The Turn [Sylar/Claire - redemption]
She already had the pen. Held onto it as tight as possible as he continued to talk - ramble, really - about them. Two of kind. The same but opposite in every way that really mattered. She kept remembering how hard the seat had been at her father's funeral, how it had dug into her backside, almost distracting her from Peter's eulogy. Kept that in her mind, used it as a buttress for her anger. Waited.
He asked her why they were different. Why they'd chosen such different paths. He wanted an easy answer. A quick fix. But there was none, not for him. When she opens her mouth to respond, she's only concerned with hurting him.
"Because there's something wrong with you, Sylar, something broken that can't be corrected with a little soul-searching or in tiny moments of remorse. You understand what you do is wrong, but you don't care, don't feel anything. You're a sociopath. You're crazy. You're...unfixable." She shrugs, lets a tone of mocking creep in at the end there. Waits for the petulance, the childish tantrum, that she is sure will come. But instead he looks at her intensely, a strange light in his eye. She can practically hear the gears working in the mangled brain of his.
"Nothing is unfixable," he says after a tense moment.
They stare at each other for a moment. With the bright sun spilling in through the high windows, she can hardly see one side of his face. She focuses on the one eye she can see, tries to read him, but all she can get from him is distraction. He's thinking about something.
Then abruptly - so much so that his chair rattles on the ground as the legs try to find traction - he stands and starts to walk out. As he passes, he nods at Gretchen's back pack, "She's in the cafeteria, eating."
And that was that.
A week later she wakes up and knows at once something is wrong. She's near the edge of her twin bed, so close she can see the tiny grains in the wood of her side table even in the dark. Gretchen's asleep, her face turned to the wall. Claire's bed is sinking a little lower than usual, and she knows he's there. She rolls over, slowly, cautiously, and he's right beside her, his hands clasped in front of his face. His eyes are closed but when she moves again, tensing to run, they open. It's very dark, but she can see that they're bloodshot, wet, blacker than usual. He has lines around his mouth, across his forehead. She wonders how that is considering he ripped open her head and took her power from her - how it is he looks so old all of a sudden.
She grits her teeth, but he speaks before she can, his voice low and resigned, "I did it."
She extremely uncomfortable here, so close to him. So close his breath kisses her hair as he exhales. Gretchen hasn't stirred. She can hear her snoring peacefully. It's mostly because of that that she can take a deep breath and answer, "What are you talking about?"
He smiles, just a bit, but there's no real happiness there, none of the mocking glee she's so used to. Just sadness. "I fixed it."
It takes her a moment. Her judgment is a little clouded with sleepiness, with his presence, his warmth. With the wet shine in his eyes. But after a minute, she understands, completely.
"You...." she doesn't know really what to say, knows that what's about to come out of her mouth is completely ridiculous, even for someone who lives in a world of regrown toes and people who can move things with their minds. "You opened yourself up, didn't you? Fixed yourself?"
He nods. His jaw clenches but it's not cause he's angry. She can feel him swallowing, his breath suddenly hitching up on itself. He's about to cry. And she wants to get away from him more than she ever has before.
But instead she asks, prodding, curiously, "And?"
He doesn't try to tell her about how great he is now. About how he's gone in to his own head and turned a few screws, correcting all the pathways that were disconnected. Finally knows what that little word compassion feels like. Love. Fellow feeling. He doesn't do any of this. That's what Sylar would do.
He rolls onto his back, brings up a hand to his face and lays there for a minute. And then without a word, without any explanation for why he'd come in the middle of the night to have this talk, he climbs out of her bed, clumsily, and leaves.
A month later it happens again. He's pressed up against her this time, his face in her hair. But he's breathing evenly and she knows he's asleep. She's not even scared this time. Not even for Gretchen. The most she feels is annoyed, and that familiar uncomfortableness at how near he is. She doesn't roll over, just turns her hear a bit until his forehead brushes just lightly against her cheek. Whispers, "Why are you here? Why me?"
He doesn't answer. She thinks he's still sleeping for a long time. But then he sighs. "Because I know I can't hurt you."
Her stomach clenches up painfully, her chest burning. She understands what he means. But he's so, so wrong. There are many ways to hurt people and Claire is only invincible physically. She wants to yell this at him. Wants to scream and claw at his eyes. Wants to break him - show him that what he's done to her is far worse that what he's done to any of his other victims. But she knows, deep down, that he already realizes this. Because he knows how things work, right?
She starts to cry instead, uncontrollably, her face pressed so hard into her pillow that she can't breath. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't move for a long time. And then he slides an arm around her, reaches his hand up between her own and clutches at her. And she knows what he's doing. Knows that he's not just comforting her, but also himself.
When she wakes up the next morning, he's gone. Gretchen is staring knowingly at her from the other bed.
Two years later, she's finishing up her undergraduate work. She's happy. Relatively. She enters a cafe on the other side of town, Gretchen in tow, and takes a seat. When she looks up from her menu, she sees him. For a moment, she almost doesn't' recognize him. Not because he looks any different, not really - he's still tall and dark and almost abnormally good-looking. He's wearing a dark blue shirt and black pants. He's scruffy. All the usual stuff. But he's not as intense looking. Doesn't hold himself with that arrogant, godlike posture. He looks almost unassuming. He gives her a strange look when he sees her.
She excuses herself from Gretchen and storms up to his table. Forgets what she was going to say when he looks up at her and she can see that he obviously wasn't expecting her to be here. Wasn't stalking her like she thought he was. All the air seems to deflate from her. She sits. Folds her hands on the table. Waits for him to speak.
"It's nice to see you," is the first absurd thing he decides to say.
"What are you doing here?" she hisses. Annoyed at him merely for existing, for reminding her of everything she's managed to put behind her.
He looks around, actually as if worried she'll cause a scene. "Just having some coffee. I didn't plan for you to be here."
"One of us will have to leave," she demands. Growing more infuriated by the minute. He doesn't answer her, isn't even looking at her, so she repeats herself, a little louder this time. The couple at the next table glance over.
But he still doesn't look at her. Doesn't even seem to be listening. She wonders what is so interesting, what he could be staring at so intently across the room. She looks over her shoulder. He's not looking at Gretchen, thankfully. There's a man in the far corner, a piece of untouched pie in front of him, a coffee cup clenched between his hands. He looks nervous. Claire wonders if he's prey. If Sylar's gone back to his old ways.
Sylar leans forward towards Claire, his eyes still on the man. "He's going to hold this place up."
So he's not prey. Claire glances back again. Doesn't see anything suspicious. "How do you know?"
Sylar gives her a condescending look and she realizes how stupid the question was. Of course Sylar would know. She looks again. "Hold up the place how? Just for money?"
He knows what she's really asking. "He's going to hurt people."
Claire glances at Gretchen, instinctively. She's already formulating plans in her mind, any way to to get these people out safely. How to sacrifice herself once again. But Sylar reaches over and puts a hand on hers.
"It's okay," his voice is low, soothing. She pulls her hand back quickly.
"Are you going to do something?" she asks.
His eyes flicker down for a moment, something uncertain flashing through them. He could save them all. Better than she could. But he doesn't know if he wants to do it.
"I thought you were better?" she spits, "fixed? I thought you could feel now? So where's your compassion for these people? You want to see them hurt? Or worse?" She's pushing him, wants him to do something. Wants someone else to do something for once. Why does it always have to be her? She just wants to be left alone.
He blinks. Smiles bitterly at her. "You were right Claire. I may have fixed what was wrong, but there are some things you can't undo. Some things you can't come back from."
She stares at him. Knows they're wasting time talking. But she can't keep herself from considering his words. Wonders how much blood and death a person can see before they're changed for good. Before they're very cells are soaked in it. Until it's not as horrifying as it should be. She can see he cares. She can see he's worried now about these people in the cafe, these unknown people, in a way Sylar never would have been. But he also looks like a man who has drawn back the flesh of the world and peered into its innards and seen only the remnants of cancer eaten organs and muscle. What she sees in his eyes isn't heartlessness, or malice, but resignation.
She takes a deep breath and plunges forward, "Will you help? Please? For me?
And there it is. Her gamble. It hangs there, that last question, for a long time. Too long, for Claire, while there's a man with a gun nearby, ready and willing to hurt someone.
Sylar smiles, almost shyly, but she can see a little of his old arrogance there. "Well, I was going to anyway. But since you asked so nicely...." he looks over at the man again, his face going intent, his eyes unblinking for a long, long time.
And then he visibly relaxes. Takes a sip of his coffee. "You can call the police now. He can't move."
She looks over. The man seems normal, by all appearances, and if he's sitting a little unnaturally still, as if being held down to his chair, casual passerby's would only assume he was very focused on the tv hanging in the corner.
Claire's reaching for her pocket, pulling out her cell phone, as she asks, "That's it?"
"What were you expecting? Some great showdown? Sorry, Claire." He's smirking at her now. She rolls her eyes.
"You make it seem so easy."
She's already answering the police dispatcher as his smile fades a bit at her words. Once she hangs up, he stands, pulls out a wallet and throws some bills on the table. "You'll forgive me if I don't really want to be hear when the police show up."
He turns to leave, but then looks back and reaches out his hand to her. It's her wallet.
"Wha-"
"Sorry," he apologizes, but it's a bit insincere, "not that easy to get a job when you're a known felon. I'll pay you back next time."
She takes it. Watches his tall form as he starts to cross the street, then literally disappears when a police car pulls up to the curb. The man bolts at the sight of the police, rushes out the door, and almost escapes. But she knows Sylar's still out there somewhere because the man trips, right on the sidewalk, face down, his gun skittering out and coming to a stop right at the cop's feet.
He asked her why they were different. Why they'd chosen such different paths. He wanted an easy answer. A quick fix. But there was none, not for him. When she opens her mouth to respond, she's only concerned with hurting him.
"Because there's something wrong with you, Sylar, something broken that can't be corrected with a little soul-searching or in tiny moments of remorse. You understand what you do is wrong, but you don't care, don't feel anything. You're a sociopath. You're crazy. You're...unfixable." She shrugs, lets a tone of mocking creep in at the end there. Waits for the petulance, the childish tantrum, that she is sure will come. But instead he looks at her intensely, a strange light in his eye. She can practically hear the gears working in the mangled brain of his.
"Nothing is unfixable," he says after a tense moment.
They stare at each other for a moment. With the bright sun spilling in through the high windows, she can hardly see one side of his face. She focuses on the one eye she can see, tries to read him, but all she can get from him is distraction. He's thinking about something.
Then abruptly - so much so that his chair rattles on the ground as the legs try to find traction - he stands and starts to walk out. As he passes, he nods at Gretchen's back pack, "She's in the cafeteria, eating."
And that was that.
A week later she wakes up and knows at once something is wrong. She's near the edge of her twin bed, so close she can see the tiny grains in the wood of her side table even in the dark. Gretchen's asleep, her face turned to the wall. Claire's bed is sinking a little lower than usual, and she knows he's there. She rolls over, slowly, cautiously, and he's right beside her, his hands clasped in front of his face. His eyes are closed but when she moves again, tensing to run, they open. It's very dark, but she can see that they're bloodshot, wet, blacker than usual. He has lines around his mouth, across his forehead. She wonders how that is considering he ripped open her head and took her power from her - how it is he looks so old all of a sudden.
She grits her teeth, but he speaks before she can, his voice low and resigned, "I did it."
She extremely uncomfortable here, so close to him. So close his breath kisses her hair as he exhales. Gretchen hasn't stirred. She can hear her snoring peacefully. It's mostly because of that that she can take a deep breath and answer, "What are you talking about?"
He smiles, just a bit, but there's no real happiness there, none of the mocking glee she's so used to. Just sadness. "I fixed it."
It takes her a moment. Her judgment is a little clouded with sleepiness, with his presence, his warmth. With the wet shine in his eyes. But after a minute, she understands, completely.
"You...." she doesn't know really what to say, knows that what's about to come out of her mouth is completely ridiculous, even for someone who lives in a world of regrown toes and people who can move things with their minds. "You opened yourself up, didn't you? Fixed yourself?"
He nods. His jaw clenches but it's not cause he's angry. She can feel him swallowing, his breath suddenly hitching up on itself. He's about to cry. And she wants to get away from him more than she ever has before.
But instead she asks, prodding, curiously, "And?"
He doesn't try to tell her about how great he is now. About how he's gone in to his own head and turned a few screws, correcting all the pathways that were disconnected. Finally knows what that little word compassion feels like. Love. Fellow feeling. He doesn't do any of this. That's what Sylar would do.
He rolls onto his back, brings up a hand to his face and lays there for a minute. And then without a word, without any explanation for why he'd come in the middle of the night to have this talk, he climbs out of her bed, clumsily, and leaves.
A month later it happens again. He's pressed up against her this time, his face in her hair. But he's breathing evenly and she knows he's asleep. She's not even scared this time. Not even for Gretchen. The most she feels is annoyed, and that familiar uncomfortableness at how near he is. She doesn't roll over, just turns her hear a bit until his forehead brushes just lightly against her cheek. Whispers, "Why are you here? Why me?"
He doesn't answer. She thinks he's still sleeping for a long time. But then he sighs. "Because I know I can't hurt you."
Her stomach clenches up painfully, her chest burning. She understands what he means. But he's so, so wrong. There are many ways to hurt people and Claire is only invincible physically. She wants to yell this at him. Wants to scream and claw at his eyes. Wants to break him - show him that what he's done to her is far worse that what he's done to any of his other victims. But she knows, deep down, that he already realizes this. Because he knows how things work, right?
She starts to cry instead, uncontrollably, her face pressed so hard into her pillow that she can't breath. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't move for a long time. And then he slides an arm around her, reaches his hand up between her own and clutches at her. And she knows what he's doing. Knows that he's not just comforting her, but also himself.
When she wakes up the next morning, he's gone. Gretchen is staring knowingly at her from the other bed.
Two years later, she's finishing up her undergraduate work. She's happy. Relatively. She enters a cafe on the other side of town, Gretchen in tow, and takes a seat. When she looks up from her menu, she sees him. For a moment, she almost doesn't' recognize him. Not because he looks any different, not really - he's still tall and dark and almost abnormally good-looking. He's wearing a dark blue shirt and black pants. He's scruffy. All the usual stuff. But he's not as intense looking. Doesn't hold himself with that arrogant, godlike posture. He looks almost unassuming. He gives her a strange look when he sees her.
She excuses herself from Gretchen and storms up to his table. Forgets what she was going to say when he looks up at her and she can see that he obviously wasn't expecting her to be here. Wasn't stalking her like she thought he was. All the air seems to deflate from her. She sits. Folds her hands on the table. Waits for him to speak.
"It's nice to see you," is the first absurd thing he decides to say.
"What are you doing here?" she hisses. Annoyed at him merely for existing, for reminding her of everything she's managed to put behind her.
He looks around, actually as if worried she'll cause a scene. "Just having some coffee. I didn't plan for you to be here."
"One of us will have to leave," she demands. Growing more infuriated by the minute. He doesn't answer her, isn't even looking at her, so she repeats herself, a little louder this time. The couple at the next table glance over.
But he still doesn't look at her. Doesn't even seem to be listening. She wonders what is so interesting, what he could be staring at so intently across the room. She looks over her shoulder. He's not looking at Gretchen, thankfully. There's a man in the far corner, a piece of untouched pie in front of him, a coffee cup clenched between his hands. He looks nervous. Claire wonders if he's prey. If Sylar's gone back to his old ways.
Sylar leans forward towards Claire, his eyes still on the man. "He's going to hold this place up."
So he's not prey. Claire glances back again. Doesn't see anything suspicious. "How do you know?"
Sylar gives her a condescending look and she realizes how stupid the question was. Of course Sylar would know. She looks again. "Hold up the place how? Just for money?"
He knows what she's really asking. "He's going to hurt people."
Claire glances at Gretchen, instinctively. She's already formulating plans in her mind, any way to to get these people out safely. How to sacrifice herself once again. But Sylar reaches over and puts a hand on hers.
"It's okay," his voice is low, soothing. She pulls her hand back quickly.
"Are you going to do something?" she asks.
His eyes flicker down for a moment, something uncertain flashing through them. He could save them all. Better than she could. But he doesn't know if he wants to do it.
"I thought you were better?" she spits, "fixed? I thought you could feel now? So where's your compassion for these people? You want to see them hurt? Or worse?" She's pushing him, wants him to do something. Wants someone else to do something for once. Why does it always have to be her? She just wants to be left alone.
He blinks. Smiles bitterly at her. "You were right Claire. I may have fixed what was wrong, but there are some things you can't undo. Some things you can't come back from."
She stares at him. Knows they're wasting time talking. But she can't keep herself from considering his words. Wonders how much blood and death a person can see before they're changed for good. Before they're very cells are soaked in it. Until it's not as horrifying as it should be. She can see he cares. She can see he's worried now about these people in the cafe, these unknown people, in a way Sylar never would have been. But he also looks like a man who has drawn back the flesh of the world and peered into its innards and seen only the remnants of cancer eaten organs and muscle. What she sees in his eyes isn't heartlessness, or malice, but resignation.
She takes a deep breath and plunges forward, "Will you help? Please? For me?
And there it is. Her gamble. It hangs there, that last question, for a long time. Too long, for Claire, while there's a man with a gun nearby, ready and willing to hurt someone.
Sylar smiles, almost shyly, but she can see a little of his old arrogance there. "Well, I was going to anyway. But since you asked so nicely...." he looks over at the man again, his face going intent, his eyes unblinking for a long, long time.
And then he visibly relaxes. Takes a sip of his coffee. "You can call the police now. He can't move."
She looks over. The man seems normal, by all appearances, and if he's sitting a little unnaturally still, as if being held down to his chair, casual passerby's would only assume he was very focused on the tv hanging in the corner.
Claire's reaching for her pocket, pulling out her cell phone, as she asks, "That's it?"
"What were you expecting? Some great showdown? Sorry, Claire." He's smirking at her now. She rolls her eyes.
"You make it seem so easy."
She's already answering the police dispatcher as his smile fades a bit at her words. Once she hangs up, he stands, pulls out a wallet and throws some bills on the table. "You'll forgive me if I don't really want to be hear when the police show up."
He turns to leave, but then looks back and reaches out his hand to her. It's her wallet.
"Wha-"
"Sorry," he apologizes, but it's a bit insincere, "not that easy to get a job when you're a known felon. I'll pay you back next time."
She takes it. Watches his tall form as he starts to cross the street, then literally disappears when a police car pulls up to the curb. The man bolts at the sight of the police, rushes out the door, and almost escapes. But she knows Sylar's still out there somewhere because the man trips, right on the sidewalk, face down, his gun skittering out and coming to a stop right at the cop's feet.