bantha_fodder | [fic] no such thing [heroes] [claire]

I have no idea what I'm doing. I mainlined Heroes last week, during my convalescence.

No Such Thing by Pen
Heroes, Claire, G

spoilers for season one. speculation but no spoilers for season two.

thanks to rawles, piecesof, and an unstoppable army of lizzens

***

She goes back to school like she's a real girl, a normal girl, but knows she's not, not really. She draws pictures in the margins instead of taking notes, pokes holes in her hand and watches the skin close over.

She skips practise to go wallow in the sun, too busy being alive to cheer; thinks about the people that aren't. She stares at her hand: wonders if she'll age, wonders if she'll still look the same when all those she loves are dust.

"Claire," her grandmother says as a car pulls up to the curb, "Come and have tea with me," and Claire gets into the car, itching beneath her own skin.

**

They sit in a gilded room, sip tea like it's a real drink and she asks how school is, like she cares. "It's fine," Claire says, looks around at the soft curtains, the opulence.

"Don't lie to me, Claire, it's unbecoming." Claire looks at Angela; looks for Nathan in her face; looks for Peter in her smile; sees nothing.

"What do you care?"

"You're my granddaughter, Claire, of course I care."

"Do you care because you've no sons left? You've never acknowledged me before, then it's invitations to Paris and pick ups after school!"

"I've always cared, Claire. The time was just never right." Angela leans forward, smiles.

Claire shakes her head, sick of it all. She pushes to her feet, crosses to the door.

"Let me know when my sons turn up," Angela says as Claire pulls the door open, and Claire hates her grandmother but she hopes.

She doesn't slam the door behind her.

**

She catches her nail on her shirt; pulls and rips. "Ow," she says, looks down at her finger. She watches the nail regrow; wonders if she can cut her nails, wonders if she can dye her hair.

When she looks up, Lyle peers at her from over the couch.

He frowns; looks away first.

**

They're still living in hotels like they're on the run, and they're not, she knows they're not, but when a knock sounds at the door she jumps anyway. When she opens the door, he's there, his face cold and smooth. She reaches for him; holds him close and surreptitiously checks for broken bones and tender skin.

He doesn't have a scratch on him, of course he doesn't.

She never does, either.

**

She pulls him in, closes the door as he steps into the room. She starts at the sound of pots falling, turns to see Lyle staring out at her. Lyle frowns at her, shifts his gaze to Peter.

"Oh," he says, as Peter meets his eyes.

Lyle looks away.

**

Claire pushes him towards the kitchenette, shrugs into the silence as he looks around. She knows how he feels, new skin and new hair and once a new eye, all squishy and disgusting. She makes a peanut butter sandwich, pushes it across the bench to him as he sits.

From behind him, the television blares, and he turns. Congressman Missing After Landslide Victory flashes up on the screen, and he looks away, back across at her.

"I don't know where he is," Peter says, his hand on the sandwich.

"Yeah," she says as she sinks down on the stool beside him. "Me neither."

She bumps him with her shoulder and he wraps his arms around her, and when her father comes home they're sitting there still, sandwich uneaten between them.

"Peter," her father says. Pushes the door shut behind himself. "Will you be staying for dinner?"

"Sounds good," Peter says, and Claire holds her breath.

**

He shovels the pasta into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in weeks, and she knows how that feels, too.

**

His mother calls, her grandmother calls, and as her father passes the phone to Peter he says, "It's your mother."

Peter hangs up, runs his hands through his hair.

**

She brushes her teeth, listens to her brother arguing with their mother.

Her heart races and she feels unsure, but she presses her ear against the wall, listens anyway.

**

They fall asleep on the couch watching something stupid, and when she wakes his head is in her lap, her fingers tangled in his hair. She grins down at him, glad he's sleeping, glad he's alive.

The phone rings, and she blinks.

"Claire," Angela says.

"How did you even know?" she asks, unsure if she's asking about his return or his location or any of a million different things.

"I know where my sons are," Angela replies, ridiculously calm as always.

"Both of them?"

"Let me talk to Peter," Angela says, like that's an answer; Claire smiles as she hangs up, and when she looks down Peter's smiling back at her.

"Already getting on mom's bad side," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "You really are one of us."

Claire laughs like it's funny, but they both know it's not.

**

Later:

"You should have shot me," he says. "It would be better than what I've done."

"Your brother wanted you to live," she says.

Peter shakes his head. "But I can't do this without him. He's my brother, and I killed him!" She presses her lips together, because she's never been the cause of death before, only the solution, and the silence lengthens between them. He shakes his head, and when he turns to go she reaches for him.

She curls her fingers around his wrist, says, "Don't leave me alone. Not again."

He stills, doesn't look at her.

"Please," she says, and it's not begging but her stomach twists all the same. "You're alive, and you saved New York, and nobody even said thank you."

"For what?" he yells. "For killing Nathan? I could have flown on my own, he didn't need-"

"For keeping you alive," she interrupts. "For keeping millions of people alive." He shivers, and looks at her. She tightens her grip. "Your brother's gone, and mine thinks I'm a freak. You're alive, and you're the only one who gets it. Don't leave me alone again."

He presses his lips together; meets her eyes.

He doesn't leave.

END