Run where you'll be safe/
Through the garden gates/
To the shelter of/
Magnolia/
When Nathan got to his house, his mother was waiting for him with an expression so white and drawn that, for a moment, he was concerned for her health. But when she saw Peter, the color poured rapidly back into her face and she flew forward to hug him, throwing her arms around his neck.
"Peter, I was so worried," she said, and then pushed him away to glare furiously at Nathan. "Nathan James Petrelli, if you ever run out of the house like that again, ten minutes after you're home from your trip, yelling about how Peter's been attacked by a serial killer," she shook her finger at him like he was nine years old, "I will personally wring your neck. And you," she said, turning on Peter. "You have given me more grey hairs than your brother and your father combined. Before you get yourself into another life-threatening situation, would you think about my blood pressure, please?"
He kissed her on the cheek. "Sorry," he said with false contrition. "You know how much I love those life-threatening situations."
She put her hand on the side of his face. "I'm just glad you're all right." Nathan, feeling forgotten and jealous over to the side, cleared his throat conspicuously. She smiled at him. "And I think you owe your brother a 'thank you'. Of all the scrapes he's gotten you out of, this really does take the cake." She pulled away from them and started into the next room. "You boys stay in here for a minute—I have a surprise for both of you."
Peter raised an eyebrow at his brother, who shot a careless shrug back. As much as they knew their mother loved them, they'd never been able to predict her. She was the source of Nathan's skill at cool manipulation, not their father. Their father had always been an open book, if not a book that one would especially want to read—it was their mother who was layered, who never showed them the cards closest to her chest. They'd learned to live with it: Nathan, by emulating her, and Peter, by learning to love the both of them anyway, despite their plots and facades.
"Peter, Nathan!" she called from the other room. "Come in here, I have someone I want you to meet!"
Exchanging practiced glances, they followed her across the hall, bored and tired and completely unprepared to walk in the room and see Claire Bennet sitting on the couch. They both recognized her instantly, but with wildly different reactions—Nathan fell back, clutching the doorframe for support, but Peter lit up like sunlight on glass, rushing forward to grab her arms, unreservedly happy to see her.
"Claire! What are you doing here?"
Claire grinned at him, unable to resist his infectious joy, and shot a glance at Mrs. Petrelli. Decoding her I-don't-know-how-to-explain look, Angela took pity on her and stepped forward. "Peter," she said calmly, "this is your niece."
Peter stared at her, then turned around, bringing a hand up to point at Nathan. "You—" he said, waving his hand between her and Claire. "Nathan, you dog!" He looked surprised, a little disgusted. "Does Heidi know?"
Nathan flinched as if hit, dropping his eyes, but it was Angela who answered. "I sent her to that place she loves in Jersey. She'll be on retreat for a week," she said composedly, "long enough for us to get this sorted out."
"Nathan, do you know who this is? This is the girl I saved—this is the cheerleader!" He turned his attention back to Claire, who was studying her shoelaces, awkward and uncomfortable and trying very hard not to look at Nathan.
"Obviously, if I'd known she was my daughter, I would have been a little less opposed to you saving her," Nathan said, finally bucking up, calling on all his lawyer-politician defenses to get control of the situation. He walked forward to Claire, taking one of her hands. "Well, hi," he said with convincing false emotion. "I'm Nathan…I guess I'm your father."
"I know who you are," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "I was there, at the trailer park in Texas. I hid under the window."
Nathan winced slightly, trying to remember exactly what he'd said to Meredith—he was almost sure it hadn't been complimentary. At least one thing made sense now: "The rock," he said quietly.
"Yeah," she admitted. "I'm not proud of it."
"How about this," he said. "I'll forgive you for the rock if you'll forgive me for the things I said." She looked at him sharply, trying to figure out if he was being sincere—he wasn't, entirely, but he doubted she had skill enough to tell. Frankly, he found it odd that she was even looking; someone in her life had been manipulating her recently. He pulled her into a calculated hug, resting his chin in her hair—he had no idea how to be her father, but at least he knew how to pretend until he could figure it out. He counted to three and then pulled away, smoothing her hair where he'd mussed it. "This is probably going to be very hard for a very long time, Claire," he told her, "but I think we can make it work."
He waited for her to nod acceptance, and then backed away, exhausted from family bonding. His mother, picking up on his strain, quickly intervened. "Nathan, I gave the servants a few days off so there wouldn't be anyone running to the newspapers—why don't you help me make dinner?"
Grabbing the opportunity to escape, he followed her to the kitchen, leaving Peter and Claire alone in the room. He immediately slung an arm around her shoulders, dragging her to him and planting an enthusiastic kiss on the side of her head. "Some family, huh?" he laughed. "Well, come on, I'll show you around the house. Do you play pool? We've got a table downstairs."
Claire felt herself relaxing, letting go of the tense pseudo-smile she'd worn for days in favor of a real one. She wished Peter was her father—he seemed to naturally know how—but it was enough that he was her uncle, and seemed willing to be her friend.
"Then you're in trouble," she teased. "I'm practically on the Olympic pool team."
"I am in trouble," he admitted freely. "I suck at pool."
Both feeling much better than they had in days, they went to find the pool table.