Moral Obligations, Chapter Two: Regrets
The last time Peter had seen Claire had been at the carnival in Central Park, surrounded by reporters. A few days later he had the opportunity to watch the news, but there was nothing on it about her big reveal. Nor was there anything in the newspapers. He looked online and found a few photos and film clips, all of which said her jump had been a publicity stunt for the financially embattled Sullivan Brothers Carnival. As Peter thought about it, trying to convince the world of the existence of specials by displaying one’s ability at a carnival whose primary attraction was freak shows, was like trying to tell people magic was real while standing on stage at a Las Vegas magic show. No one believed her.
Peter had gone on with his life, not thinking about Claire’s attempted outing of all things ‘special’. He had Sylar to get settled and the various fallout from that; Peter had a job; he was still trying to work himself up to dating Emma; he still didn’t trust his mother. Checking up on Claire hadn’t made it to Peter’s to-do list and he regretted that now. If he’d learned anything from the debacle with Nathan and not knowing his own brother had died, and the five subjective years spent with Sylar, it was that people needed connections and relationships.
I should have at least called her! Guilt ate at him as he took the responsibility of Claire's situation onto himself. He had to find her and make sure she was okay.
Peter let himself out of the operating room before his duplicate caught up with him and exposed his disguise. He took off deeper into the building, heading towards the guard station he could see at the end of the hall. They had to be guarding something, so that was where he’d start.
“Hey,” he said, taking the direct route. “Where’s Claire?”
The two guards on duty regarded him with bored expressions. “In her room, like normal.” One of them gestured vaguely to the right.
Peter nodded, glancing at the various monitors the guards had access to. He could see Claire clearly in two of them. “What’s she doing?” He leaned forward for a better look, wondering how far he could get with acting like he knew what he was doing.
Apparently not very far, as the guard who had spoken took on a slightly suspicious look at his interest. He glanced at one of the screens. “Looks like she’s reading a book.”
Peter looked down the hallway in the direction the guard had waved. The door which was hers was pretty obvious. It was the one in a metal frame, with a security pad next to it. “I need to see her.”
“What for?” the guard asked, really suspicious now and shifting forward in his seat.
Peter eyed him. The man had a gun and was wearing an armored vest, just like the other guard. No threats were being made yet. A long, tense moment passed until the other guard, who still looked bored, said, “I’ve been reading these new procedures, Dave, and I didn’t see anything in them that would keep one of us from talking to her.”
Dave, the guard Peter was talking to, snapped, “She’s not supposed to have outside contact!”
“I’m not outside contact,” Peter assured him. “I’m one of us, not one of them.” He smiled at the double meaning. “All I want to do is talk to her. You’ll be listening.” Which will really make it difficult to talk to her, but maybe I can write something down …
Dave shook his head, but he seemed to back down and relax. “No, they still don’t have the audio hooked up in there. They’ll be by next week to install it.”
So much the better. I guess they aren’t finished with the refurbishments. “But you’ll still be watching. All I’m going to do is talk to her.” He wondered if she knew what her blood was being used for. She had to. Peter knew he needed something else to green-light his request, so he took a shot in the dark and added, “It’s about the last patient.”
Something about that statement worked for Dave, like it was a magic code that made it all okay. He rolled his eyes and laughed. “What, are you brown-nosing again?” Peter laughed a little to be friendly and Dave went on, “Fine, go ahead. See if you can accomplish something all the shrinks haven’t. Be my guest.” Peter nodded slowly and walked over to the door. The guards buzzed him in and he walked inside.
The room looked nothing like a prison cell, though Peter had already seen that from the monitors. It had two windows with blinds, but no bars (he could see now that the glass was incredibly thick and most likely shatter-proof; it had a nice bed with a spread and frilly pillows (not Peter’s style, but maybe it was Claire’s); there were stuffed animals, pictures of striking landscapes, bookshelves, a dresser, a wardrobe, and a mirror; it was carpeted and the walls were paneled for part and painted for another; and there was a door he suspected led to a bathroom, given the other accoutrements. Claire herself was sitting at a desk that featured a flat screen TV on a swivel stand, though at the moment she was reading a thick, hardback book. She gave him a short, baleful glare and went back to reading.
She looked good, though he knew that didn’t say much about what she might have been put through. Her hair was neat and orderly, as were her clothes, so that was something. She didn’t look happy, but he’d hardly expected that. She was wearing her normal amount of makeup, which he took to be another good sign. All in all, she still looked like the middle-teen, petite girl she’d been when he first met her, eternally young. It made it tough to take her seriously sometimes, he realized, feeling a fresh wave of guilt.
“Claire,” he said and even though he knew he looked like someone else entirely, it felt odd that she didn’t recognize him.
She didn’t bother to look up at her name, speaking in a biting, sarcastic tone as she pretended to keep reading, “What is it this time? Do I need to go look at someone else who can walk now or isn’t burned nearly to death anymore or has woke up from a coma for the first time in four years? Have you come to try and guilt trip me into being more cooperative - again?”
Peter blinked. Burned nearly to death. A vision of Nathan flashed behind his eyes, burned so badly after flying Peter into the sky over New York, saving everyone. Nathan…
‘They’ve been wondering if it could bring back the dead.’
He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut, every ounce of the pain and horror over his brother's death re-awakening in an instant as he realized, remembered, that Claire had been right there in the Stanton Hotel with him when Nathan had been killed. He hadn’t known about Nathan’s death until far too late. Neither had she. But his mother had. Noah had. And yet … nothing had been done.
‘They’ve been wondering if it could bring back the dead.’ The words echoed in Peter's mind again, and he swallowed roughly at the realization of how easily Nathan might have been saved. Had Noah said nothing, fearing that his daughter might be locked up and used to heal people? Had Nathan remained dead because Noah wanted Claire to be free? My mother had to be just as involved.
Claire was looking at him now, her expression puzzled and sharp. Peter struggled to get control of himself and focus on the here and now. He knew that what he had felt from losing Nathan, like having his heart torn out and burned, was how most people felt on losing a loved one. Claire had to be ‘guilt tripped’ into cooperating in waking people up from comas, regaining the ability to walk, or healing from life-threatening burns? Anger ran through him, thoroughly chasing away the grief, guilt, and confusion.
Peter glanced up at the camera, trying to pick an angle that would confuse the view of his lips. “I’m Peter. Your uncle,” he said tersely. “I have shape-shifting.”
Her eyes widened briefly and she started to rise, her expression open and hopeful and trusting. A moment later though, her eyes narrowed and she sank back down, leaning away from him as her initial belief was overrun by doubt. “Prove it,” she demanded.
That’s easy. He chuckled dryly and looked off to the side, cupping his elbow in one hand and using the other to obscure his mouth. “When we were in the kitchen together after Nathan’s funeral, we were cutting up lemons and you cut yourself. I had Rene’s power and it kept you from healing. You said you wanted to feel it - the pain.”
She smiled slowly, then jumped up and ran across the room to hug him fiercely. For a brief moment, he hugged her back. His anger faded in the face of her relief and joy at seeing him. Then he remembered the cameras. “No, Claire … you can’t.” He pushed her away. “They’re watching.”
She shook her head, but let him push her back. “I don’t care!” she burst out angrily, turning and going back to the bed, flopping down on it. “They watch me constantly!”
He raised his brows, rolled his eyes a little and shrugged. “Yeah … they probably do.” He looked at her angry demeanor and around at her room. “Are they treating you okay, otherwise?”
She snorted and rolled over to stare at the ceiling, then at one of the not-at-all-hidden cameras. “That doesn’t matter,” she ground out, like she’d been asked that question many times before and, many times before, answered it.
Isn’t this what you wanted? A chance to help people and be special? You were trying to show everyone your ability. This proves what you can do. His brow furrowed. Is that what she wants? Or am I seeing her through the lens of my own desires, and what I would do with her power if I had it? “So, what, they come in here and take your blood, then go heal people with it?”
She huffed, but then her expression smoothed and blanked. She was still staring at the camera. “Yes,” she said, devoid of inflection.
Peter walked forward to the corner of the bed, looking at her face. “You … you’ve seen the people you’ve saved? You’ve seen what they’re doing?”
“Yes,” she said and this time her voice was bitter.
He was confused. Why is she upset? Isn’t this a good thing? For once it sounds like the government is doing it right. They must be prioritizing patients, triaging them for her, like a dispatcher. They’re even trying not to push her too far. They bring the patients to her instead of her having to do something like work as a paramedic to find them. Not that I mind working, but maybe she would. “What … what are they doing wrong?” he asked, filled with genuine stupefaction.
She turned to stare at him, her expression momentarily livid, then disbelieving, then heartbroken. She shuddered and looked away. “You. Fucking. Bastard.” she whispered harshly.
“What?” He felt like she’d stabbed him with those words. He felt every shred of hate and bile behind them even if he didn’t understand it. “Claire … are they hurting you? I’ll-"
She leaped off the bed and jumped at him, screaming and cursing, her face twisted in a sudden, ugly rage. “It’s wrong! It’s fucking wrong! You don’t get to do that to people! They milk me like a fucking cow, Peter! I am not an animal!” She attacked him, clawing and swinging with surprising strength. He fell back before the onslaught, getting his hands up to defend himself, but getting bruised, battered, and scratched anyway.
“Claire!” he yelled, grabbing her forearms in time to take an agonizing and debilitating kick to the side of his knee. He fell, dropping her, just as the door opened. She snarled at the two guards who rushed into the room and then she retreated back to the bed. Peter massaged his knee. It hurt like hell. It was hyper-extended, but he thought he could walk on it if he were careful. It took him a moment to realize Dave was talking to him when he called him Chris and asked if he was okay. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just help me up.”
Peter got to his feet and leaned against the doorframe, gingerly testing if his leg was good to put weight on it. One good thing about impersonating a big guy was that the other two weren’t keen on having to carry him out. They waited to see if Peter could make it on his own. Peter gave Claire a perplexed, searching look.
“Get me out of here!” she demanded of him openly.
Dave gave her a bemused look and then waved the other guard out of the room. “Go man the desk. I’ll get Chris out when he can walk.”
A vision of Nathan’s face healing with the infusion of Adam’s blood ran through Peter’s mind, followed closely by the frightened woman he’d seen saved only minutes before. She would have died without Claire’s blood - Peter was certain. “I can’t do that, Claire,” he said, his voice pleading. People would die without you. Every person she saved was one less family who had to deal with the agony of losing a loved one. This wasn’t like the pointless incarceration he’d endured at the Company, and he’d taken that patiently and willingly while he thought his imprisonment was saving others. Her efforts here had meaning.
“Yes, you can!” she snapped. “Don’t give me that bullshit! Don’t lie to me, -!” She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak his name, but then shut it, still fuming. Dave was watching with an interest that wavered between amused and concerned.
Peter looked at Dave for a moment, deciding the other man was going to let him speak his piece here. He turned back to Claire and said, “You’re helping people. What I wouldn’t give to be able to do what you’re doing. This … this is what people like you …” He trailed off, wondering if her gift came with any obligation to use it well. He’d always thought (and many times said to the former killer) that Sylar’s ability came with a responsibility to control himself and use it wisely. If that were true, then didn’t it follow that Claire also had a responsibility, as much as Peter too had one to work for the betterment of others? Peter had thrown himself into that life for years now, so much so that it was almost impossible for him to see any other path.
”People like me? People who are different?” She spat the last word. Once again, Claire had that expression of deepest betrayal on her face and Peter felt his heart wrench.
“I hate you,” she said bitterly. “I hate you and I hate everyone who thinks they get to say how I live my life. I hate my father, and I hated Nathan, and I hate Angela, and I hate YOU if you leave me in this PRISON!” She rose at the end, yelling, and Dave faced off with her briefly, enough to make sure she stopped her forward progress and didn’t attack Peter a second time. Instead, she stood in impotent fury next to the bed. Dave turned and hustled the stunned Peter out of the room, letting the door swing shut automatically behind him.
Peter didn’t know what to say. He was completely without words. Dave helped him limp down to the desk and tried to get him to sit. Peter refused, mostly ignoring what the other man was saying about workman’s comp and notifying human resources of a workplace injury. He paid attention when the other guard, the one who had acted bored earlier, said, “She’s always the worst right after they bleed her.” Very observantly he added, “I think it makes her feel guilty.”
Peter sighed. That was almost certainly true. Claire knew the agency, the government, or whoever was saving lives with her blood. She’d said as much. They weren’t performing depraved experiments, vivisection, or torture. They were helping normal people, saving them and allowing them to live normal lives. Of course Claire would feel guilty. She knew she should be on board with this.
“I’m going to go home and put some ice on my knee,” Peter muttered. Dave patiently repeated his previous instructions about worker’s compensation and filing a claim. Peter nodded and agreed he’d do that. He walked off down the hall, lost in thought. He had a lot to think about.
Back to Chapter One: http://game-byrd.livejournal.com/115768.html
Forward to Chapter Three: http://game-byrd.livejournal.com/116369.html