Merrily, Merrily
Author’s note: Written as a response to freetheelves2’s Orient Express murder mystery challenge. Hope you like it! :) Sorry, ‘tis unbeta’d. Yes, I know I’m supposed to be either working on the works in progress or resting to get over this suck-ass sickness, but I just came up with a plot and then I realized there was a time limit, and um… yeah. Oh, yeah, probably obvious in the story - but they all work for the Company now, and I decided to use one of the original plot lines for Elle's character - she and Claire are sisters.
Author's note the second: Read carefully ;) There are two possible endings to this little mystery - you have to be looking to find the other one *devious grin*
She awakes from a deep sleep to bright light shining in her eyes and a whispered argument between two angry men. She slowly opens her eyes, only to shut them again quickly. This strange room, with its burgundy draperies and dark green wallpaper, isn’t her bedroom.
“Claire.” The voice is vaguely familiar, and she forces one eye open.
“Mmmph?” He mouth is dry and she can’t form words. Licking her lips before trying again, she finally manages to get her mouth in sync with her brain. “Peter?”
“Finally, sleeping beauty awakes. Thank God, I was getting worried one of us was going to have to kiss you.” Another man responds instead.
It takes her a minute before she recognizes the voice. “Sylar.” She sits up, trying to cover the tiny nightgown she’d worn to bed, when she realizes she’s no longer wearing her gown. Instead, she’s draped in purple silk adorned with tiny jet black beads, and she’s got on strappy black high heels. The ankle-length dress reminds her of the old styles people wore in the twenties and thirties. “What in the world?” she voices to herself.
“Let me guess, you don’t remember anything.” Peter sighs. “We don’t either. I just woke up here, dressed in strange clothes, with you lying across my lap and Sylar glaring at me.”
Wondering what sort of sick game Sylar’s playing, Claire has to ask. “What do you want from us?”
“Nothing.” Sylar snarls at her. “I’m just like St. Peter here - the last thing I remember was getting on an airplane back to Odessa after finishing that assignment in Chicago. Besides, we’re not the only ones here.” He crosses his legs, and she gets a glimpse of black and white spats, and it’s only then that she realizes he’s dressed in a tuxedo. He’s looking at something behind her, and Claire turns to see her sister prancing into the room, followed by Mohinder Suresh and Matt Parkman.
“Oh, she’s finally awake. Yippee.” Elle rolls her eyes. “Anyway, we couldn’t find a way off. We’re stuck.”
“Stuck on what? What’s going on here?” Claire wants answers, and she wants them now. She was sound asleep in her apartment, and then she was here, and everything is so confusing.
Smiling at her, Mohinder answers. “We’re on some sort of train, Claire. We ran into a conductor; he said that we’re waiting for one more passenger, and then we’ll be on our way.” He adjusts the collar of his suit, and complains. “I hate these clothes. We weren’t able to find anything else to wear, though.”
“At least you have pants, Suresh.” Elle complains. “These shoes are beyond fugly, and my dress is hideous.” She throws herself onto the open space on the bench next to Sylar.
Matt sighs. “Don’t start again, please. I can’t listen to another half hour diatribe about hem lengths and how unfair it is that Claire gets silk and you get chiffon. Please, I’m begging you.” He takes a seat on the bench across the aisle from them. “Anyone want to guess who the other mysterious passenger is?”
Sylar squirms in his seat, moving further away from Elle as she starts playing with the lapel of his jacket. “Stop that! How many times do I have to tell you to keep your hands off of me? It’s bad enough that I’ve been partnered with you for work, but I’m not your toy.”
Elle pouts, but continues running her hands over his shoulder and down his arm to play with his cufflinks. “I’m bored.”
With a curt “Be bored with someone else,” Sylar pulls his arm away from her. He gets out of his seat and begins pacing. He walks to one end of the train car, and then turns and begins walking to the other end. He’s almost there when he notices something odd. “Did anyone else notice our glorious leader passed out back here in the corner, or is he new?” The man moans when Sylar nudges him with his foot.
The rest of the group get up and circle around Sylar to look at their other companion. Claire pushes Sylar out of the way, and kneels next to Noah Bennet. “Dad, what are you doing here?” She helps him up to a sitting position.
“Where are we?” Noah sounds as groggy as he looks.
“Good, we’re all here!” A man’s cheerful voice surprises them all, and everyone turns to stare at him. “I’m Mr. Smith, your conductor for this little trip, and we’ll be getting under way soon. I’m sure you have some questions, so if you’ll just take a seat, I can give you some information.”
Tired of all the pretense and being held against his will, Sylar tries to use his telekinesis to throw the man across the room. Nothing happens. “What the hell?”
“Oh, poor little killer having performance problems? Let me.” Hard as she might try, Elle can’t get her electricity to work either. “No fair!”
“I believe I asked you to sit, please.” No one moves, and the conductor frowns and pulls a gun out, pointing it at them and clicking off the safety. “By the way, before anyone else tries anything heroic, I should warn you that you don’t have your powers - yes, Ms. Bennet, that means that if I shoot you, you die. I think I asked you to take your seats. I suggest you do it.”
It’s a mad dash as everyone tries to sit as quickly as possible. There’s not enough room for them to all sit on the same bench, but Claire suspects that Elle purposely chose to sit on Peter’s lap. She narrows her eyes at her sister, and Elle responds by sticking out her tongue.
“Good!” Even though he sounds pleased, the man doesn’t put away the gun. “If you please, would you two girls behave? I don’t think I should have to tell you that you aren’t acting like ladies or like sisters.”
“She started it.” Elle has to have the last word, but as the conductor turns to aim the gun at her, she trails off.
“If that’s all Ms. Bishop, I’d like to continue.” He sticks his gun back in the holster. “As I was saying, I know you have questions and I have answers. I’d like to welcome you all to the Orient Express. The entire train has been rented out for the week for the seven of you, courtesy of your employer, and you are welcome to everything on board. There are two servants who will provide for you - meals, fresh clothing, fresh bedding, everything you’d like. We’ll start dinner service as soon as we leave the station. Currently, we’re just outside the city of Varna. Our final destination, if we make it that far, is Paris.”
His eyes narrowing, Sylar interrupts. “What do you mean, if we make it that far?”
“Oh, nothing. Forget I said that. I have room assignments for you. Ms. Bishop and Ms. Bennet, you’re going to be sharing suite A. Mr. Gray and Mr. Petrelli, suite B. In suite C will be Dr. Suresh and Mr. Bennet. I’m sorry, Mr. Parkman, there aren’t enough people for you to have a roommate, so you’re going to have to sleep in here instead.”
The conductor’s interrupted again as six people yell out “I’m not rooming with him!” or “I’m not rooming with her!” all at the same time. He calmly pulls the gun out again and fires a warning shot into the ceiling. Snowflakes swirl in through the open hole, one landing on the man’s nose as the rest collect on his head and shoulders and on the floor around him, and the room is suddenly much colder. The conductor brushes the snow off his hat, and steps to the side. “Fine. Work out new arrangements over supper. I really don’t care where or with whom you sleep.”
The door behind him opens, and two servants in white and burgundy livery push in carts filled with covered dishes. Checking his watch, the conductor addresses them again. “Oh, it’s dinner time. I need to get us under way. I don’t believe there are any other rules, so I bid you adieu and bon appétit.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“So, thoughts?” Peter asks everyone else as they enjoy their filet mignon and champagne.
“Good food, better alcohol,” Elle giggles as she eyes the men in their finery, “and pretty eye-candy. Sounds like a damned good vacation to me.”
Claire rolls her eyes. “Give it a rest, Elle. It’s strange and weird and we need to find a way off this train. Besides, the champagne’s not that great - there’s a really strange bitter aftertaste.” She’s already eaten all that she can, and is amusing herself by pushing the steak around the plate. “And it’s cold in here.” She smiles at her dad as he slips off his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders.
Putting down his fork, Sylar pushes his plate away. “I’m with Claire-bear on this one. It’s obviously a set-up.”
“Don’t call her that!” Noah protests, as he takes a sip of his champagne. “You’re both… gack!” Turning a violent shade of blue, he raises his hands to his throat as he gasps and chokes before slumping over.
Claire screams when her dad falls, face first, onto the floor. “Dad!” She kneels down beside him, begging him to get up. Peter jumps up from his seat and kneels beside Noah. Checking Noah’s pulse, Peter slowly shakes his head and wraps his arms around Claire, pulling her away from the body. “He’s gone; I’m so sorry, Claire.”
When Claire starts screaming, Sylar pushes Peter out of the way and slaps his hand over her mouth. “Shut up already. Screaming’s not going to do anything except make me angry and give us all headaches.”
“Well said, Mr. Gray.” No one had noticed the conductor come in. He claps his hands twice, and the liveried servants come forward and pick Noah up, carrying him from the car. “Dreadfully sorry. There must have still been some cyanide in his glass from our last trip. I’ll be sure to dock the servants pay for not doing the dishes well. Don’t worry, no one else will be poisoned. Well, with cyanide at least. There might be a little something else in your food and wine, but it won’t hurt you. Please, carry on with your meal.”
Elle pushes her plate away from her. “Trust me; I don’t think any of us are still hungry.”
“Suit yourselves. Figure out your sleeping arrangements and go to bed. Three rooms, three sets of roommates, argue amongst yourselves. Lights out in twenty minutes.” He leaves them again.
Sylar feels slightly foolish, still holding Claire close to his chest with his hand over her mouth, so he pushes her away. “I’m not sharing with Petrelli. No way, no how.”
Before anyone else can respond, Mohinder jumps in to the conversation. “I’m not sharing with you, so don’t even suggest it. Matt and I will share the third suite.”
“I’m not sharing a room with Claire. Not happening.” Elle crosses her arms over her chest. “That leaves Peter and Sylar, and I choose Pretty Peter Plaything. We’ll take the first suite.”
Sylar snorts and Mohinder and Matt chuckle as Peter blushes. “I thought I told you not to ever call me that again, Elle. Besides, I’m rooming with Claire.”
“Oh, you know you like it.” Elle winks at him. “And what does she have that I don’t?”
“I’ll room with Sylar.” Claire’s whisper is so quiet that they barely hear her, but they all turn and stare at her.
“What?” Elle can’t help but think that her sister’s gone insane due to grief. “You pick him? I’m paired with him, and I can barely stand him.” Her voice reaches a tone that Sylar’s fairly sure only dogs can hear.
He’s tired of the arguing and just wants to go to bed. He grabs Claire’s arm, and turns to face Peter. Elle’s earlier soubriquet crosses his mind, and he can’t stop himself from teasing Peter. “Sorry, Pretty Peter Plaything, I get the curvy sister and you get the flat-chested bitchy one. Good night.”
Any doubt that Claire and Elle are truly sisters ends when both smack him at the same time. “Owww! Dammit, what was that for?”
"I've killed people for saying that about my chest!" Elle whines. “It’s not true! Do you have any clue how much my daddy had to pay for these things? It was my sweet sixteen present!” She cups her hand across her chest, and looks down, mentally assessing whether she needs bigger implants.
Claire forgets what she’s going to say to Sylar, and turns to stare at her sister instead. “Elle, just… shut up and stop touching yourself. Eww.”
The lights go off and they all jump. The conductor’s voice seems to come out of nowhere. “Nighty-night, children. It’s bed time.”
Sylar grabs Claire’s hand and stomps off towards where he thinks the door to the bedroom car is, but trips instead. “Would it kill you to turn on a light just long enough for us to get to bed?” he yells out.
“It wouldn’t kill me, but it may kill one of you.” The conductor’s disembodied voice calls out, and then they hear a sigh. “Fine, I’ll give you ten more minutes, and the lights go off again.”
- - - - - - - - - -
As they enter they room, Claire starts cursing. Sylar chuckles when he hears Miss Perfect saying such foul words. “What a dirty mouth you have, Claire-bear.”
“Fuck you. Don’t ever call me that. Give me a break, I just had to watch my dad die again and now we’ve only got one bed.”
“Die again?” He raises one eyebrow at her. “That sounds like a good story. C’mon, the lights are going to go off again, you can tell me all about it later. I’ll take the left side, you take the right.” He shrugs off his jacket, and loosens his bow tie.
Glancing down at her clothes, Claire glares at him. “Do you honestly think I’m going to sleep in this? There’s got to be some night clothes around here somewhere; help me find them.”
“Or you could just sleep naked. Won’t bother me.” He ducks when she hurls her high heels at him.
He can tell she’s mad from the way she jerks open the drawers and rifles through them. “Damn it!” she curses again when she comes up with a handful of silky underthings and nylon stockings. “All the clothes are these weird old styles, even the underwear.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.” He’s looking through the closet, and can only find men’s suits and women’s dresses. “Wait, I thought this was supposed to be mine and Peter’s room. Why is it full of dresses that look like they’ll fit you?”
Walking over to his side of the room, she peeks into the closet. “That is weird. You don’t think this is some sort of set-up, do you?” She looks over the dresses, and notices that some of them are completely sheer. She pulls one of them out, and looks at it carefully. “Oh, crud.”
Not exactly the words he’d use. Variations of “yippeee!” and “hallelujah” race through his mind as he imagines her in that particular gown. He mentally shakes off the images, wondering where that came from.
“This…” she shakes the gown at him “… must be what they think is appropriate nightwear. Great.” She reaches back into the closet and pulls out one of the white shirts hanging in the more masculine section, and walks into their en-suite bathroom with it.
“Wait, where are you going with my shirt?”
“I’m going to wear it instead of that negligee.” Her voice calls out from behind the bathroom door. He hears another curse just a few seconds before she stomps back into the bedroom. “Zipper’s stuck. Help?” Pulling her hair up, she present her back to him.
He slowly tugs the zipper down, letting his hand trail down her skin just a tad bit too long. Briefly wondering what that purple silk would look like puddled on the floor of his bedroom back home, Sylar doesn’t know where this sudden fascination with her silky skin has come from. Thinking back to the conductor’s words, he curses.
She turns to face him, and he lets his hands wrap around her waist. “What now?”
“Remember what the conductor said at supper, after your father…” he trails off.
“I was a bit distracted, but yeah.” Claire’s face scrunches in confusion. “That was weird. Wonder what else he dosed us with?”
Closing his eyes, he breathes in deep and gets a whiff of her perfume. “I’m guessing pheromones and some sort of aphrodisiac. Maybe a relaxant too.” His voice is a low growl, but he can’t help it.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“You seem so upset over your father dying, don’t you think?” He pulls her closer, and she rests her head on his shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s odd that you’re not crying and screaming still? Instead, you’re calm as can be, and you’re leaning into my touch. That doesn’t seem a bit… off… to you?” Running his hand through her hair, he feels his body responding and he knows that she must be aware of it as well.
“Well…” she thinks for a minute, “yeah. That is odd. I mean, I know you’re not going to kill us anymore, and I’m a bit more comfortable with you after training, but still…”
“I know.” He rests his forehead against hers. “I’ll take the bed; you take a bunch of blankets into the bathroom and sleep there.”
“Why do you get the bed?” She can’t stop herself from pressing a light kiss against his lips.
He shoves her away while he still has the strength to. “Because the bathroom has a lock. Get in there, and lock the door before the drugs kick in all the way. Keep it locked, no matter what I say or do.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Sylar?” She calls out, leaning against the bathroom door. She knows he’s sitting on the other side of the door; he’d just stopped banging on it and begging for her less than twenty minutes earlier.
“Yeah? Changed your mind yet?” There’s still a twinge of that husky growl to his voice that makes her weak in the knees. The drugs are racing through her system, and she’s shaking in need.
“Why is this happening?” Trying to distract herself from the man and the big bed that they should be sharing, she’s been thinking about what’s going on, but it doesn’t make any sense. “I mean, we work for them - why would the Company group us all here and dope us like this?”
He sighs. “What makes you think it’s them?”
“Because the conductor said so.”
“And we believe what he says because…?” Sylar chuckles. “C’mon, Claire, unlock the door.”
“No, you told me not to.”
“You know you want to. Come out here, baby. Please?”
She reaches up for the doorknob, but pulls her hand back down before she can open it. “No.” Her voice is full of regret. “Not until the drugs are out of our systems.”
“They’re just going to dope us again tomorrow. You can’t hide in there forever.”
Thinking for a few minutes, she can’t find the flaw in his logic. “If I do unlock it, can we talk this over?”
“Open the damned door already!”
She gets up on her knees, and then stands. Just before she can open the door, the train lurches violently and then comes to a complete stop.
“Attention all passengers.” The conductor’s voice rings out on the intercom system. “We’ve run into a little issue. The snow’s piling up too much for us to continue. I’m afraid we’re stuck. I’d like for all of you to join me in the observation car in five minutes. Don’t make me come find you.”
“Son of a bitch.” Sylar jiggles the handle to the bathroom. “Come on, Claire. You need to get better dressed; it’s going to be freezing in there.”
The door swings open, and she steps out. He groans as he sees how she looks when wearing just a shirt of his. Her hair curls around her shoulders and around her breasts, brushing against the white cotton of the shirt, and his eyes are drawn to where the shirt hits her mid-thigh. “Oh yeah, you definitely need to get more clothes on.” He closes his eyes and tries to stay in control. He keeps them closed until she taps him on the shoulder, and grabs his hand, pulling him out of their suite.
- - - - - - - - - -
The conductor, Peter, and Elle are waiting on them. “Took you long enough.” Elle remarks, drawing everyone’s attention.
Sylar turns his head, trying to not look at her. “Yeah, well, seeing how you didn’t take the time to dress, it must haven’t taken you long to get here. God, Elle, do you have no modesty?”
Looking down at the sheet she’d wrapped around herself, she smirks. “What? Everything’s covered. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t seen it before. Oops, guess I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
“Shut up, Elle.” Everyone mutters at the same time.
The conductor checks his watch. “Time’s up. Where are Parkman and Suresh?”
“Like we know.” Peter mutters. “Probably still asleep. I swear, Matt could sleep even with a marching band going through his bedroom.” When he gets strange looks from Elle and Claire, he blushes. “What? I’ve gone on assignment with him. He will not get up when the alarm clock goes off - I usually have to drag him out of bed.”
“Oh, I doubt that they’re asleep.” The conductor comments and then smiles. It might be one of the creepiest smiles Claire’s ever seen - it would definitely rank in the top ten of creepy moments. “Hmm… who wants to go check on them?”
“We’ll all go.” Sylar grabs Claire’s hand. He whispers in her ear. “Stick with me. Something’s wrong here.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Elle can’t stop laughing. It’s either laugh, or scream, and she knows if she starts screaming, she’ll never stop. When she’d entered the room, she hadn’t expected to find Matt and Mohinder both dead. Even though Sylar had pulled the bedding up over their bodies, she can still see their blank eyes staring at her and she shudders. Claire pulls her into a hug, and tries to calm her.
"Don't laugh; it could easily have been you under that blanket." Peter chastises her. “Two men are dead, Elle, it’s not amusing.”
“It’s not that, Peter,” Claire explains, “it’s how she responds to stress. Give her a break. Come on, Elle, let’s get you back to your room.”
The women leave the room as Sylar watches. As soon as they were gone, he faces Peter. “There’s something seriously wrong here.”
Leaning up against the wall, Peter nods. “Yeah. You know, this vaguely reminds me of a book I read a long time ago.”
“Agatha Christie. I was thinking that. How much do you want to bet that we’re stuck here until we figure this out or we’re all dead?”
The conductor grins at them. “It took you boys long enough. I was wondering when you’d figure out the rules of the game. Let’s rejoin the ladies, and the game will start in honest.” He’s not expecting Sylar to slam him against the wall of the bedroom.
“Cut the crap.” Sylar gives him a shake. “If you hurt a hair on either of their heads, I’ll kill you.” He drops the man.
The conductor straightens his clothes before he glares at Sylar. “That was unnecessary, Mr. Gray. No one else is going to die. It’s up to you to figure out what’s happened here. We’ll meet again tomorrow, and at that meeting the first team to correctly guess wins.”
“Wins what,” Peter questions, “and what happens to the losers?”
“You don’t want to know.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“I’ve got a theory.” Claire starts as soon as Sylar explains the game to her.
“Good, we need theories.” He crawls back into bed, and motions for her to join him. Noticing the look she gives him, he grins. “Nothing’s going to happen; it’s just that the bed’s more comfortable and it's warm, too.”
She hops onto her side of the bed, and rolls over on her side to face him as he pulls the covers over them both. “Oooh, it is warmer. Ok, so what do you think happened?”
“Hmm… Killer comes in to get Mohinder, and then takes care of Matt since he can’t leave any witnesses.”
“That’s odd. Why do you think Mohinder was targeted first?” Claire wonders how he’d come up with this idea.
“Mohinder knows everyone at the Company and their powers. If we’re assuming the Company is behind this, the killer knew that Mohinder could identify him and warn us.”
“I was thinking that Matt was killed first. His body was closer to the door.”
Sylar shakes his head. “Didn’t you notice the stains on the floor? Matt was killed in bed, and then dragged over there. I swear, there was something odd about that scene, I just don’t know what.”
“You mean, besides the fact that that was the only room that had two single beds instead of one massive king-size? That struck me as odd. Oh, what if they were both killed at the exact same time?”
Pondering the idea, Sylar reluctantly agrees. “Putting aside the logistics of how you kill people in two locations at the same time, it’s possible. That means we’re looking at a different motive. We’re assuming that the killer took out one on purpose, and then the other just because he was there, but to kill both at the same time suggests that both of them were targets.”
“Can we assume that they were both targeted for the same reason?” Claire scoots just slightly closer to him, and he reaches out to place his hand on her hip.
“I wouldn’t normally. I would say that Matt was killed because of his powers, but since we’re blocked…”
“Haitian pills, you think?” Shifting ever so slightly, she manages to maneuver so that she’s using his chest as a pillow.
He frowns. “We didn’t eat until after our powers stopped working. Maybe they dosed us before, during that time frame we can’t remember. Seems to suggest that the Haitian mind-wiped us, and is hiding around here somewhere.”
“Where? Under the train? I thought that you all had been searching the train before I woke up.” She uses her fingertips to make small circles on his chest. “Besides, he can’t do that little Jedi trick on Peter; it just won’t work.”
“Mmmnm. That feels good. Yeah, we searched. What if they’re pumping the cabins full of some sort of the gaseous form of the pills?”
“Then we could just open a window and get fresh air, and the powers would come back. I don’t think that’s it - we would have gotten fresh air once the conductor ventilated the roof with his gun.” Claire reasons. “Let’s focus on the murders again. There’s something we’re missing. Why was my Dad even here?”
“Well, assuming this is something Company related…” Sylar lets his comment trail off.
“This is just so frustrating. I’m stuck on a train in a snowstorm, my dad’s dead again, Matt’s dead, Mohinder’s dead, my sister’s doing I-don’t-want-to-know-what with my uncle, I’m in bed with you… its like some sort of a bad dream.” Her eyes go comically wide. “Oh. My. God.”
Suddenly on alert, he looks around the room, trying to figure out if she’s seen something. “What?”
“Kiss me, I’m brilliant.”
“Want to tell me what you’ve figured out?” He kisses her anyhow, turning so that he’s lying slightly on top of her.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. Now, since we were interrupted earlier… I think I owe you.”
Even though the adrenaline surge from the murders and the mystery has obliterated the effects of the earlier drugs, he still finds himself wanting her. One hand slowly makes its way down her side to rest on her thigh as he starts kissing behind her ear. “By the way, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned your dad dying before. What’s the story there?”
“Oh, you know how it goes.” She moans as he finds an erogenous zone she never knew she had. “Man gets shot - thank you very much Mohinder, man dies, man’s daughter’s blood is used to bring him back to life. Ooooh, yeah, right there.”
He chuckles, but the laughter dies in his throat as she wraps her legs around his waist and gives him a light squeeze. “What’s so funny?”
"Would making a zombie joke ruin the moment? I don’t want you kicking me out of bed."
She looks at him oddly for a minute, and then starts laughing too. “I hadn’t really thought about that before. Oh, that fits in so well with my theory about all this.”
“Which is…?” he tries to prompt her, but Claire’s determined she’s not going to tell him. Instead of answer, she arches her back so that her breasts are rubbing against his chest and she pulls him down into a deep kiss. He’s just about to enter her when he pulls away. “Damn.”
“Problem?”
“No condoms. I really don’t want to go ask Peter for one.” He falls back on his side of the bed.
She smiles as she climbs on top of him. “Not a problem. I normally wouldn’t say this, but we don’t need one. Not this time.”
Pushing her away, he shakes his head. “No way. Not unless you’re offering just oral.”
She nibbles on his ear, then whispers. “Trust me. It’ll all make sense tomorrow. I promise you, it’s going to be ok.”
“Don’t come whining to me after this if there are any linger consequences.” He gives into her wheedling, and flips them back over before she has a chance to protest. He freezes when he finally slides home and she lets out a low moan. “Mmm, Sylar, harder. Oh, yeah, so good.” In his wildest dreams, which he’ll never admit that he has, she’s not quite so vocal and it drives him wild.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Well, someone looks happy.” Elle comments as she sips on her coffee.
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Claire just grins. “You know it.”
“Just so you know, nothing really happened with Sylar like I insinuated last night. Just a slight shower accident.” Whatever Elle’s going to confess next is interrupted when the men enter the room. Peter slides onto the seat next to Elle, and helps himself to the croissant she’d yet to eat. Claire pats the seat next to her, and Sylar plops down and puts his arm around her shoulder.
The conductor looks at them and smiles. “So, who would like to go first?”
“I know who did it.” Claire confesses, and then looks at Peter and Elle. “Did you figure it out?”
“We have a guess, but it’s not a very good one.”
“We’ll let them guess first then.” Sylar doesn’t want to go first, and he knows that Claire wants to let the drama build.
Peter and Elle whisper back and forth, frantically trying to come up with a last minute guess that would be better. “Was it the Haitian?” Elle asks.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Bishop. That would be incorrect. Ms. Bennet, if you please?”
“I’m not exactly sure how to phrase this.” Claire bites her lower lip. “There wasn’t actually a murder, so there can’t be a murderer.”
Leaning forward, the conductor beams at her. “I think you might actually have it. Explain your thinking.”
“None of this is real. It’s all a dream. I guess you could say that Matt’s dad is the murderer, he’s the one that made us think they’re dead, but they’re not - they just woke up.”
“What makes you think that?” Peter asks.
“If he’s controlling our dreams, it explains why we can’t use our powers. We were told that we couldn’t so that I wouldn’t use my blood to try to revive any of the victims. Things just seemed too convenient or strange, like all of us being dressed like we’re in the 1930s, finding clothes that fit me in a room that I wasn’t supposed to be staying in, us being dosed with oddly potent aphrodisiacs - I mean, when do those things ever really work?, and Matt and Mohinder randomly choosing the only room with double beds. Besides, there were things that seemed like they belonged in nightmares - losing my dad again, all of us losing our powers, the thought of having to share one small bathroom with Elle… it just all added up to a strange bad dream.”
“Well done, Ms. Bennet. Merrily, merrily, life is just a dream - now wake up!” The conductor’s yell seems to reverberate around her head as the room fades into nothing.
- - - - - - - - - -
Claire awakes from the deep sleep, gasping. It all seemed so real, and she wonders if it was just a dream or not. She looks over at the clock, only to find that she’s overslept by three hours. Great, she’s only got an hour to get ready now.
Slowly getting up, she stretches and pulls her arms over her head. She makes her way to her bathroom, and takes a long shower, remembering the more… vivid… details of the dream that involved Sylar. She’d never really thought about Elle’s partner that way before, and she knows that she’s going to have trouble looking at him in group meetings without blushing now.
She grabs a coffee on her way into the conference room. Peter’s already there, head down on the table, sound asleep. She takes her seat next to him, and waits for everyone else. Matt and Mohinder enter a couple of minutes later, and talk quietly between themselves. Noah strides in, and hugs her, before taking his seat at the head of the table.
“Well, it seems like Elle and Sylar are going to be late - again.” Noah frowns, then looks at his notes. “We really can’t start without them. Claire, could you please wake up Peter? We need him conscious for this.”
When she shakes him awake, Peter can’t seem to focus his eyes on her. “Hi, Claire. I had the weirdest dream last night.”
“I did too. Told you we shouldn’t have had those burritos at that sketchy restaurant last night.” Claire teases him.
“Ha. Ha. No, really, it was strange. We were all on a train, and…”
“And it was a murder mystery on the Orient Express.”
Peter just stares at her. “You had it too. That is so strange.”
“I’m here! I’m here! Don’t start without me!” Elle’s entrance into the room catches everyone’s attention, especially when she hops into Peter’s lap and wraps her arms around him. “Good morning, Pretty Peter Plaything!” He blushes when she smacks her lips against his cheek.
Since she was so amused by Elle’s antics, Claire misses Sylar stalking into the room right behind Elle. When his hand clasps her shoulder, Claire shrieks.
“We need to talk, Bennet.” He whispers low in her ear, and she knows she’s blushing. He grabs the seat next to her, but doesn’t remove his hand from her shoulder. She realizes that they must have all shared the same dream, and she wonders what the chances are of that happening.
“Now that we’re all here,” Noah frowns at them, especially at Sylar, but continues on. “I’m afraid I have both good and bad news, depending on how you decide to view it. You’re being assigned new partners and Claire’s being given a promotion. She’ll now be the head of the team. Claire, you’re paired with Sylar, and Elle, you’ll be paired with Peter. Matt, Mohinder, you’re still together.”
“What’s this based on? She’s got the least seniority of all of us.” Elle complains. “It’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. I didn’t choose this - one of the senior partners did. Mr. Parkman has specifically requested this. He’s highly impressed with Claire’s field record and her deductive reasoning. Elle, I was told that if you asked, I was to tell you that it’s your own fault for blaming the Haitian, whatever that means. Oh, Claire, Mr. Parkman wants me to pass a message on to you as well - purple silk is nice, but white cotton is divine. What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t ask, you don’t want to know.”
Sylar whispers into her ear again, and his warm breath makes shivers run down her back. “I have to agree with Parkman. Any chance I can see that shirt again?”
She just smiles at him. She’d been wrong about one thing - she’s fairly certain she’d been participating in a good dream instead of stuck in a bad dream.
Whistling a jaunty tune, she packs up her notes as they head out of the room. Sylar wraps an arm around her, and as they go to get coffee and talk things over, she continues humming. ‘Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.’