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Deja Vu, Again

Title: Deja Vu, Again
Fandom: Heroes
Summary: Mrs. Bennett gets to forget. A lot. Spoilers through Fallout, and this is totally the fault of apocalypsos, I swear. (H)

On the other hand, repeatedly making Mrs. Bennet forget? BWAHAHAHA! Why do I feel an insane urge to write that story, about Mrs. Bennet constantly noticing and the Haitian guy getting more and more tired of having to make her forget every other week? Because ... heh. Comedy gold, people. --trollprincess


It's usually the children that cry, wailing heart-rending shrieks that make every mother in the room want to rush over and protect, cuddle, soothe.

Claire sits at the bottom of the flight of stairs, staring wide-eyed up at her mother, who can't stop her quiet hiccupping sobs. "I just looked away for a moment," she keens into her husband's shoulder. "Just a *moment*, and then she was *falling*--"

He'd heard the noises, thump thump thump and a shriek of pure fear. He hadn't seen anything, but he'd rushed into the room to see his wife practically fall down the stairs in her haste to get down, and in time to see his two-year-old daughter wriggle a little, the cut on her forehead (that would in any other child have bruised badly at best) healing over as he watched. Mrs. Bennett hadn't seen that; she'd been too busy having hysterics. Adopted the child might be, but she'd already stolen both their hearts.

Mr. Bennett made a quick phone call -- "I need a favor" was all he'd said, knowing that the nature of the favor would be understood -- and then held his wife in a secure hug until his colleague arrived. Mrs. Bennett was still crying, but more quietly now. Reason was starting to interfere with her first emotional reaction; she was starting to look worried, puzzled, scared.

"Shh," he said. "It will be all right."

"She shouldn't have survived. Not without a scratch."

When the Haitian arrived, Mr. Bennett excused himself for a moment and spoke quietly to the other man, explaining the situation, keeping his voice down so that neither Claire nor Mrs. Bennett would hear what he was saying. The latter was less important, all things considered, but it saved her from getting more worried.

The Haitian man said nothing, only nodded, his dark eyes flicking between Mrs. Bennett and young Claire. Mr. Bennett smiled cordially at his wife, a little uneasy with what would happen but knowing it had to be done, and said, "This is a colleague of mine; he just stopped by to say hello, and to fix a few things."

Automatically, she held out one hand for the Haitian to shake; the other hand wiped at the drying remains of tears on her face. The Haitian shook her hand solemnly, his gaze now fixed on her, and then stepped back. He nodded once at Mr. Bennett.

"Thank you," Mr. Bennett said.

Mrs. Bennett frowned. Her gaze was a little unfocussed. "I'm sorry, honey, who did you say this is?"

Mr. Bennett's smile was warmer now. "Just a friend, dear. Don't worry about it."



"The coffee was *hot*," Mrs. Bennett said. Even over the phone line, her panic was evident. "It burned her! She didn't cry, but it spilled so quickly, it was *all over* her-- it shouldn't-- there wasn't a *mark* on her! Oh, dear--"

"It will be all right." Mr. Bennett adjusted his glasses. He'd figured that fatherhood would involve soothing his daughter's fears sometimes. He hadn't anticipated having to soothe his *wife's* fears so much. Perhaps it would be easier if she knew the truth... but she'd never accept it. Never understand, not really.

Besides, the Haitian was already on his way.

"But what should I do? Should I take her into the hospital?"

"That won't be necessary, dear," he said mildly. "I'm on my way home, I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Okay," she said, and hiccupped.

He kept her on the phone, talking, until there was silence for a few minutes, and then she said, sounding somewhat puzzled, "...I'm sorry, I... I don't remember why I called you, honey."

"That's all right," he said.



The Haitian lifted one eyebrow. He said nothing, but his expression said, /Again?/

"Yes," Mr. Bennett said. He was starting to get a headache, but he pinched his lips together and willed it away. "Again. I do apologise, I know it's an inconvenience..."

A headtilt that said a thousand things, among them acceptance and understanding, and then he left, silently.



"You look a little familiar," Mrs. Bennett said, "but I can't quite place--"

"I work with your husband." Dark brown eyes watched her, giving nothing away. "I've come about Claire."

"Oh! Yes, I don't quite understand how she--"



"You look a little familiar," Mrs. Bennett said.



"Oh, you poor dear, let me see..."

"It's nothing, Mommy." Claire hid her hand behind her, feeling the bones adjust themselves. "I'm fine, I promise."

"But you--" Mrs. Bennett took Claire's wrist, tugged her hand into view, stared in disbelief at the bloody unbroken skin. "There was-- I--"

Claire blinked up at her in solemn innocence, and then her gaze shifted. "Oh hello," she said politely.

The Haitian dipped his head in a nod. /They both should forget,/ Mr. Bennett had said this time, and so they would.



"I need a favor," Mr. Bennett said, and the Haitian sighed.



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