Ficathon - Tables Turned, Roles Reversed - bellonablack
Title: Tables Turned, Roles Reversed
Author: brandie /br4nd13
Recipient: bellonablack
Characters: Claire, Sylar, minor Becky, minor Gretchen (pairings: Sylaire, implied minor Gretchen/Claire)
Rating: R (hard R, violence, minor character death, sexy-fun-time)
Category: Future!fic(?)/Angst/Romance
Spoilers: Season 4 (aired and unaired) is likely fair game, though it's nothing you couldn't grab from the promo shots/videos.
Summary/Prompt: Claire begins to turn dark with power and corruption, and Sylar has to save her from herself. Will she let him?
Word Count: 4723
AN: I may have strayed slightly from the nature of the prompt, but only slightly. I hope that's okay! Thank you to (as always!) losingntrnslatn for the beta and read-through. This is my first Heroes fic evar! :O
It wasn't supposed to play out like this. She wasn't supposed to be running for her life, taking pot-shots over her shoulder, whenever the opportunity presented itself. She wasn't the scared one anymore. Claire had become stronger, more intuitive, less naïve since the Carnival had gone public, with Specials being thrust into the spotlight (in part, due to her own stunt - a flying leap off a ferris wheel). But for now, she ran.
Spotting suitable cover, Claire skidded to a stop, crouched and puffed an errant strand of her now disheveled ponytail out of her line of sight. She aimed her weapon in the direction of her retreat and waited for the form to emerge. She focused on even, controlled breaths - in, pause, out, pause, in...
Rounding a corner, the Target slowed to a stop 30 yards away from Claire's position. Poised and sure of herself, the woman panned her vision left and right, scanning the darkness for any hints of her prey. Claire could see her rapt interest, even in the low light, as she scoured the corridor. Time was a luxury now, and Claire knew she had to act. From her position, she easily brought the Target into her sights, aimed high, exhaled evenly and fired.
The resounding crack from her gun and thud as the Target hit the concrete floor was the only thing heard for what felt like an eternity. Weapon still aimed, Claire waited for any sign of movement from the Target before she revealed her position. Save for the fleeting and slowing foot twitch, it was safe to say the Target had been eliminated.
Claire let a small, uneven breath pass her lips as she stood from her cover and began walking toward the Target. She slowed as she neared, still a bit uneasy from the kill. It never gets any easier, she mused and nudged the Target's skewed leg with her boot. The Target remained still. But oh so necessary.
“Should have stayed invisible...” she said to no one. The Target certainly couldn't hear her or respond, that was for sure. Claire holstered her weapon and crouched to one knee. Reaching down, she turned the body onto its stomach. The node was still embedded in the Target's back, thankfully. It blinked in soft yellow pulses, indicating the charge was still active. Claire pinched the node's “head” and turned it slightly, until it clicked. The pulses ceased and she was confident the item was rendered safe. Giving a small tug, the node was plucked from the Target's back.
Claire stood and gazed at the hole in the Target's head. While the impact of her head to the floor had done quite a bit of damage, it was clear the bullet was what put her down. She smiled sardonically at the Target. “You just couldn't leave well enough alone, now could you, Becky?” Claire chuckled to herself. She gave the body one last kick for emphasis, noting how it slid slightly over the blood that pooled beneath it.
Pocketing the benign node in her front pocket, Claire returned attention to her surroundings. She didn't quite understand how the majority of these encounters always ended up being in vacant warehouses. Populated areas were full of anomalies, uncertainties and problems. It was as if Specials were drawn to the seclusion. What the hell, whatever works.
Hunting Specials was not what she'd seen for her future. College, a steady career, a normal life were all things completely outside what Claire would be able to have, especially since the fall of Samuel's Carnival. If she could go back to last year and stop herself from outing Specials to the entire world, she'd do it in a heartbeat. She would have never jumped off that ferris wheel, never proclaimed to the world that Specials are out there and that they can't, won't and shouldn't hide any longer. She wouldn't have encouraged Specials to emerge and stand tall amongst seas of people without abilities. Claire wouldn't have become the figurehead they desperately wanted her to be - someone they could look up to, question, worship... and eventually resent.
So, of course she'd take it all back if she could. She'd stop the rebellion, the angst and senseless death. She wouldn't have to murder dozens (and fast reaching triple digits) of fellow Specials - people who hunted her and people who hunted with her. No, she wouldn't have to... but she'd still want to.
Who or what had she become?
“You're no better than what I used to be, Claire.”
Claire turned stiffly in the direction of the voice, its owner being someone she'd been avoiding for all these months. Ignoring how he seemingly appeared out of nowhere (and how he managed to know what she was thinking), she narrowed her eyes and addressed him curtly. “Leave me alone, Sylar.”
“Claire... Claire, Claire, Claire, now why would I do a thing like that?” he asked, resigning to add a bit of Sylar-esque arrogance. He formed a crooked smile. “You've never been able to stop me before.”
“Duly noted,” she seethed, treating it like a curse. Claire returned her attention to Becky's strewn corpse. “Disappointed that I got to her first? I'm betting invisibility would be high on your list of 'wants.'”
Sylar pushed himself off from against the wall where he was leaning and walked toward Claire. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his dark coat, hopefully giving her a feeling of non-aggression. He wasn't here to pick a fight. Stopping beside her, he too looked down at Becky's body. “I've told you, Claire, I don't do that anymore,” he gently admonished.
“Right...” she drew out sarcastically, “you're reformed. I keep forgetting that. You're the hero, now.”
He quietly snorted in reply.
“Reformed, yes. Hero...” he paused and looked sideways at her. “Hero, maybe not so much.”
She met his eyes with a sideways glance of her own and sighed. Her adrenaline from the chase was dwindling down, effectively clearing her head and refocusing her on the task at hand. She needed to do something with Becky's body and get the hell out of Dodge. Bending down, she grabbed Becky's ankles and started tugging her toward the exit. Sylar made no move to assist.
“So...” tug “...nothing better to do...” tug “...than to stalk me?” tug
Amused and enjoying watching her small frame's not-so-feeble attempt at dragging a much larger, lifeless body away, Sylar chuckled. “Just keeping an eye on you, Claire-bear.”
Tugging harder (and surely separating a few joints in Becky's legs), Claire continued for the exit. “I've told you...” pull “...don't...” pull “...fucking...” pull “...call me...” pull “...that!” She emphasized her words with harder, more abrupt pulls.
“Easy, Claire. You're going to break her apart before you get her out of here,” he chided.
“Fuck off, Sylar!” she spat as she halted her actions. “I know what I'm doing.”
Sylar moved from his anchored position by Becky's blood pool and made his way toward Claire again. Standing beside her, too close for comfort, he leaned down and whisper-growled, “My apologies. How soon I forget that you're the serial killer now, Claire.”
Claire deflated, resigning to have the conversation with him she had been avoiding for far too long. Releasing Becky's body, she turned to face Sylar head-on. “I didn't have a choice. You know I didn't.”
“Sure you did. You could have ignored the fanatics, gone into hiding and ducked away for a hundred years,” Cocking his head slightly, “You could have left the killing up to the real bad guys.”
Huffing and sarcastically, “Bad guys? People like you, right?”
Sylar removed a hand from one of his pockets and placed it on her bare arm. “No, Claire. People not like you.”
Claire closed her eyes at his touch, trying desperately not to take any comfort in it. Finding a reserve of inner strength, she shrugged out of his reach, breaking the connection. “It doesn't matter now. As cliché as it sounds, what's done is done. There's no going back.”
Sylar berated himself inwardly for reaching out to her. She was so cold... Backing away a step, he put back on the mask of indifference. “Right. Hunting Specials is your life now. From cheerleader to killer. Never thought I'd see the day,” he ground out quickly.
“That's the plan,” she stated, matter-of-factly. Claire reached back down for Becky's body and began pulling her away again. “I have to own up for my mistakes.”
Sylar regarded her for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Claire, it's not always that simple.”
She was all out of patience and likely running out of time. Even in seedy neighborhoods, there's always someone to notice the unsavory practices that occur. It'd only be a matter of time before the police were alerted. Exasperated, she stopped and again met his eyes. “Look, I can't even begin to guess why you don't approve of what I'm doing here, but I could use some help getting her to my truck. I need to get her out of here.” When he didn't budge, she offered up a morsel of hope. “We'll talk more. I... promise.”
Taking the opportunity quickly, Sylar smirked and flicked his hand toward Becky's body, levitating it a couple feet off the ground. To his entertainment, it earned a surprised (yet utterly cheerleader) squeak from Claire. Quickly composing herself, she let go of the now floating body and jutted her thumb toward the doorway. “Truck is this way.”
He grinned. Smoothly and with tinges of darkness, he replied: “Lead the way, cheerleader.”
-=-=-=-
“You aren't going to leave me alone, are you? Not ever...” she trailed off quietly. Her question broke the silence that descended upon them as she drove away from Becky's final resting place. When Sylar didn't answer, she decided to let it go.
Thankfully, he helped her dispose of Becky's body, in a way only an ex-serial killer with super powers could: with dismemberment, fire and a few strategically aimed blue bolts of electricity. No one would ever be able to find her, let alone piece her back together for identification.
Claire stepped down on the accelerator just a touch more. Her next Target was a couple states west of her current position, but she didn't want to waste any time. And since it appeared as though her passenger wasn't leaving any time soon, the faster she reached the Target, the sooner he'd realize she was serious and unwavering with her tasks.
Miles stretched on before the silence was broken again. “What changed for you, Claire?” He sounded almost pained and a quick glance his direction from Claire discovered that the look on his face matched his tone. Interesting...
She paused before biting back. “Since when do you give a shit?”
Sylar ignored her. “Someone must have done a number on your head,” he mused and turned toward her, giving her a half-grin. “Not my fault, this time.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, Claire...” he trailed off and turned his attention to the passing darkness. “You promised me a conversation, not witless teenaged retorts.”
Claire gripped the wheel tighter as she tried to focus. Keep the truck on the road. Do not put us in a ditch. Do not send him flying through the windshield.
“Fine.” She shot him a look, then returned to the road ahead. Defeated, “Fine...”
He turned his attention to Claire, again trying to seem as non-threatening as possible.
“Do you know what it's like to be an idol? To be put on a pedestal and adored, despite all of your flaws? Who am I kidding, of course you don't. You've made your own expectations and lived with them. Not me!” Sarcasm took over. “No, not me! Indestructible girl! Girl who outed the Specials! Claire fucking Bennet, Saviour to those with abilities!”
The truck rounded a corner at highway speeds, prompting Sylar to support himself with the door's armrest.
“They thought I would... I could lead them. Lead them! Give me a break! We didn't destroy Samuel's plans so I could take his place! It was just supposed to be over!” Claire stepped on the gas, jolting the truck into a higher gear. “I tried, God help me I tried. But it wasn't enough, was it?”
He didn't get a chance to answer as she continued on, finding new energy in her tirade. “No, it wasn't. I'm just a girl with a very passive ability. I can't use it to rob banks, to cheat and steal, to start wars! But by damned, if I get a fucking paper cut, I'll be all set!”
Claire swerved the truck wildly. Sylar gripped the door's armrest a little tighter than he'd like anyone to believe. But hey, his gut was telling him to hang on... why deny it? “Claire, maybe you could--”
“They propped me up and when I couldn't do what they expected, what they demanded, they turned on me, Sylar! Don't you see? They fucking took what I had, what I tried to help with and threw it in my face!”
“How about not going so fast, Cl--”
Missing the point of the question, she bit back, “Fast?! Don't tell me about fast! I went from regular college student to the god damned leader of the Specials in a day. One. Fucking. Day. I didn't have a choice on the speed, Sylar!” She laughed bitterly, “Go go go, Claire! Go teach the Specials how to live amongst the Normals. Teach them how to use their abilities for good! For the greater humanity! For everyone who has ever persecuted us! To put us in concrete rooms and shove a sedative cocktail up our fucking noses!”
A, on-coming car flashed its lights and laid on the horn as it passed the erratic truck. Not distracted, Claire continued to speed along. Sylar just stared with acute attention.
“I didn't have the answers. I never did! When my solutions weren't good enough, I became the pariah. Been there, done that, right?” she looked toward the slightly alarmed Sylar. She didn't need his answer. “Yeah, well this pariah isn't going to let them win. They may resent me, they may blame me for everything I've done and everything I haven't. Let 'em! I'll just remove them from the picture, problem fucking solved.”
Silence enveloped the truck's cab once more, but only for a moment. The slap of her hand against the steering wheel was like a crack of thunder. “And you know what? At first, I didn't like it. The whole killing thing. It made me sick to my stomach.” She closed her eyes in thought. “But soon, it was exhilarating. The thrill of the kill…. The adrenaline... It’s almost orgasmic,” she said, wistfully.
The truck meandered into the oncoming lane, now on a collision path toward a big-rig truck heading toward them. Not waiting for Claire to break her mesmerizing trip down a killer’s memory lane, Sylar snapped a telekinetic hold on the steering wheel and rocked the truck back into the correct travel lane. “Claire! Stop the truck!”
Confused, she blinked blearily at him before realizing what was going on. Snapping out of it, she regained control of the truck and maneuvered the vehicle onto the shoulder, slamming the breaks and sending a flurry of gravel up and around them. “Oh my god, I'm... I'm sorry,” she claimed, shakily, as she slumped forward to rest her forehead on the wheel.
Sylar reached over, put the shifter into park and turned the key to the OFF position. He only then released a long, slow breath in relief. It wasn't that he was afraid of dying, but more or less, the act of piecing himself back together was a bitch. One to be avoided as much as super-humanly possible. Not knowing what to say, he simply listened to Claire regain her composure, her even breathing acting like a metronome in the confined cab of the truck. She's stronger than I thought, he thought to himself.
But when he heard a hitch in her breathing, and another, he realized otherwise.
“Why didn't you stop me?” she whispered to the wheel.
“Claire... I... the truck?” Sylar asked, confused.
“No. At the carnival.” Her voice was so small. “You were there... why didn't you stop me?” She turned to look at him. “You were there... and all this could have been avoided...”
Jesus, he thought. Tentatively, he extended his arm toward her, placing his large hand on her smaller back. He pleaded quietly, “I... how was I supposed to know?”
She didn't shy from his touch, but instead let the comfort seep all the way into her bones. “I guess you weren't,” she explained. “I just wish someone had.”
Sylar telekinetically unbuckled her seatbelt and drew her to him, into an embrace he'd like to think was mutual. He wasn't lying when he said he needed a friend, even when he had almost stopped believing she could be it. Almost.
Claire allowed herself to be molded into his arms, relishing in the feel of another person's comfort. It didn't matter that it was Sylar, the one person she'd been running from the better portion of 5 years. In fact, he was probably the only person who could relate. She let the tears fall, turning her face into his coat. “How did you deal with it... once the kill is over... the pain?”
He ran a soothing hand up and down her arm and held her a fraction tighter. “The hunger seemed to sedate any remorse I'd feel, I suppose. It never was about killing as it was about the addiction for powers.”
As if that explained everything, Claire replied simply. “Oh.”
“Stop, Claire. Stop hunting them...” he whispered into her hair. It wasn't overly intimate, but he could feel a spark inside of him swell. He gathered her up from his chest to look onto her face. Sylar put his hands on either side of her face, thumbs resting on her cheekbones. “Let me help... I can help you.”
Eyes closed from before, Claire fluttered her lids open, not taken aback at how close he was. Defiance was still a dominant trait, however. “You can't help me, Sylar.”
His vision tingled and vibrated with the untruth. Relenting slightly, Sylar let his hands drift down from Claire's face onto her shoulders. “You don't believe that, cheerleader.” It was his turn to close his eyes. “Lie detection, remember?” he sighed, moving his thumbs minutely over her collarbone.
She shouldn't be enjoying his touch, but she was. It was soft, fleeting at times. Claire sighed as she sank underneath his hands. Gone were the protests of he was a serial killer, he murdered your family, he's destroyed so many lives. Replacing them were simple thoughts of security, familiarity and honesty. She needed to believe him, to... trust him. She could do that, right?
He couldn't help but be drawn to her. She was the object of his obsessions, the one person that haunted his dreams. She had a power over him that he could never, ever hope to have or even wanted to covet. In the span of a few seconds, he thought back to when he kissed her for the first time. She was unwilling, cold and unmoving. When Sylar approached meeting her lips this time, however, no telekinesis was necessary. Simply and surely, he dipped his face to hers to touch their lips softly. A spark, whether from the static built up within the truck or Elle's commandeered ability, was emitted between the two, eliciting a gasp from one and a moan from the other (neither sure of who did what). As quickly as it happened, their kiss was halted.
Breathing faster than usual, Claire pulled back, asking quietly, “What are we doing...?”
Sylar tried desperately not to retreat into himself, instead opting for blunt honesty (something of which he's never in short supply): “I'm pretty sure I was kissing you... and I'm pretty sure you were kissing me back.” He remained hopeful. “Right?”
Claire chewed on his words, letting them digest and sink in. She paused, letting a thousand thoughts rush over her. Right? Wrong? Who cares? What about...? How can he just...? Why me? Here?
The moments felt like an eternity for Sylar. “Claire, I'm sor--”
“Don't. Don't apologize...” she gasped as she moved to capture his lips again. Her hands rushed to smooth over his chest and up to his shoulders, gripping them tightly. “It's okay...it's okay...” she panted between kissing him. “It's okay...”
“It's okay,” he repeated back as he took the lead, pulling her close and splaying his hands on her lower back. Sylar moved in past her mouth to her neck, greedily suckling on a pulse point and being rewarded with a deep moan from Claire. “I'll help you... I promise...” he explained to the juncture between her neck and shoulder.
“I know, I know... just...” gasp “...just stop talking, okay?” she pleaded, writhing in the seat and moving to straddle his hips.
“You got it, cheerleader,” he breathed out. Sylar nipped at a sensitive, fleshy spot under her ear, making Claire settle heavily onto his lap. The hardness in his jeans met her core, garnering grunts from them both. Preferring the tactile sensation of his own hands on her body, he opted to manually remove the black tank she adorned. His hands slid under the cloth, forcing it upwards toward her head. He broke their connection and prompted Claire to lift the top off her small body, leaving her clad only in a bra and pants. She cast the offending tank to the driver's side of the cab and refocused her attention to Sylar.
She needed more, more of his mouth on hers, his tongue with hers. Moving in to kiss him deeply, she put her hands to work undoing the buttons of his heavy coat. The stubble on his cheek left prickly burns on the softer skin of her face, followed by the cooler sensation of her skin repairing. She may not be able to feel pain, but it seemed as though pleasure wasn't off-limits. Forcing the last of the buttons of his coat free, she was pleased to see him take the initiative to shrug off his coat, all the while keeping his mouth latched onto hers.
“Shirt too,” she mumbled against his lips, leaning backwards to give him room. Sylar gripped the back of the shirt and forced it over his head, casting it aside to join Claire's top. His eyes moved to her bare sides as he watched his hands skim over the skin, letting tiny zaps of electricity tickle her.
She hissed in response, grinding down onto his lap and grasping at his chest, digging in. Little crescents of blood collected under her fingernails and like the skin on her face, they healed just as quickly as they were made.
Claire's bra was the next item to go. His hands were still at her sides when she felt the clasp behind her back come undone. She gave him a sly smile, snaking her arms out from the straps, she was finally bare for him.
He quirked an eyebrow and released a dark chuckle as he dipped down to taste her skin. He made lazy patterns on her chest, alternating between nipping and soothing, licking and sucking. She was delicious... somewhere around heady and sweat-touched and vanilla. Innocent, yet not anymore, he thought.
Sylar let his hands migrate to the waist of her pants, dipping his lithe fingers between the cloth and her skin. He dug in slightly, subconsciously forcing her to grind against him in response. The heat he could feel, even through the layers of clothes, spurred him into action. The button and fly of her pants came unlatched, unzipped as Sylar moved his hands underneath her, cupping her bottom. “Shit, Claire...” he sighed, rising up to assault her mouth with his.
As though mutually decided and timed, hands left one another's bodies and began working frantically at removing the last shreds of clothing that separated them. Boots and shoes were toed off, pants and underwear were shucked to the floor of the truck. No going back now, they both mused.
Still sitting, Sylar assisted Claire in hovering over him, positioning her for the inevitable. With one last fleeting glance, he caught her gaze and asked a silent question. She bit the corner of her lip and nodded vigorously, effectively answering him.
Had he acquired Hiro Nakamura's ability, he would have paused time at the precise moment when he entered Claire for the first time. As it was, her descent was tantalizing slow, practically ensuring both of them would remember the moment forever.
Sylar blew out a breath as Claire began to ride him, slow and arrhythmic at first. She was tentative, something he didn't dare expect. She's done this before, right? Bringing his hands to rest on her hips, Sylar slowed her motions, urging her to a stop. Her eyes, shut from the beginning, snapped open in a panic. “What? What's wrong?”
Bowing to his insecurities, he had to question her. “Claire, you've... done this before, right?”
She leaned over and rested her head on his bare shoulder. “I can't exactly lie and say yes...” Claire turned her head so her lips could reach his neck. “...didn't have many normal experiences in college.” Nipping at his neck, she said more to herself than to him, “Gretchen didn't really have the right equipment.” She punctuated the statement with the flick of her tongue against his skin.
He groaned in reply, the thought of his seemingly innocent Claire and her roommate together sent pleasure tingles down his body. Sylar's arousal was refueled as he started moving Claire's hips against him, then slowly coaxing her into a more natural rhythm. Again, his mouth sought hers and he let go of her hips, trailing his hands up and down her back. The tiny jolts of electricity returned as he skirted his hands across her shoulders, back and bottom.
Claire's pace quickened, encouraged by Sylar's homage to her skin. She keened against his mouth and tongue, mewling in pleasure-pain. One of his hands made its way to the apex between her thighs, where a thumb delved in between her silkiest of skin. He concentrated hard on sending only the faintest zaps of blue energy through his thumb and onto her flesh. Fortunately, the result was explosive. Quaking and shuddering, Claire moaned deeply into his mouth as she climaxed around him.
Unable to hold back, Sylar's release followed Claire's, grunting and thrusting shallowly through his climax. Spent and sated, he placed uncoordinated kisses on her mouth, face and whatever was in reach. Breathing for both slowly returned to normal, lazy hands forged slow paths on hot and sticky skin. Claire lowered herself again to his shoulder, marrying their chests together, attempting to bask in the afterglow. The afterglow after fucking a serial killer, she quipped to herself. I suppose he could say the same thing about me...
A few comfortable moments passed. “You meant what you said, didn't you?” she asked quietly.
“Claire,” he breathed, sighing, “have I ever lied to you?”
She curled up onto him, impossibly closer than before. “No, you haven't.”
-=-=-=-
Claire glanced at the man in the passenger seat of the truck and raised an eyebrow when he met her eyes. Half smiling, she returned her attention to the road ahead. While driving most definitely east, the pair reached a silent agreement: he'd do his best to help her, and she'd do her best to let him.
End
Author: brandie /br4nd13
Recipient: bellonablack
Characters: Claire, Sylar, minor Becky, minor Gretchen (pairings: Sylaire, implied minor Gretchen/Claire)
Rating: R (hard R, violence, minor character death, sexy-fun-time)
Category: Future!fic(?)/Angst/Romance
Spoilers: Season 4 (aired and unaired) is likely fair game, though it's nothing you couldn't grab from the promo shots/videos.
Summary/Prompt: Claire begins to turn dark with power and corruption, and Sylar has to save her from herself. Will she let him?
Word Count: 4723
AN: I may have strayed slightly from the nature of the prompt, but only slightly. I hope that's okay! Thank you to (as always!) losingntrnslatn for the beta and read-through. This is my first Heroes fic evar! :O
It wasn't supposed to play out like this. She wasn't supposed to be running for her life, taking pot-shots over her shoulder, whenever the opportunity presented itself. She wasn't the scared one anymore. Claire had become stronger, more intuitive, less naïve since the Carnival had gone public, with Specials being thrust into the spotlight (in part, due to her own stunt - a flying leap off a ferris wheel). But for now, she ran.
Spotting suitable cover, Claire skidded to a stop, crouched and puffed an errant strand of her now disheveled ponytail out of her line of sight. She aimed her weapon in the direction of her retreat and waited for the form to emerge. She focused on even, controlled breaths - in, pause, out, pause, in...
Rounding a corner, the Target slowed to a stop 30 yards away from Claire's position. Poised and sure of herself, the woman panned her vision left and right, scanning the darkness for any hints of her prey. Claire could see her rapt interest, even in the low light, as she scoured the corridor. Time was a luxury now, and Claire knew she had to act. From her position, she easily brought the Target into her sights, aimed high, exhaled evenly and fired.
The resounding crack from her gun and thud as the Target hit the concrete floor was the only thing heard for what felt like an eternity. Weapon still aimed, Claire waited for any sign of movement from the Target before she revealed her position. Save for the fleeting and slowing foot twitch, it was safe to say the Target had been eliminated.
Claire let a small, uneven breath pass her lips as she stood from her cover and began walking toward the Target. She slowed as she neared, still a bit uneasy from the kill. It never gets any easier, she mused and nudged the Target's skewed leg with her boot. The Target remained still. But oh so necessary.
“Should have stayed invisible...” she said to no one. The Target certainly couldn't hear her or respond, that was for sure. Claire holstered her weapon and crouched to one knee. Reaching down, she turned the body onto its stomach. The node was still embedded in the Target's back, thankfully. It blinked in soft yellow pulses, indicating the charge was still active. Claire pinched the node's “head” and turned it slightly, until it clicked. The pulses ceased and she was confident the item was rendered safe. Giving a small tug, the node was plucked from the Target's back.
Claire stood and gazed at the hole in the Target's head. While the impact of her head to the floor had done quite a bit of damage, it was clear the bullet was what put her down. She smiled sardonically at the Target. “You just couldn't leave well enough alone, now could you, Becky?” Claire chuckled to herself. She gave the body one last kick for emphasis, noting how it slid slightly over the blood that pooled beneath it.
Pocketing the benign node in her front pocket, Claire returned attention to her surroundings. She didn't quite understand how the majority of these encounters always ended up being in vacant warehouses. Populated areas were full of anomalies, uncertainties and problems. It was as if Specials were drawn to the seclusion. What the hell, whatever works.
Hunting Specials was not what she'd seen for her future. College, a steady career, a normal life were all things completely outside what Claire would be able to have, especially since the fall of Samuel's Carnival. If she could go back to last year and stop herself from outing Specials to the entire world, she'd do it in a heartbeat. She would have never jumped off that ferris wheel, never proclaimed to the world that Specials are out there and that they can't, won't and shouldn't hide any longer. She wouldn't have encouraged Specials to emerge and stand tall amongst seas of people without abilities. Claire wouldn't have become the figurehead they desperately wanted her to be - someone they could look up to, question, worship... and eventually resent.
So, of course she'd take it all back if she could. She'd stop the rebellion, the angst and senseless death. She wouldn't have to murder dozens (and fast reaching triple digits) of fellow Specials - people who hunted her and people who hunted with her. No, she wouldn't have to... but she'd still want to.
Who or what had she become?
“You're no better than what I used to be, Claire.”
Claire turned stiffly in the direction of the voice, its owner being someone she'd been avoiding for all these months. Ignoring how he seemingly appeared out of nowhere (and how he managed to know what she was thinking), she narrowed her eyes and addressed him curtly. “Leave me alone, Sylar.”
“Claire... Claire, Claire, Claire, now why would I do a thing like that?” he asked, resigning to add a bit of Sylar-esque arrogance. He formed a crooked smile. “You've never been able to stop me before.”
“Duly noted,” she seethed, treating it like a curse. Claire returned her attention to Becky's strewn corpse. “Disappointed that I got to her first? I'm betting invisibility would be high on your list of 'wants.'”
Sylar pushed himself off from against the wall where he was leaning and walked toward Claire. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his dark coat, hopefully giving her a feeling of non-aggression. He wasn't here to pick a fight. Stopping beside her, he too looked down at Becky's body. “I've told you, Claire, I don't do that anymore,” he gently admonished.
“Right...” she drew out sarcastically, “you're reformed. I keep forgetting that. You're the hero, now.”
He quietly snorted in reply.
“Reformed, yes. Hero...” he paused and looked sideways at her. “Hero, maybe not so much.”
She met his eyes with a sideways glance of her own and sighed. Her adrenaline from the chase was dwindling down, effectively clearing her head and refocusing her on the task at hand. She needed to do something with Becky's body and get the hell out of Dodge. Bending down, she grabbed Becky's ankles and started tugging her toward the exit. Sylar made no move to assist.
“So...” tug “...nothing better to do...” tug “...than to stalk me?” tug
Amused and enjoying watching her small frame's not-so-feeble attempt at dragging a much larger, lifeless body away, Sylar chuckled. “Just keeping an eye on you, Claire-bear.”
Tugging harder (and surely separating a few joints in Becky's legs), Claire continued for the exit. “I've told you...” pull “...don't...” pull “...fucking...” pull “...call me...” pull “...that!” She emphasized her words with harder, more abrupt pulls.
“Easy, Claire. You're going to break her apart before you get her out of here,” he chided.
“Fuck off, Sylar!” she spat as she halted her actions. “I know what I'm doing.”
Sylar moved from his anchored position by Becky's blood pool and made his way toward Claire again. Standing beside her, too close for comfort, he leaned down and whisper-growled, “My apologies. How soon I forget that you're the serial killer now, Claire.”
Claire deflated, resigning to have the conversation with him she had been avoiding for far too long. Releasing Becky's body, she turned to face Sylar head-on. “I didn't have a choice. You know I didn't.”
“Sure you did. You could have ignored the fanatics, gone into hiding and ducked away for a hundred years,” Cocking his head slightly, “You could have left the killing up to the real bad guys.”
Huffing and sarcastically, “Bad guys? People like you, right?”
Sylar removed a hand from one of his pockets and placed it on her bare arm. “No, Claire. People not like you.”
Claire closed her eyes at his touch, trying desperately not to take any comfort in it. Finding a reserve of inner strength, she shrugged out of his reach, breaking the connection. “It doesn't matter now. As cliché as it sounds, what's done is done. There's no going back.”
Sylar berated himself inwardly for reaching out to her. She was so cold... Backing away a step, he put back on the mask of indifference. “Right. Hunting Specials is your life now. From cheerleader to killer. Never thought I'd see the day,” he ground out quickly.
“That's the plan,” she stated, matter-of-factly. Claire reached back down for Becky's body and began pulling her away again. “I have to own up for my mistakes.”
Sylar regarded her for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Claire, it's not always that simple.”
She was all out of patience and likely running out of time. Even in seedy neighborhoods, there's always someone to notice the unsavory practices that occur. It'd only be a matter of time before the police were alerted. Exasperated, she stopped and again met his eyes. “Look, I can't even begin to guess why you don't approve of what I'm doing here, but I could use some help getting her to my truck. I need to get her out of here.” When he didn't budge, she offered up a morsel of hope. “We'll talk more. I... promise.”
Taking the opportunity quickly, Sylar smirked and flicked his hand toward Becky's body, levitating it a couple feet off the ground. To his entertainment, it earned a surprised (yet utterly cheerleader) squeak from Claire. Quickly composing herself, she let go of the now floating body and jutted her thumb toward the doorway. “Truck is this way.”
He grinned. Smoothly and with tinges of darkness, he replied: “Lead the way, cheerleader.”
-=-=-=-
“You aren't going to leave me alone, are you? Not ever...” she trailed off quietly. Her question broke the silence that descended upon them as she drove away from Becky's final resting place. When Sylar didn't answer, she decided to let it go.
Thankfully, he helped her dispose of Becky's body, in a way only an ex-serial killer with super powers could: with dismemberment, fire and a few strategically aimed blue bolts of electricity. No one would ever be able to find her, let alone piece her back together for identification.
Claire stepped down on the accelerator just a touch more. Her next Target was a couple states west of her current position, but she didn't want to waste any time. And since it appeared as though her passenger wasn't leaving any time soon, the faster she reached the Target, the sooner he'd realize she was serious and unwavering with her tasks.
Miles stretched on before the silence was broken again. “What changed for you, Claire?” He sounded almost pained and a quick glance his direction from Claire discovered that the look on his face matched his tone. Interesting...
She paused before biting back. “Since when do you give a shit?”
Sylar ignored her. “Someone must have done a number on your head,” he mused and turned toward her, giving her a half-grin. “Not my fault, this time.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, Claire...” he trailed off and turned his attention to the passing darkness. “You promised me a conversation, not witless teenaged retorts.”
Claire gripped the wheel tighter as she tried to focus. Keep the truck on the road. Do not put us in a ditch. Do not send him flying through the windshield.
“Fine.” She shot him a look, then returned to the road ahead. Defeated, “Fine...”
He turned his attention to Claire, again trying to seem as non-threatening as possible.
“Do you know what it's like to be an idol? To be put on a pedestal and adored, despite all of your flaws? Who am I kidding, of course you don't. You've made your own expectations and lived with them. Not me!” Sarcasm took over. “No, not me! Indestructible girl! Girl who outed the Specials! Claire fucking Bennet, Saviour to those with abilities!”
The truck rounded a corner at highway speeds, prompting Sylar to support himself with the door's armrest.
“They thought I would... I could lead them. Lead them! Give me a break! We didn't destroy Samuel's plans so I could take his place! It was just supposed to be over!” Claire stepped on the gas, jolting the truck into a higher gear. “I tried, God help me I tried. But it wasn't enough, was it?”
He didn't get a chance to answer as she continued on, finding new energy in her tirade. “No, it wasn't. I'm just a girl with a very passive ability. I can't use it to rob banks, to cheat and steal, to start wars! But by damned, if I get a fucking paper cut, I'll be all set!”
Claire swerved the truck wildly. Sylar gripped the door's armrest a little tighter than he'd like anyone to believe. But hey, his gut was telling him to hang on... why deny it? “Claire, maybe you could--”
“They propped me up and when I couldn't do what they expected, what they demanded, they turned on me, Sylar! Don't you see? They fucking took what I had, what I tried to help with and threw it in my face!”
“How about not going so fast, Cl--”
Missing the point of the question, she bit back, “Fast?! Don't tell me about fast! I went from regular college student to the god damned leader of the Specials in a day. One. Fucking. Day. I didn't have a choice on the speed, Sylar!” She laughed bitterly, “Go go go, Claire! Go teach the Specials how to live amongst the Normals. Teach them how to use their abilities for good! For the greater humanity! For everyone who has ever persecuted us! To put us in concrete rooms and shove a sedative cocktail up our fucking noses!”
A, on-coming car flashed its lights and laid on the horn as it passed the erratic truck. Not distracted, Claire continued to speed along. Sylar just stared with acute attention.
“I didn't have the answers. I never did! When my solutions weren't good enough, I became the pariah. Been there, done that, right?” she looked toward the slightly alarmed Sylar. She didn't need his answer. “Yeah, well this pariah isn't going to let them win. They may resent me, they may blame me for everything I've done and everything I haven't. Let 'em! I'll just remove them from the picture, problem fucking solved.”
Silence enveloped the truck's cab once more, but only for a moment. The slap of her hand against the steering wheel was like a crack of thunder. “And you know what? At first, I didn't like it. The whole killing thing. It made me sick to my stomach.” She closed her eyes in thought. “But soon, it was exhilarating. The thrill of the kill…. The adrenaline... It’s almost orgasmic,” she said, wistfully.
The truck meandered into the oncoming lane, now on a collision path toward a big-rig truck heading toward them. Not waiting for Claire to break her mesmerizing trip down a killer’s memory lane, Sylar snapped a telekinetic hold on the steering wheel and rocked the truck back into the correct travel lane. “Claire! Stop the truck!”
Confused, she blinked blearily at him before realizing what was going on. Snapping out of it, she regained control of the truck and maneuvered the vehicle onto the shoulder, slamming the breaks and sending a flurry of gravel up and around them. “Oh my god, I'm... I'm sorry,” she claimed, shakily, as she slumped forward to rest her forehead on the wheel.
Sylar reached over, put the shifter into park and turned the key to the OFF position. He only then released a long, slow breath in relief. It wasn't that he was afraid of dying, but more or less, the act of piecing himself back together was a bitch. One to be avoided as much as super-humanly possible. Not knowing what to say, he simply listened to Claire regain her composure, her even breathing acting like a metronome in the confined cab of the truck. She's stronger than I thought, he thought to himself.
But when he heard a hitch in her breathing, and another, he realized otherwise.
“Why didn't you stop me?” she whispered to the wheel.
“Claire... I... the truck?” Sylar asked, confused.
“No. At the carnival.” Her voice was so small. “You were there... why didn't you stop me?” She turned to look at him. “You were there... and all this could have been avoided...”
Jesus, he thought. Tentatively, he extended his arm toward her, placing his large hand on her smaller back. He pleaded quietly, “I... how was I supposed to know?”
She didn't shy from his touch, but instead let the comfort seep all the way into her bones. “I guess you weren't,” she explained. “I just wish someone had.”
Sylar telekinetically unbuckled her seatbelt and drew her to him, into an embrace he'd like to think was mutual. He wasn't lying when he said he needed a friend, even when he had almost stopped believing she could be it. Almost.
Claire allowed herself to be molded into his arms, relishing in the feel of another person's comfort. It didn't matter that it was Sylar, the one person she'd been running from the better portion of 5 years. In fact, he was probably the only person who could relate. She let the tears fall, turning her face into his coat. “How did you deal with it... once the kill is over... the pain?”
He ran a soothing hand up and down her arm and held her a fraction tighter. “The hunger seemed to sedate any remorse I'd feel, I suppose. It never was about killing as it was about the addiction for powers.”
As if that explained everything, Claire replied simply. “Oh.”
“Stop, Claire. Stop hunting them...” he whispered into her hair. It wasn't overly intimate, but he could feel a spark inside of him swell. He gathered her up from his chest to look onto her face. Sylar put his hands on either side of her face, thumbs resting on her cheekbones. “Let me help... I can help you.”
Eyes closed from before, Claire fluttered her lids open, not taken aback at how close he was. Defiance was still a dominant trait, however. “You can't help me, Sylar.”
His vision tingled and vibrated with the untruth. Relenting slightly, Sylar let his hands drift down from Claire's face onto her shoulders. “You don't believe that, cheerleader.” It was his turn to close his eyes. “Lie detection, remember?” he sighed, moving his thumbs minutely over her collarbone.
She shouldn't be enjoying his touch, but she was. It was soft, fleeting at times. Claire sighed as she sank underneath his hands. Gone were the protests of he was a serial killer, he murdered your family, he's destroyed so many lives. Replacing them were simple thoughts of security, familiarity and honesty. She needed to believe him, to... trust him. She could do that, right?
He couldn't help but be drawn to her. She was the object of his obsessions, the one person that haunted his dreams. She had a power over him that he could never, ever hope to have or even wanted to covet. In the span of a few seconds, he thought back to when he kissed her for the first time. She was unwilling, cold and unmoving. When Sylar approached meeting her lips this time, however, no telekinesis was necessary. Simply and surely, he dipped his face to hers to touch their lips softly. A spark, whether from the static built up within the truck or Elle's commandeered ability, was emitted between the two, eliciting a gasp from one and a moan from the other (neither sure of who did what). As quickly as it happened, their kiss was halted.
Breathing faster than usual, Claire pulled back, asking quietly, “What are we doing...?”
Sylar tried desperately not to retreat into himself, instead opting for blunt honesty (something of which he's never in short supply): “I'm pretty sure I was kissing you... and I'm pretty sure you were kissing me back.” He remained hopeful. “Right?”
Claire chewed on his words, letting them digest and sink in. She paused, letting a thousand thoughts rush over her. Right? Wrong? Who cares? What about...? How can he just...? Why me? Here?
The moments felt like an eternity for Sylar. “Claire, I'm sor--”
“Don't. Don't apologize...” she gasped as she moved to capture his lips again. Her hands rushed to smooth over his chest and up to his shoulders, gripping them tightly. “It's okay...it's okay...” she panted between kissing him. “It's okay...”
“It's okay,” he repeated back as he took the lead, pulling her close and splaying his hands on her lower back. Sylar moved in past her mouth to her neck, greedily suckling on a pulse point and being rewarded with a deep moan from Claire. “I'll help you... I promise...” he explained to the juncture between her neck and shoulder.
“I know, I know... just...” gasp “...just stop talking, okay?” she pleaded, writhing in the seat and moving to straddle his hips.
“You got it, cheerleader,” he breathed out. Sylar nipped at a sensitive, fleshy spot under her ear, making Claire settle heavily onto his lap. The hardness in his jeans met her core, garnering grunts from them both. Preferring the tactile sensation of his own hands on her body, he opted to manually remove the black tank she adorned. His hands slid under the cloth, forcing it upwards toward her head. He broke their connection and prompted Claire to lift the top off her small body, leaving her clad only in a bra and pants. She cast the offending tank to the driver's side of the cab and refocused her attention to Sylar.
She needed more, more of his mouth on hers, his tongue with hers. Moving in to kiss him deeply, she put her hands to work undoing the buttons of his heavy coat. The stubble on his cheek left prickly burns on the softer skin of her face, followed by the cooler sensation of her skin repairing. She may not be able to feel pain, but it seemed as though pleasure wasn't off-limits. Forcing the last of the buttons of his coat free, she was pleased to see him take the initiative to shrug off his coat, all the while keeping his mouth latched onto hers.
“Shirt too,” she mumbled against his lips, leaning backwards to give him room. Sylar gripped the back of the shirt and forced it over his head, casting it aside to join Claire's top. His eyes moved to her bare sides as he watched his hands skim over the skin, letting tiny zaps of electricity tickle her.
She hissed in response, grinding down onto his lap and grasping at his chest, digging in. Little crescents of blood collected under her fingernails and like the skin on her face, they healed just as quickly as they were made.
Claire's bra was the next item to go. His hands were still at her sides when she felt the clasp behind her back come undone. She gave him a sly smile, snaking her arms out from the straps, she was finally bare for him.
He quirked an eyebrow and released a dark chuckle as he dipped down to taste her skin. He made lazy patterns on her chest, alternating between nipping and soothing, licking and sucking. She was delicious... somewhere around heady and sweat-touched and vanilla. Innocent, yet not anymore, he thought.
Sylar let his hands migrate to the waist of her pants, dipping his lithe fingers between the cloth and her skin. He dug in slightly, subconsciously forcing her to grind against him in response. The heat he could feel, even through the layers of clothes, spurred him into action. The button and fly of her pants came unlatched, unzipped as Sylar moved his hands underneath her, cupping her bottom. “Shit, Claire...” he sighed, rising up to assault her mouth with his.
As though mutually decided and timed, hands left one another's bodies and began working frantically at removing the last shreds of clothing that separated them. Boots and shoes were toed off, pants and underwear were shucked to the floor of the truck. No going back now, they both mused.
Still sitting, Sylar assisted Claire in hovering over him, positioning her for the inevitable. With one last fleeting glance, he caught her gaze and asked a silent question. She bit the corner of her lip and nodded vigorously, effectively answering him.
Had he acquired Hiro Nakamura's ability, he would have paused time at the precise moment when he entered Claire for the first time. As it was, her descent was tantalizing slow, practically ensuring both of them would remember the moment forever.
Sylar blew out a breath as Claire began to ride him, slow and arrhythmic at first. She was tentative, something he didn't dare expect. She's done this before, right? Bringing his hands to rest on her hips, Sylar slowed her motions, urging her to a stop. Her eyes, shut from the beginning, snapped open in a panic. “What? What's wrong?”
Bowing to his insecurities, he had to question her. “Claire, you've... done this before, right?”
She leaned over and rested her head on his bare shoulder. “I can't exactly lie and say yes...” Claire turned her head so her lips could reach his neck. “...didn't have many normal experiences in college.” Nipping at his neck, she said more to herself than to him, “Gretchen didn't really have the right equipment.” She punctuated the statement with the flick of her tongue against his skin.
He groaned in reply, the thought of his seemingly innocent Claire and her roommate together sent pleasure tingles down his body. Sylar's arousal was refueled as he started moving Claire's hips against him, then slowly coaxing her into a more natural rhythm. Again, his mouth sought hers and he let go of her hips, trailing his hands up and down her back. The tiny jolts of electricity returned as he skirted his hands across her shoulders, back and bottom.
Claire's pace quickened, encouraged by Sylar's homage to her skin. She keened against his mouth and tongue, mewling in pleasure-pain. One of his hands made its way to the apex between her thighs, where a thumb delved in between her silkiest of skin. He concentrated hard on sending only the faintest zaps of blue energy through his thumb and onto her flesh. Fortunately, the result was explosive. Quaking and shuddering, Claire moaned deeply into his mouth as she climaxed around him.
Unable to hold back, Sylar's release followed Claire's, grunting and thrusting shallowly through his climax. Spent and sated, he placed uncoordinated kisses on her mouth, face and whatever was in reach. Breathing for both slowly returned to normal, lazy hands forged slow paths on hot and sticky skin. Claire lowered herself again to his shoulder, marrying their chests together, attempting to bask in the afterglow. The afterglow after fucking a serial killer, she quipped to herself. I suppose he could say the same thing about me...
A few comfortable moments passed. “You meant what you said, didn't you?” she asked quietly.
“Claire,” he breathed, sighing, “have I ever lied to you?”
She curled up onto him, impossibly closer than before. “No, you haven't.”
-=-=-=-
Claire glanced at the man in the passenger seat of the truck and raised an eyebrow when he met her eyes. Half smiling, she returned her attention to the road ahead. While driving most definitely east, the pair reached a silent agreement: he'd do his best to help her, and she'd do her best to let him.
End