You Are What You Love, Heroes, Claire/Sylar/Adam, PG-13
Title: You Are What You Love
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Claire/Sylar/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was supposed to be a long thing written for holycitygirl's birthday, but I'm full of fail. And so it remains in tattered bits around my bedroom, and I will eventually discover them and piece them together.
The moment lacks the weight Claire thinks that it is owed without the clang of a shovel ringing out against the wood, a cymbal crash of sorts to accompany the triumphant instant when the bare wood appears before them, when the shouts become that much less muffled with the weight of it, when a slow grin spreads across Sylar’s face and Claire’s heart starts pounding triple time in her chest.
With one hand stretched out before him, palm down, Sylar smiles as the last of dirt is swept into the wind, into a twisting funnel that Sylar holds in such tight control that not a single speck makes its way across the gaping hole to stain their hands or sting their eyes.
This shouldn’t be so easy, she thinks, but she asked Sylar to blot away the memory of Parkman’s screams as the blood spilled down his head, emptying the sound of a million voices into Sylar’s cramped and twisted skull. Hiro had sworn never to say what had become of Adam, and Sylar had simply smiled and told him, “You don’t have to.”
The smooth wood of the coffin sits in the perfectly square hole, the dirt deposited in a single pile off to the side, and Sylar turns back to her, one eyebrow arched as though waiting for inevitable praise. But she is the one thing he does not have complete power over now, and she’s pretty sure he likes the challenge and so she remains silent. Their task is not complete, after all, and Adam’s plaintive cries are louder now that he knows someone is there.
“For fuck’s sake, please!” His voice is hoarse, and she wonders just how many days, weeks, months has he spent screaming? How many times have his lungs collapsed in on themselves, shriveled and dried without air only for them to regenerate fresh and strong and pink? How many times has he felt the relief of his heart stopping only to have it jerk him back to life, back to misery?
Sylar blasts the lid of the coffin off, and it flies through the air gracelessly, crashing against the ground and splintering. He crouches down and peers into the hole, resting his elbows on his bent knees, and she steps up behind him to get a look for herself. Adam Monroe sits up in his coffin, squinting in the sunlight against their backs, and they must seem such an unlikely pair, a surprising set of heroes to rescue him from his fate.
“Adam Monroe,” Sylar says, his voice tinged with admiration, and only then does Claire really understand the level of his obsession with the man before them and shouldn’t have this occurred to her earlier as she helped him plot and murder their way to this very moment?
Adam holds one hand up against the sun, but his dried lips split into a grin.
Sylar grins back. “I have heard so much about you.”
Claire’s heart is still beating against her ribs as Sylar extends one hand down into the hole to help Adam out. He clambers out of the earth with muscles that should have atrophied long ago and stands with them among the pillars of gravestones marked in a language that she can not understand.
And then there were three.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Claire/Sylar/Adam
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was supposed to be a long thing written for holycitygirl's birthday, but I'm full of fail. And so it remains in tattered bits around my bedroom, and I will eventually discover them and piece them together.
The moment lacks the weight Claire thinks that it is owed without the clang of a shovel ringing out against the wood, a cymbal crash of sorts to accompany the triumphant instant when the bare wood appears before them, when the shouts become that much less muffled with the weight of it, when a slow grin spreads across Sylar’s face and Claire’s heart starts pounding triple time in her chest.
With one hand stretched out before him, palm down, Sylar smiles as the last of dirt is swept into the wind, into a twisting funnel that Sylar holds in such tight control that not a single speck makes its way across the gaping hole to stain their hands or sting their eyes.
This shouldn’t be so easy, she thinks, but she asked Sylar to blot away the memory of Parkman’s screams as the blood spilled down his head, emptying the sound of a million voices into Sylar’s cramped and twisted skull. Hiro had sworn never to say what had become of Adam, and Sylar had simply smiled and told him, “You don’t have to.”
The smooth wood of the coffin sits in the perfectly square hole, the dirt deposited in a single pile off to the side, and Sylar turns back to her, one eyebrow arched as though waiting for inevitable praise. But she is the one thing he does not have complete power over now, and she’s pretty sure he likes the challenge and so she remains silent. Their task is not complete, after all, and Adam’s plaintive cries are louder now that he knows someone is there.
“For fuck’s sake, please!” His voice is hoarse, and she wonders just how many days, weeks, months has he spent screaming? How many times have his lungs collapsed in on themselves, shriveled and dried without air only for them to regenerate fresh and strong and pink? How many times has he felt the relief of his heart stopping only to have it jerk him back to life, back to misery?
Sylar blasts the lid of the coffin off, and it flies through the air gracelessly, crashing against the ground and splintering. He crouches down and peers into the hole, resting his elbows on his bent knees, and she steps up behind him to get a look for herself. Adam Monroe sits up in his coffin, squinting in the sunlight against their backs, and they must seem such an unlikely pair, a surprising set of heroes to rescue him from his fate.
“Adam Monroe,” Sylar says, his voice tinged with admiration, and only then does Claire really understand the level of his obsession with the man before them and shouldn’t have this occurred to her earlier as she helped him plot and murder their way to this very moment?
Adam holds one hand up against the sun, but his dried lips split into a grin.
Sylar grins back. “I have heard so much about you.”
Claire’s heart is still beating against her ribs as Sylar extends one hand down into the hole to help Adam out. He clambers out of the earth with muscles that should have atrophied long ago and stands with them among the pillars of gravestones marked in a language that she can not understand.
And then there were three.