A/N: And here's my second Heroes posting, also inspired by the awesome julyisfree. This one closer to a friendship Sylaire, again; maybe one of these days I'll write something romantic, hm? Anyway, I quite like how this turned out but would love to hear from you! All grammatical errors are my fault; I edited it myself. Both complimentary and constructive comments are welcome :)
This story is the product of a prompt by the same name, proposed by julyisfree. She has written some wonderful Heroes pieces and is currently posting 'My neighbor, the serial killer' (which is where this prompt came from). I highly, HIGHLY recommend you read her works!
Quick note - my brain is a little fuzzy so I don't remember if Claire knows that Sylar stopped by her house and met her mother in season one and/or that it happened at all, so for the conversational purposes of this story, I'm pretending she doesn't.
Alright, without further ado, here is 'Oh shit, Mr. Muggles is Dead'.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Heroes, nor do I have any affiliation with it beyond being a fan and part of the viewing audience.
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"Mom, I don't know, wouldn't it just be easier for you to board him? And, uh, better for Mr. Muggles, too?"
"Claire, you know how those places are. He would be neglected and have to eat the generic brands!"
Oh, the horror. She sighed tiredly. As much as she knew it was likely to be in vain, she continued to try persuading her mother against this unpleasant idea. There was no way she would willingly take care of her mom's dog. It had never been the family dog; it was Mom's dog. And it was because of that little fact that Claire Bennet had no idea how to take care of a dog beyond the basics of feeding it and providing it a patch of grass to relieve itself with. There is more to it than that, right? Well even if there wasn't, her mom would definitely make it more complicated just for yapping Mr. Muggles. "Mom, have you spoken with Lyle? It is summer break, maybe he could pick Mr. Muggles up for you."
"Oh, no, I couldn't. You know he just finished his first year of college and I don't want to interrupt him; it was a tough adjustment. You always were the responsible one," Sandra ended with, voice naively sweet.
'Yeah and I kind of resent that now', she wanted to say but didn't. It would be silly to snap at her mom over something as simple as doggy-day-care. "When are you going on this cruise with Doug?"
The older woman giggled and responded, preparing to launch into a long spiel, "We're leaving next Friday and come back the 12th of July. It'll start off in the Florida Keys and then we'll be down in the Caribbean nea-"
"Fine, I'll do it," Claire said quickly. She tried to smile but stopped as, standing at the hotel's bathroom sink, she could see it turning into an unattractive grimace. She had already heard every single detail about the cruise at least a dozen times within the past month and she would do anything she could to avoid ever hearing of it again. "How do you want me to pick him up?"
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Two weeks later….
"Brat!" She screeched, stomping her foot in indignation. Mr. Muggles whined and tottered away from her, keeping his distance. When she made no move to comfort him, he skipped from the room, gone to a place unknown, though she could throw out a wild guess that the unknown place was under her living room sofa. Claire dropped to her knees in front of the cracked-open closet door, staring regrettably at her limited collection of shoes.
In the nearly three years since her jump off the Ferris wheel, she had teamed up with Angela and created a new Company – one that was a lot more supporting and aiding instead of corralling and memory-wiping. Most people had seen her little jump as a carnival stunt and nothing more. She accepted Peter's rueful words that people hadn't seen it because 'they weren't ready', even though she wished it hadn't been too good to be true. Looking into her Uncle's eyes, she knew he wished the same. Since creating the Company, Claire had decided to work in the field instead of taking the offered managerial position. The wages for a job where you are basically a traveling, on-call therapist – albeit in a sometimes dangerous environment – were not that high.
Hence the fact that she only owns a handful of pairs of shoes. Her hot pink flip-flops were the only ones with color as her tennis shoes, heels, and boots were all plain, often equipped during her working hours. However, she had splurged once, spending two paychecks on a pair of black, three-and-a-half inch tall Louboutins with the signature red leather underside. Claire was not a girl to get excited about shoes or shopping but if she had a favorite pair of shoes then these were her babies. The only time she had worn them had been to Peter and Emma's engagement party six months ago.
And Mr. Muggles just vomited all over them.
Claire felt an uncontrollable urge to cry well up inside of her and like a tidal wave breaking against the shoreline, she let loose all of the pent-up frustration she had felt over the last two weeks, to which dear Mr. Muggles only piled on.
She had lost her first Special thirteen days and roughly four hours earlier, the day after speaking to her mom and agreeing to take care of the sensitive Pomeranian. It had been a balmy six-thirty in the morning in Tampa, Florida, and she had opted to go solo on this trip, the mark looking tame on paper. It was a man in his late thirties with the suspected ability of sedation. She tracked him from his house, following a few cars' lengths behind him passively as he drove to work. Her plan was to introduce herself on his lunch hour.
Only, he didn't go to work. Swerving his car off to the side of the Howard Franklin Bridge, he parked and got out. Immediately, she knew something was wrong.
He was shaking, for starters. Not a mild jitters or a muscle spasm that you can't control but full on shaking from the tips of his fingers to a quivering of his shoulders, the result of nervous energy. Claire ran up to him, calling his name. As soon as he turned and met her eyes, she knew she was doomed, she just did not understand exactly how. Sobbing about how he had accidentally forced his wife into a coma, he held her in a suspended state, not forcing Claire to fall asleep but not letting her wake enough to move, either. It reminded her of telekinesis; of Sylar.
He had jumped. There was nothing she could have done. And yet, it still hurt like hell behind her ribcage.
A knock sounded at her door and she wiped her eyes, the redness caused from surfacing blood vessels disappearing in seconds. She made her way to the front of the apartment. Mr. Muggles was nowhere in sight and she frowned, regret starting to form in her gut at her earlier behavior towards him. She may have never been sick in her life but she had been around people that had and it really could not be helped. He didn't have to throw up in my new shoes, she still thought. Pushing the incident from her mind for the moment, she checked the peephole. She drew back slowly, confused. It took her a minute to remember she had yet to open the door. "What are you doing here?" She asked as soon as the door swung open.
Sylar stood on the other side with his long black overcoat lying open and loose, his lanky frame leaning against the door jam, towering over her. At her words his previously impassive face morphed into a half-smirk. The expression was different though than it had been in the past; this smirk was the 'calm smirk' versus the 'menacing smirk' she had come to recognize crystal-clear after he stalked her. Noticing the difference was of a key necessity now as Peter had allowed the ex-serial killer into his circle of acceptance and his home. Claire had grudgingly agreed to tolerate his presence. "Do I need a reason?"
"Yes," she replied curtly.
"Peter told me you're taking care of Mr. Muggles," he supplied after a beat, relaxing against the wall even more. It brought him down another inch in height.
Claire sighed with irritation, throwing a glance toward the couch the Pomeranian was most likely hiding under. "So what? Are you offering your dog-sitting services?"
His lips curved into what looked to be a genuine smile. It was hard to tell. "If I do, will you let me in?"
"Where's Peter?" She asked, making it a point to look around him and out the doorway, scanning the hallway.
"Alright fine, I came here to…." He mumbled something, eyes suddenly cast down in a sheepish manner.
"What?" She asked, genuinely confused.
"Emma needs your dress size and I'm here to... get it."
His cheeks were decidedly pink and she stared at him, gaping. Quickly, she realized what the strange request was for: her Uncle's upcoming wedding. Sylar was Peter's Best Man and with that acceptance he had accidentally become the errand boy for the engaged couple as Peter was pulling double-shifts in order to make up for the time he would be taking off in a few months and Emma was nearly drowning in medical school, having decided to take summer classes after being accepted last fall.
With a start, Claire burst out laughing. Not a giggle or an embarrassed squeak or even a couple seconds, you-tickled-my-gut laugh. Her throat squeezed tight and her core muscles clenched, tears springing to her eyes at how hard she was laughing. "S-Sylar ask-king for my-my dress s-size!" She choked and coughed, laughing through it. "Oh my Go-od."
"You don't have to make a big deal out of it," he grumbled.
She slit her eyes open for a moment only to see him sufficiently peeved, face screwed into a scowl. It tickled her funny bone silly and she kept on laughing. She was pulled out of her humorous stupor when he brushed past her, practically marching through her living room. "What are you doing?" She yelped out.
"Getting your dress size."
"Hey!" She called shortly, stifling the occasional giggle. "You can't go into my bedroom!"
Sylar threw a cockily raised eyebrow over his shoulder. "I think I can."
She pushed the front door shut and hurried after him, anger rising inside of her and giving her a flushed face because of it. "You bastard," she muttered indignantly as she rounded the corner, only to stop short. Her balled fists relaxed, fingers dangling. He was still a good five feet from her closet; instead, he was leaning over the foot of her bed, poking her house guest in the stomach and wearing a pensive expression while doing it. "What are you doing?" She crossed her arms.
"Something's wrong with him." She watched with mild shock as he knelt and started rubbing Mr. Muggles' shiny coat. The Pomeranian whined and started panting but otherwise stayed completely still. Claire frowned; normally, he would immediately jump into someone's arms when it was offered – or when he thought it was offered. "See this? What is it?" Sylar asked, outlining a bulge poking from the dog's stomach with his long fingers.
Claire edged closer and studied the dog. She reached out with her own fingers to stroke Mr. Muggles' resting head as she thought, concerned. There had been at least three dozen things that her mom had prattled on about to watch for – energy, eating habits, nap times, neurotic tendencies (she hadn't been able to hold herself back at that one: she had snorted), his stool (she'd cringed), throwing up- "He threw up half an hour ago," she remembered and offered up.
Sylar raised an eyebrow at her. "And you didn't think something's wrong?"
"Sorry," she snapped back. Her eyes widened as all the pieces of the puzzle fit together at once. Stomach bulge, heavy breathing, whining, throwing up, and she had only fed him an hour before, sneaking in some doggy treats because up until that point he had actually been okay to room with. "Bloat." They said it at once. Claire shook off that he knew that, chocking it up to his intuitive aptitude ability. "Oh God," she groaned, running her hands through her hair as she straightened.
"We need a vet," he piped up, ever the voice of reason - albeit in the past a decidedly twisted voice of reason. He stood and strode out of the room.
"Where are you going?" Damnit, she thought with a wince. Claire had no earthly idea what to do when a dog was sick, especially with something that had as strict of a time-table as bloat. Like it or not, she needed an extra pair of hands. She scooped up Mr. Muggles carefully, avoiding gripping his stomach, and met Sylar back in the hallway.
"Phone book; veterinarian." The pages flew one after another without assistance from his fingers. A few minutes passed as she cooed to Mr. Muggles, simultaneously wishing for him to not die and thinking about how surreal this situation was. She was in her apartment with Sylar, who just moments ago was standing in her bedroom, and they were both trying to find a vet to save her mom's dog. Dread hung heavy in her gut. He couldn't die on her now. For all the things she got irritated at him for – like his incessant energy or high-pitched barking or how he chewed her shoelaces all throughout her childhood – she still loved the cream-colored ball of fur. "Here's one eight blocks away."
"Hold on, I need shoes." She spun around, only to find Sylar already ahead of her in that direction, too. "Hey wha-"
Sylar resurfaced from her bedroom before she could even finish her words, this time with her sole pair of flip-flops danging from his fingers. "Let's go."
"Why do you have a shoebox?" Claire asked, taking two steps at a time down the stairwell, bare feet touching stains that were dark from extreme tread, stains she was trying hard to not think about at the moment. Her apartment building was a small five-story building on the edge of New York City and it might as well have been in a completely different place. There were no sky scrapers around and, contrary to what would have happened if she lived in a high-rise downtown, they actually had a chance at moving through traffic.
He pushed the stairwell door open with the hand that still held her flip-flops, immediately moving to flag a taxi down in the street. "Just in case," he answered vaguely.
"Just i- ew!" She huffed, appalled at his thinking. The fact that he was going all 'Gabriel' on her and not meeting her eyes confirmed her assumptions. "Jeez, Sylar, just when I was about to... Never mind." She narrowed her eyes at him, cradling Mr. Muggles closer and away from his cardboard tomb. The ex-serial killer rolled his eyes at her, to which she wished her ability was one capable of sending deadly lasers from her eyes. No, she only had the ability to heal from those potential lasers. A yellow taxi cab finally turned down the side street they were standing on but made no effort to slow down. A flick of Sylar's fingers, however, and it was sitting idle. "Thanks," she mumbled out, quickly sliding into the car. She did not wait to see his reaction to her words.
"Uh, where to?" The middle-aged man with a patchy, almost-beard asked from the front seat. Sylar quickly gave him the address. He seemed perplexed when the car was able to move again.
Claire held her feet up from the sticky carpet. "Shoes?" He handed them to her with a small smile. "Thanks." She leaned over, dropping them on the mat. Mr. Muggles whined at this motion and she tried to move him around on her lap. Despite the different position, he still squealed. Claire sighed; the pressure was hurting his stomach even worse. She glanced over to Sylar. "Can you-"
Sylar didn't respond, simply lifting the Pomeranian off of her lap. She slipped on the flip-flops and then watched, both fascinated and dumbfounded, as he soothed the small dog. "You'll be okay, Mr. Muggles. The vet will take good care of you and then back to safe Texas you go."
A faint ghost of a smile upturned the curve of her lips. Mr. Muggles whined again and curled into a ball, leaning back against the ex-serial killer's chest. It was an action signaling trust and it made Claire relax a little. Despite their understanding, she couldn't stop her body from tensing at his nearness. She had her own instincts too and they were opposite of the Pomeranian's. Sylar continued to stroke the dog's stomach, careful of the ever-growing bulge. "How much longer?" She called up to the driver.
"Uh, ten minutes," he said with a shrug. Great, a guess, she thought morosely.
Claire scooted sideways on the bench seat, uncaring of her nearness to the man whose fingers had once been inside her skull. She took a deep breath and focused on keeping her dog-brother calm and contented. She bit her bottom lip; he looked so peaceful. "Oh shit." She jerked her head up. Sylar stared down at Mr. Muggles with an unreadable expression. "Mr. Muggles is dead."
She stared at him. Sylar met her green eyes, a strange sense of pity and sadness twisting inside of him for her, Mr. Muggles, and Sandra, when she would find out. The heart beat that had been thrumming under his hand, though weakened before, was completely non-existent now. Claire's brow furrowed when he made no move to take back his words. She gasped, her lips making a popping sound. "What, no, no he can't be. Mr. Muggles?" She bent down to whisper to the dog, oblivious to the fact that she was leaning over Sylar's lap.
However, no even-remotely naughty thoughts crossed his mind as leaned an elbow against the cab's window, pressing the back of his knuckles to his lips. This was really not what he had thought would happen when he came over to her apartment. It was only recently that the cheerleader could tolerate his presence without being completely wound up and on-edge. No, instead, the first time he goes to her apartment without Peter beside him, another person dies. Well, a dog. Semantics, he thought, groaning. He had not realized the guttural sound was broadcast outside of his mouth until Claire looked at him funny.
She picked up Mr. Muggles and cradled him a short moment afterwards. Foam dribbled from the dog's mouth but Claire didn't seem to notice. It was obvious with one glance at her face that she was grieving the small dog; and it was also obvious that she was mildly shocked. Whether it was about the grief or that the Pomeranian had actually died, Sylar was unable to tell. He looked out the window and dully noted that they were two blocks away from the veterinarian office. There was no way they could have made it in time, even with his flying ability. "Oh God," Claire moaned, drawing his attention back into the cab. "My mom's going to kill me."
Sylar raised an eyebrow at that. He reached over quickly and settled his hand alongside hers, resting his fingers on Mr. Muggles' head. She was forbidden territory for him to touch but she deserved to be comforted. "It was an accident – he died of bloat."
"He got excited over the treats," she said numbly, seemingly thinking the whole situation over now. "If I hadn't put the treats in his food then he wouldn't have eaten it so fast."
"We live and learn," he responded quietly.
Evidently, his carefully-chosen words were not the best thing for her to hear. "Shut up," she snapped. Sylar felt his own frown, mirroring hers, deepen on his face. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back, hands securely wrapped around Mr. Muggles. "I'm sorry," she breathed, rolling her head sideways to face him. Her eyes stayed shut tight. "It's not your fault."
"I don't know," he said, fishing for a joke. The young blonde across from him suddenly looked drained of all of her energy and he would give anything to see her smile again or have her eyes open, her usual optimistic light in them. He was the one that was supposed to be dark, dangerous, and depressed, not her. "First time I come to your place and a dog dies; it might be a sign."
Claire cracked an eye open, struggling not to smile. Sylar was encouraged to see the amused crinkling around her eyes. "You're right, that might be a sign. Maybe you're the son of death."
He smirked and was on the edge of saying something smarmy in return when the cab driver alerted them of his presence, calling, "You're here. Fifteen seventy is the charge."
"Oh." Claire glanced down at the dead dog in her lap.
Sylar crashed back down to Earth from the short minutes of escapism that was brought about by their banter. He held up the shoebox with a blunt look. "The vet won't hold a dead animal and Sandra might want her prized champion back. And," he added, unable to help himself and the wincing smile arising on his lips, his eyes eager to take in her responding facial reaction; "there's about a thirty percent chance Mr. Muggles will release his bowels in the next hour."
A flush of embarrassment bloomed onto her face and her eyes widened. Sylar couldn't help wanting to laugh at the thoroughly horrified look on her face. And for once, it wasn't because of something dangerous he had done, either. That thought kept the smile on his face, morphing it into one much more content-looking. In movements that somehow still held grace in his eyes, she quickly picked up the canine and deposited him into the shoe box. "Ew! That's gross, Sylar!"
"I speak only the truth." He said, holding his free hand out in front of his chest, palm-side up.
"Hey, my payment?" The cab driver's tone was insistent.
Sylar glanced over to the blonde. She guiltily shrugged. "Fine," he grumbled, fishing out his wallet from the back pocket. "Hold this."
Claire took the shoe box warily, glancing down at the forever-slumbering Pomeranian with sadness and pity in her almond-shaped eyes. "You deserved a much better death, Mr. Muggles. I'm sorry about that." He snuck a peek at the box when he handed the money over. I'm, uh, sorry too... Mr. Muggles.
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"So what is your dress size?"
She puffed out an airy breath of laughter. "Four," she answered after a minute, standing on her tiptoes to grab two wine glasses. When she accidentally pushed them farther back, he used his telekinesis and brought them to her fingers. Claire didn't say anything. "Where's the Maid of Honor with these questions?"
"Emma hasn't asked anyone to be her Maid of Honor yet," he said with a shrug. There was no answer as to why except that her friends list was quite... minimal. Sylar empathized with that. Therefore, he let his first saved-innocent lead him around on embarrassing and altogether frivolous errands. "She might ask you," he mentioned out of the blue.
Claire paused upon opening the wine bottle. He knew she and Emma had bonded quite well after the whole carnival and ensuing Ferris wheel incident. Of course, her hesitation likely had to do with the fact that the Maid of Honor and Best Man usually walk down the aisle together. Talk about awkward. Instead of responding to his question, she stated, "I need to call my mom."
"Nice change of subject; smooth."
"Thank you; I'm ignoring your sarcasm." She held out the glass of wine to him as she passed on her way to the living room.
"Duly noted." He watched as Claire sank tiredly into the corner of the living room sofa, curling her legs up underneath her. The day was not even half over and she was already sufficiently lacking in energy, no doubt because of watching poor Mr. Muggles' death. It was a good thing that the alcohol couldn't actually get her drunk. Sylar twirled the wine glass in his hands, sniffing the blend.
"You drink Pinot?" He asked, coming around to sit next to her. She didn't bother to move, instead sending a glare his way. Sylar half-smirked, keeping his lips mum on the subject. Building blocks, he thought with a small smile. He held his glass out in her direction. "Toast?"
"Can you toast with wine?"
He shrugged. "No but it's a stupid rule. Here," he said, holding out his glass. "To Mr. Muggles, the winner of many dog competitions and only a semi-annoying animal friend. Oh, and the cutest Pomeranian I have had the chance of meeting." She choked, the acidic alcohol mixture trailing down into her lungs. Sylar grinned. "He and I got to know each other once."
"When?"
Sylar pulled the memory up from the dredges of his mind, wincing at the horrid accent he had adopted in order to sneak into the Bennet home. He and Sandra – and Mr. Muggles – had quite a nice conversation while she had been making dinner, the Pomeranian sitting on his lap, vying for attention. Well, they had been experiencing a nice conversation before he let his Hunger slip through and make the poor woman suspicious, thus leading to him almost killing her.
That part he would not be sharing with the blonde sitting next to him.
He cocked his head. "I guess this was another instance that Noah used his Haitian friend." He rolled his eyes, secretly pleased at the flash of displeasure on her face from the mention. "It was after your Homecoming – daddy dearest kept me in Level 5 for a while. Long story short-" He said pointedly, noting the keen and undivided interest Claire was giving him. She would undoubtedly want to know more about what happened but now was not the time; not for him. "-I escaped, found your house, and pretended to be an employee from Primatech. Noah showed up in time and nothing happened but... I used a terrible southern accent. Not my finest moment," he said, screwing his nose in distaste.
Laughter bubbled up in her chest and Claire relaxed against the cushions. "You did not!"
"I did," he affirmed. "It must have been okay because your mother bought it."
Claire shook her head, amused. Sylar took a sip to hide his smile. She shifted in her position, facing him. Raising her glass, she toasted, "To Mr. Muggles. Hopefully he gets to have all the treats he wants in heaven."
"Here, here."
They sat in peace for a moment, sipping from their respective glasses of wine. Sylar eyed the blonde beside him. She was lost in her thoughts, he guessed. It's been a strange day. He sighed inaudibly and set his wine glass down on the end table residing next to his side of the couch. A cordless phone laid on its surface. He held it over to her wordlessly.
Claire met his eyes before taking it from his hand. For the first time, Sylar honestly had no idea what emotions were passing through her. Her fingers stilled over the keypad for a second while she took a deep breath. Re-energized, she dialed quickly. He picked his glass back up. "Thank you," she whispered as the first ring sounded.
Sylar nodded once in response at the same time Sandra answered her daughter's call.
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