'Sup, y'all. First Heroes fic, and I'm aimin' to please :) This isn't really a re-write...well, it sort of is. Not really. Kinda. It's just a...re-write...of how Sylar attacks Claire in her house to get her rapid flesh-regenerating power. I'd hoped to make it a OneShot, but it's turned into a...erm, a ThreeShot. Yeah.
Hats off to Serias for beta-ing! :D Thank you, amico! (Instead of calling the story Raccoons and Popcorn, I'm calling the first chapter Raccoons and Popcorn, okay? ;) )
And you! *points meaningfully* ...Enjoy Eternal Blood! :D
~1~ Raccoons and Popcorn
Lyle rolled his eyes. Only a girl would be able to tell the difference between the two bottles of pink nail polish his sister was holding up.
"Come on, Lyle. Fairy Bubblegum or Pigmy Puff?"
"How about Barf City?"
"Lyle!" Claire surrendered. "Fine." She turned away, hiding a smile. It was fun to torment her younger brother so. She replaced the bottles of nearly identical nail polish on her dresser and picked up a different one entirely, a glistening blue. She sat on her bed and twisted the silver lid off of the polish-remover. "What did you want again?" The harsh, chemical odour of the remover filled her nostrils, but she ignored it.
Lyle was already pushing himself away from the door frame of Claire's room, casually retreating backwards. "I'm going out."
Claire was concentrating on getting the remains of the dark red flecks off her toenails. She was unnerved by the fact that they almost looked like old, dried blood. "Going out where?"
"To the movies."
"With whom?"
"My friends."
"Until what time?"
"Ten...eleven—I don't know, Mom!" Lyle finally stormed away, leaving an air of disgruntlement in his wake. Claire smiled to herself as she used a cotton ball to clean off the last of the old nail polish.
Ah, to have the house to myself, she thought blissfully. Her father was out on some "business trip" and her mom was with Mr Muggles at a dog fashion show. They would all be away for hours.
She heard the signature creak only the front door possessed. Claire couldn't help but deal one last sally.
"Lyle, did you empty the dishwasher?" she called, trying to keep the teasing smile from her voice.
Lyle, evidently, had a sporadic tendency to become temporarily deaf at inconvenient times, and this appeared to be one of those episodes. The front door swung closed a little faster than necessary and, moments later, the rev of an eager engine growled through Claire's bedroom window. She could have sworn that she heard a shriek of tires at the end of the dark street, but she couldn't be sure if they were his.
Silence at last. It was almost eerie when Lyle wasn't around. There's always some racket that came with his presence, be it loud, bass-dominant music, war video games or thriller TV shows blasting from the living room. Partnered up with the absence of Mr Muggles and his coarse, airy bark, the Bennet house was something of a silent movie.
Spooky, she thought, then said it aloud just to hear something other than the soft tapping of the miniature brush on the polish bottle. "Spoooookyyy..."
The minute hand of the clock crept up on its smaller co-worker to signify a passing hour, and Claire finally added the final touches on her now blue-nailed toes. Wiggling them between the foamies that kept them separated, she screwed the lid back on the bottle and carefully scooted off the bed. Her stomach was reminding her that it was yet time for her favourite night snack of microwave popcorn.
She was preparing to leave her room when the urgent whirrr! of her vibrating cell phone declared that she had a message. She paused, contemplating. Should she ignore it? Curiosity dragged her back across the room to the glowing phone, and she picked it up before flipping it open. It was from Peter.
Claire scowled. She was mad at Uncle Peter. He had told her to return to Costa Verde and to stay out of it all, out of the war against those who wished her and her kind ill.
As if he isn't one of us, she thought vehemently. He's in danger just as much as I!
She seriously considered ignoring the message again. But what if he's asking for help? she wondered, but knew full well that this wasn't the case. It would never be the case because Peter was a pig-headed, mouse-brained son of a—
Whirrr!
It was her phone again. This time, the message briefly flashed, Please?
Heaving a sigh, Claire scrolled to Peter's first message and read it begrudgingly.
Claire we need 2 talk. Can i come c u?
The cheerleader couldn't help but smirk. It was always amusing to see an adult try to relate to a teenager by using text abbreviations whenever possible.
Please?
The newest message finally tipped Claire over.
Fine, she texted, thumbs tapping rapidly on the little buttons. A hummingbird's heart beat almost as fast. I'm making popcorn. She sent the message and made for the door again. As she neared the bottom of the stairs, her cell buzzed again.
Having ketchup with that?
"WHAT?" Claire almost stumbled down the last few steps as she hastily replied with that same word.
A few moments later, Peter sent, Jk ;)
"Petrellis," said Claire with a roll of her eyes and a smirk.
There weren't nearly enough lights on downstairs. She flicked on the kitchen's and the living room's, then her father's office's for good measure. She made sure the back door was locked and that no windows had been broken into. It was a customary routine now. She also checked to see if her father's gun was where it always was and that there was the baseball bat in the foyer closet. They were.
Peter had been in Texas, last she saw him. Glancing at the clock, she guessed that he would arrive in California within...five more minutes. She migrated for the kitchen, methodically rooting around in the cupboard for the last package of microwave popcorn, fake butter and all. The clear packaging preventing her from preparing her favourite snack stubbornly refused to tear open despite her efforts, and after several fruitless attempts, she tried to open a drawer for the scissors. As was typical, someone had shoved something in and now the drawer was stuck from the inside.
Probably Lyle's doing, she thought grumpily, opening it as wide as she could and reaching in blindly. She gasped and withdrew her hand, the thin line of sliced flesh gushing an alarming amount of blood.
"What the hell?" Even as the cut healed itself as per usual, Claire took up a wooden spoon and awkwardly shoved it into the drawer, using it to push down whatever had caught. Eventually, with a few mild curses and loud bangs, the drawer yanked open, revealing the Exacto knife that had been left with the blade exposed.
Scowling, she cleaned the bloodied blade and then pushed the thumb pad down, sheathing it. What idiot left it—
A clang, followed by rustling.
Freezing, Claire's fist automatically clenched around the knife and pushed the blade out again. It sounded like someone had knocked over the garbage can outside.
Raccoons, she thought in reassurance. There are raccoons in California, aren't there? Or a cat.
Even so, she wished Mr Muggles was there. Not for protection, being the little cotton puff that he was, but for an advance alarm system.
The window blinds, suddenly, seemed very far away. She stared at them, hoping that they would become transparent so she could see who was creeping around the house. She realized that her heart was pounding, and no amount of soothing breathing patterns could curb its frantic gallop.
"Peter?" she finally called, trying not to let her voice tremble. Silence. And not just any silence. It was the silence of someone trying to be silent. She'd felt that suspicious tingle of malaise before, an instinctive sense that has saved her in the past.
The refrigerator rumbled to life, and she nearly screamed.
This is ridiculous! she snapped at herself, and she threw the Exacto knife down on the counter. She stormed for the back windows and yanked open one of the shutters. Sure enough, the guilty culprit was rooting through yesterday's supper of pizza and chicken wings. A thin crust was held between the raccoon's dexterous hands and was swiftly vanishing into its ravenous mouth. Two reflective eyes appeared on the black bandit mask, gazing at her fearlessly, almost bored despite Claire's shooing.
The cheerleader had half a mind to fetch the broom, but hesitated. There was a mess already anyway and the thieving creature needed to eat, too – but then, it would keep coming back for more once it discovered that no one meant it harm.
She sighed and made for the broom closet. It took her a while to realize that she had seen something flash through the shutters of another window, one that faced a street light near the front of the house. Again, she stilled, eyes wide as she strained her eyes and ears for further sights or sounds.
The doorbell rang.
The broom fell with a clatter from her jerking hands. There was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, the results of the scare. A prickling between her shoulder blades indicated that it was time to start running.
Sylar!
...No, Sylar wouldn't use the doorbell.
This time, someone knocked.
"Claire? It's me."
Hearing Peter's voice was like hearing the three o'clock bell on Friday afternoons. Claire practically sprinted for the front door, fumbling with the lock before yanking it open.
Peter's warm, askew smile greeted her, but it immediately faded at her anguished look, which she had failed to conceal in time.
"Claire, are you all right? What's going on?" He was instantly on the alert, casting his gaze around for potential danger. It was rare that the cheerleader saw him legitimately relaxed these days.
She sighed, smiling. "Oh, it's nothing. I was just spooked by a raccoon, that's all."
Peter calmed, albeit minutely. He grinned. "Raccoons. Those can carry diseases. Very dangerous."
"Yes, Doctor Petrelli," recited Claire, half bowing and indicating for him to enter.
"No, just a nurse," he reminded, wiping his shoes on the mat.
"Have a nice flight?" Claire moved for the kitchen, letting Peter make himself at home.
He had hung up his coat and was shaking his legs most peculiarly. "No, actually. I've got speed right now."
"Ooh, sounds fun!" Her tone sounded relieved, glad that he hadn't been someone else.
Someone like Sylar, Peter thought darkly. He moved further into the house, giving surreptitious glances into unlit corners. "Your parents out?"
"For hours!" the cheerleader declared happily. The opening and closing of the microwave was pursued by a rapid sequence of beeps.
Peter stepped closer to the kitchen, noticing as he did so that a back window had been uncovered. While the rumbling of the microwave filled the air, he moved for that window, his foot catching on something as he went. He glanced down and saw that it was a broom.
"Doing a bit of late-night cleaning?" he asked, casually enough. He bent over to pick it up.
"Oh, that." Claire waved a careless hand. "I was going to shoo away the raccoon with that."
Peter straightened with the broom and glanced out the window to the back porch, seeing the pile of garbage and the creature in question there. "Ah ha. There you are."
He unlocked the sliding door and stepped out into the cool California night air. A light breeze ruffled his chestnut hair as he marched for the hissing raccoon, waving the broom around.
"Go! Go on, get out!" He watched with satisfaction as the defeated beast waddled away, bush tail bristling with vexation.
"Dealt with," he said with his usual lopsided smile, slipping the broom back into its cupboard.
"What would I do without you?" said Claire with a singsong voice, fluttering her eyes and weaving her arms like an airhead princess.
"Burn the popcorn, I should suspect."
Claire spun around with a curse, but then saw that the bag had barely begun to swell. She punched her uncle in the arm and he ducked away, chuckling. Then her face crumpled, and Peter frowned.
"What's wrong?"
There was that sadness in her eyes, a look Peter had seen too many times for his liking. It was one that suffered loneliness and neglect, and, suddenly, he remembered his reasons for being there. "Claire—"
"You said you wanted to talk to me," she interrupted curtly, crouching to get a bowl from a lower cupboard.
The tone was biting, and Peter winced. "I...I know I haven't been, well, the best of friends to you."
"Good start." Sarcasm.
Peter clenched his jaw, hating himself. "I've been pushing you away, now of all times...And it was wrong of me."
"I'm glad you've noticed." More sarcasm.
Again, the man had to push through the tense air. "You're old enough to make your own decisions, but you must understand that I was just trying to protect you—"
"Yeah, because my dad doesn't do enough of that!" The sarcasm was oozing all across the floor now. Her words still triggered something in Peter's memory.
"Nathan—" He bit his tongue. Fool!
Too late. Claire spun on her heels, hands on hips. "What about Nathan?" she demanded. "Is he sorry that he forgot my birthday?"
Peter frowned. Nathan had indeed forgotten her birthday—his own daughter's—but the nurse had covered for him. How would Claire know that—?
Claire scowled. "Come on, Peter. You're his brother. You should know of his busy life. Besides, what 'he' gave me could only be something that you'd give me." She smiled, and this time, it was genuine. "Thank you. I've been wanting to learn since...well, since this all began."
Peter harrumphed, flicking his bangs back off his forehead. "I'm sure Noah didn't approve."
Claire looked mockingly considerate. "Biological father doesn't remember, adoptive father doesn't approve, uncle is the only one who does both." She smiled like a vixen for a moment. "I can empty a perfect round at fifty metres now."
The nurse held his grin even though the thought of his niece holding a gun unnerved him just as much as it would Noah. But he knew that she needed to be able to defend herself, because she wasn't a simple teenage girl with a teenage life, not anymore. Gun lessons seemed...he hesitated to say appropriate, just...necessary.
"So, uh..." He paused. "Do you forgive me?"
There was a mischievous glint in her eye. "For now." She turned, but not before Peter saw the grin spreading.
The room was filling with the homey smell of popcorn, a treat Peter couldn't recall having for some months.
I need to request a break from work, he reflected as Claire cut the bag open and filled the bowl. He smiled at her irritation of how many kernels had stubbornly refused to pop. He followed her into the living room, where a comfy couch and flat screen TV awaited to serve them.
"So," he said, "what have you in mind?"
"Well, I have a sudden craving for The Dark Knight," Claire replied, and Peter nodded.
"Who says Batman can't be for girls?"
The cheerleader checked the cabinet for the DVD, but when that endeavour proved in vain, she hunted around the couch cushions. "Urg. Lyle must have taken it up to his room." She left Peter to make himself comfortable, hastening up the stairs. Content to wait, Peter flopped himself down on the couch and reached for his first mouthful of popcorn in ages, only to notice something...amiss.
He blinked, staring at the reflective cabinet glass and TV screen. Whipping his head around, he saw Noah's closed office across the way, the blinds pulled down and the lights off. Peter sat up, twisting his upper body to get a better view. Weren't the lights on in there when he came in? Perhaps Claire had flicked them off when he was chasing out the raccoon...but why? And why were they on in the first place? Admittedly, it was often difficult to so much as cross his own apartment with the lights off these days, for anyone could be lurking in the shadows. Agents, serial killers—anyone. Still, he thought it queer.
Then, movement. He definitely saw movement.
Claire's call from upstairs startled him.
"I'll be down in a moment!"
A door closed, and Peter took the opportunity to investigate the office. Certainly, there was every chance that he was chasing shadows, but he'd rather feel foolish for a moment than feel anxious for hours, wondering if something was waiting, biding its time before it struck their unsuspecting backs—
He yanked open the office door, there before he even realized it. His hand frantically felt for the light switch, and for one ridiculous moment, he thought it was gone. Then light flooded the room and he winced. They were excessively bright. No wonder Claire had them on, if not temporarily.
The office was a typical home work room, with a cluttered desk and a PC drowning in sticky notes. Stacks of metal filing cabinets lined all four walls, some with drawers wide open, others locked shut. A lamp, swivel chair and loud clock completed the room. No Agents, no serial killers.
Peter snorted derisively at himself. Too many days spent running, he thought with a shake of his head.
Out of impulse, he checked a few drawers and located the gun Noah kept for emergencies. He memorized its place and switched off the light, starting to pull the door closed as he turned around. Unfortunately, he was not expecting to see Sylar standing right behind him. His powers of speed were useless as the murderous clock repairer lifted a lazy hand and casually flicked a finger, sending the nurse flying back into the abyss of the office.
Unseen restraints held him flat against the far wall while an invisible hand clamped around his mouth, silencing him. Peter cringed as multiple push tacks on the cork board stabbed into his back, painful as nails.
Sylar, once placid and docile Gabriel Grey, lifted a finger to his lips, shushing his prey teasingly.
"Hello, brother," he said, the whispers of a hungry snake.
The seasons are kind of confused in my head, and for the life of me, I can't remember if Peter still had his real powers when Sylar took Claire's ability or not. In any case, this doesn't really follow—what is it called? Canon? —as you've probably noticed.
I like Peter x3
