Peter was jogging a little bit later than usual that morning. He'd woken up late, decided to stay and have breakfast and coffee before he'd taken off. He had his earbuds in, music blasting into his ears and he hadn't stopped to think when he'd seen the little boy in the street chasing a ball. He'd reacted, running into the road and shoving the
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It was really more of a terribly hoarse whisper than anything but his eyes were mostly open (one was sort of swollen shut from his face hitting something) and he was conscious.
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Nathan had been royally tempted to fire his aide on the spot when she informed him of what had happened to Peter after the meeting he'd been called into an hour before. But he really hadn't wanted to waste the time. He'd talked his way out of having a driver take him to the hospital, not particularly concerned with the consequences, and flew straight to the hospital as fast as he could.
Peter would be fine. He was sure of it. It was a car accident, he'd survived being thrown out a window for God's sake. But somehow that didn't slow Nathan down, didn't cut away any of the panic, fear, and the surety that when he finally did get into the hospital, it was going to be a lot worse than he prayed it was ( ... )
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Well, they had one Petrelli accounted for. She was hoping Claire would show up before Angela.
"I'm fine. The baby's fine," she answered Peter, taking his hand again. "I texted Claire, but if you didn't call her she probably doesn't know what I'm freaking out about. I didn't get a response yet, she might not be near her phone." She looked up at Nathan, not sure what to do about that.
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"What she said,' Peter pointed to Sasha. "No one's gotta call Claire. M'okay now."
Feeling alright, yes. Actually alright, not so much.
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"Call her again." He started reading over the chart, glancing over Peter's way once again. "You definitely look like you're feeling better." At least he was conscious. In a manner of speaking.
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