[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.]
[As far as tricks go, deep, healing breaths don't typically work in terms of keeping up facades. If anything, they're more revealing than they try to be, and while the cracks might not be showing yet, the veneer layered over them isn't exactly being hidden.
Claire shakes her head in response, cupping his elbow with a small palm so that she can encourage him further into the apartment. She reaches around him and shuts the door, turning the lock with a loud thap. Once that's done, she stretches up on her toes to put her arms around his shoulders, craving human contact now that she's off the street and feeling human herself. There are certain consequences that come with that, but her voice muffled by his shirt doesn't immediately betray them.]
You aren't psychic, Robert. You got there as fast as you could. And nothing happened. [She pulls back to look at him, holding him steady - herself steady - by either shoulder.] Nothing like that happened.
He meets her eyes, holding the contact for what feels like a long time though its likely only a minute stretches out before he pulls her in against him again, arms wrapping bear-hug tight. He dips his knees after a minute more, enough to lower the bracket of his arms to her waist and lift her with him when he straightens. Just across to sit her on the arm of the couch. His work shirt, blue pinstripe, has been discarded across the back.]
I'd kill him.
[That, too soft and too considered to be an angry reaction, said against her ear before he pulls back to gather up the shirt to give her. He doesn't meet her eyes for more than a second, but the truth is there too. Ration and reason don't matter.]
[Caught somewhat off-guard by what he says, Claire lets her hands slip down the curves of his arms without breaking contact until she's has no choice other than to take the shirt he's holding out to her. It isn't that she's really surprised by that soft spoken admission - and it's the softness of it that holds her attention, when an an outburst or something spoken more heatedly could be written off as an angry dismissal - but hearing something like that is always different than imagining the words and syllables coming out of someone's mouth, how they might sound and how you might digest them. She's stuck somewhere between being grateful and wanting to punch him, hardly an unfamiliar combination.
Every man in her life has made her feel that way at least once.]
Thankfully that's just a hypothetical. [She folds the shirt over the soft material of his jacket, splaying her fingers between the pinstripes and looking down at her dirty fingernails. The lingering sensation of his arms around her pulses in time with her heartbeat as she balances on the arm of the sofa.] I wouldn't want you to kill anyone.
[That's not to say she doesn't understand why he's saying it. She would say it. She might actually do it. Although he might not be looking at her, Claire can't help but look at him and nowhere else. She's not trying to meet his eyes, but watching the lines traced by his shoulders is good enough for her. A shower sounds like a good plan, but for the moment Claire finds herself rooted to the spot.]
[He catches hold of her fingers before they can pull away, curling his underneath to hold them. He'd rather hold her closer, tighter, but there's a fear that too much closeness might feel like a cage. The fight or flight reflex lingers in the blood long after the threat has passed.]
Then we'll find out who the guy is, and we'll find someone to do something about it. I'm tired of the damn lunatics running the asylum. He's not going to sit in a cage until he feels like he's done playing contrite, like some of the rest of them.
[He'll advocate going via the police force, but they're a toothless organisation when it comes down to it and the state a lawless one. When that happens, it's down to the citizenry to police themselves. He thinks of Ginny, and those he's met like her. Good people to have onside.]
They did it with Nuada. We can make sure he's declawed. I promise.
You don't have to take out a hit. If he keeps up at the rate he's been going, you're not gonna be the only one saying things like that. There's no way this was the first time he's gone after someone, and it won't be the last. He knew what he was doing. [Fixed on the floor, her eyes widen, like an aftershock, caught up in the detail of the carpet.] He was so fast.
[Forcing herself to lose interest in the rug, Claire blinks up at him, eyes coming back into focus with a sort of resolution hanging around the edges. Knowing that she wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last unless she did something about it was the driving force behind what she did to Brody. Chase doesn't need to assume any amount of responsibility - she'll assume enough of it on her own - but it inspires a feeling similar to what Peter could create with that kind of a declaration, even when it annoyed her.]
But he's still sloppy. Whatever he's been doing to whoever he's been doing it to, it can't and won't last. No one gets away with that, one way or another.
[Her voice isn't as emboldened as she would like it to be, with a statement like that. Something above a whisper and below her normal register, throaty and raw. Claire lets go of his hand, and though she'd like to step into the envelope of his embrace, having a bit of space for a little while longer is more appealing. She clears her throat.]
[A step back as she lets go, he leaves the shirt with her and shoves his hands in his pockets to negate the urge to reach.]
Well I'll make sure.
[He needs the last word on the topic, though it's a selfish thing to need. It's a male thing, probably, and stronger still in those who make a career out of helping people. Peter would be the same. A need to prove himself which has never translated into alpha status but runs through everything he does and in something like this, a need to prove that he can be the protector he should be. It's always difficult with her, more so now he's sleeping with her and that urge is more primal than ever.
He can't go out hunting, but he can get a glass of water.]
Of course. [He walks backwards away from her, two or three steps, finding it harder to turn away completely] Do you want ice in it? It would probably be a good idea if you could eat something.
[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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Claire shakes her head in response, cupping his elbow with a small palm so that she can encourage him further into the apartment. She reaches around him and shuts the door, turning the lock with a loud thap. Once that's done, she stretches up on her toes to put her arms around his shoulders, craving human contact now that she's off the street and feeling human herself. There are certain consequences that come with that, but her voice muffled by his shirt doesn't immediately betray them.]
You aren't psychic, Robert. You got there as fast as you could. And nothing happened. [She pulls back to look at him, holding him steady - herself steady - by either shoulder.] Nothing like that happened.
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That's the one answer he needed.
He meets her eyes, holding the contact for what feels like a long time though its likely only a minute stretches out before he pulls her in against him again, arms wrapping bear-hug tight. He dips his knees after a minute more, enough to lower the bracket of his arms to her waist and lift her with him when he straightens. Just across to sit her on the arm of the couch. His work shirt, blue pinstripe, has been discarded across the back.]
I'd kill him.
[That, too soft and too considered to be an angry reaction, said against her ear before he pulls back to gather up the shirt to give her. He doesn't meet her eyes for more than a second, but the truth is there too. Ration and reason don't matter.]
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Every man in her life has made her feel that way at least once.]
Thankfully that's just a hypothetical. [She folds the shirt over the soft material of his jacket, splaying her fingers between the pinstripes and looking down at her dirty fingernails. The lingering sensation of his arms around her pulses in time with her heartbeat as she balances on the arm of the sofa.] I wouldn't want you to kill anyone.
[That's not to say she doesn't understand why he's saying it. She would say it. She might actually do it. Although he might not be looking at her, Claire can't help but look at him and nowhere else. She's not trying to meet his eyes, but watching the lines traced by his shoulders is good enough for her. A shower sounds like a good plan, but for the moment Claire finds herself rooted to the spot.]
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Then we'll find out who the guy is, and we'll find someone to do something about it. I'm tired of the damn lunatics running the asylum. He's not going to sit in a cage until he feels like he's done playing contrite, like some of the rest of them.
[He'll advocate going via the police force, but they're a toothless organisation when it comes down to it and the state a lawless one. When that happens, it's down to the citizenry to police themselves. He thinks of Ginny, and those he's met like her. Good people to have onside.]
They did it with Nuada. We can make sure he's declawed. I promise.
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[Forcing herself to lose interest in the rug, Claire blinks up at him, eyes coming back into focus with a sort of resolution hanging around the edges. Knowing that she wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last unless she did something about it was the driving force behind what she did to Brody. Chase doesn't need to assume any amount of responsibility - she'll assume enough of it on her own - but it inspires a feeling similar to what Peter could create with that kind of a declaration, even when it annoyed her.]
But he's still sloppy. Whatever he's been doing to whoever he's been doing it to, it can't and won't last. No one gets away with that, one way or another.
[Her voice isn't as emboldened as she would like it to be, with a statement like that. Something above a whisper and below her normal register, throaty and raw. Claire lets go of his hand, and though she'd like to step into the envelope of his embrace, having a bit of space for a little while longer is more appealing. She clears her throat.]
Can I get a glass of water?
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Well I'll make sure.
[He needs the last word on the topic, though it's a selfish thing to need. It's a male thing, probably, and stronger still in those who make a career out of helping people. Peter would be the same. A need to prove himself which has never translated into alpha status but runs through everything he does and in something like this, a need to prove that he can be the protector he should be. It's always difficult with her, more so now he's sleeping with her and that urge is more primal than ever.
He can't go out hunting, but he can get a glass of water.]
Of course. [He walks backwards away from her, two or three steps, finding it harder to turn away completely] Do you want ice in it? It would probably be a good idea if you could eat something.
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