Title: Chapter Twelve: The Darkest Hour

Prompt: <lj user=10_cliche_fics> “The darkest hour is before the dawn” <lj user=speed_heroes> “Write your own Chapter Twelve”

Summary: Of all the people that have forgotten, it’s important that Peter Petrelli remember.

 

I want to see Peter Petrelli 

 

She is surprised when the Haitian complies with her request. She didn’t expect it but then maybe she should have.  He’s given her power, perhaps unwittingly when he refused to follow her father’s orders. She isn’t sure whether she would have used that power or not, after all it benefits her that he didn’t go through with the memory erase. It is still nice to know she has it if she chooses to use it.

 

“H-how bad is he?” Claire glances over at the Haitian sitting in the back of a New York City taxi cab with her. The flight had been a long one and yet the Haitian said very little to her. His English, while accented seems fluent but he just doesn’t say much.

 

“From what I understand he is in a coma. They do not know if or when he will wake up,” the Haitian tells her without looking at her.

 

Claire nods and glances out of the window, her eyes filling with tears. “He will. I can help him. I heal and he absorbs. He’ll be okay.” The last is said in an uncertain whisper that trembles against the glass.

 

She doesn’t know what the Haitian told the nurses or the doctors but she’s been sitting next to Peter’s bed for over an hour and no one has asked her to leave.  She supposes it could be because they arrived in the middle of the night and it’s still hours before dawn but she suspects it has more to do with the imposing black man standing outside Peter’s door.

 

The room smells like antiseptic and illness and too much blood. It makes her nauseous but she’s afraid if she leaves his side someone will notice and that someone will force her to leave. The constant beep of the machines would be maddening any other time but they comfort her, reminding her he is here and alive and anything is better then seeing him broken, lying in a pool of blood and so very dead.

 

Claire holds Peter’s hand in hers, her thumb stroking across the back of his hand, just skirting the IV taped there.  For the first hour she prattles on about everything now she’s gone silent because she’s praying so hard and so fast in her head that her voice can’t keep up.

 

wakeupwakeupwakeup

 

 *deep breath*

 

PleaseGodlethimwakeupPleaseGodPleaseIneedhimtowakeupsobad

 

The tears are trickling down her cheeks and she just can’t stop them.  She has an irrational idea that maybe her powers have stopped working. She looks around the hospital room wildly but that’s the thing about hospital rooms. They’re safe, they’re designed not to have anything in them that can hurt a person.

 

She is across the room frantically searching in the drawers when he wakes up screaming.  His entire body is tense, straight and filled with terror. “Peter, Peter, Peter, its okay,” she shushes as she crosses the room in a flurry of limbs and grateful tears.

 

His eyes are open and still he doesn’t seem to see, she’s on the bed in front of him, her hands at the sides of his face, her fingers brushing back his hair and finally the screams cease. His eyes fill with tears, confusion and fear mark his features and he lets out a slow breath.

 

“Claire?” It’s a whisper, particularly in comparison to the screams that just filled the room but he knows who she is and that was the real purpose in seeing him.

 

Then the room is filled with nurses and they’re pushing and shoving and pulling her away from him despite outstretched hands and plaintive objections. She doesn’t know how but she finds herself on the same side of the door as the Haitian, her face pressed against the glass and she wonders for a moment was she ever really there, fingers trailing through his hair, hands cupping his face and him remembering.

 

“He is awake. He will be okay now.”

 

Claire looks to the Haitian, her eyes narrowed defensively. “Are you supposed to erase his memory too? Is he going to forget me?” Her words are half accusation, half plea and if she thought it would help she’d beg. Of all the people to forget, she needs Peter to remember.

 

Her fears are chased away when she discovers the Haitian can smile, white and blinding against his dark skin. “He has to remember.”

 

Claire nods and watches as the doctors and nurses fuss over Peter. “He does,” she whispers, her breath making a cloud of moisture against the glass. “Peter Petrelli remembers me.”

 

 

 

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