Fic: After the Fall
Title: After The Fall
Rating: R for sex and language
Pairing: Claire/Peter, Claire/Sylar
Warning: incest
Word Count: 3,766
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put
Claire Bennet back together again
It took about all of 30 seconds after Claire jumped from the Ferris
Wheel, her body slamming into the ground and reassembling itself for
the gathered journalists, for her to realize what a monumentally
stupid idea it was. As the flashbulbs exploded and the cacophony of
voices assaulted her eardrums, she knew that what she had done could
not be undone. And while that had seemed like a good idea on her
ascent, a good idea as she spread her arms and plummeted to the ground
below, it now struck her that she had outed an entire race of people
that hadn’t asked to be set free.
She was on the cover of every newspaper the next day, a magazine cover
girl, an 11 o’clock news staple. Doctors, biologists, geneticists,
people from the Department of Defense - everyone had an opinion on who
she was. Half of the world was already trembling with fear at the
implications of her action; the other half were imagining a fabulous
X-Men like existence.
There were no jumpsuits, no secret jets, no Professor X in Claire’s
world; there was an angry father, a disapproving grandmother, and an
uncle who had befriended the psycho that had killed his brother.
Others started coming forward. They demonstrated a variety of powers
to reporters, to the blogosphere, to YouTube; people from all over the
world started to reveal who they really were. A woman in New Orleans
used her muscle mimicry to stop a bank robbery; a man who could
manipulate water put out a massive fire at an elementary school; a
child with a healing touch sent an entire pediatric cancer ward into
remission. They were being heralded as heroes, as humanity’s greatest
hope.
Jack Watson was a 15-year-old from Midland, Texas. He was scrawny,
bespectacled, and spoke with a stutter; he volunteered at a nursing
home and dreamt of going to Harvard. He was also able to repeat back
anything he heard, whether it be conversation or music without a trace
of the stutter that had haunted his speech; thinking that it might
make him a little more popular around school, he revealed himself.
While demonstrating this talent to a group of girls, 4 upperclassmen -
one of whom was the boyfriend of the girl he was trying to impress -
decided to “beat the mutant.”
Jack Watson died when his parents shut off the life support machines;
he had been in a coma for 8 days.
The day that Jack Watson died, Claire was in hiding in the Petrelli
mansion, hidden from the constant barrage of media attention. As CNN
reported that he had died, she destroyed her bedroom. She tore down
pictures, she tipped over furniture; she shredded a pillow. Claire
wasn’t even aware that she was screaming until Sylar burst into the
room, prepared to fight off whatever was attacking.
She hated him. No matter what Peter said, she would never trust him.
He had killed Jackie, her mother, had tried to kill her on more than
one occasion; he had ruined her life and set her down a path that lead
to Jack Watson’s brain damage. Sylar represented everything that
Claire had wanted to obliterate with her swan dive.
And yet, when he saw that there was no threat, when he realized why
she was attacking her bedroom like a rock star after a show, there was
something about the offer he made - ”I could kill them, you
know” - that stirred something more than hatred.
The first time they fucked, it was on the damaged bed, Claire scoring
his back with scratches that disappeared, biting his flesh temporarily
purple. When it was over, she pushed him off of her, wrapped herself
in half of a sheet, and told him to be gone by the time she got out of
the shower.
* * *
The second time happened in Washington DC. She was in town to testify
before Congress about her powers; there was a bill potentially about
to be passed that would require registration for those with abilities.
After giving her testimony, trying to impress upon the politicians
why they were not threats, the head of the committee began to list
people who had used their powers for illegal means. She had sat
there, her perfect poker face in place, and tried to calmly refute
each claim.
Sylar could not be at the hearing - being wanted in two dozen states
for a variety of felonies meant that you couldn’t exactly draw
attention to yourself - but he waited in the suite that they had
rented with Petrelli money. While Peter raged at the committee’s
shortsightedness and Matt wondered what it would be like for baby
Matty to have to go through life with a sign on his back, Claire sat
on the balcony and lit a cigarette.
She had never smoked a day in her life, had never even tried it back
in high school when the rest of the cheerleaders had tried to peer
pressure her into it. Until that day, she had never seen the point in
it. However, as drugs and alcohol would never allow her the bliss of
escape, she had only nicotine as a potential vice.
When the others went for dinner, she stayed on the balcony. Sylar
joined her silently, looking out at the cityscape below.
She rode him at a gallop, the cement rubbing her knees raw and bloody,
as she put out the cigarettes on his chest.
* * *
The third time was her 20th birthday. After a party that had
depressed her more than anything - what was the point in celebrating
aging when you could not age? - she had curled up on the couch of her
mother’s house in Costa Verde. Sandra and her boyfriend were asleep
upstairs, Lyle had headed back to the dorm, and the others had left to
return to their lives. Sylar, who had not been present for the
celebration, arrived just before midnight, a small present in his
hands.
Inside the purple wrapping paper and white box, was a pair of
earrings. They were nothing extravagant - just two, light pink pearls
- but it was something about the gesture that touched the part of her
that she had started to wall up, to push away. She thanked him,
removing the pearls from the box and slipping them into her ears, and
she had smiled genuinely for perhaps the first time of the night.
His kiss was surprisingly gentle; he undressed her carefully in the
living room, laying her back against the sofa cushions as if she would
shatter. She wore only her earrings; he wore an expression that she
would’ve thought to be tenderness on anyone else. It wasn’t until
they were done, sweat soaked and panting, that she realized the salt
on her lips was from her own tears.
He shushed her, smoothing his hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to
her brow. She allowed him to hold her for almost an hour before
slipping back into her dress, before telling him to leave. Like the
times before, he did not appear offended as he slipped his t-shirt
over his head, as he buttoned his pants. However, this time, as he
disappeared out the front door, she almost called for him to come
back.
Almost.
* * *
She lost count of what time they were on when everything went to hell.
They were in the downstairs half-bathroom of Noah’s house, Claire
balanced precariously on the pedestal sink, Sylar pounding into her,
one hand over her mouth to silence her cries, when the door had
suddenly swung open. Terrified it was her father, Claire unwound her
legs from around his waist, pushing her skirt down, hoping that Noah
didn’t notice the way her panties hung from her right foot, when she
realized that the man in the doorway was Peter.
While Sylar took his time pulling his jeans up, she tried to babble
out an explanation for what he had seen, had barely gotten out, “This
isn’t what it looks like!” before realizing that she sounded
ridiculous; of course it was what it looked like. What else
could it have been?
Peter said nothing, simply closing the door with a disgusted look on
his face. Claire hopped off the sink, hurriedly pulling her underwear
up, flinching at the pressure against her aroused flesh. As she
righted her hair and makeup in the mirror, she tried to pretend she
didn’t notice the self-satisfied smirk on Sylar’s face.
She vowed it would be the last time.
* * *
Peter wouldn’t speak to her. Claire tried, of course, but he ignored
her phone calls, dodged her appearances at his apartment, and
generally acted as if he had no idea who the hell she was. And it was
even more infuriating to find out information about him second hand,
such as his increasingly more serious relationship with Emma, whom
Claire hated.
When he finally answered the door of his apartment, she pushed her way
in, immediately spewing out what explanations she could offer, the
wall she had built around her heart coming down and releasing the
cheerleader she had spent the last few years trying to kill. But as
she was trying to impress upon Peter the acute sense of loneliness she
had felt not only since her powers had manifested but especially since
she had leapt from the Ferris wheel, she sensed someone else in the
apartment.
Only Emma’s deafness kept Claire from promptly dying of embarrassment;
she wanted to die of a complete different cause after spotting the
diamond glittering on Emma’s left, ring finger.
Peter looked repentant, the same kind of shame dancing across his
features that she recognized from her face that day in the bathroom,
but she didn’t care. She mumbled an excuse to him and disappeared out
the door.
She cut her hair that night, a choppy, chin length mess courtesy of a
pair of scissors she had found in the kitchen drawer. Forty-five
minutes later, her golden tresses were almost black, a shade she had
selected due to its similarity to the Petrelli family locks.
She didn’t look like herself; it was exactly what she wanted.
* * *
The engagement party was hell on earth. The only reason she had come
was blackmail; Angela had threatened to cut off the trust that Nathan
had established for Claire if she did not come to the party, smile
widely, and act as if she was thrilled that her uncle was marrying the
pretty, deaf cellist. So she had bought a dress - a thoroughly
inappropriate black dress with a neckline that plunged almost to her
navel and dipped so low in the back that ass cleavage was a major
concern - and smeared hooker red lipstick across her mouth, tousling
her homemade bob into a gentle “just been fucked” look before
appearing at the mansion for the party.
Claire knew everyone thought that she was having some sort of mental
breakdown; and, okay, maybe she was. But as fucked up as Claire knew
she was becoming, she also suspected that the concern from her friends
and family had more to do with their collective inability to accept
change. Everyone wanted her to still be the cheerleader, to still
believe that there was good in the world and that their powers had
meaning.
Everyone was stupid.
She wanted desperately to be able to get drunk; it was why she carried
the glass of Jack Daniels, neat. And while her friends gave Emma best
wishes and thumped Peter on the back, she caught Sylar’s eye.
They hadn’t seen each other since their last tryst in the bathroom.
Now, as Peter paraded his bride-to-be around the rooms, Claire
wondered what the point of her loyalty had been, what point of
anything had been.
He didn’t play at being offended at the way she had blown him off
before, didn’t tease her about her bipolar mood swings. Instead, he
silently touched her hair, quirked an eyebrow, and lead her up the
stairs, away from the merriment.
While Peter thanked the guests, complimented his fiancé, and spoke
eloquently about the struggles that people like them had gone through
and how strong Emma was, Claire pressed Sylar against the wall of
Peter’s childhood bedroom, sank to her knees, and sucked him to an
exhaustive climax.
As they slunk downstairs, Claire’s hair even more tousled from the
fingers that had been tangled in it, Sylar’s dick decorated with the
cherry red of her lipstick, Peter noticed them, his eyes darkening.
When Claire offered her congratulations, pressing a kiss to his cheek,
she hoped that he could smell Sylar on her breath.
* * *
She tried to go back to college, to restart her life for the millionth
time since she was 16, but it all felt false. Even if she ignored the
people who turned to stare at her, who wanted to interview her or have
their picture taken with her, it felt so stupid to sit and listen to
professors discuss the world in theories and concepts when she knew
that it was anything but. So she dropped out of Arlington, choosing
instead to bartend at a place of questionable repute and living in an
apartment that was far below what she could afford with her Nathan
money.
He came into the bar on a Wednesday, the deadest of nights; she had
been wiping down the bar, bullshitting with Walter, a regular who was
working hard towards full blown cirrhosis and convincing her to come
home with him. He took a seat on the ripped vinyl of the stool,
wrinkling his nose at the ever present stickiness of the bar, and she
wanted to chuckle at the way his good breeding seemed to manifest.
The gold band on his finger glinted in the low light; she hated that
stupid hunk of metal.
When he asks the question - ”When did you start hating me? -
she was stunned to realize that it was true. Some time between the
fall and everything that followed, she had started to despise the man
who had once been her hero, the man she had measured all other men
against, the man she had been prepared to break every law for in
exchange for something as trivial as a kiss.
Somewhere between 16 and 21, Claire’s definition of hero had wildly changed.
She had stopped using words to make changes in her life the day she
plummeted to the ground before the world. What she did next was not
the grandest gesture she had ever made, certainly not the gesture that
would redefine the world, but it redefined her world.
She kissed him, her mouth barely a whisper against his, no lipstick
left behind, no moan of pleasure escaping her lips; it was as if
nothing had happened when she pulled away.
Well, nothing until Peter swept off the papers covering her kitchen
table, laid her back, and consummated 5 years of sexual tension.
When it was over, as his pleasure seeped from her body, as Peter
clasped his hands in hers, Claire wanted to cry at the press of his
wedding ring against her skin. This was not how 5 years of wanting
was to come to fruition.
This was not what she had wanted to happen.
* * *
Fucking Sylar the following night had been less about sexual desire
and more about erasing the memory of Peter’s passion. After they had
spent three exhausting rounds in her bed, Claire had asked him to hold
her, something that she had firmly been against since the start of
their…companionship. Sylar had dutifully complied, his strong arms
encircling her, his chest pressed against her back.
She didn’t bother hiding her tears this time; she sobbed openly, the
way she had done years before when she had found out that Meredith
Gordon hadn’t really wanted her, that Noah Bennet had asked the
Haitian to erase her memory, that Nathan was dead. He didn’t shush
her or attempt to comfort her in any way, something she appreciated
given her current state of devastation.
When she was done, when she could finally catch her breath and wipe
away her tears, she turned in the circle of his arms to find that he
too had tears in his eyes.
Their fourth time of the evening was slower and gentler than any time before.
It terrified her to her core.
* * *
She had started to live her life in such a state of denial that she
nearly through her first trimester before she realized that she was
pregnant. It took her less than a minute to realize she didn’t want
what was growing inside her, whether it was Sylar’s or Peter’s.
Four hundred and fifty dollars of trust fund money bought her an
abortion that didn’t work; an unwound hanger and a crochet hook earner
her nothing more than ruined bath towels. Whatever was growing inside
her was safe as long as it was in her impervious womb.
She quit the bar, disappeared in plain sight. The diner where she was
a waitress in Wyoming was the polar opposite of the bar in Virginia;
her customers always wanted to have conversations about their days or
press hands against her swollen middle. After all, everyone loved a
pregnant woman.
She labored alone in the sterility of the delivery room, expelling the
child on a night so cold that even her numb body could feel it. They
placed him on her chest, still coated in blood and vernix, angry wails
emanating from his tiny body, more black hair on his head than any
baby she had seen before. But as she stared at him, she didn’t feel
anything more than casual interest.
Claire left the hospital without telling anyone, leaving behind only a
letter giving the specifics of what to do with the nameless baby
Bennet. She did not feel guilt for what she was doing.
Guilt would imply that she was doing something wrong.
* * *
It was three years before she saw her son again. She had been hiding
away in Canada, calling herself Meredith and working as a secretary,
when Micah had sent her the text message that Noah had a heart attack.
And even though she had swore to herself that Claire Bennet no longer
existed, the idea that her father could die without saying goodbye
proved to be too much.
When she entered the ICU, she saw the shock on their faces. Lyle, now
a fully grown man, had lashed out at her, telling her to leave, that
she should just go back to wherever she was because the family did not
need her anymore. Sandra, who had felt an obligation to come to
Noah’s bedside, had shushed him, pulling Claire into a hug so fierce
she was nearly certain that her ribs would have bruised.
Hearing Noah call her “Claire Bear” in his weakened voice broke open a
dam inside of her. As she sobbed into his healing chest - he had
required emergency bypass the night before - she wondered what it
would take to get back to who she had been before the jump.
* * *
Emma glared at her with pure hatred when she entered the Petrelli
mansion. Her hands moved so quickly in Peter’s direction, signing
what Claire could only assume to be less than flattering statements,
that she was surprised that Emma didn’t smack him in the face. Peter
was more composed, welcoming her back as Angela made sarcastic, biting
comments.
She had barely sat down on the couch when Emma snapped, the edges of
her words dulled, “You can’t have him back.”
It had never occurred to Claire that, when she left the letter at the
hospital, the instructions explicitly stating that the baby should go
to his father Gabriel Gray that the baby would end up with Peter and
Emma. She had thought - perhaps naively - that Sylar would want to
raise his son.
At least, she thought it was his son. Law of averages and all that.
Once Emma spoke, Claire noticed the framed photographs in the living
room depicting a beautiful, dark haired boy of varying ages. He
looked happy, normal.
Peter offered that his name was Ben, short for Bennet Nathan Petrelli;
he was advanced for his age, already reading and able to write his
name. He enjoyed pre-school, was allergic to strawberries, and was
currently spending the night with “Daddy Gabe.” Sylar, he explained,
had felt that he wouldn’t be able to offer Ben the kind of life that
he deserved; he had allowed Peter and Emma to adopt him with the
stipulation that he was allowed unlimited visitation.
“I don’t want him back.”
It was the absolute truth. She held no illusions that she was able to
be a mother, especially to a child that had spent three years knowing
Emma in that role. Claire did not want to be “Mommy Claire,” to
confuse him and make his life more complicated. She wanted Ben’s life
to be unfettered with the baggage that she had grown up with, to have
the kind of freedom she had hoped her fall would bring.
He hadn’t manifested a power yet; Claire knew it was only a matter of time.
* * *
Sylar came to her on Ben’s 13th birthday with a bottle of champagne.
They sat on the roof of his building, passing it between them, a
comfortable silence reached. After the bottle lay empty, Sylar
explained that today was the day that their boy had become a man: his
power had manifested.
“A firestarter, just like his grandma. Got so excited kissing his
girlfriend he set the drapes on fire.”
Claire looked out on the city below, the way she had 15 years before
from the top of Samuel’s amusement ride; she balanced on the ledge
like a gymnast, calculating how long it would take for her to hit the
ground if she allowed herself to topple over.
This time, if she fell and put herself back together again, there
would be no cameras, no furor, no changing of world events.
This time, there would be only the moment of nothingness followed by
the reassembly of her body, the frustration of another ruined outfit,
the mocking eye roll from Sylar for doing something so juvenile.
This time, the fall would be nothing more than that: just a fall.
Claire stepped off the ledge, back onto the safety of the roof.
She had fallen enough for one lifetime.
Rating: R for sex and language
Pairing: Claire/Peter, Claire/Sylar
Warning: incest
Word Count: 3,766
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put
Claire Bennet back together again
It took about all of 30 seconds after Claire jumped from the Ferris
Wheel, her body slamming into the ground and reassembling itself for
the gathered journalists, for her to realize what a monumentally
stupid idea it was. As the flashbulbs exploded and the cacophony of
voices assaulted her eardrums, she knew that what she had done could
not be undone. And while that had seemed like a good idea on her
ascent, a good idea as she spread her arms and plummeted to the ground
below, it now struck her that she had outed an entire race of people
that hadn’t asked to be set free.
She was on the cover of every newspaper the next day, a magazine cover
girl, an 11 o’clock news staple. Doctors, biologists, geneticists,
people from the Department of Defense - everyone had an opinion on who
she was. Half of the world was already trembling with fear at the
implications of her action; the other half were imagining a fabulous
X-Men like existence.
There were no jumpsuits, no secret jets, no Professor X in Claire’s
world; there was an angry father, a disapproving grandmother, and an
uncle who had befriended the psycho that had killed his brother.
Others started coming forward. They demonstrated a variety of powers
to reporters, to the blogosphere, to YouTube; people from all over the
world started to reveal who they really were. A woman in New Orleans
used her muscle mimicry to stop a bank robbery; a man who could
manipulate water put out a massive fire at an elementary school; a
child with a healing touch sent an entire pediatric cancer ward into
remission. They were being heralded as heroes, as humanity’s greatest
hope.
Jack Watson was a 15-year-old from Midland, Texas. He was scrawny,
bespectacled, and spoke with a stutter; he volunteered at a nursing
home and dreamt of going to Harvard. He was also able to repeat back
anything he heard, whether it be conversation or music without a trace
of the stutter that had haunted his speech; thinking that it might
make him a little more popular around school, he revealed himself.
While demonstrating this talent to a group of girls, 4 upperclassmen -
one of whom was the boyfriend of the girl he was trying to impress -
decided to “beat the mutant.”
Jack Watson died when his parents shut off the life support machines;
he had been in a coma for 8 days.
The day that Jack Watson died, Claire was in hiding in the Petrelli
mansion, hidden from the constant barrage of media attention. As CNN
reported that he had died, she destroyed her bedroom. She tore down
pictures, she tipped over furniture; she shredded a pillow. Claire
wasn’t even aware that she was screaming until Sylar burst into the
room, prepared to fight off whatever was attacking.
She hated him. No matter what Peter said, she would never trust him.
He had killed Jackie, her mother, had tried to kill her on more than
one occasion; he had ruined her life and set her down a path that lead
to Jack Watson’s brain damage. Sylar represented everything that
Claire had wanted to obliterate with her swan dive.
And yet, when he saw that there was no threat, when he realized why
she was attacking her bedroom like a rock star after a show, there was
something about the offer he made - ”I could kill them, you
know” - that stirred something more than hatred.
The first time they fucked, it was on the damaged bed, Claire scoring
his back with scratches that disappeared, biting his flesh temporarily
purple. When it was over, she pushed him off of her, wrapped herself
in half of a sheet, and told him to be gone by the time she got out of
the shower.
* * *
The second time happened in Washington DC. She was in town to testify
before Congress about her powers; there was a bill potentially about
to be passed that would require registration for those with abilities.
After giving her testimony, trying to impress upon the politicians
why they were not threats, the head of the committee began to list
people who had used their powers for illegal means. She had sat
there, her perfect poker face in place, and tried to calmly refute
each claim.
Sylar could not be at the hearing - being wanted in two dozen states
for a variety of felonies meant that you couldn’t exactly draw
attention to yourself - but he waited in the suite that they had
rented with Petrelli money. While Peter raged at the committee’s
shortsightedness and Matt wondered what it would be like for baby
Matty to have to go through life with a sign on his back, Claire sat
on the balcony and lit a cigarette.
She had never smoked a day in her life, had never even tried it back
in high school when the rest of the cheerleaders had tried to peer
pressure her into it. Until that day, she had never seen the point in
it. However, as drugs and alcohol would never allow her the bliss of
escape, she had only nicotine as a potential vice.
When the others went for dinner, she stayed on the balcony. Sylar
joined her silently, looking out at the cityscape below.
She rode him at a gallop, the cement rubbing her knees raw and bloody,
as she put out the cigarettes on his chest.
* * *
The third time was her 20th birthday. After a party that had
depressed her more than anything - what was the point in celebrating
aging when you could not age? - she had curled up on the couch of her
mother’s house in Costa Verde. Sandra and her boyfriend were asleep
upstairs, Lyle had headed back to the dorm, and the others had left to
return to their lives. Sylar, who had not been present for the
celebration, arrived just before midnight, a small present in his
hands.
Inside the purple wrapping paper and white box, was a pair of
earrings. They were nothing extravagant - just two, light pink pearls
- but it was something about the gesture that touched the part of her
that she had started to wall up, to push away. She thanked him,
removing the pearls from the box and slipping them into her ears, and
she had smiled genuinely for perhaps the first time of the night.
His kiss was surprisingly gentle; he undressed her carefully in the
living room, laying her back against the sofa cushions as if she would
shatter. She wore only her earrings; he wore an expression that she
would’ve thought to be tenderness on anyone else. It wasn’t until
they were done, sweat soaked and panting, that she realized the salt
on her lips was from her own tears.
He shushed her, smoothing his hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to
her brow. She allowed him to hold her for almost an hour before
slipping back into her dress, before telling him to leave. Like the
times before, he did not appear offended as he slipped his t-shirt
over his head, as he buttoned his pants. However, this time, as he
disappeared out the front door, she almost called for him to come
back.
Almost.
* * *
She lost count of what time they were on when everything went to hell.
They were in the downstairs half-bathroom of Noah’s house, Claire
balanced precariously on the pedestal sink, Sylar pounding into her,
one hand over her mouth to silence her cries, when the door had
suddenly swung open. Terrified it was her father, Claire unwound her
legs from around his waist, pushing her skirt down, hoping that Noah
didn’t notice the way her panties hung from her right foot, when she
realized that the man in the doorway was Peter.
While Sylar took his time pulling his jeans up, she tried to babble
out an explanation for what he had seen, had barely gotten out, “This
isn’t what it looks like!” before realizing that she sounded
ridiculous; of course it was what it looked like. What else
could it have been?
Peter said nothing, simply closing the door with a disgusted look on
his face. Claire hopped off the sink, hurriedly pulling her underwear
up, flinching at the pressure against her aroused flesh. As she
righted her hair and makeup in the mirror, she tried to pretend she
didn’t notice the self-satisfied smirk on Sylar’s face.
She vowed it would be the last time.
* * *
Peter wouldn’t speak to her. Claire tried, of course, but he ignored
her phone calls, dodged her appearances at his apartment, and
generally acted as if he had no idea who the hell she was. And it was
even more infuriating to find out information about him second hand,
such as his increasingly more serious relationship with Emma, whom
Claire hated.
When he finally answered the door of his apartment, she pushed her way
in, immediately spewing out what explanations she could offer, the
wall she had built around her heart coming down and releasing the
cheerleader she had spent the last few years trying to kill. But as
she was trying to impress upon Peter the acute sense of loneliness she
had felt not only since her powers had manifested but especially since
she had leapt from the Ferris wheel, she sensed someone else in the
apartment.
Only Emma’s deafness kept Claire from promptly dying of embarrassment;
she wanted to die of a complete different cause after spotting the
diamond glittering on Emma’s left, ring finger.
Peter looked repentant, the same kind of shame dancing across his
features that she recognized from her face that day in the bathroom,
but she didn’t care. She mumbled an excuse to him and disappeared out
the door.
She cut her hair that night, a choppy, chin length mess courtesy of a
pair of scissors she had found in the kitchen drawer. Forty-five
minutes later, her golden tresses were almost black, a shade she had
selected due to its similarity to the Petrelli family locks.
She didn’t look like herself; it was exactly what she wanted.
* * *
The engagement party was hell on earth. The only reason she had come
was blackmail; Angela had threatened to cut off the trust that Nathan
had established for Claire if she did not come to the party, smile
widely, and act as if she was thrilled that her uncle was marrying the
pretty, deaf cellist. So she had bought a dress - a thoroughly
inappropriate black dress with a neckline that plunged almost to her
navel and dipped so low in the back that ass cleavage was a major
concern - and smeared hooker red lipstick across her mouth, tousling
her homemade bob into a gentle “just been fucked” look before
appearing at the mansion for the party.
Claire knew everyone thought that she was having some sort of mental
breakdown; and, okay, maybe she was. But as fucked up as Claire knew
she was becoming, she also suspected that the concern from her friends
and family had more to do with their collective inability to accept
change. Everyone wanted her to still be the cheerleader, to still
believe that there was good in the world and that their powers had
meaning.
Everyone was stupid.
She wanted desperately to be able to get drunk; it was why she carried
the glass of Jack Daniels, neat. And while her friends gave Emma best
wishes and thumped Peter on the back, she caught Sylar’s eye.
They hadn’t seen each other since their last tryst in the bathroom.
Now, as Peter paraded his bride-to-be around the rooms, Claire
wondered what the point of her loyalty had been, what point of
anything had been.
He didn’t play at being offended at the way she had blown him off
before, didn’t tease her about her bipolar mood swings. Instead, he
silently touched her hair, quirked an eyebrow, and lead her up the
stairs, away from the merriment.
While Peter thanked the guests, complimented his fiancé, and spoke
eloquently about the struggles that people like them had gone through
and how strong Emma was, Claire pressed Sylar against the wall of
Peter’s childhood bedroom, sank to her knees, and sucked him to an
exhaustive climax.
As they slunk downstairs, Claire’s hair even more tousled from the
fingers that had been tangled in it, Sylar’s dick decorated with the
cherry red of her lipstick, Peter noticed them, his eyes darkening.
When Claire offered her congratulations, pressing a kiss to his cheek,
she hoped that he could smell Sylar on her breath.
* * *
She tried to go back to college, to restart her life for the millionth
time since she was 16, but it all felt false. Even if she ignored the
people who turned to stare at her, who wanted to interview her or have
their picture taken with her, it felt so stupid to sit and listen to
professors discuss the world in theories and concepts when she knew
that it was anything but. So she dropped out of Arlington, choosing
instead to bartend at a place of questionable repute and living in an
apartment that was far below what she could afford with her Nathan
money.
He came into the bar on a Wednesday, the deadest of nights; she had
been wiping down the bar, bullshitting with Walter, a regular who was
working hard towards full blown cirrhosis and convincing her to come
home with him. He took a seat on the ripped vinyl of the stool,
wrinkling his nose at the ever present stickiness of the bar, and she
wanted to chuckle at the way his good breeding seemed to manifest.
The gold band on his finger glinted in the low light; she hated that
stupid hunk of metal.
When he asks the question - ”When did you start hating me? -
she was stunned to realize that it was true. Some time between the
fall and everything that followed, she had started to despise the man
who had once been her hero, the man she had measured all other men
against, the man she had been prepared to break every law for in
exchange for something as trivial as a kiss.
Somewhere between 16 and 21, Claire’s definition of hero had wildly changed.
She had stopped using words to make changes in her life the day she
plummeted to the ground before the world. What she did next was not
the grandest gesture she had ever made, certainly not the gesture that
would redefine the world, but it redefined her world.
She kissed him, her mouth barely a whisper against his, no lipstick
left behind, no moan of pleasure escaping her lips; it was as if
nothing had happened when she pulled away.
Well, nothing until Peter swept off the papers covering her kitchen
table, laid her back, and consummated 5 years of sexual tension.
When it was over, as his pleasure seeped from her body, as Peter
clasped his hands in hers, Claire wanted to cry at the press of his
wedding ring against her skin. This was not how 5 years of wanting
was to come to fruition.
This was not what she had wanted to happen.
* * *
Fucking Sylar the following night had been less about sexual desire
and more about erasing the memory of Peter’s passion. After they had
spent three exhausting rounds in her bed, Claire had asked him to hold
her, something that she had firmly been against since the start of
their…companionship. Sylar had dutifully complied, his strong arms
encircling her, his chest pressed against her back.
She didn’t bother hiding her tears this time; she sobbed openly, the
way she had done years before when she had found out that Meredith
Gordon hadn’t really wanted her, that Noah Bennet had asked the
Haitian to erase her memory, that Nathan was dead. He didn’t shush
her or attempt to comfort her in any way, something she appreciated
given her current state of devastation.
When she was done, when she could finally catch her breath and wipe
away her tears, she turned in the circle of his arms to find that he
too had tears in his eyes.
Their fourth time of the evening was slower and gentler than any time before.
It terrified her to her core.
* * *
She had started to live her life in such a state of denial that she
nearly through her first trimester before she realized that she was
pregnant. It took her less than a minute to realize she didn’t want
what was growing inside her, whether it was Sylar’s or Peter’s.
Four hundred and fifty dollars of trust fund money bought her an
abortion that didn’t work; an unwound hanger and a crochet hook earner
her nothing more than ruined bath towels. Whatever was growing inside
her was safe as long as it was in her impervious womb.
She quit the bar, disappeared in plain sight. The diner where she was
a waitress in Wyoming was the polar opposite of the bar in Virginia;
her customers always wanted to have conversations about their days or
press hands against her swollen middle. After all, everyone loved a
pregnant woman.
She labored alone in the sterility of the delivery room, expelling the
child on a night so cold that even her numb body could feel it. They
placed him on her chest, still coated in blood and vernix, angry wails
emanating from his tiny body, more black hair on his head than any
baby she had seen before. But as she stared at him, she didn’t feel
anything more than casual interest.
Claire left the hospital without telling anyone, leaving behind only a
letter giving the specifics of what to do with the nameless baby
Bennet. She did not feel guilt for what she was doing.
Guilt would imply that she was doing something wrong.
* * *
It was three years before she saw her son again. She had been hiding
away in Canada, calling herself Meredith and working as a secretary,
when Micah had sent her the text message that Noah had a heart attack.
And even though she had swore to herself that Claire Bennet no longer
existed, the idea that her father could die without saying goodbye
proved to be too much.
When she entered the ICU, she saw the shock on their faces. Lyle, now
a fully grown man, had lashed out at her, telling her to leave, that
she should just go back to wherever she was because the family did not
need her anymore. Sandra, who had felt an obligation to come to
Noah’s bedside, had shushed him, pulling Claire into a hug so fierce
she was nearly certain that her ribs would have bruised.
Hearing Noah call her “Claire Bear” in his weakened voice broke open a
dam inside of her. As she sobbed into his healing chest - he had
required emergency bypass the night before - she wondered what it
would take to get back to who she had been before the jump.
* * *
Emma glared at her with pure hatred when she entered the Petrelli
mansion. Her hands moved so quickly in Peter’s direction, signing
what Claire could only assume to be less than flattering statements,
that she was surprised that Emma didn’t smack him in the face. Peter
was more composed, welcoming her back as Angela made sarcastic, biting
comments.
She had barely sat down on the couch when Emma snapped, the edges of
her words dulled, “You can’t have him back.”
It had never occurred to Claire that, when she left the letter at the
hospital, the instructions explicitly stating that the baby should go
to his father Gabriel Gray that the baby would end up with Peter and
Emma. She had thought - perhaps naively - that Sylar would want to
raise his son.
At least, she thought it was his son. Law of averages and all that.
Once Emma spoke, Claire noticed the framed photographs in the living
room depicting a beautiful, dark haired boy of varying ages. He
looked happy, normal.
Peter offered that his name was Ben, short for Bennet Nathan Petrelli;
he was advanced for his age, already reading and able to write his
name. He enjoyed pre-school, was allergic to strawberries, and was
currently spending the night with “Daddy Gabe.” Sylar, he explained,
had felt that he wouldn’t be able to offer Ben the kind of life that
he deserved; he had allowed Peter and Emma to adopt him with the
stipulation that he was allowed unlimited visitation.
“I don’t want him back.”
It was the absolute truth. She held no illusions that she was able to
be a mother, especially to a child that had spent three years knowing
Emma in that role. Claire did not want to be “Mommy Claire,” to
confuse him and make his life more complicated. She wanted Ben’s life
to be unfettered with the baggage that she had grown up with, to have
the kind of freedom she had hoped her fall would bring.
He hadn’t manifested a power yet; Claire knew it was only a matter of time.
* * *
Sylar came to her on Ben’s 13th birthday with a bottle of champagne.
They sat on the roof of his building, passing it between them, a
comfortable silence reached. After the bottle lay empty, Sylar
explained that today was the day that their boy had become a man: his
power had manifested.
“A firestarter, just like his grandma. Got so excited kissing his
girlfriend he set the drapes on fire.”
Claire looked out on the city below, the way she had 15 years before
from the top of Samuel’s amusement ride; she balanced on the ledge
like a gymnast, calculating how long it would take for her to hit the
ground if she allowed herself to topple over.
This time, if she fell and put herself back together again, there
would be no cameras, no furor, no changing of world events.
This time, there would be only the moment of nothingness followed by
the reassembly of her body, the frustration of another ruined outfit,
the mocking eye roll from Sylar for doing something so juvenile.
This time, the fall would be nothing more than that: just a fall.
Claire stepped off the ledge, back onto the safety of the roof.
She had fallen enough for one lifetime.