breaking the formula - claire&hrg - heroes - fanfiction
Title: breaking the formula
Rating: PG
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: n/a
Word Count: 1321
Spoilers: 2x03 "Kindred".
Summary: You suppose the future isn’t written in stone after all.
Note: Idea formulated after my video "My Last Breath". So I literally haven't written fic since July. It's been a really long time, and I'm very rusty, but I was itching to write some Heroes fic. I initially had a very very different idea in mind, that didn't involve HRG at all, but then I just started writing this instead. I do not in any way think this means I'll start writing again more often, this was really just something I had to get off my chest.
Originally Posted: 23rd October, 2007
It’s become somewhat of a routine by now. You spend your days staring at the screen, waiting for the picture to change, to become something else so what it says now is no longer true. After a while, your hand will twitch, itching to reach into the screen and tear her away from him (whoever he may be). Your heart thumps and your hands clench until your knuckles pale.
The minutes tick by on your watch and everything stays the same.
-
You start to watch her more. You didn’t think it was possible to watch her more than you already did, but you’ve somehow managed to do so. Your eyes follow her movement as she bustles cheerfully around the house before she leaves for school in the morning. Your car tails her as she walks home from school with Lyle in the afternoon, bickering the whole way. Your body shifts in her direction while she sits across from you at dinner, chattering about assignments and cheerleading. Your hand twists her bedroom doorknob at night as she sleeps, pushing it open enough to see her sleep, watch as her chest rises and falls in an even pattern.
She stirs in her sleep one night, rolling over and pushing up. Her eyes go wide and round when she catches sight of your silhouette in the doorframe, slowly moving closer until you reach her side. You watch as her breath visibly hitches, her fingers tangling with her bedcovers. After a moment, she quietly asks if everything is okay; her eyes flicker to the open doorway and you wonder if it’s out of concern for the family sleeping peacefully down the hall, or fear of consequences for actions you’re unaware of. But it doesn’t really matter - you’re not going to be able to pry answers out of her if she doesn’t want to give them to you. So you smile and pat her hand and say everything is fine in the most fatherly voice you can muster; and after a long moment she smiles tightly back at you before rolling onto her side.
You leave her room with a heavy feeling of dread. You don’t go back in there during the dark hours and you can’t meet her eyes for days.
-
It’s sometime after the fifth painting comes true that you start to feel nostalgic. Most of your belongings were lost when Sprague blew up your house, but you had kept a storage unit with a few bits and pieces that you now cherish. You make the trip out to Texas to visit it, the Haitian just outside the door as your fingers trail over the shelves.
There’s a box with her name on it in the far corner. You pull off the tape and pour the contents onto the concrete floor. There’s a sweater that Sandra knitted for her when she was five (she wore it all winter), and a dress that she wore to a school dance in sixth grade (one of the last time’s you saw Zach at your house before he started making those damn tapes with Claire), and a few pictures she drew in art class during her freshman year. Your fingers skitter across the meager belongings and you inhale the dusty scent of the past; your eyes close and you see her smiling face behind your lids.
Moments pass and then you’re on your feet and out the door. Your companion watches you with questions in his eyes, but you simply pass him by.
-
Suresh calls you with updates; about the company, about Molly Walker, about Parkman and the Nightmare Man. You stare at the computer screen, fingers twitching, and all you hear is static as you glance over your laptop to see her watching you with indistinguishable eyes. She seems to pull further away from you every day, and as you glance back at the screen and the static fades away completely, you know there is nothing you can do to stop it.
-
The nightmares kick in after the seventh painting comes true. Time is running out and you groan in your sleep as you dream of bullets and blood and black kisses.
They’re vivid and far too tangible for comfort. Tears drip from her cheeks and you can smell her perfume as you try desperately to grasp at her. And then there’s a dark figure behind her, one you can’t quite make out but they feel so bone-achingly familiar. Her face twists into a sneer that masks uncertainty, and with a crack, you bleed before waking with a snap.
For the first time in weeks, you step into her room as she slumbers on, blissfully unaware. You move close enough to touch; your hand creeps across her face and curls in her hair as she shifts and mumbles incoherently in her sleep. You press a kiss against her forehead and finally know what you need to do.
-
It’s a day like any other. You don your purple workshirt with disdain, slide your glasses over the bridge of your nose and check your gun is still safely taped to the top of your sock drawer. Sandra pecks a kiss on your lips as she heads downstairs and you muster a smile as you say you’re going to check on Claire. You pass Lyle’s room and stop for a moment to wonder how much longer it’ll take for his own powers to arise and if you’ll be in this position again in a year. You feel utterly weary at the thought, and not for the first time you regret ever joining the Company, and especially ever taking these two children home with you.
She smiles at you when you enter her room, but her eyes stay dark and stormy. You follow routine - tell her that breakfast will be ready soon and if she needs a ride to school she just has to ask. Her smile twists into a mockery of brightness and she says something about one of girl’s from cheerleading picking her up. You nod and take a seat across from her, looking her square in the eye with the best fatherly look you can muster. You’ve gotten so good at faking it, had so many years of practice - were you ever a father to this girl?, you wonder. You feel cold and detached, but you suppose it’s easier this way.
The words start pouring out like routine. A spiel about how you’ll always be there for her and she just has to be cautious of everyone (the irony isn’t lost on you) and when you finally stop, she’s wearing a bitter smile. She says she understands, and of course she does, but you can’t stop now. You’re on your feet, reaching out for her, and then she’s in your arms. You breathe her in, a familiar action that feels oddly foreign now. One hand slides through her hair, the other slides into your pocket; and then she’s telling you how much she loves you and you bite your lip to refrain from blurting out something that you may regret later.
And then the hand that was in your pocket is sliding up her side and she’s about to pull away but you tug her tighter against you, ignoring her muffled protest of confusion. You tilt your head just right so your lips breathe against her ear; and as your hand reaches the other side of her head, you whisper a prayer for her.
She tries to move away again, but she’s just not as fast as you are. The knife slides into her skull with surprisingly minimal pressure, hitting just the right spot. She doesn’t make a sound as she dies (she’s simply there and then she’s not), and your lips twist bitterly as you press a quiet kiss into her hair.
You suppose the future isn’t written in stone after all.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: n/a
Word Count: 1321
Spoilers: 2x03 "Kindred".
Summary: You suppose the future isn’t written in stone after all.
Note: Idea formulated after my video "My Last Breath". So I literally haven't written fic since July. It's been a really long time, and I'm very rusty, but I was itching to write some Heroes fic. I initially had a very very different idea in mind, that didn't involve HRG at all, but then I just started writing this instead. I do not in any way think this means I'll start writing again more often, this was really just something I had to get off my chest.
Originally Posted: 23rd October, 2007
It’s become somewhat of a routine by now. You spend your days staring at the screen, waiting for the picture to change, to become something else so what it says now is no longer true. After a while, your hand will twitch, itching to reach into the screen and tear her away from him (whoever he may be). Your heart thumps and your hands clench until your knuckles pale.
The minutes tick by on your watch and everything stays the same.
-
You start to watch her more. You didn’t think it was possible to watch her more than you already did, but you’ve somehow managed to do so. Your eyes follow her movement as she bustles cheerfully around the house before she leaves for school in the morning. Your car tails her as she walks home from school with Lyle in the afternoon, bickering the whole way. Your body shifts in her direction while she sits across from you at dinner, chattering about assignments and cheerleading. Your hand twists her bedroom doorknob at night as she sleeps, pushing it open enough to see her sleep, watch as her chest rises and falls in an even pattern.
She stirs in her sleep one night, rolling over and pushing up. Her eyes go wide and round when she catches sight of your silhouette in the doorframe, slowly moving closer until you reach her side. You watch as her breath visibly hitches, her fingers tangling with her bedcovers. After a moment, she quietly asks if everything is okay; her eyes flicker to the open doorway and you wonder if it’s out of concern for the family sleeping peacefully down the hall, or fear of consequences for actions you’re unaware of. But it doesn’t really matter - you’re not going to be able to pry answers out of her if she doesn’t want to give them to you. So you smile and pat her hand and say everything is fine in the most fatherly voice you can muster; and after a long moment she smiles tightly back at you before rolling onto her side.
You leave her room with a heavy feeling of dread. You don’t go back in there during the dark hours and you can’t meet her eyes for days.
-
It’s sometime after the fifth painting comes true that you start to feel nostalgic. Most of your belongings were lost when Sprague blew up your house, but you had kept a storage unit with a few bits and pieces that you now cherish. You make the trip out to Texas to visit it, the Haitian just outside the door as your fingers trail over the shelves.
There’s a box with her name on it in the far corner. You pull off the tape and pour the contents onto the concrete floor. There’s a sweater that Sandra knitted for her when she was five (she wore it all winter), and a dress that she wore to a school dance in sixth grade (one of the last time’s you saw Zach at your house before he started making those damn tapes with Claire), and a few pictures she drew in art class during her freshman year. Your fingers skitter across the meager belongings and you inhale the dusty scent of the past; your eyes close and you see her smiling face behind your lids.
Moments pass and then you’re on your feet and out the door. Your companion watches you with questions in his eyes, but you simply pass him by.
-
Suresh calls you with updates; about the company, about Molly Walker, about Parkman and the Nightmare Man. You stare at the computer screen, fingers twitching, and all you hear is static as you glance over your laptop to see her watching you with indistinguishable eyes. She seems to pull further away from you every day, and as you glance back at the screen and the static fades away completely, you know there is nothing you can do to stop it.
-
The nightmares kick in after the seventh painting comes true. Time is running out and you groan in your sleep as you dream of bullets and blood and black kisses.
They’re vivid and far too tangible for comfort. Tears drip from her cheeks and you can smell her perfume as you try desperately to grasp at her. And then there’s a dark figure behind her, one you can’t quite make out but they feel so bone-achingly familiar. Her face twists into a sneer that masks uncertainty, and with a crack, you bleed before waking with a snap.
For the first time in weeks, you step into her room as she slumbers on, blissfully unaware. You move close enough to touch; your hand creeps across her face and curls in her hair as she shifts and mumbles incoherently in her sleep. You press a kiss against her forehead and finally know what you need to do.
-
It’s a day like any other. You don your purple workshirt with disdain, slide your glasses over the bridge of your nose and check your gun is still safely taped to the top of your sock drawer. Sandra pecks a kiss on your lips as she heads downstairs and you muster a smile as you say you’re going to check on Claire. You pass Lyle’s room and stop for a moment to wonder how much longer it’ll take for his own powers to arise and if you’ll be in this position again in a year. You feel utterly weary at the thought, and not for the first time you regret ever joining the Company, and especially ever taking these two children home with you.
She smiles at you when you enter her room, but her eyes stay dark and stormy. You follow routine - tell her that breakfast will be ready soon and if she needs a ride to school she just has to ask. Her smile twists into a mockery of brightness and she says something about one of girl’s from cheerleading picking her up. You nod and take a seat across from her, looking her square in the eye with the best fatherly look you can muster. You’ve gotten so good at faking it, had so many years of practice - were you ever a father to this girl?, you wonder. You feel cold and detached, but you suppose it’s easier this way.
The words start pouring out like routine. A spiel about how you’ll always be there for her and she just has to be cautious of everyone (the irony isn’t lost on you) and when you finally stop, she’s wearing a bitter smile. She says she understands, and of course she does, but you can’t stop now. You’re on your feet, reaching out for her, and then she’s in your arms. You breathe her in, a familiar action that feels oddly foreign now. One hand slides through her hair, the other slides into your pocket; and then she’s telling you how much she loves you and you bite your lip to refrain from blurting out something that you may regret later.
And then the hand that was in your pocket is sliding up her side and she’s about to pull away but you tug her tighter against you, ignoring her muffled protest of confusion. You tilt your head just right so your lips breathe against her ear; and as your hand reaches the other side of her head, you whisper a prayer for her.
She tries to move away again, but she’s just not as fast as you are. The knife slides into her skull with surprisingly minimal pressure, hitting just the right spot. She doesn’t make a sound as she dies (she’s simply there and then she’s not), and your lips twist bitterly as you press a quiet kiss into her hair.
You suppose the future isn’t written in stone after all.