Title: Claire Bennet tries counseling.
Characters: Claire Bennet; Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray.
Warnings: a little swearing, mentions of self-harming.
Summary: Claire Bennet tries counseling. Because, really? What better way to cope with the curveballs in life than to chat with your former tormentor? Talk about shock therapy...
A/N: Just a little something I wrote ages ago and wanted to share now. This has nothing to do with any of my other fics and is ambiguously placed some time in the future. Happy read!
Claire Bennet tries counseling.
"Normal people have chances," she starts off voice quivering despite her reluctance to do so, twisting her hands in her lap as her counselor nods. A bird chirps outside. The wind is gently knocking on the glass of the window, scouring its expanse and retreating backwards with a whistle of disenchantment. The scent of fresh ink wafts unremittingly to finally coalesce together with the signature floral's smell of her fabric softener into the nasal cavities of her scrunched up nose. Brown eyes remain riveted to her face as he waits patiently for her to continue, calm, impervious, indoctrinated, "But me?" she snorts and gives an ironic smile, "I've got nothing."
He nods again.
She wants to fucking carve his eyes out with her own fingers.
"Why don't you tell me more about those... chances, Ms. Bennet."
She reconsiders her initial plan though, because she can't really hurt an immortal brain-eater godlike with just the strength of her arguably durable, but nonetheless dainty hands.
Instead, she gives Gabriel "Sylar" Gray, PhD, a pencil in the eye.
He takes it calmly.
"Gretchen died."
"Do you think it's your fault?"
She pulls her knees closer to her chest, "I could've done something more. I could've-"
"You could've bled on her?"
It's times like these when she doesn't know if he is joking or being serious. The fact that his massively collected face and his 'I've got you' one looks exactly the same to her, is not helping matters. She furrows her brows in spite, eyes resting over the silvered dripping ink tube of his luxurious pen. Long fingers are twisting it languidly. She wonders if it was a graduation gift. God I want to kill you, she thinks briefly "Yes." Why on earth she dropped college?
He watches her watch him ─a behavioral item exerted to its greatest between the two, puts his pen down and waits a second that Claire spends nibbling at her lower lip, to then throw it outside the window, "And how would have that been helpful to the situation?" He asks coolly, she hears the scuffle of clothes against letter as he turns to her again.
Claire's eyes are dolefully staring at some point outside the window. Damn it! Fucking intuitive whatever, "I wouldn't have to go to fucking counseling, for example." She replies curtly, feet dangling freely at the end of the coach. She is so short.
Claire Bennet tries counseling.
Three weeks in, she decides to bring her own pens.
Gabriel Gray, PhD, turns to the door even before it opens. Claire gasps at the sudden appearance and clutches her bag to her chest.
"You've missed the last two sessions, Ms. Bennet." He says amusedly.
She glares as she passes by his side and searches for her usual place on the couch; she manages to glare at him during the time it takes her to plop down on her spot —even in pivoting to get a grasp of the arm's rest, "Oh, shut up, Sylar."
He laughs a dry, humorless chuckle that somehow manages to paint the perfect image of his stoic, blasé, dark demeanor in her head. He closes the door and follows her to the divan. She wonders how he even gets clients, "Bad day?"
"Isn't it always?" It pains her to speak with him. No, wait. It really pains her to speak. Her feet may be sore.
He seats as well, picks up his pen —Another? And opens his notebook, "And how does that make you feel, Ms. Bennet."
Have you ever stopped to think about how much we have in common, Claire?
It doesn't feel right, "Claire." She corrects before she can stop herself. He glances up at her startled. To dilute her momentarily lapse of good judgment, she hastily adds, "And don't do that shrink-shit on me, Sylar." It bugs her that he can make her this confused all the time.
"I wouldn't really call it 'shrink-shit', Claire."
She laughs because what else is there to do, really? At least he listens to her. "Okay. Counseling Crap, then. Isn't as catchy, though."
He stares at her and shakes his head, "Lets continue."
She wonders why the fuck did she ever agreed to this.
Oh, right. Peter.
"I killed a person."
"It was in self-defense, Claire."
He knows, everybody knows. Of course he would, it was televised in every fucking news' station for god's sake. She's rocking back and forth with both feet firmly planted on the edge of the couch, her spot; the couch's cushion is soft and feels warm under her. The couch cushion is always soft and feels warm. Just like the feel of blood. Her nails bite the inside of her hands as tears run down her cheeks. Her voice breaks, "I killed someone, Sylar." she looks up at him.
Desperate, jarring, gut-wretchedly.
His emblematic pen is put aside, his notebook floats onto the coffee table between them. He slowly gets up and meanders the four-legged piece of furniture. She doesn't look at him not even when she feels the heat radiating out his body as he takes a seat next to her. An arm wraps around her shoulders. She doesn't flinch despite not having anticipated the move, she doesn't want to, instead she holds on to his shirt and sobs bleakly.
"I killed someone."
Her voice is hoarse.
"So did I."
"Thank you."
He nods, "You're welcome."
"Oh, for god's sake."
He furrows his prominent brows; from up this close, she notes how they are sparser at the top. She is tempted to count them all, so that at least she will get to know something certain about him, "What?"
"Just stop it, okay?" She says in irritation, "Stop with all the cool attitude and the nodding. It doesn't suit you."
He puts his pen and papers on the side—really close to her reach, and leans in, resting his elbows on his knees, "What does suit me, Claire?"
She leaves. She doesn't know anymore.
"I never thank anyone."
He smiles, "I never apologize."
Now she is the one nodding, searches for her usual place at the couch, and seats calmly on it "Neither do I."
"You're in early, Ms. Benn-."
"Claire."
"Claire.", he corrects himself, "Why?"
"Why Claire? I don't know I thought it was a joke from my bio-mom, since she both took French in high school and was a firecracker," He is not amused at all, she can tell on the spot, so after an elongated pause, she shrugs dejectedly, "...Maybe I like it here?"
He nods. Atypically accepting the answer is a less robotic fashion and a more open manner, "How are you today, Claire?"
She clears her throat before she starts talking about the nightmares.
"I think I'm cured."
"Is that so?"
Claire leans forward; her chair squeals loudly, "Yeah," She whispers, her voice battles for dominance with the quiet, soft murmur of the early spring blustery weather.
Sylar puts the pen aside; its metallic surface shines under the timely morning sunshine coming from the window. He leans forward in his own chair, hands neatly folded over his lap, "How did you came up with that conclusion?"
"Well," She starts, eyes refusing to rest on a spot for more than a millisecond long. When all possibilities are tested, they finally settle for a place somewhere between his face and the far wall, "For starters I don't have nightmares anymore."
He smiles at her. Not in his usual callous manner but in a genuinely pleased way, "That's good; it means we'd managed to externalize your fears."
She smiles at his excitement, it is new and hers to take credit for, "And," She adds softly, he is watching her watching him—in that intense full of meaning way they had mastered. Hands twisting nervously over her lap. The tension builds and builds, until she cracks beautifully, "I don't have the urge to carve your eyes out." She says quickly, unflinchingly, excitedly.
His left eye quivers for a fraction of a second; his right hand squeezes the left one. She is almost sure she saw the pen on the desk shudder a little. Then he nods not so calm, not so impervious, not so indoctrinated, "How about your fixation with your dad?"
Claire bits her lip, tucks her chin in, feeling a small thrill of exhilaration, "Oh yeah let's talk about dad, I have tons of daddy issues to share."
Claire Bennet tries counseling.
Five years in she decides it is helping them both.