Chapter 11: Homogeneous

Amazing what three weeks of boredom can do. Claire had just been to town for some ingredients she has ordered and was now cooking up dinner for the two of them. She choose tomato bruschetta with spinach, and not just because it was easy to make, but also because it was easy on the stomach.

Although they never talked about it, Claire was sure about her own assumptions. It was Sylar who had the superhearing, but certainly she was not deaf either. It was the second time this week she woke up to the sounds of him being sick at night, and sometimes in the morning he looked blench and a little worse for wear. Then he would sleep all day and never eat much. He never complained, or mentioned it, but it was not hard to guess that he was still suffering from what the company has done to him. The symptoms were the same, only a lot more subdued.

The blond was assuming the side effects will disappear soon, but did not feel like asking him if he was getting better. She was not his babysitter after all. It was uncomplicated to patronize a comatose serial killer, a conscious one, not that much. So instead, she was trying to make sure the food was less likely to upset his delicate stomach.

Claire took her crispy concoction out the grill. It looked surprisingly yummy for someone who was doing it for the first time. She arranged the pieces of bread neatly on the plates, she did like it when her captive was impressed by something she had done or achieved.

Sylar seemed mildly surprised when she stepped in. There were too identical plates on the tray. Claire set one of them down in front of him on the bed and held the other one on her lap where she sat down at the foot of the large bed. Far enough to be comfortable, but not having to spend the meal in the eerie silence that dominated her kitchen.

"What, no cake?" Sylar pulled his plate into his lap.

"I will probably not be in cake making mood till my 20th birthday," she shrugged.

"The 11th of the January is a long way away, little Claire."

"You know a lot about me, huh?" She squinted, the low sun in her eyes where she was sitting.

"The date of your birth is hardly a lot," he telekinetically pulled the heavy curtains so that the light didn't bother the girl. "Besides, do you really know for sure that wasn't only a made up time they put in your files?"

Claire wanted to oppose. Now that the blinds were closed, she found it was a little too dark to be comfortable in the same room with a killer so suddenly. But some other things were already set in motion, so she watched what was happening somewhat perplexed. The nightstand was turning over on its side and slid into the middle of the room, then its drawer opened and two candles flew out, settling on the top side of the overturned piece of furniture.

A thin criss cross line of blue energy shot out of Sylar's upturned palm and lit the candles, "it can not be comfortable for you eating like this. Allow me..." The plates levitated over to the makeshift table Sylar set, cutlery and all.

Claire was really at a loss of what was going on when a bit of the incidentally pink loo paper floated out the bathroom and started folding itself many times mid air. "Oh no, no, no!" She stood up when she realized paper roses were created and set down around her plate. "We're so not looking like we're having a date!"

"Not even for fun, Claire? We'd both know it's not real, so what's the problem? Aren't you just a little curious how'd that turn out?" He stood too, but neared the table, "would differences come out? Similarities?" He knelt down at his side of the set dinner. "How many real dates have daddy's little girl had?"

"I'd only be interested in figuring you out so I don't become anything like you. By the way, don't you know a bit too much about me, but not the other way round?" She took a stance by the sitting opposite him, daring him on. "Besides being a serial killer, that is."

"Mere technicality," Sylar waved a hand and shoved another one of the bruschiettas in his mouth. "Mmmm," he closed his eyes, with a facial expression that talked of sheer bliss, so much that Claire was starting to feel a bit discomfited that she cooked up such a good meal as if she was rewarding the killer for something.

Sylar savored his food bit by bit for a while before remarking anything more, "I've always wished there was a power that made people capable of coming up with such heavenly dishes."

"You don't need an ability for that," Claire scolded, "how about trying to be normal and doing it you know, the normal way as it's done? You should try it."

"So you'd prefer to teach me cook, Saint Claire?"

"It's not exactly what I'd imagined doing in my wild dreams."

"What you've imagined doing in your wild dreams?" Sylar cocked his head towards her.

"My dreams..." Claire said thoughtfully, "that I'd like myself. That if I could love my inner freak, others could too. The world could. Not having to spend a life denying who we really are...do you want to be who you are, Sylar?"

"Is it a matter of choice? The fact that it's hard, perhaps impossible to change, to ignore the existence of your ability, means to be that all that philosophy does not matter. Does anyone know what it is that makes some choose selflessness, the need to devote oneself to something greater, while others know only self-interest? Why some seek love, even if unrequited, while others are driven by fear and betrayal? And there comes catch 22. There's no point to thinking about it, assessing yourself. Cause you're right, who you are, is who you are."

"But you must know what made you who you are. People don't become serial killers for no reason."

"You don't wanna ask me that. I might be tempted to tell you."

"I am asking," she said slowly, decidedly and truthfully and his lie detector didn't ring either.

Claire remembered how he had said before that he had met his real father, just like she had been searching for her origins. "You were disappointed by your findings when you found out where you came from. Is that why you say you had no choice?"

The killer directed his eyes towards his food and finished his plate, but even then he was staring down the floor. Claire was about to conclude there will not be an answer to her question or perhaps ask him if he was okay. Which one she was going to do, she has not decided yet.

"You do have a new pack of printer paper, right?" He asked, his eyebrows deeply furrowed, "could you bring it in?"

His conversation partner did not ask where he knew from she had brought one back from town that morning, but stood and done as she was asked. Claire didn't usually mind him borrowing her laptop either.

Sylar opened the pack with telekinesis, but held his palm over the top of the paper. His hand was starting to glow golden, and the sheets too. The young blond scooted over closer, curious about this ability he had. It was imprinting. Gold characters appeared on the paper as if hand written by him and Claire pulled up right against his side to try to read them.

"For you," he handed her over the pack of pages full of writing right till the end. The ink turned black as if written by a Biro when he let go. "The story of my life. Right from my first memories to this very minute."

"Err..thanks...I think," Claire took the large block of papers confused and stood up. Surely she had no printing paper left! Except for a lot of reading to do if she was in any case bored. Which she was of course.

Tbc