Chapter Twelve

“Crash and Burn”

Claire Bennet

The Deveaux Building

While anxiously riding the elevator of the Deveaux building to the roof, Claire would have done anything for a rabbit’s foot, a falling star, or a penny with her birth year. Any token of luck would do, for at that moment, Claire felt like she had not fortune left at all. There was no guaranteeing that Claude would be on the roof. It’s not like he lived there or anything. But if Claire walked out onto the top of the apartment building and did not find her biological father, she had no clue where to look next. Finding a rogue was difficult. Finding an invisible rogue was impossible.

However, the Gods of Good Timing were actually looking over Claire that day, and she’d never been so happy in her life to hear indignant British murmurings.

“Claude?” Claire asked timidly, emerging from the greenhouse.

“Claire, love, what are you doing here?” Claude replied, surprised to see her alone. Claire heard footsteps and then felt hands on her shoulders. A few seconds later, Claude materialized in front of her, concern etched across his stubbly face.

“It’s Peter,” Claire whispered, looking up at him desperatly. Claude wrinkled his nose, and with his arm around Claire, led her onto the roof.

“You’ve got to mention that name? Look at this mess I’m still tryin’ to clean up because of him!”

“No, it’s worse then this. Much worse. Please, you’ve got to…,” Claire didn’t even know what to say anymore. She simply broke down in his arms while Claude awkwardly tried to comfort her.

“Claire, speak up,” he said as gently as he could manage. “What happened? What did he do?”

Claire looked up at her father with glistening eyes. A knot was tied in her stomach or her heart, she wasn’t really sure, and it made her want to vomit. Best to just say it all in one breath and get it over with.

“Peter, he…he killed Simone,” she sniffed. Claude’s face turned white and for the first time, he was actually at a loss for words.

“My God,” he murmured, dumbfounded by Claire’s revelation. Claire moistened her lips and choked out a chopped version of the rest of the story.

“It was an accident, he got upset and…then he ran. Oh, he’s scared, Claude, I can’t leave him. You have to help me; you’re the only one that can snap him out of it!”

Claude pulled away from his daughter, disappearing from her vision momentarily.

“I can’t do that. Peter’s gone now, dear. You shouldn’t go near him either…”

“I won’t leave him!!!” Claire screeched, reaching forward and grabbing two handfuls of Claude’s invisible cloak. “He needs me, he needs you. We’re all he’s got! He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, and he’s terrified at what he’s just done. Now he’s at his apartment, alone, and I don’t know what he’s doing, he could be killing himself for all I know, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if-,”

“Calm down. It’s going to be alright.” Claude promised her, enveloping Claire in his arms yet again.

“No,” Claire sobbed, pushing away. “Sylar’s got my dad, and we need Peter to save him. And now Peter’s gone ballistic, and seeing him like that…I can’t stand it anymore…”

Claude didn’t quite know what made him give in. Perhaps it was seventeen years of fatherhood that he owed Claire, or possibly the sight of her distressed face. Or, just maybe, Claude was going soft? Oh, sure, he scoffed sarcastically. THAT’LL be the day.

“Alright, we’ll go pay your pup a visit. I don’t think it’ll do much good, but if it’s so important to you…”

Claire threw herself into his arms for the umpteenth time. “Thank you so much,” she breathed in relief.

“Now where’d you say he’s at, again?”

“His apartment,” Claire swallowed.

“Six miles from here, that is,” Claude sighed. “I guess I’ll be stealing us a cab. Again.”

Peter Petrelli

Peter’s Apartment, Lower East Side

The landlord was gonna kill Peter when he saw the front door ripped violently off it’s hinges, but Peter didn’t give any mind to that. His focus was so blurred, he didn’t even know what power he’d used to blow through the door to 1407. Telekinesis? Super-strength? Who know? Peter’s eyes were on one place as he stumbled through his abode, fighting back raw, unadulterated wails. Sobs so hard they would send him to his knees, coughing and dry heaving until he was an inch away from death. At least that would have still been better then his current mental state.

Peter had never had a nervous breakdown, nor known anyone that had experienced one, but he did study them in nursing school. He flunked that exam, on the sheer context that he just didn’t get it. How could someone just lose control under stress? They could get frustrated, sure, but a full-out in-the-streets sort of collapse? Odd, very odd.

But on that day, if he’d taken the exam again, he would have passed with flying colors. Because Peter Petrelli was probably having the most extreme nervous breakdown in the history of pressure.

The master bathroom was nauseatingly far away from the front door, and Peter almost had a coronary just getting there. He needed a constant, to a focal point to block out every needle that the acupuncture of stress had plunged into his flesh.

Peter ripped open the sliding glass shower curtain and stumbled into the bathtub, bruising himself in several places. The wounds healed so fast, he didn’t even realize they’d been present. There were three dials in front of him: a blue one, a red one, and a clear one with T-S written on it. Peter turned on the shower head and didn’t even take his time choosing a poison. Super cold, super hot, it didn’t matter. The red dial was the closest to him, so he lazily cranked that one handle as far as it could go, neglecting to even touch the cold water knob.

The jet of water shooting out of the showerhead must have been a pure 110 degrees, and Peter accepted every Fahrenheit of it. With his still-booted foot, he flipped the drain switch, allowing the water to pool around him. He wondered what it would feel like to drown and boil at the same time. Surely he could not heal from that.

Claire and Claude arrived a few minutes later, stepping over the shards of broken wood where a door used to be. That in itself made Claude want to turn on his heel and high-tail it out of there.  The only thing that made him stay was the look of utter hopelessness that Claire sent in his direction. Please.

So Claude reluctantly followed his daughter into the apartment, which had a haze in it that he couldn’t understand.

“A bit foggy in here, don’t you think?” he asked, waving his hand around.

“Yeah,” Claire agreed, hearing splashing coming from the other side of the apartment. “The shower.”

Claude jerked his head towards the bathroom. “You go fetch him. I’ll find a new door.”

Claire nodded silently and slowly tread her way towards the shower. Part of her was nervous about walking in on Peter naked, which, considering their grave status quo, would really not be as big of a deal as it used to be. There was something eerie floating around this whole dwelling, though, and Claire had a gut feeling that Peter wasn’t just taking a shower.

Especially with the door half-open and hot enough to steam up the whole place.

Pushing the door open all the way, Claire stepped into the bathroom. The steam was so dense inside of the tiny space that she could barely see or even breathe. Water was on the floor, spilling over from the sides of the bathtub, making that knot in Claire’s stomach twist even more with dread. Somehow, she managed to find the sliding glass divider to the shower curtain and pull it open. What greeted her was a sight that she would take to the grave.

“Peter,” she moaned, slumping to the floor with the side of the bathtub as her only support.

Peter was crimson and purple with heat burns, lying unconscious (dead, Claire thought, gritting her teeth) at the bottom of the bathtub under four inches of water. Claire immediately opened the drain and shut off the water, noting the extreme of the temperature without much surprise. Not waiting for the water level to lower, Claire reached into Hell, grabbed Peter’s lapels, and pulled him back to the land of the living.

It took longer than usual for Peter to come back to life, but after several long seconds, his eyes shot open and a pint of water came spilling out of his mouth. Huge gasps of air followed, and Peter’s hands instinctively gripped Claire’s on his trench coat front. Claire closed her eyes and thanked God, the son, and the Holy Ghost for bringing Peter back this particular time, when he actually did deserve to go to sleep and never wake up.

When Peter could breathe regularly, he sat up in the bathtub and released his grip on Claire. The water level was now at his waist, and the mauve welts all across his face were taking forever to heal. He blinked through the miasma and saw Claire, triggering why he’d been burning away his sins in the first place.

“No…” was the first word out of his parched throat. “You need to go, Claire, you shouldn’t be here.”

Normally Claire would have argued with him, but she knew by now that he was ranting just to rant. Peter had no idea what he was saying, and clearly, a brush with death was not the cure for his anguish.

Claire climbed into the bathtub, ignoring the fact that her jeans would be soaked and grabbed Peter’s hands. He wrenched them away from her aggressively.

“Get out! It’s not safe for you!” he snarled.

“Peter, calm down, it’s just us.”

“No!” Peter’s voice cracked, and the sobs which he’d buried so deep came spilling out all at once. “I’m a murderer, Claire! You’re not….you’re not safe with me. My dreams, they were all right! I turned into Sylar, just like they said I would!”

Claire clutched Peter’s face in her hands, her own tears flowing unbridled. He was too weak, and tired, and grief-stricken to resist her this time. Instead of fighting, he subjected, staring into her broken, compassionate eyes.

“How can you even come near me after this…?” Peter muttered, closing his eyes and shaking.

“Shh, shh, I can help you. Don’t shut me out anymore, Peter, I…”

Claire wasn’t sure if she stopped there because she didn’t know what to say, or knew and wasn’t ready. Whatever the reason, it failed to matter, because the look she gave Peter told him everything he needed to know.

A last tear escaped Claire’s right eye and trailed down her cheek. Tentatively, as though leaning in for a first kiss, Peter reached his wrist up, and gently wiped the lone droplet away with the back of his hand. His fingers were still as hot as coals from the water, and the warmth sent electricity through Claire’s small frame. Looking at him at once, Claire knew for certain that she had her Peter back, the real Peter. It tempted her like an Eden apple to fall into his arms and start crying in joy, but she had to be the strong one today.

“Claude!” she called hoarsely and the invisible man moseyed into the bathroom.

“Bloody hell. What happened in here?! Your landlord is gonna shit a chicken!”

“Help me get Peter up, please,” Claire told him warily, and Claude bit back a retort about not wanting to get his clothes wet. With their combined strengths, they were able to drag Peter and his scorched, numb body to his bed, after Claire helped him peel off his coat. Claude took the liberty of going through Peter’s drawers to fish him out some dry clothes, while Claire comforted Peter on the bed. He was lying on his side, wrapped in a large beach towel to keep the bed dry and she was sitting upright beside him, legs hanging off of the side.

Brushing Peter’s wet hair off his forehead soothingly, Claire simply stared down at him, absorbing his features. His eyes were closed in fatigue, and she continued to stroke his hair even after it was all out of his face. Now that her hero was back, she realized that her feelings for him had returned as well. It has happened as soon as his fingers had brushed her cheek. She spotted tears leaking out from under his eyelids and returned the favor, caressing them away.

Peter felt her milky soft skin stroke his and he opened his eyes.

“Why’d it take a death?” he asked, barely audible, through chapped lips. He was calm now, but the hole in his heart still remained. “Why did she have to die for me to realize what you were telling me all along?”

“It’s done now,” was all Claire could reply. “It’s in the past. We all make mistakes, and nobody’s gonna forgive you until you forgive yourself.”

Peter half-sniveled, half-snorted. “Are you sure you’re seventeen? You’re a hell of a lot smarter than me.”

“Or maybe you’re just dense,” Claire teased lightly, knowing that old-school Peter wouldn’t take offense.

He didn’t. “You’re probably right,” he replied, smiling small and sad right up at her.

A stack of clothes dropped onto the foot of the bed. “C’mon, Peter,” Claude said. “Time to change.”

Peter groaned, closing his eyes again. The last thing he felt like doing was getting off of the bed. In fact, he wouldn’t mind just lying there, with Claire sitting beside him running her fingers through his hair, for a week.

If they hadn’t been connected enough, Peter felt a new bond with Claire unlike any he’d experienced with anyone. It was a hybrid of trust, respect, and love in its most simplest and chaste form. After all, it would be impossible not to love someone who had done everything she had, in some way.

Claude was unyielding, and it was for his own good. “If you don’t get off that damn bed in ten seconds, I’ll rip off your clothes myself and let the girl watch! Get up!”

On a breezier day (a much breezier day) Claire would have jokingly pinned Peter to the bed just to see Claude’s threat come to life. Forlorn still hung in the air, though, along with the steam, and Claire did her best to help Peter stand up.

Crossly, the young man took his clothes from Claude and headed into his walk-in-closet to change (the bathroom was, after all, unfit).

“See? I told you I needed you here,” Claire grinned to nobody, unable, as usual, to see Claude.

Claude shrugged. “You’re the one that really brought him back. He’d jump off a bridge for you.”

“He already jumped off a building,” Claire recalled quietly, blushing.

Claude took note of Claire’s pink cheeks, adding it to his mental list. “You’re sweet on him, I know.”

His daughter looked up at him abruptly, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

Claude smirked. “See? Look how defensive you are about it. Proving me theory right.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Claire tried to look staid. “Your theory is wrong, because I can recognize a hopeless cause.”

Claude scoffed. “A hopeless cause? Are you blind, poppet? You’ve got him so wrapped around your pinkie finger, he doesn’t know what way is up! I see the way he looks at you. He’s practically drooling. I’m almost tempted to box him one the next time he-,”

“Shh!” Claire hissed, waving a hand towards the closet. “Keep your voice down! He’s right in there!”

Claude rolled his eyes and Claire pulled out her big old log of “Reasons Why Not.”

“You’re the one that’s blind,” she shot back. “He’s twenty-six, he doesn’t like teenagers!”

“Oh, please. I was thirty when your mum was eighteen, and I fell in love with her at first sight.”

“Uh, yeah, and look how you two turned out.”

“Special circumstances,” Claude huffed. “Anyways, age doesn’t matter if you really love each other. But he’s still not allowed to shag you until you’re thirty, because even with love, you are much too young…,” he added sternly, pointing an accusing finger at his daughter.

Claire looked to the ceiling, groaning. “We don’t love each other!” Off Claude’s downright defensive look, she changed her wording. “Well…we do, but we’re not….in love with each other.”

“That’ll change.”

“Claude…”

“I’m just trying to steer you in the right direction, that’s all.” Claude waved an invisible truce flag, which Claire could especially not see, due to Claude’s…state of being.

“Oh, God, that can’t be good,” said a blunt voice from behind them. Peter was emerging from the closet, in his dry outfit, having heard Claude’s armistice. “Claude’s advice usually ends up with me between his fists and the wall.”

Even with his crisp clothing, Peter looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. There were bags under his eyes, his half-dry hair was tangled, and his body held itself as though it were made of glass.

“You should go lie down again,” Claire advised him. “I’ll try to cook something.”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “Just order out. You’re not my maid.”

Claire touched his shoulders slowly. “No. I’m your friend.”

Pulling her into a loose embrace, Peter realized how blessed he really was. To have a friend, an amazing girl like Claire, stick by his side no matter what he did. She was caring and wholesome, full of so much hope and light that even his darkest hours were illuminated by her aide. He didn’t deserve any of this, yet she kept giving. The tables had finally turned. Peter remembered a time, (was it really only last week?) where Claire looked at him as though he could walk on water. She’s felt anchored down by debt and now he knew how it was to carry Atlas’s burden.

Claude gave Claire a significant glance over Peter’s shoulder, and she shot him an exasperated look in return. After pulling back, Claire could still see the hurt and abandon in her friend’s face, and she was there, with him, feeling every sharp sting of emotional pain.

“You’ll be okay,” she assured him with a small smile. “Go get some rest. I’ll wake you when I come up with something edible.” Peter smiled and thanked her, pressing a grateful kiss to her forehead before turning towards the bed.

As soon as he was facing the other way, his eyes told the real story.