All the roads we have to walk are winding
Title: And All the Lights that Lead the Way Are Blinding
Disclaimer: Not mine. Only responsible for their fictional corruption.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire (mostly), Sylar/Claire (on the side)
Rating: R, incest, language
Warning: This was inspired by spoilers for Season 3. Do not read if you do not want to read my conjecture and angsty guessing.
Summary: They've done this so many times now the path is worn, easily visible. It's the road between her better judgment and his self-loathing.
A/N: I think Paire purists can handle the dash of Sylaire (I promise). Please don't be afraid to give it a try. That being said - this is weird. Hope someone likes.
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Sylar hands her the gun and Claire doesn't need the words. They both know she knows what has to be done. This has the taint of fate.
She could close her eyes and remember another man with dark eyes and dark hair requesting the same thing.
You are the only one who can stop me him.
It doesn't matter that she's always loved him. It doesn't matter that she always will. The world needs her, the same way it always seems too. It never cares that it takes more than it gives.
Equality is something Claire no longer expects.
Sylar hands her the gun and she could close her eyes and see another night, the night Peter came to save her from him.
She keeps her eyes open.
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The world has a bad habit of breaking the rules. Heroes become villains and villains sometimes shock the hell out of little girls by playing for the good guys.
Most mornings Claire doesn't feel like either one, the side she is on - undefined. Her father lies. She's killed. Sylar smiles like it's all a joke and none of his actions make one hell of a difference. He saves her one day, just to put her in danger the next.
Most nights she falls to sleep wondering if she'll open them again, if he'll split her skull for S's and G's, or because her feet were too cold tangled around his restless legs under their bedsheets.
Only sometimes does she take comfort in the solid weight of his body against hers, the tingle his breath on her neck causes as he breathes her in. Sylar runs his fingers through the strands of her dyed dark hair and there is possession in the surety of the gesture, need in the way he holds on and doesn't let go.
Claire derives power from the knowledge of his power held in check, even as she fears the weakness inside her that sometimes wants him to let it out.
If he took care of Peter, she wouldn't have too. If Sylar snapped Peter like a twig she could hate him instead of herself.
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She doesn't want to do it. She doesn't want to do it. She doesn't want to.
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She finds him without effort, and it's obvious to them both that he's let her.
Again.
They've done this so many times now the path is worn, easily visible. It's the road between her better judgment and his self-loathing.
Claire comes because self preservation has never been anything she's had to worry about. He takes her in because Nathan is dead and fucking his daughter is one way to ensure the hottest spot in hell.
(The one he just knows he deserves.)
She wants him any way she can get him. Their kisses never start tender, not on purpose, not accidentally. A pack of struck matches thrown on an alcohol soaked bar.
Spark. Flame. Inferno.
Pain produced by the habit of breathing is the catalyst. Their bodies the wood. And love makes everything burn.
Quicker. Deadlier. Brighter.
They both want things the way they were, but that's the only thing they have left that Peter will admit to having in common.
Nothing is as it should be.
His hand is hot against the flesh of her stomach and the familiar scratch of his scar on her neck (as he bites) is all she needs to know the time has come.
Claire feels nothing but cold as she pulls the trigger.
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She didn't want to. She didn't want to. She did.
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Sylar takes the gun, and whether it's empathy or apathy he doesn't say anything about the way her hand shakes.
She knows his history, knows he killed his mother - claims he didn't mean to - and that that, if none other, is the one death that weighs on the organ that passes for his heart.
Claire wonders if this is what makes a monster, killing your own. If there is any coming back from destroying who you loved, snuffing the life of someone who loved you.
She can list the reasons why, knows how it will make the world better - but seeing isn't always believing.
She believes in the tender boy with the courageous heart that lives in memory and the best of her late night dreams.
The man who came to her before Sylar and told her to listen. Her Uncle. Her friend. The time traveling hero who knew she wouldn't do it without a push.
That Peter promised he would do what he could to undo the past, wrapped her in his arms and begged her(how could she resist?) to save the future.
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She can never deny him anything.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Only responsible for their fictional corruption.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire (mostly), Sylar/Claire (on the side)
Rating: R, incest, language
Warning: This was inspired by spoilers for Season 3. Do not read if you do not want to read my conjecture and angsty guessing.
Summary: They've done this so many times now the path is worn, easily visible. It's the road between her better judgment and his self-loathing.
A/N: I think Paire purists can handle the dash of Sylaire (I promise). Please don't be afraid to give it a try. That being said - this is weird. Hope someone likes.
+
+
+
Sylar hands her the gun and Claire doesn't need the words. They both know she knows what has to be done. This has the taint of fate.
She could close her eyes and remember another man with dark eyes and dark hair requesting the same thing.
You are the only one who can stop me him.
It doesn't matter that she's always loved him. It doesn't matter that she always will. The world needs her, the same way it always seems too. It never cares that it takes more than it gives.
Equality is something Claire no longer expects.
Sylar hands her the gun and she could close her eyes and see another night, the night Peter came to save her from him.
She keeps her eyes open.
+
The world has a bad habit of breaking the rules. Heroes become villains and villains sometimes shock the hell out of little girls by playing for the good guys.
Most mornings Claire doesn't feel like either one, the side she is on - undefined. Her father lies. She's killed. Sylar smiles like it's all a joke and none of his actions make one hell of a difference. He saves her one day, just to put her in danger the next.
Most nights she falls to sleep wondering if she'll open them again, if he'll split her skull for S's and G's, or because her feet were too cold tangled around his restless legs under their bedsheets.
Only sometimes does she take comfort in the solid weight of his body against hers, the tingle his breath on her neck causes as he breathes her in. Sylar runs his fingers through the strands of her dyed dark hair and there is possession in the surety of the gesture, need in the way he holds on and doesn't let go.
Claire derives power from the knowledge of his power held in check, even as she fears the weakness inside her that sometimes wants him to let it out.
If he took care of Peter, she wouldn't have too. If Sylar snapped Peter like a twig she could hate him instead of herself.
+
She doesn't want to do it. She doesn't want to do it. She doesn't want to.
+
She finds him without effort, and it's obvious to them both that he's let her.
Again.
They've done this so many times now the path is worn, easily visible. It's the road between her better judgment and his self-loathing.
Claire comes because self preservation has never been anything she's had to worry about. He takes her in because Nathan is dead and fucking his daughter is one way to ensure the hottest spot in hell.
(The one he just knows he deserves.)
She wants him any way she can get him. Their kisses never start tender, not on purpose, not accidentally. A pack of struck matches thrown on an alcohol soaked bar.
Spark. Flame. Inferno.
Pain produced by the habit of breathing is the catalyst. Their bodies the wood. And love makes everything burn.
Quicker. Deadlier. Brighter.
They both want things the way they were, but that's the only thing they have left that Peter will admit to having in common.
Nothing is as it should be.
His hand is hot against the flesh of her stomach and the familiar scratch of his scar on her neck (as he bites) is all she needs to know the time has come.
Claire feels nothing but cold as she pulls the trigger.
+
She didn't want to. She didn't want to. She did.
+
Sylar takes the gun, and whether it's empathy or apathy he doesn't say anything about the way her hand shakes.
She knows his history, knows he killed his mother - claims he didn't mean to - and that that, if none other, is the one death that weighs on the organ that passes for his heart.
Claire wonders if this is what makes a monster, killing your own. If there is any coming back from destroying who you loved, snuffing the life of someone who loved you.
She can list the reasons why, knows how it will make the world better - but seeing isn't always believing.
She believes in the tender boy with the courageous heart that lives in memory and the best of her late night dreams.
The man who came to her before Sylar and told her to listen. Her Uncle. Her friend. The time traveling hero who knew she wouldn't do it without a push.
That Peter promised he would do what he could to undo the past, wrapped her in his arms and begged her(how could she resist?) to save the future.
+
She can never deny him anything.