Chapter Fourteen

It's twilight, the cusp of life and dreams; where light meets dark and beings of shadow coalesce into form.

Or so she's always thought. Claire's always been a little afraid of the dark, which makes sense, being a child of light. She loves the sunshine and all it has to offer, hopes and dreams and cupcakes and cheers. In the dark though, no one sees. Loneliness and eternal wonder of who her parents really are, where she came from, how she came to be.

It occurs to her now that maybe she doesn't need to be afraid of the dark; not anymore. She's finally found her real – biological – parents rather, for who is more real than her dad – and a genuine other family to boot.

If she has to be honest with herself it's only really one other family member she's glad she discovered. Or maybe he discovered her; at this point delineations of that kind's moot. She doesn't count Angela as any sort of family because although they're related by blood, she feels no kinship whatsoever. She's a complete and utter mystery and unlike the night she first met Peter, she doesn't want to get to know Angela any better.

She's thinking now, her brain rattles away at a million miles an hour. Wants to laugh at the irony of being unable to sleep when she most wants to, remembers all those bio and math classes she'd been unable to stay awake for.

Peter's sleeping, seemingly peacefully, on the bed in Nathan's room. It's lucky for them it's not the peak season for fatalities, otherwise they'd be hard pressed to find a more comfortable and convenient place to crash while keeping Nathan company.

Claire squirms for the millionth time on the rock hard chair, upholstery so worn it makes her young bones feel positively old and rickety. She's paced around the tiny room, hated its pristine white walls, glanced at the clock with the loud minute hand just tick-tocking Nathan's life away as if it's just another life. Because it isn't – he isn't – just another life and if that sounds callous, then so be it. Claire doesn't have to apologise for the way she feels.

There's a gasp but it's only Peter starting awake. She's so agitated she doesn't even turn, makes a part of her wonder how flaky she really is. She spent weeks looking for him, tearing through half the country and now he's here and she's rescued him more than once she doesn't even bother greeting him when he wakes.

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard." He hisses; fleetingly she stores into her memory what a grouchy morning person he must be.

"Then stop looking into my brain." She retorts rashly, her back still to him. "No one asked you to look in there."

"I can't help it, you're always –" He stops himself abruptly and grabs his head; the silence so guilty it makes her turn and appraise him coolly in the darkness.

"Always what?" She already knows the answer, even without his powers to look into his mind.

He mumbles something about a bad dream and being bad tempered, but she thinks she knows. It doesn't bother her though so her temper simmers, wonders briefly whether her temper's something she shares with either Nathan or Peter, or both. "Don't even try answering me without asking. It's pretty rude to read someone's mind."

"That's stupid."

She turns as he pulls up an identical chair, careful to not scrape it across linoleum floor. "Are you going to call me stupid all night?"

"Only when it's true."

"I thought you were supposed to be the nice one in the family." Already her tone's a shade or two lighter, the twinkle back in her eyes.

They sit in companionable silence with only the monitors keeping beat to Nathan's life beeping in the ether. "Don't you want to know?"

He's asking her with everything, but most intriguingly of all, with his eyes. She wants to stick her tongue out, smirk, anything to show him how he doesn't get to her all the time, but can't. Doesn't want to at least so she leaves it at that. "Know what?"

But he already knows that she knows. It's a dance she'll be well practised in before too long. "Whether you've got the famous Petrelli temper. We're Italian you know."

"I already know I do. And I'm only half-Italian." She feels like sticking her tongue at him, only stops herself because it's just too childish while Nathan clings to life.

"Oh yeah?" For a moment she thinks he's going to ruffle her hair but instead gently taps the tip of her nose with the his finger. It's curiously playful and she doesn't quite know how to react, so she just clears her throat and smirks.

"Yep. And I also know you have that temper."

"But I'm so nice!"

"You are not. You only pretend." A part of her's feeling slightly guilty at being – what's the word – impish practically on Nathan's deathbed, but it's like she can't live in a world without smiles. Peter has that effect on her and if it's sacrilege then God – or someone else – should strike her down. "I know you, Peter Petrelli. You're as bad tempered and moody as the rest of us."

"You do know me." He murmurs, all playfulness bleeding out of his voice. "But you're only 16."

And just like that, darkness closes around them once more. "I am." She sighs. "I'm only 16 and all this has happened to me. But you know what? Molly's only little and Sylar killed her whole family just to get to her. The world's not fair, I just wish –" There it is again, that wish. If only wishing makes it true.

Suddenly she can't hold it anymore, prevent the anger she's pretty much ignored this whole time. It rises like bile from her stomach, sears her throat and she can't swallow it, not now and not in the too-quiet stillness with Peter at her side. "It's not fair." She cries, doesn't quite manage to keep her voice down. "It's not fair, why does he have to die?"

Instead of wailing and collapsing into Peter's arms, she runs to Nathan, slips her small fingers through his, holds his hand, hard. Holds their connection for Peter to see. "This doesn't mean anything does it? I've waited my whole life to meet my dad – bio dad – and he's here, and he's dying because I told him to save the world and the future's not written in stone. I told him – I told him to save you." Angry tears now streak her face; she's not going to be reticent about this, she's never done things by halves. "None of it matters. My dad doesn't matter, you don't matter, nothing matters."

"Claire –" He tries taking her other hand in his, like it's going to calm her but instead she jerks it away, not unkindly.

"Don't tell me not to think it, I know you've been thinking it too."

He stiffens, withdraws a little and for a moment her heart skips a beat because she thinks she's well and truly pissed him off, but the next moment the darkness tempers and he's Peter again. "I have been. But it doesn't mean it can't be changed. You told him once, the future's not written in stone. Guess what? It isn't."

Her whisper's so low it almost doesn't register even to her own ears. "What if it is? What if this was meant to happen all along?"

Peter crosses from the other side of the bed, rounds on her in a few long strides. "It's isn't. It can't be." Clutches her arms hard, whether it's in desperation or anger she can't quite decide but his grip is just the right side of uncomfortable so it doesn't make her flinch. It gives him time to almost haul her bodily off her feet to meet his eyes, flaming pools of frustration and vulnerability all placed in a melting pot of emotion. "Don't ever say that again." He leans in, their faces dangerously close. "Don't."

She nods; his intensity renders her speechless. She's not frightened or stunned by his ferocity even though she is a little surprised seeing it written so plainly across normally gentle features. But then it all makes sense again, because she sees – sees again with startled realisation how alike Peter is to Nathan, or vice-versa.

They're so alike, which is the meaning of family.

The thought calms her; douses dangerous flames she knows could've engulfed them both. What good are they to Nathan spitting useless sparks at the world? They need to be doing something, anything – even if it's to say goodbye.

"I wish we could talk to him again." She jerks her eyes to Peter's, whose dark orbs meets hers in synchronicity. There's a flash of understanding; she knows his answer before she even formulates the question.

His face is a mish-mash of emotion, fear, hope, guilt all rolling across it in waves. He leans over to peer into his brother's sleeping features as if they held the secrets to his salvation. "I'm not sure whether I can read his mind when he's asleep."

"Try." She urges and it's all he needs. He squeezes his eyes shut and then there's a calmness about him. She watches, breath snagging in anticipation.

He opens his eyes again, disappointed. "There's nothing. Just … nothing. Like he isn't even there."

"He's asleep."

"Shouldn't I be able to read his dreams?"

"Maybe …" What could Claire say to that? She's not an expert and the distracted helplessness from Peter's suddenly making her nervous. Like she has to take him by the hand, lead him out of the tunnel and into the light. Metaphorically speaking of course. "He's probably – you know – doing that deep sleep … thing?"

"You mean he's not in REM?" As far as she knows REM is a band, but whatever. He rolls his eyes, smiles just a fraction. "It's what people do when they're dreaming. REM. Rapid Eye Movement."

"Oh."

"I haven't tried." He sounds guilty, but he has no need to be. "I haven't even tried doing this before now. I should've tried."

"You don't need to, you'll speak to him when he wakes up again." She's done a complete back flip or 180 or whatever it's called because she doesn't want to see what this can do to Peter, again. She's too tired, can't deal with it and so she has to believe that everything will work out.

She just doesn't know how. She's alive and well, kicking as they say but she can't do anything. It seems even Peter and his huge repository of powers can't do anything to save Nathan; and Claire's a hundred times more useless than he is. She's just a stupid indestructible girl who regenerates, can't help anyone in any meaningful way.

"Don't even think that way." He's looking at her like he's angry, too angry for something that has absolutely nothing to do with him.

"Stop looking into my brain." Two famous Petrelli tempers are about to collide, but she doesn't have the maturity to back down. "I mean it!"

"I don't care, you can't think that." He grits, reaches out almost automatically to cup her face. "I saved you for a reason, I have to believe – everything happens for a reason."

"What good did saving me do?! What good am I alive when I can't help –"

She stops only because of his expression, shock and not a little awe mixed in with a healthy dose of amazement. Can't see what's gotten him so mesmerised but then something catches her eye.

It's a sudden amber glow, so stark and warm and bright it brings to mind something that seems so long ago, when she and her dad had rescued Peter from his watery almost-grave and his hands had called to her like a beacon. But that's not what literally takes her breath away, because this time –

This time it's her, glowing. Or maybe it's Nathan, she doesn't know. As she stares in shock, surprise, amazement and a dozen other incomprehensible things all at once, it burns brighter and she begins feeling a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers. It works its not-so-subtle way down to her palms, then her arms and for a while it's pleasant and warm like she's somehow emanating a living, breathing connection to Nathan, someone she's never really felt that connected to.

The amber glow fades and she misses it for just a split second. But then her hand starts burning, bright and hot and searing; reminds her of the horrible dream with Peter before. Like sandpaper rubbing against her skin but from the inside out, rocks carousing through her veins and now they're tearing at her insides, raking delicate skin, making it bleed and seep and she doesn't know it yet, but she's crying out from the pain.

Peter stares, too shocked for a moment but then jumps into action. Grabs onto Claire's arms, still holding tightly almost of their own accord onto Nathan, tries to yank them away but it's useless. Something's happening to her, to him, to them, she can't tell which because it's all too much.

She gasps, eyes looking, no pleading for Peter to help but he can't, no one can. Through the racing of her heart and the hammering against her chest, she manages to gasp out. "What's happening to me?"