When the man - John, Bennet had to guess; he'd only spoken to the man over thephone before now - pulled Mary into his arms, Bennet resigned himself to holding Clare from behind. Peter had the front, but he was guarding her back, no one was going to touch her, never so much as look at her again, if he
Claire's attempts to speak had her Dad gently petting her hair. "It's okay, Clairebear. Don't try yet. You can rest." As much as it galled him to admit it, if she couldn't speak yet, Peter was the one she would hevt to communicate to.
But Peter wasn't sending anything, not through telepathy. He was receiving plenty, and after the first cold moment, warmth, comfort, and chilling empathy were there for Claire to grasp. Experience, understanding. He knew what had been done, and he accepted it, held onto her, and the nothing murmurs from his lips strove to remind her to connect. And that she could conect, with him.
In one corner of his mind, technopathy puzzed, purred, and extinquished once completed.