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Feb. 11th, 2010 04:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
black_hatPairing: Sylar/Elle, Elle/Claire, Sylar/Elle/Claire
Word Count: 5, 924
Claire Bennet was his greatest enemy (for being someone he'd never actually kill).
At least, not easily. Sylar suspected that he kept her around out of some form of self-torture. Elle loved her, and Elle could have a pet. But the other side of the truth was that he couldn’t quite help…to feel she was an enigma even now.
She was his too, and he and Elle had both done this to her. So, when Elle spent the nights upstairs with Claire, he didn’t mind sleeping on the couch at first. In his mind’s eye, he saw them there, together and intertwined: Claire, far too thin and pale, and Elle, full with pregnancy and rosy-cheeked.
A strange metamorphis had taken place: a strange reversal.
At night, he’d sleep in the Bennet’s house, stretched out on their couch, and see—over and over again in his mind—the image of Claire shooting her adoptive father in the face…
Over and over again.
He expected to derive more pleasure from it.
***
Months ago, Hiro had knocked them both out and had drug them into the Company walls. A month ago, he had been willing to kill Elle—and would have—had he not seen her start to change in the cell beside him.
They were locked in together, and when Elle started to get morning sickness, he’d find himself holding her hair back over her shoulder. Every day, Claire would walk by and grin at them through the window.
He’d stare back calmly because he wasn’t afraid for himself. Not anymore. After his chances of being with them, a part of them, had been shot, he felt that he had nothing to lose.
Except Elle’s child. Except his child.
Elle, who had always wanted to be tough, struggled with her pregnancy. She couldn’t maintain toughness. She climbed up on their very small bed and press herself into him, and he’d accept it, covering her from the sight of the cameras.
Noah Bennet came by to congratulate them on their good news, the new arrival on the way. The Company was excited to see what power the combination of their genes would create. He gave the news with a smile on his face.
Sylar could guess when Claire would be the one administering the Haitian drugs. Those were the days he’d be strapped to the metal table, already drugged up. He couldn’t feel a thing, and he was lesser than Gabriel had been.
In his mind, he was nothing.
She’d appear over him with the cup of pills in her hand, and though her green eyes still held a sliver of cruelty at the power change (he couldn’t blame her there: he’d have done the same), her smile was forced.
“Open nice and wide,” she said. He did so without question, his gaze unflinching. “Good boy.”
When she’d approach Elle, it was a different story. “You have to take these…” she said slowly. “The baby will get hurt if you don’t.”
“Hurt,” Elle said innocently. Then: “Good.”
Sylar turned his head in a fog, squinting in that direction. He saw two blurs, each inverted. Each how they weren’t originally. It’d be a fascinating study, to see them past each other, going in different directions. Claire was hardened, wearing dark colors to gain missing respect. Elle was wilting: her hair flat and dull, wearing all white—but her pink lips were drawn back in a snarl.
“What do you mean? You’d kill your own kid?” Claire asked in disbelief.
“Rather than give him to you. I know what it’s like. You’re not taking him, you hear me. I heard your daddy promise that you’d look after him.”
“I said no,” Claire replied darkly.
“We’ll see. Either way, the Company still gets him.”
Sylar was helpless to stop this. They had the Haitian always near by. Watched around the clock. And Elle was starving herself. He’d hear them fight with her constantly, several men at once trying to choke food down her.
He remembered his mother saying he’d be a good father, if he would ever just try…
One more thing she didn’t know about him.
***
“Gabriel.” There was a wet tap on his forehead. “Gabriel, psssh. Gabriel.”
“What?” he barked out, crawling up from his sleep. “What, Elle?”
The first thing he saw was her stomach, and he thought she looked beautiful in Mrs. Bennet’s old nightrobe. He reached out to see if this wasn’t all a dream—despite her rude awakening of him.
“I don’t ususually yell,” he told her stomach, placing a hand carefully on the underside. “Mommy is just a -.”
“Bitch sometimes, I know.”
“Elle!” he cried out, motioning to her stomach. “That’s not a good example.”
Her voice suddenly dropped to that strange area of seriousness she could possess. “Claire’s going crazy.”
“This is news?”
“It’s not in the fun way,” she whispered, and he heard something crash upstairs. They both looked at the ceiling fan shaking.
“I don’t know if we can keep her for much long,” Sylar said. “She can’t be around my child like that. I won’t allow it.”
“You’re going to kick her to the curb,” Elle observed. “Hm.”
“Do you care?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t make out her expression in the gloom.
“She shot him to protect me. Us, I mean.”
“…I do owe her,” he said lightly. Begrudingly. “You can’t say that situation didn’t end humorously.”
“Oh it was funny. I could harldy hold back my laugher. But this isn’t really that funny for some reason.. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones..”
Sylar thought he did know. “We know how it is,” he offered as an explanation. “I thought I’d be more satisfied.”
Elle nodded. “She’s a mess. But she’s our mess. Come upstairs with me.”
“I’m the last person she’d want to see,” he said. “Go back up. She won’t hurt you. I’d know before she could move.”
With those words, he sent the mother of his child back upstairs with someone who…He feared Claire’s capacity for normalacy. For expression of…feelings. He feared her range as compared to his own.
He listened to Elle whispering, and how lulling it was, how full of secrets that burrowed right under his skin, and he groaned a little, twisting in place.
In the end, he laid there in the dark, alone, and wondered why he did things like this to himself.
Sylar could admit it. He did owe Claire Bennet quite a feat.
The look on her father’s face—when he had a face—was amazing. If he was able to die, he’d die happy with that moment. There weren’t a lot of moments in his life embued with that kind of significance.
Only, Claire had shot good old Noah over Elle. He’d been about to kill her for g ood…and Sylar hadn’t been able to reach them in time. Claire, who had been standing right besides her father, suddenly grabbed at his gun, and they had struggled with it to that beautiful, bloody conclusion.
Yes, he did owe the cheerleader so much.
When Claire finally emerged from her room upstairs, Elle was holding her hand, step by step, smiling. As if all was right in the world.
In her eyes, Claire looked dead, somewhere else in her head. Her now-brunette hair was a rat’s nest, sticking to her face. Sylar remembered those pictures he had seen of her, of how she had always been smiling…
He ducked his head to hide his own smile as he made his coffee.
“Here, this looks like it’s your seat. It’s short,” Elle said. “And right by the window.” She moved to go to the chair but stopped as Claire wouldn’t let go of her hand. Sylar watched this spectacle curiously and saw that her knuckles were white. That was how hard she was holding on…
To Elle.
This would be horrific, but he couldn’t stop watching. To trust Elle when you were so vulnerable was one of the stupidest mistakes any human being could make. He’d been there himself, on the floor with his neck still burning, and therefore he knew.
“Sit right here. I want to do your pretty nails.”
He turned around to avoid the laughter, sipping his coffee like a crutch. He shouldn’t laugh until Elle was done with the girl. Then they could share it like a couple.
“I pick pink.” He smelt the acrid smell of nail polish remover.
“Not on the table, Elle, for God’s sake. We just now stole it, and to ruin it in the first day would be ridiculous.”
“Beat you to it. I have your jacket covering it.”
He spun around and…this was true. She had Claire’s arm stretched over his black jacket, and he noticed the ring around Claire’s arm. Shades of skin, new skin to old skin. It meant her arm had been cut off at one point at time. Or burnt.
Probably the latter.
When did that happen, he wondered. Then shrugged.
“Unclench your hands, Claire. It’s just Gabriel.”
He glanced up, and a shock went through his system as he saw that, yes, indeed, Claire was looking at him. It was like watching a dead thing come back to life. He had played that game with her before, but this was different. It was almost predatory, almost too-knowing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and as raw as sandpaper or gravel. Invocation, was what it was. He stopped drinking his coffee.
“Yeah, his name is Gabriel. Gab-riel. And you’re Claire,” Elle cooed excitedly, stupidly proud, as if Claire was their child.
No, it isn’t, his mind screamed. Yet said so many times, it felt like the choice was out of his hands. He wandered out of the kitchen because he was bored with that, with them.
Not for any other reason.
***
“Do me a favor,” Elle whispered into his ear that night.
Claire’s a ghost in the corner, in between the bookshelf and the TV, here and not here. Everywhere and nowhere. She was looking at her hands, looking at the image of ‘normal girl’ that was painted there.
Elle’s breathing across his skin made his breath hitch, and he always observed it with wonder. She proved he could feel that; he loved her for it and hated to love her for it. The desperate need and the fear of losing her…the fear of not feeling a thing one day. He turned towards her, sensing mischief. Her blue eyes would always sparkle then.
“I’m going to get Claire-bear all cleaned up because uh, she kinda smells bad.” He frowned, his expectations deflated. “Could you get rid of the pictures down here?”
His first instinct would have been to get Claire asleep and then arrange the pictures around her so that when she woke up…once upon a time, that would have been Elle’s instinct too. Elle kissed him (it was never one on the cheek, he had discovered) and then ruffled his hair.
“Hey,” he quipped, smoothing his hair back down. She giggled and led her little shadow upstairs. He listened to their footsteps, one skipping and one dragging, and sighed as he did as he was told.
Familial happiness wasn’t what he wanted to see all the time while he hadn’t quite gained his own yet. It had been a lie anyway, from what he could tell. Besides, he didn’t want the mess. He didn’t care, just the aftershock of a whimpering, whining thing in his home made him think of messes and a constant disturbance. He wanted peace and quiet when he slept.
Once every picture was stored away—and he had locked the drawers himself, he stretched. There was a full sound above him, the presence of others in the house. This was actually…he felt the sensation a little more, tilting his head experimentally and closing his eyes. Trying it out.
He had never really lived with other people. His mother, yes, but that had been his mother and there had been no peace. He had been lonely in his apartment, voices in his head and the sounds of gears more comforting than those outside his grip. He had yearned for this so much and now that he had it he wasn’t sure what to think.
He had shown Elle…a side no one else had seen. The suicide itself had shocked him into it. But still, nightmares at night, he couldn’t reveal that. He’d rather die and stay dead than cry in front of her—an uncommon occurrence. Now, there was another person here too, and ‘Gabriel’…
He rubbed his neck in frustration.
Something inside of him was building up, stack upon stack, and his feet took him to the warm presence of light, light spilling out into the hallway.
He stood just out of reach of the golden glow, heard the sound of water lapping against the edge of the bathtub, and peered in while hiding in the outside. He saw Elle kneeling by the bathtub and cleaning Claire’s listless arm with a damp cloth.
He watched as she reached over to clean the girl’s face.
That something inside of him turned to stone.
They were on the couch, Claire leaning into Elle as if she was a life preserver.
It would be cute if it weren’t so pathetic, he thought, and went back to work on the watch. He would give Elle a watch for a day that was coming up, with an engraving that’d be so grand and wonderful, that she’d smile for days. She’d wear it forever. But he knew that her electricity would destroy most watches. …well, all watches.
Hmm. Odd, that.
He bent forward, feeling that old satisfaction at putting the pieces in the right places and helping them to run again. It was a tender feeing, hence, why his head was down as he leaned over the desk.
Elle was tormenting Claire with an old cartoon. It sounded like the Little Mermaid. He knew from the video box, of course. Not from the songs at all. He blocked it out as much as he could, this piece hanging on to life and death. He had to do this very gently, and he could do it…
“Claire, Claire,” Elle said, in this ‘hey you’ tone. Much too fond a tone. He managed to get the clock’s spring right before chancing a glance.
“Look, look here,” Elle said, and it seemed Elle had hidden one family picture for herself. “Look at that smile.”
“Jesus, Elle,” he exclaimed, more out of surprise than actual disapproval. He took off his loupes to see the disaster.
Claire stared down at the picture, her eyes growing wider and wider, and anticipating Claire’s motions to a tee, Elle grabbed the back of her head and twisted her hands in her hair, knotting the strands through her fingers. Elle’s face hardened as Claire’s mouth began to twist.
“Look,” she ordered through gritted teeth.
It was a startling revelation to see that Claire had the same problem he had, crying in front of others and sharing her pain. It was this realization that made him open his mouth to tell Elle to stop it.
The sight of tears actually running down Claire’s cheeks sucked the air out of his lungs. That was strange, to see her cry. He sat there, unable to do anything and wondering how major a breakdown this girl would have. What would have to be done…
Then her expression just shattered, and she screamed, and it was the loudest he had heard her voice in a month. She hit her knees with her fists and turned to Elle, her hair covering her face. Sylar put his loupes to the side and got to his feet because a murder was about to occur that had nothing to do with him (and that didn’t sit well with him).
Elle should be holding up her hands, should be—and Claire lowered her own hands. He blinked, and Elle was holding Claire as she sobbed these ugly sounds, and…
“Shhh, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be okay.”
As if she had had that in her all along.
There was no air in the room.
So, he left. No one seemed to notice.
***
Sylar wasn’t surprised when Claire Bennet didn’t disappear. The universe just wasn’t that fair.
She hadn’t even disappeared while she was catatonic. Now, she integrated herself so firmly into his life with Elle that she was a constant piece of furniture. A piece he particularly hated and wanted to be burnt or abandoned in a dumping ground somewhere.
So many little ways that she got under his skin. It was always the little things.
Elle had requested that he—he—say something to Claire on the business of oh, shooting her father in the face. He had conveniently forgotten. He couldn’t sleep with Elle now and didn’t want to ask her to rejoin him in another bed in the house. He slept on the couch not to feel discarded, to feel as if this was a choice. He was frustrated but was determined to be private about it, discrete.
It didn’t make him feel like a man.
The little things.
One day, he had seen Elle’s eyes light up at the sight of snow on the TV screen, and he went to great pains to fix the power with himself. He went out into the backyard (the backyard any family should have), turned on the water hose, and froze it so it snowed, a blaze of ice. He watched her through the window until she turned around and saw it.
It felt as though his heart had swelled with pride when she walked outside in a scarf (Bennet provided) and caught the snow with her tongue. She laughed and danced around in it, and he had a brief flash of fear…but that ending—that blunt jolt through his arm as the scissors left his hands and remained in the air—never happened. He didn’t stop until the grass was iced over with a certain purity to it all, and Elle hurried towards him.
He held her up with his telekinesis, in case she fell, and she made to him (waddled a little due to the pregnancy, but that was his child and that made it all right) and threw her arms around his neck.
“I know you have to like me now since you dumped a whole blizzard on me.”
He shrugged. “That can work for many occasions.”
“But it’s not quite there, Frosty. There’s something hot missing. Something special.”
She kissed him, struggling a little to do so now, and he had never been kissed like this before. Not even then. It was hard not to do harm, in moments like these, because he felt…too much. He calmed himself and tried to pry off his inability to let go. He held her, continued the kiss, and—
Crunchcrunchcrunh.
He looked up, breaking the kiss, and saw Claire Bennet walking on the ice carefully even though she couldn’t get hurt. She looked around, a little bit in wonder but more in curiosity, and he could hear her judgments loud and clear. Where’d you get this from?
“Claire, Claire,” Elle said, and he jerked his head around and wondered why she said her name twice. More than his, anyway. “You shouldn’t have come out here. Now, I’m just going to kill you some more.”
He could breathe.
Then Elle let go of him, leaned down as much as she could, and grabbed a handful of snow. She flung it at Claire who ducked agilely but smiled a sweet, sad, almost shy smile. Reserved and questioning. She bent down too, to gather some snow.
“You’re on,” she said, a familiar ghost of her former self now, not the otherworldly zombie that was there before.
They laughed, and he stepped back.
Their laugher caught in their throats when he went back inside.
***
The little things.
She sat on the other side of Elle on the couch, her legs curled up underneath her and her hair tied back in a knot. Elle toyed with it idly.
“I like it blonde,” she commented.
“And why do you like my hair blonde?” Claire asked, and then sighed as she shared some of her ice cream with Elle.
“Because it looks like your head is on fire sometimes and that makes me happy.”
Claire laughed and gave her a look of something…of something.
“I like your hair because I get blinded by it and don’t have to look at your face.”
“Hey! Hey…that’s actually a good defense,” Elle muttered.
“Hmm-hmm,” Claire agreed through her ice cream. “I’ll have to get your kid little sunglasses and tape them on his face when he decides to come out.”
“Glue would work better,” Elle said, not to be bested.
“…Don’t come out until I use up all the glue in the house,” Claire stage-whispered to his child. His.
“He’s already dragging his feet enough,” Elle said. “But I think you should dye your hair-.”
“You’re both going to be bald if you don’t be quiet,” he interrupted, having been sitting on the other side of Elle this entire time. There was a pause. He looked out of the corner of his eye.
Elle smiled at him, in a knowing, teasing way. Half of his mouth smiled back but Claire was also watching, silent and alert. He felt torn between the two and ended up doing nothing. Somewhere in between the time, he disappeared.
***
His feet took him there again, and he went to Elle in the shower.
She later called it more like an assault and perhaps it was. He stepped in the shower with his clothes on and pushed her against the wall. He buried his face into her shoulder and told her everything. She couldn’t hear it under the rush of the water and his muttering, but this was enough, this was what he could do.
He slid his knee in between her legs and moved to kiss her body, still hiding his face. Even in his violence, he always said ‘don’t leave me’. At his most violent, he said it, in a different way. In a final way.
“You—even have to take a shower—in a special way,” Elle observed through her gasps, and judging by how her hands gripped his shoulders, she wanted him too. Good. There. He made a sound in his throat when she reached one hand downwards to caress him.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, eyes dark.
Elle laughed and sparked his neck. “Ow,” she said when it relayed.
“You deserved that,” he told her, and pushed her legs wider apart. She was cruel. Unusually cruel, but he ran towards that. Needed that, and soon, he was inside of her again, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed this. Mixed, as it always was, but he hid his face by drawing her closer.
They were louder than usual.
Sylar was at peace for a little while. Briefly.
That very morning, Elle woke up with morning sickness, and Claire was the one to hold her hair back.
Still, he counted himself as the winner of some undisclosed competition. Then something very little and typical and common happened.
Elle saw something on TV. Said something was a heart-shaped box full of candy. She sighed.
And Claire asked, “So, I didn’t know that’s your sort of thing?” in a too innocent of voice.
“Hmm, nah. I can eat sweets any time of the year,” Elle said. “I’d like something amazing for that…”
He lifted his head from his work. Claire smiled at Elle too brightly, and he saw her make her decision. Sometimes, he wondered how his own mind worked. Because he didn’t act upon his knowledge until that night.
He lay on the couch, his space now, and it clicked. It clicked hard, and he didn’t even know what he was doing. He was at the bedroom, touched the doorknob, and saw them in his mind, felt the heat there—the lust, the something else, and before he knew it, he was inside the door, throwing it open.
It banged against the wall so hard it was like thunder, and the door sagged on its hinges. They both sat up, blinking and saying different things ‘Is it the cops-the company?’
He picked Claire up out of the bed with telekinesis, for old time’s sake, and there was a lot of screaming that he ignored. He floated her out in front of him and thought it was surprising that he didn’t throw her out the window.
Elle was pulling at him, and he slowed down ,so she wouldn’t slip and fall down the stairs. As if reading his mind, she did start to fall. He let Claire go all the way down, as she couldn’t get hurt, and steadied Elle. Her mouth was open and she was yelling something, but it wasn’t getting through.
Claire was at the base of the stairs, struggling to get to her feet, and he lifted her up and didn’t stop carrying her until she was outside. Then he dropped her.
“Gabriel!” Elle screamed and pulled at his arm. Claire got to her feet slowly, her pajamas muddied and dirtied. “Come on, she has nowhere to go.”
“That’s too bad. We all have to go through that sometime,” he offered as wisdom, waiting for Claire to leave.
The girl stared up at him, jaw set. “I won’t beg but you’re making a mistake.”
He felt his old smile curl on his face. “You say that as if begging would make a difference.”
“Gabriel.”
Not now, Elle.”
“Please.”
It wasn’t as if no one had ever said ‘please’ to him. A lot of people had begged him. There really was no difference to be made.
(a million other universes before, he’d always thrown her out, and kept her out)
But Elle tugged on his sleeve, and Claire stared at him, through him. Knowing things. He knew what she was implying with her words.
“If you’re anymore of a liability, I will dump you on the curb. Or the bottom of the ocean,” he added and shrugged Elle’s hand off.
There was more than the little bit of unease and raging inside that night, and all he saw towards him was hate. From outside and in.
***
A week before that stupid holiday and Claire acted like nothing had happened.
…the holiday wasn’t stupid, he inwardly corrected himself. This was his first Valentine’s day with someone special. This had to be grand and beyond compare…which was the problem. His mind ached and examined every possible gift for Elle, every one and his ideas grew and grew.
He thought about material items like cars and boats and helicopters, small trifles like that, or bringing some people in who weren’t of any concern for her to play with. He thought about every sort of sexual position, using powers naturally. He thought of a new house ala the Petrelli mansion. He thought of a moon visit, even, thought that was more impractical.
He wanted something…wonderful.
And he knew Claire would do something better. It was impossible but lurking on the horizon. When Claire walked out to that stupid motorcycle Elle had had him get for her, he knew she was going somewhere.
…
She drove off without her helmet because apparently she thought it’d be fun to crack her head open in front of every normal person she could find. He watched her go with increasing dread—and then it occurred to him.
When she came back with the gift…he’d just take it.
The best gift of all should be his, and she didn’t feel about Elle the way he did. Elle would just hurt her anyway.
He waited patiently, clipping the yard with his telekinesis in the meantime.
On Valentine’s Day, Claire cooked something that looked like it’d cause everyone diabetes. He passed on the meal, but naturally, being the only one who could really suffer from diabetes, Elle loved it. Claire smiled, ignoring him ignoring her. Gift-wise, she was about to be shown her place.
They continued to eat downstairs, and he took the time to find his gift.
It had been hidden, an act that offended him, but he found it easily by touching the doorknob again.
Underneath an annoying family photo in her bag, he pulled out the gift. Unwrapped it, assuming he could find a better wrapping paper later. He opened it up, ready for anything…
And found a scrapbook. ‘Memories for your Family’
He felt a slight lump in his throat but ignored it, opening the book up with a contemptuous sneer.
Then he paused. There were two things already under the cover. One was a silver locket with a crest on it and another was a letter. He gently took out the letter and read it. Skimming and not really seeing the words, he skipped to the signature.
‘Elizabeth Bishop’
This was a letter from Elle’s mother.
What happened next was not his fault. His heart fell, and he reacted. It was a briefest of reactions. Before he knew it, his hands sparked, and he panicked when it started to turn to ash in his hands.
He hissed in pain and tried to put it out with ice…but then it was unreadable mush. Sylar stared at it in horror, in disbelief, froze in place. The lump in his hands…he couldn’t believe it, accept it.
He heard the door open too late.
“Uh, why are you digging in my clothing bag?” Claire asked, stopping short.
He didn’t move and just closed his eyes.
“What—,” she gasped as she saw the remains of the letter on the ground. “You. You cruel son of a bitch. You Petty Mean-spirited asshole!”
She grabbed for the rest of the book, and he let it go.
“Monster,” she spat. “How could you do that if you’re supposed to care about somebody? You-.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly, finding it hard to get to his feet. They felt like rubber. “I was just holding it, and my powers…”
“Just happened to turn the letter into a popsicle, of all things in this room, yeah right,” Claire said on a roll.
“Don’t tell her,” he said, unable to lift his head. He had all the power in this house, in the city, in the world, and yet he didn’t think he could stop her. “I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”
He didn’t quite mean to say this either. In fact, he said it more to himself than Claire because it was already the situation. What he had accidently done had been almost worse than what he had done intentionally.
He heard Elle’s voice calling Claire, and he winced as Claire walked out, closing the door harshly.
Sylar waited in the center of the room and then decided not to wait for it. His mind lingered on the extreme response, on how to end all of those rebuffs once and for all, but he fought the urge. It was harder than he’d like to admit.
He slipped down the side of the wall and walked around the house, listening to Claire tell on him. That could be the only thing she’d do, to take Elle for herself.
He was vaguely thankful that he could start the car without the keys. The bad thing was that he had parked right outside the house, right where his escape could be seen. But he didn’t need either of them. That was a line added for drama to make Claire do what he wanted.
He smiled to himself, ready to start again.
“Gabriel!”
It was Elle, coming down the steps slowly and gazing at him like she had never seen him before. He stood his ground (cornered). It was already unraveling inside of his head, and he smirked at her. He beat her to the punch.
“Yes, I did it on purpose,” he said maliciously, grinning at her.
“…You did,” Elle said in wonder and hugged him. He was a bit confused for a minute and held her anyway, waiting to be killed, until he saw a letter in her hand. A photocopied letter. “Claire said you and her worked together to find my mother’s things from the Company.”
He looked over her head to where Claire stood leaning in the doorway, her face stoic.
“You two working together. For me. Wow. I didn’t Valentine’s Day would be the end of the world or something,” she said against his chest and then pulled back to stare up at him.
“This is…” She couldn’t say it, unused to such attention, so she hugged him tightly again. “Asshole, this is really a surprise.”
He couldn’t say anything else, his voice completely gone. Something in his chest twisted up as…this confused him. This confused him so badly that it hurt. Everything hurt. He noticed the world blurring a bit and he had to leave again.
“I have to go,” he whispered into her hair. Elle blinked up at him, and his shirt was wet. This wasn’t happening.
“Just now, why?” she demanded.
“…Cake,” he said which was the only thing he could think of. “Cake for after the dinner. I just thought of it.”
She made a face at him and then smiled. “That sounds good. Since I’m the star today, I want chocolate.”
He nodded dumbly, and Elle skipped back up the steps, something she shouldn’t be doing in the first place. He saw her wave at him in the rear view mirror, and after a moment, Claire waved too.
It made him ache.
***
That night, he slipped under the covers with them. He meant to be smoother about it, but Elle was fragile, and somehow he ended up waking them up anyway.
“Where’s my cake?” Elle asked sleepily, her hands lighting up in sparks. Claire blinked over her shoulder, and he was stuck awkwardly in the middle. In the light, he could see that she was wearing the locket. He looked away.
“Your cake is on the table downstairs. This is a busy holiday, and I wanted the freshest cake.”
“And why aren’t you downstairs?”
“Because I hate that couch,” he said defiantly. “I plan on burning it outside tomorrow. Maybe we can have a barbecue.”
“You’re not burning my couch,” Claire muttered, not looking at him. He rolled his eyes and leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“It’s called a figure of speech. I’m going to sell it tomorrow and profit from your mother’s bad taste.” Claire’s lips pursed in anger, and he felt oddly satisfied yet-
“I’d rather burn it than sell it,” Elle said and moved her hand to squeeze his ass once. He jerked and then glared at her.
“Burn it, sell it, I don’t care. I’m not sleeping on it.”
“Fine. Lay down,” Elle said, yawning and then throwing sparks in his face with her fingertips. He did, through much moving and wiggling, and they both complained about it, but soon, he found himself in the middle. Elle’s head was propped on his shoulder, and Claire leaned against him slightly.
It was a start. Maybe she’d like her surprise in the morning, and as he closed his eyes, he thought that the dog had better not eat that cake.
Word Count: 5, 924
Claire Bennet was his greatest enemy (for being someone he'd never actually kill).
At least, not easily. Sylar suspected that he kept her around out of some form of self-torture. Elle loved her, and Elle could have a pet. But the other side of the truth was that he couldn’t quite help…to feel she was an enigma even now.
She was his too, and he and Elle had both done this to her. So, when Elle spent the nights upstairs with Claire, he didn’t mind sleeping on the couch at first. In his mind’s eye, he saw them there, together and intertwined: Claire, far too thin and pale, and Elle, full with pregnancy and rosy-cheeked.
A strange metamorphis had taken place: a strange reversal.
At night, he’d sleep in the Bennet’s house, stretched out on their couch, and see—over and over again in his mind—the image of Claire shooting her adoptive father in the face…
Over and over again.
He expected to derive more pleasure from it.
***
Months ago, Hiro had knocked them both out and had drug them into the Company walls. A month ago, he had been willing to kill Elle—and would have—had he not seen her start to change in the cell beside him.
They were locked in together, and when Elle started to get morning sickness, he’d find himself holding her hair back over her shoulder. Every day, Claire would walk by and grin at them through the window.
He’d stare back calmly because he wasn’t afraid for himself. Not anymore. After his chances of being with them, a part of them, had been shot, he felt that he had nothing to lose.
Except Elle’s child. Except his child.
Elle, who had always wanted to be tough, struggled with her pregnancy. She couldn’t maintain toughness. She climbed up on their very small bed and press herself into him, and he’d accept it, covering her from the sight of the cameras.
Noah Bennet came by to congratulate them on their good news, the new arrival on the way. The Company was excited to see what power the combination of their genes would create. He gave the news with a smile on his face.
Sylar could guess when Claire would be the one administering the Haitian drugs. Those were the days he’d be strapped to the metal table, already drugged up. He couldn’t feel a thing, and he was lesser than Gabriel had been.
In his mind, he was nothing.
She’d appear over him with the cup of pills in her hand, and though her green eyes still held a sliver of cruelty at the power change (he couldn’t blame her there: he’d have done the same), her smile was forced.
“Open nice and wide,” she said. He did so without question, his gaze unflinching. “Good boy.”
When she’d approach Elle, it was a different story. “You have to take these…” she said slowly. “The baby will get hurt if you don’t.”
“Hurt,” Elle said innocently. Then: “Good.”
Sylar turned his head in a fog, squinting in that direction. He saw two blurs, each inverted. Each how they weren’t originally. It’d be a fascinating study, to see them past each other, going in different directions. Claire was hardened, wearing dark colors to gain missing respect. Elle was wilting: her hair flat and dull, wearing all white—but her pink lips were drawn back in a snarl.
“What do you mean? You’d kill your own kid?” Claire asked in disbelief.
“Rather than give him to you. I know what it’s like. You’re not taking him, you hear me. I heard your daddy promise that you’d look after him.”
“I said no,” Claire replied darkly.
“We’ll see. Either way, the Company still gets him.”
Sylar was helpless to stop this. They had the Haitian always near by. Watched around the clock. And Elle was starving herself. He’d hear them fight with her constantly, several men at once trying to choke food down her.
He remembered his mother saying he’d be a good father, if he would ever just try…
One more thing she didn’t know about him.
***
“Gabriel.” There was a wet tap on his forehead. “Gabriel, psssh. Gabriel.”
“What?” he barked out, crawling up from his sleep. “What, Elle?”
The first thing he saw was her stomach, and he thought she looked beautiful in Mrs. Bennet’s old nightrobe. He reached out to see if this wasn’t all a dream—despite her rude awakening of him.
“I don’t ususually yell,” he told her stomach, placing a hand carefully on the underside. “Mommy is just a -.”
“Bitch sometimes, I know.”
“Elle!” he cried out, motioning to her stomach. “That’s not a good example.”
Her voice suddenly dropped to that strange area of seriousness she could possess. “Claire’s going crazy.”
“This is news?”
“It’s not in the fun way,” she whispered, and he heard something crash upstairs. They both looked at the ceiling fan shaking.
“I don’t know if we can keep her for much long,” Sylar said. “She can’t be around my child like that. I won’t allow it.”
“You’re going to kick her to the curb,” Elle observed. “Hm.”
“Do you care?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow. He couldn’t make out her expression in the gloom.
“She shot him to protect me. Us, I mean.”
“…I do owe her,” he said lightly. Begrudingly. “You can’t say that situation didn’t end humorously.”
“Oh it was funny. I could harldy hold back my laugher. But this isn’t really that funny for some reason.. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones..”
Sylar thought he did know. “We know how it is,” he offered as an explanation. “I thought I’d be more satisfied.”
Elle nodded. “She’s a mess. But she’s our mess. Come upstairs with me.”
“I’m the last person she’d want to see,” he said. “Go back up. She won’t hurt you. I’d know before she could move.”
With those words, he sent the mother of his child back upstairs with someone who…He feared Claire’s capacity for normalacy. For expression of…feelings. He feared her range as compared to his own.
He listened to Elle whispering, and how lulling it was, how full of secrets that burrowed right under his skin, and he groaned a little, twisting in place.
In the end, he laid there in the dark, alone, and wondered why he did things like this to himself.
Sylar could admit it. He did owe Claire Bennet quite a feat.
The look on her father’s face—when he had a face—was amazing. If he was able to die, he’d die happy with that moment. There weren’t a lot of moments in his life embued with that kind of significance.
Only, Claire had shot good old Noah over Elle. He’d been about to kill her for g ood…and Sylar hadn’t been able to reach them in time. Claire, who had been standing right besides her father, suddenly grabbed at his gun, and they had struggled with it to that beautiful, bloody conclusion.
Yes, he did owe the cheerleader so much.
When Claire finally emerged from her room upstairs, Elle was holding her hand, step by step, smiling. As if all was right in the world.
In her eyes, Claire looked dead, somewhere else in her head. Her now-brunette hair was a rat’s nest, sticking to her face. Sylar remembered those pictures he had seen of her, of how she had always been smiling…
He ducked his head to hide his own smile as he made his coffee.
“Here, this looks like it’s your seat. It’s short,” Elle said. “And right by the window.” She moved to go to the chair but stopped as Claire wouldn’t let go of her hand. Sylar watched this spectacle curiously and saw that her knuckles were white. That was how hard she was holding on…
To Elle.
This would be horrific, but he couldn’t stop watching. To trust Elle when you were so vulnerable was one of the stupidest mistakes any human being could make. He’d been there himself, on the floor with his neck still burning, and therefore he knew.
“Sit right here. I want to do your pretty nails.”
He turned around to avoid the laughter, sipping his coffee like a crutch. He shouldn’t laugh until Elle was done with the girl. Then they could share it like a couple.
“I pick pink.” He smelt the acrid smell of nail polish remover.
“Not on the table, Elle, for God’s sake. We just now stole it, and to ruin it in the first day would be ridiculous.”
“Beat you to it. I have your jacket covering it.”
He spun around and…this was true. She had Claire’s arm stretched over his black jacket, and he noticed the ring around Claire’s arm. Shades of skin, new skin to old skin. It meant her arm had been cut off at one point at time. Or burnt.
Probably the latter.
When did that happen, he wondered. Then shrugged.
“Unclench your hands, Claire. It’s just Gabriel.”
He glanced up, and a shock went through his system as he saw that, yes, indeed, Claire was looking at him. It was like watching a dead thing come back to life. He had played that game with her before, but this was different. It was almost predatory, almost too-knowing.
“Gabriel,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and as raw as sandpaper or gravel. Invocation, was what it was. He stopped drinking his coffee.
“Yeah, his name is Gabriel. Gab-riel. And you’re Claire,” Elle cooed excitedly, stupidly proud, as if Claire was their child.
No, it isn’t, his mind screamed. Yet said so many times, it felt like the choice was out of his hands. He wandered out of the kitchen because he was bored with that, with them.
Not for any other reason.
***
“Do me a favor,” Elle whispered into his ear that night.
Claire’s a ghost in the corner, in between the bookshelf and the TV, here and not here. Everywhere and nowhere. She was looking at her hands, looking at the image of ‘normal girl’ that was painted there.
Elle’s breathing across his skin made his breath hitch, and he always observed it with wonder. She proved he could feel that; he loved her for it and hated to love her for it. The desperate need and the fear of losing her…the fear of not feeling a thing one day. He turned towards her, sensing mischief. Her blue eyes would always sparkle then.
“I’m going to get Claire-bear all cleaned up because uh, she kinda smells bad.” He frowned, his expectations deflated. “Could you get rid of the pictures down here?”
His first instinct would have been to get Claire asleep and then arrange the pictures around her so that when she woke up…once upon a time, that would have been Elle’s instinct too. Elle kissed him (it was never one on the cheek, he had discovered) and then ruffled his hair.
“Hey,” he quipped, smoothing his hair back down. She giggled and led her little shadow upstairs. He listened to their footsteps, one skipping and one dragging, and sighed as he did as he was told.
Familial happiness wasn’t what he wanted to see all the time while he hadn’t quite gained his own yet. It had been a lie anyway, from what he could tell. Besides, he didn’t want the mess. He didn’t care, just the aftershock of a whimpering, whining thing in his home made him think of messes and a constant disturbance. He wanted peace and quiet when he slept.
Once every picture was stored away—and he had locked the drawers himself, he stretched. There was a full sound above him, the presence of others in the house. This was actually…he felt the sensation a little more, tilting his head experimentally and closing his eyes. Trying it out.
He had never really lived with other people. His mother, yes, but that had been his mother and there had been no peace. He had been lonely in his apartment, voices in his head and the sounds of gears more comforting than those outside his grip. He had yearned for this so much and now that he had it he wasn’t sure what to think.
He had shown Elle…a side no one else had seen. The suicide itself had shocked him into it. But still, nightmares at night, he couldn’t reveal that. He’d rather die and stay dead than cry in front of her—an uncommon occurrence. Now, there was another person here too, and ‘Gabriel’…
He rubbed his neck in frustration.
Something inside of him was building up, stack upon stack, and his feet took him to the warm presence of light, light spilling out into the hallway.
He stood just out of reach of the golden glow, heard the sound of water lapping against the edge of the bathtub, and peered in while hiding in the outside. He saw Elle kneeling by the bathtub and cleaning Claire’s listless arm with a damp cloth.
He watched as she reached over to clean the girl’s face.
That something inside of him turned to stone.
They were on the couch, Claire leaning into Elle as if she was a life preserver.
It would be cute if it weren’t so pathetic, he thought, and went back to work on the watch. He would give Elle a watch for a day that was coming up, with an engraving that’d be so grand and wonderful, that she’d smile for days. She’d wear it forever. But he knew that her electricity would destroy most watches. …well, all watches.
Hmm. Odd, that.
He bent forward, feeling that old satisfaction at putting the pieces in the right places and helping them to run again. It was a tender feeing, hence, why his head was down as he leaned over the desk.
Elle was tormenting Claire with an old cartoon. It sounded like the Little Mermaid. He knew from the video box, of course. Not from the songs at all. He blocked it out as much as he could, this piece hanging on to life and death. He had to do this very gently, and he could do it…
“Claire, Claire,” Elle said, in this ‘hey you’ tone. Much too fond a tone. He managed to get the clock’s spring right before chancing a glance.
“Look, look here,” Elle said, and it seemed Elle had hidden one family picture for herself. “Look at that smile.”
“Jesus, Elle,” he exclaimed, more out of surprise than actual disapproval. He took off his loupes to see the disaster.
Claire stared down at the picture, her eyes growing wider and wider, and anticipating Claire’s motions to a tee, Elle grabbed the back of her head and twisted her hands in her hair, knotting the strands through her fingers. Elle’s face hardened as Claire’s mouth began to twist.
“Look,” she ordered through gritted teeth.
It was a startling revelation to see that Claire had the same problem he had, crying in front of others and sharing her pain. It was this realization that made him open his mouth to tell Elle to stop it.
The sight of tears actually running down Claire’s cheeks sucked the air out of his lungs. That was strange, to see her cry. He sat there, unable to do anything and wondering how major a breakdown this girl would have. What would have to be done…
Then her expression just shattered, and she screamed, and it was the loudest he had heard her voice in a month. She hit her knees with her fists and turned to Elle, her hair covering her face. Sylar put his loupes to the side and got to his feet because a murder was about to occur that had nothing to do with him (and that didn’t sit well with him).
Elle should be holding up her hands, should be—and Claire lowered her own hands. He blinked, and Elle was holding Claire as she sobbed these ugly sounds, and…
“Shhh, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be okay.”
As if she had had that in her all along.
There was no air in the room.
So, he left. No one seemed to notice.
***
Sylar wasn’t surprised when Claire Bennet didn’t disappear. The universe just wasn’t that fair.
She hadn’t even disappeared while she was catatonic. Now, she integrated herself so firmly into his life with Elle that she was a constant piece of furniture. A piece he particularly hated and wanted to be burnt or abandoned in a dumping ground somewhere.
So many little ways that she got under his skin. It was always the little things.
Elle had requested that he—he—say something to Claire on the business of oh, shooting her father in the face. He had conveniently forgotten. He couldn’t sleep with Elle now and didn’t want to ask her to rejoin him in another bed in the house. He slept on the couch not to feel discarded, to feel as if this was a choice. He was frustrated but was determined to be private about it, discrete.
It didn’t make him feel like a man.
The little things.
One day, he had seen Elle’s eyes light up at the sight of snow on the TV screen, and he went to great pains to fix the power with himself. He went out into the backyard (the backyard any family should have), turned on the water hose, and froze it so it snowed, a blaze of ice. He watched her through the window until she turned around and saw it.
It felt as though his heart had swelled with pride when she walked outside in a scarf (Bennet provided) and caught the snow with her tongue. She laughed and danced around in it, and he had a brief flash of fear…but that ending—that blunt jolt through his arm as the scissors left his hands and remained in the air—never happened. He didn’t stop until the grass was iced over with a certain purity to it all, and Elle hurried towards him.
He held her up with his telekinesis, in case she fell, and she made to him (waddled a little due to the pregnancy, but that was his child and that made it all right) and threw her arms around his neck.
“I know you have to like me now since you dumped a whole blizzard on me.”
He shrugged. “That can work for many occasions.”
“But it’s not quite there, Frosty. There’s something hot missing. Something special.”
She kissed him, struggling a little to do so now, and he had never been kissed like this before. Not even then. It was hard not to do harm, in moments like these, because he felt…too much. He calmed himself and tried to pry off his inability to let go. He held her, continued the kiss, and—
Crunchcrunchcrunh.
He looked up, breaking the kiss, and saw Claire Bennet walking on the ice carefully even though she couldn’t get hurt. She looked around, a little bit in wonder but more in curiosity, and he could hear her judgments loud and clear. Where’d you get this from?
“Claire, Claire,” Elle said, and he jerked his head around and wondered why she said her name twice. More than his, anyway. “You shouldn’t have come out here. Now, I’m just going to kill you some more.”
He could breathe.
Then Elle let go of him, leaned down as much as she could, and grabbed a handful of snow. She flung it at Claire who ducked agilely but smiled a sweet, sad, almost shy smile. Reserved and questioning. She bent down too, to gather some snow.
“You’re on,” she said, a familiar ghost of her former self now, not the otherworldly zombie that was there before.
They laughed, and he stepped back.
Their laugher caught in their throats when he went back inside.
***
The little things.
She sat on the other side of Elle on the couch, her legs curled up underneath her and her hair tied back in a knot. Elle toyed with it idly.
“I like it blonde,” she commented.
“And why do you like my hair blonde?” Claire asked, and then sighed as she shared some of her ice cream with Elle.
“Because it looks like your head is on fire sometimes and that makes me happy.”
Claire laughed and gave her a look of something…of something.
“I like your hair because I get blinded by it and don’t have to look at your face.”
“Hey! Hey…that’s actually a good defense,” Elle muttered.
“Hmm-hmm,” Claire agreed through her ice cream. “I’ll have to get your kid little sunglasses and tape them on his face when he decides to come out.”
“Glue would work better,” Elle said, not to be bested.
“…Don’t come out until I use up all the glue in the house,” Claire stage-whispered to his child. His.
“He’s already dragging his feet enough,” Elle said. “But I think you should dye your hair-.”
“You’re both going to be bald if you don’t be quiet,” he interrupted, having been sitting on the other side of Elle this entire time. There was a pause. He looked out of the corner of his eye.
Elle smiled at him, in a knowing, teasing way. Half of his mouth smiled back but Claire was also watching, silent and alert. He felt torn between the two and ended up doing nothing. Somewhere in between the time, he disappeared.
***
His feet took him there again, and he went to Elle in the shower.
She later called it more like an assault and perhaps it was. He stepped in the shower with his clothes on and pushed her against the wall. He buried his face into her shoulder and told her everything. She couldn’t hear it under the rush of the water and his muttering, but this was enough, this was what he could do.
He slid his knee in between her legs and moved to kiss her body, still hiding his face. Even in his violence, he always said ‘don’t leave me’. At his most violent, he said it, in a different way. In a final way.
“You—even have to take a shower—in a special way,” Elle observed through her gasps, and judging by how her hands gripped his shoulders, she wanted him too. Good. There. He made a sound in his throat when she reached one hand downwards to caress him.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, eyes dark.
Elle laughed and sparked his neck. “Ow,” she said when it relayed.
“You deserved that,” he told her, and pushed her legs wider apart. She was cruel. Unusually cruel, but he ran towards that. Needed that, and soon, he was inside of her again, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed this. Mixed, as it always was, but he hid his face by drawing her closer.
They were louder than usual.
Sylar was at peace for a little while. Briefly.
That very morning, Elle woke up with morning sickness, and Claire was the one to hold her hair back.
Still, he counted himself as the winner of some undisclosed competition. Then something very little and typical and common happened.
Elle saw something on TV. Said something was a heart-shaped box full of candy. She sighed.
And Claire asked, “So, I didn’t know that’s your sort of thing?” in a too innocent of voice.
“Hmm, nah. I can eat sweets any time of the year,” Elle said. “I’d like something amazing for that…”
He lifted his head from his work. Claire smiled at Elle too brightly, and he saw her make her decision. Sometimes, he wondered how his own mind worked. Because he didn’t act upon his knowledge until that night.
He lay on the couch, his space now, and it clicked. It clicked hard, and he didn’t even know what he was doing. He was at the bedroom, touched the doorknob, and saw them in his mind, felt the heat there—the lust, the something else, and before he knew it, he was inside the door, throwing it open.
It banged against the wall so hard it was like thunder, and the door sagged on its hinges. They both sat up, blinking and saying different things ‘Is it the cops-the company?’
He picked Claire up out of the bed with telekinesis, for old time’s sake, and there was a lot of screaming that he ignored. He floated her out in front of him and thought it was surprising that he didn’t throw her out the window.
Elle was pulling at him, and he slowed down ,so she wouldn’t slip and fall down the stairs. As if reading his mind, she did start to fall. He let Claire go all the way down, as she couldn’t get hurt, and steadied Elle. Her mouth was open and she was yelling something, but it wasn’t getting through.
Claire was at the base of the stairs, struggling to get to her feet, and he lifted her up and didn’t stop carrying her until she was outside. Then he dropped her.
“Gabriel!” Elle screamed and pulled at his arm. Claire got to her feet slowly, her pajamas muddied and dirtied. “Come on, she has nowhere to go.”
“That’s too bad. We all have to go through that sometime,” he offered as wisdom, waiting for Claire to leave.
The girl stared up at him, jaw set. “I won’t beg but you’re making a mistake.”
He felt his old smile curl on his face. “You say that as if begging would make a difference.”
“Gabriel.”
Not now, Elle.”
“Please.”
It wasn’t as if no one had ever said ‘please’ to him. A lot of people had begged him. There really was no difference to be made.
(a million other universes before, he’d always thrown her out, and kept her out)
But Elle tugged on his sleeve, and Claire stared at him, through him. Knowing things. He knew what she was implying with her words.
“If you’re anymore of a liability, I will dump you on the curb. Or the bottom of the ocean,” he added and shrugged Elle’s hand off.
There was more than the little bit of unease and raging inside that night, and all he saw towards him was hate. From outside and in.
***
A week before that stupid holiday and Claire acted like nothing had happened.
…the holiday wasn’t stupid, he inwardly corrected himself. This was his first Valentine’s day with someone special. This had to be grand and beyond compare…which was the problem. His mind ached and examined every possible gift for Elle, every one and his ideas grew and grew.
He thought about material items like cars and boats and helicopters, small trifles like that, or bringing some people in who weren’t of any concern for her to play with. He thought about every sort of sexual position, using powers naturally. He thought of a new house ala the Petrelli mansion. He thought of a moon visit, even, thought that was more impractical.
He wanted something…wonderful.
And he knew Claire would do something better. It was impossible but lurking on the horizon. When Claire walked out to that stupid motorcycle Elle had had him get for her, he knew she was going somewhere.
…
She drove off without her helmet because apparently she thought it’d be fun to crack her head open in front of every normal person she could find. He watched her go with increasing dread—and then it occurred to him.
When she came back with the gift…he’d just take it.
The best gift of all should be his, and she didn’t feel about Elle the way he did. Elle would just hurt her anyway.
He waited patiently, clipping the yard with his telekinesis in the meantime.
On Valentine’s Day, Claire cooked something that looked like it’d cause everyone diabetes. He passed on the meal, but naturally, being the only one who could really suffer from diabetes, Elle loved it. Claire smiled, ignoring him ignoring her. Gift-wise, she was about to be shown her place.
They continued to eat downstairs, and he took the time to find his gift.
It had been hidden, an act that offended him, but he found it easily by touching the doorknob again.
Underneath an annoying family photo in her bag, he pulled out the gift. Unwrapped it, assuming he could find a better wrapping paper later. He opened it up, ready for anything…
And found a scrapbook. ‘Memories for your Family’
He felt a slight lump in his throat but ignored it, opening the book up with a contemptuous sneer.
Then he paused. There were two things already under the cover. One was a silver locket with a crest on it and another was a letter. He gently took out the letter and read it. Skimming and not really seeing the words, he skipped to the signature.
‘Elizabeth Bishop’
This was a letter from Elle’s mother.
What happened next was not his fault. His heart fell, and he reacted. It was a briefest of reactions. Before he knew it, his hands sparked, and he panicked when it started to turn to ash in his hands.
He hissed in pain and tried to put it out with ice…but then it was unreadable mush. Sylar stared at it in horror, in disbelief, froze in place. The lump in his hands…he couldn’t believe it, accept it.
He heard the door open too late.
“Uh, why are you digging in my clothing bag?” Claire asked, stopping short.
He didn’t move and just closed his eyes.
“What—,” she gasped as she saw the remains of the letter on the ground. “You. You cruel son of a bitch. You Petty Mean-spirited asshole!”
She grabbed for the rest of the book, and he let it go.
“Monster,” she spat. “How could you do that if you’re supposed to care about somebody? You-.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly, finding it hard to get to his feet. They felt like rubber. “I was just holding it, and my powers…”
“Just happened to turn the letter into a popsicle, of all things in this room, yeah right,” Claire said on a roll.
“Don’t tell her,” he said, unable to lift his head. He had all the power in this house, in the city, in the world, and yet he didn’t think he could stop her. “I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”
He didn’t quite mean to say this either. In fact, he said it more to himself than Claire because it was already the situation. What he had accidently done had been almost worse than what he had done intentionally.
He heard Elle’s voice calling Claire, and he winced as Claire walked out, closing the door harshly.
Sylar waited in the center of the room and then decided not to wait for it. His mind lingered on the extreme response, on how to end all of those rebuffs once and for all, but he fought the urge. It was harder than he’d like to admit.
He slipped down the side of the wall and walked around the house, listening to Claire tell on him. That could be the only thing she’d do, to take Elle for herself.
He was vaguely thankful that he could start the car without the keys. The bad thing was that he had parked right outside the house, right where his escape could be seen. But he didn’t need either of them. That was a line added for drama to make Claire do what he wanted.
He smiled to himself, ready to start again.
“Gabriel!”
It was Elle, coming down the steps slowly and gazing at him like she had never seen him before. He stood his ground (cornered). It was already unraveling inside of his head, and he smirked at her. He beat her to the punch.
“Yes, I did it on purpose,” he said maliciously, grinning at her.
“…You did,” Elle said in wonder and hugged him. He was a bit confused for a minute and held her anyway, waiting to be killed, until he saw a letter in her hand. A photocopied letter. “Claire said you and her worked together to find my mother’s things from the Company.”
He looked over her head to where Claire stood leaning in the doorway, her face stoic.
“You two working together. For me. Wow. I didn’t Valentine’s Day would be the end of the world or something,” she said against his chest and then pulled back to stare up at him.
“This is…” She couldn’t say it, unused to such attention, so she hugged him tightly again. “Asshole, this is really a surprise.”
He couldn’t say anything else, his voice completely gone. Something in his chest twisted up as…this confused him. This confused him so badly that it hurt. Everything hurt. He noticed the world blurring a bit and he had to leave again.
“I have to go,” he whispered into her hair. Elle blinked up at him, and his shirt was wet. This wasn’t happening.
“Just now, why?” she demanded.
“…Cake,” he said which was the only thing he could think of. “Cake for after the dinner. I just thought of it.”
She made a face at him and then smiled. “That sounds good. Since I’m the star today, I want chocolate.”
He nodded dumbly, and Elle skipped back up the steps, something she shouldn’t be doing in the first place. He saw her wave at him in the rear view mirror, and after a moment, Claire waved too.
It made him ache.
***
That night, he slipped under the covers with them. He meant to be smoother about it, but Elle was fragile, and somehow he ended up waking them up anyway.
“Where’s my cake?” Elle asked sleepily, her hands lighting up in sparks. Claire blinked over her shoulder, and he was stuck awkwardly in the middle. In the light, he could see that she was wearing the locket. He looked away.
“Your cake is on the table downstairs. This is a busy holiday, and I wanted the freshest cake.”
“And why aren’t you downstairs?”
“Because I hate that couch,” he said defiantly. “I plan on burning it outside tomorrow. Maybe we can have a barbecue.”
“You’re not burning my couch,” Claire muttered, not looking at him. He rolled his eyes and leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“It’s called a figure of speech. I’m going to sell it tomorrow and profit from your mother’s bad taste.” Claire’s lips pursed in anger, and he felt oddly satisfied yet-
“I’d rather burn it than sell it,” Elle said and moved her hand to squeeze his ass once. He jerked and then glared at her.
“Burn it, sell it, I don’t care. I’m not sleeping on it.”
“Fine. Lay down,” Elle said, yawning and then throwing sparks in his face with her fingertips. He did, through much moving and wiggling, and they both complained about it, but soon, he found himself in the middle. Elle’s head was propped on his shoulder, and Claire leaned against him slightly.
It was a start. Maybe she’d like her surprise in the morning, and as he closed his eyes, he thought that the dog had better not eat that cake.
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Date: 2010-02-12 12:49 am (UTC)And I appreciate so so much the push-pull thing because I think that's primarily Sylar and Claire, no matter what they are in...just something kind of like that, XD and yes, she's the one who topped him. ;-)...XD Thank you for commenting on that!!! <3
And yes, the puppy had to be done. It's just how it goes. :-)
No problem, I'm glad you enjoyed this one!! <333