Claire Bennet (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
adamantined) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2010-01-04 12:02 am
adamantined) wrote in tampered2010-01-04 12:02 am
log; ON-GOING
When; Monday, January 4th
Rating; PG
Characters; Peter (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
justdoingmyjob) & Claire (adamantined)
Summary; Certain things need to be dealt with - and not dealt with - in true Petrelli fashion.
Log;
She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, despite the fact that Peter's apartment is only one floor up. Normally, Claire likes giving him the benefit of a warning bell, the ding of the elevators as the doors slide back, loud enough to rattle in her ears and stick with her all the way down the hall to one of the two doors she comes upstairs to knock on. The stairs are a better alternative when she needs to take her time, dreading this conversation as much as she dreads not having it all. Each step passes under her shoes like hands grabbing at her ankles, dragging her under the surf only to surface again with the glare of sunshine from outside directly in her eyes, and Claire takes her time, pausing on the landing leading up to the next and final flight of stairs like a disobedient child lingering outside of a punishment. She wonders if she's being punished, wonders if they're all being punished - even Sylar, most of all Peter, not least of all her - and takes another step. Another. Another. Until she's taking two at a time. Six more until she's at the top of the steps and pushing the tenth floor's door open.
It feels oddly heavy in her hands, and when it slams shut behind her, Claire thinks it's enough of a warning that she doesn't need elevator bells to announce her arrival, too small and insubstantial in the face of everything they're going to have to figure out. She hadn't even had this kind of a conversation when her father had died in Costa Verde. Everything had been taken care of for them, every last decision made with a pen stroke or a mustache twirl, as Claire likes to imagine. She can remember what Noah Bennet's urn had felt like in her hands, the clenching feeling in her stomach as she had poured them out over the Pacific Ocean, and even though it had all been a lie - and it's funny, in a way, that even his revival wasn't their decision to make either - none of it had ever been erased, none of it had ever gone away, and it rushes back now from all directions to choke and smother her. This is so much more real, so much brighter and sharper, and Claire spends a long time standing outside of Peter's door thinking about all the ways she wasn't there when her biological father died, how everything that happened between them in Mexico seems so much more real now that he's gone.
She shakes her head and lets her hair down, bangs pinned back, as she forgoes knocking on the door to just let herself inside instead. It's quiet, but it always is. Claire tries to make as little noise as possible as she shuts the door behind her, as if someone is sleeping nearby, as if someone has died. The strange, apprehensive twist in her stomach only grows tighter and bigger the further into the apartment she steps. Bright light from sunshine and lit up snow pours in the windows, and for a moment she imagines running away from this conversation just as she has been all week, but Claire stays firmly put, moving through the main room, calling for her uncle.
Rating; PG
Characters; Peter (
justdoingmyjob) & Claire (adamantined)Summary; Certain things need to be dealt with - and not dealt with - in true Petrelli fashion.
Log;
She takes the stairs instead of the elevator, despite the fact that Peter's apartment is only one floor up. Normally, Claire likes giving him the benefit of a warning bell, the ding of the elevators as the doors slide back, loud enough to rattle in her ears and stick with her all the way down the hall to one of the two doors she comes upstairs to knock on. The stairs are a better alternative when she needs to take her time, dreading this conversation as much as she dreads not having it all. Each step passes under her shoes like hands grabbing at her ankles, dragging her under the surf only to surface again with the glare of sunshine from outside directly in her eyes, and Claire takes her time, pausing on the landing leading up to the next and final flight of stairs like a disobedient child lingering outside of a punishment. She wonders if she's being punished, wonders if they're all being punished - even Sylar, most of all Peter, not least of all her - and takes another step. Another. Another. Until she's taking two at a time. Six more until she's at the top of the steps and pushing the tenth floor's door open.
It feels oddly heavy in her hands, and when it slams shut behind her, Claire thinks it's enough of a warning that she doesn't need elevator bells to announce her arrival, too small and insubstantial in the face of everything they're going to have to figure out. She hadn't even had this kind of a conversation when her father had died in Costa Verde. Everything had been taken care of for them, every last decision made with a pen stroke or a mustache twirl, as Claire likes to imagine. She can remember what Noah Bennet's urn had felt like in her hands, the clenching feeling in her stomach as she had poured them out over the Pacific Ocean, and even though it had all been a lie - and it's funny, in a way, that even his revival wasn't their decision to make either - none of it had ever been erased, none of it had ever gone away, and it rushes back now from all directions to choke and smother her. This is so much more real, so much brighter and sharper, and Claire spends a long time standing outside of Peter's door thinking about all the ways she wasn't there when her biological father died, how everything that happened between them in Mexico seems so much more real now that he's gone.
She shakes her head and lets her hair down, bangs pinned back, as she forgoes knocking on the door to just let herself inside instead. It's quiet, but it always is. Claire tries to make as little noise as possible as she shuts the door behind her, as if someone is sleeping nearby, as if someone has died. The strange, apprehensive twist in her stomach only grows tighter and bigger the further into the apartment she steps. Bright light from sunshine and lit up snow pours in the windows, and for a moment she imagines running away from this conversation just as she has been all week, but Claire stays firmly put, moving through the main room, calling for her uncle.