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Title: The Next Thing That Happens Is The World Explodes
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: PG
Summary: Sylar's a hero now, but that doesn't mean he's stopped fighting for the winning side.
When she first sees him, she stares. Open mouthed but silent
Lord, don’t I hate this.
He’s in a t-shirt, which doesn’t help. She’d rather he dressed like a villain. She could pick out a black suit for him, blood stains and all.
But he’s been pleasant lately, in the way that makes her want to spit, makes her pretend to lose her breakfast when they have to share a ride into work, makes her mumble threats sotto voce about unsafe working conditions and her burgeoning need for therapy on account of having to work with him.
He takes it all in stride.
He’s a hero now, he says, and he needs her to know, however long it takes.
Can I just get away, she says quietly, and he lights up. Positively lights up.
Get away with what, he says, all hopeful and quivering, and if his eyes were any wider they’d eat the moon.
He asks her questions. Preferences. Favorites.
I don’t have favorite days, anymore, she says, and he folds his arms and quirks one of those massive eyebrows. Don’t do that, she says, you want to mess up tidal pulls or something.
Didn’t you punch me in the face once, he says. Shouldn’t that go down in history as a favorite day?
I marked it on my calendar, she says. With a smiley face. A smiley face with a nose bleed.
And he grins, and he says, See, I told you.
She doesn’t let him pay for her coffee, because though he owes her- owes her everything- there’s no chance of settling the score, and the last thing she wants to feel is in any way beholden to him.
She does let him drink his, though, sitting on the stool next to her, and occasionally brushing elbows.
You ruined my life, she says, a quiet silhouette in his doorway.
He’s silent for a moment.
You can have mine, he says. If that will help.
Friday’s the day. She tops off her week by killing him. Killing him in new and inventive ways. Killing him with everything but kindness.
He goes away for the weekend, and every Monday he’s there in the mornings, t-shirt, one Chuck unlaced, watch on his wrist.
He doesn't apologize. He does something else.
I’m never going to kiss you again, he says. And that’s a promise.
She hasn’t forgotten that he is awesome about keeping promises. Then again, she can’t forget that he’s also very much in favor of lying, either.
On a Friday, she watches him, lying far too still. Then she turns. Leaves.
The noise of the door closing behind her sets her head to pounding, and she changes her mind too little too late, swings around and reaches for the handle. Inside the room, he’s picking himself up. He’s all blood stains and his skin is pale, but he’s fixable.
Go again? he says, almost hopeful.
If he’s fixable, if Sylar is fixable, then what does that make her?
I’m never gonna give up, she says.
Good, he tells her, all sincere.
I hate everything you do to me, she tells him once.
He keeps his response to this to himself.
He doesn’t ask her what she hates the most.
She never asks him for the time. Once, though, she reaches for his wrist, pulls his arm up to inspect his watch, tilting her head to read it upside down. She’s holding his hand, fingers tiny in his broad palm.
When she looks up she catches his eyes, black and unfathomable, and at the edge of her consciousness she can hear the ticking of the watch as it pushes time onwards, marks it deeply and claims its own.
Too late, he says, though he doesn’t say for what.
He wears a suit, a tie, is every inch the villain from her dreams, fighting on the side of the angels.
He doesn't make a sound of protest or approbation as she wraps her fingers round the tie, pulls him kissingclose, within reach.
He tastes the same.
I expected you to change me, she says.
He sounds amused. Why would I change you? As if she's perfect. I'm not here to restore your faith in humanity, Claire.
Then why are you here?
He doesn't answer. Maybe he doesn't know.
The next thing that happens is the world explodes. In the wind of the world's ending, she can see him fly, she can practically see the red cape.
Here we go again, he says, gently.
Why would you take the chance? she says, doubting. Good doesn't always win.
But you do, he says.
He takes her hand.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: PG
Summary: Sylar's a hero now, but that doesn't mean he's stopped fighting for the winning side.
When she first sees him, she stares. Open mouthed but silent
Lord, don’t I hate this.
He’s in a t-shirt, which doesn’t help. She’d rather he dressed like a villain. She could pick out a black suit for him, blood stains and all.
But he’s been pleasant lately, in the way that makes her want to spit, makes her pretend to lose her breakfast when they have to share a ride into work, makes her mumble threats sotto voce about unsafe working conditions and her burgeoning need for therapy on account of having to work with him.
He takes it all in stride.
He’s a hero now, he says, and he needs her to know, however long it takes.
Can I just get away, she says quietly, and he lights up. Positively lights up.
Get away with what, he says, all hopeful and quivering, and if his eyes were any wider they’d eat the moon.
He asks her questions. Preferences. Favorites.
I don’t have favorite days, anymore, she says, and he folds his arms and quirks one of those massive eyebrows. Don’t do that, she says, you want to mess up tidal pulls or something.
Didn’t you punch me in the face once, he says. Shouldn’t that go down in history as a favorite day?
I marked it on my calendar, she says. With a smiley face. A smiley face with a nose bleed.
And he grins, and he says, See, I told you.
She doesn’t let him pay for her coffee, because though he owes her- owes her everything- there’s no chance of settling the score, and the last thing she wants to feel is in any way beholden to him.
She does let him drink his, though, sitting on the stool next to her, and occasionally brushing elbows.
You ruined my life, she says, a quiet silhouette in his doorway.
He’s silent for a moment.
You can have mine, he says. If that will help.
Friday’s the day. She tops off her week by killing him. Killing him in new and inventive ways. Killing him with everything but kindness.
He goes away for the weekend, and every Monday he’s there in the mornings, t-shirt, one Chuck unlaced, watch on his wrist.
He doesn't apologize. He does something else.
I’m never going to kiss you again, he says. And that’s a promise.
She hasn’t forgotten that he is awesome about keeping promises. Then again, she can’t forget that he’s also very much in favor of lying, either.
On a Friday, she watches him, lying far too still. Then she turns. Leaves.
The noise of the door closing behind her sets her head to pounding, and she changes her mind too little too late, swings around and reaches for the handle. Inside the room, he’s picking himself up. He’s all blood stains and his skin is pale, but he’s fixable.
Go again? he says, almost hopeful.
If he’s fixable, if Sylar is fixable, then what does that make her?
I’m never gonna give up, she says.
Good, he tells her, all sincere.
I hate everything you do to me, she tells him once.
He keeps his response to this to himself.
He doesn’t ask her what she hates the most.
She never asks him for the time. Once, though, she reaches for his wrist, pulls his arm up to inspect his watch, tilting her head to read it upside down. She’s holding his hand, fingers tiny in his broad palm.
When she looks up she catches his eyes, black and unfathomable, and at the edge of her consciousness she can hear the ticking of the watch as it pushes time onwards, marks it deeply and claims its own.
Too late, he says, though he doesn’t say for what.
He wears a suit, a tie, is every inch the villain from her dreams, fighting on the side of the angels.
He doesn't make a sound of protest or approbation as she wraps her fingers round the tie, pulls him kissingclose, within reach.
He tastes the same.
I expected you to change me, she says.
He sounds amused. Why would I change you? As if she's perfect. I'm not here to restore your faith in humanity, Claire.
Then why are you here?
He doesn't answer. Maybe he doesn't know.
The next thing that happens is the world explodes. In the wind of the world's ending, she can see him fly, she can practically see the red cape.
Here we go again, he says, gently.
Why would you take the chance? she says, doubting. Good doesn't always win.
But you do, he says.
He takes her hand.