Title: Of Anniversary Gifts (1/1)
Author: Paula
Rating: PG-13 (kind of gruesome)
Pairing: Sylar/Claire, Peter/Claire
Summary: "Five Years Gone" Universe, AU from that point where Sylar kills Claire. A six-year anniversary.
Note: Here is probably a good point to mention briefly a little bit about how I write fan fiction, 'cause it'll help you all understand the story. I usually get a line of dialogue/monologue/whatever in to my head and then go from there. This shouldn't require a lot of exposition. I hope not, but if it does, let me know so that I know when I'm being too vague and can guard against it in the future.
There's a line of dialogue that is similar to one in missaliceblue's amazing "Wanted" fic that I didn't catch until I reread it. I didn't consciously plagerize, and it's not quite the same, but it was such a good concept, and it fit Claire so well, that I couldn't bear to move it.
Enjoy!
The first time Sylar offers her a head in a burlap sack, Claire faints.
There is no screaming, no crying out in fear, no fleeing from the psychotic, warped, cannibalistic killer offering up a man's severed head as some sort of twisted, David Lynch-inspired Christmas present. Instead, she feels momentarily nauseous and then, for the first time in her life, her knees buckle, her eyes flutter shut, and she falls flat on to the floor.
If he had wrapped it in a bow, Claire probably would have actually died.
When she comes to, he is standing over her looking - well, Claire could almost swear that he appears to be concerned, but that can't be right - slightly taken aback. He has moved her from the hardwood floor to the couch, and he has draped something over her. It's dark, and soft, and it smells like soap and musk; it takes her a moment to realize that it's his wool coat. She is groggy and disoriented. This is not the first time that she has awoken to see him looming above her, tall, dark and imposing, and for a minute in the shadows, his coloring reminds her of Peter.
Peter.
But Sylar is not Peter; he is nothing like Peter.
Claire has to remind herself of this periodically the more time she spends in Sylar's company because, apart from the violent, evil, twisted brain-thing, Sylar and Peter actually are very much alike. Sylar's taller, certainly, but their builds are similar, their powers are similar, their coloring is similar, and they move with the same understated grace.
Peter would never bring her a man's severed head in a burlap sack.
Sylar is still looking down at her with that bizarre combination of puzzlement and not-quite-concern, and Claire is beginning to feel scrutinized and uncomfortable. She usually does these days.
"Are you alright?"
Claire ignores the absurdity of this question and pushes herself off of the couch, letting his fine wool coat fall to the floor in a discarded heap. "Yes."
"Why did you faint? I have never seen you faint."
This question is perhaps even more absurd, but then again, he has just brought her a head in a burlap sack. Claire looks at him steadily. "Why did you do that?"
His eyebrows rise. "Excuse me?"
Claire finds his height intimidating, though she will never admit it. She pushes herself off the couch and moves past him towards the window in the far wall where she doesn't have to look at him. She can still sense him, though. Tall, dark, and imposing just over her left shoulder.
She takes a deep shuddering breath, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "It was a head. A human head. Am I supposed to be flattered?" She wonders absently where he put it while she was unconscious, because he's no longer holding it out to her like a grab-bag prize.
"It is a gift. For you. It is our anniversary."
This throws her through a loop, and she spins around, her unnaturally dark hair whirls around her face. "What anniversary?"
"When we met." He says this matter-of-factly. "Six years ago today. Odessa, Texas." His voice is low, languid...loving.
Claire feels sick to her stomach again and turns back to the window. "I didn't realize."
There aren't any footsteps as he approaches, and Claire shrinks further in to herself. He pauses directly behind her, not touching her, but violating her all the same. She feels suddenly cold, even though he is standing close enough that she can feel his body heat through his thin sweater. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
His breath tickles the top of her head. "What are you thinking?" he asks, his tone still low, sensual.
Claire closes her eyes and Peter springs back in to her consciousness.
Peter.
She pictures him as he was when she first met him, his ridiculous dark hair falling forward in his face, his smile crooked, face open and honest.
It gets better.
What?
Life after high school. It gets better.
Sylar's breath tickles her neck again, and it jars Claire back to the present. Her eyes snap open, and she reaches out to touch the cold window in front of her to help ground herself in the here-and-now. "Life after high school," she answers, unwilling to divulge anything to him that he can use against her later on. Peter is forbidden territory.
This is her and Peter's anniversary, and Sylar has just commemorated it by bringing her a dismembered head.
She turns towards him. His eyes are deceptively soft and brown in the warm light from the window, but the wry grin that mars his lips betrays him. She thrusts her chin up and sets her jaw. "I don't want it."
He leans down a little and raises his right hand to stroke her cheek. "Don't you want to know what I was offering you?"
"It was pretty obvious that it was some poor schmuck's head," she bites, aiming for worldly and tough, but the look he gives her makes her feel unbearably young.
He continues to stroke her cheek softly with his thumb, letting his fingers move around the side of her face and tangle in her hair. His eyes are no longer soft in the light from the window; they're obstructed by the shadow of the window sash. He looks menacing again.
The relentless tick-tick of his watch is the only noise in the silent room. Sylar leans down.
For a minute, Claire is convinced that he's going to try and kiss her; he's done that before. Instead, he moves towards her ear and Claire holds herself completely straight to avoid what she is sure is the cannibalistic-psycho-super-hero-killer version of a hug.
"What do you give a girl with immortality?" he whispers, his breath playing against her neck. With his hand still cupping her cheek, it's a parody of a lover's caress, and Claire hates it, hates him. She can smell him, her face almost, but not quite against his neck. She squeezes her eyes shut and wills herself to think of Peter, so similar and yet so different from the monstrosity before her.
Sylar hovers over her pulse point; she can feel his quiet breathing against her skin. The last time she saw Peter, he was glowing bright red and orange, a look of absolute terror in his eyes at what he was about to do. She had run towards him, panicked, terrified, unsure of what she could do to prevent it. She had thrown herself on him, trying naively to use her body to stifle the radioactive glow that burned off of him.
Remembered pain sears through her now, and she inadvertently cringes against Sylar as the memory rushes into her consciousness, blurring lines with reality. She squeezes her eyes tighter and clings desperately to the solid figure in front of her, burying her face against his sweater. Peter is shouting in her ear, Run! And the roar from his exploding frame is deafening, but she can't do anymore than cling desperately to him as the radioactive burn singes her hair, burns off her eyebrows, and melts away her fingernails.
Her own voice is small and tiny in her ears over the sound of Peter's rush of power, and she is not sure if he can hear her at all. I'm not running!
Claire, GO! His voice has the same commanding tone it had that night in Odessa, Texas as Sylar - Sylar - loomed menacingly in the doorway to the amphitheater.
NO! She shouts back with equal vehemence. I will not leave you. I love you. A pronouncement that sounds lame and inadequate in such dire circumstances, but it doesn't matter because the burn has seared away her vocal cords and she won't be able to talk anymore.
And then there's darkness.
She awakens to the sight of him standing over her looking - well, Claire could almost swear that he appears to be concerned, but that can't be right - slightly taken aback. He has moved her from the hardwood floor to the couch, and he has draped something over her. It's dark, and soft, and it smells like soap and musk; it takes he a moment to realize that it's his wool coat. She is groggy and disoriented.
Deja Vu.
She sits bolt upright, and his wool coat falls again to the floor. "What did you do to me?" she demands.
The look of false concern melts from his features, and he smiles that serene Sylar-smile that would almost be angelic on his boyish features if he wasn't a deranged psycho-killer.
"What do you give a girl who has immortality?" Sylar repeats sardonically.
Claire's body tingles like it does after her skin has completely regenerated. "I don't know," she says numbly, although she's getting a pretty good idea.
He sits down beside her on the couch with an easy grace. "Well, there isn't really an official 'scientific' term for it," he says conversationally. "Doctor Suresh the elder didn't get far enough in his research to even think about this ability - " he smiles fondly " - and Doctor Suresh the younger is still stumbling around the theory like a blind man in a house of mirrors. I've decided to refer to it as 'Autocognizant Memory', or the ability to automatically relive any memory at any time as if you are actually there." He leans back against the arm of the couch, looking extremely pleased with himself.
Claire doesn't say anything; she doesn't know what to say, and she can't tell if she's more horrified by the "gift", or by the fact that he clearly force-fed her some sort of brain pate while she was unconscious and defenseless.
Sylar is still smiling openly, clearly at ease and clearly enjoying her horror.
"The only problem," he continues in the same breezy, deceptive tone, "is that it really is uncontrollable. Or it seems to be, anyway. Any time you think about anything from your past, you relive it. For someone who has led a relatively happy life, that would be a nuisance, but at least enjoyable."
He doesn't say anything about unhappy lives. He doesn't have to.
She clenches her hands in to fists, and tries not to let the tears that are building behind her eyelids spill over. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry yet again.
Sylar leans towards her slowly. "Don't worry, Claire-bear," he whispers, his tone low and mocking. "It's the gift that keeps giving, and you and I will have plenty of time to enjoy it."
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