Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
Title: Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: You think Heroes belongs to me? Okay, I’m dying laughing and you’re delusional. Heroes, characters, concepts, etc. belongs to Kring/NBC. I believe that the title phrase belongs to General Mills.
Spoilers: Lots! :) Speculation based on spoilers for 3x25.
Written for the You’re So Spoiled challenge at sylar_claire. A huge “thank you!” to ladyanne525 for beta reading.
Micah gasps for breath, running down the back stairs of the apartment building, trying to put as much distance between him and Sylar as possible - even though he knows that it’s not like an extra set of stairs can really help him - looking back over his shoulder every third step. It’s not like he was unaware that Sylar was completely insane, but the man had obviously gone a bit more cuckoo for cocoa puffs since Kirby Plaza. And had that been a tear he’d seen?
He shudders, remembering how freaky that Norman Bates moment had been. As scary as it was, Micah feels pity for the man - and a strong sense of empathy. He probably wouldn’t be strong enough to resist if he had the chance to talk to his mom again, even if it was just for a minute and even if he did have to go completely crazy to do it. He can understand why, even if the how’s got him a bit confused.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turns and runs out into the back alley. As he escapes towards downtown, he glances back to see Sylar’s brightly lit apartment, imaging that he sees a figure in the window, at times a tall man, sometimes a more delicate feminine outline. Micah almost turns and goes back, despite what Sylar had said about killing him, but knows that there’s nothing that he can do for the man, not personally.
Sylar needs a hero, someone to anchor him, someone to help him, and if he can’t do it, he thinks he knows someone who can.
Pulling out his phone as he runs, he breathlessly asks for a connection to the phone in apartment 153, hoping that Sylar will answer.
- - - - - - - - - -
Holiday Inn closest to the White House, room 251, 6 pm. There’s a man who needs your help. Come alone. Please, Claire. --- R
Claire just sighs when she gets the text message. She’s so tired, and she doesn’t want to do live this life anymore. Still… if there’s someone that needs her help, at least she can be doing something while Nathan and Peter go running after Sylar.
It’s easy enough to slip away from Nathan’s apartment in the city; Angela’s sound asleep, slight smile on her face - and Claire can’t help but think that it’s bordering on a creepy smirk - and Noah’s patrolling the perimeter of the building, a gun in each hand.
- - - - - - - - - -
She softly knocks on the door, not exactly sure what to expect. After a brief wait, the door swings open - without someone on the other side opening it. Ooookay.
“Hello?” she calls out as she tiptoes into the room, hoping that Rebel hasn’t sent her to rescue someone who’s fallen and can’t get up.
The door slams shut with a sudden bang that causes her to jump, and before she can blink, she’s being slammed back against it.
“Well, well, well.” Sylar steps into view, and she can’t breathe, and she’s so panicked she’s not entirely sure if she’s forgotten how to or if he’s preventing her from drawing oxygen into her needy lungs. “When Micah said he was going to get me help,” and her skin crawls as his sarcasm deepens, “I didn’t think he meant you.”
He just stares at her for a few minutes, and it’s even more disconcerting than when he was fingering her brain, like he’s not sure exactly what to do with her, and the anticipation is driving her insane. Finally, he sits on the couch, and smirks at her. “Come here.”
She’d love to snap at him, something biting like “when hell freezes over, you sick bastard” or something more trite like “die, already!”, but she can’t open her mouth, can’t even make a sound as he gestures, and helplessly, she’s propelled through the air to his side. He draws her down onto the couch next to him, and slowly pushes a bit of hair off her face, winding a bit around his finger. A wave of revulsion hits her, and she swears that if she makes it out of this confrontation, she’s going to shave her head a la Britney.
“You know, Claire,” he gestures, and a low table, bottle of wine, and a pair of glasses come flying their way, “we’re so much alike.” He pours them each a glass, and wraps her unwilling fingers around it.
As soon as he releases his hold on her hands in order to put the glass in her right hand, she shoves her left hand into her pocket, hoping that she knows the phone keyboard well enough to text Peter for help - “help!” to the right recipient is much more likely to elicit a response than “kt;[“ sent to May or Lyle.
“Don’t you have something to say?” He prompts her, and she finds her mouth is hers again now.
While she’d love to spit curses at him, she needs to buy time. “What would you like me to say?”
Taking a sip of his wine, Sylar drawls out “Have you considered eternity?”
“Thanks, but I’ve already got a religion, and I don’t need to hear about heaven and hell from you of all people.”
He laughs, and it’s one of those creepy laughs like when West laughed at whatever she said, even when it wasn’t funny, just because he liked her. As soon as she makes the mental comparison, she blanches. She hopes she’s wrong, but things are starting to make more sense.
“Have you thought about the fact that you’re going to live forever?” and he edges closer to her on the sofa, reaching out to play with her hair. It’s fucking creepy, and she needs a shower now, even if he hasn’t touched her skin. “And so am I. Just the two us, together for all eternity.”
If she could, this would be the point where she ran screaming from the room. Ran screaming, and then promptly turned lesbian. Or shoved something sharp through her head. Or all three.
“All eternity, just you and me. You won’t leave me, not like everyone else has.” He sighs, sounding much more relaxed than usual and far more insane.
She eyes him warily, like she would a wild wildebeest, and wonders what the proper etiquette is for telling a psychopath that she doesn’t love him like that - and won’t ever. Her voice is shaky when she does answer. “Oh my. Hadn’t thought of that.” It seems like a safe enough response.
“No, you won’t treat me like my mother, or the Sureshes, or Maya, or Elle” he spits the name as he continues his sudden rant, “you won’t do that, you won’t love me and then abandon me.”
While interacting with the Petrellis has taught her a lot about how to deal with mentally unbalanced people, she has no clue how to cope with someone this batshit insane. She just stares at him, mouth agape, unable to come up with a response.
“Here’s to you and me, babydoll.” He clinks his glass against hers, and that’s her breaking point.
“No! No, no, no, no, NO!” She knows she sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but she doesn’t care. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Don’t you love me?” He smirks again, and she doesn’t know if he lets her go or if her anger has overwhelmed his telekinesis, but she jumps off the couch and throws a pillow at him.
“No, of course not! Here’s a hint - you dug through my brain and terrorized my family and killed my mother. Not exactly the same thing as pulling my ponytail. I’m never going to love you!” For good measure, she throws another pillow at him, even though she doubts two pounds worth of foam and upholstery can really stop him from gutting her now.
“Oh, don’t be that way.” He bats at the pillow, and takes another sip of wine. “Is the honeymoon over already?”
It’s only when he laughs that she finally gets that he’s been playing with her the entire time.
As she stares at him, trying to figure out what exactly his angle is, he holds up one long golden hair, one that he’d pulled when he’d been playing with her hair earlier. “I win, Claire” he taunts, only he’s using her voice, and she watches in horror as he groans and shudders and his skin twists until another version of herself is sitting on the couch, identical down to the same revolted expression.
Before she can react, Peter and Nathan come bursting through the door, and Sylar’s running to hide behind Peter, grabbing his hand and shrieking about how Sylar has taken her appearance and that they need to kill him, kill him now, pointing at her the entire time. She has to admit, he’s a better her than she is, and she doubts that she’ll be able to convince them that they’re protecting the wrong Claire, not without Matt Parkman’s help.
She does the only thing she can do, taking a dive towards the windows, leaving them all behind.
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: You think Heroes belongs to me? Okay, I’m dying laughing and you’re delusional. Heroes, characters, concepts, etc. belongs to Kring/NBC. I believe that the title phrase belongs to General Mills.
Spoilers: Lots! :) Speculation based on spoilers for 3x25.
Written for the You’re So Spoiled challenge at sylar_claire. A huge “thank you!” to ladyanne525 for beta reading.
Micah gasps for breath, running down the back stairs of the apartment building, trying to put as much distance between him and Sylar as possible - even though he knows that it’s not like an extra set of stairs can really help him - looking back over his shoulder every third step. It’s not like he was unaware that Sylar was completely insane, but the man had obviously gone a bit more cuckoo for cocoa puffs since Kirby Plaza. And had that been a tear he’d seen?
He shudders, remembering how freaky that Norman Bates moment had been. As scary as it was, Micah feels pity for the man - and a strong sense of empathy. He probably wouldn’t be strong enough to resist if he had the chance to talk to his mom again, even if it was just for a minute and even if he did have to go completely crazy to do it. He can understand why, even if the how’s got him a bit confused.
At the bottom of the stairs, he turns and runs out into the back alley. As he escapes towards downtown, he glances back to see Sylar’s brightly lit apartment, imaging that he sees a figure in the window, at times a tall man, sometimes a more delicate feminine outline. Micah almost turns and goes back, despite what Sylar had said about killing him, but knows that there’s nothing that he can do for the man, not personally.
Sylar needs a hero, someone to anchor him, someone to help him, and if he can’t do it, he thinks he knows someone who can.
Pulling out his phone as he runs, he breathlessly asks for a connection to the phone in apartment 153, hoping that Sylar will answer.
- - - - - - - - - -
Holiday Inn closest to the White House, room 251, 6 pm. There’s a man who needs your help. Come alone. Please, Claire. --- R
Claire just sighs when she gets the text message. She’s so tired, and she doesn’t want to do live this life anymore. Still… if there’s someone that needs her help, at least she can be doing something while Nathan and Peter go running after Sylar.
It’s easy enough to slip away from Nathan’s apartment in the city; Angela’s sound asleep, slight smile on her face - and Claire can’t help but think that it’s bordering on a creepy smirk - and Noah’s patrolling the perimeter of the building, a gun in each hand.
- - - - - - - - - -
She softly knocks on the door, not exactly sure what to expect. After a brief wait, the door swings open - without someone on the other side opening it. Ooookay.
“Hello?” she calls out as she tiptoes into the room, hoping that Rebel hasn’t sent her to rescue someone who’s fallen and can’t get up.
The door slams shut with a sudden bang that causes her to jump, and before she can blink, she’s being slammed back against it.
“Well, well, well.” Sylar steps into view, and she can’t breathe, and she’s so panicked she’s not entirely sure if she’s forgotten how to or if he’s preventing her from drawing oxygen into her needy lungs. “When Micah said he was going to get me help,” and her skin crawls as his sarcasm deepens, “I didn’t think he meant you.”
He just stares at her for a few minutes, and it’s even more disconcerting than when he was fingering her brain, like he’s not sure exactly what to do with her, and the anticipation is driving her insane. Finally, he sits on the couch, and smirks at her. “Come here.”
She’d love to snap at him, something biting like “when hell freezes over, you sick bastard” or something more trite like “die, already!”, but she can’t open her mouth, can’t even make a sound as he gestures, and helplessly, she’s propelled through the air to his side. He draws her down onto the couch next to him, and slowly pushes a bit of hair off her face, winding a bit around his finger. A wave of revulsion hits her, and she swears that if she makes it out of this confrontation, she’s going to shave her head a la Britney.
“You know, Claire,” he gestures, and a low table, bottle of wine, and a pair of glasses come flying their way, “we’re so much alike.” He pours them each a glass, and wraps her unwilling fingers around it.
As soon as he releases his hold on her hands in order to put the glass in her right hand, she shoves her left hand into her pocket, hoping that she knows the phone keyboard well enough to text Peter for help - “help!” to the right recipient is much more likely to elicit a response than “kt;[“ sent to May or Lyle.
“Don’t you have something to say?” He prompts her, and she finds her mouth is hers again now.
While she’d love to spit curses at him, she needs to buy time. “What would you like me to say?”
Taking a sip of his wine, Sylar drawls out “Have you considered eternity?”
“Thanks, but I’ve already got a religion, and I don’t need to hear about heaven and hell from you of all people.”
He laughs, and it’s one of those creepy laughs like when West laughed at whatever she said, even when it wasn’t funny, just because he liked her. As soon as she makes the mental comparison, she blanches. She hopes she’s wrong, but things are starting to make more sense.
“Have you thought about the fact that you’re going to live forever?” and he edges closer to her on the sofa, reaching out to play with her hair. It’s fucking creepy, and she needs a shower now, even if he hasn’t touched her skin. “And so am I. Just the two us, together for all eternity.”
If she could, this would be the point where she ran screaming from the room. Ran screaming, and then promptly turned lesbian. Or shoved something sharp through her head. Or all three.
“All eternity, just you and me. You won’t leave me, not like everyone else has.” He sighs, sounding much more relaxed than usual and far more insane.
She eyes him warily, like she would a wild wildebeest, and wonders what the proper etiquette is for telling a psychopath that she doesn’t love him like that - and won’t ever. Her voice is shaky when she does answer. “Oh my. Hadn’t thought of that.” It seems like a safe enough response.
“No, you won’t treat me like my mother, or the Sureshes, or Maya, or Elle” he spits the name as he continues his sudden rant, “you won’t do that, you won’t love me and then abandon me.”
While interacting with the Petrellis has taught her a lot about how to deal with mentally unbalanced people, she has no clue how to cope with someone this batshit insane. She just stares at him, mouth agape, unable to come up with a response.
“Here’s to you and me, babydoll.” He clinks his glass against hers, and that’s her breaking point.
“No! No, no, no, no, NO!” She knows she sounds like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but she doesn’t care. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Don’t you love me?” He smirks again, and she doesn’t know if he lets her go or if her anger has overwhelmed his telekinesis, but she jumps off the couch and throws a pillow at him.
“No, of course not! Here’s a hint - you dug through my brain and terrorized my family and killed my mother. Not exactly the same thing as pulling my ponytail. I’m never going to love you!” For good measure, she throws another pillow at him, even though she doubts two pounds worth of foam and upholstery can really stop him from gutting her now.
“Oh, don’t be that way.” He bats at the pillow, and takes another sip of wine. “Is the honeymoon over already?”
It’s only when he laughs that she finally gets that he’s been playing with her the entire time.
As she stares at him, trying to figure out what exactly his angle is, he holds up one long golden hair, one that he’d pulled when he’d been playing with her hair earlier. “I win, Claire” he taunts, only he’s using her voice, and she watches in horror as he groans and shudders and his skin twists until another version of herself is sitting on the couch, identical down to the same revolted expression.
Before she can react, Peter and Nathan come bursting through the door, and Sylar’s running to hide behind Peter, grabbing his hand and shrieking about how Sylar has taken her appearance and that they need to kill him, kill him now, pointing at her the entire time. She has to admit, he’s a better her than she is, and she doubts that she’ll be able to convince them that they’re protecting the wrong Claire, not without Matt Parkman’s help.
She does the only thing she can do, taking a dive towards the windows, leaving them all behind.