[Rather than dropping the phone when the ringtone startles her - an outrageously inappropriate and chipper slice of Kokomo, left over from the weekend spent down at the beach and the result of her own laziness in removing it - Claire grips the hard plastic so tightly in her fingers that she feels the protective casing start to groan. Not enough to stop the display from lighting up with a familiar photo and name, the highest volume setting on the Sidekick works just as well as a car alarm in a crowded parking garage. She doesn't deviate from the path she's walked so often that her feet have learned the turns before her mind realizes that she's taking them, and that, more than the bars of Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya, brings her across Chase's path, just as a group of late night curse survivors cross the street, leaving the area relatively clear.
Compared to the event that took place in Xanadu, back in December, she looks no worse for wear. Compared to her normal work attire, normal appearance, Claire is a mess. Worse and better than her encounter with Nuada, the spill of blood mostly stains down the length of her left arm, ruining a cardigan that hangs open to frame a sharp tear across her camisole. She's missing one shoe, but both feet are bare, the remaining sneaker caught up in the curl of her fingers. When she sees him, she stops, her shoulders and back tensing until her muscles feel like they are vibrating with the concentrated effort of remaining perfectly still.
The music coming from her palm cuts off with Ooh I wanna take you down to Kokomo, and Claire waits a beat before opening her mouth only to find she has nothing to say.]
[He's breathing harder than he needs to be for such a brief run, chest rising quickly even after he's pulled up short to look at her, questioning. Injuries, though it might be a habitual thing, aren't what he looks for. With Claire it's collateral damage. The chances of her asking for help for herself and no one else are relatively slim, considering her habit of running headlong at anything that comes with an advisory warning.
One day he'll pretend he's got used to not worrying about that.
But there's no one else here, and she's healed as normal despite the signs that something has pulled her awry. Chase looks at missing buttons, rips and tears that don't pretend to be accidental, and his jaw sets.]
Do you want me to look for him now, or take you home?
[This is exactly why she doesn't ask for help for herself. The situations that she gets into are unlikely and impossible enough by nature alone, but she can typically weather through them and come out the other side without much scar tissue, metaphorically or otherwise. It's opening people like Chase, like Angela or Ginny, anyone who isn't like her, up to the possibilities presented in tandem with scenarios like this that leaves her alternating hot and cold, currents running down the length of her spine and front of her neck, flushing the crest of her cheeks, leaving a hot and heavy fist balled in the pit of her stomach. Claire doesn't care how hypocritical it makes her, how unfair it is and can be when she so often assumes the position Chase is, at the very least, just suggesting. She particularly doesn't care now.]
Don't look for anyone.
[She's told him, hasn't she? Isn't that an improvement over the last time, over Nuada? Isn't that enough? Claire can remember lying in St. Joseph's and pleading the same request to her father. You can't say anything. This is hardly the same, although it could have been. She's not overlooking that, but she's not going to dial down the sharpness of her tone just for the sake of catching her own breath, the loss of which she seems to have caught from him, if it means communicating exactly how she feels.
When she exhales, it's shaky, though less with feeling like she might cry and more with feeling like she might lose the small amount of control that she still has over the situation, over herself. Concentrating on him, the point of his shoulder, the set of his jaw, is grounding. Claire pulls in, bringing the hand half-occupied with her shoe up to rub at the red, damp spot of her shoulder.]
I just want to go home, I - this doesn't feel right.
[Nothing like Nuada's spear, just the result of something having settled incorrectly.]
[Chase stands rooted a minute longer, eyes fixed over her shoulder as if the darkness might have something more revealing in it than clumps of drunken stragglers from an overblown ball. Every time he's claimed to be okay with the place. Every time.
He drags his focus back in, back to her face. Doesn't look down.]
Of course.
[And he takes one breath that seems to steady the heaving of his ribs, opening the space of an arm out for her to fit, if she wants. It is an improvement, although he doesn't yet know the extent of the comparison and without that his suspicion rises that this was finally bad enough for her to consider calling him warranted. That's what makes this so impossible to describe as preferable. But he holds that arm out and offers her a place.]
[Claire spends a moment standing just in front of the outstretched circle of his arm, taking the steps in her head necessary to bringing her within an embrace she has come to recognize as secure. Letting her hand fall from the opposite shoulder, she fails to take that necessary step and instead glances at her shoe, the rusty smear along the back, where her ankle might rest. She is still in control.]
I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want - with Nuada - when you -
[She cuts herself off, frustrated, and presses her lips together, hoping that he will pick up on what it is she's trying to say without having to use so many words. A part of her is sorry for worrying him, but an overwhelming majority is glad that she called, too. While she knows she'll need to deal with all that's happened on her own, feeling like she made the right decision in doing this is something she considers progress.
She starts walking, placing a certain amount of distance between the brush of their shoulders.]
I wasn't mad at you for getting hurt by him, I was bothered that you kept it from me.
[Chase steps into line for only a few paces, arm dropping back uselessly by his side, and then he stops.]
Claire.
[And she may have called him this time but she's doing the same thing again, and it's obvious he still hasn't found a way to get through to her. It's a bad time to push things, but all times like this are bad and the one thing he can't accept is that she needs to do this on her own.]
You asked for me, don't shut me back out again. If you're hurt. I'm here.
[Hurt in the definition of the word he's always told her she has as much right to as anyone.]
[The answer comes before he stops, and sounds slightly congested - but still understanding enough to be honest as opposed to some sort of brush off - with the weight of what she's holding back. When Chase pulls up short and says her name, Claire comes to a company halt, cutting down the pronounced height difference between them by craning her neck to meet his eyes. Some of the air, the wires and bits of string, she's been holding herself together with goes out of her, and the exhale that follows is just as much a sigh of relief as it is an admittance of acceptance.
He gets through to her more than he might realize, and if anyone in this place was going to be able to do it, it was always going to be him. Their relationship aside - and maybe even in spite of their relationship - there are too many conversations and memories that stand out in her mind not to allow him that, and she did call him, and he is here, and that's indicative of more than she can really put into words when it comes to relinquishing the tight grip on things that she does have. She's said that she doesn't want to become that girl. What he's saying and suggesting now are footholds to ensuring that she doesn't, and Claire knows she can't keep him at arm's length just because it makes her feel better, not when this is one of those things he's equipped to deal with. He doesn't deserve that.]
I'm okay. [Time seems to stretch endlessly between his voice dying off and hers picking up, and it's another long moment gone by the time she stops examining her shoe again. When she looks up this time, many of the City lights are blurrier than she remembers them being, his face, too, and her skin feels hot and her throat feels tight, words stretching around a croak.] I don't know why this happened. I don't know what I did.
[She'd woken him from a spot on the couch rather than bed, which had meant the luxury of grabbing a jacket on his way out of the door wasn't as much of a delay as dressing would have been, brown leather over his thin t-shirt and jeans. It's not a cold night, and as he stands a few paces behind her he slips the extra layer back off his shoulders and down his arms.]
You're alive. That's only one definition of okay.
[If she knew what she sounded like, or could see how the tension in her face manages to age her in a way the years haven't managed yet. Things that make chase's fists clench uselessly with the urge to turn and go back after whoever and whatever was capable of this. No one should have been capable of it. But he doesn't, he forces himself forward instead and brings the jacket gently around her shoulders, covering up rips and stains. With it his arms circle her from behind and the barest hint of pressure brings her back against him, if she'll go. He reaches to take the shoe, useless except as evidence, and everyone in the City knows how much that seems to count for.]
Don't ask yourself what you wouldn't ask anyone else. You're not at fault for this. Whoever did thisis at fault. Don't make yourself complicit.
I don't know. [And that's the most difficult part to digest. There are no clues or answers or reasons. It's mindless, and she can't shake that.] Nuada had a reason. Sylar had a reason. [Her voice levels with a certain amount of disgust at the admission, and she wipes sticky sweat and May humidity from her face, her palm coming back with something much more fresh.] Even Brody had a reason.
[As his jacket settles around her, she's flooded with the familiar smell of Robert's cologne and shampoo, and that clinging, personal scent that everyone has but can never be traced back to just one individual source. Whatever else has been holding her together finally shifts to the side as she hands over her shoe, not so much that she's falling apart in front of him but enough that she can let herself place some of the weight of the night in his hands without feeling like the world is going to crumble, like it's going to overbalance him and send him down, too. She goes with the pressure, finally, letting her shoulders rest against his chest, the back of her head following suit.]
I don't know his name or who he is or anything about him. I just saw his face. I think I've talked to him a couple of times on the Network, but I didn't - I wasn't expecting -
[Her top lip bears the brunt of her teeth, and she chews on it until she's ready to start walking again, moving away from the rise and fall of his breathing. The idea of standing out in the middle of the street doesn't sound as pleasant as it might normally, on a nice night at four in the morning. She wants walls on all sides of both of them.]
I don't even know where he went. Someone came by, and he took off, and I ran.
[He accepts the loss of her this time and follows, catching up in the length of few strides and then slowing to keep them level. He can understand her wanting to keep moving, even if part of him wants to stay out there and dare what's waiting to have another go.
He's not an idiot, he knows there are more things in this city he couldn't take on than that he could. But the churning anger beneath his ribs makes reason less attractive.]
Random attacks happen. Most people are surprised if they do know their attacker. If you've got his face then we'll go through network posts and you can take it to the police in the morning.
I know his voice, too. It might be easier to go through the audio records on the Network. There's no one else here who sounds like him.
[She looks over, up into the side of his face first before letting her gaze drop back down to the tension in his hands. Feeling a certain sense of concern for him is something she realizes probably isn't par for the course, though for Claire it makes sense, given her propensity for trying to make anything she can about anything other than herself, when it's difficult like this. It's not about guilt, and she isn't under the impression anymore that he would be better off simply not knowing, and she's certainly not putting her own distress on the bench, but Claire knows how easy she finds it to want to step in for someone else's sake, and it's never a calming or nice feeling.
Barely needing to reach over, she slips her fingers in with his, holding on tighter than she means to or realizes. With her free hand, she touches her shoulder again, talking for the purpose of filling silence.]
One of his arms is made of solid bone, it's like a knife. And I thought he was Nuada, at first, with the hair. I don't remember how tall he was, I couldn't tell. It was all so fast.
[There's a return squeeze of her hand, not as tight or as desperate. A murmur without words: i've got you. He takes the lead to the building, walking quickly with not much ground to cover it's not long before they're steeped in the lobby lights.]
At least you should be able to pick him out of a line up.
[Solid bone, really?]
We'll go through any records you like. As long as you like. [As long as she can feel like she's doing something, he thinks. That might just be projecting his own interests.] Which apartment?
[A sound like a snort meets his response, and Claire isn't sure if she's supposed to see any humor in it or if she should keep the tone serious, but there's a lighter - albeit still very sarcastic - quality to her voice when she replies, ducking into the lobby and blinking in the bright light as she replies.]
Yeah, I don't think the City is exactly running a special on borderline albinism.
[As an answer to his question, Claire hesitates before selecting an elevator button to push. Her thumb hovers over 9 but migrates to 10 at the last minute. Ginny's home. The idea of coming face to face with the other girl and having to explain something like this leaves her feeling weightless, but it's alright, she heard that murmur, knows he's got her.]
Ginny's home. [That in itself should be enough of an explanation, but Claire goes on, shaking the sleeve of his jacket down over her wrist until it covers her hand.] I don't wanna answer questions when she's bad enough at controlling her temper on a normal day. [It's half the truth.] I don't really wanna answer questions.
[He makes that offer despite everything he wants to know and has already put off asking. What he's extrapolated may be worse than what happened, he's not sure there's a way it could be described as better, but having an actual description to picture can't possibly help the temper he's keeping down. She's the only thing doing that right now.
The lights flicker up the scale until the doors open on his floor.]
And this is better for me. I don't think I remembered to lock my door.
I just... need a second. Then you can ask whatever you need to.
[And that's why she'll be willing to sit through a Q and A session with him, regardless of whether or not it should or could actually be called that. She called him, and he's here now, and she knows he's not going anywhere. There are certain details he needs to know, and after a glass of water and a soft place to sit, Claire feels she'll be more inclined to share them, though without too much attention to detail. So much of it is a blur now, too.
She glances back at him over her shoulder, which is an unnecessary twist to make as she hasn't yet let go of his hand. The door opens, and they are immediately greeted to the sound of Scan dashing from one room to another. Before either of them can step inside, Claire finally lets go of his hand, standing with her back to the open door.]
You could've locked the door. [Pause. Her voice returns with a hoarse quality.] Thank you for coming so fast.
[If they're looking through the network, questions might crop up naturally then. Sitting down and running through the list is unlikely to do either of them many favours. He stops as she turns, close enough that he has to duck his head to make eye contact and draws in another heavy breath. It calmed him before, ostensibly, he's trying the same trick before the cracks begin to show.]
Compared to the event that took place in Xanadu, back in December, she looks no worse for wear. Compared to her normal work attire, normal appearance, Claire is a mess. Worse and better than her encounter with Nuada, the spill of blood mostly stains down the length of her left arm, ruining a cardigan that hangs open to frame a sharp tear across her camisole. She's missing one shoe, but both feet are bare, the remaining sneaker caught up in the curl of her fingers. When she sees him, she stops, her shoulders and back tensing until her muscles feel like they are vibrating with the concentrated effort of remaining perfectly still.
The music coming from her palm cuts off with Ooh I wanna take you down to Kokomo, and Claire waits a beat before opening her mouth only to find she has nothing to say.]
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One day he'll pretend he's got used to not worrying about that.
But there's no one else here, and she's healed as normal despite the signs that something has pulled her awry. Chase looks at missing buttons, rips and tears that don't pretend to be accidental, and his jaw sets.]
Do you want me to look for him now, or take you home?
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Don't look for anyone.
[She's told him, hasn't she? Isn't that an improvement over the last time, over Nuada? Isn't that enough? Claire can remember lying in St. Joseph's and pleading the same request to her father. You can't say anything. This is hardly the same, although it could have been. She's not overlooking that, but she's not going to dial down the sharpness of her tone just for the sake of catching her own breath, the loss of which she seems to have caught from him, if it means communicating exactly how she feels.
When she exhales, it's shaky, though less with feeling like she might cry and more with feeling like she might lose the small amount of control that she still has over the situation, over herself. Concentrating on him, the point of his shoulder, the set of his jaw, is grounding. Claire pulls in, bringing the hand half-occupied with her shoe up to rub at the red, damp spot of her shoulder.]
I just want to go home, I - this doesn't feel right.
[Nothing like Nuada's spear, just the result of something having settled incorrectly.]
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He drags his focus back in, back to her face. Doesn't look down.]
Of course.
[And he takes one breath that seems to steady the heaving of his ribs, opening the space of an arm out for her to fit, if she wants. It is an improvement, although he doesn't yet know the extent of the comparison and without that his suspicion rises that this was finally bad enough for her to consider calling him warranted. That's what makes this so impossible to describe as preferable. But he holds that arm out and offers her a place.]
I'm glad you called.
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I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want - with Nuada - when you -
[She cuts herself off, frustrated, and presses her lips together, hoping that he will pick up on what it is she's trying to say without having to use so many words. A part of her is sorry for worrying him, but an overwhelming majority is glad that she called, too. While she knows she'll need to deal with all that's happened on her own, feeling like she made the right decision in doing this is something she considers progress.
She starts walking, placing a certain amount of distance between the brush of their shoulders.]
I didn't want to do that again.
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[Chase steps into line for only a few paces, arm dropping back uselessly by his side, and then he stops.]
Claire.
[And she may have called him this time but she's doing the same thing again, and it's obvious he still hasn't found a way to get through to her. It's a bad time to push things, but all times like this are bad and the one thing he can't accept is that she needs to do this on her own.]
You asked for me, don't shut me back out again. If you're hurt. I'm here.
[Hurt in the definition of the word he's always told her she has as much right to as anyone.]
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[The answer comes before he stops, and sounds slightly congested - but still understanding enough to be honest as opposed to some sort of brush off - with the weight of what she's holding back. When Chase pulls up short and says her name, Claire comes to a company halt, cutting down the pronounced height difference between them by craning her neck to meet his eyes. Some of the air, the wires and bits of string, she's been holding herself together with goes out of her, and the exhale that follows is just as much a sigh of relief as it is an admittance of acceptance.
He gets through to her more than he might realize, and if anyone in this place was going to be able to do it, it was always going to be him. Their relationship aside - and maybe even in spite of their relationship - there are too many conversations and memories that stand out in her mind not to allow him that, and she did call him, and he is here, and that's indicative of more than she can really put into words when it comes to relinquishing the tight grip on things that she does have. She's said that she doesn't want to become that girl. What he's saying and suggesting now are footholds to ensuring that she doesn't, and Claire knows she can't keep him at arm's length just because it makes her feel better, not when this is one of those things he's equipped to deal with. He doesn't deserve that.]
I'm okay. [Time seems to stretch endlessly between his voice dying off and hers picking up, and it's another long moment gone by the time she stops examining her shoe again. When she looks up this time, many of the City lights are blurrier than she remembers them being, his face, too, and her skin feels hot and her throat feels tight, words stretching around a croak.] I don't know why this happened. I don't know what I did.
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You're alive. That's only one definition of okay.
[If she knew what she sounded like, or could see how the tension in her face manages to age her in a way the years haven't managed yet. Things that make chase's fists clench uselessly with the urge to turn and go back after whoever and whatever was capable of this. No one should have been capable of it. But he doesn't, he forces himself forward instead and brings the jacket gently around her shoulders, covering up rips and stains. With it his arms circle her from behind and the barest hint of pressure brings her back against him, if she'll go. He reaches to take the shoe, useless except as evidence, and everyone in the City knows how much that seems to count for.]
Don't ask yourself what you wouldn't ask anyone else. You're not at fault for this. Whoever did thisis at fault. Don't make yourself complicit.
[And, as if the question wasn't implied...]
Who did this?
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[As his jacket settles around her, she's flooded with the familiar smell of Robert's cologne and shampoo, and that clinging, personal scent that everyone has but can never be traced back to just one individual source. Whatever else has been holding her together finally shifts to the side as she hands over her shoe, not so much that she's falling apart in front of him but enough that she can let herself place some of the weight of the night in his hands without feeling like the world is going to crumble, like it's going to overbalance him and send him down, too. She goes with the pressure, finally, letting her shoulders rest against his chest, the back of her head following suit.]
I don't know his name or who he is or anything about him. I just saw his face. I think I've talked to him a couple of times on the Network, but I didn't - I wasn't expecting -
[Her top lip bears the brunt of her teeth, and she chews on it until she's ready to start walking again, moving away from the rise and fall of his breathing. The idea of standing out in the middle of the street doesn't sound as pleasant as it might normally, on a nice night at four in the morning. She wants walls on all sides of both of them.]
I don't even know where he went. Someone came by, and he took off, and I ran.
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He's not an idiot, he knows there are more things in this city he couldn't take on than that he could. But the churning anger beneath his ribs makes reason less attractive.]
Random attacks happen. Most people are surprised if they do know their attacker. If you've got his face then we'll go through network posts and you can take it to the police in the morning.
[Chase wants to know his face, too.]
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[She looks over, up into the side of his face first before letting her gaze drop back down to the tension in his hands. Feeling a certain sense of concern for him is something she realizes probably isn't par for the course, though for Claire it makes sense, given her propensity for trying to make anything she can about anything other than herself, when it's difficult like this. It's not about guilt, and she isn't under the impression anymore that he would be better off simply not knowing, and she's certainly not putting her own distress on the bench, but Claire knows how easy she finds it to want to step in for someone else's sake, and it's never a calming or nice feeling.
Barely needing to reach over, she slips her fingers in with his, holding on tighter than she means to or realizes. With her free hand, she touches her shoulder again, talking for the purpose of filling silence.]
One of his arms is made of solid bone, it's like a knife. And I thought he was Nuada, at first, with the hair. I don't remember how tall he was, I couldn't tell. It was all so fast.
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At least you should be able to pick him out of a line up.
[Solid bone, really?]
We'll go through any records you like. As long as you like. [As long as she can feel like she's doing something, he thinks. That might just be projecting his own interests.] Which apartment?
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Yeah, I don't think the City is exactly running a special on borderline albinism.
[As an answer to his question, Claire hesitates before selecting an elevator button to push. Her thumb hovers over 9 but migrates to 10 at the last minute. Ginny's home. The idea of coming face to face with the other girl and having to explain something like this leaves her feeling weightless, but it's alright, she heard that murmur, knows he's got her.]
Ginny's home. [That in itself should be enough of an explanation, but Claire goes on, shaking the sleeve of his jacket down over her wrist until it covers her hand.] I don't wanna answer questions when she's bad enough at controlling her temper on a normal day. [It's half the truth.] I don't really wanna answer questions.
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[He makes that offer despite everything he wants to know and has already put off asking. What he's extrapolated may be worse than what happened, he's not sure there's a way it could be described as better, but having an actual description to picture can't possibly help the temper he's keeping down. She's the only thing doing that right now.
The lights flicker up the scale until the doors open on his floor.]
And this is better for me. I don't think I remembered to lock my door.
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[And that's why she'll be willing to sit through a Q and A session with him, regardless of whether or not it should or could actually be called that. She called him, and he's here now, and she knows he's not going anywhere. There are certain details he needs to know, and after a glass of water and a soft place to sit, Claire feels she'll be more inclined to share them, though without too much attention to detail. So much of it is a blur now, too.
She glances back at him over her shoulder, which is an unnecessary twist to make as she hasn't yet let go of his hand. The door opens, and they are immediately greeted to the sound of Scan dashing from one room to another. Before either of them can step inside, Claire finally lets go of his hand, standing with her back to the open door.]
You could've locked the door. [Pause. Her voice returns with a hoarse quality.] Thank you for coming so fast.
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Don't worry about it tonight.
[If they're looking through the network, questions might crop up naturally then. Sitting down and running through the list is unlikely to do either of them many favours. He stops as she turns, close enough that he has to duck his head to make eye contact and draws in another heavy breath. It calmed him before, ostensibly, he's trying the same trick before the cracks begin to show.]
Sorry I wasn't there sooner.
[Before she'd had to call.]
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