"When Love Destroys All She Knows," Nathan/Claire, HRG, PG-13
Title - When Love Destroys All She Knows
Rating - PG-13
Pairings/Characters - Nathan/Claire, HRG
Spoilers/Warnings - Up through the preview for 1.20 "The String Theory (?)", complete speculation after that; future!fic
Written for - heroes50 Prompt. 05 - Destroy
Summary - No, she will not leave until she has seen him, talked to him, touched him, and just possibly, said goodbye.
Disclaimer - I don't own anything.
A/N - I don't like it; it still bothers me. I feel like all the potential the fic had was never realized, but I've edited it so many times I don't know how to make it better. So, here it will lie, mostly done but not quite. Hope you see what I meant!
The lights are low, smoke obscures everything from sight, and despite the fact she has only been in the building for less than a minute, she can almost feel her lung cells setting up to retreat from the cancer that will no doubt attack if she stays for much longer. Leaving now would defeat the purpose of the trip (but she does consider turning back for a split second); no, she will not leave until she has seen him, talked to him, touched him, and just possibly, said goodbye. Goodbye to the illusion she keeps wishing will save her, from her past, from her present, but most importantly, from her future.
The bar, once the smoke clears, holds three lonely men, each with a medley of glasses keeping them company. One is grizzled and gray and at least four inches shorter than the man she vaguely recalls as her father. The second is mournfully singing Sweet Caroline to some lover that left him, but he's forgotten the words and the thick Scottish brogue leaves only one man left.
He is seated at the end of the counter, dress pants and shirt creased and worn, his hair is slightly grayer and shorter than she remembers (only flashes of his face and voice remain -- not with all the pain that she has experienced since he last held her). She picks the seat next to him, her sleek gray pants sliding against the greasy bar stool, and although the bartender glances over her once, he does not raise his eyes from the imitation wood of the counter.
"Soda water, please," she directs at the bartender, and it is only then that he turns to her, and when he does, her heart jumps into her throat. Sitting merely inches away, her father stares back at her, uncomprehendingly.
"Hi," she says softly, conscious for the first time in years her faint Texan accent has faded into nothing and a distinct Northeastern tinge has developed in its place.
"You're a little too young to be here," he observes; his unfocused eyes train up and down before adding, "A little too pretty too."
She chuckles as the bar tender slides her drink across the bar. "Is that so?"
He simply smiles in response, taking another draw from the bottle comfortably seated before him. "Friendly warning, this isn't the place for a girl like you." His voice is slurred a little, but the sound still inspires confidence, confidence she always wondered might have been a little misplaced.
"What kind of girl am I?" Voice half flirty, half serious -- she needs his answer more than anything else. The prickling of her hairs tells her she is no longer alone (he never lets her be alone anymore), and if she wants anything to come of this, she should consider hurrying the conversation along.
"The kind of girl who's soul is stronger than it has any right to be. A girl who suffers more hardship, pain and love than it should, and when tomorrow comes, she still has the strength to believe that tomorrow might be better. The kind of girl I always hoped my daughter would be."
The eyes, cloudy, just a second before, are clear, albeit rimmed with unshed tears, and she holds back the sob that is threatening to escape as tears course freely down her tanned cheeks. "Dad?" Forgetting just for a second why she is here; what will happen the moment she exits those bleak doors.
"Of course it is, honey," his voice soft, strong, but even she can hear the relief, pain and love threatening to overwhelm him.
She cannot see straight with the salty tears blocking her vision, but she feels him shift to comfort her. "Don't!" Her voice strangled with emotion and fear. "If you touch me, you'll be dead." She does not add it would only be a shortening of a few minutes -- it is her last charade, the last facade she has in her life; the last thing pure -- and she must keep it that way, if only for him.
He freezes, tensing like a wary cat, and she quickly wipes away the tears on the back of her hand, composing herself before the shadow guard can notice his effect upon her. "What's wrong, Claire? Let me help."
She wants to tell him everything: she found her family, she found the love she dreamed of, she watched that love turn into obsession, and she is left with the shell of the man she once knew. But she cannot bring him pain, not now, not after all these years, not with what she has done. "You can't protect me anymore," she murmurs, pushing past her lips that will leaves wounds for years to come. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I've been here too long already." She lays down a fifty on the counter, a more than suitable amount for both of their drinks, trying to hide the mounting panic and pain she feels -- she has failed; she never said the words.
"Claire --" His voice pulls her back and offers her one last chance for salvation.
"I love you, Dad." The words sound hollow and taste like ash in her mouth. She leans down to pick up her purse. Three moments longer and her resolve will be gone -- and she silently wonders if there is anything wrong with that? But his face flashes before her glazed vision and the second thoughts vanish into thin air.
His hand clasps over her own, and she gives him a frightened look before he simply squeezes it and lets go. "I love you too, Claire bear."
She swallows the tears rising behind her eyes and breaks away, hurrying to the door, past the guard calmly waiting for her exit. The tears do not flow until she enters the waiting limousine, and once they start, she wonders if they will ever stop. Her heart aches more than it should -- the sound of efficient and cold gunshots echoing from inside the bar only increase the pain and her noise.
"Can't we please just go?" she asks him through her tears and hiccuping.
"Not just yet." His voice emanating cold, impersonality, but his eyes -- the only part of him she thinks are alive anymore -- shine with concern and warmth, and even as her heart breaks into a million little pieces, she wonders how he can maintain such unwaivering belief in this mission when all his principles were skewed and twisted so many years before.
The guard returns and nods, just once -- business done, you're free to leave. He signals to the driver, and the car lurches forward, the divider sliding up before the driver has even completely merged back into traffic.
Only then does his voice resemble that of the man who loves her. "Claire, I'm so sorry." His voice imbued with sympathy and suffering; no one would ever guess this man had ordered the hit that caused her this grief.
And when he pulls her into his arms, stroking her long brunette locks, she does not stick the knife she has hidden up her sleeve directly in his chest -- killing the man who murdered the last link she had to her life outside of him.
To her ultimate shame, she curls into a tighter ball against his chest and allows his soothing words of half truths and concern to drive out the pain that has enveloped her soul.
Long ago, she realized she would never be able to fight him -- her love of him too deep for her to do anything but forgive all his faults, all his flaws, and even as he has methodically exterminated everything and everyone she cares about, she stands by his side, tacitly condoning actions so hideous she takes a bottle of sleeping pills to sleep every night.
The soul she has is not strong, and her hope for tomorrow rests solely on the figment of a dream that has not existed in a long time, and when he claims her as his later that night, the sound of her keening fills her only with shame because she has never been less of her father's daughter than in that moment.
But then again, she has never been more his either because she never realized she would never be able to escape Nathan Petrelli until she had nothing left. Just like he never realized he would not be able to keep her until her life was in shambles around them both, and the only thing they had left was each other -- the parasite that will kill them both in the end.
Feedback is love!
Rating - PG-13
Pairings/Characters - Nathan/Claire, HRG
Spoilers/Warnings - Up through the preview for 1.20 "The String Theory (?)", complete speculation after that; future!fic
Written for - heroes50 Prompt. 05 - Destroy
Summary - No, she will not leave until she has seen him, talked to him, touched him, and just possibly, said goodbye.
Disclaimer - I don't own anything.
A/N - I don't like it; it still bothers me. I feel like all the potential the fic had was never realized, but I've edited it so many times I don't know how to make it better. So, here it will lie, mostly done but not quite. Hope you see what I meant!
The lights are low, smoke obscures everything from sight, and despite the fact she has only been in the building for less than a minute, she can almost feel her lung cells setting up to retreat from the cancer that will no doubt attack if she stays for much longer. Leaving now would defeat the purpose of the trip (but she does consider turning back for a split second); no, she will not leave until she has seen him, talked to him, touched him, and just possibly, said goodbye. Goodbye to the illusion she keeps wishing will save her, from her past, from her present, but most importantly, from her future.
The bar, once the smoke clears, holds three lonely men, each with a medley of glasses keeping them company. One is grizzled and gray and at least four inches shorter than the man she vaguely recalls as her father. The second is mournfully singing Sweet Caroline to some lover that left him, but he's forgotten the words and the thick Scottish brogue leaves only one man left.
He is seated at the end of the counter, dress pants and shirt creased and worn, his hair is slightly grayer and shorter than she remembers (only flashes of his face and voice remain -- not with all the pain that she has experienced since he last held her). She picks the seat next to him, her sleek gray pants sliding against the greasy bar stool, and although the bartender glances over her once, he does not raise his eyes from the imitation wood of the counter.
"Soda water, please," she directs at the bartender, and it is only then that he turns to her, and when he does, her heart jumps into her throat. Sitting merely inches away, her father stares back at her, uncomprehendingly.
"Hi," she says softly, conscious for the first time in years her faint Texan accent has faded into nothing and a distinct Northeastern tinge has developed in its place.
"You're a little too young to be here," he observes; his unfocused eyes train up and down before adding, "A little too pretty too."
She chuckles as the bar tender slides her drink across the bar. "Is that so?"
He simply smiles in response, taking another draw from the bottle comfortably seated before him. "Friendly warning, this isn't the place for a girl like you." His voice is slurred a little, but the sound still inspires confidence, confidence she always wondered might have been a little misplaced.
"What kind of girl am I?" Voice half flirty, half serious -- she needs his answer more than anything else. The prickling of her hairs tells her she is no longer alone (he never lets her be alone anymore), and if she wants anything to come of this, she should consider hurrying the conversation along.
"The kind of girl who's soul is stronger than it has any right to be. A girl who suffers more hardship, pain and love than it should, and when tomorrow comes, she still has the strength to believe that tomorrow might be better. The kind of girl I always hoped my daughter would be."
The eyes, cloudy, just a second before, are clear, albeit rimmed with unshed tears, and she holds back the sob that is threatening to escape as tears course freely down her tanned cheeks. "Dad?" Forgetting just for a second why she is here; what will happen the moment she exits those bleak doors.
"Of course it is, honey," his voice soft, strong, but even she can hear the relief, pain and love threatening to overwhelm him.
She cannot see straight with the salty tears blocking her vision, but she feels him shift to comfort her. "Don't!" Her voice strangled with emotion and fear. "If you touch me, you'll be dead." She does not add it would only be a shortening of a few minutes -- it is her last charade, the last facade she has in her life; the last thing pure -- and she must keep it that way, if only for him.
He freezes, tensing like a wary cat, and she quickly wipes away the tears on the back of her hand, composing herself before the shadow guard can notice his effect upon her. "What's wrong, Claire? Let me help."
She wants to tell him everything: she found her family, she found the love she dreamed of, she watched that love turn into obsession, and she is left with the shell of the man she once knew. But she cannot bring him pain, not now, not after all these years, not with what she has done. "You can't protect me anymore," she murmurs, pushing past her lips that will leaves wounds for years to come. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I've been here too long already." She lays down a fifty on the counter, a more than suitable amount for both of their drinks, trying to hide the mounting panic and pain she feels -- she has failed; she never said the words.
"Claire --" His voice pulls her back and offers her one last chance for salvation.
"I love you, Dad." The words sound hollow and taste like ash in her mouth. She leans down to pick up her purse. Three moments longer and her resolve will be gone -- and she silently wonders if there is anything wrong with that? But his face flashes before her glazed vision and the second thoughts vanish into thin air.
His hand clasps over her own, and she gives him a frightened look before he simply squeezes it and lets go. "I love you too, Claire bear."
She swallows the tears rising behind her eyes and breaks away, hurrying to the door, past the guard calmly waiting for her exit. The tears do not flow until she enters the waiting limousine, and once they start, she wonders if they will ever stop. Her heart aches more than it should -- the sound of efficient and cold gunshots echoing from inside the bar only increase the pain and her noise.
"Can't we please just go?" she asks him through her tears and hiccuping.
"Not just yet." His voice emanating cold, impersonality, but his eyes -- the only part of him she thinks are alive anymore -- shine with concern and warmth, and even as her heart breaks into a million little pieces, she wonders how he can maintain such unwaivering belief in this mission when all his principles were skewed and twisted so many years before.
The guard returns and nods, just once -- business done, you're free to leave. He signals to the driver, and the car lurches forward, the divider sliding up before the driver has even completely merged back into traffic.
Only then does his voice resemble that of the man who loves her. "Claire, I'm so sorry." His voice imbued with sympathy and suffering; no one would ever guess this man had ordered the hit that caused her this grief.
And when he pulls her into his arms, stroking her long brunette locks, she does not stick the knife she has hidden up her sleeve directly in his chest -- killing the man who murdered the last link she had to her life outside of him.
To her ultimate shame, she curls into a tighter ball against his chest and allows his soothing words of half truths and concern to drive out the pain that has enveloped her soul.
Long ago, she realized she would never be able to fight him -- her love of him too deep for her to do anything but forgive all his faults, all his flaws, and even as he has methodically exterminated everything and everyone she cares about, she stands by his side, tacitly condoning actions so hideous she takes a bottle of sleeping pills to sleep every night.
The soul she has is not strong, and her hope for tomorrow rests solely on the figment of a dream that has not existed in a long time, and when he claims her as his later that night, the sound of her keening fills her only with shame because she has never been less of her father's daughter than in that moment.
But then again, she has never been more his either because she never realized she would never be able to escape Nathan Petrelli until she had nothing left. Just like he never realized he would not be able to keep her until her life was in shambles around them both, and the only thing they had left was each other -- the parasite that will kill them both in the end.
Feedback is love!