fic: Ready or Not (sylar/claire, noah) pg-13
Title: Ready or Not
Author: Eliza Ann (frozenmolasses)
Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Claire, Noah
Summary: They've almost got a routine, and that's maybe the most disturbing thought that's ever crossed her mind.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for everything. Takes place after 4.16, and is slightly AU.
Words: 6729
A/N: This... was not supposed to be this long. It just kept growing and growing and I had to cut a lot of it out, but here it is. Written for tara1031 for the Sylaire Fic-Exchange.
His fingers skim, feather soft, over her shoulder, up her neck. She holds her ground, making sure she doesn't shiver the way she wants to, maintaining eye contact the whole time. He's not holding her down telekinetically, but she doesn't move.
It's not a about the physical fight, neither of them can die, so what's the point? It's about the psychological struggle. The way Sylar's stare digs into her deeper than any weapon ever has.
Claire's the first one to break the stare, looking away. She always is. Maybe if she wins sometime, he'll do something else, but he just lets go of her arm. Twists a finger through the mussed stands of her hair.
"I like it like this," he says, smirking, "looks like you just got out of bed."
She doesn't know why the sentence forms on her lips, or why she lets it out with very little hesitation. "I haven't slept in 26 hours," she tells him, somewhat bitingly. Such words should be like sharing an intimate secret, but they come out more as an accusation.
She doesn't talk about her sleeping problems with anyone, but she tells Sylar lots of things no one knows. Not because she trusts him, or even remotely likes him. But he doesn't worry about her. She's impenetrable, anyway. It's not like he can't relate.
He lets out a soft sigh "That's not exactly what I meant by 'bed'." He leans into her hair, breathing in the scent. She never knew he was such a fan of Very Berry shampoo.
She rolls her eyes. It's an overused gesture in his presence, but she's happy to do something other than scream. "Keep dreaming."
"I will," he says, standing up, and walks towards her window. The rising sun hits his face, adding a dash of warmth to his figure. It's a pretty sight, but in the kind of way that makes her want to look away.
She lies back on her bed, breathing out a a deep sigh of exhaustion. He doesn't turn around and she doesn't look up, but as he climbs out of her room he tosses back some advice. "You really should get some sleep, Claire, you look like hell."
Her sigh turns into one of frustration, and she sits up, preparing a retort, but he's already gone.
---
They've almost got a routine, and that's maybe the most disturbing thought that's ever crossed her mind. He shows up every so often, all stalker-like, smelling her and doing other, equally creepy things. They engage in a stare-off, seeing who will break first, and she always has, thus far. Sometimes it's because she can no longer stand looking him in the face for so long. Sometime it's just because her eyes start to hurt.
And he'll touch her. He always touches her. Not on any part that would force her to have to stab him through the eye with a pen, he learned his lesson the first time. No, his hands just roam across her skin; arms, shoulders, face. She won't let herself react to it, though. Not that she wants to. She doesn't.
He wants to know how she feels, what she thinks. He tries to use Lydia's power to better understand her, in order to better understand himself. Yet she, as though it's even possible, seems to be even more conflicted than he is. It doesn't make for very many straight answers.
And then he talks to her. She thinks it's to her, but sometimes it's difficult to tell whether he's addressing her or himself. The topics range from what's the best pie in town to one of those 'you and me and this whole world are so fucked up' speeches. Sometimes she really listens, sometimes she doesn't. She always makes it clear that she hates him. Or she tries to.
Sometimes she talks back and he listens. When they're far away from the dorms and not many people are around, she might yell. Scream and kick and throw things because he's horrible and awful and he killed Nathan. All the while he'll try to maintain this patronizing look, as if what she has to say really doesn't matter to him. But the fact is, he needs her. He's more lost than he's ever been and even if he's just grasping at straws, he's still grasping at something.
Sometimes she laughs.
Most always he makes some kind of creepy sexual comment and she's forced to either ignore him or laugh at him for how pathetic he is. And he is. And she's almost sure he knows it, but being Sylar, he can make the most ridiculous things sound like the word of God.
Eventually he either grows bored of her or she kicks him out and she won't see him for a few days. She's thankful, it gives her time to plan exactly what she's going to do next time he shows up. Though she considers many plans- cut off his head, light him on fire, maybe slice his toes off just for fun- she never acts on any of them. She and most everyone she knows have tried their hardest to rid the world of him several times, and thus far, nothing's worked. She sincerely doubts it's going to start now.
And maybe, just maybe, she finds him a little bit fascinating. She wouldn't ever acknowledge it, though.
---
For all the complaining she did about him, Claire misses her father. Well, she misses both her fathers. And while one is gone forever, the other isn't quite so unreachable and she doesn't understand why things won't just work themselves out.
For all the craziness she's been through in the past few years, she always had one stable thing in her life: a family. They may have had their troubles, but they were always there to love her, together. Now that that's crumbled apart, she's got considerably less to hold onto and she's getting a little dizzy being thrown around by life.
She knows the motions by heart, and doesn't even look at the phone in her hands when she hits the buttons. 220. She breathes in. 359. And out. 4006. She takes another breath, and this one she holds until he picks up.
"Hey, Claire-bear." She can feel him smiling on the other end of the line and her heart breaks a little as she wonders how she could ever have been mad at him.
"Hey, Dad." She's smiling, too.
"So you did get my messages, then? I was beginning to worry."
"Of course I did. I've just been busy, with life and all." And Sylar. But not that kind of busy. In fact, she's just going to forget she just had that thought.
"Good, that's good that you have things to do," he says.
She doesn't, not really, but she's not going to say that out loud.
It's awkward for a moment and neither of them really know what to say. They've already been through the "I'm sorry"s and "I love you"s a million times on a million different phone calls. Claire, waits a few seconds, then opts for the truth.
"It's not like my schedule is overflowing. If someone, say, needed my expertise on all this carnival stuff, I'd be happy to help." She hears his aggravated sigh and it makes her smile, because this is what she's used to, and it's easier than expected to slip back into.
"Claire, we've talked about this. After what happened with Nathan and Sylar, I think it's wise for you to just focus on school and your friends for a while."
And the sad thing is that if he, or anyone, knew the whole story, her dad would lock her up in an ivory tower, far away from the big bad wolf. And now she's mixing fairy tales and she has to lean back against her pillows to stop thinking about it and remember what exactly they had been talking about.
"Yeah, and it's been a while. And while I appreciate the normalcy and all, I can't just sit back while Samuel and company take over the world, or whatever they're doing. I won't do anything dangerous, I promise," she pleads.
But Noah doesn't waver.
"There's some nice, safe files you can sort through, if that's what you mean," he says.
"Come on, Dad," she says, "and how do you know I won't go out and track down the carnival on my own?"
"Besides the fact that you're much smarter than that now? Well, that's all I've got. But you are. If things get serious enough that we really do need you, I won't hesitate to call. For now you should just enjoy that normal life of yours for as long as possible." He says it in that Dad way that makes it seem like an actual, legitimate reason, rather than some bullshit he made up to keep her safe.
Claire sighs, and even though it's obviously totally unfair, she can't help but understand where he's coming from. "I can help, you know."
"I do, and you will. Just give me time enough to come up with a plan before I start involving you in it, alright?"
"Yeah, okay," she says, and then, "look, I've got to go. Just think about it, please?"
He sighs. "Alright, as long as you promise me you'll stay away from any and all carnivals until I get back to you."
Claire smiles, and remembers why she wants him back in her life, and not just in the shape of her cell-phone. "I promise, Dad. And I love you, okay?"
"Love you, too, Claire-bear."
She hangs up the phone, dropping it down on the floor and sitting back on her bed. She anticipates the soft sound of it hitting the carpet, but sits back up when it never comes.
She glances down to see her cell-phone floating just above the floor, and knows who it is before she even looks up. "You need to leave," she says. He just steps closer, as he floats the phone up onto her dresser. "Really, Sylar, I'm not in the mood for this."
When she meets his eyes, they're dark and calculating as always, but there's something in them. Something like glee.
"Maybe I'm wrong, but I didn't think you were ever in the mood for this."
Their eyes don't leave each other's.
"You're wrong," she says, and he raises an eyebrow, "sometimes your annoyingness is a welcome distraction, but right now things don't suck, and if I talk to you, they will."
He steps closer and lifts his hand to her face, lightly stroking her cheek. Her eyes still don't stray from his, and his from hers. "There doesn't have to be talking."
The suggestion in his voice makes her stomach drop and her heart thud.
"Yes, there does," she says, shoving him away, "there always is." Mostly, though, she needs to talk to distract him from thinking the creepy, perverted thoughts he'd no doubt think if she didn't keep his mind off of them.
"Fine, I'll start. I heard your phone conversation," he says.
"Hmm, stalking," she replies, "not what you'd call out of character."
"I wasn't done," Sylar tells her, taking her shove as an invitation and dragging his forefinger over her lips. The combination of his hand and his stare digging into her is too much and she pulls out of his reach. Of course, he just moves after her. "This whole carnival thing seems to be a pretty big issue with Daddy. Want me to let him know I can take care of it?"
This makes her look away from him and, like always, she loses. He just takes the opportunity to rack his eyes across her body. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, she feels naked, and crosses her arms over her chest.
"Want me to kill you?"
"Not today, no, unless it's some kind of kink for you. In that case, have at it." He spreads his arms open, giving her full access to his chest.
She doesn't say anything, just gives him that I will never, ever touch you look that he must know quite well by now.
"Maybe I should give Noah a call, then, huh?" He smirks, gliding his hand down her shoulder, onto her arm.
"Why, so he can come over here and kill you?" she suggests, "you know, I've been meaning to talk to him in person, that might be as good of an opportunity as any." She makes it sound as casual as she can while internally freaking out about the thought of her father discovering that she regularly converses with the same monster that he literally tried to erase from existence.
"You really aren't as quick on the uptake as you pretend to be, Claire. Remember that whole me-cutting-your-head-open thing?"
"I seem to recall something like that," she says stiffly.
"The sole purpose of that was so that I wouldn't die, ever." He gets this look in his eye, like he finds pleasure in the memory.
She has to cover up a shudder, and not even the good kind.
"You'll die someday," she says, "and with any luck, I'll have a hand in it."
"No, I won't." He says it like he's proud of the fact, but his eyes tell a different story.
He's scared. Scared of eternity, scared of her. Scared of himself.
"But we're all entitled to our fantasies." He continues, then leans away to sit back and leer at her. "I certainly have my fair share of them."
She picks up a pillow and weakly tosses it at him, saying, "I liked you better when you were all weepy and desperate for my help." The pillow hits him lightly on the shoulder, despite the fact that he could have easily stopped it and sent it flying back.
Instead he just takes it and sets it down on her bed, settling himself against it like it's his. She wants to make him leave, but finds herself, instead, asking why he's so smug. He's looking at her with a smile that seems to say that he knows something she doesn't.
"Because, my dear Claire-bear, I know that you must have some kind of feelings for me." He picks up one of her bears, arranging it amongst the pillows so that it's sitting up.
"What, you mean other than disgust?" And yet her tone of voice is the least disgusted it's been all evening.
"Yes, I do. Disgust is definitely the dominating emotion. But you've shown me there's more than that. Why else would you let me stick around? If you really minded me so much you would have sent your entire Sylar-hunting family after me long ago. But you haven't."
He smirks and she can't tell if it's because he's very smug, or he wants her to think that he's very smug. Either way, she hates it- hates him. Sort of hates him in the way you hate a boy who pulls your pigtails when you're in the second grade, so that the hate is more annoyance and a little bit of curiosity that says stick around, you're interesting. But also hates him for real, in that bloody murder kind of way that says die.
"Maybe I just know I can take care of you myself." She doesn't, and that's not the reason, but it sounds like a pretty believable one to her.
A huge grins spreads across his face at her words. "Then by all means, take care of me."
Of course he doesn't buy it. Someone else might, but not Sylar. And that pisses her off because he knows her a lot more than he has any right to.
There's a flare of anger in her chest and her throat burns a little bit with the words she can't seems to formulate.
When she finally does speak, it's quiet, her words sharp as knives that are out for blood.
"These... conversations, or whatever they are, they mean nothing, okay? You mean nothing to me."
He just watches her, taking in her words, seemingly unfazed by the blunt cruelty of them. For a second, something flashes across his face. Something like hurt. But a moment later it's gone, replaced by a slowly spreading smirk.
"Sticks and stones, Claire." He pauses, thinks for a second. "Actually, they can't really do much damage, either. I guess I'm impenetrable."
It's not the response she was hoping for, but he seems to have dropped the subject, so she looks at him for a moment. Then says "Me, too."
"Just one more reason we're-"
Claire glances at the scissors on her desk. "You really don't want to finish that sentence."
"Actually, if doing so means you're going to 'attack' me," he says, glancing at the scissors, "I'm all for it." It's almost funny the way he can make violence sound suggestive. Almost.
"Alright, now you really need to go." She walks over to the desk and picks up the scissors. "I mean it."
They both know he could float the weapon out of her hand before she could blink, and have her pinned to the wall in another second, but instead he just nods.
"If you insist. I've got grocery shopping to do, anyway."
It's not quite a laugh, a sharp chuckle at most, but it surprises her as much as it does him when it spills out of her. "You shop? For, like, groceries?"
He looks at her like she's an idiot, which she probably is for asking something like that. But the idea of Sylar doing anything remotely domestic just doesn't seem possible.
"Since, as far as I know, there isn't a power that gives you instant-food, I'm stuck having to shop." He tilts his head to the side. "Does that seem strange to you? Because I'm really quite a good cook."
"At making what," Claire asks, "chicken a la brain?"
The words themselves are light, almost teasing, but the tone is designed to let him know that her sickens her in every way possible.
Before he can reply, she cuts him off. "Out," she says, pointing at her window.
He smirks. "Try not to miss me too much."
She returns the expression, but her eyes are hard, steel. "I'll do my best. And, please, don't come back."
But he will, he always does.
---
If it hadn't been for him, she might have actually had fun.
She had been invited to a party by some frat boys, and although normally she wouldn't have even considered coming anywhere near the thing, she figured she might as well milk her normal life for all it's worth before her inevitable journey back to Freaksville. Sure, she's the one who's been demanding to help with the carnival, but that doesn't mean she won't miss chocolate milk and cramming for tests when those things are gone.
She had invited Gretchen to come with her, but she had needed to go off to the library and study, so Claire had decided to hit the party alone.
For the first hour or so, Claire had just turned off her brain and let Jake, a smiley blonde with suspiciously small eyebrows, show her around and introduce her to people. He was dumber than paste and not very funny, but around him Claire didn't have to be strong.
It had been a nice feeling.
And then he had shown up, and all the nice feelings were replaced by a twisting sensation in her stomach as she struggled to think straight.
She didn't ever look at him, it's not as if she would have seen anything but a shadow. But she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to her.
When the clock struck sometime around one, she had said her goodbyes to Jake. With no plans to ever see him again, she had waved and headed off in the direction of her building.
And now, as she walks home, she thinks the lack of light and people around should probably scare her. But it doesn't. The man who's silently trailing her through the shadows is scarier than anything else she could possibly run into at night in Virginia.
Halfway between the the frat house and her dorm, Sylar finally steps out of hiding.
"I never knew brainless, frat boy was your type," he whispers, low in his throat from a few feet away, and yet it feels as if he's right next to her. She can practically feel his breath on her ear.
She keeps walking, doesn't even stop to look at him. "Hmm, brainless, that sounds more like your type."
She feels his soft chuckle more than she hears it. He's right up close behind her now, hand running along her back and she keeps walking. Swiftly, barely lifting a finger, he stops her.
She hates this feeling, this complete loss of control. Her entire body at his mercy. Something in the back of her mind whispers that, telekinesis or not, it always is.
He turns her around to face him. She should be feeling sicker by the second, but when she finally looks him in the eye, her stomach relaxes. There's something familiar about his gaze, the way it breaks her down, calculating, and yet holds her together.
"Really, Claire," he says, "I thought your type was a little darker. More mysterious. Powerful."
She struggles against his telekinetic hold, but her body only shakes slightly. It's been so long since he last used this power on her, she'd almost forgotten how it felt.
"I hate power," she says, fixing him with an icy glare. "I hate mystery. And I hate darkness. Mostly, though, I just hate you."
It's a flat-out lie and she knows it. Not about hating him, that's a truth that's gotten a little fuzzy of late, but she still believes it- or tries to. No, it's the mystery, the power. She finds it enticing, and it scares her a little, but she wants to feel it.
He grins. "That tingles," he tells her, looking absolutely self-satisfied.
She knows what he means. They've spent many long hours talking about his abilities.
Then something hits her. Not literally, but, standing in a small, empty corner of the campus with a serial killer looking at her like she belongs to him, a lightbulb goes off. He's genuinely bothered by her spending time with other guys. That's just...
Oh.
"What, are you jealous?" she asks, in a mocking sort of way, but it's also a legitimate question.
"What. Of Jake? Yes, I do wish I could get my hair to shine like that, unfortunately..." He sounds just disbelieving enough, his voice just the right pitch to sell vaguely amused but mostly uninterested. It's too perfect, and she's spent too much time around him. Enough to know the difference between Sylar being in control and Sylar playing in control.
She laughs then, and not in the mocking way that she usually reserves for him, but really just laughs. Because it's funny.
"Oh my god," she giggles, "that's just... so creepy."
"Look," he grits out, seemingly insulted, "I don't know what exactly you're getting at, but I have things to do, people to kill."
She breathes in and feels her body regain it's control as he turns around.
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I hurt you feelings?" She laughs again and then quickly sobers up, running slightly to catch up with him. "Because, you know, you hurt my feelings when you killed my father, and we're still not even close to even on that, so the least you can do is slow down and let me mock you a little."
He turns around quickly, fiercely. "Why are you suddenly so chipper and eager to be around me?" he questions.
"Honestly, finding out a psychotic serial killer has a little schoolboy crush on me? Probably the least damaging thing that's ever happened to me involving you."
"Well, congratulations," he says, "you want a hug or something?"
Claire smirks, "No, but I bet you do."
Before she has time to revel in her pride for, what she believes was a pretty good shot, Sylar lifts his hand. Everything goes very suddenly and intensely blue and static after that.
She doesn't even get time to feel the pavement slam into the back of her head, she's dead before she hits the ground.
Quickly, though, life surges back into her body and she makes a gasping-choking sound as the after-effects of being severely electrocuted pass away. She doesn't feel any pain, but there's a strange thrumming inside of her that tells her it must have been a hell of a shock.
Her head flies up, coughing and sputtering as she tries to yell at the smug bastard standing above her. The first few tries come out hoarse and distorted, but she finally communicates her sentiments.
"Christ, Sylar," she yells, voice rough, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
"What can I tell you, Claire," he say, and she can tell he's enjoying this, "love hurts."
"You love me?" she yells, incredulous, royally pissed off, and slightly amused, all at the same time, "that's just great. That's fucking wonderful."
"Goodnight, Claire," he calls back, striding away again.
She gets up, regaining muscle control, and follows after him.
"Okay, no, you can't just go around electrocuting people and then walk away."
"You're not people, you're Claire Bennet: invincible girl. You can take it." He just keeps walking and she follows.
"Doesn't matter if I can take it," she nearly yells, "the point is, you just can't do that." And then, more importantly, "and you don't love me."
He turns around so suddenly, facing straight at her, that she almost trips. She anticipates another bolt of electricity, but instead he just stares at her. She looks right into his eyes, deep, dark, desperate, sadistic, and undeniably lost. She wants to yell at him again, but nothing comes out, so she waits for him to speak.
She waits for anything, really, but he doesn't do anything but look at her. It's a little scary, and Claire tells herself that's the reason her heart is thudding so intensely.
Just when she sighs, closes her eyes, and prepares to finally say something does she feel his breath against her ear.
"Sleep tight, Claire."
She can hear him turn away, feels his body heat disappear from next to her.
She opens her eyes to an empty sidewalk, illuminated only by streetlights.
----
She doesn't sleep much. It's not unusual for her to lie awake at night, but this is worse than the normal, bored silence.
This is her head, buzzing with thoughts she can't even really comprehend. And she doesn't much want to.
She'd been aware that he'd had some super villain-esque plans going on before, what with wanting to make her his "first first lady" and all that, and he always went on and on about their similarities, and yeah, there was the nearly inappropriate touching, but this, this was completely unprecedented.
The feeling is something akin to the 8th grade when she had found out the scary, rude death metal kid in the back of her algebra class had a crush on her. Sylar's considerably more attractive, and yeah, ew, she had to stop thinking about this, but the general effect is the same.
It's amusing and disturbing all at once and, in Sylar's case, quite scary. She decides to track him down the next day and make him answer a lot of personal questions. For now, though, she would do her best to sleep.
---
Sylar had mentioned off-hand a few times the motel he had been staying at for the past few weeks or so. He had never said anything about which room number, but after bursting into a fit of tears in front of the desk clerk and sobbing about her awful, bushy-eyebrowed boyfriend who frequently brought hookers there, Claire had figured it out anyway.
When she arrives in front of the door, she knocks deliberately on it, and without a mere second even passing, the door swings open.
Sylar's across the room, sitting against the wall, cup of coffee in one hand, magazine in the other. "Brad and Angie," he shakes his head, not sparing her a glance, "will they ever learn?"
"I'm pretty sure that issue's kind of outdated," Claire tells him, fidgeting with her hands.
He looks at the front of it, nodding. "I guess you're right, not that it really matters." He tosses it down on the floor and then finally looks up a her. "Now, is there something you want?"
She struggles for a moment with what to say, finally settling on the straightforward, if not a little rude: "You're crazy."
He barely reacts, simply takes a sip of his coffee and says, "so you've told me. Anything else?"
On her way here she had come up with so many questions. Why doesn't he mind her relationship with Gretchen more than some frat guy hitting on her? Doesn't he realize that he's, like, a million years older than her and that this is exponentially creepy? Doesn't he know that she hates him?
But at this exact moment, none of that stuff seems remotely important, so she merely replies with a sigh, "No, that was it."
"Really?" he asks.
"Yeah," she replies, "really."
And then, tentatively, she sits down on the floor next to him.
They're both silent for a bit, and she keeps a healthy distance between them, but not so far that he couldn't reach out and touch her. She pretends this wasn't a conscious decision.
"I could save everyone, you know," he says, "I could stop the carnival and save the world." And this is the Sylar that came to see her those short weeks ago, scared and unsure, and maybe this is how he is all the time, but he has to slip the mask on so that he can feel like he's in control.
"Then why don't you?" Claire asks. She's taking a break from the disgust and annoyance that she usually takes extra care to display when she's around him, this, right then, is just her.
"Why don't you," he challenges, "you're the hero."
"Because I don't know if I can." Eyes downcast, it's the truest thing she's said in a while. She looks up at him then. "How would you do it? Save everyone, I mean."
Before starting off, Sylar has a question for her. "How do you feel about mini-donuts?"
She decides that her answer is going to set the tone for this particular day. However she replies is going to determine whether they'll be spending their time fighting, making out, which ew, or whatever else they could possibly do.
"I still hate you," she puts that out there first, "but mini-donuts, I feel pretty good about."
Sylar gets up and grabs a bag that's sitting on the night-table, and sits back down, closer than he was before. "To start with," he says, offering her a powdered mini-donut, "I'd get a really large rock, and throw it at Samuel Sullivan's head..."
---
"You're a lot more interesting than you try to be, Claire Bennet."
Nearly two hours have passed since she arrived, and Sylar and Claire are in relatively the same places as they began, although now surrounded by empty coffee cups, and lots of donut powder. They're also quite a bit closer together.
She shrugs off his compliment/insult/whatever that was.
"You're a lot less scary than you try to be, Sylar. Still pretty obnoxious, though."
He gives her another one of those looks that he been giving her all day, different than the usual leer that he puts on display just to bother her. It's as if he's admiring her very existence.
"You're going to have to get used to that if you want to take down the carnival together," he tells her, and she huffs a laugh.
"Please, I got used to it two weeks ago. There's not much more used to I can get."
Sylar reaches out and touches her face, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb the way he's so used to doing. He lightly pulls her towards him and she puts her hands up and pushes back against his chest.
"Don't touch me," she says, quietly, because no matter if they're hanging out and having fun like friends might do, when it comes down to it, it's all still the same. He's Sylar and she's Claire, and in a way, they're sill nemeses.
"Or what? You'll stab me? I'll just heal. Burn me? I'll be fine. All thanks to you and that magnificent power." He's holding on to her arms now, and his grip gets tighter with every word. She shoves him, but not nearly hard enough as she should and she knows it. "Cut off my arms, my legs? Electrocute me? I'll get through it."
"Shut-up," she says harshly, shoving him again, but he just turns her head to face him, looking straight at her.
This is another one of those times when a single action is going to determine everything. She can keep struggling and they can go on like this, or...
"Drown me, strangle me? I"-
She pulls him forward rather than pushing him away, crashing her mouth against his. He stops dead in his tracks for a few seconds before kissing her back.
This is exactly the wrong kind of wrong and Claire spends every moment of the kiss trying to come up with ways to justify it and settles on exactly none.
As he tries to pull her closer, she pushes him away, and he lets go easily.
They stare at each other, breathing wildly, for mere moments before a smirk breaks out onto Sylar's face. Before the inevitable taunting can begin, she pulls him back to her and kisses him again.
Sylar doesn't seem the slightest bit shocked this time and reciprocates it easily. He pulls away from her lips and moves to her neck, and along her shoulders, dropping hard kisses everywhere as she pulls on his hair.
And this is bad, bad, bad, not to mention the opposite of good, but Claire really isn't giving herself much time to think about it.
Just as his hand moves down to gab onto her hip, there's a thud and Claire pushes him away as hard as she possibly can.
While Claire tries to control her breathing, she stares at the door, as it gets hit again and flies open, revealing the absolute last person she ever expected to see here.
Her father opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it again when absolutely nothing will come out.
She knows how it must look, her and Sylar on the floor, breathing heavily, surrounded by coffee and bags of donuts. She must look absolutely terrified of what's to come, while a glance at Sylar tells her that he's pretty damn impressed by the situation.
"Noah," he says, and Claire can tell he's shocked by the situation, but also rather delighted, "good of you to join us."
Something about Sylar's smug tone must have enabled her dad to speak again, because he gives Sylar the most menacing death-glare Claire's ever seen, and nearly yells, "Shut-up," and then very calmly says, "Claire, Peter's in the car, go outside and get in it."
But she doesn't. She doesn't move a muscle at first, then finally decides to take a deep breath and stand up.
"Dad, I know this looks... bad. But Sylar is going to help us"-
"Help you," Sylar interrupts, "not him."
Claire rolls her eyes.
"Whatever he's told you, Claire," her father says, as he reaches into his jacket, "it's been a lie. I don't know what he's made you believe but you have to remember that this is Sylar. He killed Nathan, he killed Meredith"-
"Actually, um, the building"- Sylar puts in.
Both Bennets turn to him and snap, "shut-up." Claire just as fiercely as her father.
"Claire," her dad says, hand obviously gripping something inside his jacket, "you can't trust him. He's a monster."
"You think I don't know that?" Claire asks him, unable to believe how little faith he has in her. "What matters is that Samuel Sullivan is going to kill a lot of people, and Sylar's probably the only one who can stop him." She neglects to mention all the time she spent with Sylar before the issue of the carnival had even come up.
"No, he really isn't," Noah replies, "that's why I'm here, we have a plan. I went to your dorm because I knew how badly you wanted to help out, Gretchen told me you were here. I didn't think you were so desperate to stop the carnival that you'd turn to the man who cut your head open, or do you not remember?"
"You told her where you were going? Kind of a rookie move, Claire," Sylar puts in, seemingly not all that fazed by her dad.
"Well, someone had to know, in case you kidnapped me or something," Claire replies roughly, then turns back to her father. "Look Dad, I know this might seem like the worst idea in the world right now, but we have a plan, and it's going to work, okay? I don't want you or Peter anywhere near the carnival. Who knows what could happen to you. I want you here, I want you safe." Tears nearly push their way out of her eyes but she chokes them back, knowing that she has to prove that she can be strong.
"You don't have to take care of me, Claire, I'm supposed to take care of you." Her dad looks almost desperate, standing there, watching her side with his sworn enemy.
"That's the thing, dad, I'm not a little girl anymore," her voice nearly breaks, but she holds on. Even worse than crying when she's trying to prove that she's strong would be crying in front of Sylar. "I can take care of myself."
"This feels private," Sylar puts in, "maybe I'll just wait outside." He tries to sound mocking, but Claire can tell that he really means it.
Her dad, on the other hand, is not quite so perceptive, and just as Sylar is about to exit the rather broken down door, Noah pulls the gun out of his jacket and fires two shots right into Sylar's chest. "No, stay," he says.
The post-shooting coughing and sputtering that Claire knows so well begins, and rather than freaking out, she simply rolls her eyes.
"Dad, you can't just... just shoot people, it's rude." Noah raises his eyebrows as if not convinced and Claire's not quite sure she is either. "Okay, whatever, he probably deserved that anyway. Look, I've gotta go."
She walks over to Sylar as the second bullet pushes it's way out of him and he coughs out, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"Good," Claire says, then turns back to her father.
"Claire, don't..." his voice is shaking now too and she wants to hug him, wants to tell him she's his little girl and that she loves him.
"I'm sorry," is all that comes out, as she turns back to Sylar.
He beckons her to follow him, without turning around, as he walks out the door. "Come on, Cheerleader, let's go save the world."
She looks back as she follows and sees her father pull out his cellphone, no doubt calling in everyone he knows to put a stop to this, but it doesn't matter. They can't be stopped.
As they pass by Noah's car, she sees Peter in the passenger's seat, staring at them, jaw dropped.
Sylar puts his arms around her, getting a good grip. "You know, it'll be difficult for you to make out with me while we're flying, so you might want to quench all your urges right now," he says.
She laughs lightly, but ultimately decides a glare will be more motivating. "Just go."
"You ready?" he asks, preparing to push off into the air.
Claire takes a deep breath and grabs onto him tightly. "I better be," she says, and feels the ground disappear from underneath her.
Author: Eliza Ann (frozenmolasses)
Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Claire, Noah
Summary: They've almost got a routine, and that's maybe the most disturbing thought that's ever crossed her mind.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for everything. Takes place after 4.16, and is slightly AU.
Words: 6729
A/N: This... was not supposed to be this long. It just kept growing and growing and I had to cut a lot of it out, but here it is. Written for tara1031 for the Sylaire Fic-Exchange.
His fingers skim, feather soft, over her shoulder, up her neck. She holds her ground, making sure she doesn't shiver the way she wants to, maintaining eye contact the whole time. He's not holding her down telekinetically, but she doesn't move.
It's not a about the physical fight, neither of them can die, so what's the point? It's about the psychological struggle. The way Sylar's stare digs into her deeper than any weapon ever has.
Claire's the first one to break the stare, looking away. She always is. Maybe if she wins sometime, he'll do something else, but he just lets go of her arm. Twists a finger through the mussed stands of her hair.
"I like it like this," he says, smirking, "looks like you just got out of bed."
She doesn't know why the sentence forms on her lips, or why she lets it out with very little hesitation. "I haven't slept in 26 hours," she tells him, somewhat bitingly. Such words should be like sharing an intimate secret, but they come out more as an accusation.
She doesn't talk about her sleeping problems with anyone, but she tells Sylar lots of things no one knows. Not because she trusts him, or even remotely likes him. But he doesn't worry about her. She's impenetrable, anyway. It's not like he can't relate.
He lets out a soft sigh "That's not exactly what I meant by 'bed'." He leans into her hair, breathing in the scent. She never knew he was such a fan of Very Berry shampoo.
She rolls her eyes. It's an overused gesture in his presence, but she's happy to do something other than scream. "Keep dreaming."
"I will," he says, standing up, and walks towards her window. The rising sun hits his face, adding a dash of warmth to his figure. It's a pretty sight, but in the kind of way that makes her want to look away.
She lies back on her bed, breathing out a a deep sigh of exhaustion. He doesn't turn around and she doesn't look up, but as he climbs out of her room he tosses back some advice. "You really should get some sleep, Claire, you look like hell."
Her sigh turns into one of frustration, and she sits up, preparing a retort, but he's already gone.
---
They've almost got a routine, and that's maybe the most disturbing thought that's ever crossed her mind. He shows up every so often, all stalker-like, smelling her and doing other, equally creepy things. They engage in a stare-off, seeing who will break first, and she always has, thus far. Sometimes it's because she can no longer stand looking him in the face for so long. Sometime it's just because her eyes start to hurt.
And he'll touch her. He always touches her. Not on any part that would force her to have to stab him through the eye with a pen, he learned his lesson the first time. No, his hands just roam across her skin; arms, shoulders, face. She won't let herself react to it, though. Not that she wants to. She doesn't.
He wants to know how she feels, what she thinks. He tries to use Lydia's power to better understand her, in order to better understand himself. Yet she, as though it's even possible, seems to be even more conflicted than he is. It doesn't make for very many straight answers.
And then he talks to her. She thinks it's to her, but sometimes it's difficult to tell whether he's addressing her or himself. The topics range from what's the best pie in town to one of those 'you and me and this whole world are so fucked up' speeches. Sometimes she really listens, sometimes she doesn't. She always makes it clear that she hates him. Or she tries to.
Sometimes she talks back and he listens. When they're far away from the dorms and not many people are around, she might yell. Scream and kick and throw things because he's horrible and awful and he killed Nathan. All the while he'll try to maintain this patronizing look, as if what she has to say really doesn't matter to him. But the fact is, he needs her. He's more lost than he's ever been and even if he's just grasping at straws, he's still grasping at something.
Sometimes she laughs.
Most always he makes some kind of creepy sexual comment and she's forced to either ignore him or laugh at him for how pathetic he is. And he is. And she's almost sure he knows it, but being Sylar, he can make the most ridiculous things sound like the word of God.
Eventually he either grows bored of her or she kicks him out and she won't see him for a few days. She's thankful, it gives her time to plan exactly what she's going to do next time he shows up. Though she considers many plans- cut off his head, light him on fire, maybe slice his toes off just for fun- she never acts on any of them. She and most everyone she knows have tried their hardest to rid the world of him several times, and thus far, nothing's worked. She sincerely doubts it's going to start now.
And maybe, just maybe, she finds him a little bit fascinating. She wouldn't ever acknowledge it, though.
---
For all the complaining she did about him, Claire misses her father. Well, she misses both her fathers. And while one is gone forever, the other isn't quite so unreachable and she doesn't understand why things won't just work themselves out.
For all the craziness she's been through in the past few years, she always had one stable thing in her life: a family. They may have had their troubles, but they were always there to love her, together. Now that that's crumbled apart, she's got considerably less to hold onto and she's getting a little dizzy being thrown around by life.
She knows the motions by heart, and doesn't even look at the phone in her hands when she hits the buttons. 220. She breathes in. 359. And out. 4006. She takes another breath, and this one she holds until he picks up.
"Hey, Claire-bear." She can feel him smiling on the other end of the line and her heart breaks a little as she wonders how she could ever have been mad at him.
"Hey, Dad." She's smiling, too.
"So you did get my messages, then? I was beginning to worry."
"Of course I did. I've just been busy, with life and all." And Sylar. But not that kind of busy. In fact, she's just going to forget she just had that thought.
"Good, that's good that you have things to do," he says.
She doesn't, not really, but she's not going to say that out loud.
It's awkward for a moment and neither of them really know what to say. They've already been through the "I'm sorry"s and "I love you"s a million times on a million different phone calls. Claire, waits a few seconds, then opts for the truth.
"It's not like my schedule is overflowing. If someone, say, needed my expertise on all this carnival stuff, I'd be happy to help." She hears his aggravated sigh and it makes her smile, because this is what she's used to, and it's easier than expected to slip back into.
"Claire, we've talked about this. After what happened with Nathan and Sylar, I think it's wise for you to just focus on school and your friends for a while."
And the sad thing is that if he, or anyone, knew the whole story, her dad would lock her up in an ivory tower, far away from the big bad wolf. And now she's mixing fairy tales and she has to lean back against her pillows to stop thinking about it and remember what exactly they had been talking about.
"Yeah, and it's been a while. And while I appreciate the normalcy and all, I can't just sit back while Samuel and company take over the world, or whatever they're doing. I won't do anything dangerous, I promise," she pleads.
But Noah doesn't waver.
"There's some nice, safe files you can sort through, if that's what you mean," he says.
"Come on, Dad," she says, "and how do you know I won't go out and track down the carnival on my own?"
"Besides the fact that you're much smarter than that now? Well, that's all I've got. But you are. If things get serious enough that we really do need you, I won't hesitate to call. For now you should just enjoy that normal life of yours for as long as possible." He says it in that Dad way that makes it seem like an actual, legitimate reason, rather than some bullshit he made up to keep her safe.
Claire sighs, and even though it's obviously totally unfair, she can't help but understand where he's coming from. "I can help, you know."
"I do, and you will. Just give me time enough to come up with a plan before I start involving you in it, alright?"
"Yeah, okay," she says, and then, "look, I've got to go. Just think about it, please?"
He sighs. "Alright, as long as you promise me you'll stay away from any and all carnivals until I get back to you."
Claire smiles, and remembers why she wants him back in her life, and not just in the shape of her cell-phone. "I promise, Dad. And I love you, okay?"
"Love you, too, Claire-bear."
She hangs up the phone, dropping it down on the floor and sitting back on her bed. She anticipates the soft sound of it hitting the carpet, but sits back up when it never comes.
She glances down to see her cell-phone floating just above the floor, and knows who it is before she even looks up. "You need to leave," she says. He just steps closer, as he floats the phone up onto her dresser. "Really, Sylar, I'm not in the mood for this."
When she meets his eyes, they're dark and calculating as always, but there's something in them. Something like glee.
"Maybe I'm wrong, but I didn't think you were ever in the mood for this."
Their eyes don't leave each other's.
"You're wrong," she says, and he raises an eyebrow, "sometimes your annoyingness is a welcome distraction, but right now things don't suck, and if I talk to you, they will."
He steps closer and lifts his hand to her face, lightly stroking her cheek. Her eyes still don't stray from his, and his from hers. "There doesn't have to be talking."
The suggestion in his voice makes her stomach drop and her heart thud.
"Yes, there does," she says, shoving him away, "there always is." Mostly, though, she needs to talk to distract him from thinking the creepy, perverted thoughts he'd no doubt think if she didn't keep his mind off of them.
"Fine, I'll start. I heard your phone conversation," he says.
"Hmm, stalking," she replies, "not what you'd call out of character."
"I wasn't done," Sylar tells her, taking her shove as an invitation and dragging his forefinger over her lips. The combination of his hand and his stare digging into her is too much and she pulls out of his reach. Of course, he just moves after her. "This whole carnival thing seems to be a pretty big issue with Daddy. Want me to let him know I can take care of it?"
This makes her look away from him and, like always, she loses. He just takes the opportunity to rack his eyes across her body. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, she feels naked, and crosses her arms over her chest.
"Want me to kill you?"
"Not today, no, unless it's some kind of kink for you. In that case, have at it." He spreads his arms open, giving her full access to his chest.
She doesn't say anything, just gives him that I will never, ever touch you look that he must know quite well by now.
"Maybe I should give Noah a call, then, huh?" He smirks, gliding his hand down her shoulder, onto her arm.
"Why, so he can come over here and kill you?" she suggests, "you know, I've been meaning to talk to him in person, that might be as good of an opportunity as any." She makes it sound as casual as she can while internally freaking out about the thought of her father discovering that she regularly converses with the same monster that he literally tried to erase from existence.
"You really aren't as quick on the uptake as you pretend to be, Claire. Remember that whole me-cutting-your-head-open thing?"
"I seem to recall something like that," she says stiffly.
"The sole purpose of that was so that I wouldn't die, ever." He gets this look in his eye, like he finds pleasure in the memory.
She has to cover up a shudder, and not even the good kind.
"You'll die someday," she says, "and with any luck, I'll have a hand in it."
"No, I won't." He says it like he's proud of the fact, but his eyes tell a different story.
He's scared. Scared of eternity, scared of her. Scared of himself.
"But we're all entitled to our fantasies." He continues, then leans away to sit back and leer at her. "I certainly have my fair share of them."
She picks up a pillow and weakly tosses it at him, saying, "I liked you better when you were all weepy and desperate for my help." The pillow hits him lightly on the shoulder, despite the fact that he could have easily stopped it and sent it flying back.
Instead he just takes it and sets it down on her bed, settling himself against it like it's his. She wants to make him leave, but finds herself, instead, asking why he's so smug. He's looking at her with a smile that seems to say that he knows something she doesn't.
"Because, my dear Claire-bear, I know that you must have some kind of feelings for me." He picks up one of her bears, arranging it amongst the pillows so that it's sitting up.
"What, you mean other than disgust?" And yet her tone of voice is the least disgusted it's been all evening.
"Yes, I do. Disgust is definitely the dominating emotion. But you've shown me there's more than that. Why else would you let me stick around? If you really minded me so much you would have sent your entire Sylar-hunting family after me long ago. But you haven't."
He smirks and she can't tell if it's because he's very smug, or he wants her to think that he's very smug. Either way, she hates it- hates him. Sort of hates him in the way you hate a boy who pulls your pigtails when you're in the second grade, so that the hate is more annoyance and a little bit of curiosity that says stick around, you're interesting. But also hates him for real, in that bloody murder kind of way that says die.
"Maybe I just know I can take care of you myself." She doesn't, and that's not the reason, but it sounds like a pretty believable one to her.
A huge grins spreads across his face at her words. "Then by all means, take care of me."
Of course he doesn't buy it. Someone else might, but not Sylar. And that pisses her off because he knows her a lot more than he has any right to.
There's a flare of anger in her chest and her throat burns a little bit with the words she can't seems to formulate.
When she finally does speak, it's quiet, her words sharp as knives that are out for blood.
"These... conversations, or whatever they are, they mean nothing, okay? You mean nothing to me."
He just watches her, taking in her words, seemingly unfazed by the blunt cruelty of them. For a second, something flashes across his face. Something like hurt. But a moment later it's gone, replaced by a slowly spreading smirk.
"Sticks and stones, Claire." He pauses, thinks for a second. "Actually, they can't really do much damage, either. I guess I'm impenetrable."
It's not the response she was hoping for, but he seems to have dropped the subject, so she looks at him for a moment. Then says "Me, too."
"Just one more reason we're-"
Claire glances at the scissors on her desk. "You really don't want to finish that sentence."
"Actually, if doing so means you're going to 'attack' me," he says, glancing at the scissors, "I'm all for it." It's almost funny the way he can make violence sound suggestive. Almost.
"Alright, now you really need to go." She walks over to the desk and picks up the scissors. "I mean it."
They both know he could float the weapon out of her hand before she could blink, and have her pinned to the wall in another second, but instead he just nods.
"If you insist. I've got grocery shopping to do, anyway."
It's not quite a laugh, a sharp chuckle at most, but it surprises her as much as it does him when it spills out of her. "You shop? For, like, groceries?"
He looks at her like she's an idiot, which she probably is for asking something like that. But the idea of Sylar doing anything remotely domestic just doesn't seem possible.
"Since, as far as I know, there isn't a power that gives you instant-food, I'm stuck having to shop." He tilts his head to the side. "Does that seem strange to you? Because I'm really quite a good cook."
"At making what," Claire asks, "chicken a la brain?"
The words themselves are light, almost teasing, but the tone is designed to let him know that her sickens her in every way possible.
Before he can reply, she cuts him off. "Out," she says, pointing at her window.
He smirks. "Try not to miss me too much."
She returns the expression, but her eyes are hard, steel. "I'll do my best. And, please, don't come back."
But he will, he always does.
---
If it hadn't been for him, she might have actually had fun.
She had been invited to a party by some frat boys, and although normally she wouldn't have even considered coming anywhere near the thing, she figured she might as well milk her normal life for all it's worth before her inevitable journey back to Freaksville. Sure, she's the one who's been demanding to help with the carnival, but that doesn't mean she won't miss chocolate milk and cramming for tests when those things are gone.
She had invited Gretchen to come with her, but she had needed to go off to the library and study, so Claire had decided to hit the party alone.
For the first hour or so, Claire had just turned off her brain and let Jake, a smiley blonde with suspiciously small eyebrows, show her around and introduce her to people. He was dumber than paste and not very funny, but around him Claire didn't have to be strong.
It had been a nice feeling.
And then he had shown up, and all the nice feelings were replaced by a twisting sensation in her stomach as she struggled to think straight.
She didn't ever look at him, it's not as if she would have seen anything but a shadow. But she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was getting to her.
When the clock struck sometime around one, she had said her goodbyes to Jake. With no plans to ever see him again, she had waved and headed off in the direction of her building.
And now, as she walks home, she thinks the lack of light and people around should probably scare her. But it doesn't. The man who's silently trailing her through the shadows is scarier than anything else she could possibly run into at night in Virginia.
Halfway between the the frat house and her dorm, Sylar finally steps out of hiding.
"I never knew brainless, frat boy was your type," he whispers, low in his throat from a few feet away, and yet it feels as if he's right next to her. She can practically feel his breath on her ear.
She keeps walking, doesn't even stop to look at him. "Hmm, brainless, that sounds more like your type."
She feels his soft chuckle more than she hears it. He's right up close behind her now, hand running along her back and she keeps walking. Swiftly, barely lifting a finger, he stops her.
She hates this feeling, this complete loss of control. Her entire body at his mercy. Something in the back of her mind whispers that, telekinesis or not, it always is.
He turns her around to face him. She should be feeling sicker by the second, but when she finally looks him in the eye, her stomach relaxes. There's something familiar about his gaze, the way it breaks her down, calculating, and yet holds her together.
"Really, Claire," he says, "I thought your type was a little darker. More mysterious. Powerful."
She struggles against his telekinetic hold, but her body only shakes slightly. It's been so long since he last used this power on her, she'd almost forgotten how it felt.
"I hate power," she says, fixing him with an icy glare. "I hate mystery. And I hate darkness. Mostly, though, I just hate you."
It's a flat-out lie and she knows it. Not about hating him, that's a truth that's gotten a little fuzzy of late, but she still believes it- or tries to. No, it's the mystery, the power. She finds it enticing, and it scares her a little, but she wants to feel it.
He grins. "That tingles," he tells her, looking absolutely self-satisfied.
She knows what he means. They've spent many long hours talking about his abilities.
Then something hits her. Not literally, but, standing in a small, empty corner of the campus with a serial killer looking at her like she belongs to him, a lightbulb goes off. He's genuinely bothered by her spending time with other guys. That's just...
Oh.
"What, are you jealous?" she asks, in a mocking sort of way, but it's also a legitimate question.
"What. Of Jake? Yes, I do wish I could get my hair to shine like that, unfortunately..." He sounds just disbelieving enough, his voice just the right pitch to sell vaguely amused but mostly uninterested. It's too perfect, and she's spent too much time around him. Enough to know the difference between Sylar being in control and Sylar playing in control.
She laughs then, and not in the mocking way that she usually reserves for him, but really just laughs. Because it's funny.
"Oh my god," she giggles, "that's just... so creepy."
"Look," he grits out, seemingly insulted, "I don't know what exactly you're getting at, but I have things to do, people to kill."
She breathes in and feels her body regain it's control as he turns around.
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I hurt you feelings?" She laughs again and then quickly sobers up, running slightly to catch up with him. "Because, you know, you hurt my feelings when you killed my father, and we're still not even close to even on that, so the least you can do is slow down and let me mock you a little."
He turns around quickly, fiercely. "Why are you suddenly so chipper and eager to be around me?" he questions.
"Honestly, finding out a psychotic serial killer has a little schoolboy crush on me? Probably the least damaging thing that's ever happened to me involving you."
"Well, congratulations," he says, "you want a hug or something?"
Claire smirks, "No, but I bet you do."
Before she has time to revel in her pride for, what she believes was a pretty good shot, Sylar lifts his hand. Everything goes very suddenly and intensely blue and static after that.
She doesn't even get time to feel the pavement slam into the back of her head, she's dead before she hits the ground.
Quickly, though, life surges back into her body and she makes a gasping-choking sound as the after-effects of being severely electrocuted pass away. She doesn't feel any pain, but there's a strange thrumming inside of her that tells her it must have been a hell of a shock.
Her head flies up, coughing and sputtering as she tries to yell at the smug bastard standing above her. The first few tries come out hoarse and distorted, but she finally communicates her sentiments.
"Christ, Sylar," she yells, voice rough, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
"What can I tell you, Claire," he say, and she can tell he's enjoying this, "love hurts."
"You love me?" she yells, incredulous, royally pissed off, and slightly amused, all at the same time, "that's just great. That's fucking wonderful."
"Goodnight, Claire," he calls back, striding away again.
She gets up, regaining muscle control, and follows after him.
"Okay, no, you can't just go around electrocuting people and then walk away."
"You're not people, you're Claire Bennet: invincible girl. You can take it." He just keeps walking and she follows.
"Doesn't matter if I can take it," she nearly yells, "the point is, you just can't do that." And then, more importantly, "and you don't love me."
He turns around so suddenly, facing straight at her, that she almost trips. She anticipates another bolt of electricity, but instead he just stares at her. She looks right into his eyes, deep, dark, desperate, sadistic, and undeniably lost. She wants to yell at him again, but nothing comes out, so she waits for him to speak.
She waits for anything, really, but he doesn't do anything but look at her. It's a little scary, and Claire tells herself that's the reason her heart is thudding so intensely.
Just when she sighs, closes her eyes, and prepares to finally say something does she feel his breath against her ear.
"Sleep tight, Claire."
She can hear him turn away, feels his body heat disappear from next to her.
She opens her eyes to an empty sidewalk, illuminated only by streetlights.
----
She doesn't sleep much. It's not unusual for her to lie awake at night, but this is worse than the normal, bored silence.
This is her head, buzzing with thoughts she can't even really comprehend. And she doesn't much want to.
She'd been aware that he'd had some super villain-esque plans going on before, what with wanting to make her his "first first lady" and all that, and he always went on and on about their similarities, and yeah, there was the nearly inappropriate touching, but this, this was completely unprecedented.
The feeling is something akin to the 8th grade when she had found out the scary, rude death metal kid in the back of her algebra class had a crush on her. Sylar's considerably more attractive, and yeah, ew, she had to stop thinking about this, but the general effect is the same.
It's amusing and disturbing all at once and, in Sylar's case, quite scary. She decides to track him down the next day and make him answer a lot of personal questions. For now, though, she would do her best to sleep.
---
Sylar had mentioned off-hand a few times the motel he had been staying at for the past few weeks or so. He had never said anything about which room number, but after bursting into a fit of tears in front of the desk clerk and sobbing about her awful, bushy-eyebrowed boyfriend who frequently brought hookers there, Claire had figured it out anyway.
When she arrives in front of the door, she knocks deliberately on it, and without a mere second even passing, the door swings open.
Sylar's across the room, sitting against the wall, cup of coffee in one hand, magazine in the other. "Brad and Angie," he shakes his head, not sparing her a glance, "will they ever learn?"
"I'm pretty sure that issue's kind of outdated," Claire tells him, fidgeting with her hands.
He looks at the front of it, nodding. "I guess you're right, not that it really matters." He tosses it down on the floor and then finally looks up a her. "Now, is there something you want?"
She struggles for a moment with what to say, finally settling on the straightforward, if not a little rude: "You're crazy."
He barely reacts, simply takes a sip of his coffee and says, "so you've told me. Anything else?"
On her way here she had come up with so many questions. Why doesn't he mind her relationship with Gretchen more than some frat guy hitting on her? Doesn't he realize that he's, like, a million years older than her and that this is exponentially creepy? Doesn't he know that she hates him?
But at this exact moment, none of that stuff seems remotely important, so she merely replies with a sigh, "No, that was it."
"Really?" he asks.
"Yeah," she replies, "really."
And then, tentatively, she sits down on the floor next to him.
They're both silent for a bit, and she keeps a healthy distance between them, but not so far that he couldn't reach out and touch her. She pretends this wasn't a conscious decision.
"I could save everyone, you know," he says, "I could stop the carnival and save the world." And this is the Sylar that came to see her those short weeks ago, scared and unsure, and maybe this is how he is all the time, but he has to slip the mask on so that he can feel like he's in control.
"Then why don't you?" Claire asks. She's taking a break from the disgust and annoyance that she usually takes extra care to display when she's around him, this, right then, is just her.
"Why don't you," he challenges, "you're the hero."
"Because I don't know if I can." Eyes downcast, it's the truest thing she's said in a while. She looks up at him then. "How would you do it? Save everyone, I mean."
Before starting off, Sylar has a question for her. "How do you feel about mini-donuts?"
She decides that her answer is going to set the tone for this particular day. However she replies is going to determine whether they'll be spending their time fighting, making out, which ew, or whatever else they could possibly do.
"I still hate you," she puts that out there first, "but mini-donuts, I feel pretty good about."
Sylar gets up and grabs a bag that's sitting on the night-table, and sits back down, closer than he was before. "To start with," he says, offering her a powdered mini-donut, "I'd get a really large rock, and throw it at Samuel Sullivan's head..."
---
"You're a lot more interesting than you try to be, Claire Bennet."
Nearly two hours have passed since she arrived, and Sylar and Claire are in relatively the same places as they began, although now surrounded by empty coffee cups, and lots of donut powder. They're also quite a bit closer together.
She shrugs off his compliment/insult/whatever that was.
"You're a lot less scary than you try to be, Sylar. Still pretty obnoxious, though."
He gives her another one of those looks that he been giving her all day, different than the usual leer that he puts on display just to bother her. It's as if he's admiring her very existence.
"You're going to have to get used to that if you want to take down the carnival together," he tells her, and she huffs a laugh.
"Please, I got used to it two weeks ago. There's not much more used to I can get."
Sylar reaches out and touches her face, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb the way he's so used to doing. He lightly pulls her towards him and she puts her hands up and pushes back against his chest.
"Don't touch me," she says, quietly, because no matter if they're hanging out and having fun like friends might do, when it comes down to it, it's all still the same. He's Sylar and she's Claire, and in a way, they're sill nemeses.
"Or what? You'll stab me? I'll just heal. Burn me? I'll be fine. All thanks to you and that magnificent power." He's holding on to her arms now, and his grip gets tighter with every word. She shoves him, but not nearly hard enough as she should and she knows it. "Cut off my arms, my legs? Electrocute me? I'll get through it."
"Shut-up," she says harshly, shoving him again, but he just turns her head to face him, looking straight at her.
This is another one of those times when a single action is going to determine everything. She can keep struggling and they can go on like this, or...
"Drown me, strangle me? I"-
She pulls him forward rather than pushing him away, crashing her mouth against his. He stops dead in his tracks for a few seconds before kissing her back.
This is exactly the wrong kind of wrong and Claire spends every moment of the kiss trying to come up with ways to justify it and settles on exactly none.
As he tries to pull her closer, she pushes him away, and he lets go easily.
They stare at each other, breathing wildly, for mere moments before a smirk breaks out onto Sylar's face. Before the inevitable taunting can begin, she pulls him back to her and kisses him again.
Sylar doesn't seem the slightest bit shocked this time and reciprocates it easily. He pulls away from her lips and moves to her neck, and along her shoulders, dropping hard kisses everywhere as she pulls on his hair.
And this is bad, bad, bad, not to mention the opposite of good, but Claire really isn't giving herself much time to think about it.
Just as his hand moves down to gab onto her hip, there's a thud and Claire pushes him away as hard as she possibly can.
While Claire tries to control her breathing, she stares at the door, as it gets hit again and flies open, revealing the absolute last person she ever expected to see here.
Her father opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it again when absolutely nothing will come out.
She knows how it must look, her and Sylar on the floor, breathing heavily, surrounded by coffee and bags of donuts. She must look absolutely terrified of what's to come, while a glance at Sylar tells her that he's pretty damn impressed by the situation.
"Noah," he says, and Claire can tell he's shocked by the situation, but also rather delighted, "good of you to join us."
Something about Sylar's smug tone must have enabled her dad to speak again, because he gives Sylar the most menacing death-glare Claire's ever seen, and nearly yells, "Shut-up," and then very calmly says, "Claire, Peter's in the car, go outside and get in it."
But she doesn't. She doesn't move a muscle at first, then finally decides to take a deep breath and stand up.
"Dad, I know this looks... bad. But Sylar is going to help us"-
"Help you," Sylar interrupts, "not him."
Claire rolls her eyes.
"Whatever he's told you, Claire," her father says, as he reaches into his jacket, "it's been a lie. I don't know what he's made you believe but you have to remember that this is Sylar. He killed Nathan, he killed Meredith"-
"Actually, um, the building"- Sylar puts in.
Both Bennets turn to him and snap, "shut-up." Claire just as fiercely as her father.
"Claire," her dad says, hand obviously gripping something inside his jacket, "you can't trust him. He's a monster."
"You think I don't know that?" Claire asks him, unable to believe how little faith he has in her. "What matters is that Samuel Sullivan is going to kill a lot of people, and Sylar's probably the only one who can stop him." She neglects to mention all the time she spent with Sylar before the issue of the carnival had even come up.
"No, he really isn't," Noah replies, "that's why I'm here, we have a plan. I went to your dorm because I knew how badly you wanted to help out, Gretchen told me you were here. I didn't think you were so desperate to stop the carnival that you'd turn to the man who cut your head open, or do you not remember?"
"You told her where you were going? Kind of a rookie move, Claire," Sylar puts in, seemingly not all that fazed by her dad.
"Well, someone had to know, in case you kidnapped me or something," Claire replies roughly, then turns back to her father. "Look Dad, I know this might seem like the worst idea in the world right now, but we have a plan, and it's going to work, okay? I don't want you or Peter anywhere near the carnival. Who knows what could happen to you. I want you here, I want you safe." Tears nearly push their way out of her eyes but she chokes them back, knowing that she has to prove that she can be strong.
"You don't have to take care of me, Claire, I'm supposed to take care of you." Her dad looks almost desperate, standing there, watching her side with his sworn enemy.
"That's the thing, dad, I'm not a little girl anymore," her voice nearly breaks, but she holds on. Even worse than crying when she's trying to prove that she's strong would be crying in front of Sylar. "I can take care of myself."
"This feels private," Sylar puts in, "maybe I'll just wait outside." He tries to sound mocking, but Claire can tell that he really means it.
Her dad, on the other hand, is not quite so perceptive, and just as Sylar is about to exit the rather broken down door, Noah pulls the gun out of his jacket and fires two shots right into Sylar's chest. "No, stay," he says.
The post-shooting coughing and sputtering that Claire knows so well begins, and rather than freaking out, she simply rolls her eyes.
"Dad, you can't just... just shoot people, it's rude." Noah raises his eyebrows as if not convinced and Claire's not quite sure she is either. "Okay, whatever, he probably deserved that anyway. Look, I've gotta go."
She walks over to Sylar as the second bullet pushes it's way out of him and he coughs out, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"Good," Claire says, then turns back to her father.
"Claire, don't..." his voice is shaking now too and she wants to hug him, wants to tell him she's his little girl and that she loves him.
"I'm sorry," is all that comes out, as she turns back to Sylar.
He beckons her to follow him, without turning around, as he walks out the door. "Come on, Cheerleader, let's go save the world."
She looks back as she follows and sees her father pull out his cellphone, no doubt calling in everyone he knows to put a stop to this, but it doesn't matter. They can't be stopped.
As they pass by Noah's car, she sees Peter in the passenger's seat, staring at them, jaw dropped.
Sylar puts his arms around her, getting a good grip. "You know, it'll be difficult for you to make out with me while we're flying, so you might want to quench all your urges right now," he says.
She laughs lightly, but ultimately decides a glare will be more motivating. "Just go."
"You ready?" he asks, preparing to push off into the air.
Claire takes a deep breath and grabs onto him tightly. "I better be," she says, and feels the ground disappear from underneath her.