Peter and Mohinder end up having a throw down back at Peter's apartment about Molly. Claire and her dad stand on the sidelines, knowing how important each man's task is, knows who they have to protect and how important those people are to them.
Molly's awake and conscious now but it doesn't mean Mohinder's not preventing access to her at the moment. He says she's still too weak and needs the rest and judging from the girl's pallor Claire admits the geneticist may have a point, but can't quite bring herself to say it because of her loyalty to Peter. So they're angrily hissing at each other, pretending it's not brewing into a full blown fight and she and her dad quietly stay out of emotional harms way.
They withdraw to the kitchen to await – well, she's not sure even her dad quite knows what. Claire's sniffling slightly from the New York climate as she rummages curiously through Peter's kitchen cupboards like they were her own while her dad looms in the doorway keeping a steady eye on the fight outside. Mohinder's obviously at a disadvantage not being in possession of superpowers but Claire wants to tell her dad not to worry; no matter how angry Peter gets he's not going to take it out on the other man.
"This would be easier if Peter just accessed Molly's powers." He seems to be musing to himself but when she turns he's looking at her rather pointedly. She's got her fingers literally in Peter's cookie jar as he says this and but it doesn't stop her from catching his less than veiled meaning. "He seems to trust you more than anyone. You need to convince him to use Molly's power to find Nathan."
She withdraws her hand silently, bites her lip. "I can't ask him to do that dad."
"Yes, you can. You have to." He tilts her face up, gazes down at her with love. "I'm not the one who wants this. Finding Nathan? That's you and Peter. You two have convinced all of us Nathan's still out there." He smiles at her, fondly traces a finger down her cheek. "This is your mission Claire-bear, and we've run out of options. Angela Petrelli can only do so much with her connections. They'll probably find him eventually, but maybe not in time." Claire's frozen with fear and indecision and he finally has to drive the point home. "Do you know how long a man can live without food, without water, before they die?" It's destroying him to have to open her eyes to brutal truth but Claire's glad he's doing it. If he gets her to overcome her own fear, she's glad – or at least she will be after.
"Dad!" She tears her eyes away, blinks angrily and it's only then she realises the thought of Nathan, out there alone just like Peter had been makes her cry, yet again. She's so tired of this, tired of crying, feeling like some pawn in this universal game that has nothing whatsoever to do with her. Except she's enmeshed in it, caught in silken webs and the only thing she can do is fight or die.
And dying's not really an option for her anyway.
She nods, shrugs off her dad's hold and with shaky legs enters the battleground. The men haven't quite come to blows (not yet anyway) but their heavy breathing and fractious glances tell her they're getting close.
Mohinder sees her first; squares his shoulders. He thinks she's come to help Peter but she stems his concern, faces Peter haltingly. "Can we talk?" The quietness of her voice does nothing to mask her determination; Molly's self-appointed protector senses this and quickly withdraws into the bedroom to look after his charge.
Peter glances after Mohinder, frowns angrily when he finally turns to face her. "Why'd you stop me? He was almost going to agree. Not that we really need his permission." He murmurs, making Claire blanch.
"Do you hear what you're saying? You're asking him to put a little girl's health in danger for something … something you can do yourself?"
His eyes are saucer-wide, like a deer caught in dreadful headlights. "I can't Claire – you know – "
"I know. Trust me, I know. But you have to. We've run out of time." Takes a lesson from her dad and twists the knife in, drives the point home. "If that was me in there – if someone asked you to put my life in danger to help someone else – you –" Her voice cracks despite herself. "You wouldn't let them, would you?" Never mind Claire isn't exactly on par with a small child and she's nowhere near as dependent on Peter as Molly is on Mohinder, but he sees her point anyway; grudgingly sinks down onto the couch, head in his hands.
He's mumbling, distracted and confused. Claire has to kneel in front of him to hear what he's saying. "Don't ask me to, please don't ask me to. I can't." His hands covers his face, and panic blinds her because she can't see his eyes at the moment, can't see what he's going through. If she can't see what he's going through how is she going to help him?
So she gently cups her hands over his, whispers comforting, soothing nothings to him, words she can never remember afterwards but she's really convinced it's her voice that's going to reach him, not her words. Imagines how her dad used to whisper in those same soothing tones to her as a child, chasing her nightmares away; grasps those strands and weaves them for Peter now. Except what they're caught up in isn't exactly a nightmare but infinitely worse.
But she can't do any more beyond whisper meaningless words; it's only when her dad lays a firm hand on her shoulder that she's able to unleash the torrent of helplessness in her. Has to look up at her dad with beseeching eyes, wide and shining with tears she's already shed for her sunken hero.
He nods, carefully brushes her away. Sits down on the coffee table and stares in silence at Peter for a long moment, shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. Is this what post traumatic stress looks like? Claire's never been close enough to anyone so traumatised but she guesses that if anyone has a reason, Peter does.
Her dad's eyes pierces her in the gloom; she looks up now and it's dark. The day's gone by so quickly and they're still no closer to finding Nathan than they were this morning. "Here, this will make you feel better." She only notices the glass of whiskey when he proffers it to Peter, sees the just opened bottle placed incongruously by the table. It surprises her Peter has hard liquor in his apartment but then she remembers he is man, and no matter how heroic they are men always have liquor stashed at their apartments. Or so she imagines Jackie's giggly voice reminding her, the ghost of a voice long gone.
Peter doesn't seem to register or see what he's drinking, he does it because he's told to. Her dad watches him drink the amber liquid, glances at Claire staring in wonder at how he's handling this so calmly. He motions her to withdraw, give them some space and so she does, withdrawing to the bedroom to check on Molly.
When she silently opens the door Molly's asleep again. Mohinder's pulled up a chair and is just staring at the steady rise and fall of the little girl's chest. "How is she?"
"The same. I'm sorry." Hurries on, as if afraid of a 16 year old girl's recriminations. If only he knows how much she understands. "I can't let her use her power yet, she's still weak."
"I know."
"Does he?" There's no bitterness in Mohinder's voice, just concern. Dark eyes tilt up to meet hers in the gloom and she has to nod, cure his worry because Peter's just not like that.
"Of course he does. Peter's … he's been through a lot. You know that."
"I know. And I owe him." Off her curious look, he elaborates. "He saved my life. He saved me from Sylar."
The mere mention of that man's name conjures up images and feelings so horrible it's all Claire can do to swallow down bile inducing fear. It isn't rational nor sensible but she doesn't care; she doesn't want to even think of that man right now. He killed Ted Sprague which had stopped them from getting out of New York safely; if they'd gotten out of New York Peter never would have exploded and Nathan would never have had to sacrifice himself.
It doesn't help to realise her life's a house of cards that so easily comes tumbling down with the single breath of a madman.
"He's a good man." Mohinder continues and he doesn't sense her fear. She swallows down that gut wrenching fears and concentrates on the other man's voice, softened by pain and stress.
"How's Matt?" She asks, hoping to distract him but it only adds to his concern.
He looks up with stricken eyes. "I've completely forgotten to check – with Molly's last transfusion – I forgot to check."
She doesn't know him nearly well enough to offer words of comfort, so she's forced to silently watch as he paces around Peter's bedroom searching for a phone.
She takes the opportunity to open the door slightly to check on her two heroes. Her eyes widen as she spies her dad, crouching in front of Peter. He's got his head in his hands just like they'd been before but if possible his shoulders are even more bent than before, more hunched. Claire physically aches to see him in this much pain but trusts her dad knows what he's doing.
He's speaking to Peter in hushed tones, low and steady, she catches random words as they flow through the ether, words like "control", "ready" and "trust". She realises then her dad's not merely giving comfort or consolation; he's actually encouraging Peter to use his power.
She catches her dad's eyes just as he helps Peter to lie down on the couch, nods once at her to let her know everything's okay.
But she doesn't really need his reassurance. Claire knows that as long as her dad's with her on this, everything's going to be fine.
Peter's apartment is unnaturally large for a one-bedder in Manhattan but it still only has one bedroom all the same. With Molly already on Peter's bed and Peter himself slumped unconscious on the couch, there really weren't too many options for the rest of them.
Mohinder decides he's going to take the opportunity to check on Matt Parkman, a suggestion that almost gets him into another heated discussion (fight), this time with her dad. In the end they decide calling the hospital is a much more logical compromise and Mohinder relents. Without missing a beat the two men then turn on Claire and insist she get some rest; she's been up for a long time and should get some sleep.
Never mind she's old enough to take care of herself, old enough to have stopped another nuclear man from exploding. Yet she doesn't mind their protectiveness because now that she knows what real danger is, she treasures their concern, treasures the fact that there are people still willing to protect her.
She ransacks Peter's cupboards and finds what she needs, settles onto the floor of his bedroom. Softly tiptoes around to not disturb Molly's slumber. She arranges yet another makeshift sleeping bag for herself out of a collection of his sheets, sheets that pierce the bottom of her stomach because they smell so much like him it almost makes her weep. She misses his kindly eyes, the smile that droops on the side of his mouth, misses the little in jokes about Superman and flying and underwear on the outside, everything they'd begun to have in that short week before it happened.
Misses him, his arms around her, protecting her from her nightmares. She trusts him just like she trusts her dad, but it's different with Peter somehow.
She inhales the sheets, glances around guilty as if expecting someone to catch her in the act. She doesn't know why she's being so furtive, Peter's her uncle and it's only natural for her to care about him, right?
His scent reminds her of happier times, happier moments if not exactly happy in retrospect that she'd stolen from the impending doom to come. Peter's less than impressed wink at her from across the table at their first family dinner after his 'resurrection'; his fight with Nathan after she'd been informed of their plans for her in Paris; showing her the sketches he'd drawn with Isaac's power. There were smaller moments too that mean so much more now; eating ice cream in Central Park, having hot dogs together with mustard dribbling down her chin, catching the subway for the first time. Flashes of a friendship with a man that could've been, could be still, if only …
If only they find Nathan.
Suddenly she's dreaming again; the moment her heart realises the dreamscape before her it soars.
But not for long. Her joy settles and simmers and soon is gone altogether as she stares mutely at the barren landscape. Dry, harsh desert, red sand beneath her toes. The hardness of the sun's rays as they begin beating down on her relentlessly, heat simmering and creeping into every sinew of her body, choking every bit of moisture from the air, from her lungs, from everywhere.
Claire shades her eyes, looks around in growing desperation. She's all alone in this barren, parched landscape, without no one to protect her.
Where's Peter? Why isn't he here, with her?
It suffocates her, the endless red that she sees, wave upon wave assaulting already overwrought senses. She's too small in the midst of all this barrenness, too small and inconsequential to fight against the monstrosity wavering around her.
So she does the only thing she can do; cries for help. Sends out her voice as a lonely echo to the only person she knows can hear her in this private hell. "Peter!" Her feet begin to ache and blister from the scorching heat; realises she's being burned alive, from the outside in, and her healing's not helping. Goodness and healing have no place in a landscape like this. "Peter! God, please, Peter."
But there's no joy, no response. The lingering lilt of her own voice echoes around her, carried by stinging, bitter wind, deposits grainy particles of desert sand in her eyes, nose, mouth. Every time Claire swallows she feels more sand creep down her throat, realises she's being slowly burned and choked to death and God, she's crying pathetically in this nightmarish world and where's Peter in all of this?
Even her tears sting like liquid metal as they fall down her cheek. She looks down at her hands and gasps in horror when they start glowing, red hot even against the blistering heat around her.
Suddenly a hand rests on her shoulder, tilts her face up. It's Peter, in all his sorrowful glory. She can't process anything else beyond choking out. "What's happening?"
"I'm so sorry." He whispers, and she remembers that face. It's the face of a thousand nightmares, regret and helplessness mingling into wild, untamed sorrow. "I'm sorry I brought you into this. I … didn't mean to."
His pain somehow frees hers, long enough at least for her tears to still. Claire looks up at him, incredulous, realises she's seeing what he's been feeling since returning from fiery hell in the middle of the ocean.
Except he hasn't returned from hell at all; he's still here.
She doesn't even need to ask him; realises it's moments like these that cements their friendship forever. "It's not your fault." She manages to gasp out, just as Peter collapses next to her. His lips are parched, eyes of a dead man walking. Worse still, his beautiful hair falls lank and lifeless across his face, somehow symbolic of the slow death of a kind man. "Peter, it's not your fault."
"Yes, it is. Nathan will die, because I can't use her power." Even his voice is dry and parched now as he lies back, face to the sun, arms outstretched in Christ-like fashion. There's no shade for miles around, none as far as her eye can see. In no time at all his face will burn and blister, he'll be burned alive –
– Just like he thinks he should've been, when he'd exploded in his brother's arms.
"No!" His defeat, his readiness to succumb to harsh reality, goads her into action. She rolls, painfully blistering smooth skin, decides she doesn't much like the whole feeling pain and not healing thing, but pushes on regardless.
She's on her hands and knees now, and they burn, burn so badly it stings her eyes, prompts hot, fresh tears to flow. But she can't give up, can't give up on Peter and if she keeps on repeating this to herself she'll make it to her feet.
She can't give up she can't give up she can't give up can't give up can't give up
Finally she's on unsteady feet; is able to glance down at Peter's prone form as he lies, imitating a body without life. "No!" She spits, doesn't actually have enough moisture to literally spit but enough spark's there from her anger for her to complete her mission. "You don't get to give up. You don't get to lie down and die." She kicks him, can't think of anything else she's capable of doing so she does it again, harder, and harder, accentuates each sentence with another hard kick. "We don't get to give up! Nathan – he needs you, he needs you to use Molly's power. Dad needs you to find Nathan. The world needs you – even your mom needs you!" She's drawn so much energy her lungs feel like they're about to burst, actually believes that's what they're in the process of doing and wonders, if she dies here, does it mean she really dies too?
Finally – finally – she sees a flicker in his eyes, so she grinds on, heart rising with every limp movement. "We all need you Peter." Sinks down to her knees, energy and life being sapped with each breath in the arid setting. Has just enough breath to gasp pitifully. "I need you."
He blinks rapidly; like he's seeing her for the first time. "Claire?" Just hearing her name is heaven to her parched ears, hearing his voice saying it heightens the effect a thousand fold. "Claire?" It's like he's regaining use of his voice, his limbs, his emotions. Rises slowly to his knees, wheezes with difficulty in the stifling air. Sees her swaying and about to fall.
But she doesn't, because he catches her, cradles her to his chest. "Thank you." He whispers softly into her ear as she sinks against him, sobbing with relief.