Claire Bennet (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
regenerated) wrote2014-07-22 12:22 am
regenerated) wrote2014-07-22 12:22 am
Entry tags:
through the looking glass.
Before she can even fully open her eyes, Claire senses the change in the air. Feels the soft fabric of her sheets underneath her fingers, and the folds of her pillowcase pursing underneath her cheek. This isn't the nothingness that everyone on the island had promised, but nor is it the crystal clarity that any of them receive when only on shore leave — instead, it's a gradual shift and a clearing of the fog, much like waking up after a dream.
So this must be what Alice felt like, Claire thinks, when she passed through the looking glass.
The sound of an alarm cuts jarringly through the air, and she blearily reaches a hand out to silence it for a few more minutes. The habit hasn't diminished. It's as regular as breathing.
As Claire stares up at the ceiling, she wonders how she manages not to cry.
It isn't the first time that her mind's deceived her. If there's anything that Claire's learned since finding more people like her in the world, it's that the complexity of time runs far deeper than looking underneath the cover of a book. Time erases lines, rewrites history, and turns truth into the fine grain of sand, insubstantial and inconstant.
That doesn't stop her from filing each memory away in her mind, carefully retracing her steps, eyes focused on nothing in particular as she goes about her day. Folding laundry. Washing the dishes. Searching for tan lines, with her gaze resting too long on the freckles across her skin. They're not the same ones as in her dream, but Claire swears that she can see his lips tracing down the crook of her elbow, pausing to kiss every one.
Her mother frets, pushing back strands of blonde hair, searching for a temperature. But the only fever is in her movements, harried as she brushes everyone aside. If she blinks now, she'll forget the sight of him.
Idly, she slumps at her computer desk, clicking around articles about Bristol.
On the third day, her glass shatters on the floor as she comes across an obituary.
And curses him for having a common name.
"No. Absolutely not. You know that time isn't meant to be trifled with. You don't know what would happen if I went back in time to change this one thing — it could put everyone in danger."
"But Hiro—"
"—no. I am very sorry for your loss."
His silhouette begins to fade in the distance, blending in with the shadow of the trees. Oak, maple — Claire can't remember which, even though she's been in this forest so many times she can't even begin to count. For the first time, she feels the passage of years under her skin, like bolts of fabric expertly sewn together to hide the seam.
Leaves fall around them in a rush of wind, crimson and golden browns carried in a rush.
"Don't you think that if this was really just about saving a person, that I would have asked you for that by now?" she asks, a shuddering breath passing through her teeth as she runs to chase after Hiro, hand reaching out for the slope of his shoulder. "Do you really think that there isn't anything else I'd ask you to try and rewrite for me? Jackie may have been a bitch, but she didn't deserve to die. Don't you think that if I could, I would have asked you to go back in time to when I discovered this power, and just... find some way of preventing me from ever finding out? You get to control time. You're the one who can skip around it however he wants. But I'm like its — I'm like its prisoner. I can't do anything but watch everyone else go by."
She feels Hiro's shoulder stiffen under her hand, and softly, Claire lets it fall back to her side.
"It was real. That island, and those people, they were real. But no matter how well I describe that place to you, you won't find it — you can't teleport there. You can't fly, you can't phase, I promise you, there's something else more powerful than all of us. I saw it there. I lived it."
She wraps her arms tightly around her chest, focused on bringing strength to her voice.
"She was there, Hiro. I know about her. Charlie. She was there, and alive, and she had a child and — she got to live the life that this world wouldn't give her. I know how hard you tried to bring her back.
"Can you really let this go without trying one more time?"
It's not perfect. They don't have anything more than a date and a hospital to go on, and it takes several tries before they wind up in the right room, behind the right walls, without triggering panic wherever they walk. It's trial and error enough to know that they only have the space of a precious few minutes to work with — a canvas that no amount of effort will allow them to paint outside of.
Hiro stands watch at the door, a nebulous fear taut in the bite of his jaw.
Claire doesn't allow herself to look up at his face. Instead, it's the warmth of his hands that guides her, familiar and soft and she swears that even the callouses on his finger pads are exactly as she remembers them, calling forth the memory of a thumb brushed by the curve of her cheek. Her fingers start to waver in strength as they fumble through drawers, finding the supplies that she needs, mimicking the mental image of a diagram she found on the internet.
God, she should have done better than a diagram on the internet.
Pain prickles through her arm, a welcome shift away from the numbness she expected as she sits by his bedside. Not a minute passes before she shifts her arm, the angle awkward, but just enough for her to lace her fingers with his, willing for something else to be transferred to him, less tangible than the pulse of her blood.
She hasn't believed in God for years, but she prays. It's the only thing keeping her from shaking apart.
When she feels the squeeze against her palm, Claire swears that her heart stops.
When she hears her name escape his lips, it's the first time Claire believes that anything is possible.
So this must be what Alice felt like, Claire thinks, when she passed through the looking glass.
The sound of an alarm cuts jarringly through the air, and she blearily reaches a hand out to silence it for a few more minutes. The habit hasn't diminished. It's as regular as breathing.
As Claire stares up at the ceiling, she wonders how she manages not to cry.
It isn't the first time that her mind's deceived her. If there's anything that Claire's learned since finding more people like her in the world, it's that the complexity of time runs far deeper than looking underneath the cover of a book. Time erases lines, rewrites history, and turns truth into the fine grain of sand, insubstantial and inconstant.
That doesn't stop her from filing each memory away in her mind, carefully retracing her steps, eyes focused on nothing in particular as she goes about her day. Folding laundry. Washing the dishes. Searching for tan lines, with her gaze resting too long on the freckles across her skin. They're not the same ones as in her dream, but Claire swears that she can see his lips tracing down the crook of her elbow, pausing to kiss every one.
Her mother frets, pushing back strands of blonde hair, searching for a temperature. But the only fever is in her movements, harried as she brushes everyone aside. If she blinks now, she'll forget the sight of him.
Idly, she slumps at her computer desk, clicking around articles about Bristol.
On the third day, her glass shatters on the floor as she comes across an obituary.
And curses him for having a common name.
"No. Absolutely not. You know that time isn't meant to be trifled with. You don't know what would happen if I went back in time to change this one thing — it could put everyone in danger."
"But Hiro—"
"—no. I am very sorry for your loss."
His silhouette begins to fade in the distance, blending in with the shadow of the trees. Oak, maple — Claire can't remember which, even though she's been in this forest so many times she can't even begin to count. For the first time, she feels the passage of years under her skin, like bolts of fabric expertly sewn together to hide the seam.
Leaves fall around them in a rush of wind, crimson and golden browns carried in a rush.
"Don't you think that if this was really just about saving a person, that I would have asked you for that by now?" she asks, a shuddering breath passing through her teeth as she runs to chase after Hiro, hand reaching out for the slope of his shoulder. "Do you really think that there isn't anything else I'd ask you to try and rewrite for me? Jackie may have been a bitch, but she didn't deserve to die. Don't you think that if I could, I would have asked you to go back in time to when I discovered this power, and just... find some way of preventing me from ever finding out? You get to control time. You're the one who can skip around it however he wants. But I'm like its — I'm like its prisoner. I can't do anything but watch everyone else go by."
She feels Hiro's shoulder stiffen under her hand, and softly, Claire lets it fall back to her side.
"It was real. That island, and those people, they were real. But no matter how well I describe that place to you, you won't find it — you can't teleport there. You can't fly, you can't phase, I promise you, there's something else more powerful than all of us. I saw it there. I lived it."
She wraps her arms tightly around her chest, focused on bringing strength to her voice.
"She was there, Hiro. I know about her. Charlie. She was there, and alive, and she had a child and — she got to live the life that this world wouldn't give her. I know how hard you tried to bring her back.
"Can you really let this go without trying one more time?"
It's not perfect. They don't have anything more than a date and a hospital to go on, and it takes several tries before they wind up in the right room, behind the right walls, without triggering panic wherever they walk. It's trial and error enough to know that they only have the space of a precious few minutes to work with — a canvas that no amount of effort will allow them to paint outside of.
Hiro stands watch at the door, a nebulous fear taut in the bite of his jaw.
Claire doesn't allow herself to look up at his face. Instead, it's the warmth of his hands that guides her, familiar and soft and she swears that even the callouses on his finger pads are exactly as she remembers them, calling forth the memory of a thumb brushed by the curve of her cheek. Her fingers start to waver in strength as they fumble through drawers, finding the supplies that she needs, mimicking the mental image of a diagram she found on the internet.
God, she should have done better than a diagram on the internet.
Pain prickles through her arm, a welcome shift away from the numbness she expected as she sits by his bedside. Not a minute passes before she shifts her arm, the angle awkward, but just enough for her to lace her fingers with his, willing for something else to be transferred to him, less tangible than the pulse of her blood.
She hasn't believed in God for years, but she prays. It's the only thing keeping her from shaking apart.
When she feels the squeeze against her palm, Claire swears that her heart stops.
When she hears her name escape his lips, it's the first time Claire believes that anything is possible.