Title: Cold Snap
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Warnings: angsty piece, alcohol abuse, crazy Claire is crazy and Real!Sylar.
Summary: Claire often wonders if that is the hidden secret of her immortality - since she is frozen in time, that means she is cold dead inside, perpetually living during a cold snap.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes if I did, I would have given the series a proper ending *_*
A/N: I blame Tim Burton's latest movie and The Moody Blues for this one guys. Anyway I know I should be writing for MNTSK but I had to write this, it was an evolutionary imperative as Sylar would say ;-)
The night and its stretching shadows of enclosure are dying too very slowly for Claire's taste. This lapse of the day which once held so much promise, shadows only perusing the edges of her room, as warm skin pressed over her more cold one. They lay back to front in his old apartment, stretched arms pressed against a tiny waist as he spoke of intertwining souls and centuries of togetherness. Those days are gone and suddenly the night had lost it appeals to her.
No, it wasn't like that.
Claire jerks her head back as hard as she can and it collides with the edge of the soft cushions she is leaning against. The fire in the fireplace has long been forgotten to leave cold dead ashes in its place instead, and she watches its remains swirl with the breeze that keeps coming from the chimney cap. She has to fight to keep reminding herself time after time that those nights were never there to begin with; they were a byproduct of her over-plotting head or maybe some sort of delusional extra fantasy orchestrated by a man holding vengeance against her even with his last breath. She doesn't know exactly and the answer doesn't matter to her either, because whatever the reason behind her comatose dream world, it doesn't help to mitigate the sad true.
Those images were nothing more than a dream.
The bottle hurls down against the floor with a soft thud cushioned by the feathery carpet as, at the same time, the amber clear liquid cascades down her throat, burning and reviving cells along its pace. Claire smiles; she had missed this - albeit imaginary until recently - sensation provided by the rum burning her insides. Old habits die hard and all that. Tomorrow, she is going to endure a lecture from Peter for stealing the liquor from the precious cabinet of treasures in the Petrelli's cellar, but tonight she is going to enjoy her tiny act of rebellion and relish in it until the bottle rests empty by her side.
It is the only thing she is left to do these days to live a little; to provide some fire. Claire often wonders if that is the hidden secret of her immortality - since she is frozen in time, that means she is cold dead inside, perpetually living during a cold snap. The thought is spine-chilling so she angles the bottle once more and the sudden burning makes her cry.
Closely watched during the day, like a jailed animal, both set of eyes make sure she is safe from any living nightmare coming her way. Intuitive aptitude wasn't a special, unique gift anymore.
She wasn't surprised when they swiftly took her from the bed on the aftermath of her awakening, gift operational and intact, to move her to another safe place. Most of her living years were spent running and hiding. Maybe she would have been happy to know of the cabin-like-castle the Petrelli's possessed in the mountains if the arrangement would have been something fleeting and in the spur of the season but not when she was Rapunzel locked up in the tower all over again. A freezing tower recessed deep into the rocky forest, drowned in snow.
Her dad was the one who came up with the idea. He was content when Peter signed up for the sentinel job; after all, he had proved to her dad his value as family, as a friend, as a hero, over and over these years. But when Sylar enlisted himself to help too, Noah Bennet didn't even frown at him; her dad who had proved that his hate against the other rolled deep in his gut. She will always remember he had left her agonizing in a bed to go off and hunt the big bad wolf during the eclipse. She had to question herself what occurrence had happened to make him change his mind about the redeeming turnabout of the ex-serial killer.
It didn't matter in the end and her true displeasure came in the weirdest of ways. While Peter was always at her side, trying to reassure her that this was for the best, meeting her every need to make her feel comfortable, Sylar was nothing more than a shadow, always residing in the back, avoiding eye contact every time she looked his way and never talking to her. She felt crushed. She thought they had some sort of understanding; he had smiled at her when he came through the door of her hospital room and found her awake; she thought it had meant something, a promise of a future she now could maybe see happening. However, he started to avoid her like the plague.
Then why come along in this trip? Why smile at her? Why stay all those months at her side in the hospital bed? Why tell her he loved her? If he wasn't able to act through his desires, why would he do any of that? Peter seemed to notice the icy air surrounding his friend as she once caught them talking in hushed whispers. Sylar snapped at him, telling him he should mind his own business. Peter recoiled and didn't bother to bring up more on the issue as Sylar stormed angrily to the library, his sanctuary those days.
Her eyes started to water again and this time she can't blame the sour liquor for her reaction.
At day she smiles and glides about her routine like any normal girl her age locked up in a cabin; at night she struggles, writhing against deceitful memories of a past watcher-maker until she can't take it anymore and she starts to seek out the lost flaming sensation in whatever source she can find; lit flames from the fireplace first, over-dosed alcohol beverages now. It's not enough.
She stands up on wobbly legs from her position on the floor and while one could blame the almost empty bottle of rum resting on the carpet for this physically normal reaction, she is not normal. Her almost drunken state is possibly due to the high dose of adrenaline running through her veins as Claire makes up her mind and silently approaches his door.
His door is open a few inches and she thanks God for granting her the stealthiness she is seeking out as she trespasses his threshold without making a noise. His room is big and almost bare, save for a lone desk to her right and his queen size bed on the opposite wall. The curtains are open; the moon is shining above the sky, bathing the place in shades of blue, grey, and black creating almost an ethereal atmosphere around them. Claire walks noiselessly across the floor.
He is resting on his side, facing the window, and she can see his smooth breathing in his profound slumber. She breaths in deep as she climbs into his bed, her weightless body almost makes no dip over the soft comforter and she feels like the ghost of her fantasies crawling until her front is inches away from his back. She stops and waits for a reaction. When nothing happens, she lets out the breath she didn't know was holding. Feeling boldness, Claire closes the gap between their bodies and an involuntary shudder breaks out in her body as she wraps her arms around him.
There. There was the flaming sensation she was looking for and couldn't find. He stirs for a second and Claire froze but to her relief he just settles more comfortably against her front. Claire smiles; he is warm and soft. She melts against him and forgets the world around them. Caught up in the motion, she rests her head close to his neck and her lips grazes accidentally over his spine. That's all it takes. He snaps back into reality and she doesn't even has time to blink when he has rolled over, pinning his nightly attacker to the bed with his weight.
He is all menacing and dark and dangerous and then he gasp and deflates when he recognizes her. "Claire?" He manages to say through his stupor. "What-Did something happen?" His inquiry is accompanied by a side look to the door and window and she knows he is plotting the demise of whatever is trying to hurt her.
"No, its fine; I'm fine," she promptly says and the effort leaves her breathless. He has yet to remove himself from above her, after all.
"Then what are you doing at-" He glares at his bedside clock, "-four in the morning in my bedroom?"
Claire pauses and suddenly she feels immensely juvenile under the intense assault of his blackish eyes. "I was cold," she whispers.
He sighs and sits up. "I can hand you a comforter, hold on here."
"No! Stay." Her hand is securely wrapped around his bicep as she tugs until they are both kneeling face to face.
His eyes roam her face for a moment and he seems to notice her dried tears and shallow eyes as he lowers his to face the ground. "I can wake up Peter if you need to talk."
His submissive stance is what makes her anger boil to the surface, finally. "I don't want Peter!"She grinds out and their eyes aligns again. "I want you."
His features are half darkened but even in the faint light she can see his brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"
"This," She wildly gestures the space between them. "What is wrong with you? Why don't you talk to me anymore?"
He avoids her eyes and decides to sit on the edge of the bed instead; his back towards her is a true statement of his thoughts. "Your breath reeks of alcohol, Claire; you know is futile to drink, you can't get drunk," he says softly.
"We," she corrects, reminiscent of something he told her in her dream world. Claire stands from her kneeling position to place herself in front on him again, determined to no let him get away with pushing her away. "We can't get drunk."
His eye connect with hers and there is the slightness of twitches that makes her finally attach the dots; words that Peter had said but she was too overwhelmed to understand. She feels cold dread slice her flesh. "You lost your abilities, didn't you?"
He stands up so quickly that she almost lost her balance and falls back. "Why do you care?"He spat in her face and Claire steps backwards; this is not the calculative and arrogant Sylar she has known, yet neither the candid compliant Sylar from her dreams. This man is all wildness and he seems to be hanging only by a fragile thread of sanity. "This is what you wanted right? I won't be bothering you for the rest of eternity."
Claire sidesteps and her gaze falls to her toes, bare and cold. She can't deny it because it was true; the thing is, she doesn't know if it is what she wants now. Her words die in her throat as she looks up, he is staring at her with some strange mixture of annoyance and pity and she quickly changes tactics.
"I want to know one thing; what you said to me months ago, was it true?"Better to be reassured before throwing herself off the cliff into dangerous waters.
His face froze for a short second before he closes all emotions from it. "I was dying, Claire." He smirks and his expression is so vacant, she tenses. "I could have said those same words to any other person looking my way."
His cool answer is most frigid than any freeze. She slides down, almost without her noticing, and Claire glares at the wall to her right, expecting that he hadn't notice the stray tear that falls to the floor. She waits a moment to gather herself before continuing. Her anger resurfaces; he has to be lying, she tells herself. "Then why did you stay at my bedside, why did you smiled at me that way, why are you here?"
He nods his head and steps around her to look out at the window. The landscape outside is brilliant white, almost phosphorescent in the night. "I'm a lot of things, Claire." He says and half turns to her again. He is a dark shadow surrounded by white. "But ungrateful is not one of those. You saved my life; I owe you."
It's the last spike of ice she can bear. It embeds so deep in her heart that she can almost see her blood pouring from the symbolic wound in her chest. This time, that wound doesn't signal his departure as she gives one, two, three steps backwards and soon she is the one who disappears.
Sylar is left alone once again and the brightness in his room becomes too much for him. With a flick of his wrist, the curtain closes at his command; he wallows silently in all of his misery in the darkness. Because he is too much of a damaged soul, he can't bring himself to offer an eternity of unhappiness to the woman he loves.
Ice is cold but it can burn exactly like fire.
These two are killing me ;_;