I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am
Title: I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG-13 (language, violence, references to sex)
Word Count: ridiculously long
Spoilers: I consider anything that’s aired to date to be fair game, so up through 3 x 15.
Pairings: Sylar/Elle (not much, I swear!), Sylar/Claire
Warnings: Child abuse at one point. Incest. Angst galore! Sappy fluff too! Exclamation points!
Author’s Note: Happy Valentine’s Day! BTW, blame history for this one. Yesterday was the anniversary of the beheading of Queen Kathryn Howard, and somehow that bit of trivia led to this little fic. Lots of historical themes in this one :) Giant thanks to ladyanne525 for helping me figure out part of the plot :)
Marriage the First
He’s in love; he’s absolutely certain of it. She’s a blonde-haired little angel, with curls that bounce across her shoulders when she giggles at something he says; he can’t help but smile at her when she boldly takes his hand during recess.
“My aunt’s getting married this weekend.”
He acts suitably impressed, and then wonders if maybe she’s hinting at something. “Do you want to get married someday?”
“Sure.” She shrugs. “That what all adults do.”
Gabriel has no clue how he works up the courage to ask “Do you want to marry me?”
“Okay. Let’s get married now, then we don’t have to worry about it later.”
It makes sense to him. “So how do we do this?” He’s never been to a wedding, has no clue how to proceed.
She bites her lip, and thinks hard. “I, Georgia, take you, Gabriel, to be my husband.”
She looks at him, and he guesses that maybe he’s supposed to repeat something similar, so he does. “I, Gabriel, take you, Georgia, to be my wife.” It’s oddly anti-climatic for something that’s supposed to be so life-altering, and recess goes on as usual. The bullies still beat him up, even if he does have a wife now.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Oh, Mrs. Gray, Gabriel did the cutest thing today,” his teacher gushes when his mom walks into the kindergarten classroom later that day, “it was just darling.”
He hates it when Mrs. McCauley says things like that; he looks around to make sure no one else in his class hears it, as it’s a guarantee of a beating tomorrow. Georgia squeezes his hand, and he smiles at her, liking that his mom isn’t the only Mrs. Gray in the room now.
“What did he do now?” His mom doesn’t sound impressed, and he knows it’s because things that Mrs. McCauley thinks are “cute”, his mom classifies as “sinful”. Mostly because she classifies everything as sinful.
“He and Georgia,” and she gestures at the girl sitting quietly by his side, “decided they wanted to get married. They said vows and everything.”
“Married!!!!” His mom shrieks and clutches at her necklace, hand curling around the golden cross. “And you let them?”
“But…” Mrs. McCauley seems confused. “It was so sweet, and she even kissed him on the cheek, and it’s just so adorable this close to Valentine’s Day.”
“She kissed him! That… that… hussy!” Gabriel subtly scoots away from Georgia as his mother screams then whirls around to look at them. “Let go of my son, you succubus!”
He doesn’t know what a succubus is, but it doesn’t sound good.
“Oh, God!” She continues to wail. “We’re Catholic, and he’s going to have to get a divorce at the age of six! What sort of school are you running here?”
Mrs. McCauley gives his mom a look like she’s insane; he has to agree.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You can calm down, Mrs. Gray.” The priest pats his mom on the shoulder, but Gabriel doesn’t think it will do his hysterical mother much good. “Don’t cry, daughter. It’s nothing. All kids do it at some point; it’s just a game. The Church certainly doesn’t view him as married, and as such, you don’t have to worry about getting an annulment or divorce.”
He knows the look on his mom’s face; she’s not convinced, but there’s no way she’d argue with a priest. “So he’s done no wrong?”
“No. It’s all completely innocent and normal, and it doesn’t count.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“But Father Smith said I didn’t do anything wrong!” As soon as he says it, he knows he’s just made the situation worse.
Virginia purses her lips. “Bathtub, now, Gabriel.”
He winces as he steps into the water; it’s hot enough to blister, and the scent of ammonia hits him the same time the chemical hits his delicate skin. “Aaah!” He can’t help making a noise, even though he’s supposed to take his punishment in silence; it hurts.
“You shouldn’t have sinned if you didn’t want to hurt, Gabriel.” She bathes him all over with the purifying water, gloves protecting her hands - he’s not sure if she wants to not touch the water or him. She scrubs him hard all over, especially focusing on where Georgia had pressed that kiss against his cheek. As soon as she’s sure the sin’s been washed off, she lets him get out of the tub, and wraps him in a towel. “Now that we’ve taken care of the sinful flesh, let’s get that mouth washed out.”
He takes the bar of soap between his teeth with a smooth gesture, learned from years of practice.
“Now, fifteen minutes for mocking the holy vows of marriage with your little ‘game’, ten minutes for lustful adulterous thoughts, and ten more minutes for being mouthy and disrespectful to me.” She sets the timer, and while he wishes he could ask what “lustful” and “adulterous” mean, he just settles for closing his eyes and pretending he’s somewhere else, somewhere with a loving mother, somewhere where the scent of Lifeboy doesn’t tickle his nose and the taste of soap doesn’t trickle down his sinful throat.
- - - - - - - - - -
Years later, he can’t even remember her name, all he can remember is how marriage led to pain and sin and a thick layer of acrid soap on his tongue.
Marriage the Second
She’s a spoiled brat, but he can’t blame her as he knows it’s not her fault. She’s barely more than a girl, and Daddy had always given her exactly what she wanted, just as long as she returned the favor. She shot sparks from her fingers, and Bob gave her a hug and a stingy “I love you”, and so now she equates love with brute use of power; he wonders sometimes if maybe that’s the only reason she has feelings for someone as flawed as him.
“But Gabriel…” she whines, and tugs on his arm. “Why can’t we fly there directly?”
“Give me a minute,” he tells the ticket agent, then turns to look at her. “Because, Elle, there aren’t any direct flights to Costa Verde from this airport. Unless you want me to hijack a plane and make them fly there directly, we have to have a layover. Do you understand now?”
“Can’t you use Arthur’s credit card and book a private charter?”
“No, because they don’t have any private planes here.” He wonders now why he’d agreed so easily when Arthur had partnered them.
Elle looks down at her feet. “Can we just rent a car and drive there instead?” she whispers. “I’m not good with planes.”
He’d forgotten about her phobia, and tries his best to be more sympathetic. “It’ll take us days to drive there, days we don’t have. We’ve got to fly. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, you’ll be okay. How about we find someplace fun to stop for the layover? It’ll give you something to look forward to, and give you a chance to de-stress a bit.”
“You can stop in Detroit or Las Vegas.” The ticket agent helpfully suggests.
“Vegas. Definitely Vegas.” Elle tugs at his hand and beams at him; he’s not seen that light in her eyes in the longest time. “Please, Gabriel?”
He agrees, with no clue as to exactly what he’s agreeing to.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Please, Gabriel? I’m bored.”
He doesn’t the see the harm in wondering around the airport for a bit; they’ve got three hours until they can board their next flight, plenty of time to explore all the food stands and gift shops in the terminal. “Fine. Lead on.”
She takes his hand, and pulls him in the direction of the brightest neon lights.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Are you crazy?” He doesn’t even know why he asks.
She leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him, smiling against his lips. “Crazy for you, mister. Let’s do it.”
For a split second, he could swear he tastes soap in his mouth. “I don’t know about this, Elle.”
“Come on, live a little.”
“Are you sure, Elle? Really sure?” He’s not, but he can’t tell her no.
“We’re ready for you.” The lady behind the counter gestures at them, and Elle skips over to her and the minister, gleefully taking the tacky bouquet made out of fake flowers as the woman attaches a flimsy bit of veil to Elle’s hair with a bobby pin.
“Come on, Gabriel!” She offers his hand, and in front of the minister and witness, he takes it, swearing to a God he no longer believes in that he’ll honor and obey, love her for better or worse.
When they fly out of Vegas two hours later, she’s wearing his ring on a necklace around her neck, and he’s got a cheap fake gold band resting on his left ring finger. It had started itching the second she’d shoved it onto his finger, and when he removes it as soon as she falls asleep against his shoulder, it leaves behind a thick green ring. The itching sensation lasts longer than their marriage.
- - - - - - - - - -
He drops a single blood red rose and his wedding band on the dirt on top of her grave, resting his hand against the tombstone for just a minute, one last caress, then walks away; it’s time to go see Angela, Noah, and Claire, and he has no more time for his dearly departed wayward wife.
The tombstone reads just as he’d instructed the marble carver: She loved me, but not as much as her Daddy, so here lies Elle Bishop.
Marriage the Third
Even though he’s not directly involved in the plane crash and the subsequent fallout, he’s still aware of what’s going on via Agent Simmons' radio set. He knows what’s happening to Claire, and for some reason he can’t name, it disturbs him to know that she’s so scared, so alone. When he asks, Luke hands over his phone without a word. His fingers fumble as he types in his message, fingers too big for the miniature keypad.
THERE IS HOPE. YOU CAN STILL FIGHT BACK - REBEL
The response is immediate. Who is this?
He wants to tell her, but he doesn’t want to scare her even more. He laughs as he types in his ambiguous response; let her try to figure out if he hates them, or if he hates her, as if he could ever hate her. A FRIEND. WHO HATES THEM AS MUCH AS YOU.
I’m scared.
ME TOO. CAN’T GIVE UP. BE READY. He can envision her sitting all by herself in her bedroom, hair falling all around her, scared of all the shadows. He hates them all even more so for scaring her so badly; he’s going to get her, take her away from Noah and Nathan, protect her, and to hell with all of them.
- - - - - - - - - -
ARE YOU AT HOME? - REBEL He knows she is, standing in the backyard looking up at her window.
Yes!
READY TO GO? Even if she’s not, he’s taking her. He’d joined up with Peter and the rest of their little “We Hate Nathan” club two weeks previously; their intel indicates that Nathan’s planning on grabbing her tomorrow. She’s got to go with them, now.
Where R U?
TOSS YOUR BAGS OUT WINDOW, THEN JUMP. I’LL CATCH YOU.
The first bag comes flying out a second later, landing in Luke’s waiting arms with a solid thump. After tossing out the second bag, she doesn’t hesitate as she dives out the window; Sylar makes sure that he catches her as gently as he can.
She turns to look at her rescuer, but doesn’t seem very surprised. “Oh, it’s you. Peter said you're working with the group, but I didn’t think he meant like this.”
“And hello to you, too, babydoll.” He doesn’t put her down, just gestures at Luke to grab her bags; he carries her all the waiting car.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Hell no. Separate rooms.” Claire crosses her arms over her chest.
“No. Absolutely not. First of all, the story we’re telling the clerks is that I’m traveling with my younger sister and brother; it would be incredibly odd for us to get 3 rooms. Second, you’re stuck with me - I’m your goddamned bodyguard, whether you like it or not. I can’t guard you from another room. You’re stuck with us until I get you safely to Peter and the rest of the group.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, and I’m not sleeping with either of you!” She catches the look Luke gives her and smacks him on the arm. “Pervert.”
Sylar wishes that he’d found someone with the power of patience; he could really use some. He understands Noah much better now. “You take one bed. Luke will take the other. I won’t sleep.”
“Fine, but if I catch either of you perving on me in the bathroom or at night…”
“I swear to you, I’ll leave you alone.” He gives Luke a dark look. “And if he bothers you, he’ll answer to me.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Sylar?” Her voice is a mere whisper, not loud enough to wake the snoozing Luke. He’s standing next to the window, peering out into the darkened night, on the watch for anyone that might try to get to his protégé and his ward.
“Yeah, Claire?”
“Why’d you contact me? That was before you joined the Resistance.”
He doesn’t have a good answer for that. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thank you.”
A minute later, he hears the rustling of her bedding as she gets out of the bed; he’s expecting her to go into the bathroom, so it’s a surprise when she pads over to him on bare feet and wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly. It’s incredibly awkward, even after he returns the embrace, holding her closely to him.
“Why?” She starts to cry, and it just kills him. “Why is this happening?”
He steps back, until the back of his legs hit against the chair he knows should be there. He sits down, and pulls her into his lap. She willingly curls up against him, crying softly on his shoulder.
“I don’t know, Claire. I just don’t know. Shhh.” He rocks her against him until she falls asleep.
When Luke wakes an hour or two later, he starts to open that smart mouth of his, but Sylar just gives him a warning glare, and he lets it go.
Sylar doesn’t sleep any that night, keeping his word to her. He keeps her safe all night, and when she awakes still in his arms in the morning, it’s the safest she’s felt in years.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You stupid idiot! I’m going to kill you!” Sylar rages as her, horrified that she seems to have no sense of self-preservation, angry at how she jumps into impossible situations, angry at himself for failing to protect her.
“You just say that because you were worried.” She sticks out her tongue at him. “I’m fine. Didn’t get as much as a scratch on me.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Um, because your little friend Luke was going to get himself killed by trying to take on the Hunter by himself?” She leans against him, holding in a hug; he’s starting to get addicted to her hugs.
“What happened?”
“Ran in, distracted the Hunter - we really need to find out his name, by the way - bitched at Nathan some more, then while the Hunter was slapping me around, Luke ran and got you.”
He doesn’t know how she can be so blasé about the whole situation, but he hates hearing her say that she’d purposefully put herself in the Hunter’s hands again. “I’m going to kill him.”
“It’s not Luke’s fault. Hiro was supposed to go in with him.”
“I meant the Hunter.”
“Get in line. I think Peter’s got first dibs, then Matt, then Mohinder, then my dad, then me. You can have him before Luke, though.”
“Don’t do this to me again, please.” If she tries it one more time, he’s tying her up and leaving her at headquarters with Angela and Daphne. He can’t stand having her out in the field with them, if she’s going to be constantly risking herself like this.
“You act like you care.”
“I do.”
Pulling away from the hug, she holds him at arms length, just staring at him for a minute. He doesn’t know what she sees in his eyes, but the next thing he knows, she’s tackling him and kissing him for all she’s worth.
When Luke walks into their room an hour later, he yelps and covers his eyes, quickly running out.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Noah’s going to kill me.” He nervously adjusts his tie, batting at his hair as he stares at the reflection in the mirror.
“I thought he already wanted to kill you.” Luke points out.
“True, but there’s a difference between ‘I want to kill you because you’re a monster’ and ‘I want to kill you because you married and sullied my virgin daughter, you monster’. Don’t laugh; you’ll be in this situation someday.”
“You actually look nervous.”
Sylar feels like he’s going to be sick; it wasn’t like this with Elle, but he assumes that was because Elle didn’t give him a chance to get nervous, and because she didn’t have a family hell-bent on destroying him.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Nathan.” Noah coolly nods at the other man. “Thanks for meeting with us so quickly.” The battle lines are clearly delineated, Noah and Angela on one side of the table, facing against Nathan.
“What do you two want? I don’t have time to waste on you, especially if you haven’t started seeing things my way.” Nathan doesn’t even bother taking a seat, making his intentions of having a short meeting crystal clear.
“Sit down.” Angela commands. “It’s about Claire.”
Nathan takes a seat. “I’m listening.”
“She’s done something incredibly foolish, and we need to do something about it.” Noah hates to think about what exactly she’s done now; it still makes him nauseated.
“I thought you said you could control her.” Nathan runs his hand through his hair. “What’s she done now? Go after the Hunter again? Run to tell everything to the tabloids or CNN?”
“She’s eloped.” Angela announces, barely disguising her distaste at the act.
“She’s what??? To who???” Nathan yells. “Can we have this annulled?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, and we’re not dealing with some teenager that we can bully into a quick divorce.”
“Who?” Nathan sounds sick.
“Sylar.”
Nathan pushes his chair back, gets up, then ever so calmly, punches a hole into the wall. “How did you let this happen?”
“It’s not like we gave her permission, Nathan. Do you honestly think I’d be all smiles, walking her down the aisle? Please. They snuck away one night, along with that hooligan Sylar keeps around, and made their way to the justice of the peace. We didn’t know about it until four days later.”
“What are we going to do?”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Let me come with you, please?” Claire asks as she lies on their bed, watching Sylar slip into his special ops suit.
“We’ve been over this, you can’t. Someone needs to watch over Daphne, and you’re perfect for that. Besides, I don’t want you out in the field any more.” He sits down beside her, pulling his boots on before leaning over to kiss her. “I’ll be home soon, don’t worry.”
“I’m contractually obligated to worry, you doofus. Just come home safe, okay? It’d kill me if anything happened to you.”
“What could possibly happen?”
- - - - - - - - - -
She knows as soon as her dad walks into the room that something’s horribly, horribly wrong. He’s covered in blood, and is shaking. As soon as he sees her, he hugs her and starts apologizing.
She’s numb as she asks “Sylar?”, already knowing the worst must have happened.
“The Hunter. I saw everything. I’m so sorry, Claire-bear. There’s no coming back from that.”
She doesn’t hear the rest of what he says as the blood starts pounding in her ears; the world turns hazy, and she faints before he can actually say the words “Sylar is dead.”
Noah catches her, and throws her over his shoulder. “We’re done here.”
“Good.” Angela walks into the room, pushing Daphne’s wheelchair. “Come on, dear. Our location’s been compromised, we need to leave now.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Oh my God.” Matt looks sick as he looks around the ravaged Headquarters. “Daphne??? Daphne!” He runs towards their bedroom.
Sylar knows something bad must have happened; the room’s coated in blood, as if someone had brought in a bucket of fresh blood and a paintbrush. Chairs are broken, and it looks like a major fight had taken place. All the windows are busted, and there’s glass all over the ground. “Claire!”
“Sylar! In here!” Matt yells from the back. “Help me! It’s Noah!”
He rushes in to find Matt on the floor, cradling his father-in-law’s bloody head. “What happened? Where’s Claire?” he asks, as he grabs one of the nearby glass shards and cuts his wrist, holding it to Noah’s head.
“I’m so sorry, Sylar. She’s… gone.”
He prays that Noah’s lying, but he knows he’s telling the truth. “But her healing powers…”
“Didn’t help. You know there’s a certain spot…” Noah starts sobbing, and Sylar just isn’t cruel enough to push him further.
- - - - - - - - - -
“What am I going to do?” Claire wraps her arms around herself.
“What were you going to do before Sylar re-entered your life?” Angela brushes her hair back from her face. “It’s awful, Claire, but you’re not the only woman to be widowed at an early age. You’re still young. Sylar would want you to live a full life, with or without him.”
“I guess. You really want me to go on to college, like nothing’s happened?”
“Are you really planning on moping in your bedroom for the rest of your life?” Angela retorts. “You can’t stay here forever, dear. You’ve got to move on. Who knows, you might run into your ideal man on the street as you leave here.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Did it work?” Nathan asks as soon as he enters the room.
“What do you think?” Angela replies to her son. “Of course it worked. Claire’s convinced the Hunter killed him, and I’ve got her enrolled in Georgetown. Sylar thinks the Hunter killed Claire, and is currently chasing after him. It’s up to you to get the Hunter to run - I hear Australia’s lovely this time of year. Once he’s there, it might be… advantageous… for something to happen to the man before Sylar can question him, and once he’s gone, I’m sure we can find some rather lovely bait to keep him out of our hair and safely oversees for awhile.”
“What happens when we can’t keep them apart any more?”
“Nathan, please. She’s a child who thinks she’s in love because she doesn’t know any better, and your pet goon scared her. She’ll grow up, and never give him a second thought, and we all know there’s no way he loved her. They’ll forget, in time.”
“If you say so, Ma.”
Marriage the Fourth
When he runs into her on the street, he thinks he’s run into a ghost. She doesn’t even see him, too busy picking up her dropped groceries, but he knows it’s her. “Claire?”
She drops the bag she’s holding at the sound of his voice; the container inside bursts, rivulets of milk running over her shoe and down the street as she exclaims “I thought you were dead! They told me you were dead, permanently dead!” and jumps into his arms, crying and kissing him all over his face. They return to her apartment, and after putting up the rest of her groceries, they start comparing notes, figuring out just how badly they’ve been lied to.
Even though he’s fairly certain they’re still married from last time, he takes no chances; they marry again as quickly as possible, without the presence of a single member of her interfering family.
It’s like a fairytale when they find out three weeks later that they’d managed to get pregnant on their wedding night; life has never been sweeter for him.
- - - - - - - - - -
It’s like a nightmare when, in her seventh month, Claire wakes him with a panicked shout. At first, he thinks they’ve been attacked; their king-sized bed is soaked in blood, and she’s covered in blood, sweat, and tears. It’s only when she clutches her belly, screaming, that the word “miscarriage” crosses his mind.
The EMS attendants answering his frantic 911 call give him pitying looks, but don’t say anything as he clambers into the back of the ambulance, refusing to let go of her hand as they slip an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. They don’t have to; he already knows they’ve lost the baby.
- - - - - - - - - -
Mohinder’s old, shockingly old and white-haired. It shocks Sylar; he’s never thought of himself as old, but Mohinder’s only five years older than he is. It’s like meeting with his grandfather, or an alternate Chandra, and it disturbs Sylar in a way he’s never been disturbed before.
He didn’t want to go, but Claire drags him to the good doctor Suresh in her quest for answers. He would have argued more, but Mohinder is the only geneticist that he knows they can trust; Mohinder won’t turn them over to the government’s genetic witch hunt. He wishes they hadn’t as Mohinder looks over Claire’s medical file and at the DNA tests spread out on the desk in front of him, then sighs.
“It was inevitable. Claire, you’re never going to be able to carry a child to term. Your powers just won’t allow it.”
Sylar can tell that Mohinder is trying to be gentle, but still Claire flinches as if she’s been hit. While he knows he ought to comfort her, all he can feel is bitterness that she couldn’t take care of his baby any better than she had. He knows that it’s not her fault, that he ought to blame Mother Nature or God or Nathan and Meredith for giving her such fucked up genes, but he can’t help it.
Mohinder sees the distance between them, then opens another file, pushing it over towards Sylar. “And Sylar, you’re not blameless here. Your genetic material is just too unstable. Maybe if you mated with a woman with no powers, it would be okay. Maybe if Claire was carrying someone else’s child, she would have had a premature baby rather than a miscarriage. There’s no way of telling, but the two of you? Not compatible.”
“Is that all?” Claire’s voice has gone ice cold.
“Yes…” Mohinder hesitates. “I strongly advise you to do whatever you can to avoid getting pregnant again, Claire.”
“Not a problem.”
With that, Sylar knows he’s never getting laid again any time this century. Neither he nor Mohinder say anything, and after a few second, Claire grabs her purse, and with a terse “We’re done here,” stomps out of Mohinder’s office without a second look at either of them.
Sylar isn’t sure if he should run after her or not. “Thanks, Mohinder.” He slowly rises from his chair and shakes Mohinder’s hand in a distracted manner before wandering out into the hallway.
Mohinder waits until they’re gone, then grabs the bottle of vodka he keeps hidden in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, the one he keeps for cases just like this.
- - - - - - - - - -
She doesn’t say anything to him the rest of that day, but she doesn’t have to. He blames her, and knows that she blames him, and that they’re both right. She flinches when he crawls into bed that night, even before he attempts to touch her, and when she growls at him when he tries to wrap an arm around her waist, he decides that perhaps the couch would be a more pleasant - and safer - place to bed down for the night.
He sleeps on the three-inches-too-short couch for the next six months, until the day that he comes home from work to find the couch gone, along with all of her belongings and most of his. At first he thought they’d been robbed, until he took inventory of all the missing items, including his wife, and then had come to the only possible conclusion. She’d left, taking everything of importance to her; the only things she’d left him were their bed, one plate, one bowl, one fork, one spoon, one knife, two towels, a bottle of shampoo, the baby’s crib, and lying on the mattress of the crib, a set of signed divorce papers.
Marriage the Fifth
The realization that he’d do anything to get Claire back hits him hard one lonely night; he no longer cares if it was her fault or his, he can see now that it never really mattered where the fault lay, they couldn’t fix what happened, but they never should have let go of each other. He should have held on tighter, he should have forced her to talk to him, forced her to take him back. Her leaving was definitely his fault, as he should have risked bodily harm and just held her that night; he never should have moved to the couch, should have taken her into his arms and made sure she knew that he wasn’t blaming her. He’d let her leave, hadn’t done anything to stop her.
He starts what he intends to be a slow, subtle stalk the next morning; she hadn’t gone far, just to a crappy apartment on the other side of town. She’d kept her same job, so he shows up with two dozen roses just before she leaves for lunch that day. He doesn’t give her a chance to say no, sweeps her off her feet and away to lunch. Everyone at the office talks when Claire doesn’t come back from lunch until ten minutes to five, with her shirt on inside out and her hair hanging disheveled around her shoulders rather than in the slick chignon it had been in when she left, smelling rather strongly of sex.
As soon as she’s shut down her computer and let her boss know that she’ll make up the missing hours, he walks her to her apartment, with only a quick stop on the way to pick up packing boxes and pizza; she’s moved back to where she belongs that night, her dresses hanging beside his shirts in the closet, her toothbrush casually leaning against his in the tiny bathroom, and her hair sprawled across his chest as they lie slumbering in their master bed once more.
- - - - - - - - - -
“This is a bad idea.” Peter warns her as soon as she tells him that they’re getting married again. “He’s not good husband material.”
“Good thing that you’re not the one marrying me.” Sylar can’t help but be a bit snarky, and he’s rewarded with a giggle from Claire.
Peter just glares at him. “Call me when you’re ready to divorce him again, I’ll come pick you up again.”
Sylar sees red, having not realized that Peter had been the one to help her get away the previous time; Claire places a calming hand over his shoulder and he counts to ten - slowly - to avoid ripping the annoying one’s head off his shoulders.
“Well, let’s get on with this then.” Peter sighs, then offers his arm to Claire. “Thanks for asking me to give you away this time.”
Neither Claire nor Sylar point out that he’s the only family member who’s still both (a) alive and (b) talking to them.
- - - - - - - - - -
They get into the first fight while on the plane to Hawaii for their honeymoon; he makes the mistake of comparing her to Elle, trying to be complementary about how calm she is about flying, but she takes it wrong. He’s just glad he’d never told Claire that he’d actually married Elle; she’d probably try to kill him with one of the plastic knives that the flight attendant had given them with their meal.
The second fight is rather mundane he thinks, and he’ll never again make the mistake of asking her if she really wanted the chocolate cake for dessert. He’d meant to ask if she wanted cake or key lime pie, but she’d taken it as criticism of her weight, and locked him out of their bedroom for three days.
When Peter calls, wanting to come for a visit, Sylar makes the mistake of keeping his mouth shut, avoiding a third fight. In retrospect, he probably should have raised a fuss then.
- - - - - - - - - -
He doesn’t like Peter; it’s no great surprise. He hates everything about the other man, hates the way that he spreads chaos wherever he goes, hates the younger man’s stupid floppy bangs, hates the twisted smile, hates how close he is to Claire. He tells himself that he’s acting like some sort of jealous caveman when he counts out the number of seconds that Peter hugs her, when he notices how close Peter stands to her, how they laugh together at the same damn things, how close they sit on the couch. He tells himself that it’s nothing, that they’re just incredibly close family. He tells himself that he’s being stupid, but it doesn’t do much good; he still doesn’t trust Peter with his wife, and nothing will change that.
- - - - - - - - - -
Claire’s not supposed to get off work for another three hours, so Sylar thinks he has plenty of time to decorate their apartment for Valentine’s before she gets home. He has an arm full of roses and a bottle of fine champagne, but he drops them as soon as he pushes the door to the apartment open. There are clothes tossed everywhere, including the clothes he knew for a fact that she’d worn to work that morning, and she’s screaming. His heart breaks as he realizes that she’s not screaming in fear or pain, but rather screaming like she does when they make love. He’s glad he’s no longer holding the champagne bottle as his hand curls into a tight fist; shattered glass his palm would have stung like a bitch, but not as badly as her careless screams.
“Claire, oh God, Claire, fuck.”
He immediately recognizes the voice of her paramour, and wonders how long she’s been cheating on him with Peter. Maybe he’ll give her a chance to tell him before he kills her.
The bedroom door explodes into a cloud of splinters as his anger ignites at the sound of her screaming through her orgasm; the pillows burst, spilling out feathers all over the lovers in the bed as the bedding is shredded to silken rags. Peter slams against the wall; he’ll deal with him later.
“Well, well, well, Claire. What do we have here?”
She just looks at him blankly, as if she doesn’t know him at all.
“Nothing to say? Disappointing really.” He tosses her clothes at her. “Get dressed, whore.”
“It’s not her fault, Sylar, it’s all mine.”
He knew he should have sewn the whelp’s mouth shut. “Was I talking to you? No, I was talking to my cheating, whoring wife. Shut the fuck up.” He turns back to Claire. “So, Guinevere, is Lancelot here right? Is it all his fault?”
She still says nothing in her defense, and it infuriates Sylar. “Damn it, Claire! Talk to me!” He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her, but it does no good. She still says nothing, says nothing as he shakes her, as he cries and curses, as he starts his infamous cut. She doesn’t make a sound as he cuts into her head, and when he doesn’t find the answers he wants there, cuts her neck deep enough to behead her.
Peter sobs the entire time, broken cries about how it’s his fault and he’d never meant for this to happen. Sylar doesn’t want to kill him, doesn’t want Peter’s pain to go away so quickly. As soon as he lets Peter drop from the wall, Peter’s sliding across the room, tenderly trying to hold Claire’s head to her body, willing the wound to close. “It’s my fault.”
“You’ve said that.” Sylar calls out from the bathroom, trying to get all of her blood out from under his fingertips.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I had this new power and I just had to try.” Peter sobs louder. “I was going to take her powers away for awhile, make her forget what had happened between us. She had no clue what was happening, I hypnotized her. I talked to Mohinder, without her powers, she could have carried my child just fine. I never wanted for this to happen; I just wanted to give you two what you couldn’t have any other way. Oh God, I never meant for this to happen.”
Sylar no longer cares about what Peter had or had not intended; it doesn’t change the fact that Claire had cheated on him and that he’d raised his hand against her in violence. He packs his bags as Peter waits for her to heal. He’s long gone before Claire comes back with a ragged breath and tears in her eyes.
Marriage the Sixth
It takes three hundred years, but she finally forgives him. It takes him just a bit longer to forgive her, but by her six hundredth birthday, he’s almost over it.
The first couple of decades of tentative friendship are difficult, as she winces whenever he touches her and he acts like he’s been mortally wounded whenever she looks or talks to another man, but they survive.
Around the dawn of the fortieth century, they give dating another try, although it’s completely by accident. He doesn’t mean anything by it when he asks her to go to supper, just like he has a million times before. He’s sure Claire doesn’t mean anything by it when she grabs his hand, holding it when they walk towards their favorite restaurant. They certainly don’t mean to imply anything with their lack of argument when the waitress comments what a stunning couple they make. It’s just a friendly kiss, a completely innocent peck that he presses against her lips; it’s certainly not one of their fiery embraces from centuries ago. He knows that she only invites him up to her apartment because she’s got a brand new tin of his favorite type of tea, the one that’s so hard to find, and he appreciates the fact that she’s willing to share it with him. It’s a completely innocent question she asks when she asks him about what would he like for breakfast the next morning, just simple courtesy. It’s just because he’s lonely and longing for a little human touch that he pulls her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her like he had before everything had gone to hell. She certainly isn’t implying that she wants sex when she invites him to spend the night, it’s just because it’s late and he’d have a long walk back to his place through a dangerous city, and he’s not accepting the implied booty call when he says he’ll love to stay. When he calls out “I love you” as he makes love to her, it’s only because it’s an ingrained response, as natural as breathing. If she cries, it’s certainly not because she loves him too, he’s positive of that.
They “accidentally” date for another century before they move in together, but it’s only because housing prices are insane and they can’t afford to live apart. They both conveniently forget that they’ve lived so long that they’ve accumulated billions of dollars in what were once meager savings accounts; it’s too expensive in New New New York, that’s the reason they buy a one bedroom apartment instead of the two bedroom apartment the realtor shows them.
He doesn’t mean to buy her an engagement ring; it’s just that the ring would look perfect on her finger, so perfect that he can’t imagine any other woman ever wearing it, and because she’s had a rough week and a piece of sparkly jewelry might cheer her up. He certainly doesn’t mean to imply anything; he’s just asking a simple question when he asks “will you wear this ring?”
He’s not exactly sure why she’s wearing that white dress, the one that should have been destroyed eons ago after their first divorce, but she is and she’s pulling him into the last remaining Catholic cathedral on Earth. He puts back on the wedding ring he’d taken off years earlier, and hands it to her, letting her slide it back onto his finger again, anointing it with her tears. The priest tells him he can kiss his bride, and it’s such a strange word, one that doesn’t do justice to his Claire, but he does. And they all live happily ever after.
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG-13 (language, violence, references to sex)
Word Count: ridiculously long
Spoilers: I consider anything that’s aired to date to be fair game, so up through 3 x 15.
Pairings: Sylar/Elle (not much, I swear!), Sylar/Claire
Warnings: Child abuse at one point. Incest. Angst galore! Sappy fluff too! Exclamation points!
Author’s Note: Happy Valentine’s Day! BTW, blame history for this one. Yesterday was the anniversary of the beheading of Queen Kathryn Howard, and somehow that bit of trivia led to this little fic. Lots of historical themes in this one :) Giant thanks to ladyanne525 for helping me figure out part of the plot :)
Marriage the First
He’s in love; he’s absolutely certain of it. She’s a blonde-haired little angel, with curls that bounce across her shoulders when she giggles at something he says; he can’t help but smile at her when she boldly takes his hand during recess.
“My aunt’s getting married this weekend.”
He acts suitably impressed, and then wonders if maybe she’s hinting at something. “Do you want to get married someday?”
“Sure.” She shrugs. “That what all adults do.”
Gabriel has no clue how he works up the courage to ask “Do you want to marry me?”
“Okay. Let’s get married now, then we don’t have to worry about it later.”
It makes sense to him. “So how do we do this?” He’s never been to a wedding, has no clue how to proceed.
She bites her lip, and thinks hard. “I, Georgia, take you, Gabriel, to be my husband.”
She looks at him, and he guesses that maybe he’s supposed to repeat something similar, so he does. “I, Gabriel, take you, Georgia, to be my wife.” It’s oddly anti-climatic for something that’s supposed to be so life-altering, and recess goes on as usual. The bullies still beat him up, even if he does have a wife now.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Oh, Mrs. Gray, Gabriel did the cutest thing today,” his teacher gushes when his mom walks into the kindergarten classroom later that day, “it was just darling.”
He hates it when Mrs. McCauley says things like that; he looks around to make sure no one else in his class hears it, as it’s a guarantee of a beating tomorrow. Georgia squeezes his hand, and he smiles at her, liking that his mom isn’t the only Mrs. Gray in the room now.
“What did he do now?” His mom doesn’t sound impressed, and he knows it’s because things that Mrs. McCauley thinks are “cute”, his mom classifies as “sinful”. Mostly because she classifies everything as sinful.
“He and Georgia,” and she gestures at the girl sitting quietly by his side, “decided they wanted to get married. They said vows and everything.”
“Married!!!!” His mom shrieks and clutches at her necklace, hand curling around the golden cross. “And you let them?”
“But…” Mrs. McCauley seems confused. “It was so sweet, and she even kissed him on the cheek, and it’s just so adorable this close to Valentine’s Day.”
“She kissed him! That… that… hussy!” Gabriel subtly scoots away from Georgia as his mother screams then whirls around to look at them. “Let go of my son, you succubus!”
He doesn’t know what a succubus is, but it doesn’t sound good.
“Oh, God!” She continues to wail. “We’re Catholic, and he’s going to have to get a divorce at the age of six! What sort of school are you running here?”
Mrs. McCauley gives his mom a look like she’s insane; he has to agree.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You can calm down, Mrs. Gray.” The priest pats his mom on the shoulder, but Gabriel doesn’t think it will do his hysterical mother much good. “Don’t cry, daughter. It’s nothing. All kids do it at some point; it’s just a game. The Church certainly doesn’t view him as married, and as such, you don’t have to worry about getting an annulment or divorce.”
He knows the look on his mom’s face; she’s not convinced, but there’s no way she’d argue with a priest. “So he’s done no wrong?”
“No. It’s all completely innocent and normal, and it doesn’t count.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“But Father Smith said I didn’t do anything wrong!” As soon as he says it, he knows he’s just made the situation worse.
Virginia purses her lips. “Bathtub, now, Gabriel.”
He winces as he steps into the water; it’s hot enough to blister, and the scent of ammonia hits him the same time the chemical hits his delicate skin. “Aaah!” He can’t help making a noise, even though he’s supposed to take his punishment in silence; it hurts.
“You shouldn’t have sinned if you didn’t want to hurt, Gabriel.” She bathes him all over with the purifying water, gloves protecting her hands - he’s not sure if she wants to not touch the water or him. She scrubs him hard all over, especially focusing on where Georgia had pressed that kiss against his cheek. As soon as she’s sure the sin’s been washed off, she lets him get out of the tub, and wraps him in a towel. “Now that we’ve taken care of the sinful flesh, let’s get that mouth washed out.”
He takes the bar of soap between his teeth with a smooth gesture, learned from years of practice.
“Now, fifteen minutes for mocking the holy vows of marriage with your little ‘game’, ten minutes for lustful adulterous thoughts, and ten more minutes for being mouthy and disrespectful to me.” She sets the timer, and while he wishes he could ask what “lustful” and “adulterous” mean, he just settles for closing his eyes and pretending he’s somewhere else, somewhere with a loving mother, somewhere where the scent of Lifeboy doesn’t tickle his nose and the taste of soap doesn’t trickle down his sinful throat.
- - - - - - - - - -
Years later, he can’t even remember her name, all he can remember is how marriage led to pain and sin and a thick layer of acrid soap on his tongue.
Marriage the Second
She’s a spoiled brat, but he can’t blame her as he knows it’s not her fault. She’s barely more than a girl, and Daddy had always given her exactly what she wanted, just as long as she returned the favor. She shot sparks from her fingers, and Bob gave her a hug and a stingy “I love you”, and so now she equates love with brute use of power; he wonders sometimes if maybe that’s the only reason she has feelings for someone as flawed as him.
“But Gabriel…” she whines, and tugs on his arm. “Why can’t we fly there directly?”
“Give me a minute,” he tells the ticket agent, then turns to look at her. “Because, Elle, there aren’t any direct flights to Costa Verde from this airport. Unless you want me to hijack a plane and make them fly there directly, we have to have a layover. Do you understand now?”
“Can’t you use Arthur’s credit card and book a private charter?”
“No, because they don’t have any private planes here.” He wonders now why he’d agreed so easily when Arthur had partnered them.
Elle looks down at her feet. “Can we just rent a car and drive there instead?” she whispers. “I’m not good with planes.”
He’d forgotten about her phobia, and tries his best to be more sympathetic. “It’ll take us days to drive there, days we don’t have. We’ve got to fly. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, you’ll be okay. How about we find someplace fun to stop for the layover? It’ll give you something to look forward to, and give you a chance to de-stress a bit.”
“You can stop in Detroit or Las Vegas.” The ticket agent helpfully suggests.
“Vegas. Definitely Vegas.” Elle tugs at his hand and beams at him; he’s not seen that light in her eyes in the longest time. “Please, Gabriel?”
He agrees, with no clue as to exactly what he’s agreeing to.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Please, Gabriel? I’m bored.”
He doesn’t the see the harm in wondering around the airport for a bit; they’ve got three hours until they can board their next flight, plenty of time to explore all the food stands and gift shops in the terminal. “Fine. Lead on.”
She takes his hand, and pulls him in the direction of the brightest neon lights.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Are you crazy?” He doesn’t even know why he asks.
She leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him, smiling against his lips. “Crazy for you, mister. Let’s do it.”
For a split second, he could swear he tastes soap in his mouth. “I don’t know about this, Elle.”
“Come on, live a little.”
“Are you sure, Elle? Really sure?” He’s not, but he can’t tell her no.
“We’re ready for you.” The lady behind the counter gestures at them, and Elle skips over to her and the minister, gleefully taking the tacky bouquet made out of fake flowers as the woman attaches a flimsy bit of veil to Elle’s hair with a bobby pin.
“Come on, Gabriel!” She offers his hand, and in front of the minister and witness, he takes it, swearing to a God he no longer believes in that he’ll honor and obey, love her for better or worse.
When they fly out of Vegas two hours later, she’s wearing his ring on a necklace around her neck, and he’s got a cheap fake gold band resting on his left ring finger. It had started itching the second she’d shoved it onto his finger, and when he removes it as soon as she falls asleep against his shoulder, it leaves behind a thick green ring. The itching sensation lasts longer than their marriage.
- - - - - - - - - -
He drops a single blood red rose and his wedding band on the dirt on top of her grave, resting his hand against the tombstone for just a minute, one last caress, then walks away; it’s time to go see Angela, Noah, and Claire, and he has no more time for his dearly departed wayward wife.
The tombstone reads just as he’d instructed the marble carver: She loved me, but not as much as her Daddy, so here lies Elle Bishop.
Marriage the Third
Even though he’s not directly involved in the plane crash and the subsequent fallout, he’s still aware of what’s going on via Agent Simmons' radio set. He knows what’s happening to Claire, and for some reason he can’t name, it disturbs him to know that she’s so scared, so alone. When he asks, Luke hands over his phone without a word. His fingers fumble as he types in his message, fingers too big for the miniature keypad.
THERE IS HOPE. YOU CAN STILL FIGHT BACK - REBEL
The response is immediate. Who is this?
He wants to tell her, but he doesn’t want to scare her even more. He laughs as he types in his ambiguous response; let her try to figure out if he hates them, or if he hates her, as if he could ever hate her. A FRIEND. WHO HATES THEM AS MUCH AS YOU.
I’m scared.
ME TOO. CAN’T GIVE UP. BE READY. He can envision her sitting all by herself in her bedroom, hair falling all around her, scared of all the shadows. He hates them all even more so for scaring her so badly; he’s going to get her, take her away from Noah and Nathan, protect her, and to hell with all of them.
- - - - - - - - - -
ARE YOU AT HOME? - REBEL He knows she is, standing in the backyard looking up at her window.
Yes!
READY TO GO? Even if she’s not, he’s taking her. He’d joined up with Peter and the rest of their little “We Hate Nathan” club two weeks previously; their intel indicates that Nathan’s planning on grabbing her tomorrow. She’s got to go with them, now.
Where R U?
TOSS YOUR BAGS OUT WINDOW, THEN JUMP. I’LL CATCH YOU.
The first bag comes flying out a second later, landing in Luke’s waiting arms with a solid thump. After tossing out the second bag, she doesn’t hesitate as she dives out the window; Sylar makes sure that he catches her as gently as he can.
She turns to look at her rescuer, but doesn’t seem very surprised. “Oh, it’s you. Peter said you're working with the group, but I didn’t think he meant like this.”
“And hello to you, too, babydoll.” He doesn’t put her down, just gestures at Luke to grab her bags; he carries her all the waiting car.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Hell no. Separate rooms.” Claire crosses her arms over her chest.
“No. Absolutely not. First of all, the story we’re telling the clerks is that I’m traveling with my younger sister and brother; it would be incredibly odd for us to get 3 rooms. Second, you’re stuck with me - I’m your goddamned bodyguard, whether you like it or not. I can’t guard you from another room. You’re stuck with us until I get you safely to Peter and the rest of the group.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, and I’m not sleeping with either of you!” She catches the look Luke gives her and smacks him on the arm. “Pervert.”
Sylar wishes that he’d found someone with the power of patience; he could really use some. He understands Noah much better now. “You take one bed. Luke will take the other. I won’t sleep.”
“Fine, but if I catch either of you perving on me in the bathroom or at night…”
“I swear to you, I’ll leave you alone.” He gives Luke a dark look. “And if he bothers you, he’ll answer to me.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Sylar?” Her voice is a mere whisper, not loud enough to wake the snoozing Luke. He’s standing next to the window, peering out into the darkened night, on the watch for anyone that might try to get to his protégé and his ward.
“Yeah, Claire?”
“Why’d you contact me? That was before you joined the Resistance.”
He doesn’t have a good answer for that. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thank you.”
A minute later, he hears the rustling of her bedding as she gets out of the bed; he’s expecting her to go into the bathroom, so it’s a surprise when she pads over to him on bare feet and wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly. It’s incredibly awkward, even after he returns the embrace, holding her closely to him.
“Why?” She starts to cry, and it just kills him. “Why is this happening?”
He steps back, until the back of his legs hit against the chair he knows should be there. He sits down, and pulls her into his lap. She willingly curls up against him, crying softly on his shoulder.
“I don’t know, Claire. I just don’t know. Shhh.” He rocks her against him until she falls asleep.
When Luke wakes an hour or two later, he starts to open that smart mouth of his, but Sylar just gives him a warning glare, and he lets it go.
Sylar doesn’t sleep any that night, keeping his word to her. He keeps her safe all night, and when she awakes still in his arms in the morning, it’s the safest she’s felt in years.
- - - - - - - - - -
“You stupid idiot! I’m going to kill you!” Sylar rages as her, horrified that she seems to have no sense of self-preservation, angry at how she jumps into impossible situations, angry at himself for failing to protect her.
“You just say that because you were worried.” She sticks out her tongue at him. “I’m fine. Didn’t get as much as a scratch on me.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Um, because your little friend Luke was going to get himself killed by trying to take on the Hunter by himself?” She leans against him, holding in a hug; he’s starting to get addicted to her hugs.
“What happened?”
“Ran in, distracted the Hunter - we really need to find out his name, by the way - bitched at Nathan some more, then while the Hunter was slapping me around, Luke ran and got you.”
He doesn’t know how she can be so blasé about the whole situation, but he hates hearing her say that she’d purposefully put herself in the Hunter’s hands again. “I’m going to kill him.”
“It’s not Luke’s fault. Hiro was supposed to go in with him.”
“I meant the Hunter.”
“Get in line. I think Peter’s got first dibs, then Matt, then Mohinder, then my dad, then me. You can have him before Luke, though.”
“Don’t do this to me again, please.” If she tries it one more time, he’s tying her up and leaving her at headquarters with Angela and Daphne. He can’t stand having her out in the field with them, if she’s going to be constantly risking herself like this.
“You act like you care.”
“I do.”
Pulling away from the hug, she holds him at arms length, just staring at him for a minute. He doesn’t know what she sees in his eyes, but the next thing he knows, she’s tackling him and kissing him for all she’s worth.
When Luke walks into their room an hour later, he yelps and covers his eyes, quickly running out.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Noah’s going to kill me.” He nervously adjusts his tie, batting at his hair as he stares at the reflection in the mirror.
“I thought he already wanted to kill you.” Luke points out.
“True, but there’s a difference between ‘I want to kill you because you’re a monster’ and ‘I want to kill you because you married and sullied my virgin daughter, you monster’. Don’t laugh; you’ll be in this situation someday.”
“You actually look nervous.”
Sylar feels like he’s going to be sick; it wasn’t like this with Elle, but he assumes that was because Elle didn’t give him a chance to get nervous, and because she didn’t have a family hell-bent on destroying him.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Nathan.” Noah coolly nods at the other man. “Thanks for meeting with us so quickly.” The battle lines are clearly delineated, Noah and Angela on one side of the table, facing against Nathan.
“What do you two want? I don’t have time to waste on you, especially if you haven’t started seeing things my way.” Nathan doesn’t even bother taking a seat, making his intentions of having a short meeting crystal clear.
“Sit down.” Angela commands. “It’s about Claire.”
Nathan takes a seat. “I’m listening.”
“She’s done something incredibly foolish, and we need to do something about it.” Noah hates to think about what exactly she’s done now; it still makes him nauseated.
“I thought you said you could control her.” Nathan runs his hand through his hair. “What’s she done now? Go after the Hunter again? Run to tell everything to the tabloids or CNN?”
“She’s eloped.” Angela announces, barely disguising her distaste at the act.
“She’s what??? To who???” Nathan yells. “Can we have this annulled?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, and we’re not dealing with some teenager that we can bully into a quick divorce.”
“Who?” Nathan sounds sick.
“Sylar.”
Nathan pushes his chair back, gets up, then ever so calmly, punches a hole into the wall. “How did you let this happen?”
“It’s not like we gave her permission, Nathan. Do you honestly think I’d be all smiles, walking her down the aisle? Please. They snuck away one night, along with that hooligan Sylar keeps around, and made their way to the justice of the peace. We didn’t know about it until four days later.”
“What are we going to do?”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Let me come with you, please?” Claire asks as she lies on their bed, watching Sylar slip into his special ops suit.
“We’ve been over this, you can’t. Someone needs to watch over Daphne, and you’re perfect for that. Besides, I don’t want you out in the field any more.” He sits down beside her, pulling his boots on before leaning over to kiss her. “I’ll be home soon, don’t worry.”
“I’m contractually obligated to worry, you doofus. Just come home safe, okay? It’d kill me if anything happened to you.”
“What could possibly happen?”
- - - - - - - - - -
She knows as soon as her dad walks into the room that something’s horribly, horribly wrong. He’s covered in blood, and is shaking. As soon as he sees her, he hugs her and starts apologizing.
She’s numb as she asks “Sylar?”, already knowing the worst must have happened.
“The Hunter. I saw everything. I’m so sorry, Claire-bear. There’s no coming back from that.”
She doesn’t hear the rest of what he says as the blood starts pounding in her ears; the world turns hazy, and she faints before he can actually say the words “Sylar is dead.”
Noah catches her, and throws her over his shoulder. “We’re done here.”
“Good.” Angela walks into the room, pushing Daphne’s wheelchair. “Come on, dear. Our location’s been compromised, we need to leave now.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Oh my God.” Matt looks sick as he looks around the ravaged Headquarters. “Daphne??? Daphne!” He runs towards their bedroom.
Sylar knows something bad must have happened; the room’s coated in blood, as if someone had brought in a bucket of fresh blood and a paintbrush. Chairs are broken, and it looks like a major fight had taken place. All the windows are busted, and there’s glass all over the ground. “Claire!”
“Sylar! In here!” Matt yells from the back. “Help me! It’s Noah!”
He rushes in to find Matt on the floor, cradling his father-in-law’s bloody head. “What happened? Where’s Claire?” he asks, as he grabs one of the nearby glass shards and cuts his wrist, holding it to Noah’s head.
“I’m so sorry, Sylar. She’s… gone.”
He prays that Noah’s lying, but he knows he’s telling the truth. “But her healing powers…”
“Didn’t help. You know there’s a certain spot…” Noah starts sobbing, and Sylar just isn’t cruel enough to push him further.
- - - - - - - - - -
“What am I going to do?” Claire wraps her arms around herself.
“What were you going to do before Sylar re-entered your life?” Angela brushes her hair back from her face. “It’s awful, Claire, but you’re not the only woman to be widowed at an early age. You’re still young. Sylar would want you to live a full life, with or without him.”
“I guess. You really want me to go on to college, like nothing’s happened?”
“Are you really planning on moping in your bedroom for the rest of your life?” Angela retorts. “You can’t stay here forever, dear. You’ve got to move on. Who knows, you might run into your ideal man on the street as you leave here.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Did it work?” Nathan asks as soon as he enters the room.
“What do you think?” Angela replies to her son. “Of course it worked. Claire’s convinced the Hunter killed him, and I’ve got her enrolled in Georgetown. Sylar thinks the Hunter killed Claire, and is currently chasing after him. It’s up to you to get the Hunter to run - I hear Australia’s lovely this time of year. Once he’s there, it might be… advantageous… for something to happen to the man before Sylar can question him, and once he’s gone, I’m sure we can find some rather lovely bait to keep him out of our hair and safely oversees for awhile.”
“What happens when we can’t keep them apart any more?”
“Nathan, please. She’s a child who thinks she’s in love because she doesn’t know any better, and your pet goon scared her. She’ll grow up, and never give him a second thought, and we all know there’s no way he loved her. They’ll forget, in time.”
“If you say so, Ma.”
Marriage the Fourth
When he runs into her on the street, he thinks he’s run into a ghost. She doesn’t even see him, too busy picking up her dropped groceries, but he knows it’s her. “Claire?”
She drops the bag she’s holding at the sound of his voice; the container inside bursts, rivulets of milk running over her shoe and down the street as she exclaims “I thought you were dead! They told me you were dead, permanently dead!” and jumps into his arms, crying and kissing him all over his face. They return to her apartment, and after putting up the rest of her groceries, they start comparing notes, figuring out just how badly they’ve been lied to.
Even though he’s fairly certain they’re still married from last time, he takes no chances; they marry again as quickly as possible, without the presence of a single member of her interfering family.
It’s like a fairytale when they find out three weeks later that they’d managed to get pregnant on their wedding night; life has never been sweeter for him.
- - - - - - - - - -
It’s like a nightmare when, in her seventh month, Claire wakes him with a panicked shout. At first, he thinks they’ve been attacked; their king-sized bed is soaked in blood, and she’s covered in blood, sweat, and tears. It’s only when she clutches her belly, screaming, that the word “miscarriage” crosses his mind.
The EMS attendants answering his frantic 911 call give him pitying looks, but don’t say anything as he clambers into the back of the ambulance, refusing to let go of her hand as they slip an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. They don’t have to; he already knows they’ve lost the baby.
- - - - - - - - - -
Mohinder’s old, shockingly old and white-haired. It shocks Sylar; he’s never thought of himself as old, but Mohinder’s only five years older than he is. It’s like meeting with his grandfather, or an alternate Chandra, and it disturbs Sylar in a way he’s never been disturbed before.
He didn’t want to go, but Claire drags him to the good doctor Suresh in her quest for answers. He would have argued more, but Mohinder is the only geneticist that he knows they can trust; Mohinder won’t turn them over to the government’s genetic witch hunt. He wishes they hadn’t as Mohinder looks over Claire’s medical file and at the DNA tests spread out on the desk in front of him, then sighs.
“It was inevitable. Claire, you’re never going to be able to carry a child to term. Your powers just won’t allow it.”
Sylar can tell that Mohinder is trying to be gentle, but still Claire flinches as if she’s been hit. While he knows he ought to comfort her, all he can feel is bitterness that she couldn’t take care of his baby any better than she had. He knows that it’s not her fault, that he ought to blame Mother Nature or God or Nathan and Meredith for giving her such fucked up genes, but he can’t help it.
Mohinder sees the distance between them, then opens another file, pushing it over towards Sylar. “And Sylar, you’re not blameless here. Your genetic material is just too unstable. Maybe if you mated with a woman with no powers, it would be okay. Maybe if Claire was carrying someone else’s child, she would have had a premature baby rather than a miscarriage. There’s no way of telling, but the two of you? Not compatible.”
“Is that all?” Claire’s voice has gone ice cold.
“Yes…” Mohinder hesitates. “I strongly advise you to do whatever you can to avoid getting pregnant again, Claire.”
“Not a problem.”
With that, Sylar knows he’s never getting laid again any time this century. Neither he nor Mohinder say anything, and after a few second, Claire grabs her purse, and with a terse “We’re done here,” stomps out of Mohinder’s office without a second look at either of them.
Sylar isn’t sure if he should run after her or not. “Thanks, Mohinder.” He slowly rises from his chair and shakes Mohinder’s hand in a distracted manner before wandering out into the hallway.
Mohinder waits until they’re gone, then grabs the bottle of vodka he keeps hidden in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, the one he keeps for cases just like this.
- - - - - - - - - -
She doesn’t say anything to him the rest of that day, but she doesn’t have to. He blames her, and knows that she blames him, and that they’re both right. She flinches when he crawls into bed that night, even before he attempts to touch her, and when she growls at him when he tries to wrap an arm around her waist, he decides that perhaps the couch would be a more pleasant - and safer - place to bed down for the night.
He sleeps on the three-inches-too-short couch for the next six months, until the day that he comes home from work to find the couch gone, along with all of her belongings and most of his. At first he thought they’d been robbed, until he took inventory of all the missing items, including his wife, and then had come to the only possible conclusion. She’d left, taking everything of importance to her; the only things she’d left him were their bed, one plate, one bowl, one fork, one spoon, one knife, two towels, a bottle of shampoo, the baby’s crib, and lying on the mattress of the crib, a set of signed divorce papers.
Marriage the Fifth
The realization that he’d do anything to get Claire back hits him hard one lonely night; he no longer cares if it was her fault or his, he can see now that it never really mattered where the fault lay, they couldn’t fix what happened, but they never should have let go of each other. He should have held on tighter, he should have forced her to talk to him, forced her to take him back. Her leaving was definitely his fault, as he should have risked bodily harm and just held her that night; he never should have moved to the couch, should have taken her into his arms and made sure she knew that he wasn’t blaming her. He’d let her leave, hadn’t done anything to stop her.
He starts what he intends to be a slow, subtle stalk the next morning; she hadn’t gone far, just to a crappy apartment on the other side of town. She’d kept her same job, so he shows up with two dozen roses just before she leaves for lunch that day. He doesn’t give her a chance to say no, sweeps her off her feet and away to lunch. Everyone at the office talks when Claire doesn’t come back from lunch until ten minutes to five, with her shirt on inside out and her hair hanging disheveled around her shoulders rather than in the slick chignon it had been in when she left, smelling rather strongly of sex.
As soon as she’s shut down her computer and let her boss know that she’ll make up the missing hours, he walks her to her apartment, with only a quick stop on the way to pick up packing boxes and pizza; she’s moved back to where she belongs that night, her dresses hanging beside his shirts in the closet, her toothbrush casually leaning against his in the tiny bathroom, and her hair sprawled across his chest as they lie slumbering in their master bed once more.
- - - - - - - - - -
“This is a bad idea.” Peter warns her as soon as she tells him that they’re getting married again. “He’s not good husband material.”
“Good thing that you’re not the one marrying me.” Sylar can’t help but be a bit snarky, and he’s rewarded with a giggle from Claire.
Peter just glares at him. “Call me when you’re ready to divorce him again, I’ll come pick you up again.”
Sylar sees red, having not realized that Peter had been the one to help her get away the previous time; Claire places a calming hand over his shoulder and he counts to ten - slowly - to avoid ripping the annoying one’s head off his shoulders.
“Well, let’s get on with this then.” Peter sighs, then offers his arm to Claire. “Thanks for asking me to give you away this time.”
Neither Claire nor Sylar point out that he’s the only family member who’s still both (a) alive and (b) talking to them.
- - - - - - - - - -
They get into the first fight while on the plane to Hawaii for their honeymoon; he makes the mistake of comparing her to Elle, trying to be complementary about how calm she is about flying, but she takes it wrong. He’s just glad he’d never told Claire that he’d actually married Elle; she’d probably try to kill him with one of the plastic knives that the flight attendant had given them with their meal.
The second fight is rather mundane he thinks, and he’ll never again make the mistake of asking her if she really wanted the chocolate cake for dessert. He’d meant to ask if she wanted cake or key lime pie, but she’d taken it as criticism of her weight, and locked him out of their bedroom for three days.
When Peter calls, wanting to come for a visit, Sylar makes the mistake of keeping his mouth shut, avoiding a third fight. In retrospect, he probably should have raised a fuss then.
- - - - - - - - - -
He doesn’t like Peter; it’s no great surprise. He hates everything about the other man, hates the way that he spreads chaos wherever he goes, hates the younger man’s stupid floppy bangs, hates the twisted smile, hates how close he is to Claire. He tells himself that he’s acting like some sort of jealous caveman when he counts out the number of seconds that Peter hugs her, when he notices how close Peter stands to her, how they laugh together at the same damn things, how close they sit on the couch. He tells himself that it’s nothing, that they’re just incredibly close family. He tells himself that he’s being stupid, but it doesn’t do much good; he still doesn’t trust Peter with his wife, and nothing will change that.
- - - - - - - - - -
Claire’s not supposed to get off work for another three hours, so Sylar thinks he has plenty of time to decorate their apartment for Valentine’s before she gets home. He has an arm full of roses and a bottle of fine champagne, but he drops them as soon as he pushes the door to the apartment open. There are clothes tossed everywhere, including the clothes he knew for a fact that she’d worn to work that morning, and she’s screaming. His heart breaks as he realizes that she’s not screaming in fear or pain, but rather screaming like she does when they make love. He’s glad he’s no longer holding the champagne bottle as his hand curls into a tight fist; shattered glass his palm would have stung like a bitch, but not as badly as her careless screams.
“Claire, oh God, Claire, fuck.”
He immediately recognizes the voice of her paramour, and wonders how long she’s been cheating on him with Peter. Maybe he’ll give her a chance to tell him before he kills her.
The bedroom door explodes into a cloud of splinters as his anger ignites at the sound of her screaming through her orgasm; the pillows burst, spilling out feathers all over the lovers in the bed as the bedding is shredded to silken rags. Peter slams against the wall; he’ll deal with him later.
“Well, well, well, Claire. What do we have here?”
She just looks at him blankly, as if she doesn’t know him at all.
“Nothing to say? Disappointing really.” He tosses her clothes at her. “Get dressed, whore.”
“It’s not her fault, Sylar, it’s all mine.”
He knew he should have sewn the whelp’s mouth shut. “Was I talking to you? No, I was talking to my cheating, whoring wife. Shut the fuck up.” He turns back to Claire. “So, Guinevere, is Lancelot here right? Is it all his fault?”
She still says nothing in her defense, and it infuriates Sylar. “Damn it, Claire! Talk to me!” He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her, but it does no good. She still says nothing, says nothing as he shakes her, as he cries and curses, as he starts his infamous cut. She doesn’t make a sound as he cuts into her head, and when he doesn’t find the answers he wants there, cuts her neck deep enough to behead her.
Peter sobs the entire time, broken cries about how it’s his fault and he’d never meant for this to happen. Sylar doesn’t want to kill him, doesn’t want Peter’s pain to go away so quickly. As soon as he lets Peter drop from the wall, Peter’s sliding across the room, tenderly trying to hold Claire’s head to her body, willing the wound to close. “It’s my fault.”
“You’ve said that.” Sylar calls out from the bathroom, trying to get all of her blood out from under his fingertips.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I had this new power and I just had to try.” Peter sobs louder. “I was going to take her powers away for awhile, make her forget what had happened between us. She had no clue what was happening, I hypnotized her. I talked to Mohinder, without her powers, she could have carried my child just fine. I never wanted for this to happen; I just wanted to give you two what you couldn’t have any other way. Oh God, I never meant for this to happen.”
Sylar no longer cares about what Peter had or had not intended; it doesn’t change the fact that Claire had cheated on him and that he’d raised his hand against her in violence. He packs his bags as Peter waits for her to heal. He’s long gone before Claire comes back with a ragged breath and tears in her eyes.
Marriage the Sixth
It takes three hundred years, but she finally forgives him. It takes him just a bit longer to forgive her, but by her six hundredth birthday, he’s almost over it.
The first couple of decades of tentative friendship are difficult, as she winces whenever he touches her and he acts like he’s been mortally wounded whenever she looks or talks to another man, but they survive.
Around the dawn of the fortieth century, they give dating another try, although it’s completely by accident. He doesn’t mean anything by it when he asks her to go to supper, just like he has a million times before. He’s sure Claire doesn’t mean anything by it when she grabs his hand, holding it when they walk towards their favorite restaurant. They certainly don’t mean to imply anything with their lack of argument when the waitress comments what a stunning couple they make. It’s just a friendly kiss, a completely innocent peck that he presses against her lips; it’s certainly not one of their fiery embraces from centuries ago. He knows that she only invites him up to her apartment because she’s got a brand new tin of his favorite type of tea, the one that’s so hard to find, and he appreciates the fact that she’s willing to share it with him. It’s a completely innocent question she asks when she asks him about what would he like for breakfast the next morning, just simple courtesy. It’s just because he’s lonely and longing for a little human touch that he pulls her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her like he had before everything had gone to hell. She certainly isn’t implying that she wants sex when she invites him to spend the night, it’s just because it’s late and he’d have a long walk back to his place through a dangerous city, and he’s not accepting the implied booty call when he says he’ll love to stay. When he calls out “I love you” as he makes love to her, it’s only because it’s an ingrained response, as natural as breathing. If she cries, it’s certainly not because she loves him too, he’s positive of that.
They “accidentally” date for another century before they move in together, but it’s only because housing prices are insane and they can’t afford to live apart. They both conveniently forget that they’ve lived so long that they’ve accumulated billions of dollars in what were once meager savings accounts; it’s too expensive in New New New York, that’s the reason they buy a one bedroom apartment instead of the two bedroom apartment the realtor shows them.
He doesn’t mean to buy her an engagement ring; it’s just that the ring would look perfect on her finger, so perfect that he can’t imagine any other woman ever wearing it, and because she’s had a rough week and a piece of sparkly jewelry might cheer her up. He certainly doesn’t mean to imply anything; he’s just asking a simple question when he asks “will you wear this ring?”
He’s not exactly sure why she’s wearing that white dress, the one that should have been destroyed eons ago after their first divorce, but she is and she’s pulling him into the last remaining Catholic cathedral on Earth. He puts back on the wedding ring he’d taken off years earlier, and hands it to her, letting her slide it back onto his finger again, anointing it with her tears. The priest tells him he can kiss his bride, and it’s such a strange word, one that doesn’t do justice to his Claire, but he does. And they all live happily ever after.