The Music of Our Lives - 3
“I’m bored, Claire.” Peter whines as he joins her in her hiding spot under the table. The fancy tablecloth is just long enough to hide them from view.
“Suck it up, and grab us another bottle of champagne.” She whispers back. He smiles, holding up a chilled magnum of the best France has to offer. Popping the cork, he waits for the bubbles to die down then passes her the bottle; she takes a large gulp. They’d lost their glass flutes an hour earlier, and neither cared.
“How much longer?” She mutters as she leans up against him, wrinkling the red satin of her slinky party dress.
“At least two more hours.”
She just moans. “I can’t do it. This is the worst party ever. Can we pretend to be sick, and leave early?”
“Imagine the headlines. It’s either going to be ‘First Daughter Can’t Hold Her Liquor!’ or ‘The Incredibly Close First Family!’, and then Nathan will kill us tomorrow. Besides, the Secret Service has guards on every door. I tried to sneak out already, and they frog-marched me back in here.”
“Private party, or can anyone join?” The sudden sound of another man’s voice causes Claire to squeak in surprise, which causes Sylar and Peter to both laugh. Peter scoots to one side, pulling Claire with him, to make room for Sylar. He can barely fit under the table, and it takes some careful arranging to keep everyone covered by the tablecloth. Claire passes the bottle to Sylar, and he takes a long drag from it.
The band finally takes a break, and someone starts playing CDs. All three of the hidden partiers sigh in relief, and Sylar mutters “Thank God, no more waltzes and polkas!”
Claire giggles, since they’re playing music that he normally swears to hate. He gives her a careful look before offering her his hand. “Well, come on Bennet. Can’t hide under here all day, and I know you like this song.”
She takes his hand, and lets him pull her out from their hiding spot and onto the dance floor. She laughs as he spins her around, and then pulls her close. Shocked partygoers look on in either amusement or disgust as the President’s daughter dirty dances with her fiancé. When Sylar spots the looks on their faces, he pulls her even closer and whispers in her ear. “With you in that dress, I must confess that my thoughts verge on dirty.”
“Yeah, knew that already.” She leans even closer, and brushes against his erection, making him moan. “Why do you think I picked it?”
“Oh, I thought you were trying to give Nathan a heart attack.”
“Just a lucky bonus. Well, I thought that he’d tell me to leave before I could embarrass him, but…” She returns the smirk.
“Clever girl.” He grins. “Want to really give him a reason to be embarrassed?”
A few minutes later, a blushing Secret Service agent has to lead them from the room, at Nathan’s request.
2. Prompt: "Phone Call" theme - twnty7
Note: inspired by the Taco Bell chihuahua and Monty Python.
“Going to kill them all.”
The low whisper is enough to wake Sylar from a deep sleep, and he jumps up, looking around the room trying to pinpoint the source.
“Gut that bitch with a dull spork…”
Convinced that the man’s voice is coming from downstairs, Sylar slowly pushes the door to the bedroom open and slinks down the hall, trying to surprise their unwanted guest. He summons his strongest powers as he uses his telekinesis to float down the Bennets’ stairway. A quick glance into the living room proves that it’s empty of everyone and everything except Mr. Muggles, so he starts to head into the kitchen when a low hiss of “going to kill that annoying little blonde too” catches his attention, and he focuses.
It’s coming from the living room, and Sylar takes a second look. Nothing is obvious, so he waves his hand at the couches to get them to rise into the air, to reveal anyone hiding underneath. He doesn’t see anything, but he hears a surprised yelp followed by a curse. Lowering the couches, the only thing he can see is Sandra’s precious dog.
The Pomeranian sneers at him - and Sylar would swear on everything sacred to him that it is a sneer - and growls out “And then I’m going to rip your balls off and use them for chew toys, if they’re big enough for that.”
Sylar blinks.
“Yeah, you heard me, you little punk. Think you’re part of the family now that you’re fucking the blonde one. You’re nothing, not even fit to clean up after one of my little walks in the park.” Muggles mouths off to him.
Sylar blinks again, then just turns around and heads back upstairs, being sure to lock the door behind him when he hears the loud yelps of “Run, you scared little pussy! Yes, I call you a cat! What are you going to do about it!?”
He immediately picks up the phone, and dials a familiar number. As soon as she answers, he starts begging. “You’ve got to come home, please, soon.”
“We’ve been over this, babe. Dad and I’ll be home next week.”
“I’ve been a bad, bad man. I need you.”
“Sylar! I’m sharing a room with him, I can’t do that now.” Claire giggles.
“I killed someone.”
The line goes dead for a few minutes, and if it wasn’t for the light sounds of her breathing as she tries to think of an appropriate response, he’d think she’d hung up on him. “Anyone I know?” she finally asks.
“No. And I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, and you need to come home now.” He’d never planned on telling her about his little sins every time that she and Noah went on a mission, but he’d never planned on being turned into Dr. Doolittle either.
As he listens to Muggles’ continued yells of dominance, he swears to himself that he’s done collecting powers. This is just too weird, even for him.
3. Prompt: "You Look Good In My Shirt" (Keith Urban) - liam22
“Open this door, NOW!” Someone kicks the door.
Sylar and Claire sit straight up in bed, looking at each other in shock before Sylar suddenly jumps up and starts grabbing at the clothes scattered around the room.
“Noah, calm down. Think about your blood pressure.” Sandra begs him.
The door rattles again as Noah tries forcing it. “Claire Eileen Bennet, open this door right this instant.”
“Coming!” Claire responds before muttering “oh, crap”. Snickering at the absurdity of the situation, Sylar hops up and down on one foot, trying to pull his boxers on, as Claire grabs a shirt and pulls it on. She pushes Sylar into the closet and shoves the rest of their clothes in with him, but not before she grabs a pair of jeans.
“No.” Sylar whispers back, “that’s the first place that he’ll look.” He clutches the rest of their clothes in his fist, and makes his way over to the window.
As soon as the window closes itself, Claire opens the door and tries to look innocent as she asks “What?”
“Where is he? I’m going to kill him.” Noah asks as he flings open the closet door, and Claire has to hide the smile on her face at how accurate Sylar’s prediction had been.
“Who?”
“You know who.” Noah slams the closet door shut, then lifts the bed skirt and peers under the bed.
“Voldemort?”
“Claire.” Noah gives her one of his Looks, the one that subtly screams you’re in so much trouble young lady. “Sylar - where is he?”
“You mean he’s not on the couch downstairs? Geez, Dad, you just keep misplacing all your partners.”
“Shut up!” Lyle screams from down the hall. “Some of us are trying to sleep here!”
“Yeah, what he said!” Sylar’s yell comes from downstairs.
Sandra and Noah look at each other, then both yell back at the same time. “Sylar?”
“What? Can’t a man get some sleep around here? Bad enough I have to sleep on a couch, now it’s the all night scream-a-thon.”
“Oh. Um.” Noah looks flustered, and Claire almost laughs. “Nevermind. Sorry.” He lets Sandra draw him out of the room.
As Claire falls back on her bed, Sandra returns to her room. “I didn’t say anything earlier, and I don’t think your dad noticed, but… seriously, Claire. Do you have to flaunt it so much?” She gives her daughter a doleful look, then closes the door.
In the dead of the night, when all the house is quiet, Sylar creeps back upstairs to Claire’s room again. He doesn’t make a sound as he slides under the covers next to her, curling his arm around her protectively, but something doesn’t feel quite right. Instead of the smooth silk of her night shirt, his hand finds crisp cotton, and instead of the sweetness of her perfume, he can only smell his own aftershave. Pulling back, he views her in the moonlight before laughing, and it wakes her.
“What?”
“You look good in my shirt.”
4. Prompt: "All American Girl" (Carrie Underwood) - ladyanne525
It’s completely quiet around him, unnaturally so. No birds, no animals, no insects chirping, no city noise, nothing other than the faint crying he can hear inside their tent a half mile away. A slight wind blows, but there are no leaves to rustle. The only light comes from the heavens above them, but he’s not sure if it’s from the sun or if it’s the moon and stars. To Peter it seems brighter than Times Square had ever managed, even through the dirty goggles that slightly obscure his view. He takes a deep breath, and immediately coughs. For as serene as it seems, acrid smoke still hangs in the air and it’s worse than any smog he’d ever encountered in his youth.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Sylar steps up beside him, tying a cloth rag over his mouth to block out the fumes, to keep the dust and dirt out of his nose and mouth. The cloth slightly muffles his words. Being careful not to shift the bundle in his arms, he hands a spare rag to Peter.
Peter takes it, and quickly ties it on. He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Think it’s over?”
“Use your powers, moron. How many people can you sense?” There’s no bite to Sylar’s words, just deep sorrow.
He doesn’t have to use them; he already knows. They both know. It’s just the four of them, all that’s left of life on the planet.
“Claire picked a name.” Sylar interrupts his musing.
“Oh?” Peter tries to hide his curiosity. Sylar had been so sure he was going to have a son, they hadn’t even bothered to think about feminine names; Peter had let them go on, keeping his mouth shut and the grin off his face every time Sylar had boasted about “his boy”. He’d just spent his time trying to find some way of making pink dye instead, and had presented them with a tiny pink blanket at the necessary time, to Sylar’s shock.
“Silly woman.” Again, the words lack any heat. “Guess.”
“Sandra.”
A shake of the head, and Peter frowns. “Not Meredith.”
“America.”
“America?” Peter hadn’t been expecting that. “She must be feeling sentimental. That’s a word I haven’t heard in centuries.”
Sylar laughs, then his voice catches. “I can’t do this.”
Peter knows what the other man’s talking about. “Yes, you can. Just think, in ways it’s easier. You’re not going to have to worry about dolls or first dates or teenage boys or anything.”
This time Sylar does cry. “It’s time, Peter.”
“I’m not doing it. No way, no how.”
“You must. I’m not going to raise my daughter like this. You’ve got to! Take her first, then come back for us if you can.” He gently shoves the baby into Peter’s arms, then leans over to kiss her goodbye.
“Sylar…”
“Do it!”
When Peter opens his eyes, he’s standing in the middle of Times Square with a screaming baby in his arms - in the eighteenth century.
"Dammit!"
5. Prompt: "Forever May Not Be Long Enough" (Live) - fbdarkangel
“Do you, Claire Bennet, take this man… ”
She gasps for air, unable to breathe as her corset stays seem to tighten even more. Reaching out blindly for someone to hold her up, the edges of her vision start to fade to black.
Elle’s face swims before her. “You okay?”
With a faint “help”, Claire slumps to the ground before anyone can catch her.
Elle looks down at her watch, then calls out to the gathered congregation. “Twenty minutes. Who had twenty minutes in the pool?” There are a few groans; most people hadn’t thought she’d make it so long.
The best man pulls a small notebook out of his jacket and flips it open to a marked page. “That would be… Nathan.” Peter reads off the page.
“What is wrong with you people?” The groom is almost hysterical as he tries to pull his bride back up to her feet. “She’s unconscious, and you’re talking about bets?”
“Oh, lighten up.” Elle pats him on the head. “It’s just a panic attack, just like her last four weddings. Oh, and before you ask, it’s not you and she’s so sorry and blah blah blah. You need cab fare, or can you find your own way home?”
“But…”
One of the groomsman pushes him to the side, none-too-gently, and scoops the bride up off the floor. “Get over it, she’s not marrying you.” He growls at the groom, then turns and stomps off towards the back of the church. Elle gives poor whatever-his-name-is another pat on the head, then grabs Peter’s arm, and they follow after Sylar.
When she wakes up, she finds her head pillowed in Sylar’s lap and a cool washcloth on her brow as he smoothes her hair back. “I did it again, didn’t I?” She asks.
“Hey, you made it to the actual vows this time.”
She tries to sit up, but he won’t let her. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself, to us?” He chides her.
“There is no us.” Even though she doesn’t want to, she pushes him away and scrambles away from him.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” He stands, stepping closer to her, backing her up against the wall. “We’re forever, Claire; I don’t know why you keep fighting it. There’s no until death we do part for us.”
“You don’t love me, you just think you do.”
“Damn it, Claire!” His fist clenches, and he takes a deep breath before he punches the wall. “What more do you want from me? You ask me to help your family, I do. You ask me to stop murdering, I do. You want me to dance attendance on you for years, I have already. What more do you want, me to fucking bleed for you? I will. Forever’s not long enough for us.”
Forever. For the first time, she can think about it without feeling faint, suddenly realizing what her problem was - the wrong men. She pulls him into a deep kiss.
Bonus! Prompt: "Green Purplexed Tofu" (Top Chef - Season 4, Episode 7) (did you honestly think I could turn down this challenge?)
Sylar pounds on the door, disregarding the disgruntled and disturbed looks from the neighbors, and yells “Mohinder, help me - she’s trying to kill me!”
When no one immediately opens the door, he picks the lock and lets himself in just as Mohinder and Matt stroll into the living room.
‘Oh great, it’s him again.’ Matt sends a message to Mohinder.
Mohinder gives him a stern glance, then thinks back ‘Be nice; it’s your turn to deal with him.’
Crossing his arms over his chest, Matt shakes his head. ‘No way. Not happening.’ Honestly, if wasn’t for the fact that he has to deal with Sylar much more frequently than he’d like, he’d be almost amused by the constant squabbles between Sylar and Claire.
‘Please? I had to deal with the last freakout.’
‘It’s all your fault. You just had to go and rehabilitate him into a drama queen, didn’t you?’ Matt sighs, then finally asks “What’s she done this time?,” before noticing that Sylar is no longer in the room. “Sylar?”
“It’s horrible.” Sylar yells back from the kitchen, before strolling back into the room carrying a plate full of food. Matt almost grabs the plate away from him, but then he notices how the other man’s eating, as if he’s half-starved.
Mohinder can’t hide the smirk when he asks “Worse than the ob/gyn appointment?”
Sylar shudders, then nods. “Far worse. She cooked supper tonight.”
Matt lets out a low whistle; they’d all been subjected to her attempts at cooking before. Of all the phrases that could be used to describe Claire, “great cook” was not one of them - Matt would lean more towards “poisoner extraordinaire”. He was half convinced that the Borgias had changed their name to Petrelli when they’d come to America, and that Claire had inherited all of her ancestors’ skills.
“Not the lasagna again.” Mohinder grimaces at the memories.
“Worse.”
If Matt didn’t know better, he’d almost say the ex-murderer had whimpered. “Not the fried chicken. I thought the fire department had made her promise never to try that again.”
“Tofu.”
This time, Matt’s convinced Sylar whimpered. “Well… it’s healthy for you. Mohinder has made me try it a few times before, it’s not all that bad.”
“Actually, it’s wonderful.” Mohinder pipes up. “Molly takes leftover tofu curry with her for lunch a lot, and I use it to make smoothies.”
“So that’s what that weird taste was!” Matt turns on Mohinder. “Bad bananas, my ass!”
“It was green.” Sylar adds, then blanches as he recalls that quivering slab of tofu he’d been served an hour earlier. “She’d covered it in some sort of mint and asparagus sauce. And crushed Cheetos.”
“Mint and…” Mohinder trails off, contemplating the combination.
Matt wonders if it’s possible for his taste buds to jump out of his mouth from just thinking about that entrée. “Cheetos? What did you do?”
“Waited until she turned around, and teleported it to Antarctica. Thank God for powers.”
Mohinder bites his lip to keep from laughing.