Part Ten

No matter how desperate she is to get to Nathan – if not for her own sake then for Peter's – nothing prepares her for the moment her dad pulls into the nondescript driveway of Birmingham's premier hospital and parks in one of the visitor spots.

It's a little before midnight and the eerie silence sends shivers up her spine; jarring against the soft hope rising in their hearts.

Casual chatter ceased less than an hour ago, when her dad had announced in a sudden break between banter they were nearing the UBA. She'd seen Peter's eyes close, his entire body rigid and tense, and all dialogue had died.

Claire glances over to Peter seated as still as a statue next to her. He can't see her face but if he'd turned just a little he would have seen she's still full of secret guilt. She can't shake off the responsibility of being the cheerleader that'd propelled Peter and Nathan down this path, can't shake the fact dogging every step that she'd been the catalyst to all this madness.

About half an hour ago she'd grabbed his hand to steady crumbling nerves – or maybe he'd grabbed hers, she can't be sure – and hadn't let go since. He's warm; the source of comfort and reassurance in the face of whatever they're about to find. She never wants to let him go; feels a vast emptiness when he slips out of her grasp to start gnawing at his nails.

She can't get Nathan out of her mind, the moment when she'd been about to pull the trigger to end Peter's life, and then suddenly Nathan had appeared. Even in the tranquillity of her hindsight it seems like a split second later she's in her real dad's arms, watching with gnawing dread at a man exploding in a clear night sky.

She'd been about to pull the trigger on Peter; she can't lie to herself in this moment of truth. If Nathan had arrived just a moment later, the hand she's holding now would be cold instead of warm and she can't stand it. The thought hurts her physically as they drag themselves out of the car, sick with worry and dread and fear of what they'll find.

Is this how tenuous life really is? As indestructible as Peter is, he's still vulnerable, able to be extinguished in a blink of an eye. If a man hadn't loved his younger brother enough; if a niece had cared less about her uncle, the future – the present – could have been so different.

Claire shudders just thinking of it but Peter mistakes it for the chill of the night. He gentlemanly offers his jacket but she shrugs it off; Angela had foisted yet another tailor made coat for Claire to replace the one she'd lost before everything went to hell in a hand basket. Say what she wants, but her biological grandmother has excellent taste in clothing.

They're like the three musketeers as they stroll to the front desk to enquire about John Does and radiation burns and injuries. Claire sees Peter visibly wince at the mention of morgues; but her concentration's pretty evenly divided between how skilfully her dad's manipulating information out of the nurse without actually giving anything away and watching Peter fidget in nervous prostration.

Senses how the uncertainty must figuratively be killing him from the inside out; knows it from their dream how awful living with his fear and guilt is. Without thought of odd looks and consequences she slips her arm through his, squeezes his hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. Which it is if they're dreaming but they're not, they're in Birmingham hoping to find a brother and father if not well, then at least alive and breathing.

If he thinks it's strange she's reaching to comfort him he doesn't show it beyond hooking his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. It's odd and exhilarating being this close to him, physically anyway, but she doesn't dwell on it.

Doesn't think about how her heart jumps irregularly but then forgets in the next instant when they untangle arms and shoulders. He's gazing at her like a deer caught in headlights, wide, dark eyes that mirror midnight and although Claire's never seen an actual deer caught that way she thinks it's probably how they would look.

She blinks and time stills and really she doesn't know what to think, what to feel, except how close they are and will be and god, she's not making any sense but she doesn't care.

Realises then their intimacy doesn't come from dreams, it's not why they're so close. They share a connection that's hard to quantify or describe, and the dreams are just another facet.

It's a deep thought that squeezes her heart and for a moment it's like he's about to say something, but then they return to Earth at precisely the same moment and she forgets how their connection's like a chasm that has no end.

She knows his attention's caught the same time as hers because both their eyebrows shoot to the heavens when the words "John Doe" and "third degree burns" come out of the matron's mouth.

Soon her dad's leading them to the elevator and pressing level 4 (the intensive care unit Claire reads with a sinking heart) and Peter's back to being withdrawn and edgy. If possible his expression's gloomier and darker and it's like a doppelganger's replaced the sweet man who'd been standing with her just a moment ago.

She needs to distract herself from worrying about her uncle of all people, so she concentrates on her dad's back as he strides confidently to Room 418. They round the corner and they're suddenly there, the journey that'd begun with Peter only a few days ago may end now. Without a moment's pause her dad spins and meets her eyes, opens the door in one smooth motion.

Claire forgets everything in that moment, forgets worry, tension, irrationality, feelings and heartbeats skipping. Reaches out only to find her hand's already been taken in one of Peter's, feels his racing heart as they face the possible end of their search.

The monitor's beeping oh so regularly. The steady rhythm seems to mock their odyssey, question their trepidation as they gaze down in synchronicity at "John Doe".

Claire almost doesn't dare to look but she's horribly drawn to it, can't help but satisfy morbid curiosity about whether her connection to her uncle and their dreams and instincts amounts to something real and tangible to grasp onto when future seeds of doubt spring.

She looks and her face falls; breathing becoming even more laboured and irregular.

It's him, it's Nathan, her biological father, in the flesh.

As soon as she thinks of flesh she wants to gag, so intensely bandaged is he that she has no trouble imagining how badly burned he must have been. In another lifetime she might have thought he resembles a really well dressed mummy but she can't even think that now, feels like retching just having that thought flying recklessly through her mind. It sullies what Nathan's accomplished for them, sullies her regard for him and she wants to take back every bad thought she'd had in her entire life. Wants to take back the rock she'd thrown at him in Kermit, thinks in some way if she can take that back it may help him, somehow.

It doesn't help that the faint stench of ointment and medicated creams and whatever the doctors have prescribed for Nathan is assaulting her senses; doesn't help her to see the miles of tubing that seem to run from his body to the monitors or that his eyes are resolutely closed and he's not showing any signs of life whatsoever.

Doesn't help to see that the sum of heroism leads to lifeless nothing.

She reels from seeing him like this and she wants to cower from it. It's not the same feeling as when she'd first laid eyes on Peter against the midnight waters of the Atlantic; she doesn't want to rush to Nathan and save him, but run away, far from all of this drama. She doesn't need it, she can't help him like she did Peter.

One person who doesn't run of course is Peter. Claire watches silently as he rushes and embraces his brother, careful to not disturb strategically placed dressing over his prone body. She fixes her eyes on her dad only to find his calm ones trained on her; perceptive and knowledgeable and calm and just willing to be there for her to lean on.

Claire crosses over to him and he envelopes her into a hug; allows her to sink into his arms and sob silently. She can't do this, she can't watch Peter's hope die when she feels hers dying too. It suffocates her and she can't breathe.

She can't breathe but she's feeling too much. So she takes the coward's way out; she runs sobbing out of the room without a backward glance to comfort her hero.

To say that Claire's surprised when Peter creeps into the empty room on level 3 where she's decided to hide is an understatement would not have been out of order. By this time she's run out of tears to shed; huddled like a child of Molly's age in the corner with knees drawn tightly to her chest, cowering from the harsh realities of the world.

She'd long forgotten the sensation of salty rivers flowing over her cheeks, forgets the taste of them as they trickled then poured over her nose and lips and down past her chin. She's sits and stares unseeing at the steel legs of the sterile bed in front of her. Perhaps if she's quiet enough the world will forget about her and the craziness will stop and she can't deal with this, not now.

She's been replaying her life scene by scene ever since that day in her room with Jackie, punching her arm through a glass cabinet yet she'd healed from it pretty much right away. Tries to figure out how her life got from then to now but can't, so she tries again and again.

Peter's hands gently closing around hers only registers because of his touch; sends warmth into her, his empathy seeping through her skin to whatever lies beneath. He's crouching in front of her but she doesn't look at him; it's only when he tilts her face up and cups her face with his other hand that her eyes are drawn to his, and the feelings she sees shocks her back to reality.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears again but it's okay now because her hero's here. It's okay that her nose is running, mixing with tears and she's a blotchy mess and was an idiot for running away from her family when they probably need her the most. It's okay because Peter's here and his warmth is all she needs to rescue her from the dark vortex she'd almost been sucked into.

He's looking at her with such an odd expression, it's sad yet hopeful but conflicted at the same time and it's just strange; she can't understand why but it sucks what breath she has left out of her body. She feels light-headed as emotion washes through her; blinks a few times to clear her head. Doesn't know what's happening but knows the most important thing is this moment.

And so she closes her eyes, trusts his presence because he's like a balm to her. Doesn't re-open her eyes when she feels what she knows are soft raven tendrils brush over her cheeks, feels his breath warm against her face and neck, his forehead gently leaning against hers like a pillar of strength and goodness.

"I'm okay." She finally manages to whisper and she opens her eyes; her vision swimming so full is it of Peter's dark orbs staring intensely into hers. Feels his sharp intake of breath and it's like he's about to say something, but catches himself and smiles instead.

They're both sniffling in the aftermath, he's smiling bravely and if she can't quite manage one back at him, it's fine for now. He gives her a chaste kiss, stands and offers his hand to help her up.

Claire doesn't think; just reaches out to take her uncle's hand and trusts that he's enough to keep her together for both their sakes.