Fic: It's Not Enough (Just a Touch)
Title: It's Not Enough (Just a Touch)
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: R
Word Count: Around 3,000
Warnings: Murder, Sex, Spoilers through 3x03
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything associated with Heroes.
A/N: Written for darkinnocent in the Sylaire Ficathon. I hope you like it. Title and cut tag taken from the song "Eye" by Smashing Pumpkins.
Special thanks to my incredible betas: eeyore9990 & bloodwings1! I don't deserve you guys.
It took her a week to find him, and by then she was so strung out on fear and hatred she could barely think coherently.
His apartment was Spartan; a quick glance confirmed what she already knew, that he hadn’t lived here long. It wasn’t a home so much as a way station, a stop on his way from one activity to another. No doubt he slept in the unmade bed she found in the bedroom, ate at the small table in the kitchen, and cooked at the stove by the refrigerator.
But there was nothing of him. No mementos, photographs, or even a magazine. The place was generic. The property manager assured her that her long lost “brother” lived here. The name was undoubtedly his, Gabriel Grey.
It surprised her a little that he hadn’t bothered to change it, but then, why would he? Who could possibly be a danger or a challenge to Sylar? The cops? The FBI? She was starting to fully understand why he wanted her power. For him, immortality must be a necessity.
People were driven by their need for something; Claire figured that out when she left home in search of answers. She didn’t want to see Sylar again. The thought of being in the same room with the serial killer made her stomach hurt and her heart trip-hammer in her chest. But she needed to know the truth, needed to know what she was and why.
Only one person had been so blunt and honest with her; it was her bad luck that he had also split open her head and fondled her brain. He had answers and she needed to hear them. Even if her terror made her run, she had to try.
Claire sat at his table in his crappy little apartment and waited. Her box of stolen files sat on the chair next to her. She was facing the door and focusing on the door knob, willing it to give her strength, hoping it would turn but praying it didn’t.
The sound of keys jangling and scraping the lock, the metal tumblers clicking into place, made her sit up straighter. Her mouth felt as dry and rough as sandpaper; her throat clicked when she tried to swallow.
When Sylar pushed open the door with his arms full of groceries, he didn’t look up or see her sitting there. He was wearing a suit and looked respectable, like a librarian or a teacher or anyone but the killer she knew he was. She watched in silence as he struggled to get the key out of the lock and hold on to the paper bags threatening to topple out of his grip. Claire willed the voice screaming in her head to shut up. She would not run and hide from him. Not this time.
She placed her hands on the table, palms down, and forced herself to breathe normally. She looked up and directly into his eyes as he pushed the door shut with the heel of his shoe. He blinked once and then smiled. No surprised expression graced his face when he realized someone had come into his home uninvited. That alone made Claire’s heart clench painfully in her chest.
Sylar walked past her, into the tiny kitchen where he set the bags on the counter and began unpacking them.
“I wasn’t expecting company. If I had known, I would have picked up something more exciting than spaghetti for dinner.” He looked back at her when he opened the refrigerator door to put the milk and lettuce away.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat when she gasped, the sound loud in her ears. “I need to know something.” She looked down at the table, tried to control the trembling in her limbs and started again. “You know things.”
He continued emptying the groceries from the bags, placing everything neatly on the counter. Then he folded the bags, making sharp creases in the brown paper before placing them in a drawer.
“I know lots of things. What in particular are you curious about?” He sounded bored, or maybe tired. “It must be important since you came all this way.” He looked so normal, not like the man who had stalked her and ripped open her skull a week ago.
He walked slowly toward her, pulling out the other chair and turning it around before straddling it, uncomfortably close to her. He watched her, his head tilted as he studied her intently. "Tell me, Claire," he said softly, his eyes locked on hers as he narrowed the distance between them until only a hairs-breadth separated them.
Her breathing was ragged, uneven with fear and confusion. She knew he was trying to unnerve her; it took every bit of willpower she had not to give him the satisfaction of moving backward.
"There is so much I can teach you, Claire," he murmured. He was so close now that the mere effort of speaking caused his lips to brush against her. She squeezed her eyes shut, terrified and waiting. She would not cower from him, but there was no way she could hide her fear. The frantic beating of her heart alone would have given it away even if she weren't shaking so hard the chair rattled against the linoleum.
His breath brushed warmly against her ear as he whispered something she couldn't make out, and she had a moment to feel the icy coldness of shock. He was going to kiss her. He was going to-
A solid thumping sound cut through the incredulous buzzing of her thoughts, and she looked down to see that her left hand had been pierced through with a large butcher knife. A hiss pushed out against her teeth when she wiggled her fingers experimentally. It didn’t hurt, not even a little. The knife was embedded in the table and, she guessed, poking out the underside; the only thing between was her numb flesh.
“Now we’re even.” Sylar was back in the kitchen rattling pots and pans and running water in the sink. She hadn't even seen him move.
Claire ignored his statement as she watched her blood beginning to pool. “It doesn’t hurt, you know. I can’t feel pain.”
She grasped the knife handle with her other hand and pulled. She cringed at the tearing sound the knife made when it was pulled free of skin, bone, and wood.
“I don’t know what I am. I need you to tell me.” The ugly gash had already knitted together as if by magic, leaving no scar.
He was watching her with his head cocked to the side; she had his interest now. “You don’t feel anything?” Sylar was wiping his hands with a towel as he studied her, a faraway look on his face.
“No. Nothing hurts now. Ever. I don’t understand and no one knows anything about this, no one but you.” For the first time since she had set foot in his home she felt the fear subside, replaced by an inkling of unease. Claire waited for him to speak, say something, but he remained motionless, finally closing his eyes and smiling slightly.
Her mother was probably worried sick by now. She tried to imagine how her two mothers were coping in her absence. The chances were good they were still at each other’s throats, each blaming the other for her running away. She felt a sudden longing for home and familiarity, all the mundane things she had left behind in her quest for answers.
“This is stupid. I should go. I’m going home now. I’m sorry I-” Her word were cut off midsentence when her jaws clamped shut on her tongue. She couldn’t open her mouth.
"You need to be silent.” Sylar was walking towards her and leaned over to swipe at the now sticky blood on the table in front of her. “Good girl."
When she tried to stand, it was as if she was stuck to the chair. Her body refused to move even slightly, even when she used all her strength. She was at his mercy again, only this time she didn’t know what he wanted from her. Anger filled her, dark and black, as tears of frustration leaked from the corner of her eyes. She stopped fighting with his invisible bonds and waited.
He hummed as he resumed making dinner, a quiet tune that Claire could just hear over her heartbeat in her ears. When he came back to the table, it was with a plate and a fork. He sat across from her and ate with quick, efficient bites, ignoring her until he was finished. Then he got up, put his dishes in the sink and walked out of her view.
She felt the pressure that was holding her hostage ease up and then fall away all at once. Her chair was pulled back and she was facing Sylar again, who was now dressed all in black.
"Come with me if you want to learn.” He reached for her stolen box of files and stalked out the door, leaving it open for her to follow.
She could run now. Go back home and pretend that she hadn’t come this far. Claire stood up and walked on unsteady feet. In the parking lot she climbed in his waiting car.
~*~
She tripped over the threshold in her rush to get to the bathroom, slamming into the door as she fought frantically to turn the knob. Once inside she dry-heaved in the sink and prayed the images she saw whenever she closed her eyes would go away.
Her hands were covered in blood and other things she dared not think about. Claire turned the faucet on and rubbed her hands together under the water, watching as the drain at the bottom of the sink turned pink and then bright red. She rubbed harder and scraped her short nails across her skin until welts and scratches appeared and disappeared.
The man had been her father’s age, a CPA working out of his home office. He never saw them coming. Sylar had him thrown across the desk with a flick of his wrist within moments of walking in the house. His other hand grasped hers, drawing her forward so she could see everything.
“Don’t look at her, she can’t help you,” he sneered at their victim. Theirs because she was there, too, complicit in his death. Guilty by association. “You see, you have something we want. I want your power. She wants to watch.”
Claire shook her head and tried to pull away, but his grip was an iron vice. There was no escape, for anyone. She watched in horror as Sylar opened the man’s skull and methodically studied his brain.
“Please…” It was the last word he spoke as he died, his eyes on Claire. She wasn’t sure if he was pleading for his life or an end to his suffering.
“Look here, you see this?” Sylar pointed into the man’s head and waited for her acknowledgement. “He’s dead, Claire. Pay attention.”
She couldn’t look away. It was too gruesome to be real. Too bloody. She moved closer and looked where Sylar told her. She closed her eyes and repeated over and over that it was a bad dream, a nightmare to end all nightmares.
“Fine.” He grasped her hand again, and she felt warmth and slipperiness under her fingertips. “There. It’s right under where your fingers are. The answer to your questions, Claire. Do you understand?” His voice was kind and lilting, a teacher explaining a simple problem to a reluctant student.
She had stolen her father’s files to find Sylar, and it cost this man his life. Bile rose in the back of her mouth and she gagged. “What was his name?” She tried to remember if she’d seen his face before.
“Does it matter?” A rhetorical question, she knew. It didn’t matter to Sylar.
“I killed him. You found him because of me.” She started to back away from the dead man, needing distance.
“If I wanted to find him, I would have. Perks of working for the Company.” He chuckled and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“You work for the Company?” Claire could hear a ringing in her ears. The room began to spin.
“Silly girl, eventually everyone works for the Company.”
Claire climbed into the shower fully clothed and turned on the water. The icy spray took only a few moments to soak her to the skin. She welcomed the shivers and the way the cold numbed her body. This was the closest she could come to death and oblivion.
She wrapped her arms around herself and slid to the tiled floor. This was not how her life was supposed to turn out. She thought desperately of the Haitian and his ability to wipe her memory, but even forgetting would not change what had already happened. Nothing could.
A saying her mother used to tell her echoed through her mind. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. And then she started to cry. She didn’t feel stronger. She felt weak and insignificant.
“Come on, Claire. This is no way to act. You- we can’t help what we are.” Sylar was kneeling in front of her. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. She covered her ears like a child and refused to listen.
Claire didn’t feel his hands when he reached for her, pulling her up until she was standing and shivering in front of him. He turned the tap all the way in the opposite direction and hot water scalded them both. She watched his face and saw his eyes go black and infinite, the way they looked when he murdered someone.
He leaned over her and whispered in her ear, “Do you want to know what you are?” His breath exhaled across her skin like a soft caress. He was crowding her, forcing her up against the wall. She tried to push back against him, but he was as unmovable as a stone wall. Steam had begun filling the small bathroom, and Claire was sweating beneath her wet clothes.
“Just tell me. Stop playing games and tell me!” Her voice echoed off the walls in the closed space.
Sylar placed a hand on each side of her head and grinned at her. “I will. Hold still.” He pushed up against her again, spreading her legs wider with his knee. Claire stopped fighting him and tried to clear her mind of the images that were haunting her. “You can’t stop evolution, Claire. It’s no one’s fault. Stop blaming yourself for things out of your control.”
He unbuttoned her top and spread the fabric apart, exposing her chest and abdomen to the spray of water. She didn’t want to enjoy his touch, but she couldn’t deny her need for contact, for a reprieve from all she had seen and done this day.
“There is a reason you can’t feel pain anymore. It’s a defense mechanism; it tells you when you’re sick or hurt. You don’t need it anymore.” Sylar ran his hand lightly down her body, fingertips lingering on the hollow of her neck and between her breasts. Claire gasped at the contact and felt her knees go weak.
Earlier today she had hated and feared this man, and now he was touching her. She thought she might laugh hysterically and never stop. Until he shifted his weight again. Instead of laughing, she moaned low in her throat.
Sylar bit lightly on her neck and whispered, “See that? You can still feel pleasure, even if the pain is gone.”
Claire reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, wanting to feel more. Needing it. She rocked against him and wished their clothes were gone. With trembling fingers she unbuttoned his shirt and scraped her nails across newly exposed skin. The red scratches disappeared within moments. Just like her. He was just like her.
She helped when he knelt down to unzip her jeans; they were stubborn to remove, stuck to her legs, and heavy. He kissed her behind her knee and scraped his five o’clock shadow up her inner thigh, stopping when he reached her underwear. He paused for a moment before pushing them to her ankles.
“I can’t hurt you.” And then his fingers were exploring her, spreading her open. She thrust against his hand and couldn’t look away from his face. He was watching her with fascination, like she was a puzzle he needed to solve, a problem only he knew the answer to.
“Tell me more,” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. She wanted to hear the sound of his voice while he touched her. Claire knew something in her was close to breaking apart, and she needed something to hold on to.
Sylar stood and undid his fly. “We are the next step, Claire.” He lifted her legs and settled between them, drawing her down until she could feel him hard and ready against her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and held on. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She wished he would kiss her, and then stopped thinking altogether when he pushed inside her. “This is the future.”
~*~
She stayed. What she was became less important the more she understood what she could be. The day she reached out and ran the tip of her finger lightly over the ridges of the exposed brain of some nameless victim, Sylar looked up at her with approval gleaming in his eyes and a small, private smile tipping the corners of his mouth. She realized then, as he knelt before her absorbing the woman's power, that he had not coerced her in any way.
She stayed. Not because she had no where to go, but because she had finally found her place to be.
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: R
Word Count: Around 3,000
Warnings: Murder, Sex, Spoilers through 3x03
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything associated with Heroes.
A/N: Written for darkinnocent in the Sylaire Ficathon. I hope you like it. Title and cut tag taken from the song "Eye" by Smashing Pumpkins.
Special thanks to my incredible betas: eeyore9990 & bloodwings1! I don't deserve you guys.
It took her a week to find him, and by then she was so strung out on fear and hatred she could barely think coherently.
His apartment was Spartan; a quick glance confirmed what she already knew, that he hadn’t lived here long. It wasn’t a home so much as a way station, a stop on his way from one activity to another. No doubt he slept in the unmade bed she found in the bedroom, ate at the small table in the kitchen, and cooked at the stove by the refrigerator.
But there was nothing of him. No mementos, photographs, or even a magazine. The place was generic. The property manager assured her that her long lost “brother” lived here. The name was undoubtedly his, Gabriel Grey.
It surprised her a little that he hadn’t bothered to change it, but then, why would he? Who could possibly be a danger or a challenge to Sylar? The cops? The FBI? She was starting to fully understand why he wanted her power. For him, immortality must be a necessity.
People were driven by their need for something; Claire figured that out when she left home in search of answers. She didn’t want to see Sylar again. The thought of being in the same room with the serial killer made her stomach hurt and her heart trip-hammer in her chest. But she needed to know the truth, needed to know what she was and why.
Only one person had been so blunt and honest with her; it was her bad luck that he had also split open her head and fondled her brain. He had answers and she needed to hear them. Even if her terror made her run, she had to try.
Claire sat at his table in his crappy little apartment and waited. Her box of stolen files sat on the chair next to her. She was facing the door and focusing on the door knob, willing it to give her strength, hoping it would turn but praying it didn’t.
The sound of keys jangling and scraping the lock, the metal tumblers clicking into place, made her sit up straighter. Her mouth felt as dry and rough as sandpaper; her throat clicked when she tried to swallow.
When Sylar pushed open the door with his arms full of groceries, he didn’t look up or see her sitting there. He was wearing a suit and looked respectable, like a librarian or a teacher or anyone but the killer she knew he was. She watched in silence as he struggled to get the key out of the lock and hold on to the paper bags threatening to topple out of his grip. Claire willed the voice screaming in her head to shut up. She would not run and hide from him. Not this time.
She placed her hands on the table, palms down, and forced herself to breathe normally. She looked up and directly into his eyes as he pushed the door shut with the heel of his shoe. He blinked once and then smiled. No surprised expression graced his face when he realized someone had come into his home uninvited. That alone made Claire’s heart clench painfully in her chest.
Sylar walked past her, into the tiny kitchen where he set the bags on the counter and began unpacking them.
“I wasn’t expecting company. If I had known, I would have picked up something more exciting than spaghetti for dinner.” He looked back at her when he opened the refrigerator door to put the milk and lettuce away.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat when she gasped, the sound loud in her ears. “I need to know something.” She looked down at the table, tried to control the trembling in her limbs and started again. “You know things.”
He continued emptying the groceries from the bags, placing everything neatly on the counter. Then he folded the bags, making sharp creases in the brown paper before placing them in a drawer.
“I know lots of things. What in particular are you curious about?” He sounded bored, or maybe tired. “It must be important since you came all this way.” He looked so normal, not like the man who had stalked her and ripped open her skull a week ago.
He walked slowly toward her, pulling out the other chair and turning it around before straddling it, uncomfortably close to her. He watched her, his head tilted as he studied her intently. "Tell me, Claire," he said softly, his eyes locked on hers as he narrowed the distance between them until only a hairs-breadth separated them.
Her breathing was ragged, uneven with fear and confusion. She knew he was trying to unnerve her; it took every bit of willpower she had not to give him the satisfaction of moving backward.
"There is so much I can teach you, Claire," he murmured. He was so close now that the mere effort of speaking caused his lips to brush against her. She squeezed her eyes shut, terrified and waiting. She would not cower from him, but there was no way she could hide her fear. The frantic beating of her heart alone would have given it away even if she weren't shaking so hard the chair rattled against the linoleum.
His breath brushed warmly against her ear as he whispered something she couldn't make out, and she had a moment to feel the icy coldness of shock. He was going to kiss her. He was going to-
A solid thumping sound cut through the incredulous buzzing of her thoughts, and she looked down to see that her left hand had been pierced through with a large butcher knife. A hiss pushed out against her teeth when she wiggled her fingers experimentally. It didn’t hurt, not even a little. The knife was embedded in the table and, she guessed, poking out the underside; the only thing between was her numb flesh.
“Now we’re even.” Sylar was back in the kitchen rattling pots and pans and running water in the sink. She hadn't even seen him move.
Claire ignored his statement as she watched her blood beginning to pool. “It doesn’t hurt, you know. I can’t feel pain.”
She grasped the knife handle with her other hand and pulled. She cringed at the tearing sound the knife made when it was pulled free of skin, bone, and wood.
“I don’t know what I am. I need you to tell me.” The ugly gash had already knitted together as if by magic, leaving no scar.
He was watching her with his head cocked to the side; she had his interest now. “You don’t feel anything?” Sylar was wiping his hands with a towel as he studied her, a faraway look on his face.
“No. Nothing hurts now. Ever. I don’t understand and no one knows anything about this, no one but you.” For the first time since she had set foot in his home she felt the fear subside, replaced by an inkling of unease. Claire waited for him to speak, say something, but he remained motionless, finally closing his eyes and smiling slightly.
Her mother was probably worried sick by now. She tried to imagine how her two mothers were coping in her absence. The chances were good they were still at each other’s throats, each blaming the other for her running away. She felt a sudden longing for home and familiarity, all the mundane things she had left behind in her quest for answers.
“This is stupid. I should go. I’m going home now. I’m sorry I-” Her word were cut off midsentence when her jaws clamped shut on her tongue. She couldn’t open her mouth.
"You need to be silent.” Sylar was walking towards her and leaned over to swipe at the now sticky blood on the table in front of her. “Good girl."
When she tried to stand, it was as if she was stuck to the chair. Her body refused to move even slightly, even when she used all her strength. She was at his mercy again, only this time she didn’t know what he wanted from her. Anger filled her, dark and black, as tears of frustration leaked from the corner of her eyes. She stopped fighting with his invisible bonds and waited.
He hummed as he resumed making dinner, a quiet tune that Claire could just hear over her heartbeat in her ears. When he came back to the table, it was with a plate and a fork. He sat across from her and ate with quick, efficient bites, ignoring her until he was finished. Then he got up, put his dishes in the sink and walked out of her view.
She felt the pressure that was holding her hostage ease up and then fall away all at once. Her chair was pulled back and she was facing Sylar again, who was now dressed all in black.
"Come with me if you want to learn.” He reached for her stolen box of files and stalked out the door, leaving it open for her to follow.
She could run now. Go back home and pretend that she hadn’t come this far. Claire stood up and walked on unsteady feet. In the parking lot she climbed in his waiting car.
~*~
She tripped over the threshold in her rush to get to the bathroom, slamming into the door as she fought frantically to turn the knob. Once inside she dry-heaved in the sink and prayed the images she saw whenever she closed her eyes would go away.
Her hands were covered in blood and other things she dared not think about. Claire turned the faucet on and rubbed her hands together under the water, watching as the drain at the bottom of the sink turned pink and then bright red. She rubbed harder and scraped her short nails across her skin until welts and scratches appeared and disappeared.
The man had been her father’s age, a CPA working out of his home office. He never saw them coming. Sylar had him thrown across the desk with a flick of his wrist within moments of walking in the house. His other hand grasped hers, drawing her forward so she could see everything.
“Don’t look at her, she can’t help you,” he sneered at their victim. Theirs because she was there, too, complicit in his death. Guilty by association. “You see, you have something we want. I want your power. She wants to watch.”
Claire shook her head and tried to pull away, but his grip was an iron vice. There was no escape, for anyone. She watched in horror as Sylar opened the man’s skull and methodically studied his brain.
“Please…” It was the last word he spoke as he died, his eyes on Claire. She wasn’t sure if he was pleading for his life or an end to his suffering.
“Look here, you see this?” Sylar pointed into the man’s head and waited for her acknowledgement. “He’s dead, Claire. Pay attention.”
She couldn’t look away. It was too gruesome to be real. Too bloody. She moved closer and looked where Sylar told her. She closed her eyes and repeated over and over that it was a bad dream, a nightmare to end all nightmares.
“Fine.” He grasped her hand again, and she felt warmth and slipperiness under her fingertips. “There. It’s right under where your fingers are. The answer to your questions, Claire. Do you understand?” His voice was kind and lilting, a teacher explaining a simple problem to a reluctant student.
She had stolen her father’s files to find Sylar, and it cost this man his life. Bile rose in the back of her mouth and she gagged. “What was his name?” She tried to remember if she’d seen his face before.
“Does it matter?” A rhetorical question, she knew. It didn’t matter to Sylar.
“I killed him. You found him because of me.” She started to back away from the dead man, needing distance.
“If I wanted to find him, I would have. Perks of working for the Company.” He chuckled and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“You work for the Company?” Claire could hear a ringing in her ears. The room began to spin.
“Silly girl, eventually everyone works for the Company.”
Claire climbed into the shower fully clothed and turned on the water. The icy spray took only a few moments to soak her to the skin. She welcomed the shivers and the way the cold numbed her body. This was the closest she could come to death and oblivion.
She wrapped her arms around herself and slid to the tiled floor. This was not how her life was supposed to turn out. She thought desperately of the Haitian and his ability to wipe her memory, but even forgetting would not change what had already happened. Nothing could.
A saying her mother used to tell her echoed through her mind. ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. And then she started to cry. She didn’t feel stronger. She felt weak and insignificant.
“Come on, Claire. This is no way to act. You- we can’t help what we are.” Sylar was kneeling in front of her. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. She covered her ears like a child and refused to listen.
Claire didn’t feel his hands when he reached for her, pulling her up until she was standing and shivering in front of him. He turned the tap all the way in the opposite direction and hot water scalded them both. She watched his face and saw his eyes go black and infinite, the way they looked when he murdered someone.
He leaned over her and whispered in her ear, “Do you want to know what you are?” His breath exhaled across her skin like a soft caress. He was crowding her, forcing her up against the wall. She tried to push back against him, but he was as unmovable as a stone wall. Steam had begun filling the small bathroom, and Claire was sweating beneath her wet clothes.
“Just tell me. Stop playing games and tell me!” Her voice echoed off the walls in the closed space.
Sylar placed a hand on each side of her head and grinned at her. “I will. Hold still.” He pushed up against her again, spreading her legs wider with his knee. Claire stopped fighting him and tried to clear her mind of the images that were haunting her. “You can’t stop evolution, Claire. It’s no one’s fault. Stop blaming yourself for things out of your control.”
He unbuttoned her top and spread the fabric apart, exposing her chest and abdomen to the spray of water. She didn’t want to enjoy his touch, but she couldn’t deny her need for contact, for a reprieve from all she had seen and done this day.
“There is a reason you can’t feel pain anymore. It’s a defense mechanism; it tells you when you’re sick or hurt. You don’t need it anymore.” Sylar ran his hand lightly down her body, fingertips lingering on the hollow of her neck and between her breasts. Claire gasped at the contact and felt her knees go weak.
Earlier today she had hated and feared this man, and now he was touching her. She thought she might laugh hysterically and never stop. Until he shifted his weight again. Instead of laughing, she moaned low in her throat.
Sylar bit lightly on her neck and whispered, “See that? You can still feel pleasure, even if the pain is gone.”
Claire reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, wanting to feel more. Needing it. She rocked against him and wished their clothes were gone. With trembling fingers she unbuttoned his shirt and scraped her nails across newly exposed skin. The red scratches disappeared within moments. Just like her. He was just like her.
She helped when he knelt down to unzip her jeans; they were stubborn to remove, stuck to her legs, and heavy. He kissed her behind her knee and scraped his five o’clock shadow up her inner thigh, stopping when he reached her underwear. He paused for a moment before pushing them to her ankles.
“I can’t hurt you.” And then his fingers were exploring her, spreading her open. She thrust against his hand and couldn’t look away from his face. He was watching her with fascination, like she was a puzzle he needed to solve, a problem only he knew the answer to.
“Tell me more,” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. She wanted to hear the sound of his voice while he touched her. Claire knew something in her was close to breaking apart, and she needed something to hold on to.
Sylar stood and undid his fly. “We are the next step, Claire.” He lifted her legs and settled between them, drawing her down until she could feel him hard and ready against her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and held on. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She wished he would kiss her, and then stopped thinking altogether when he pushed inside her. “This is the future.”
~*~
She stayed. What she was became less important the more she understood what she could be. The day she reached out and ran the tip of her finger lightly over the ridges of the exposed brain of some nameless victim, Sylar looked up at her with approval gleaming in his eyes and a small, private smile tipping the corners of his mouth. She realized then, as he knelt before her absorbing the woman's power, that he had not coerced her in any way.
She stayed. Not because she had no where to go, but because she had finally found her place to be.