Le Meilleur des Mondes
Title: Le Meilleur des Mondes
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG (very mild bad words, ooooh)
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Spoilers: brief mention of a plot line or two from season 3
Disclaimer: Not mine, not the characters or anything. Major props to Aldous Huxley and Tim Kring.
Written for Fic Challenge #5: Thanksgiving at sylaire_chall
A/N: Ok, I have no clue where this came from. I started a story about Elle and Claire going shopping on Black Friday and getting into a fight over Sylar, but after what happened at the Wal-Mart and Toys ‘R Us this year, I couldn’t finish it. Instead I would up with this odd mix of angsty remembrance and pure gag-inducing fluff (although, I’m always thankful for fluff :) ) A major influence was Huxley’s “Brave New World”, a lot of the references are to that; while at home, I found an old journal of mine that had the line “for as the world goes more advanced, I will give thanks for the fact that I shall always be a savage shouting Shakespeare to a deaf audience” - yes, I was a very melodramatic teenager, why do you ask? ;) The title is from a French version of “Brave New World”. Oh, and T'ke'kas is the Vulcan equivalent of November - so whoever owns Star Trek and the Vulcan language owns that, not me.
Amongst a thousand candles aflame, she kneels on the cold moss-covered stones, chapel falling down in ruin around her, a forgotten sentinel of the souls from a long-forgotten time.
She can’t name them any more, can’t quite remember anything other than that she might have loved them at one point, but she still lights a candle for them all. A few stand out, like her parents and Lyle and one or five of her husbands, but most are a blur. Men she married despite not being in love with them, lovers she refused to marry because she loved them too much, men she never should have married but did anyhow. The children she can’t name, even though she remembers them all, none of them full-term and lost long before she’d even considered names; she’d given up on ever carrying a child past the first trimester.
Instead of tears though, a smile graces her face. The tears had dried years ago, as the pain had faded into a hazy memory; no, now she gives thanks that she had the opportunity to have them in her life, however short the time.
“Whatcha doing?” The perky voice interrupts her from her reverie, and it’s jarring to her to have to come back to this time, this place. She carefully twists her head, watching as a young brunette girl skips into the ruins.
“Nothing.” She doesn’t ask why the girl’s there; she just doesn’t care anymore. She’s not sure if they’re too young or if she’s too damn old, but she can’t stomach teenagers anymore. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
“Alone?!” The girl looks at her in absolute horror. “Ewwww! Why would you want to be alone? No!” She bounces over to Claire, and grabs her hands. “Come with me now, we’ll go find a doctor for you, we’ll get you something to make you not want to be by yourself any more.”
Claire smirks as she lets the child pull her to her feet, then laughs out loud when the girl notices her height.
“You’re… short!” The girl quickly pulls away, but has the decency to blush when she whispers “Did you have some sort of… accident?”
“No, thankfully.” Claire smiles, then tells herself she shouldn’t tease the children so but she can’t help it; she needs something to amuse herself. “I was born this way.”
“Born!!!?! Ewwww. Who’s born these days? Freak!” The girl turns and runs as if shortness and birth could be catching, never once looking back as Claire laughs so hard that she has to clutch her sides.
“And you say I’m cruel.”
Claire barely hears him over her peals of laughter. “Learned it from the best.”
Sylar easily crosses the rubble to her side, wrapping his arms around her. “Done with your yearly penitence?”
“Yes. Why don’t you join me sometime?” She slips his arm around his waist, and leans against his shoulder. “What day it is?”
“The twentieth of T’ke’kas, eight-hundred and seventy-five A.N. Duh, Claire. What day did you think it was?” He looks down at all the candles, remembering each and every person represented, the ones he’d respected, the ones he’d loved a bit himself, and the ones he’d flat out hated, like her last husband.
“You’ve gone so modern you’ve forgotten.” She walks away without a second glance at the impromptu shrine, knowing that he’d follow, that he always would follow.
“Thanksgiving.” Sylar whispers as he lets her lead him out to their vehicle. “I didn’t think you’d remember, that’s why I didn’t mention it. It’s been so long.”
She just gives him a sad smile, then climbs into her side and buckles her safety harness. Neither of them says a word until they’re almost back to the heart of town.
- - - - - - - - - -
The next year, he joins her in lighting candles instead of just watching her from the shadows. She doesn’t say a word when he lights two with Elle’s stolen sparks instead of the lighter he’d used for the rest; she’s not sure if she should make a joke or comfort him, so she chooses to do nothing, having learned that inaction is one of the easiest ways of coping with him.
On the way back home, he reaches out for her hand, and she gives it to him, knowing that he can’t ask for comfort.
Finally, right before they land, he turns to her. “Do you ever think about back then, about everything?”
Claire shakes her head. “No. I’ve forgotten most of what happened; it’s easier that way.” What she didn’t forget with time, she’d found the proper drugs to deal with the problem. Forgetting her past, their past was one of the best things she’d ever done, and she hopes that he’s not going to try to talk about it, make her remember.
“Lucky you.” Sylar tries not to be bitter; he’d never expected eidetic memory to be such a curse, more so than immortality. “I can’t forget, no matter what I do to try.”
- - - - - - - - - -
That night, she rests her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, steady as clockwork. “I hate the world.” Even though she says it lightly and with a bit of laughter, it’s the truth. “It’s so… so… I don’t know. I just hate it. It’s so stupid.”
“Says the woman who could rule it if she wants to.” He runs his fingers through her hair, knowing that the gesture would help soothe her.
Claire almost purrs in contentment. “Been there, done that. Had the T-shirt, but lost it during that last war.”
He laughs, remembering their roles in that little fiasco. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing. It’s just…” she sighs, then snuggles into his side a bit more. “Nothing’s permanent any more. Everything’s changed, and it’s all so much worse than what I think it was before.”
Sylar doesn’t answer at first, wondering if it’s the right time to bring up a subject he’d been wanting to for the longest time. He finally decides to plunge ahead. “Some things can be permanent, if you want them.”
“Like what?” is her sleepy response.
“Marry me.”
She’s suddenly wide awake. “Do what?”
“Marry me.” He hopes this doesn’t turn out like it had in the past.
“We’ve been through this before.” Claire sighs.
“And if I remember correctly, we just tabled the discussion rather than finishing it. Marry me.”
“Do you have brain damage?” She runs her hands along his cheeks and temple, searching for a fever or sign of illness.
“No. Marry me.”
Claire jerks back when she realizes that he’s serious and that’s she going to have to answer. Sylar’s never seen her get dressed that quickly before, despite her shaking hands. “But... but… we spent a century thinking you were my uncle.”
“Just call me Peter then.” He’s amazed that he’s keeping his temper so controlled. “And Angela’s a lying bitch.”
“But…” Claire tries to find a good reason to say no. “You tried to kill me. You did kill me.” She busies herself with searching for her shoes to keep from thinking about their discussion; she’s got to get out of there, quickly.
“And you returned the favor. Fifty-seven and a half times.” If he’s calculated correctly, that statement should distract her a bit.
He’d been right, and she stops what she was doing, choosing to look up at him, “A half? How do you kill someone a half time?”
“You don’t get full credit for that incident in London; you had no clue that the airplane would be coming along then. Now, about marrying me? We’ll marry, have a child, live happily ever after.”
“But… people don’t get married anymore. No one has families anymore. And don’t be such a sap, you hate fairy tales.”
Sylar laughs; he’d known she’d use that excuse. “It’s not technically illegal to marry, and we can handfast ourselves without an administrator. And since when did you start caring about what everyone else does again?”
“You don’t love me.” She’s proud of the way that she says it casually, like it doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t, almost as if she doesn’t care if he doesn’t.
“Damn it, Claire, we’ve been together longer than this country’s existed. I’ve been in love with you for the last two millennia, you’ve got to know that, even if it took me so long to make a move. If I don’t love you, then why have we been living together, sleeping together, being together, for the last three centuries?”
Claire turns away so he can’t see her when she replies. “It’s just sex, everyone does it. Doesn’t mean anything.”
That’s the last straw, and he jumps out of bed and grabs her, trying his best not to shake her like he wants to. “Look at me when you spout that bullshit, Claire. You’re not one of these damned clones, you’re not one of them, you know it means something. You love me, now admit it.”
“But…”
Even though he’s had forever to learn to control himself, there are times when he’s almost overwhelmed with his ability to cause harm; he lets go of her and crosses his arms across his chest before he can hurt her. “Fine. Never mind then. You know where the door is, use it.” He’d known better than to suggest it; at least she hadn’t shot him like last time.
“You want me to leave?” She takes a hesitant step towards him, laying her hand lightly on his arm.
Sylar shrugs her hand off. “I don’t want you to leave, but you obviously don’t want to stay. Go.”
“Great, so now you’re going to pout.”
“I’m not pouting!” He yells at her, then takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “I’m not. I’m upset, but I’m not pouting. I just don’t know what else I can do to prove that I love you, and I don’t understand why you refuse to admit it.”
Claire walks to the door, but can’t push it open, can’t leave him. Closing her eyes, she finally makes a decision. Not looking at him, she whispers “It’s scary. I don’t want to get hurt again.”
“Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”
“No.” She says it without thinking, but as soon as she says it, she smiles at the realization that the idea of another marriage isn’t so very terrifying. “No, you’re not.”
“Then…?” He’s made up his mind he’s not going to ask again, but she’ll understand the question.
“Yes.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Thanksgiving the following year finds them kneeling together in the chapel yard together, the light of the candles glinting off the golden wedding bands Sylar had managed to find somewhere. After lighting the last ones, he slowly gets off his knees; he doesn’t bother offering his hand to Claire, but uses his telekinesis to lift her instead.
“So what are you thankful this year?” he asks as he escorts her to their shuttle.
“Like you have to ask.” Claire laughs, then gasps. She reaches out for his hand, and places his palm on her extended belly. “She kicked.”
Sylar places both hands to feel the forceful movements. “He kicked.”
“It’s going to be a girl. A beautiful Christmas girl.”
“Boy.”
“Well, as long as he/she’s healthy, I’ll be happy and thankful.”
“You and me both.”