Ooookay, so this is my first "Heroes" story. I have been an avid fan since 2006 and my favorite characters are definitely Sylar, Peter, and Tracy (previously Nikki/Jessica). So, I decided to make a little fic about what would happen in the future (because there aren't like 50 out there lol) if Sylar decided to pop in on Claire. One of my friends liked my serious "Star Trek" oneshot and said I should make another for "Heroes". So, I gave it a go.
Quick Warning: No, there is no Claire/Sylar romance. I refuse to make a oneshot that has people falling madly in love at the end. Nope, sorry. There is the word "need" mentioned, but never "love".
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes, that's Tim Kring. If I did own Heroes, Sylar would be locked up in my closet and Peter and Claire would not be a tease to the audience with thier eye-sex.
Enjoy!
As she sat in the soft leather chair, being taunted by a monster, Claire Bennet remembered that day long ago when she found herself in a similar situation. She'd been well warned back then, but never truly gave heed to his words. Now, their conversation stung her ears and pounded her head like a drum.
"Everyone dies. Mamma Bennett, Papa Petrelli, Mr. Muggles…"
He'd been right. Of course, it would have been foolish to say that he was wrong; everyone does die, over time, of course. Denial was an easy option for most people, because they had something to live for, an expectation that one day they'd see the ones they loved again. For Claire Bennett, she had nothing to live for after the deaths of her family and friends. In the end, she was alone…with nothing and no one.
Her mother was first. She was sixty-two, too young to die. Claire was there for the funeral, hidden under a black coat. She wasn't aloud to show herself in public, not since the government had gone back on its word to stop hunting citizens with abilities. She sat in the back, head covered, face looking straight ahead at her mother's coffin. Her own mother's funeral, and she couldn't even say goodbye properly. After her mother others followed. Officer Parkman, Dr. Suresh, she'd heard that Hiro had passed recently as well.
Almost all of them were gone, now. Now only Molly Walker and Micah Sanders were left, heading the rebellion against government "bagging and tagging" of Heroes. Then Gretchen was alive and well, however she and Claire hadn't talked in a long time. So long…
"What's your brother's name, Larry?…He'll die, too."
Lyle. Oh God, Lyle. He was forty-two when it happened. Her brother had a petite wife and two kids; they were such sweet kids. Three years after the youngest, Sandra, was born he'd been tested for leukemia. It came back positive. He was given six months to live. He lasted for twelve years. But, in the end, he couldn't fight the cancer forever.
The part that hurt the most about his death? Claire wasn't there for the eleven years he was fighting to stay alive.
"I'll keep trying to kill you for the rest of my life."
She hadn't seen that man, no that monster, in fifteen years. He'd been about, alright. She'd even heard from her elderly father that he'd been caught a few times. But of course he'd escaped soon after his capture. She had fell short on her promise to kill that bastard. Somehow, the drive to kill died along with the ones she loved.
"Well, everyone needs a hobby."
Yes, she had Peter. But after…after Nathan died he'd never been the same. Neither had she, for that matter, but she never felt too strongly for her biological step-father. He was a good man, but her grief was easy. Four steps over the course of a week was her grief process. Shocking, painful, full of anger, and then lost. She'd cried, of course, for him, but it was never in earnest. Peter, though, Peter never stopped grieving. Two years later, Angela Petrelli, her grandmother, passed as well. She hadn't been able to keep herself together after Nathan gave in to Sylar. The blows to Peter's heart just kept coming, it seemed.
She hadn't seen her uncle in fifty-three years…going on fifty-four.
"After about a hundred years of trying to finish me off you'll get bored."
It had barely been half of the time that he had predicted. She'd given up almost twenty years prior to begin with.
"Long time no see…" his voice sent chills up her spine, chills that she hadn't had in God knows how long.
It was her father's funeral that was her first encounter with him. She sat at the grave long after the burial. Once again, she could not show herself. She saw Lyle's wife, Jenna and their kids Harry and Sandra were up front, crying softly. Some of her father's old friends were there. Many were gone know, though. Her father was ninety-three, after all. He was a fighter, and wouldn't even give in when death was pulling him down.
She sat there in the mud, crying while the heavy rain poured down on her. She looked down to the puddle at her feet and saw the same old seventeen year-old girl that she had seen for fifty-three years. Growling, she smashed the water with her arm, sending the cool liquid and small pieces of dirt flying into her face. She gripped her father's grave tightly, heavy sobs racking her body as she moaned for her father. It had been almost three hours when he'd shown up.
"Well, it seems the old man is finally gone."
She stiffened at the voice. It had been such a long time since she heard his soft, frightening, manipulative voice. The sudden sound of it had her shaking in fear. "Go away," she snapped, her voice hoarse.
He tilted his head mockingly. "I don't think I will. It's been so long, Claire-bear." The use of her father's pet name had her gripping the ground in anger. She jumped up and spun around to face him.
"Leave. Now." Her eyes were hard and her clenched fists were a pale white.
He took a step forward, eliciting a step backward from the girl. "Come on, Claire. Haven't you missed me?"
She let loose a murderous cry, making him raise an eyebrow in curiosity. Claire neared him, the fear she previously felt now replaced with a fiery rage that she hadn't felt since the last time he taunted her. "You have no right to be here!"
He took another step forward, and this time she did not move. "Still the same old Claire," he mused. "For a teenager that had everything, you were always so angry." Another cry escaped her lips, slowly melting into a screech. He twitched as his sound-sensitive ears reacted to the shrill noise. "Please," he scolded, "have some respect. You're in a graveyard."
Her eyes shone with fury at his nonchalant cruelty. "You're sick! You wonder why I was angry? I don't know…maybe it's because you invaded my house, killed my friend, my father, and sliced open my head! Oh, and being chased by the government doesn't help, either! You single-handedly ruined my life with flick of that goddamn finger of yours! And you don't care because you're a sick, masochistic, evil bastard!"
There was a pause, the rain now seeming louder after her tirade had ended. Claire stood there, breathing heavily, wiping the tears and rain from her face. He neared again, now just inches in front of her face. "Are you done?" he asked quietly.
She grit her teeth, shaking. With fear? Or anger? he thought absently. "No," she ground out. With one fluid motion, and thanks to many self-defense courses, she tripped the taller man, and pulled his arm behind his back, tightening it so it was painful for a normal person. "I will kill you," she hissed into his ear. "I will do whatever it takes to end your pathetic life. And I'll do it slowly and painfully." Her words scared her. They weren't hers. She hadn't thought anything remotely similar to those words since their last encounter in D.C. Her life had been peaceful, easy. And now seeing him, hearing his voice, made her want to rip him apart into tiny pieces and stamp them into the ground.
Suddenly, he used his telekinesis to flip her on the ground. For a split-second he hovered over her dangerously, like a scorpion ready to attack. Slowly, swiftly, he moved down so that he had her pinned in the mud. Gently pulling a strand of hair from her face, he leaned down to her ear.
"I was worried you'd forgotten about that," he whispered.
"I will kill you!" she growled, struggling. He quickly stopped her movement, holding her body still.
"I'm sure you think you want to, Claire. But let's face it the sad facts here. I've been watching you for a while, now. Your drive, that adorable little light in your eyes, it was gone. I thought you were broken, Claire-bear."
"DON'T CALL ME THAT!"
He put his finger to her lips, his soft skin lightly touching hers. "Again with the screaming. I'm glad, actually. Like I said, I was worried. Now, I'll be checking in on you, Claire-bear…just to make sure you haven't lost sight of reality again."
"I'll find Peter," she threatened. "I'll find him and we will kill you. For good." Her face was hard, enough to scare anyone away. But this man wasn't anyone. He would remind her of that soon.
"I look forward to it." With that, he was gone. Claire blinked, looking wildly for sign of the serial killer. He must have taken another ability…teleportation. Her blood froze momentarily at the thought. Hiro had recently passed…what if…
"BASTARD!" she screeched into the thundering sky. After a few moments she took to sitting cross-legged on the muddy ground, clutching her jacket and crying.
It had been five months and still Claire hadn't seen him again. After a while, she began to return back to her day-to-day life, as opposed to starring out the window for days on end, and then loosing her job for it. The very day she let her guard down and began to live semi-normally again, he decided to drop in on her.
Today was her first day as a lawyer's assistant, and she wanted to be early. She opened her apartment door, ready to leave, when she saw him standing there, leaning against the doorframe, like he did so many years ago. "Hello, Claire," he hissed.
Unlike the first time, when he had stolen her power, she didn't back away. Instead, Claire held her ground, not giving him any room to enter that didn't involve him sending her flying into the wall. "Get out," she said plainly.
He smirked, hungry, predatorily. "You're not a very gracious host, Claire-bear."
Her face flushed, fists clenching, jaw tightening. "Don't call me—" Suddenly, she was lifted into the air. He cocked his head to the side, lazily holding her in midair. "Put me down!"
"We need to have a little chat, Claire-bear," he said in a sincere manner, though there was a dark meaning behind the words. "Take a seat," She felt herself flying backward, and tried not to cry out in surprise. With a loud thud, Claire was thrown into the leather loveseat in her sitting room. He had her pinned to the large chair, and she moved her head in frustration.
"What do you want?" she demanded, trying to free herself from his telekinetic bonds.
He smiled, bending over to her eye line. "There are quite a few things I want. But I think we should take this slowly today." She shivered at his words, now afraid of what he could do to her in this position. He caught on to her fear, and frowned in disgust. "Claire, that's disgusting. I may be a killer, but I will not violate a woman in any manner," he said this such finality, that she visibly relaxed. "But," he whispered into her ear. "I will use any means of getting what I want from you, understand that." She didn't acknowledge his threat, only stared ahead at the wall. His eye twitched in anger at her indigence. "For starters," his hand slowly heated up to a dim flame, coming to rest on her arm. She gasped at the searing pain on her skin. "I want you to look me in the eye when we talk."
Still, she stared at the wall. She refused to give him the satisfaction of being in control. His hand heated up even more, causing Claire to bite her lip hard. Still, she gave him no response, no indication that he was in control. Growling, he took his right finger and quickly moved it through the air, a red gash following the motion on Claire's lower neck. She made a surprised noise at the sudden pain, and then the warm, oozing blood forming on her blouse. She waited patiently, all the while still struggling for air, for the wound to sew itself up. After a few moments, her skin stitched back together and all that remained of the injury was the blood on her skin and clothing. Despite all his efforts, even killing her, she refused to give into him. He was vile, cruel, and deserved nothing from her. His warm breath was suddenly on her cheek, and she shuddered at the contact. "Claire," his sing-song voice mocked, "look at me." She turned her head further away, a final sign of indignation. Suddenly, her hair was being yanked up, some even ripping from her roots, and her head was tilted to the murder's face. "That's better," he mused.
Searing anger surged through her and in a split-second, a large, mucus-like projectile of spit was thrust into his eye. Dropping her hair, he reeled for a moment at the revolting contact of the girl's saliva in his eyelid. Claire smiled in satisfaction, and turned once more to the wall behind him. "You know," he said after a few beats, "Matt Parkman wasn't the only person with mind manipulation. I could get you to look at me right in the eye and smile like a good little girl." He swooped down to her ear again. "Better yet," he snarled, "I could have you fall madly in love with me, if I felt sadistic enough. You wouldn't be able to take your hands off of me, Claire-bear." She gasped, his threat causing a cold, creeping fear to crawl up her skin. "Hmm, now I think we understand each other. So, may I have your attention, or will I need to use alternative means?"
Slowly, insolently, she turned her head upward, looking directly into the killer's solid, stony eyes. This is what Claire feared, the deep pits of those dark holes that held so many secrets and mysteries, all of which ended in one thing. Blood.
"You're sick," she spat.
A satisfied smirk crossed his features. If she didn't know the man any better, she'd say it was a victorious little look, one that made him appear somewhat cute. "You've made that very clear. Now, down to business. I've been watching you, Claire, and I have to say, I'm extremely disappointed. You're so…normal, or you appear to be trying."
She snorted despite herself. "What did you expect? Buffy the Vampire Slayer? I'm not an angry teenager anymore. I know who I am, and now I want to have a normal life."
"But that's just the thing," he quickly responded, "you're not normal, Claire. None of us are. Unfortunately, pathetic excuses for beings like Petrelli waste their existence on grief—"
"Don't talk about Peter. He's a thousand times the man you'll ever be."
He waved his hand in a casual dismissal of her words. "Like I said, there's potential to your abilities. You…we have eternity to make the world what we want, Claire-bear."
She grit her teeth and started to struggle against the invisible bindings that kept her in the chair. "Don't call me that!" she screeched, hot tears pooling in her eyes.
The killer sighed. He knew that she wasn't listening; now she'd never hear what he said. Kneeling down, he looked up into her face. Silently, his thumb gently wiped away the stray tears that fell from her innocent eyes. "Pappa Bennet's gone, Claire-bear. Time to move on."
He mentally cursed when she physically began to shake…well, her head did, at least. Her breathing became laboured with in minutes and he could hear her heartbeat speed up at unnatural rates and then slow to the point of stopping all together. Rolling his eyes, he brought his hand back and firmly slapped her cheek. Once. Once. Twice. Three times.
He smirked when she emitted a low, angry growl. Good. "Calm yourself down," he scolded. "You'll give yourself a heart-attack," he added with a smirk.
At that moment, Claire Bennet felt something inside her snap. Something that had been haphazardly been glued and stitched up, holding in old hurt and fury. The moment he entered her house, she began to feel it twist and bend. Now that he had crossed the line, the thing, whatever you would call it: a soul, heart, spirit, snapped painfully. White hot fury boiled up inside of her, and she struggled madly to move any part of her lower body, her head twisting and turning painfully from side to side. Her grit teeth separated, the words beginning to spill out like acid. "I HATE YOU!" she cried. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" She began to try and move her arms, see if one would break free. "You're sick and evil and I HATE YOU! I wish you never got my ability or better yet, you took my brain with you! You don't deserve to live, all you deserve is a brutal death in retribution of all those you've killed! Who could love someone like you, no wonder that no one trusted you when you worked with my dad! They were right not to! You do nothing but kill and destroy and you deserve to die slowly and painfully! I. HATE. YOU!"
Then, the chair was pushed backwards onto the hardwood floor, Claire's head bouncing off the chair. She let out a muffled groan, her anger temporarily quelled by the shock. Then, the killer was beside her, on his knees with a knife in his hand. "You've been very clear, Claire." She frowned when the invisible bonds that held her were now gone, and she slowly stood up, the killer following her movement. He thrust the knife out to her. "If you want to see me die, do it. Kill me. Kill me one hundred times slowly in retribution of everyone I've killed." Now afraid, she backed up. He laughed, the sound lacking humor. "You said you hate me. Go ahead, prove you do. Kill me!" He roughly put the blade in her hands and spread his arms wide, waiting.
Claire hadn't thought of killing or maiming of any kind in decades. And here's the thing, she didn't want to feel that, again. It made her bitter and cruel, and ripped her slowly from the inside out. She couldn't do it, she wouldn't do it. "No," she said. "You won't actually die, anyway." His eye twitched when she threw the knife onto the ground, looking at both him and the blade in disgust. "Tell me where you moved your pressure point and then I'll do it," she gambled. He simply stood there; she could practically see the steam shooting out of his ears. "See? You're afraid of death. You want to be so special, to make a mark on this world, that the very thought of dying as nothing more than insignificant is what makes your blood run cold." At times like these, the line between Noah Bennet and his daughter blurred and they, though their words and mannerisms, became one. He clenched his fists. Claire would never become her father. He'd make sure of that. First, he would have to break her. For good.
"And do you know what you fear, Claire Bennet?" he sneered. "I can get inside your head so easily; I know every single thing that makes you jump and scream in fear. And I know what you fear more than killing and hurting." In the blink of an eye his body was behind hers, his mouth at her ear. "Me," he whispered. Claire shivered, not because of his voice or the heat of his breath, but of the truth that he spoke. She cried out when he grabbed her roughly, holding her still with nothing but his bare hands. He was stronger than she anticipated him to be. "You haven't even thought my name in over forty years. You dance around it, Claire. You won't face it. But guess what, every second that you're here, living, I'm here too. And I'll keep coming back until that sinks in. You've forgotten, Claire-bear. You've been running away from your fate. Well guess what" he hissed, "school starts now." She was thrown against the wall and spun around, once more held by his telekinetic bonds. "And we're going to start the learning process by making it clear who I am. So, Claire, what's my name?"
And for some reason, a reason Claire would never begin to figure out, she couldn't say it. It was simple, she could even spit the name into his pathetic face. Yet, she couldn't. Something was stopping her from admitting he was here; she'd grown to calling him the killer, the murder and other suited names, but hadn't actually addressed his name. Then, a cool grin slid onto her face. He had a name, one that he feared.
"Gabriel," she said firmly.
He laughed lightly, shaking his head, even though the anger at that vile name festered within him. "Wrong answer." He cut spirals into her stomach, up to her chest. Claire screamed in pain at the twisted way of opening her skin. Blood and tissue pooled out of the wounds, and because of their odd formation, they took longer to heal. "Strike one," he said. "I suggest you make this one count, because I can guarantee you won't like strike three."
Whatever he does, she thought, will be nothing. Don't let him win. "Strike two," she quipped, "Gabriel."
Now his light mood lifted, replaced by the festered disdain he held for that name and his past. "Fine by me," he growled. He created long slashes up and down her legs, arms, and upper body. She moaned at the pain those cuts caused, but didn't give in. The overflow of blood on her clothes made her sick; she hadn't seen that much blood in so long.
It's only pain, she chanted in her head.
"One more chance," he said softly, head only inches from hers.
She smiled, her lips bloody. "Strike three, Gabriel Gray."
He snarled, grabbing hold of her neck with his forearm. His finger was aimed at her stomach, now healed. Without thinking, he did the one thing that would revolt and frighten her more than any other thing. His lips were pressed against hers, the hot, hard feeling soon melting into a tender, gentle kiss. She screamed into his mouth, tears now spilling out of her eyes. No, she begged, No, please don't…While he caressed her bloody mouth, his finger began to carve into her stomach, slowly, precisely. She would feel this, she would remember this. She moaned at the sudden searing pain in her stomach, her moan muffled into her mouth. He kissed her more and more, enjoying the feel of her delicate mouth in his, and even more so the sounds of cries and pleads. Oh, yes, she would remember this.
When he was finally done, he pressed his lips against hers one last time, and pulled away. He smirked at his handiwork on her pale skin. She babbled and cried, her cheeks now running with tears and blood. He grabbed a hold of her chin and thrust it down, so she could see what he had done.
SYLAR was written in bloody words upon her flesh. She cried out in horror. He branded her! With his sick lips and his name also. More cries of despair escaped her lips until he pressed them closed with his finger. His head was cocked to side, observing her with interest.
"I…I…h-hate…y-y-you," she blubbered almost incoherently.
He nodded solemnly. "I know." His hand made her chin look down at the knitting wounds, his name still visible. "Now, say my name."
She cried harder, finally broken, and whispered, "Sylar."
Victory swelled up inside of Sylar unlike any other victory he'd ever felt. Now, she was officially broken, and he would be there to make sure she didn't poorly try to put herself back together. Only he could do that now. "What was that?" he taunted.
"Sylar…Sylar…" she mumbled. Now she couldn't forget, now she had to embrace him. More tears welled up at the thought of her normal life…gone.
He smiled innocently, as if he'd received a knew toy or gift. "That's so much better, Claire-bear."
She dropped to the floor in a heap, and put her head in between her knees, sobbing now. Sylar looked down at her with a raised brow, the smile still on his face, and sauntered over to the door. "I hate you," came a cold voice. He slowly turned to see Claire Bennet, bent over and bloody, but not yet broken, it seemed. The victory he once felt slowly disappeared and then faded while he looked at her face. Now full of hate and sorrow, her eyes. It was a step forward, at least. She knew that he was there.
"Give it time," he said coolly. He turned back and closed the door behind him, leaving Claire alone in her apartment.
Claire cried harder and put her head back in her arms, wishing to just die. Yet, the one thing she couldn't stop mumbling and thinking about was him. She expected him to come back in her home and they'd start some angry banter that they once shared long ago. And then it hit her, she missed that bastard. She bit her lip and let the tears fall freely now. He had her experience the one thing she feared the most, the thing they both knew was inevitable.
The need for each other.
"Sylar," she whispered. "Sylar."
She was going to need him, and he needed her. Whether she liked it or not.
Fate was just that much of a twisted bitch, it seemed.