Click
I just found this on my old computer. It was written halfway through S2, so it's not compliant with any of the recent events. It's apocalyptic and a bit weird, but there's body painting, so I thought I'd share.
Author: me
Character/Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Title: Click
Summary: New York is no more. New York is a girl named Candice and what he did with her gift.
Word Count: 1149
Rating: R
Spoilers: Really only up to Kindred
Click
She loves the way the light falls in at daybreak. Pecks of dust glimmer in the almost too light shade of shell pink, and through the window she can see the vapour trails of planes scattered across the sky. From the distance, they look like a cotton-white web spanned all over New York City, and she laughs at herself for looking for softness where there is none.
-
These days, Claire sleeps with a gun under her pillow. Her fingers curling around the cool metal she watches him sleep; a click-click-boom is all it would take, just a flex of the finger, even less than what he does when he kills. She gets past the first click sometimes, which is just a warning, an elimination of barriers, the barrel pressing little circles into his forehead, and all he does is laugh.
'It's futile. I would know.'
Behind his back, the world goes down in annoyingly bright colours, wall sized, with a spot of white in the corner for deaths to come.
'How could you,' she asks, 'when you stopped painting faces?'
-
In a way, Sylar is family. He's a patchwork of well-known mannerisms, Meredith's habit of pulling her sleeves over her hands, and the way Peter used to hide behind his hair. Like souvenirs from a past life, her second life, she thinks, there was another life before that even, one of teddy bears and Toe Touches and cherry gloss, but she moved on too quickly to keep reminders. She might keep Sylar's paintings, she thinks, for her next life.
-
He reinvents apocalypse and calls it beauty. Evolution, he says, but there's a hint of greed in his voice, and what he really means is: I am the king of Babylon.
-
She sees herself mostly as a reflection these days. She's always in the pictures, always in the shadows, her lips the same colour as the blood trickling from the open skulls. She's the eternal watcher, watching herself watching.
Imagine falling--
She remembers, sometimes, her body pressed against his, what it felt like. To do it over and over, and not just for the record. There's an ideal in falling, a single, perfect moment when the world dissolves into nothingness for just a second before slowly shifting back into place. It's the promise of death that makes life electrifying in contrast, its value growing exponentially to the number of beats her heart misses. In a way, she might have been looking for this. The colours. The clear cuts. The destruction she cannot recover from. The ideal fall, this might just be it.
'I could make you the Woman Clothed With The Sun,' he says and smiles, because he's been through all that Sunday school stuff, once, in a life before Sylar. 'What do you say, Claire, should I paint you like that?'
She laughs and turns her back on his world of oil and canvas (but the truth is, she does look for herself, sometimes, and the truth is, she keeps looking for the dragon) The backgrounds are always blurred, shades of one colour blending into each other. People in nightmare shapes, angular, black edges and fuzzy features. They could be anyone. It doesn't matter. She's all ruby lips and honey hair, overdrawn, edgy and the only constant is: she will survive. She is the only one with a face.
-
Click-- it's almost like a background noise, a by the way or a don't forget that... The repetition is wearing her out.
-
She plays ordinary life in the kitchen sink, dirty china piling up in the water like a neat replica of the skyline on a rainy day. New York is no more. New York is a girl named Candice and what he did with her gift. The vapour trails are for her, she thinks; some reminder of what it felt like to run, just in case.
So Claire makes apple pie, and whipped cream, and in the evening she shoots her gun.
Click and click and boom--he coughs up the bullet, and his smile tears her apart. Wrong place, he hisses, pressing her body into drying paint, take your rightful place in the future (Apollo vs. Dionysos, this is Expressionism).
He falls to his knees before her in a parody of worship, pretending for a second there are gods higher than him. She feels a hand push up her skirt, and with a flick of his finger her blouse flies open. Her head falls back against the canvas almost involuntarily, the honey-gold he likes to paint her hair with running down her neck and shoulders. He rises, barely touching her at all, his lips brushing her skin just so, along her thighs, panties, belly, and the fine line of bones between her breasts--his very own Via Dolorosa, she can't help thinking, and it's out of place, but she kind of waits for him to fall on third station.
His lips find hers (and this would be the place to die, she thinks, but the gun has slipped out of her hand; she can see her fingers through his hair and the sunlight through her skin). His hands are beside her head, Claire-the-comic-heroine on the canvas melting under his touch, and something about it makes her feel triumphant.
She spreads her arms, soaking up forest green, midnight blue, and the dirty grey of a sky falling into pieces.
'Make me your canvas,' she breathes into his hair.
Against her neck, she can feel him smile.
-
They told her once: You are the future, when the future was all about ticking boxes in seventeen. Now it's him with his eyes turned blank, smearing paint across her skin, and she's come to believe it's inevitable. She becomes inferno, fallen cities, poison skies, and oceans rising to consume those who are left. Afterwards, he makes love to his creation (because he is that arrogant).
This is how it's got to be. It's always about falling.
-
At night, she washes the raspberry red of lips and blood off her hands. There is no mirror, but she thinks she might be smiling.
-
It's morning again, another (how many?), and of course he is laughing.
Click--
She loves the way the light falls in at daybreak, sunrays dancing on the shiny metal as he smiles.
-
'You brought this upon yourself. You are your own false prophet, you painted a future where the death of one no longer matters.'
She says this more to herself, because she knows he's passed the need for justifications. There's a strange, bitter taste in her mouth, like dust on her tongue.
Click--
What really scares her is her own image in his eyes as they turn blank.
--boom
Author: me
Character/Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Title: Click
Summary: New York is no more. New York is a girl named Candice and what he did with her gift.
Word Count: 1149
Rating: R
Spoilers: Really only up to Kindred
Click
She loves the way the light falls in at daybreak. Pecks of dust glimmer in the almost too light shade of shell pink, and through the window she can see the vapour trails of planes scattered across the sky. From the distance, they look like a cotton-white web spanned all over New York City, and she laughs at herself for looking for softness where there is none.
-
These days, Claire sleeps with a gun under her pillow. Her fingers curling around the cool metal she watches him sleep; a click-click-boom is all it would take, just a flex of the finger, even less than what he does when he kills. She gets past the first click sometimes, which is just a warning, an elimination of barriers, the barrel pressing little circles into his forehead, and all he does is laugh.
'It's futile. I would know.'
Behind his back, the world goes down in annoyingly bright colours, wall sized, with a spot of white in the corner for deaths to come.
'How could you,' she asks, 'when you stopped painting faces?'
-
In a way, Sylar is family. He's a patchwork of well-known mannerisms, Meredith's habit of pulling her sleeves over her hands, and the way Peter used to hide behind his hair. Like souvenirs from a past life, her second life, she thinks, there was another life before that even, one of teddy bears and Toe Touches and cherry gloss, but she moved on too quickly to keep reminders. She might keep Sylar's paintings, she thinks, for her next life.
-
He reinvents apocalypse and calls it beauty. Evolution, he says, but there's a hint of greed in his voice, and what he really means is: I am the king of Babylon.
-
She sees herself mostly as a reflection these days. She's always in the pictures, always in the shadows, her lips the same colour as the blood trickling from the open skulls. She's the eternal watcher, watching herself watching.
Imagine falling--
She remembers, sometimes, her body pressed against his, what it felt like. To do it over and over, and not just for the record. There's an ideal in falling, a single, perfect moment when the world dissolves into nothingness for just a second before slowly shifting back into place. It's the promise of death that makes life electrifying in contrast, its value growing exponentially to the number of beats her heart misses. In a way, she might have been looking for this. The colours. The clear cuts. The destruction she cannot recover from. The ideal fall, this might just be it.
'I could make you the Woman Clothed With The Sun,' he says and smiles, because he's been through all that Sunday school stuff, once, in a life before Sylar. 'What do you say, Claire, should I paint you like that?'
She laughs and turns her back on his world of oil and canvas (but the truth is, she does look for herself, sometimes, and the truth is, she keeps looking for the dragon) The backgrounds are always blurred, shades of one colour blending into each other. People in nightmare shapes, angular, black edges and fuzzy features. They could be anyone. It doesn't matter. She's all ruby lips and honey hair, overdrawn, edgy and the only constant is: she will survive. She is the only one with a face.
-
Click-- it's almost like a background noise, a by the way or a don't forget that... The repetition is wearing her out.
-
She plays ordinary life in the kitchen sink, dirty china piling up in the water like a neat replica of the skyline on a rainy day. New York is no more. New York is a girl named Candice and what he did with her gift. The vapour trails are for her, she thinks; some reminder of what it felt like to run, just in case.
So Claire makes apple pie, and whipped cream, and in the evening she shoots her gun.
Click and click and boom--he coughs up the bullet, and his smile tears her apart. Wrong place, he hisses, pressing her body into drying paint, take your rightful place in the future (Apollo vs. Dionysos, this is Expressionism).
He falls to his knees before her in a parody of worship, pretending for a second there are gods higher than him. She feels a hand push up her skirt, and with a flick of his finger her blouse flies open. Her head falls back against the canvas almost involuntarily, the honey-gold he likes to paint her hair with running down her neck and shoulders. He rises, barely touching her at all, his lips brushing her skin just so, along her thighs, panties, belly, and the fine line of bones between her breasts--his very own Via Dolorosa, she can't help thinking, and it's out of place, but she kind of waits for him to fall on third station.
His lips find hers (and this would be the place to die, she thinks, but the gun has slipped out of her hand; she can see her fingers through his hair and the sunlight through her skin). His hands are beside her head, Claire-the-comic-heroine on the canvas melting under his touch, and something about it makes her feel triumphant.
She spreads her arms, soaking up forest green, midnight blue, and the dirty grey of a sky falling into pieces.
'Make me your canvas,' she breathes into his hair.
Against her neck, she can feel him smile.
-
They told her once: You are the future, when the future was all about ticking boxes in seventeen. Now it's him with his eyes turned blank, smearing paint across her skin, and she's come to believe it's inevitable. She becomes inferno, fallen cities, poison skies, and oceans rising to consume those who are left. Afterwards, he makes love to his creation (because he is that arrogant).
This is how it's got to be. It's always about falling.
-
At night, she washes the raspberry red of lips and blood off her hands. There is no mirror, but she thinks she might be smiling.
-
It's morning again, another (how many?), and of course he is laughing.
Click--
She loves the way the light falls in at daybreak, sunrays dancing on the shiny metal as he smiles.
-
'You brought this upon yourself. You are your own false prophet, you painted a future where the death of one no longer matters.'
She says this more to herself, because she knows he's passed the need for justifications. There's a strange, bitter taste in her mouth, like dust on her tongue.
Click--
What really scares her is her own image in his eyes as they turn blank.
--boom