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14
There's a flicker of her and him, looking at each other, and he's thinking so hard about Claire but as soon as her dark hair leaves him Peter can't see where he's going. This happens in the barest fraction of an instant. Just enough time to throw him off. And when he opens his eyes he's at home – at Nathan's home – and he staggers and grabs at the curtain, pulling the whole thing down with a tick-tick-tick of tiny metal fastenings tearing off the brass curtain rod. The floor. Claire. He wants to go to Claire. Not the floor.
But he has nothing. His vision swims. Whatever it is that bastard injected him with is rising up again and drowning him. Peter tears at his shirt, trying to find the mark, and as he hears the rhythmic thud of footsteps hurrying down the stairs he finds the two red puncture marks. Two. His nerveless fingers drop from the fabric.
"Peter!"
Nathan in his pyjamas. Ma in her robe, her hair messy the way Peter never sees it. He blinks and his eyes don't seem to want to open again, but he forces them, uses everything he's got to open his eyes again. Two marks. They're not healing.
"The future," he slurs. "Alex. He calls himself. The virus."
Oh God, no. He's slipping. He tries to bring Claire to mind again, to use whatever scraps of empathy he might have left to use her ability, but without her actual presence he can't…
Eyes, hair, voice. Touch.
"… they do? What's happening to him?" Nathan demands.
"I don't know," Ma claims, and – he thinks…
Peter. Thinks.
She sounds scared.
Lying.
"Claire." Someone moans.
Red nails. Peace.
X
It's all posture, Claire thinks, looking critically at herself in the mirror. Regeneration strips you of the dark circles you earn during a night like last night – you get healthy colour in your cheeks, instead, and even your hair bounces back. But posture gives it away.
She tries going clean, feet together, arms at her sides, back straight and chest up, with a big cheerleader smile on her face. Tries a clasp. Strong, tight. Looks perfect. But it's not like she can go to school like that, so she relaxes and tries to make smaller changes. There – if she keeps her chin up, her back sort of naturally straightens, and if she relaxes her hands, her arms don't look quite so tense – but something in it all reminds her of Angela, looking down her nose at the world like that. Claire decides she'd rather look a wreck than remind anyone of Angela. Especially her parents. Especially herself.
She's walking to school and she's far too early. That can happen when you wake up at four, after a series of increasingly violent nightmares broken by a panicked pregnancy scare from your uncle, and you're too scared – of a lot of things – to go back to sleep. So she detours to Starbucks. Some guy holds the door open for her, and when she looks up she's surprisingly pleased to see that it's Alex.
"Claire! It's good to see you," he says warmly, like he means it. Then he runs his eyes over her, and frowns. "Is something wrong?"
He guides her to a table, his hand on the small of her back, and it feels strange but not in a wholly unlikeable way. She's so tired. And so lost. And he's there, and he's listening, and for some stupid reason Claire finds herself admitting it. "I haven't been sleeping well. Nightmares."
"What about?"
An impromptu therapy session at eight in the morning, just what the doctor ordered. But she has to tell somebody. "A man I used to know," Claire says, not caring how it sounds, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I mean, I didn't really know him. But these nightmares, it's like… it used to be only sometimes. But this last week, it's been every single night, and last night – " She sighs. "I woke up. Over and over. And every time I went back to sleep, he was there. Waiting for me."
Alex has leant closer to her over the table as her voice has lowered, and when she looks up, the gleam of intense interest in his eyes is disconcerting. "You dream about Sylar every night?"
Claire goes cold.
Alex seems to realise what he's said, and while she's frantically trying to remember where the exits are, not daring to take her eyes off his, he leans back and holds up both his hands. "No, no, no. It's not what you think. I'm not Company. I swear."
"Why should I believe you?" School psychologist! And she's told him things – lies, but what does it matter? "If you try anything I swear to God I will make such a scene they'll call the cops."
Alex shakes his head, leaning back closer to her, and instinctively, she leans away. He looks pained. "Claire, they own the cops," he says. Then he starts a rapid explanation in a low voice. "Look, I'm not from them. Okay? I escaped from them. They were holding me somewhere in Mexico – they took my ability. I read your file, and when I escaped, some people picked me up and in the glove compartment of their car I found this."
She thinks it's going to be a syringe and gets ready to bolt, but what he takes from his inside pocket is a small card. Her driver's license. She stares at it, in his hands, not wanting to take it. Her own image. Her new name. Taken from her stolen car. "I came to find you, and I saw you, and I knew who you were and I had to talk to you. I'm sorry I lied. But I panicked. I didn't want you to run away."
He sounds so sincere. But for some reason, Claire can't picture Alex Manion panicking. "What could you do?"
"I could melt metal." He shrugs. "Not a very dangerous ability," he says bitterly. "But they took me and stripped me of it."
"So you're hiding from them?"
He nods. "Them, and Sylar."
Something about the way he says that name… His eyes do something. Narrow a little. The way people's eyes do when they're smiling real smiles. "Why would he be after you? If you don't have an ability anymore, I mean."
If he's read her file, he doesn't need a reason to be scared of Sylar. He's killed people before for abilities they didn't even have. But, still. Something's not right.
"Look." Alex reaches across the table for her hand, which she pulls away. He looks mildly disappointed. "I'm going to go get us some coffee. Okay? And you can sit there, or you can run away. I'm not the Company, I'm not going to chase you. But, Claire. I really hope you don't run."
That, at least, sounds like the truth. Wondering if she should even be doing this, or if she should be calling the cops herself – no, if the Company owns them, she guesses maybe not the cops. But Dad. Or Peter. Or someone – Claire finds herself staying in her seat, watching Alex order for both of them. He waits for the coffee by the counter. Giving her space. Time. She should be relaxing at this display of trust. But something in the way he looks at her…
Of course, Claire rationalises, she's been wary of that look since Brody. Hunger isn't necessarily something… complicated. And as Alex comes back, coffee held out like a peace offering, Claire thinks that maybe she needs something uncomplicated right now.
Still, she can't relax. She drinks, letting the heat sear her mouth, her throat, feeling the tissue reconnect smooth as silk. Alex goes to stop her, then sits back.
"That's right," he says softly. "You can heal. A little hot coffee should be no problem for you."
The cup in her hand is very briefly full of weak, lukewarm beer.
Claire drinks the whole thing. Even though she feels like there isn't enough caffeine in the world to deal with a day like today. She sets the empty cup down with a clatter. "I should get to school."
"It's still early. Besides – you look so tired. Maybe you should go home and sleep."
His voice is very – soothing. She is so tired. Claire's immortal brain doesn't need sleep to do its job, but her mind needs it, and right now her mind is so fuzzy, and she thinks that nothing in the world sounds nicer than putting her pyjamas back on and crawling back into bed. Slipping between cool sheets. She almost feels like –
She feels like she can't feel her feet. That's not – usual. Claire opens her eyes, with the frightening realisation that somewhere along the line there they had drifted shut. Alex is lifting his cup.
"Stop!" she says, urgently. "Don't drink it. It's drugged."
His eyes widen in alarm. "The Company?"
"You have to get out of here."
"I'm not leaving you."
Alex is firm. He comes and slides a strong arm around her waist, helping Claire out of her seat, out of the store. It's so busy in here. Claire fights to keep her eyes open, to look conscious, so no one gets suspicious and calls the cops. Don't they own the cops?
In the front seat of a car. Not her stolen car. Didn't her dad have trouble with the police before? Uneasily, Claire wonders whether calling the cops might not have been such a bad idea. Surely the Company doesn't control all the cops. Her body is fighting the drug and she clings to consciousness.
"I have to get home. Do you know where I live?" Home, Mom is at home. Mom can call Dad.
"I know where you live, Claire." Alex sounds amused. Relaxed. Not at all like he was a moment ago. He looks over at her and gives her a smile. "It's on your license. An amazing piece of luck – the very first car that picks me up has you, in the glove compartment. Gift-wrapped."
No. This is wrong. He's not from the Company. But there is something so wrong here, Claire can't bring herself to –
Alex glances at her. "Is it really that hard to figure out, Claire Bear?"
He takes the glasses off and tosses them casually at her feet. He looks like he's enjoying himself, even laughing a little at her expression, and her dazed mind is begging no, oh God no.
It can't be.
Claire marshals everything she's got and gets ready to throw herself at him. She'll spin this car through the traffic and kill them both, and run – Sylar looks at her.
He takes a hand off the wheel and pushes her back down into her seat. "Nothing like that," he warns. "I'm not Brody."
Deftly, he fastens the seatbelt he'd neglected to put on her earlier, never taking his eyes off the road. Panic fights the drug. Claire fights the drug.
"I did read your file," he says, off-hand. "A different time. And I have to say, Claire, the whole Brody incident really did make me see you in a different light. Manipulative, ruthless, vengeful – I liked it. Reminds me of me."
"I'm not like you, Sylar." Claire hisses, doing her damnedest to keep a slur out of her voice, her head lolling drunkenly on the back of the seat. Sylar smiles.
"I always like hearing that name – but from you, it just sounds… so… special." He looks at her, and something that makes Claire's skin crawl passes between them. "I think I'm going to miss you."
Her phone is in her bag, at the store – no. Her phone is in her jacket pocket. But he's watching the road again, and he hasn't seen the realisation on her face, and she can't let him see it. She rolls in her seat, trying to make it look like she's struggling to get upright, but her side is now turned towards the back of the seat and her hand is inching towards her pocket. Sylar darts a glance at her. Apparently satisfied that she's not trying anything, he pulls into a driveway. Low in her seat, Claire can't see where they are, but it's not her house. It's the house where she will die if she doesn't do something.
The phone. Peter.
Peter first, who can teleport to her in an instant. Take care of Sylar just like he did before… but before she can stop herself, Claire remembers that last time, Peter let Sylar go. He got away. She feels a brief upsurge of anger at Peter. She knows it's not his fault. But –
The phone. Faster.
But Sylar is already coming round the front of the car, giving the hood a happy little smack, jostling the car. He unfastens the seatbelt and scoops her up effortlessly, and her hand falls away from her pocket and dangles uselessly at the end of her arm, and she could just cry. She struggles, but it's like all her bones are gone.
"Oh, stop it. Don't be such a baby. You won't feel a thing." Sylar pauses, and reflects. Then he shrugs. Claire's arm jerks with the movement. He opens the unlocked front door of the house. "Actually, I don't know that. Maybe you will. I think a lot of people just scream because it's so scary." He continues talking, in conversational tones, as he carries her over the threshold. Some bride, Claire thinks randomly, and then she realises that she's never going to be a bride. Not now. "No one likes getting cut." Sylar informs her, wrongly. "But it's not so bad. When you consider that there are no pain receptors in the brain and that the blood loss and the shock get most people before any of that starts anyway, I think you'll agree that there are far worse ways to go."
"My father will find you," Claire begins viciously. Sylar sets her down gently on a large coffee table, and busies himself with ropes. Skipping ropes, knotted together. Oh, God, this is a family's home. Was. There are toys, and pictures like her mom likes, and some places – like the ceiling – there is blood.
Sylar starts to tie her down, ignoring her impotent struggles. "What's he going to do? Hurt me? And won't he be surprised, when that first gunshot heals over right before his eyes…" Sylar rests a hand on Claire's forehead and looks down at her with genuine affection. "You have no idea how I'm going to enjoy the look on his face when he realises what I've done."
No. She can't bring herself to believe that this is really going to happen. It's like a nightmare, except she can see him, and she can hear him, and he won't stop talking and it's not a nightmare. Peter's not coming. Dad's not coming.
He can't really be doing this. He can't do this.
Sylar disappears from her vision. After a moment, a high-pitched shrieking buzz fills the room, and Claire tries not to remember where she's heard that noise before. When he comes back and she sees the small surgical saw, Claire comes close to passing out. She thrashes against the ropes weakly, and black stars are exploding behind her eyes and someone is panting, shallow, terrified pants like a trapped animal, and with a jolt of hysteria Claire realises that it's her. All those breaths, the ones she'd been so sure she'd live to take. She can't breathe. She can't see. She's going to die and he can't do this.
"Ssh." Sylar strokes her face, his fingers coming back wet with tears she didn't know she'd been crying, and she's forcibly reminded of Peter, and Peter, where are you?
"Don't do this. Please, Sylar, don't do this." She begs, hating herself for it, begging him anyway because she has nothing left. "Please don't do this!"
"Lie still, Claire."
"Sylar!"
X
When Peter wakes up it all comes back to him at once. He shouts her name, grabbing at the first person he finds, which is Nathan. Peter kicks the blanket off, and he hurts all over, he's bruised, and it's not healing, and he has to get to Claire.
"Pete! Peter," Nathan says, holding his hands where they grasp his suit jacket in a death grip. "What about Claire? What happened?"
"Come on, we have to go," Peter says roughly, pulling Nathan and himself up, out of chair and bed, pushing them towards the window. "Fly."
"Peter – "
"Fly! Oh, my God – " He can see bright sunlight through the window. He's been out too long. "Fly, Nathan, get me to Claire, hurry."
And Nathan does it. Thank God, he does it. And when they fly the cold hurts Peter like always, but this time he has to bury his face in Nathan's back to stop the wind and the rain tearing at skin that is suddenly so fragile he can't imagine what it was like before, when he took healing for granted. He's so breakable. Why doesn't Nathan realise how breakable they are?
It takes too long to get to Costa Verde. Everything takes too long. Peter tells Nathan what he saw in the future – both times – and when they land Nathan already has his phone out of his pocket, and he's calling Claire but from the look on his face Peter knows something's wrong. "She's not picking up," he says shortly. "I'm going to try Bennet."
Nathan calls Noah. Noah calls Claire's school on the landline at his work. Nathan waits. Peter paces. Nathan's face changes again. "She's not there," he tells Peter. "Bennet's got a GPS tracker in her phone. Hope to God she's got it." To Noah – "You drive. We'll see you there."
Peter tells himself Sylar won't have hurt her. That it's only been a week, only hours since he came back, and in that future Sylar hadn't hurt Claire in three years. But he knows he's wrong. And when the house Nathan takes them to isn't Claire's house, and when he sees the bloody footprints on the empty driveway, Peter knows what's happened.
But when he opens the door it's still a shock.
She's not dead. Relief floods him. But she's just sitting there, unseeing, with dark red blood on her forehead in that line Peter's never seen on a living person, and dark red blood is matted in her hair, drying on her clothes. She's in his arms before he knows he's moved towards her.
"Claire, Claire," he says, can't stop saying, holding her close and squeezing his eyes shut against the fact that she's not moving. That her phone is ringing, has been ringing since they got there, and that she doesn't seem to hear it.
The phone stops. Nathan's answered it. He says something to the person on the other end in a low voice, and then he's come to Peter and he's very gently trying to extricate Claire from his grasp. "Come on, Peter. Give her to me. It's okay, Peter. It's all right. Just let go."
Peter swore he'd never let her go. But he has. He's rocked back on his heels, her blood all over him, and now Nathan's very carefully stroking Claire's arm, smoothing blood away from her eyebrow, and he's looking into her blank face and talking to her.
"It's okay, honey. You're okay now. Sylar's gone. I'm here, and Peter's here." Peter imagines he can see something in her eyes when he says that name, but maybe he doesn't. Nathan's voice goes on, calm and soothing, sure and persuasive. "Your dad's on his way. You're safe again. You can come back now, Claire. It's okay to come back."
After a long while of this, Claire slowly comes back. From wherever she was. She comes back to a room full of bloodied clothes and hair and ropes and men who failed to save her. She looks into Nathan's eyes, and now Peter knows that she can see him. She falls into his arms, and holds on for dear life.
Her fingers are white where she's clutching at him. Peter can see that Nathan's trying not to hold her too tight, not to hurt her, but his eyes are shut and his face is drawn with fury. Peter's never seen him like this. And something in Peter is deeply hurt that Claire is holding Nathan, came back for Nathan.
And then Bennet's car pulls up with a shriek of tortured wheels, and he's in the house and he's got Claire, and he's looking at Nathan over her head and they wear the exact same expression. All Peter can do is stand there. With Claire's blood on his hands.
It's not until Claire's in her father's arms that she starts to cry.