Fic: til death
Title: til death
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar,Claire
Rating: Pg-13
Word Count: too damn many
Warnings: Spoilers through season 3, buckets of angst, language, character death
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything associated with Heroes.
A/N: My response to the the prompt "thanksgiving" over at sylaire_chall. This is really random and my idea of a non-fluffy holiday fic.
I'm indebted to cameroncrazed for the beta work and eeyore9990 for letting me have the brain for a few days so I could write this.
Thanksgiving 2009
The first time Claire had dinner with the Petrellis (an honest to God, sit-down dinner) it was Thanksgiving the year after her evil grandfather Arthur was killed (for the second time).
The table was set with white linens, fine china, and crystal. Claire thought the candles were a bit much; even holiday meals at home weren’t dress-up affairs. Usually she and her mom made homemade pumpkin pie while her dad and Lyle fell asleep on opposite couches watching the Macy’s parade.
Her biological father and uncles came to the table in suits. Only Nathan looked comfortable, though. Peter tugged nervously at his collar, and Sylar removed his tie and shoved it in his pocket after the first course. Angela sat at the head of the table, and Claire was forced next to Sylar. She wasn’t sure whether to plead for him not to attack her or ask him to pass the potatoes. She settled for pouring gravy on his sleeve and “accidently” knocking her glass of water on his lap.
If he looked at her for more than a heartbeat, she’d curl her lip and roll her eyes. Quality family time was fun. Except when it wasn’t. She wanted to go home and play X-Box with Lyle and forget how dark Sylar’s eyes were when he stared at her.
“This is so nice, a holiday with my family.” Angela smiled at each person in turn.
Claire’s face felt plastic and fake when she smiled back. It was the quietest family meal she had ever witnessed. There was little conversation; mostly the sound of cutlery on porcelain filled the dining room. Classical music droned in the background.
She was fairly sure Sylar was trying to put as much space between her chair and his as humanly possible. She made a point to stomp on his foot with her high heel the next time she asked him to pass her something. Claire swore she heard him whisper “little bitch” under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. It was the first thing to make her happy that day.
It was when the cook came out of the kitchen in her starched white apron and announced that she had the wish bone and placed it on the table in front of Angela that things got dangerous. Both Sylar and Peter dove for the flimsy bone at the same time, knocking dishes over and sending crystal crashing to the floor.
Claire pushed back her chair just as the combined weight of the men thrashing on the table caused it tip over, barely missing Nathan on the other side.
“Really, mother.” Nathan tugged on his collar and, shaking his head, walked out of the room. Claire tried not to feel a pang of jealousy when he left to go spend the weekend with his kids. Ignoring the violent fight going on right in front of her, she went up to her room.
Thanksgiving 2 years later
“Where’d you get this coffee?” Sylar grimaced after swallowing a mouthful. “It tastes like piss.”
Claire waited several long moments to let him consider what he had just said before sighing. “I made it. If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.”
She yanked the thermos from his hand and set it at her feet. She was thankful the Company’s cars were full sized sedans; she still didn’t like being in close proximity to her killer uncle, even if she was partnered with him for this mission.
“Is Jenkins asleep yet?” Claire studied Sylar’s face as he closed his eyes and listened. His features relaxed and he almost looked peaceful and harmless. It only lasted for a second before he blinked at her and turned to look out the window.
“Not yet. He’s a bit indisposed at the moment,” Sylar stated in a sing-song voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Maybe we can get him while he’s busy and then get the hell out of here.” She stared out the windshield, considering their options. Jenkins was a precog, which made a simple bag and tag complicated. If they made a wrong move, the man would see them coming and run. She didn’t want to chase this guy if they didn’t have to. The sooner they grabbed him, the sooner she could go home.
“It means he’s jerking off to some low rent cable porn.” Sylar leaned back in his seat and grinned at her, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “You sure you want to interrupt that, Princess? I’d hate to be a party to your loss of innocence.”
“Gross!” Claire suddenly felt the need for gum and rummaged around in the glove compartment until she found the pack she’d tossed in earlier that day.
“I already told you, we wait until he’s asleep. Once he’s in REM we can get in and get out. He won’t see us coming.” He put his hand out for a piece of gum. She reluctantly placed a stick in his hand, careful that her skin didn’t touch his. “Is this your first precog assignment?”
She thought about lying but decided he would know anyway and went with honesty. “Yes, this is my first.”
It was after the showdown between Pinehurst and the Company that Angela had changed the rules about partners. These days there were many more ‘special’ agents than in the past. It was no longer "one of us and one of them." Partners were assigned on a day to day basis. Claire had dodged being Sylar’s partner her first year. Tonight she had drawn the short straw.
“Why are you doing this, Claire?” The question surprised her and she wasn’t sure she knew the answer. Not that she wanted to tell him anyway, but stakeouts were boring and there was nothing else to do.
“You first.” She might as well make it interesting. They had time to kill.
“This is all I am; this is all there is.” He was silent for several minutes and she kept waiting for him to say something more.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to tell her anything else, she finally spoke, “I wanted to be more.” Claire waited for a laugh or a sarcastic comment, but none were forthcoming. They sat in the quiet for awhile and waited.
“I have your earring.” He almost sounded embarrassed as his put his hand out, fingers grasping the tiny diamond stud.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was under your chair. From that time at Angela’s house.” He opened his fingers and watched as it dropped into her waiting palm.
“Why didn’t you give it back to me that night?” She had given up all hope of ever finding it and lied when her mother asked if she no longer liked her sweet sixteen gift since she'd stopped wearing them.
“So you could try and stab me with it?” A chuckle rumbled low in his chest accompanied by a smirk and a raised eyebrow. He had a point.
“What makes you think I won’t stab you with it now?” This time she was genuinely curious about his motives. He shrugged and looked back out the window at their target’s apartment building.
“You could’ve given it to Peter, or someone else.” She watched as his shoulders tensed and waited for an explanation.
“No, I couldn’t,” was the only answer that came.
Thanksgiving 10 years later
Mark was kissing her neck and pushing her up against the door. She couldn’t stop the soft moans that were bubbling up her throat or the restless way her hands tugged on his jacket. Keys. She needed to find her keys so they could take this inside and out of view of her neighbors.
They managed to get the door open and shut with their limbs entangled. Her purse dropped to the floor and his shirt was unbuttoned. She tried to guide him towards her bedroom, but wasn’t against settling for the floor.
“Hey, slow down. I just got here.” Mark panted against her neck. “We have all night, don’t we?”
Claire moved slightly away from him and grinned. He really was a nice guy; she didn’t know what he was doing here with her. But then again, he was pretty much a stranger and knew little more than her name and what cocktail she drank.
“Why don’t you light some candles and I’ll see what I have in the fridge.” She unwedged her feet from the four-inch Jimmy Choos she was wearing and walked into the kitchen barefoot. Soft romantic music began to play from her stereo in the living room, and she heard Mark rummaging around for matches. “Try the bookshelf; I think I left some there.”
She didn’t bother flipping the light switch and instead used the dim light from the open refrigerator to find the large tray of sushi she had bought earlier in the day. Claire considered plates and chopsticks and then shrugged. It would be more fun if they used their fingers instead.
It was when she came around the counter that she saw him. Sylar, waiting in the darkened hallway like some kind of bad dream. “Sushi and sex on Thanksgiving. Kinky,” he whispered to her and winked.
“What are you doing here?” She wanted to scream at him, but kept her voice at a low hiss. Not waiting for an answer, Claire glanced toward the living room and then back at Sylar. “Leave. Now.” Readjusting her hold on the food, she turned and walked away, hoping that he’d take the hint and leave.
Mark was sitting on her couch looking relaxed. He’d lit every candle in the room. “What a cozy little scene.” Sylar’s voice boomed all around them, much too loud for such an intimate setting.
“Who?” Mark was at a loss for words and quickly got to his feet. Sylar was standing right behind her, looking at Mark like he was a specimen under a microscope. “Claire?”
“Oh wow. She told you her real name. Surprising.” Sylar crossed his arms and grinned at her.
“Look, she told me she was eighteen!” Mark raised his voice, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t know, okay? What are you, her brother or something?”
Claire set the tray on the coffee table and glared at Sylar. “He’s my psycho uncle, and he’s leaving!”
“She told you she was eighteen? Did she mention she’s a cheerleader too?” Sylar took a step forward; he was still smiling but it looked pained now. “Claire and I have some,” he paused for a moment as if to gather his thoughts, “family business to take care of.”
“I know Angela died! Nathan already called me. I’m not going to the funeral.” Claire moved to stand between the two men, not trusting Sylar to stay civil.
“Hear that? Won’t even come to her beloved grandmother’s funeral.” Sylar tsked, his attention on her now.
“I think I’ll be going now.” Mark turned to leave, “Nice to meet you, Claire.”
She listened as the poor guy practically ran out of the room. “So this is what you’ve been doing with yourself.” Sylar took a step back and let his gaze sweep the room. “I see the Petrelli money keeps you in style.”
“Who are you to judge me?” Angry tears tickled the back of her throat and made her voice hoarse. “You don’t know anything.”
“I’m not blind, Claire-bear.” He sat on the couch, exactly were Mark had been. “And you are far from innocent.”
“I’m not the one who fucked Elle while my niece lay dying from a gunshot wound.” Claire stated matter-of-factly. The brief moment of self pity sprung forth like a jack-in-the-box. If he wanted to play dirty, fine. She knew the rules.
Sylar narrowed his eyes for a moment before blinking and sitting back, lacing his fingers behind his head. It was the perfect pose of relaxation. That confirmed what she already knew: he didn’t have a conscience.
“Is it heavy?” he asked nonchalantly.
Claire looked at him in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Carrying around that grudge for all these years.” He sighed and raised his eyebrows. “Must get heavy after a while.”
She wanted to pick up the nearest candlestick and bash him over the head. She imagined gouging his eyes out. She fantasized wantonly about killing him again and again where he sat smirking at her. But he would win. He always won in the end.
She covered her face with her hands and felt way too tired for her real age. “Get out of my house, Sylar.”
“Sure, on one condition.” He sat up with interest. “Angela left the Company to me. I need you to come back.”
Claire was shaking her head ‘no’ before he even finished the sentence.
“Not as a field agent.” He explained, “Dr. Suresh needs your assistance with some projects he’s working on.”
“What you mean is that he needs my DNA.”
“And I need someone to run his office and keep an eye on things.”
“Spy on him.”
“Then we have an understanding?” He started to walk towards the front door. “Unless you want me to buy the house next door… We could be neighbors. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Instead she watched silently as all the candles extinguished with a casual flick of his wrist as he walked away. Claire remembered Sylar and Peter’s fight at dinner all those years ago.
“Who won?” she finally asked, knowing he could hear her from the other room.
“Won what, Claire?” She could barely hear his voice as he opened the door.
“The wishbone?”
“Who do you think?” And then she heard him close the door.
Thanksgiving 20 years later
He found her sitting in her favorite bar trying hard to get drunk; she'd had plenty of practice over the years and had a system: slam as many shots as possible in five minutes, followed with a Long Island Ice Tea chaser. The buzz lasted about twenty minutes. Wash, rinse, repeat. She was working on her second round when Sylar sat down beside her and signaled the bartender.
The bar was a bit of a dive, but it was always open and convenience like that bred loyalty. The place had quite a following. Claire loved that the bartender was also the owner. He only asked for her ID once, years ago. He remembered her name and what she liked to drink, and he never offered her advice.
“You did the right thing.” Sylar threw back the shot as soon as it was set in front of him and nodded for a refill.
She didn’t come to this bar to socialize and Sylar’s presence instantly pissed her off. “I don’t need your approval.” The ice clinked against the glass in her drink when she stirred it absentmindedly. She wanted to forget what had happened today, not relive every grisly detail in conversation with Sylar.
The pleading look in Mohinder’s eyes would haunt her for the rest of her long life. It was easy to focus on them when they were the only feature that still looked human. She could still feel the recoil from when she pulled the trigger and ended his life. The good doctor had cured AIDS, cancer, and diabetes in the last decade, but the cure for his own stupid mistake remained outside his reach.
“I’m not going back. I’m done, Sylar.” She rubbed her forehead and wished for oblivion.
“And you’re not going to the funeral, right?” He raised an eyebrow and then touched her drink glass with his finger, making the alcohol ice-cold instantly. “I know why.”
Claire looked across the room to where the bartender’s wife sat reading a book. She was young and pretty, a ringer for Julia Roberts. Claire felt the drink in her mouth turn to ash at the thought that back in the day the woman would have been bombarded with questions and compliments, but time forgets everything. And now no one recognized her likeness to the once world-famous actress.
“It doesn’t matter why. Can you leave me alone now, please?” She hated that she was begging him for this little bit of peace she desperately needed.
“You’re jealous. Jealous of death,” he stated easily while shredding a cocktail napkin with nimble fingers.
She decided the best course of action was to ignore him and leave. Her plans were already in place. A new life in a different country, all she had to do was get there. Claire reached for her purse to pay her tab. Sylar grabbed her hand and held it for a moment before letting go.
“I’ll buy. I owe you that much.” His smile was grim but genuine.
Sylar was being kind to her? The situation was weird beyond reason, and Claire found herself at a loss of words. She sipped her drink and concentrated on the sensation of the cool liquid sliding down her throat. The bartender set fresh shots in front of her before she had finished. She shrugged and nodded in his direction. She was drinking with Sylar; would wonders never cease?
“Tell me why you never got married, had kids, all that.” He was looking over at the bartender’s wife, a flash of recognition lighting his face.
Claire downed a shot before answering, “Why, so I could watch them die?” She wiped her mouth and wished the liquor would wash away the taste of disappointment.
Running into the boy who had taken her to prom a few years ago had made one thing abundantly clear; she would always look sixteen while any man she married would age and die. The cute boy who had danced with her in the high school gymnasium all those years ago looked old enough to be her father. She’d pretended not to know him when he’d approached, asking her name. Burying husbands would be horrible, but the thought of outliving any potential children made her stomach turn with grief.
Sylar drank another shot and set the glass on the bar. “I was happiest and felt most alive when I was dying.”
Claire nodded; he was talking about the eclipse and its side effects on their powers. She had died more times than she could count, but it wasn’t really death. She always came back healed and perfect once again.
“That explains what happened to Elle.” She smirked at him, flaunting that she’d read her father’s thorough intelligence reports about the incidents that happened during and after the eclipse.
“I want to have an ending. Don’t you?” He lined up his empty shot glasses in a neat row. “It could happen again.”
“You want to die, Sylar? Be really and truly dead?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, or how much it appealed to her.
“Yes. And so do you.” He stared at her for a moment and then reached for his wallet. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Claire felt drunk suddenly and knew it wasn’t the alcohol. Sylar was offering her something and asking for something as well. She'd always thought she’d live to see the end of the world; the possibility of that not happening made her giddy.
“Do you still have family dinners with Peter and Nathan?” A change in subject was in order; the Petrellis served this purpose well. She thought briefly of her forever young uncle Peter and his aging brother. Everyone suspected that Peter was injecting Nathan with his blood to keep him alive. It was a predicament Claire could sympathize with. Forever was a long time to be alone.
“Yes. But never on Thanksgiving.”
364 days later
Claire was flying. But the amazing thing was that Peter wasn’t with her. He’d taken her to the skies many times over the years. She wasn’t with Nathan either. He’d never even offered once. Claire was alone in the night sky, clouds drifted in and out of her view and the earth curved below. There were more stars in the sky than she had ever seen before, and when she stared at them for too long she became dizzy. Wind blew her hair back from her face and whistled around her ears. Whistled… There was ringing.
The sound of her bedside phone startled her awake. Claire checked the clock and rubbed her eyes before picking up.
“Do you see it?” Sylar’s deep voice greeted her; she was fully awake in an instant.
Claire knew what he meant, there was supposed to be an eclipse tonight. But eclipses had happened frequently over the years and unlike the first two in her life, these didn’t take away or change anyone’s powers. She’d stopped paying attention to celestial phenomena decades ago.
Several deep breaths later she asked, “Are you sure?”
“I cut myself shaving a few moments ago, Claire.” She could almost hear him smiling. “It didn’t heal and it hurt.”
This was what she’d been waiting for. And he was the one person who understood. “Hurry, Sylar.”
“I’m coming. I’m on my way.”
Destiny was racing toward her and he was human and vulnerable and could bleed. Their endings would happen tonight. Claire reached for her gun and waited.
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar,Claire
Rating: Pg-13
Word Count: too damn many
Warnings: Spoilers through season 3, buckets of angst, language, character death
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything associated with Heroes.
A/N: My response to the the prompt "thanksgiving" over at sylaire_chall. This is really random and my idea of a non-fluffy holiday fic.
I'm indebted to cameroncrazed for the beta work and eeyore9990 for letting me have the brain for a few days so I could write this.
Thanksgiving 2009
The first time Claire had dinner with the Petrellis (an honest to God, sit-down dinner) it was Thanksgiving the year after her evil grandfather Arthur was killed (for the second time).
The table was set with white linens, fine china, and crystal. Claire thought the candles were a bit much; even holiday meals at home weren’t dress-up affairs. Usually she and her mom made homemade pumpkin pie while her dad and Lyle fell asleep on opposite couches watching the Macy’s parade.
Her biological father and uncles came to the table in suits. Only Nathan looked comfortable, though. Peter tugged nervously at his collar, and Sylar removed his tie and shoved it in his pocket after the first course. Angela sat at the head of the table, and Claire was forced next to Sylar. She wasn’t sure whether to plead for him not to attack her or ask him to pass the potatoes. She settled for pouring gravy on his sleeve and “accidently” knocking her glass of water on his lap.
If he looked at her for more than a heartbeat, she’d curl her lip and roll her eyes. Quality family time was fun. Except when it wasn’t. She wanted to go home and play X-Box with Lyle and forget how dark Sylar’s eyes were when he stared at her.
“This is so nice, a holiday with my family.” Angela smiled at each person in turn.
Claire’s face felt plastic and fake when she smiled back. It was the quietest family meal she had ever witnessed. There was little conversation; mostly the sound of cutlery on porcelain filled the dining room. Classical music droned in the background.
She was fairly sure Sylar was trying to put as much space between her chair and his as humanly possible. She made a point to stomp on his foot with her high heel the next time she asked him to pass her something. Claire swore she heard him whisper “little bitch” under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. It was the first thing to make her happy that day.
It was when the cook came out of the kitchen in her starched white apron and announced that she had the wish bone and placed it on the table in front of Angela that things got dangerous. Both Sylar and Peter dove for the flimsy bone at the same time, knocking dishes over and sending crystal crashing to the floor.
Claire pushed back her chair just as the combined weight of the men thrashing on the table caused it tip over, barely missing Nathan on the other side.
“Really, mother.” Nathan tugged on his collar and, shaking his head, walked out of the room. Claire tried not to feel a pang of jealousy when he left to go spend the weekend with his kids. Ignoring the violent fight going on right in front of her, she went up to her room.
Thanksgiving 2 years later
“Where’d you get this coffee?” Sylar grimaced after swallowing a mouthful. “It tastes like piss.”
Claire waited several long moments to let him consider what he had just said before sighing. “I made it. If you don’t like it, don’t drink it.”
She yanked the thermos from his hand and set it at her feet. She was thankful the Company’s cars were full sized sedans; she still didn’t like being in close proximity to her killer uncle, even if she was partnered with him for this mission.
“Is Jenkins asleep yet?” Claire studied Sylar’s face as he closed his eyes and listened. His features relaxed and he almost looked peaceful and harmless. It only lasted for a second before he blinked at her and turned to look out the window.
“Not yet. He’s a bit indisposed at the moment,” Sylar stated in a sing-song voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Maybe we can get him while he’s busy and then get the hell out of here.” She stared out the windshield, considering their options. Jenkins was a precog, which made a simple bag and tag complicated. If they made a wrong move, the man would see them coming and run. She didn’t want to chase this guy if they didn’t have to. The sooner they grabbed him, the sooner she could go home.
“It means he’s jerking off to some low rent cable porn.” Sylar leaned back in his seat and grinned at her, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “You sure you want to interrupt that, Princess? I’d hate to be a party to your loss of innocence.”
“Gross!” Claire suddenly felt the need for gum and rummaged around in the glove compartment until she found the pack she’d tossed in earlier that day.
“I already told you, we wait until he’s asleep. Once he’s in REM we can get in and get out. He won’t see us coming.” He put his hand out for a piece of gum. She reluctantly placed a stick in his hand, careful that her skin didn’t touch his. “Is this your first precog assignment?”
She thought about lying but decided he would know anyway and went with honesty. “Yes, this is my first.”
It was after the showdown between Pinehurst and the Company that Angela had changed the rules about partners. These days there were many more ‘special’ agents than in the past. It was no longer "one of us and one of them." Partners were assigned on a day to day basis. Claire had dodged being Sylar’s partner her first year. Tonight she had drawn the short straw.
“Why are you doing this, Claire?” The question surprised her and she wasn’t sure she knew the answer. Not that she wanted to tell him anyway, but stakeouts were boring and there was nothing else to do.
“You first.” She might as well make it interesting. They had time to kill.
“This is all I am; this is all there is.” He was silent for several minutes and she kept waiting for him to say something more.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to tell her anything else, she finally spoke, “I wanted to be more.” Claire waited for a laugh or a sarcastic comment, but none were forthcoming. They sat in the quiet for awhile and waited.
“I have your earring.” He almost sounded embarrassed as his put his hand out, fingers grasping the tiny diamond stud.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was under your chair. From that time at Angela’s house.” He opened his fingers and watched as it dropped into her waiting palm.
“Why didn’t you give it back to me that night?” She had given up all hope of ever finding it and lied when her mother asked if she no longer liked her sweet sixteen gift since she'd stopped wearing them.
“So you could try and stab me with it?” A chuckle rumbled low in his chest accompanied by a smirk and a raised eyebrow. He had a point.
“What makes you think I won’t stab you with it now?” This time she was genuinely curious about his motives. He shrugged and looked back out the window at their target’s apartment building.
“You could’ve given it to Peter, or someone else.” She watched as his shoulders tensed and waited for an explanation.
“No, I couldn’t,” was the only answer that came.
Thanksgiving 10 years later
Mark was kissing her neck and pushing her up against the door. She couldn’t stop the soft moans that were bubbling up her throat or the restless way her hands tugged on his jacket. Keys. She needed to find her keys so they could take this inside and out of view of her neighbors.
They managed to get the door open and shut with their limbs entangled. Her purse dropped to the floor and his shirt was unbuttoned. She tried to guide him towards her bedroom, but wasn’t against settling for the floor.
“Hey, slow down. I just got here.” Mark panted against her neck. “We have all night, don’t we?”
Claire moved slightly away from him and grinned. He really was a nice guy; she didn’t know what he was doing here with her. But then again, he was pretty much a stranger and knew little more than her name and what cocktail she drank.
“Why don’t you light some candles and I’ll see what I have in the fridge.” She unwedged her feet from the four-inch Jimmy Choos she was wearing and walked into the kitchen barefoot. Soft romantic music began to play from her stereo in the living room, and she heard Mark rummaging around for matches. “Try the bookshelf; I think I left some there.”
She didn’t bother flipping the light switch and instead used the dim light from the open refrigerator to find the large tray of sushi she had bought earlier in the day. Claire considered plates and chopsticks and then shrugged. It would be more fun if they used their fingers instead.
It was when she came around the counter that she saw him. Sylar, waiting in the darkened hallway like some kind of bad dream. “Sushi and sex on Thanksgiving. Kinky,” he whispered to her and winked.
“What are you doing here?” She wanted to scream at him, but kept her voice at a low hiss. Not waiting for an answer, Claire glanced toward the living room and then back at Sylar. “Leave. Now.” Readjusting her hold on the food, she turned and walked away, hoping that he’d take the hint and leave.
Mark was sitting on her couch looking relaxed. He’d lit every candle in the room. “What a cozy little scene.” Sylar’s voice boomed all around them, much too loud for such an intimate setting.
“Who?” Mark was at a loss for words and quickly got to his feet. Sylar was standing right behind her, looking at Mark like he was a specimen under a microscope. “Claire?”
“Oh wow. She told you her real name. Surprising.” Sylar crossed his arms and grinned at her.
“Look, she told me she was eighteen!” Mark raised his voice, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t know, okay? What are you, her brother or something?”
Claire set the tray on the coffee table and glared at Sylar. “He’s my psycho uncle, and he’s leaving!”
“She told you she was eighteen? Did she mention she’s a cheerleader too?” Sylar took a step forward; he was still smiling but it looked pained now. “Claire and I have some,” he paused for a moment as if to gather his thoughts, “family business to take care of.”
“I know Angela died! Nathan already called me. I’m not going to the funeral.” Claire moved to stand between the two men, not trusting Sylar to stay civil.
“Hear that? Won’t even come to her beloved grandmother’s funeral.” Sylar tsked, his attention on her now.
“I think I’ll be going now.” Mark turned to leave, “Nice to meet you, Claire.”
She listened as the poor guy practically ran out of the room. “So this is what you’ve been doing with yourself.” Sylar took a step back and let his gaze sweep the room. “I see the Petrelli money keeps you in style.”
“Who are you to judge me?” Angry tears tickled the back of her throat and made her voice hoarse. “You don’t know anything.”
“I’m not blind, Claire-bear.” He sat on the couch, exactly were Mark had been. “And you are far from innocent.”
“I’m not the one who fucked Elle while my niece lay dying from a gunshot wound.” Claire stated matter-of-factly. The brief moment of self pity sprung forth like a jack-in-the-box. If he wanted to play dirty, fine. She knew the rules.
Sylar narrowed his eyes for a moment before blinking and sitting back, lacing his fingers behind his head. It was the perfect pose of relaxation. That confirmed what she already knew: he didn’t have a conscience.
“Is it heavy?” he asked nonchalantly.
Claire looked at him in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Carrying around that grudge for all these years.” He sighed and raised his eyebrows. “Must get heavy after a while.”
She wanted to pick up the nearest candlestick and bash him over the head. She imagined gouging his eyes out. She fantasized wantonly about killing him again and again where he sat smirking at her. But he would win. He always won in the end.
She covered her face with her hands and felt way too tired for her real age. “Get out of my house, Sylar.”
“Sure, on one condition.” He sat up with interest. “Angela left the Company to me. I need you to come back.”
Claire was shaking her head ‘no’ before he even finished the sentence.
“Not as a field agent.” He explained, “Dr. Suresh needs your assistance with some projects he’s working on.”
“What you mean is that he needs my DNA.”
“And I need someone to run his office and keep an eye on things.”
“Spy on him.”
“Then we have an understanding?” He started to walk towards the front door. “Unless you want me to buy the house next door… We could be neighbors. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Instead she watched silently as all the candles extinguished with a casual flick of his wrist as he walked away. Claire remembered Sylar and Peter’s fight at dinner all those years ago.
“Who won?” she finally asked, knowing he could hear her from the other room.
“Won what, Claire?” She could barely hear his voice as he opened the door.
“The wishbone?”
“Who do you think?” And then she heard him close the door.
Thanksgiving 20 years later
He found her sitting in her favorite bar trying hard to get drunk; she'd had plenty of practice over the years and had a system: slam as many shots as possible in five minutes, followed with a Long Island Ice Tea chaser. The buzz lasted about twenty minutes. Wash, rinse, repeat. She was working on her second round when Sylar sat down beside her and signaled the bartender.
The bar was a bit of a dive, but it was always open and convenience like that bred loyalty. The place had quite a following. Claire loved that the bartender was also the owner. He only asked for her ID once, years ago. He remembered her name and what she liked to drink, and he never offered her advice.
“You did the right thing.” Sylar threw back the shot as soon as it was set in front of him and nodded for a refill.
She didn’t come to this bar to socialize and Sylar’s presence instantly pissed her off. “I don’t need your approval.” The ice clinked against the glass in her drink when she stirred it absentmindedly. She wanted to forget what had happened today, not relive every grisly detail in conversation with Sylar.
The pleading look in Mohinder’s eyes would haunt her for the rest of her long life. It was easy to focus on them when they were the only feature that still looked human. She could still feel the recoil from when she pulled the trigger and ended his life. The good doctor had cured AIDS, cancer, and diabetes in the last decade, but the cure for his own stupid mistake remained outside his reach.
“I’m not going back. I’m done, Sylar.” She rubbed her forehead and wished for oblivion.
“And you’re not going to the funeral, right?” He raised an eyebrow and then touched her drink glass with his finger, making the alcohol ice-cold instantly. “I know why.”
Claire looked across the room to where the bartender’s wife sat reading a book. She was young and pretty, a ringer for Julia Roberts. Claire felt the drink in her mouth turn to ash at the thought that back in the day the woman would have been bombarded with questions and compliments, but time forgets everything. And now no one recognized her likeness to the once world-famous actress.
“It doesn’t matter why. Can you leave me alone now, please?” She hated that she was begging him for this little bit of peace she desperately needed.
“You’re jealous. Jealous of death,” he stated easily while shredding a cocktail napkin with nimble fingers.
She decided the best course of action was to ignore him and leave. Her plans were already in place. A new life in a different country, all she had to do was get there. Claire reached for her purse to pay her tab. Sylar grabbed her hand and held it for a moment before letting go.
“I’ll buy. I owe you that much.” His smile was grim but genuine.
Sylar was being kind to her? The situation was weird beyond reason, and Claire found herself at a loss of words. She sipped her drink and concentrated on the sensation of the cool liquid sliding down her throat. The bartender set fresh shots in front of her before she had finished. She shrugged and nodded in his direction. She was drinking with Sylar; would wonders never cease?
“Tell me why you never got married, had kids, all that.” He was looking over at the bartender’s wife, a flash of recognition lighting his face.
Claire downed a shot before answering, “Why, so I could watch them die?” She wiped her mouth and wished the liquor would wash away the taste of disappointment.
Running into the boy who had taken her to prom a few years ago had made one thing abundantly clear; she would always look sixteen while any man she married would age and die. The cute boy who had danced with her in the high school gymnasium all those years ago looked old enough to be her father. She’d pretended not to know him when he’d approached, asking her name. Burying husbands would be horrible, but the thought of outliving any potential children made her stomach turn with grief.
Sylar drank another shot and set the glass on the bar. “I was happiest and felt most alive when I was dying.”
Claire nodded; he was talking about the eclipse and its side effects on their powers. She had died more times than she could count, but it wasn’t really death. She always came back healed and perfect once again.
“That explains what happened to Elle.” She smirked at him, flaunting that she’d read her father’s thorough intelligence reports about the incidents that happened during and after the eclipse.
“I want to have an ending. Don’t you?” He lined up his empty shot glasses in a neat row. “It could happen again.”
“You want to die, Sylar? Be really and truly dead?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, or how much it appealed to her.
“Yes. And so do you.” He stared at her for a moment and then reached for his wallet. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Claire felt drunk suddenly and knew it wasn’t the alcohol. Sylar was offering her something and asking for something as well. She'd always thought she’d live to see the end of the world; the possibility of that not happening made her giddy.
“Do you still have family dinners with Peter and Nathan?” A change in subject was in order; the Petrellis served this purpose well. She thought briefly of her forever young uncle Peter and his aging brother. Everyone suspected that Peter was injecting Nathan with his blood to keep him alive. It was a predicament Claire could sympathize with. Forever was a long time to be alone.
“Yes. But never on Thanksgiving.”
364 days later
Claire was flying. But the amazing thing was that Peter wasn’t with her. He’d taken her to the skies many times over the years. She wasn’t with Nathan either. He’d never even offered once. Claire was alone in the night sky, clouds drifted in and out of her view and the earth curved below. There were more stars in the sky than she had ever seen before, and when she stared at them for too long she became dizzy. Wind blew her hair back from her face and whistled around her ears. Whistled… There was ringing.
The sound of her bedside phone startled her awake. Claire checked the clock and rubbed her eyes before picking up.
“Do you see it?” Sylar’s deep voice greeted her; she was fully awake in an instant.
Claire knew what he meant, there was supposed to be an eclipse tonight. But eclipses had happened frequently over the years and unlike the first two in her life, these didn’t take away or change anyone’s powers. She’d stopped paying attention to celestial phenomena decades ago.
Several deep breaths later she asked, “Are you sure?”
“I cut myself shaving a few moments ago, Claire.” She could almost hear him smiling. “It didn’t heal and it hurt.”
This was what she’d been waiting for. And he was the one person who understood. “Hurry, Sylar.”
“I’m coming. I’m on my way.”
Destiny was racing toward her and he was human and vulnerable and could bleed. Their endings would happen tonight. Claire reached for her gun and waited.