Just finished Unwound Future. Cried like a baby at the end. Have some angst.

Edit: For anyone who read the original: there were minimal changes made in my revision, so don't be surprised if you don't notice any differences at all. Nothing plot-based, just some more insight into Claire's thoughts and a few slightly altered adjectives.

An Unheard Goodbye

Luke had always harbored some nagging suspicion that something was special about the Professor's hat.

It wasn't just that he never took the thing off; that was understandable. Luke would rather not rove his own, after all, so he wasn't one to judge. The things that tipped him off were more subtle—things he wouldn't have noticed were he even a smidgen less observant.

For one thing, the Professor did more than just keep the hat on: he seemed almost scared to take it off. If wind blew, if they drove over a bump in the road, or even if he was running to catch up with a criminal, he reacted immediately. He never shielded his face, eased off the gas, or sped up to assure that he caught the crook; he grabbed the brim of his hat to keep it from falling off. The number of times that Luke had seen him do so was astounding. It was as if the hat was keeping him alive, and he would die if it was removed.

Second of all, he seemed to pay it a lot of mind besides just holding it to his head. Every time he discovered that he hadn't solved a puzzle correctly, he would tug down the brim so that it obscured his eyes from view. It seed more like a habit than anything, despite the fact that he rarely got puzzles wrong in the first place. Whenever he met a person, he would also take a hold on the brim and offer a tip of the hat. Luke had caught him tipping his hat in various other situations, some of which seed far too dire for such an act, and he figured that it was a sort of "nervous" tic (not that the Professor was capable of being nervous).

That wasn't even counting the way that the Professor spoke about it. Even he admitted that gentlemen could go against the "gentleman's code," so to speak, but one thing he rained adamant about was that he wouldn't be a gentleman if he took the hat off. Luke had overheard him refer to his hat in an affectionate manner at least thrice, and each time he had been smiling, but a sad smile—one that wouldn't look out-of-place on a man who was reminiscing on sorrowful memories

Ever since Luke had concluded that it must have been a gift from some former friend, perhaps one who had died, he had wondered who had given it to him and why. Sure, it was a nice hat, but it didn't seem to be the sort of thing you would just give to a casual acquaintance, or even to a familiar friend. Besides, if he cherished the hat so, then he must have cherished its giver even more. Assuming that his theory on the gift-giver being dead was correct, it couldn't have been from either of his parents: they were both alive and well.

Even though he asked himself these questions time and again, he never really expected to get answers. After all, he couldn't just ask the Professor; that would be insensitive. And it wasn't as if the giver could tell him if they were dead, right?

Right?

Claire could feel the tears on her cheeks even though she wasn't truly here anymore. Already, her body was beginning to vanish, redirecting itself to her proper time period. Some part deep within her told her that she needed to stay, for it knew that there was no way for her to survive this last trip. She would arrive only milliseconds before the building was nearly leveled by a great blast, leaving only one miraculous survivor. That survivor would be Bill Hawkes, not her. 'You can stay here with Hershel,' that part of her whispered, making a very convincing argument.

And, oh, she wanted to. She dearly wished to remain here forever with the one she loved; the one she loved more dearly than anyone else. Loved more than she used to think was her capacity for love. Surely, she could stop her own tears and his by doing so, and they could finally be together again. They could move to a country far away to escape the questions of dozens, all of whom thought her to be dead. They could be happy with each other.

It would be so easy.

...but she was just being selfish. Hershel had a life now; he had friends—family. If she stayed any longer, she would only cause him trouble and, inevitably, more pain when she passed away again. At least she could rest peacefully if she left now, knowing that he had moved on. Besides, the time machine was too unstable, and she was afraid that she could severely alter the time-space continuum and possibly ruin the universe if she lingered. No, she had to go, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Her throat was dry, and still she managed to force out words with some difficulty. "You've taken awfully good care of that hat I gave you," she murmured, both to herself and to the crying man in front of her. She didn't have to fake a smile; all she had to do was think of the day when she first handed it over and he placed it on his head. Then it came naturally to her. Hershel was a true gentleman if there ever was one, after all, and he deserved more than a fake smile (and, in the end, didn't it all boil down to "Hershel deserves more"?).

And still she cried as she walked away. Her body was glowing with an ethereal light, and she could almost feel the particles in her being rearranging themselves. It wasn't quite pain; more of a rapidly harshening tingling sensation that slowly grew to an itch. Each step was forced, as if her legs had been switched from autopilot to manual, and she could practically feel her limbs locking up.

Hershel cried out; pleaded with her not to leave him again. For a fleeting moment, she could've sworn she heard him let out a broken sound somewhere between a whimper and a sob, both sounds she never wanted to hear from him, and, God, it took everything she had not to turn on her heel and grip him in an asphyxiating hug until he stopped making that wretched sound. Everything she had and then some.

'Take another step,' she commanded herself, and she managed it. Barely. 'Take another. Another. Keep going. Don't look back.'

'You can stay with Hershel,' part of her brain yelled desperately. 'You can stay,' it repeated, its voice suddenly low and enticing. And then there was that stupid logic, replying quietly, 'No, you can't.'

'Keep moving. Step forward. Don't look back.'

'Stop.'

Slowly, trying feebly to elongate her time here as much as possible, Claire turned and looked back at him, their two tearful sets of eyes meeting. Because, yes, Hershel was crying, and the realization was like a physical blow to her gut, knocking the air out of her. His face was twisted into some shape she didn't care to describe; he looked as if he was watching his best friend die and... okay, yeah.

And wasn't that just a kick in the face, because she was going through the exact opposite, but she got the feeling it wasn't any easier for her than it was for him.

Knees trembling minutely, Claire took a deep breath and mustered up all the willpower she owned. 'Think of when you met him. Think of when he asked you out. Think of when you first held hands.' That did the trick, and she was able to goad a smile onto her face.

The words were fighting passionately up her throat, more than ready to lay her feelings out flat. Even so, she could barely choke them out, and, this time, it had nothing to do with her dry throat.

"I'll miss you..." she whispered, her words carried to him on a breath of London's breeze. "...and our unwound future."

'Now turn away.'

And she had the gall to call being sent into the future "pain". That past, naive version of herself knew nothing about pain. 'Deep breaths, Claire.' This was true agony: stumbling away from her last chance to stay with her true love. 'Don't look back.' She could barely stand it, and she almost wheeled right back around and sprinted into his arms. 'Take a step.' She couldn't remember a time when she was more terrified. 'Don't stop.' If she left now, then she'd never see him again. 'Another.' There was still time to turn back; the future wasn't set in stone (but the past was, and that was the problem). 'Another.' Didn't she have the right to be happy? 'Another step, Claire.' Or was she cursed to remain miserable for the short remainder of her time alive? 'Turn the corner.'

Had her vision always been this blurry?

How long had she been standing in a room of nothingness?

The tingle-turned-itch was worsening now, turning into an ache and then into an all-consuming pain that would've left anyone else in a crumpled heap. But that pain could never compare to what she'd just went through, so she remained upright. Still, a strangled sob ripped its way out of her throat as everything flowed by around her, giving her one last glimpse of London. She saw Hershel and the little boy, Luke, walking through Kensington. Images of Dimitri and Clive working on the fake future London flashed past as quickly as light, yet still left her with a full image in her brain. The nothingness around her was fading now, and the scenery was rearranging itself, building the walls of the time machine around her like pieces of a puzzle. Hershel probably had one about this.

Another round of tears escaped her eyes. Logic dictated that no one in the future could hear her now, but she needed to leave one last message to the Earth (not that she cared about the Earth on its own, but she cared about her loved enough to go around). By this point, tears were streaming down her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at the God-forsaken time machine materialized around her.

"H-Hershel," she cried as the last few pieces clicked into place, "I love y—!"

An explosion rocked the earth.