(no subject)
First attempt at Sylar/Claire.
Title: hollow caves and tidal waves
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: not mine
It's Elle she calls, of all people, and she'll never be quite sure why. Because she knows the feeling of her hand in her own? Because she's small and blond? Because they've both been lied to and twisted by daddy and that inspires a camaraderie that doesn't quit? She spins those around on a game show wheel inside her head as the tone buzzes in her ear, tugging unconsciously at her sweater sleeves.
It doesn't really matter though, at the bottom of everything. Elle can get her through the front doors at Pinehearst, that's all she needs. Elle can get her to Mohinder.
She hides her in a storage room full of old TV/VCR combos and rusty baker's racks stacked with boxes on computer paper, the ancient kind with the perforated edge between every sheet. When Mohinder comes, there's a syringe in his hand.
"I'd rather do this without blood," she requests.
"There's no other way," he insists so she holds out her arm. "This might sting a little," he tells her, most likely out of habit. But she laughs and Elle looks like she just might cry and yes, it stings.
He comes back hours later, long after Elle had left with an awkward hug and squeezing her hands like she could wring out the worry. There's nothing in his hands but he looks weighed down, folding in on himself, hunched back and shuffled steps.
"Is it Peter?" he whispers.
"Excuse me?" she hisses, hands instantly moving, one to her throat and the other to her belly.
"Is he-"
"That's sick, Mohinder," she cuts in, "He's my uncle." Her heart wails, Hypocrite!
"Claire..."
"Am I?" It's the only thing she came here for, anyway.
Mohinder gets smaller, decreases, harder and weaker at the same moment,"No."
Her hands drop to her sides.
"I don't think you can."
Her phone rings constantly, for 45 minutes straight, as she lays on the motel floor and struggles to imagine what she really looks like on the inside. She tries on vortices and deserts and the barren, crater moon. She pictures hollow caves and tidal waves and sleeping volcanoes.
But nothing sticks.
Eventually, the sounds from her phone stop.
It's dead, she realizes. She barely makes it to the bathroom to vomit from the thought.
'I Am Going To Live Forever.' She writes it on the complimentary pad of paper, over and over again. She writes it on the walls when she runs out of paper, scrawling it across the mirror with lipstick and eyeliner.
She writes it until she really knows it, until it sings in her racing blood and it illuminates the dark behind her eyelids. She stares at the display surrounding her and stands up straight.
"I'm going to live forever," she affirms.
The first time he was inside of her, on the living room floor of her parents house, she didn't scream, she didn't feel it. He put her back together and left like she would be no different. Like she was not changed by his fingerprints on her skin, scalp, someplace too deep to see. But she felt it, she carried it around, his presence like a stain.
The second time he was inside of her, on the living room floor of her parents house, she didn't scream, but she felt it. He stained her, her lips and hips and all the places in between. Pressing her to him with his hands and the muscles of his arms, not the blasphemous pull from his darker parts. She felt it and when tears slipped into her hair, he looked awed.
She wakes up on her motel room floor in much the same place she had laid before. She doesn't even shudder when he speaks somewhere behind her.
"You're not pregnant, are you?"
She shakes her head, standing slowly before turning to face him. He holds his hand out to her, an invitation, not a demand, and she goes to him willingly. Her stomach churns frighteningly at the look in his eyes. Because it's that awe again.
"It's better this way," she murmurs and oh, oh, it's breaking her heart.
He doesn't nod (he doesn't say 'no' either), he pulls her into his lap and strokes her back.
"Gabriel..."
"Shh, Claire, you're wrong, you know," he picks her up, flicking the covers back with a twitch, settling her in and curling around her back. "We are going to live forever."
Title: hollow caves and tidal waves
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: not mine
It's Elle she calls, of all people, and she'll never be quite sure why. Because she knows the feeling of her hand in her own? Because she's small and blond? Because they've both been lied to and twisted by daddy and that inspires a camaraderie that doesn't quit? She spins those around on a game show wheel inside her head as the tone buzzes in her ear, tugging unconsciously at her sweater sleeves.
It doesn't really matter though, at the bottom of everything. Elle can get her through the front doors at Pinehearst, that's all she needs. Elle can get her to Mohinder.
She hides her in a storage room full of old TV/VCR combos and rusty baker's racks stacked with boxes on computer paper, the ancient kind with the perforated edge between every sheet. When Mohinder comes, there's a syringe in his hand.
"I'd rather do this without blood," she requests.
"There's no other way," he insists so she holds out her arm. "This might sting a little," he tells her, most likely out of habit. But she laughs and Elle looks like she just might cry and yes, it stings.
He comes back hours later, long after Elle had left with an awkward hug and squeezing her hands like she could wring out the worry. There's nothing in his hands but he looks weighed down, folding in on himself, hunched back and shuffled steps.
"Is it Peter?" he whispers.
"Excuse me?" she hisses, hands instantly moving, one to her throat and the other to her belly.
"Is he-"
"That's sick, Mohinder," she cuts in, "He's my uncle." Her heart wails, Hypocrite!
"Claire..."
"Am I?" It's the only thing she came here for, anyway.
Mohinder gets smaller, decreases, harder and weaker at the same moment,"No."
Her hands drop to her sides.
"I don't think you can."
Her phone rings constantly, for 45 minutes straight, as she lays on the motel floor and struggles to imagine what she really looks like on the inside. She tries on vortices and deserts and the barren, crater moon. She pictures hollow caves and tidal waves and sleeping volcanoes.
But nothing sticks.
Eventually, the sounds from her phone stop.
It's dead, she realizes. She barely makes it to the bathroom to vomit from the thought.
'I Am Going To Live Forever.' She writes it on the complimentary pad of paper, over and over again. She writes it on the walls when she runs out of paper, scrawling it across the mirror with lipstick and eyeliner.
She writes it until she really knows it, until it sings in her racing blood and it illuminates the dark behind her eyelids. She stares at the display surrounding her and stands up straight.
"I'm going to live forever," she affirms.
The first time he was inside of her, on the living room floor of her parents house, she didn't scream, she didn't feel it. He put her back together and left like she would be no different. Like she was not changed by his fingerprints on her skin, scalp, someplace too deep to see. But she felt it, she carried it around, his presence like a stain.
The second time he was inside of her, on the living room floor of her parents house, she didn't scream, but she felt it. He stained her, her lips and hips and all the places in between. Pressing her to him with his hands and the muscles of his arms, not the blasphemous pull from his darker parts. She felt it and when tears slipped into her hair, he looked awed.
She wakes up on her motel room floor in much the same place she had laid before. She doesn't even shudder when he speaks somewhere behind her.
"You're not pregnant, are you?"
She shakes her head, standing slowly before turning to face him. He holds his hand out to her, an invitation, not a demand, and she goes to him willingly. Her stomach churns frighteningly at the look in his eyes. Because it's that awe again.
"It's better this way," she murmurs and oh, oh, it's breaking her heart.
He doesn't nod (he doesn't say 'no' either), he pulls her into his lap and strokes her back.
"Gabriel..."
"Shh, Claire, you're wrong, you know," he picks her up, flicking the covers back with a twitch, settling her in and curling around her back. "We are going to live forever."