For several long moments, he doesn't know it's her.
Turning off the lights is always the very last thing Topher does before leaving his office, after locking filing cabinets, shutting down equipment, turning off computers. It lets him spend as little time as possible in the dark, just the few short steps from the light switch to the server room or, on the rare occasions when he actually leaves the building, the elevator.
Tonight he flips the switch, turns around, and suddenly there are hands gripping his arms, pushing him back, and he starts to panic because he can't see anything and he doesn't know what's going on. The backs of his knees collide with the couch behind him, and he sits down hard.
She follows him, crawling onto his lap and pressing herself against him (and that's how he knows to think 'she'), and by this point logic has managed to catch up to the blind terror just enough to tell him that there's only a handful of people who could be here, though he doesn't know who would be doing this or why. The standby light from his computer only offers the dimmest of shadows, and he has to rely on other sensations.
He figures it out when she leans in and he recognizes the feel of scar tissue as her lips brush his cheek. Topher jerks his head back in shock. "Claire?" he asks, because fear wrecks the mental censor that would make him say 'Dr. Saunders' instead.
She stops, hesitates. Pulls slowly away from him, and her fingers are cold as they slide down the side of his face.
Topher breathes a sigh of relief at the distance, however slight. He supposes he should have guessed it was her – she's done this once before – but he honestly never thought he'd have to deal with that again (but then, she had run away). He also supposes he should be reacting more strongly, like last time, but after all that's happened, this moment seems morally insignificant.
She hasn't responded yet, and that unnerves him more than a little. He can't see her face, can't begin to guess what she's thinking. All he knows is the solid weight of her across his legs and the hand that's now resting at the back of his neck. The idea that she could be holding anything in her other hand flickers suddenly through his mind, and he struggles to sit up straighter, as if that will help somehow.
And now she's using both hands to press his shoulders back into the cushion, which alleviates his fear and makes him stop struggling immediately, completely docile. "I don't want to be Claire right now," she whispers, softly enough that he wouldn't have heard it if he'd still been moving. "I'm tired of being whoever's convenient." And maybe he's reading into it too much without any visual cues to go on, but there seems to be an implication behind her words that she doesn't want him to be Topher right now, either.
Which is okay, because he hasn't really wanted to be himself much lately. (Although Topher would have pushed her away already, which is more than he can say for whoever he's being right now.)
He doesn't say anything – what can he say to that? – but he shifts his hand slightly from its white-knuckle grip on the edge of the couch, moves it closer until he bumps the side of her leg.
She takes it as an invitation. One hand releases his shoulder to trail across his chest, over his stomach, lower, hovers there. "Tell me that's alright," she says. It's a demand, not a request, and he's not entirely sure if she means the words or the actions.
It doesn't matter either way. She's figured out where the power lies here, knows she can control him if nothing else. He only hesitates for a second before nodding his head. When she doesn't move, he remembers how useless that is in this pitch black, realizes he'll have to say something or stay like this. He breathes deeply, lets the words slip out quickly, "It is."
Her hand burns coldly against his skin, and he feels her hot breath a moment before he feels her mouth on his.
Topher closes his eyes. It doesn't make a difference.