to her dad. Peter cringes and shies away, covers his bare chest with the mountain of blankets available at his disposal. Claire didn't think twice but in retrospect it's an odd moment because she's never hugged a naked guy before, even if they're separated by blankets and he's her uncle.

It's a stupid thought and it's banished pretty quickly, because what else matters besides Peter being alive?

The smell of freshly cooked bacon and eggs permeate the air and all three of them munch eagerly away. Predictably her dad finishes first and before he can get up Peter's already standing at attention fervently clearing the plates.

Her dad lays a firm hand on Peter's arm. "You guys finish eating. I'm going to head out and check the next ferry. We need to get back to Mohinder and Molly." He gives her a pointed look. "I'll be back soon."

She doesn't know the reason for the look so shrugs it away. She's alone with Peter and strangely there's a discordant note in the air.

He sits back down, rather lamely she thinks but smiles softly at her across the table. She returns that smile with one of her own, knows why it's suddenly so awkward. So much happened with the crying and the everything and it's really too much for ordinary people to handle, even though she and Peter are nowhere near ordinary. "It was nice of your dad to make breakfast for us. Scrambled eggs and toast." He pipes up awkwardly, gesturing to the remnants of their breakfast.

"That's all he knows how to make." Despite exploding and almost being left for dead, he quickly gets up and pours her another cup of coffee. Sets it down in front of her with sorrow in his face.

She wants to wipe that sorrow off. "What?"

"Last night." He shifts uncomfortably, hands clasped nervously together. "I don't remember what happened, but when you were in the bathroom your dad – he kind of – he said you found me in the shower last night?"

"Oh. You don't –"

He cuts her off, determined to finish. "And um, you – I mean – I'm sorry." He rushes quickly, places a hand over hers. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I didn't want you to see me – like that."

She shrugs, like it's no big deal, even if it is. She'll never be able to forget how shattered he was, how broken and insubstantial. The picture's forever burned into her brain and damned if she doesn't want the Haitian man to come and take it from her now. "Don't worry about it."

She stares at anywhere but him, and it's awkward, well and truly awkward and she hates both of them for feeling this way. She's been so desperate and focused in her search for Peter and now she can't even look at him, even though she knows the expression in his eyes. It's the eyes of a haunted man, returned from the dead but not quite of the living.

Peter refuses to contact his mother when they get back to the city because he knows now she was willing to let him explode. Claire can't blame him. But she does blame herself for fleetingly thinking of it; she figures out on their ferry ride back that he gleaned that from her thoughts; she's responsible now for stripping the last remnants of his beautiful family from him.

The thought wounds her; she hadn't meant for Peter to know. Her hero's been through enough already without knowing the one last bitter truth about his mother; Claire knows how important family is now and there's a bitter aftertaste in her mouth just thinking of how alone he feels. All because of her.

If he hadn't come to her rescue those nights ago in Odessa, would his life be the living hell it is now?

She sees the moment he read her mind, saw how his eyes had veritably glowed, then simmered. He broke again in front of her eyes and Claire doesn't know how many times a man can break and be put together before being entirely consumed to wither and die in hurt and anger.

She doesn't want that to happen to him, ever.

The mood's hushed and subdued when they get back to Peter's apartment. Her dad had called Mohinder and together with Molly are meeting them here. Claire finds herself looking around his place full of curiosity but it's not at all idle; she's wants to discover Peter, discover the person he was before he'd saved the world. She thinks she would've liked that person; hopes that person would've liked the cheerleader of bygone days too.

Peter sighs and it's rather bitter, but both Claire and her dad pretend not to notice. The air's slightly stale and she thinks it's most likely due to the rubbish that hasn't been thrown out; evidently Peter thinks so too as he scrunches his nose. "I need to toss the garbage out."

She wonders when the last time he was here, whether he knew when he closed the door that when he finally returns he'll be an entirely different person.

He picks up newspapers lying on the coffee table, tosses it in the recycling. He doesn't get the time to throw anything out though because Mohinder shows up with Molly in tow. It's still early and the little girl's drowsy from sleep, rubbing weary eyes and holds Mohinder's hand like he's a safety blanket.

Peter's eyes round with surprise; he doesn't make the connection between 'tracking system' and Molly until this moment. "This is –"

Her dad nods. "This is Molly." Molly glances once around the room, spots Claire and promptly gives her the brightest smile she's seen for a long time. Molly tears her hands away from Mohinder and skips lightly to Claire, all trusting eyes and wide smile that warms Claire's heart.

"Did you find your hero?" The girl asks loudly and in the heavy silence Claire's eyes inadvertently meets Peter's. He stills and Claire covers her embarrassment with a stilted laugh.

"Yes sweetie, I did." If her eyes are a little hooded with emotion, Peter pretends not to notice as she crosses with Molly to him. She likes the feel of the tiny hand in hers; it's like she's helping to protect the girl she used to be. "Molly, this is Peter. You helped me – us – find him."

Claire didn't have the chance to really see Peter with his nephews and hasn't really thought about it but Peter seems really good with kids; at least he's good with Molly. Despite whatever turmoil he's experiencing he gives her a cheery grin, one she returns triple-fold. He ruffles her hair and she responds by giggling, blue eyes wide with innocence. "So you're Molly. I hear you're the one who found me."

Peter kneels beside her as she nods bashfully; ends up looking earnestly into her eyes and the whole thing's pretty sweet to watch. Peter isn't treating Molly like a child but rather an equal and it seems to go straight to the little girl's heart. Her dad and Mohinder look on fondly but then peel off to have a discussion away from childish ears. "You know what that makes you?"

She giggles again, and the tingling sound is all pure innocence and sweetness. Had Claire ever been like that? She must've been, once. "No."

Peter smiles then, a wonderful, heart filled smile that does reach his eyes, eyes that search over the top of Molly's head to look directly into Claire's. Emotion and thought too precious to enunciate pierces straight to her soul. "That makes you my hero."

Molly appears to be taking his announcement seriously. She frowns, confused. "But you're Claire's hero. How can I be yours?"

He smiles tenderly, tucks a small wisp of hair from Molly's face; frowns as the girl starts coughing. The gesture's so familiar it almost breaks Claire's porcelain smile. Peter still has it in him to care, just a little too much. If he has a flaw than this is it; he cares about everyone a little too much, throws himself into things with abandon and absolute disregard for his life.

Her dad and Mohinder unobtrusively rejoin the fold. They're an odd collection of strangers all melded together by one dramatic night in New York. Claire's reminded again of destiny and the universe and everything; she wants to sit with Peter and talk properly about their dreams, and how it is he's alive because of her.

Molly's coughing increases and her face's suddenly pale, too pale. Mohinder bends, examines her anxiously. "She needs another treatment."

Peter's the only person who isn't aware of Molly's condition; when they tell him Claire's the only one who sees the selfish need to find Nathan flame from desperation to desire before simmering into hibernation. Claire crosses to Peter's side as her dad helps Mohinder carry Molly to Peter's room; the man's cradling her like she's some precious cargo he'd give his life to protect.

She and her dad hover uselessly in the background while Mohinder retrieves the necessary equipment from his bag. Peter softly takes the IV and other things Claire can't identify and has a whispered conversation with Mohinder; it's only then that she recalls again that Peter's a nurse.

Her hero's a nurse, which makes perfect sense to her. A few weeks ago she would've laughed at the idea of a male nurse being her knight in shining armour, but then again a few weeks ago she was just a cheerleader, only a girl.

Her dad spreads comforting arms around her and she sinks into him gratefully. They wait patiently until Mohinder and Peter come out, Peter closing the bedroom door softly.

"How is she?" Her dad asks, concerned, and she trusts it's more for Molly as a girl than as a tracking system. Claire hasn't forgotten her dad's ruthless streak but he's proven beyond doubt his heart's in the right place; if a girl can't trust her dad then who else can she trust?

Mohinder's worried, his voice low and uneven. "She'll be okay in a few hours. She just needed another transfusion." He sticks a spare bag of saline back into his bag, curses loudly. "I should've remembered what time it was. She was due for another one. I've just been so distracted with everything –"

It's hard watching a man beat himself uselessly but no one quite knows what to say. She imagines the Peter before the explosion would have been kind and offered comforting words, but those words stick in his throat now. He swallows uncomfortably, and Claire grieves. She's lost a part of the man she met in Odessa and doesn't know how to get him back.

When someone does speak, it's her dad, firm and business-like. "We obviously can't ask Molly where Nathan is." Off Mohinder's surprise, he nods. "Claire and Peter think he's alive."

Peter utters through gritted teeth. "Know he's alive."

"Molly was our best bet. When –"

Mohinder's quick to pre-empt their request. Peter and Claire, and vicariously her dad's priority is finding Nathan; Mohinder's is protecting and caring for Molly. They all understand who and what's at stake. "Not for another two hours. I should've – she was due for another transfusion a few hours ago." He shakes his head, runs impatient fingers through unruly hair. "It'll take her longer to recover because of the lag."

"But we can't just sit here and do nothing!" It's Peter who suddenly bursts with frustration, slamming raw knuckles against his coffee table that almost breaks it in half. Frankly Claire's surprised it's taken him this long to lose control. He's wound tight as a drum, a coil ready to spring at any moment. She shares his impatience; wonders whether it's his impatience she actually feels and not her own. Claire's so enmeshed in Peter through their dreams she doesn't know where she ends and he begins.

Is it natural to feel so close to another human being, to her uncle?

She doesn't have time to wonder because her dad stands, tall and commanding in the late morning light. Looks down at Peter and Claire sitting with muted gazes on the couch. "Peter, I know you don't want to, but I think we need to go to your mother." He railroads through Peter's indignation as his eyes meet Claire's. "I gather she's got connections. Even with Linderman and Thompson gone, she might know where to start." He looks directly at Peter, flings a challenge he knows the younger man cannot refuse. "If you want to find your brother, if you don't want to lose another minute, we need to see your mother. Unless -"

"What?"

Her dad stares pointedly at Peter. "You're a mimic. You can probably access Molly's power. If you want to."

The revulsion on Peter's face is so intense she can't quite figure it out at first, but then it clicks. The last time he absorbed a power – well, second to last time, if she understood her dad's explanation about the tall blonde woman at Kirby Plaza correctly – he'd been responsible for almost destroying a city, causing his brother to quite possibly give up his life. She realises even without explanation that he can't do that again, not yet.

"I can't." He says crisply, stares evenly at her dad with a plea in his eyes. "I can't. Not yet." He looks like he's about to gag from nausea coursing through still shaky veins and Claire understands. She's not about to pull the Nathan card; nobody knows more than she does how desperately Peter wants to find his brother.

Her dad nods slowly; it seems like he understands, and together they head out. Her shoulder brushes past Peter's and the brief contact jolts her, like sparks igniting into flame. He doesn't show any signs of having felt it though so she keeps quiet, enjoys the sunshine as they step out onto the street below while regretting the closeness they felt in their dreams.

Perhaps they'll dream together tonight. She steals a glance at him, wonders whether he can read her thoughts. "Can we dream tonight?"

He stills, blinks rapidly. A ghost of a smile illuminates his face; it's like a sun dawning over a grey horizon.

She knows he's heard her. The thought comforts and bolsters her in the day ahead.