Fic: Sunday Assassins [3/5]

[angary]

Title: Sunday Assassins
Characters: Claire, Adam/Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2500
Summary:  After losing her father, Claire spirals down into a world filled with murder, immorality, and greed.
Disclaimer: Neither Heroes nor the show's characters belong to me
Genre: Gen (with some slash on the side)
Spoilers: S3E01

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

A/N: Written for the mission_insane   challenge.  Table: Size Matters


After a couple years of living with Adam and Sylar, Claire nearly looked like a completely different person than when she had first joined them.  It was necessary for all of them to alter their appearances, especially when the small group made trips to New York.  Claire’s hair had been dyed black and cut short, she wore colored contacts, and she exercised whenever she had the chance to in order to obtain an even harder and more toned physique than she’d had in her cheerleading days.

She also felt like she had a new personality to go along with the fake passports and cards that Adam provided.  In fact, she had several: Ella Green, Jessi Stakes, and Monica Fret to name a few.  Claire had to memorize all of the names, and even though she didn’t have to, she memorized the specific background history that she had made up to go along with each of the girls.  One was an artist from Michigan, another was a singer from Miami, and so on.  Ella was boy-crazy, Stephanie was a lesbian, and Monica was simply too absorbed in her career to have time for a love life.  Claire could change anything she wanted about herself, and no one - save for Adam and Sylar - would be none the wiser to her lies.

However, one personality trait seemed to stick with all of the girls: loss.  Each of them had a deceased family member, or had suffered a wrecked relationship.

Adam always watched Claire with a thoughtful expression every time she insisted on going over her carefully planned histories; more than half of the girls’ fathers were dead.  The other few that were left shared Adam’s false surname, while all of Sylar’s identities were related to Adam in some way or another.

The day before embarking on a trip to France, Claire divulged her latest life story to Adam: her father was dead, Mr. Flemming - Adam - had adopted her, his wife had abandoned them years ago, etc.

He looked up at her with sad, pressing eyes, and when she finished, he lowered his hand from his chin.

“I know I never told you this,” he said slowly, “but I’m truly sorry about your father’s death.  Truly.”

She looked away from him.  “They got the guy who did it,” she murmured, pretending to be interested in a fraying strand of thread on her jeans.

“Still, it was a terrible thing, and I… I wish he were still alive today.”

It was the hesitation in his words that made Claire suspect he might be lying to her.  She smiled wryly; the only smiles she gave now were empty ones.

Adam stood up from the couch, and with a brisk voice, he asked, “Where would you like to go for dinner?  My treat.”

Claire rolled her eyes, but in as good-natured a way as she could manage.  “It’s always your treat.”

“Well, in that case, would you like to pay for a change?”

She giggled lightly, continuing to play her role, and left to go get her coat.

“He deserves to die.”

Claire ignored the lack of humanity in her words and lifted up a spoonful of escargot.  She licked her lips after swallowing, and glanced up to notice Sylar and Adam staring at her with matching, inscrutable expressions.

“What?”

Adam exchanged a short look with Sylar - who merely huffed in apathy - before raising his glass of wine to the center of the table.

“So simple, and yet so accurate,” he said admiringly.  “To death.”

Slightly startled, Claire gazed first at him, then Sylar.  She reached for her own glass, and connected it to Adam’s with a soft clink.

Before she could lower her arm, Adam cleared his throat and gave Sylar a reproachful glance.  Claire kept her glass up; lethargically, Sylar joined in on the toast.

“To death,” they all chanted, and sipped the red wine in silence.

Claire tried not to think of how much it resembled blood.

She should have known better than to visit Nathan’s place.

Glancing up at the towering building through her sunglasses, all the memories of Claire’s old life flooded back to her.  She remembered the few days she had stayed in the house; that she had been the one who pried the shard of glass from Peter's skull.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and thought of how screwed up everything had been since her last time at the house.  Peter exploding in Kirby Plaza, the Bennets moving to California, Claire meeting West and then having to say goodbye to him, her father dying once, then again in a much more lasting way.  The mental images of discovering his broken body flitted back to her: she'd ran up to him sobbing, crying out for a response, then knelt down beside him swiftly, scratching her arm open and placing the cut against one of his wounds.

It had all been so pointless, the fights that she had carried on with him.  She realized that when she knew, really knew that she couldn’t bring him back with her blood.  She couldn’t understand why  her ability wouldn’t work on him for a second time, but in the moments of looking down at his twisted figure, she’d regretted all of the times she’d been against his decisions and orders.

Then she had gone cold; had felt exactly the way she did now, staring up at the wide white door she couldn’t resist seeing again.

“Claire?”

She turned around slowly.

Peter was standing behind her, shock and awe splashed all across his face.  Claire felt yet another subtle wave of loss, but she pushed it to the side.

“Hello, Peter,” she said coolly, and he took a step back, though it was a short one.

“You… you’re here.”  He took her in with his eyes, and she could see that he noticed the difference.  Then, from his mouth burst forth a stream of information and questions that Claire barely cared for nor answered, and only when he reverted to staring wide-eyed at her, she began her reply.

“You didn’t see me here.  You’re not going to tell Nathan, or my family, that you saw me.”  Her voice was cold, cruel, and apathetic.  She hated herself just as much as she hated Peter for finding her again, just as much as she hated her father for dying and not coming back.

“Goodbye.”  She took a couple of steps forward, but he suddenly clamped a hand down onto her wrist.  The world froze around Claire and her uncle; she took notice of the birds hanging above Nathan’s house in a three-dimensional picture.

However, she wasn’t stuck in time.

Her leg went up in a flash as she pivoted on the other foot.  The toe of her boot collided into his groin, and Peter was down, down like all the other men Claire had killed in cold blood.

Except Peter was still alive, panting, and looking up at Claire with a worried expression.

“What happened to you, Claire?” he demanded before attempting to stand up again.

“Don’t get up,” she said in a warning tone.  “I have a gun.”

She already knew what he was going to say next, he was that predictable:  “You can’t kill me.”

“I can stop you from getting up.”

“Just - please, let’s talk this out.  Look, I’m sorry for what happened when… when… you know.  It’s all in the past.  We can all start over again, you can - you could have a family again.”

“I already have a family,” she told him in a cool, even tone.

“Who?”

“People who won’t disappoint me.”  She turned to leave.

“Claire, please.”  There was an obvious wince in Peter’s voice.  She heard him begin to lift himself off the ground, and within seconds, she had her pistol aimed at his forehead.

He raised his arms up in astonished surrender.  Claire thought about how Adam would have handled the situation instead, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a humorless grin.

Peter heaved a great sigh before asking her once again: “What happened, Claire?”

She drew the gun back slowly, then pointed it toward the sky.  After holstering the weapon, she narrowed her eyes as she spoke.

“I’ve grown up.”

When Claire looked away, she noticed that the birds had already passed over her head, looking like tiny dots hanging in the clear blue sky.

She didn’t tell the others about her encounter, nor did they ask her where she’d been.  That was how it was between the three: they all trusted each other and only asked the most important questions, because they were in on the same crimes.  Claire had realized, after some time, that it was easier to deal with villains because they didn’t rely too heavily on bullshit.

Most of the time.

“I’m back,” she called out, throwing her jacket onto the back of the chair in the kitchen area of the hotel suit.  It was lavish, and large, just the way Adam liked it, and Claire had gotten used to things that were big and elaborate.  Designer clothes didn’t phase her any more than exotic meals in far-away countries did, and she’d quickly learned not to expect anything less than the fantastic.  After all, it was what she had deserved.

“In here,” Adam answered from his room.  He was watching the news, the only channel he ever kept up with.  She lowered herself down on the couch in the far corner, and began to remove her holster.

“Where’s Sylar?” she asked him to distract herself from what had happened earlier that day.  Adam shrugged.  She set her gun down on the small table in front of her; the man glanced at her with a curious expression.

“You never ask where he is.”

She paused, lightly fingering the edges of her holster, which lay in her lap.  “I was just curious.”

Adam chuckled lightly.  “I know that you two don’t get along that well, but haven’t you at least tried to strike up a conversation with him?”

“We have conversations.”

“You have arguments,” he corrected her.  “Most of them having to do with what shows you want to watch in the living room back home.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose.  “He always barges in and changes the channel when I’m already there.”

“Yes, he can be rude, but at least he stopped trying to telekinetically remove you from the room.”

Claire looked down at her hands.  She had to admit, that had been an improvement.

The front door slammed; Claire could hear Sylar’s heavy boots clumping across the carpet.  He walked into the room wordlessly, and threw himself backwards onto the bed beside Adam.  Monroe ignored his partner’s erratic movements while Claire raised her eyes toward the men.  This was the first time she had ever seen them so close to each other.

Adam subtly edged himself away from Sylar’s torso.  “You all right?” he asked, with his eyes still trained on the television set.

“No.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

Monroe sighed.  He cast a pleading look in Claire’s direction.  She understood immediately, and got up.

“Oh, what is this - you’re going to make her leave?” Sylar groaned.  “She’s not as innocent as you think.  It’s not like she doesn’t know that we’re fucking.”

Adam whipped his head back to look at Sylar.  Claire froze.  She couldn’t see the look on either men’s faces, but she could imagine their exact facial expressions.

“Claire, I apologize on Sylar’s behalf,” Adam said smoothly.  “Now, if you please-”

She nodded.  As soon as she had closed the door behind herself, an explosion of shouts erupted in the next room, and she couldn’t help but to press her ear against the hinge.

“Damnit. Goddamnit, Sylar.  You went back there, again, didn’t you?!”

“I-”

“Didn’t you!?  After all this time, when I specifically told you not to go there, and you had to anyway.

“Well, did you see the good doctor?  Hmm?  Did you try to apologize again?”

“You don’t have the right to ask me what I did.”

“Like hell I do.  Normally I wouldn’t give a damn if you decided to go off and make an idiot of yourself to whomever you fancy, but when you jeopardize our location-”

“He wasn’t there, all right?” Sylar bellowed.  “He wasn’t there.  The whole place was empty.  There: are you happy now?  And for the record, I don’t fancy him.”

“Oh.”  Adam’s voice had lowered, so much so, that Claire couldn’t hear what he said next.

Whatever he’d said must have struck Sylar’s last nerve, because the door burst open, smacking Claire’s entire body against the wall.

Sylar stormed out of the suite, slamming the front door behind him so belligerently that a picture wildly swung on its nail before crashing to the floor.

Hours passed, and he didn’t return.

Adam refused to continue their next scheduled assassination because of Sylar’s absence.  Claire attempted to goad him into letting her do it by herself, promising that she would do her absolute best, but he wouldn’t give into her pleas.

Instead, they stayed in the hotel room, waiting for Sylar to come back.  Long stretches of silence pushed them further and further away from each other despite the sounds emitting from the television.  Claire cleaned her gun, then cleaned it again a few more times until Adam put an end to it with an irritated remark.  He had never been so short with her before, and she figured that sooner or later, he would have stopped treating her as his little princess anyway.

“What’s that saying?” she ventured to ask him on the third day.  “Fighting brings you closer together, right?”

He made a frustrated sound in response, continuing to look moody and unresponsive.  Watching his movements and facial expressions made Claire wonder how it would feel to go through the same disappointments over and over again for hundreds of years, without any sort of reprieve.

Then, finally he replied, “I suppose it does.”

Adam must have changed his mind on the matter, because he decided to leave after another day without Sylar went by.  Claire personally liked not having Sylar around, which came as no surprise.  The only reason she wanted him back was because she would then have the old Adam back as well.  He became reclusive and aloof, less willing to show his true emotions.  He stopped flashing charming smiles in Claire’s direction; no longer did he reassure her that things were going as planned.

“You almost forgot your sword.”  She handed him the heavy blade, and he cursed, throwing his suitcase open so that he could place the weapon inside.

Claire never asked him why he always brought it with him on trips.  She never asked him how he got it back either, despite all the stories he’d told her about Japan and how Hiro Nakamura - the traitorous backstabber - had stolen it from him.

Once he zipped up his large suitcase and had a firm grip on the handle, Claire silently followed Adam out of the suite.

Part 4