Grey Matters (Heroes 3way Challenge, Sylaire)
Title: Grey Matters
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Up to Parasite.
Pairings: Sylar/Claire (If you wanna squint, Paire)
Characters: Sylar, Claire, Mohinder
Genre: Character study, drama, angst
Warnings: Underage stuff, and dubious!con
Summary: Claire comes to visit Mohinder after hearing his message on Peter's machine. Based on an idea that Mohinder would make a good voyeur on the ceiling...
The third and last part of a challenge between freetheelves2 (wrote the con version), sesemperambo (wrote the noncon) and I (bring you the dubcon).
Disclaimer: Hee. No. Don't own it.
AN: Yeah. This is not my favorite of the trio XD
--
Grey Matters
She wrung her wrists nervously, as she stepped into the apartment, calling out hesitantly. Her eyes took in the chaos of the room in one sweep, and she frowned. Did he really live in this...? She doubted it.
But it wasn't as if it had been rifled through, it looked like it had been deliberately trashed.
"Is anyone home?" She ventured, chewing her lip. She would have left and came back another time, but she had no where else to go.
She couldn't go back to that...that family of false smiles and layered secrets. She couldn't become Vivian, she couldn't hide in Paris, and she wouldn't force herself on a father who didn't want her. She wouldn't trade her real family for those posers.
And none of her frustration had to do with the fact that her hero, Peter, ended up her uncle.
She heard a noise from a nearby room, and she picked up a nearby table leg, before venturing carefully into the room. A tall, well-framed man stood in the middle of the room, looking at her in confusion.
She frowned. "Are you...Mohinder?"
His face clouded a moment, before nodding, with a genuine smile of relief.
The stick clattered to the floor, and she felt a little stupid--from the phone call she had expected a little...different.
"I...I overheard the message you left for Peter..." She stammered, suddenly feeling like a bit of an ass for coming over without announcing herself first, when clearly he had problems of his own to deal with. (And it wasn't as if he'd left the message for her, so it made it all the more awkward.
She glanced around the room momentarily, taking in the mess that covered the floor. "What happened?"
He sighed gravely, looking around the room. "Sylar."
She blinked at his honeyed accent--he certainly didn't look....
"You heard me right." He laughed suddenly, an odd sound that seemed out of place with the situation around him. "I was raised in a proper Indian family. I've got the chai, the idols, and the accent to prove it."
She couldn't help but laugh at that, then, her previous unease melting some as she took a few steps forward and offered a hand. "I'm Claire Bennet. I'm sorry to bother you, but...I heard your message, and I had to see you."
"I know all about you." He smiled, taking her hand, and she had to suppress the urge to shudder. "Your friend, Peter, he's quite...proud of you."
His hand dropped from hers a moment later, however, and he turned to fix an upturned chair. "Here, why don't you sit down, and I'll make some of my father's chai, and we can discuss whatever you're here for?"
"Oh no, that's--"
"Nonsense!" He said forcefully, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her into the chair.
Alright, now she was starting to get worried...but maybe he was just a bit zealous? Or worried himself...after all, he did say Sylar had been here...how had he survived? What had happened? Why had he come for him, if not to kill him?
He returned before she could think long, steaming cup of tea in each hand, and a smile almost glued on to his face. "Here you go! Hot tea!"
She smiled at him as he sat on the desk next to her, whoch held a laptop and a mess of papers. "Please, there's no need to put on a good face for me. Really."
He looked confused, and then his entire posture seemed to crumble. "I'm sorry..."
A heavy sigh dragged out of his lips, as he shook his head. "It's just...I...it's hard to explain."
She felt a pang of sympathy, and she reached out to touch his arm, offering a reassuring smile. "No, I understand...Sylar...Sylar came after me once, too."
He looked up in surprise. "You?"
She nodded, the memory of her best friend's scream sending a shiver through her. "It was...the most terrifying night of my life. I really thought I was gonna die."
He did something strange then, he smiled.
"Hey, it's not funny!"
"Oh, no!" He gasped, shaking his head in horror. "It's just...I mean...you must have survived?"
She nodded. Thanks to Peter. Her hero. Who also happened to be her uncle. Which only added to the entirely screwed up...screwed up-ness of her family. "But it was a close call."
He nodded, sighing in relief. "If you don't mind me asking...why?"
She looked down at the chai swirling in her cup. This was what she was here for, right? The whole point of it? After all, what else could she do? He was...he said he could 'fix' Peter in that message, didn't he?
Couldn't he fix her, too? Make her normal again?
His hand squeezed hers, and she nearly dropped her cup at his close proximity. His wide brown eyes held only a calm, reassuring warmth in them. She could almost lose herself in them if she wasn't careful. And that was a terrifying thought.
She broke away from his gaze, to look across the room at the strange looking map against the wall.
"It's alright...Claire, did you say?" He said softly. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to."
"It's not that--" She turned back toward him, and was reminded of his uncomfortable proximity.
He smiled again, a much more natural smile this time. "I know...Peter told me all about you, remember? Your amazing ability...cellular regeneration. You're special. I understand."
"Special..." She smiled ruefully, willing herself to break his gaze, but only making it to his shoulder. "More like freak."
A hand grabbed her chin, and turned her face back to his, almost too forcefully. His expression was stern...she could almost detect a hint of anger in it. "You are not a freak. You are special."
She couldn't help a small smile. "You remind me of a friend of mine."
He had to stop smiling like that, or...
Her breath caught so harshly in her throat when she felt his unnaturally cool lips brush hers, that she broke into a choking fit.
"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry!" He recoiled away from her, looking absolutely mortified with himself, hands raised defensively. "I didn't, that is...I mean..."
She shook her head, waving him off as she regained control of her throat and vocal chords. "No..no...it's alright...I just..."
She laughed, feeling her cheeks heat. "I didn't expect that."
He rubbed the back of his head, and leaned on the far end of the desk with his other hand. "Yeah...me neither, actually...it just sort of...and I mean..."
She shrugged, looking down at where the cup had spilled onto the floor. Had she dropped it? How...how silly. "I better clean that..."
"Don't bother. This whole house needs cleaning, in case you haven't noticed."
"...Right."
She sighed, studying the long fingers that dug into her jeans. She felt like she was 13, and she hated herself for it. It wasn't like she wasn't mature enough to be an adult, and she was clearly pretty enough to be a cheerleader. Besides, what did one little indiscretion matter next to the fact that he was the first person in far too long to believe in her, and (obviously) the only one to think of her as an adult?
Her lips still felt cool.
"Do you want another cup of tea?"
She stood up, swallowing heavily, and refusing to look at him. "I should go..." Before she did something really stupid.
"Don't." A hand grabbed her arm. "Please."
She glanced back at him, against her better judgment. He seemed so sad, so desperate. Did he need her as much as...no, no, no. What would he need her for, anyway?
With some effort, he managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry, I just..."
He laughed. "How old are you?"
She couldn't help it. 19 was close enough, anyway.
"You keep forgetting, I already know you, remember?" A grin then, and he stepped closer to her. She almost wondered how he didn't hear her heartbeat thudding in her chest. "Since we're lying about our ages, though, why don't we just pretend I'm 24?"
"Then why..." She gave a weak laugh, cheeks burning. "Do you keep asking me?"
He smiled. "You can't learn everything about a person by asking someone else about them."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he never gave her the chance.
She was vaguely certain that embarrassing sound came from her, as she was pulled flush against him, but she wasn't certain how she could have managed any sound through his sweeping tongue and needy frozen mouth. It flitted through her mind how absurdly wrong it was to be doing this with some man she just met, who was clearly much older than 24.
Well. In principal it might've been, but sometimes you had to bend the rules, right? And it was so...
She swallowed audibly and broke away when he ground into her hip, hoping she didn't look too much like a deer caught in headlights. His gaze was clouded with all sorts of those taboo emotions, like lust and arousal (were those emotions? She couldn't quite recall...)
He smiled, like that cat who'd finally pounced the yellow bird. (Why did he have to keep smiling?)
She laughed again, ignoring how breathless it happened to sound--because she wasn't breathless, oh no, she was just...out of breath. Yes. That was it. "That was..."
He closed the distance, this time running teeth along her neck instead. Which was...totally fine with her, because...because...
Because...
Why was it okay? No...honestly...when had she decided that it was perfectly okay to make out with a strange man who was so much older than 24? No matter how nice, or good looking he was.
"I'm...I'm sorry..." She coughed, pushing the man away from her, unable to meet his eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"I just..." She looked up at him nervously. "I can't."
He smirked slightly, some of his previous warmth ebbing away. "Now now, Claire...that's not a very grown up thing to do, is it?"
She stiffened. "Don't patronize me."
"Right." He growled, hands seizing her shoulders and shoving her against the wall, no kindness light in his eyes. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly, as she shook her head. This was not happening...
A well-placed knee, and she was off, sprinting for the door. She hadn't anticipated somthing knocking her flat on her face, however. He hadn't looked strong enough to hurl anything. The room spun as a sharp pain yanked her face up to meet his wild gaze.
She...she felt like a kid, like the 16 year old who snuck off with the wrong quarterback. Except this time they weren't drunk, and she didn't think he'd be careless enough to kill her first and spare her.
Unbidden, tears blurred her vision, as she fought to shake her head against his vicegrip on her hair. "Don't do this...don't..."
Her words trailed off, as her eyes made out the most bizarre--no, no..not bizarre...
Horrifying.
Her stomach turned, and she fought the urge to vomit.
Oh god...
He was going to kill her.
The man--Sylar--calmly turned his head to follow her gaze to the one--the real Mohinder--pinned onto the ceiling, before looking back at her with a dark smile that was anything but warm.
"Sylar..." Her voice wavered only a little bit...but certainly that could be excused given the circumstances.
"Boo."
Invisible claws dug into her throat moments before she found herself ripped up from the floor, and flung into the wall behind her. A part of her was almost glad of the invisible support--she could never have supported her own legs with the amount she was trembling.
"You really should have played along, dear little Claire." His voice had a patronizing tone to it, all traces of his accent replaced with a quiet chill, as he stood up, and took a few steps toward her. His every movement spoke of the deadly grace of a predator that very much knew he was in control.
A few more steps and his hands were on either side of her head on the wall. "It would have been so much easier for you."
She would have spat an insult back at him, but she could hardly breathe through the invisible hands, let alone speak.
He reached a hand up to her face, and she flinched away as far as her invisible restraints would allow her, images of Jackie and blood and screams flashing through her mind. A cool hand brushed away a stray lock of hair, and her mind echoed with an unnaturally dark chuckle.
And then...just like that, he was gone. Walking away to the middle of the room to look up at the man still pinned there. Only the man's wide eyes following the movement gave any indication that he was still alive.
"Enjoying the view, Mohinder?"
The man--Mohinder--broke into a coughing fit a moment afterward, and Claire winced at the droplets of blood that rained onto Sylar from the action. What had she gotten herself into? Where was Peter?
"Let her go, Sylar!" The accent was slightly different from the fake one Sylar had used--of course it was possible that was thanks to his condition at the moment.
Sylar tsked, and shook his head. "Now, why would I want to do that, when she's such a lovely...specimin, don't you think?"
One of his hands lifted as if to indicate her, and the invisible bonds pinning her arms and legs to the wall jerked forward, sending her spinning into the middle of the room, face first into the grimy carpet, and probably a good amount of Mohinder's lost blood.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off waves nausea and fear, struggling for a way--any way--to get away, to run, to escape, to find Peter and let him rescue her and Mohinder again. But....she couldn't move, she couldn't speak or scream...she could barely even breathe.
A rough kick to her waist rolled her over, and as she hesitantly opened her eyes, her gaze met the tormented expression of the darker skinned man, directly above her. His eyes moved upward to look at the man standing beside her, and glowering upward.
"Stop this." He pleaded. "She's only a little girl."
She couldn't help the pang of annoyance at his words--and here she was trying to figure out how to save him...
Sylar barked a laugh, and squatted down next to her, turning to look down at her. "Oh, but little Claire doesn't think so, do you?"
The grip on her throat relaxed, allowing a flood of air to fill her lungs, alleviating the way her mind had been fuzzing from the lack of proper oxygen. His sudden generosity was clearly rooted in some perverted desire to hear whatever she might have to retort with.
Instead, she spat at his face. She expected him to hit her in retaliation. She didn't expect him to smile calmly, and shake his head, flicking away the spittle that ran down his forehead.
"Oh, little Claire, when will you learn you're only making it harder for yourself?" He titled his head a moment, as if studying her. "Tell me, little Claire...no matter how I cut you, your wounds will only close, but will your beautiful ability heal this?"
A crook of his finger, and her heavy winter clothes ripped outward like some twisted Aliens movie, exposing shivering skin and simple red-and-white underwear. She could feel his gaze roaming across her body, sick amusement oozing from his expression.
A shudder of revulsion followed his lazily twirling hand from collarbone to thighs, and she shut her eyes against the reality that could not be happening. Not now, not here, certainly not like this to her. It couldn't be.
She wanted to say that it worked. That it wasn't her body revealed when the last vestiges of her clothes were ruthlessly torn away. She wanted to think that she couldn't hear the feverish pleading, or feel the warmth of blood and tears raining onto her like some morbid altar girl. She would have loved to pretend she was sunbathing on a private island, or spending a christmas with family...hell, hiding out in detatched darkness wouldn't have been so bad.
But she couldn't claim it wasn't her sobbing and whimpering and begging...for salvation, forgiveness, pity, reprieve, Peter. Even when she gave up closing her eyes to hide, she refused to look at him, depriving him of at least that much satisfaction. She could do that, couldn't she? She could...
Oh god, when would it end? When would he tire of toying with her, bore of tormenting his audience, and kill her?
He sneered when her cries for help melted into killmekillmepleaseohgodpleasekillme. She thought, looking up at the broken expression of the man helplessly watching, that a large part of her had already died. She could almost feel the shattered shards of her soul burning through her--she decided that was a better alternative to whatever it might have truly been.
She welcomed the haze that gently dragged her away from hell, running to the cold numbness that enveloped her, as her mind threatened to crumble under his onslaught. Distant sobs and indecipherably disgusting sounds echoed hollowly in her ears, a million miles away.
She'd always assumed 'hiding away' was a matter of will power. She just never realized it was the breaking of it that gave way to the haunted bliss, not the clinging to it.
Things moved quickly in the corner of her mind that was still aware of the world around her. Shouts, crashes, and screams.
"Claire!"
She recognized the voice somehow, but she couldn't place it.
"Oh...God...Claire!"
Through the distance of herself and the haze, she could make out a face...someone familiar...Peter.
He came for her. He saved her, and he was holding her tight, willing her to be alright.
She wasn't sure when she had 'returned', or even anything she was saying into his shirt as she clung to him--she doubted he knew either. A coarse coat draped over her as he hauled her up, and the dark skinned man stood on her other side, a never ending stream of apologies and meaningless words springing from him.
The man, her assailant, Sylar, was no where to be seen.
It didn't matter anymore, though, Peter, her uncle, her family, her protector, her hero, was here. He promised her he wouldn't ever let anyone hurt her...not ever again.
Maybe it was childish, and maybe it was destined to be crushed one day, but for now...she believed every word.
END
--
AN: -.- That wasn't meant to be seen as Paire in a shippy sort of way, but if you'd like to see it that way, knock yourself out ;p *Is just happy she finished it*
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Up to Parasite.
Pairings: Sylar/Claire (If you wanna squint, Paire)
Characters: Sylar, Claire, Mohinder
Genre: Character study, drama, angst
Warnings: Underage stuff, and dubious!con
Summary: Claire comes to visit Mohinder after hearing his message on Peter's machine. Based on an idea that Mohinder would make a good voyeur on the ceiling...
The third and last part of a challenge between freetheelves2 (wrote the con version), sesemperambo (wrote the noncon) and I (bring you the dubcon).
Disclaimer: Hee. No. Don't own it.
AN: Yeah. This is not my favorite of the trio XD
--
Grey Matters
She wrung her wrists nervously, as she stepped into the apartment, calling out hesitantly. Her eyes took in the chaos of the room in one sweep, and she frowned. Did he really live in this...? She doubted it.
But it wasn't as if it had been rifled through, it looked like it had been deliberately trashed.
"Is anyone home?" She ventured, chewing her lip. She would have left and came back another time, but she had no where else to go.
She couldn't go back to that...that family of false smiles and layered secrets. She couldn't become Vivian, she couldn't hide in Paris, and she wouldn't force herself on a father who didn't want her. She wouldn't trade her real family for those posers.
And none of her frustration had to do with the fact that her hero, Peter, ended up her uncle.
She heard a noise from a nearby room, and she picked up a nearby table leg, before venturing carefully into the room. A tall, well-framed man stood in the middle of the room, looking at her in confusion.
She frowned. "Are you...Mohinder?"
His face clouded a moment, before nodding, with a genuine smile of relief.
The stick clattered to the floor, and she felt a little stupid--from the phone call she had expected a little...different.
"I...I overheard the message you left for Peter..." She stammered, suddenly feeling like a bit of an ass for coming over without announcing herself first, when clearly he had problems of his own to deal with. (And it wasn't as if he'd left the message for her, so it made it all the more awkward.
She glanced around the room momentarily, taking in the mess that covered the floor. "What happened?"
He sighed gravely, looking around the room. "Sylar."
She blinked at his honeyed accent--he certainly didn't look....
"You heard me right." He laughed suddenly, an odd sound that seemed out of place with the situation around him. "I was raised in a proper Indian family. I've got the chai, the idols, and the accent to prove it."
She couldn't help but laugh at that, then, her previous unease melting some as she took a few steps forward and offered a hand. "I'm Claire Bennet. I'm sorry to bother you, but...I heard your message, and I had to see you."
"I know all about you." He smiled, taking her hand, and she had to suppress the urge to shudder. "Your friend, Peter, he's quite...proud of you."
His hand dropped from hers a moment later, however, and he turned to fix an upturned chair. "Here, why don't you sit down, and I'll make some of my father's chai, and we can discuss whatever you're here for?"
"Oh no, that's--"
"Nonsense!" He said forcefully, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her into the chair.
Alright, now she was starting to get worried...but maybe he was just a bit zealous? Or worried himself...after all, he did say Sylar had been here...how had he survived? What had happened? Why had he come for him, if not to kill him?
He returned before she could think long, steaming cup of tea in each hand, and a smile almost glued on to his face. "Here you go! Hot tea!"
She smiled at him as he sat on the desk next to her, whoch held a laptop and a mess of papers. "Please, there's no need to put on a good face for me. Really."
He looked confused, and then his entire posture seemed to crumble. "I'm sorry..."
A heavy sigh dragged out of his lips, as he shook his head. "It's just...I...it's hard to explain."
She felt a pang of sympathy, and she reached out to touch his arm, offering a reassuring smile. "No, I understand...Sylar...Sylar came after me once, too."
He looked up in surprise. "You?"
She nodded, the memory of her best friend's scream sending a shiver through her. "It was...the most terrifying night of my life. I really thought I was gonna die."
He did something strange then, he smiled.
"Hey, it's not funny!"
"Oh, no!" He gasped, shaking his head in horror. "It's just...I mean...you must have survived?"
She nodded. Thanks to Peter. Her hero. Who also happened to be her uncle. Which only added to the entirely screwed up...screwed up-ness of her family. "But it was a close call."
He nodded, sighing in relief. "If you don't mind me asking...why?"
She looked down at the chai swirling in her cup. This was what she was here for, right? The whole point of it? After all, what else could she do? He was...he said he could 'fix' Peter in that message, didn't he?
Couldn't he fix her, too? Make her normal again?
His hand squeezed hers, and she nearly dropped her cup at his close proximity. His wide brown eyes held only a calm, reassuring warmth in them. She could almost lose herself in them if she wasn't careful. And that was a terrifying thought.
She broke away from his gaze, to look across the room at the strange looking map against the wall.
"It's alright...Claire, did you say?" He said softly. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to."
"It's not that--" She turned back toward him, and was reminded of his uncomfortable proximity.
He smiled again, a much more natural smile this time. "I know...Peter told me all about you, remember? Your amazing ability...cellular regeneration. You're special. I understand."
"Special..." She smiled ruefully, willing herself to break his gaze, but only making it to his shoulder. "More like freak."
A hand grabbed her chin, and turned her face back to his, almost too forcefully. His expression was stern...she could almost detect a hint of anger in it. "You are not a freak. You are special."
She couldn't help a small smile. "You remind me of a friend of mine."
He had to stop smiling like that, or...
Her breath caught so harshly in her throat when she felt his unnaturally cool lips brush hers, that she broke into a choking fit.
"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry!" He recoiled away from her, looking absolutely mortified with himself, hands raised defensively. "I didn't, that is...I mean..."
She shook her head, waving him off as she regained control of her throat and vocal chords. "No..no...it's alright...I just..."
She laughed, feeling her cheeks heat. "I didn't expect that."
He rubbed the back of his head, and leaned on the far end of the desk with his other hand. "Yeah...me neither, actually...it just sort of...and I mean..."
She shrugged, looking down at where the cup had spilled onto the floor. Had she dropped it? How...how silly. "I better clean that..."
"Don't bother. This whole house needs cleaning, in case you haven't noticed."
"...Right."
She sighed, studying the long fingers that dug into her jeans. She felt like she was 13, and she hated herself for it. It wasn't like she wasn't mature enough to be an adult, and she was clearly pretty enough to be a cheerleader. Besides, what did one little indiscretion matter next to the fact that he was the first person in far too long to believe in her, and (obviously) the only one to think of her as an adult?
Her lips still felt cool.
"Do you want another cup of tea?"
She stood up, swallowing heavily, and refusing to look at him. "I should go..." Before she did something really stupid.
"Don't." A hand grabbed her arm. "Please."
She glanced back at him, against her better judgment. He seemed so sad, so desperate. Did he need her as much as...no, no, no. What would he need her for, anyway?
With some effort, he managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry, I just..."
He laughed. "How old are you?"
She couldn't help it. 19 was close enough, anyway.
"You keep forgetting, I already know you, remember?" A grin then, and he stepped closer to her. She almost wondered how he didn't hear her heartbeat thudding in her chest. "Since we're lying about our ages, though, why don't we just pretend I'm 24?"
"Then why..." She gave a weak laugh, cheeks burning. "Do you keep asking me?"
He smiled. "You can't learn everything about a person by asking someone else about them."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he never gave her the chance.
She was vaguely certain that embarrassing sound came from her, as she was pulled flush against him, but she wasn't certain how she could have managed any sound through his sweeping tongue and needy frozen mouth. It flitted through her mind how absurdly wrong it was to be doing this with some man she just met, who was clearly much older than 24.
Well. In principal it might've been, but sometimes you had to bend the rules, right? And it was so...
She swallowed audibly and broke away when he ground into her hip, hoping she didn't look too much like a deer caught in headlights. His gaze was clouded with all sorts of those taboo emotions, like lust and arousal (were those emotions? She couldn't quite recall...)
He smiled, like that cat who'd finally pounced the yellow bird. (Why did he have to keep smiling?)
She laughed again, ignoring how breathless it happened to sound--because she wasn't breathless, oh no, she was just...out of breath. Yes. That was it. "That was..."
He closed the distance, this time running teeth along her neck instead. Which was...totally fine with her, because...because...
Because...
Why was it okay? No...honestly...when had she decided that it was perfectly okay to make out with a strange man who was so much older than 24? No matter how nice, or good looking he was.
"I'm...I'm sorry..." She coughed, pushing the man away from her, unable to meet his eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"I just..." She looked up at him nervously. "I can't."
He smirked slightly, some of his previous warmth ebbing away. "Now now, Claire...that's not a very grown up thing to do, is it?"
She stiffened. "Don't patronize me."
"Right." He growled, hands seizing her shoulders and shoving her against the wall, no kindness light in his eyes. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly, as she shook her head. This was not happening...
A well-placed knee, and she was off, sprinting for the door. She hadn't anticipated somthing knocking her flat on her face, however. He hadn't looked strong enough to hurl anything. The room spun as a sharp pain yanked her face up to meet his wild gaze.
She...she felt like a kid, like the 16 year old who snuck off with the wrong quarterback. Except this time they weren't drunk, and she didn't think he'd be careless enough to kill her first and spare her.
Unbidden, tears blurred her vision, as she fought to shake her head against his vicegrip on her hair. "Don't do this...don't..."
Her words trailed off, as her eyes made out the most bizarre--no, no..not bizarre...
Horrifying.
Her stomach turned, and she fought the urge to vomit.
Oh god...
He was going to kill her.
The man--Sylar--calmly turned his head to follow her gaze to the one--the real Mohinder--pinned onto the ceiling, before looking back at her with a dark smile that was anything but warm.
"Sylar..." Her voice wavered only a little bit...but certainly that could be excused given the circumstances.
"Boo."
Invisible claws dug into her throat moments before she found herself ripped up from the floor, and flung into the wall behind her. A part of her was almost glad of the invisible support--she could never have supported her own legs with the amount she was trembling.
"You really should have played along, dear little Claire." His voice had a patronizing tone to it, all traces of his accent replaced with a quiet chill, as he stood up, and took a few steps toward her. His every movement spoke of the deadly grace of a predator that very much knew he was in control.
A few more steps and his hands were on either side of her head on the wall. "It would have been so much easier for you."
She would have spat an insult back at him, but she could hardly breathe through the invisible hands, let alone speak.
He reached a hand up to her face, and she flinched away as far as her invisible restraints would allow her, images of Jackie and blood and screams flashing through her mind. A cool hand brushed away a stray lock of hair, and her mind echoed with an unnaturally dark chuckle.
And then...just like that, he was gone. Walking away to the middle of the room to look up at the man still pinned there. Only the man's wide eyes following the movement gave any indication that he was still alive.
"Enjoying the view, Mohinder?"
The man--Mohinder--broke into a coughing fit a moment afterward, and Claire winced at the droplets of blood that rained onto Sylar from the action. What had she gotten herself into? Where was Peter?
"Let her go, Sylar!" The accent was slightly different from the fake one Sylar had used--of course it was possible that was thanks to his condition at the moment.
Sylar tsked, and shook his head. "Now, why would I want to do that, when she's such a lovely...specimin, don't you think?"
One of his hands lifted as if to indicate her, and the invisible bonds pinning her arms and legs to the wall jerked forward, sending her spinning into the middle of the room, face first into the grimy carpet, and probably a good amount of Mohinder's lost blood.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off waves nausea and fear, struggling for a way--any way--to get away, to run, to escape, to find Peter and let him rescue her and Mohinder again. But....she couldn't move, she couldn't speak or scream...she could barely even breathe.
A rough kick to her waist rolled her over, and as she hesitantly opened her eyes, her gaze met the tormented expression of the darker skinned man, directly above her. His eyes moved upward to look at the man standing beside her, and glowering upward.
"Stop this." He pleaded. "She's only a little girl."
She couldn't help the pang of annoyance at his words--and here she was trying to figure out how to save him...
Sylar barked a laugh, and squatted down next to her, turning to look down at her. "Oh, but little Claire doesn't think so, do you?"
The grip on her throat relaxed, allowing a flood of air to fill her lungs, alleviating the way her mind had been fuzzing from the lack of proper oxygen. His sudden generosity was clearly rooted in some perverted desire to hear whatever she might have to retort with.
Instead, she spat at his face. She expected him to hit her in retaliation. She didn't expect him to smile calmly, and shake his head, flicking away the spittle that ran down his forehead.
"Oh, little Claire, when will you learn you're only making it harder for yourself?" He titled his head a moment, as if studying her. "Tell me, little Claire...no matter how I cut you, your wounds will only close, but will your beautiful ability heal this?"
A crook of his finger, and her heavy winter clothes ripped outward like some twisted Aliens movie, exposing shivering skin and simple red-and-white underwear. She could feel his gaze roaming across her body, sick amusement oozing from his expression.
A shudder of revulsion followed his lazily twirling hand from collarbone to thighs, and she shut her eyes against the reality that could not be happening. Not now, not here, certainly not like this to her. It couldn't be.
She wanted to say that it worked. That it wasn't her body revealed when the last vestiges of her clothes were ruthlessly torn away. She wanted to think that she couldn't hear the feverish pleading, or feel the warmth of blood and tears raining onto her like some morbid altar girl. She would have loved to pretend she was sunbathing on a private island, or spending a christmas with family...hell, hiding out in detatched darkness wouldn't have been so bad.
But she couldn't claim it wasn't her sobbing and whimpering and begging...for salvation, forgiveness, pity, reprieve, Peter. Even when she gave up closing her eyes to hide, she refused to look at him, depriving him of at least that much satisfaction. She could do that, couldn't she? She could...
Oh god, when would it end? When would he tire of toying with her, bore of tormenting his audience, and kill her?
He sneered when her cries for help melted into killmekillmepleaseohgodpleasekillme. She thought, looking up at the broken expression of the man helplessly watching, that a large part of her had already died. She could almost feel the shattered shards of her soul burning through her--she decided that was a better alternative to whatever it might have truly been.
She welcomed the haze that gently dragged her away from hell, running to the cold numbness that enveloped her, as her mind threatened to crumble under his onslaught. Distant sobs and indecipherably disgusting sounds echoed hollowly in her ears, a million miles away.
She'd always assumed 'hiding away' was a matter of will power. She just never realized it was the breaking of it that gave way to the haunted bliss, not the clinging to it.
Things moved quickly in the corner of her mind that was still aware of the world around her. Shouts, crashes, and screams.
"Claire!"
She recognized the voice somehow, but she couldn't place it.
"Oh...God...Claire!"
Through the distance of herself and the haze, she could make out a face...someone familiar...Peter.
He came for her. He saved her, and he was holding her tight, willing her to be alright.
She wasn't sure when she had 'returned', or even anything she was saying into his shirt as she clung to him--she doubted he knew either. A coarse coat draped over her as he hauled her up, and the dark skinned man stood on her other side, a never ending stream of apologies and meaningless words springing from him.
The man, her assailant, Sylar, was no where to be seen.
It didn't matter anymore, though, Peter, her uncle, her family, her protector, her hero, was here. He promised her he wouldn't ever let anyone hurt her...not ever again.
Maybe it was childish, and maybe it was destined to be crushed one day, but for now...she believed every word.
END
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AN: -.- That wasn't meant to be seen as Paire in a shippy sort of way, but if you'd like to see it that way, knock yourself out ;p *Is just happy she finished it*