Patrick Dempsey Pre-Nose Job
Man I haven't seen Can't Buy Me Love in forever. My boy is all goofy looking, sigh, but I loved him even then. Loverboy is still my fave, but you can't beat the angst in this one.
Is everyone back from the Strike? Did that get anything accomplished?
And fic!
+
Title: There Is No Peace That I've Found So Far
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Disclaimer: Not mine, I shouldn't even be playing with them. Only responsible for their fictional corruption
Summary: Against reason and reality, he trusts it.
Warning: Might as well be up on the current season.
Rated: PG-13
A/N: It feels like it's been a while.
----------------------------------------
There is a pack of cigarettes on the dashboard in front of her, a lighter clasped in her hand. Sylar watches as she flicks her little thumb over the plastic, smelling flame and singed flesh as she runs her palm too close.
Burn. Heal. Burn. Heal.
He doesn't love her, but there is something slightly disturbing about her new fascination with self mutiliation. Claire usually allows carelessness to do the work for her, slippery knives in the kitchen at dinnertime, razors meant to shave hair in the shower slicing shins and underarms.
Today she's in a weird mood and obviously needs to be proactive.
"Am I bothering you?" She asks, and her tone is half amused, half ambivalent.
His answer won't matter a bit, but he's always honest. "Usually."
He picked her up somewhere in Nevada, with every intention to kill her quickly. Claire didn't change his mind by screaming, crying, making a valiant -but fruitless- attempt to outrun him. She changed his mind by smiling, giving him pause, and asking him to think about his actions.
Did he really want to live forever? Sylar wasn't so sure.
His last four attempts to take over have failed. Any direct mission of revenge he accomplished without effort only to be left just as angry, just as empty. Life has settled into a routine -
Kill. Move. Kill. Move.
Sylar hunts, but he's still hunted. Every member of the Company that finds him dies, but there's an endless supply.
Claire's father is one of them, but neither he nor Claire have seen Noah Bennett in months. She's determined to stay hidden, so determined she saw fit to stay with him.
She gives Sylar a muttered sorry when he can't fight his eye roll, and doesn't try. "Just ignore me."
He turns his focus back to the long road ahead of them, scrunching his nose with the smell of nicotine that comes next. "I remember when you smelled like sunshine and blood. That deliciously sweet mix of life and fear."
"Oh Sy, you are such a poet."
And whether it's his misplaced nostalgia or her sarcasm, they both end up laughing.
+
Texas and California are out, so they travel East. Sylar isn't ready for New York, so without consulting his sleeping companion, he turns south. A million or so people must live and in or around New Orleans. More than a few must have gifts he can take.
Claire won't say anything. He keeps waiting for her too, but so far so good. It's completely uncalled for, but Sylar finds himself holding his breath, expecting that look of disgust, that old familiar burn of codemning hate.
He doesn't love her, but he's gotten used to having her around. He never expected it, after annoyingly naive Maya, Sylar thought it impossible. The old Claire, the girl who could have been if she'd never met him, wouldn't be here.
He wouldn't want her to be. The one thing Sylar can't deny is that having Claire here is better than being alone.
Shifting beside him, she curls away from the window and closer to him. Without opening her eyes, she yawns and whispers, "Where are we?"
Reaching out to push her hair away from her face, he answers, "Nowhere."
They have over two hundred miles of nothing much stretching out before them, but Sylar makes it a little clearer by adding "Bumfulk, Mississippi," knowing she'll feel compelled to wake up fully and see for herself otherwise. Sylar doesn't feel like stopping at a rest stop so she can "pee and wash up", or some greasy spoon because she's "starving."
Claire doesn't ask for much, but when he's tired - her physical needs are enough.
His look says as much when she wakes up anyway, when she stretches and pokes him in the shoulder. "Don't worry, I still have a bag of Dorritos from the Seven Elven we stopped at yesterday."
It's a little weird how fast they've learned each other. Somedays it's like her gift is mind reading. "I'll stop soon enough. Some of us weren't blessed with necks that don't get stiff and asses that don't fall asleep."
"I'm not immune to pins and needles." Claire groans when the leg she was leaning against hits the floorboard, as if to prove it. "But yeah, I guess I'll never have to worry about developing a bad back."
Sylar's grunt is noncommittal.
"You want it? You know where to get it." She jokes, pulling his hand toward her again. Taking it from the wheel to find the soft skin of her forehead.
And they both know it's not a joke at all.
+
At night, Claire is little less guarded, a little less sad. She's almost the bubbly teenager again. Sylar knows the stars will come out, and so will this hidden side. For some reason, Claire seems less scared in the dark.
Cheap motels are too obvious, so Sylar always looks for nicer places. He doesn't like living like a criminal. Even if he is one.
He doesn't love her, but Sylar doesn't mind making her happy. Claire likes clean sheets and gets unreasonably excited over soft pillows topped with chocolate mints. He knows to ask for extra towels and the key to the mini fridge.
Claire was a little spoiled before, but now she just takes what she can get. If it's something nice she doesn't treat it as due, just as the fleeting extravagance it might end up being.
She is no longer an optimist. When the sun is shining, Claire expects capture around every corner. "One more day without disaster." She's so relieved, relaxing visibly with the statement.
Sylar closes the door of their newly acquired room, and flips the lock. Super hearing picks up the swish of the "Do Not Disturb" sign settling on the other side. Before he can turn towards her, she's slipped her arms around him. "I don't know why you persist in worrying. Noone is taking us."
He says "Us" because that is what they've become, despite his better judgment. Nights are when she touches him for real, when she allows him to touch her. He could force her, but Sylar doesn't mind the wait.
A few hours and they go from strangers sharing space to this. Enemies turned lovers, and therefore something a little stronger than both.
People in normal relationships lie to each other. Sylar and Claire know what they are dealing with going in. She doesn't play games. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
It's understood that she wants him to make her feel - something beyond the ache of loss, something besides hopelessness toward an uncertain future. "Convince me."
He just likes the taste of her lips, the sound of her gasp when he pushes her down and covers her with the weight of his aching body. Sylar needs her reciprocating touch, sure and demanding, to find satisfaction.
It's mutual gratification at its best, which is probably why she believes him, why it's true.
Sylar has never felt the way he does when Claire comes apart at his command. Special without stolen skills, powerful without blood on his hands. He will keep her safe for no other reason.
And when she clings to him after, he doubts he'll ever want to let go.
+
Sleeping late isn't so much conscious decision as nessecity. It takes a lot to tire them, but even indestructible girls like Claire, and super villians like Sylar, have a limit.
She feels natural beside him, like something he earned, not just something he was given. Against reason and reality, he trusts it.
He doesn't love her, but he wants her to love him. Like her precious daddies and her perfect Uncle Peter - he falls into the trap, finds himself compelled by irresistable urge to protect her.
At least from everyone except himself.
He won't kill her, but there is more than one way to damage the innocent. Claire's learned too much, too fast, and he's sure she learned some of it by osmosis. He's taint, corruption, stain.
"So who are we here to kill?" Claire asks, rolling over to search the nightstand for the roomservice menu.
She only uses the word "we" to get a rise out of him, to fake tough, and show conviction. He's told her a thousand times she doesn't have the stomach for it, and he counts on her stubborness to keep proving him wrong.
Sylar is another acquired vice, like her Malboro Reds, and her flirtation with pain. Addiction without consequence. Claire doesn't have a reason to stop. She never meets his victims. He likes her enough now to not try and cause further damage.
"No one specific. Thought we'd just see the city. Play tourists."
Her slight hum signals acceptance of said plan, if not enthusiam for its execution. It's all he will get for hours to come, along with the brief contact of her body as she slides over him toward the phone.
He can hear the front desk clerk telling Claire they "stopped serving breakfast at 10:30" as he closes the bathroom door. Sylar can still pick up her disappointed sigh with the water on full blast. He knows he'll be finding her an IHOP or experiencing his first "Waffle House" before getting back on the road.
Claire will be dressed and packed by the time he's toweling dry his hair. She'll have that look in her eye again, dread covering hope like vanilla icing on dark chocolate cake. The sweet and the bitter switched, one not concealing the other, but still overpowering the senses.
"You ready?"
And they both keep moving forward because there is no other way to move.
+
Sylar watches Claire eat her bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, opening his mouth when she offers him a bite of hashbrowns with ketchup.
He heats up her coffee with Ted's power when she complains, and feels stupidly pleased with himself as she smiles.
He doesn't love her, but he's almost sure that is just because he doesn't know what love is. He thinks it's something that makes you weak, something that he was raised to believe he didn't deserve, something you couldn't stumble into, or find with someone as broken as you.
A group of frat guys, all collegiate cute, her age, and better suited to save her, pass their booth and give Claire the once over. She doesn't even look in their direction. He could kill them with a flick of his wrist and she wouldn't bat an eye.
She might not love him yet, but it's not because she isn't trying. Not because she can't, but because figurative healing isn't as fast as literal.
"Hey, Sy. You think you can get me in some bars on Bourbon street?"
It's as close to flirting in broad daylight as she's ever attempted. She blushes a little when he takes a napkin and wipes a spot of red from her chin. It's as close to vunerable as he's seen her since the night they met.
"Sure." With Candice's power, Sylar can make every bouncer think she's their sister in from Baton Rouge.
Pushing an empty plate decidely away from her, Claire grabs the check and his hand in that order. "I think it's time to find out if cellular regeneration means I can drink you under the table."
He's not sure what makes him leave the waitress a big tip, what makes him tell her to "have a nice day" and mean it. He's not sure why Claire, all of a sudden, doesn't let go of his arm.
Something tells him, a voice small and way too Gabriel for comfort, says love is harder, better, more than this. It says even if it isn't, he'll find a way to fuck it up. That Claire will wake up one day and he'll lose it.
But he's ignored his conscience before, dared to let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted.
And that is what she is, what they are.
+
The car is waiting, all their stuff shoved in the trunk, a few bags and Claire's purse.
It isn't a happy ending, just what they've found so far.
Is everyone back from the Strike? Did that get anything accomplished?
And fic!
+
Title: There Is No Peace That I've Found So Far
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Disclaimer: Not mine, I shouldn't even be playing with them. Only responsible for their fictional corruption
Summary: Against reason and reality, he trusts it.
Warning: Might as well be up on the current season.
Rated: PG-13
A/N: It feels like it's been a while.
----------------------------------------
There is a pack of cigarettes on the dashboard in front of her, a lighter clasped in her hand. Sylar watches as she flicks her little thumb over the plastic, smelling flame and singed flesh as she runs her palm too close.
Burn. Heal. Burn. Heal.
He doesn't love her, but there is something slightly disturbing about her new fascination with self mutiliation. Claire usually allows carelessness to do the work for her, slippery knives in the kitchen at dinnertime, razors meant to shave hair in the shower slicing shins and underarms.
Today she's in a weird mood and obviously needs to be proactive.
"Am I bothering you?" She asks, and her tone is half amused, half ambivalent.
His answer won't matter a bit, but he's always honest. "Usually."
He picked her up somewhere in Nevada, with every intention to kill her quickly. Claire didn't change his mind by screaming, crying, making a valiant -but fruitless- attempt to outrun him. She changed his mind by smiling, giving him pause, and asking him to think about his actions.
Did he really want to live forever? Sylar wasn't so sure.
His last four attempts to take over have failed. Any direct mission of revenge he accomplished without effort only to be left just as angry, just as empty. Life has settled into a routine -
Kill. Move. Kill. Move.
Sylar hunts, but he's still hunted. Every member of the Company that finds him dies, but there's an endless supply.
Claire's father is one of them, but neither he nor Claire have seen Noah Bennett in months. She's determined to stay hidden, so determined she saw fit to stay with him.
She gives Sylar a muttered sorry when he can't fight his eye roll, and doesn't try. "Just ignore me."
He turns his focus back to the long road ahead of them, scrunching his nose with the smell of nicotine that comes next. "I remember when you smelled like sunshine and blood. That deliciously sweet mix of life and fear."
"Oh Sy, you are such a poet."
And whether it's his misplaced nostalgia or her sarcasm, they both end up laughing.
+
Texas and California are out, so they travel East. Sylar isn't ready for New York, so without consulting his sleeping companion, he turns south. A million or so people must live and in or around New Orleans. More than a few must have gifts he can take.
Claire won't say anything. He keeps waiting for her too, but so far so good. It's completely uncalled for, but Sylar finds himself holding his breath, expecting that look of disgust, that old familiar burn of codemning hate.
He doesn't love her, but he's gotten used to having her around. He never expected it, after annoyingly naive Maya, Sylar thought it impossible. The old Claire, the girl who could have been if she'd never met him, wouldn't be here.
He wouldn't want her to be. The one thing Sylar can't deny is that having Claire here is better than being alone.
Shifting beside him, she curls away from the window and closer to him. Without opening her eyes, she yawns and whispers, "Where are we?"
Reaching out to push her hair away from her face, he answers, "Nowhere."
They have over two hundred miles of nothing much stretching out before them, but Sylar makes it a little clearer by adding "Bumfulk, Mississippi," knowing she'll feel compelled to wake up fully and see for herself otherwise. Sylar doesn't feel like stopping at a rest stop so she can "pee and wash up", or some greasy spoon because she's "starving."
Claire doesn't ask for much, but when he's tired - her physical needs are enough.
His look says as much when she wakes up anyway, when she stretches and pokes him in the shoulder. "Don't worry, I still have a bag of Dorritos from the Seven Elven we stopped at yesterday."
It's a little weird how fast they've learned each other. Somedays it's like her gift is mind reading. "I'll stop soon enough. Some of us weren't blessed with necks that don't get stiff and asses that don't fall asleep."
"I'm not immune to pins and needles." Claire groans when the leg she was leaning against hits the floorboard, as if to prove it. "But yeah, I guess I'll never have to worry about developing a bad back."
Sylar's grunt is noncommittal.
"You want it? You know where to get it." She jokes, pulling his hand toward her again. Taking it from the wheel to find the soft skin of her forehead.
And they both know it's not a joke at all.
+
At night, Claire is little less guarded, a little less sad. She's almost the bubbly teenager again. Sylar knows the stars will come out, and so will this hidden side. For some reason, Claire seems less scared in the dark.
Cheap motels are too obvious, so Sylar always looks for nicer places. He doesn't like living like a criminal. Even if he is one.
He doesn't love her, but Sylar doesn't mind making her happy. Claire likes clean sheets and gets unreasonably excited over soft pillows topped with chocolate mints. He knows to ask for extra towels and the key to the mini fridge.
Claire was a little spoiled before, but now she just takes what she can get. If it's something nice she doesn't treat it as due, just as the fleeting extravagance it might end up being.
She is no longer an optimist. When the sun is shining, Claire expects capture around every corner. "One more day without disaster." She's so relieved, relaxing visibly with the statement.
Sylar closes the door of their newly acquired room, and flips the lock. Super hearing picks up the swish of the "Do Not Disturb" sign settling on the other side. Before he can turn towards her, she's slipped her arms around him. "I don't know why you persist in worrying. Noone is taking us."
He says "Us" because that is what they've become, despite his better judgment. Nights are when she touches him for real, when she allows him to touch her. He could force her, but Sylar doesn't mind the wait.
A few hours and they go from strangers sharing space to this. Enemies turned lovers, and therefore something a little stronger than both.
People in normal relationships lie to each other. Sylar and Claire know what they are dealing with going in. She doesn't play games. He doesn't make promises he can't keep.
It's understood that she wants him to make her feel - something beyond the ache of loss, something besides hopelessness toward an uncertain future. "Convince me."
He just likes the taste of her lips, the sound of her gasp when he pushes her down and covers her with the weight of his aching body. Sylar needs her reciprocating touch, sure and demanding, to find satisfaction.
It's mutual gratification at its best, which is probably why she believes him, why it's true.
Sylar has never felt the way he does when Claire comes apart at his command. Special without stolen skills, powerful without blood on his hands. He will keep her safe for no other reason.
And when she clings to him after, he doubts he'll ever want to let go.
+
Sleeping late isn't so much conscious decision as nessecity. It takes a lot to tire them, but even indestructible girls like Claire, and super villians like Sylar, have a limit.
She feels natural beside him, like something he earned, not just something he was given. Against reason and reality, he trusts it.
He doesn't love her, but he wants her to love him. Like her precious daddies and her perfect Uncle Peter - he falls into the trap, finds himself compelled by irresistable urge to protect her.
At least from everyone except himself.
He won't kill her, but there is more than one way to damage the innocent. Claire's learned too much, too fast, and he's sure she learned some of it by osmosis. He's taint, corruption, stain.
"So who are we here to kill?" Claire asks, rolling over to search the nightstand for the roomservice menu.
She only uses the word "we" to get a rise out of him, to fake tough, and show conviction. He's told her a thousand times she doesn't have the stomach for it, and he counts on her stubborness to keep proving him wrong.
Sylar is another acquired vice, like her Malboro Reds, and her flirtation with pain. Addiction without consequence. Claire doesn't have a reason to stop. She never meets his victims. He likes her enough now to not try and cause further damage.
"No one specific. Thought we'd just see the city. Play tourists."
Her slight hum signals acceptance of said plan, if not enthusiam for its execution. It's all he will get for hours to come, along with the brief contact of her body as she slides over him toward the phone.
He can hear the front desk clerk telling Claire they "stopped serving breakfast at 10:30" as he closes the bathroom door. Sylar can still pick up her disappointed sigh with the water on full blast. He knows he'll be finding her an IHOP or experiencing his first "Waffle House" before getting back on the road.
Claire will be dressed and packed by the time he's toweling dry his hair. She'll have that look in her eye again, dread covering hope like vanilla icing on dark chocolate cake. The sweet and the bitter switched, one not concealing the other, but still overpowering the senses.
"You ready?"
And they both keep moving forward because there is no other way to move.
+
Sylar watches Claire eat her bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, opening his mouth when she offers him a bite of hashbrowns with ketchup.
He heats up her coffee with Ted's power when she complains, and feels stupidly pleased with himself as she smiles.
He doesn't love her, but he's almost sure that is just because he doesn't know what love is. He thinks it's something that makes you weak, something that he was raised to believe he didn't deserve, something you couldn't stumble into, or find with someone as broken as you.
A group of frat guys, all collegiate cute, her age, and better suited to save her, pass their booth and give Claire the once over. She doesn't even look in their direction. He could kill them with a flick of his wrist and she wouldn't bat an eye.
She might not love him yet, but it's not because she isn't trying. Not because she can't, but because figurative healing isn't as fast as literal.
"Hey, Sy. You think you can get me in some bars on Bourbon street?"
It's as close to flirting in broad daylight as she's ever attempted. She blushes a little when he takes a napkin and wipes a spot of red from her chin. It's as close to vunerable as he's seen her since the night they met.
"Sure." With Candice's power, Sylar can make every bouncer think she's their sister in from Baton Rouge.
Pushing an empty plate decidely away from her, Claire grabs the check and his hand in that order. "I think it's time to find out if cellular regeneration means I can drink you under the table."
He's not sure what makes him leave the waitress a big tip, what makes him tell her to "have a nice day" and mean it. He's not sure why Claire, all of a sudden, doesn't let go of his arm.
Something tells him, a voice small and way too Gabriel for comfort, says love is harder, better, more than this. It says even if it isn't, he'll find a way to fuck it up. That Claire will wake up one day and he'll lose it.
But he's ignored his conscience before, dared to let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted.
And that is what she is, what they are.
+
The car is waiting, all their stuff shoved in the trunk, a few bags and Claire's purse.
It isn't a happy ending, just what they've found so far.