Sylar led her to a medium sized room with windows facing the driveway. The bed was bare indicating it hadn't been used for a while. If ever, Claire noted. She couldn't really imagine Sylar having many houseguests.
He provided her with bedding and even floated her travel bag out of the car and into the room through an open window. That must have been a convenient skill, Claire mused as she stood aside watching him with faint astonishment. It was all just odd.
"Uhm, I think that should do," Sylar said, inspecting the room thoughtfully. Uncomfortable silence ensued.
"Will you give me a house tour?" Claire spoke up in a chipper voice. She felt pretty great to be honest. She didn't have to drive back tonight, she could sleep in an actual bed and she was in Texas, no less. Things looked fairly good at that very moment. Even the fact that she was staying at Sylar's place couldn't ruin it for her.
"If you'd like," he shrugged.
They went through the house, opening doors, and falling into casual conversation. Apparently the house had been empty for some time before he'd bought it a few years back and spruced it up.
He showed her the bathroom they'd share for one day, skipped his bedroom smoothly and moved on to what he described as "everything-room".
It was a spacious room filled with - as he had promised - kind of everything. In the middle stood a large table covered in broken radios and all sorts of other technical devices mixed with heaps of bolts and screws and different metallic gadgets. There was a telescope by a large window and what looked like an old jukebox with a mountain of records on top of it. Left part of the room was mainly occupied by canvases, some painted, others plain and an easel topped with an unfinished painting of Texan landscape in the middle of them. In the right side sat a small couch coated with books.
Claire found herself vaguely wondering if she had to rethink the whole Sylar-is-sort-of-a-neat-freak thing, though the rest of the house she'd seen this far had been organized fastidiously. This room was a mess but the kind of mess where you wanted to fiddle with all the cool things lying around. Maybe it was a work in progress?
"I didn't know you painted," she pointed out, her eyes darting around the room, not knowing what to focus on.
"I-" he sounded cautious, leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, "that's for… I lost some abilities awhile back-"
"When you spent a little time south of the border?" Claire smiled mockingly. "I remember that story."
"Yes, well, those abilities are still there, I just haven't figured out how to access them again." His voice went up in excitement as he spoke. "It's not like I can cut open my own head and-" when she saw Claire's raised eyebrow, he paused mid-sentence, remembering who he was talking to.
Claire stifled a laugh that threatened to escape her lips and Sylar coughed like he was trying to do the same. She really had no idea why she found it funny but she was tired of tip toeing around his past.
"Anyway, I think I'm getting closer," he added after clearing his throat.
Claire's gaze travelled from one painting to another. Most were of landscapes. "Anything's come true yet?" she japed, referring to Isaac Mendez's ability of precognition, he was clearly trying to summon. Taking a few steps forward she became to a halt before the table, fingers hovering over the littered surface, scanning for something to fiddle with. She eventually settled on a bolt, rolling it between her fingers.
"I was trying to fix the jukebox," he explained observing her.
She put down the bolt and stalked on to examine the item in question. "Where have you gotten all this stuff?" she asked absent-mindedly, shifting through some of the records. Majority of them seemed to be from the 60's and 70's.
"Some of it was left behind by the previous owner," he motioned the telescope. "But the jukebox I got from the local bar."
Claire had already set the records aside and was toying with the dusty telescope. Certainly not state-of-art, she noted. "Have you ever used it?"
"I have," he still hadn't moved from the doorframe. "I like to keep busy… any way that I can. Even if it means mapping the sky. It, uh, helps with, um, distracts me from other thoughts."
They continued their tour on the bottom floor. Claire had already briefly seen the kitchen and the living room. In addition to them the first storey included a study with a large desk, pool table and alarmingly many bookcases and a whole room reserved solely for everything ticking – clocks and watches big and small, or timepieces as he called them. Claire found that particular room more than a tad creepy but decided to keep her opinion to herself for once.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Claire tried to contact the Company to report her progress but her phone got no signal, so she decided to try again in the morning. Sylar threw together some sandwiches for them before he settled down in one of the armchairs with a thick medical book. A bit of light reading, huh? Hadn't he worked as a doctor in New York some years ago, Clare might have been anxious, but according to Hiro Nakamura he had quite a knack for removing tumors, though he obviously couldn't use his finger for it in a real hospital.
Instead of thinking how people let him prod their brains voluntarily these days, she curled up on the couch, flipping through the channels, which he did not have many, not to mention the TV was literally ancient. He claimed he only watched the news and, alright-alright, the occasional movie when something tolerable was on.
Claire settled on reruns of some old TV show, though it was more interesting to watch Sylar float logs into the crackling fire. The living room was warm and cozy and she ached to change into her soft pajamas but quickly concluded it would have been too weird.
It was almost midnight when she finally forced herself to get up from the couch before sleep could claim her. She wished Sylar "good night," and stumbled upstairs. The moment her head touched the pillow, her eyelids grew so heavy she must have dosed off instantly. The last coherent thought she had was that she shouldn't feel so safe in this house.
Claire opened her eyes half-expecting a couple of Company agents leaning over her, one of them holding a bloody spike he'd just yanked out of her head, telling her Sylar was already half across the country, but no.
Everything was completely normal. The room was flooded with bright morning sunlight and she could hear birds singing outside so loudly, she was surprised they hadn't woken her. She sat up with effort, glancing at her wristwatch that rested on the nightstand. 9.39 AM. Time to get up.
Claire dressed silently and headed for the bathroom, wondering whether Sylar was a late sleeper in which case he was in for an unpleasant surprise because Claire couldn't waste much more time on this assignment. When she opened the door to the hallway, the wave of smell that hit her told her he wasn't. The whole house seemed to be filled with the scent of bacon and toast and coffee. It felt like… it felt like a home.
She crept down the stairs her packed travel bag in hand, imagining that her mom had broken in during the night to cook breakfast. She could almost see her standing in front of the stove, ready to give her that bright smile of hers when she'd step into the kitchen. It was rather strange but rich breakfast always reminded Claire of her mother.
But it was naturally Sylar, clean-shaven and dressed in a button-down shirt as usually, who called her a cheerful "good morning!" as soon as she crossed the kitchen door. "Are you hungry?" he continued, moving chaotically as he was pouring coffee and frying eggs and bacon and were those hash browns? all at the same time.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he said innocently when he noticed the stunned look on Claire's face.
She barely had time to mumble "good morning," before Sylar dropped a steaming plate of food before her. It smelled so good that the only feasible answer was, "Yes, in fact I'm starving, thank you."
Sylar set a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice next to her food before he started shoveling breakfast on another plate. Moments later they were both sitting at the table, eating. Claire couldn't stop staring outside. Yesterday she couldn't care less about the passing landscape as she drove there, but today she felt nostalgic. Sylar was completely lost in some newspaper article. It was a slow morning.
"How did you end up here anyway?" Claire asked just out of the blue. "I mean, how did you decide, 'oh, I think I'm going to move out of New York and to a small town in Texas?' "
Sylar looked up from his newspaper, in thought. "I guess I just got tired of New York," he answered simply. "Too many people, too many temptations, the Company always breathing down my neck. You know, contrary to popular opinion, I just want to have a life and it's not that easy when people keep scowling at you, telling you it's never gonna happen."
Claire hadn't really expected such an honest answer so for a moment she felt oddly speechless, not one nasty comment floating around her head, waiting to get out. "Doesn't it anger you?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.
"What do you mean?" he set his newspaper aside and laid his hands on the table, palms down, waiting for Claire to continue. She briefly glanced at the heading that declared there was another picket in Washington tomorrow regarding the legislation for evolved humans.
"I mean," she didn't exactly know what she meant to be truthful, it was just something that had been rattling around in her head for a while. "I mean, you can't change what you've done, all you can do is try to make up for it any way that you can, but people, they don't see it. They still see you as the… uh, still see you like you're the same."
For a moment Claire could see a spark of understanding in his eyes, she couldn't completely explain. But questions always partially described the questioner and she was afraid she'd said too much.
"It used to anger me a lot," he said quietly, playing with the saltshaker before he looked up again. "Then I tried to put myself in their-" his eyes said your "-position. The closest I could come up with was Angela Petrelli," he let out a mirthless laugh. "I know she's you grandmother and all, but I guess it's no secret I hate her with quite some passion."
"The 'put your shotgun against her head and pull the trigger' gag was kind of a giveaway," she smiled darkly, her eyes cold as ice.
"Well she did want to blow up New York City," Sylar pointed out. "And she made me believe… Well, anyway," his voice that had risen in anger dropped back to normal in a split second, "I thought to myself, if Angela would ever come to me and say she was sorry, what she would of course never do, but let's say she did then what would I do? Would I forgive her? Would I ever trust her? No. And if I can't forgive her, then how can I expect other people to forgive me when I've done worse things to them than she ever did to me?"
Claire didn't know how to answer that. He certainly had a point but it suggested there was no way to ever truly redeem oneself, to ever truly find forgiveness. She didn't like that conclusion and not only for his sake. She also noticed for the first time just how given up Sylar appeared. It was almost pathetic.
After breakfast Claire tried to get in contact with the Company again but naturally there was still no signal. Sylar disappeared into his "clock room" mumbling something about a delivery he needed to finish. Claire could only hope they'd get going in time to catch a flight that would get them to New York at a decent hour.
So she wandered around the house while Sylar tinkered with his watches, though Claire couldn't grasp why he bothered to work for money since he could turn stuff into gold whenever he pleased. Another one of his abilities that seemed very convenient, but still not worth the price he'd paid for it, she reminded herself firmly. Never worth such price.
Claire decided to invade his study, play what turned out to be snooker instead of pool and raid his liquor cabinet. Sylar had once told her he'd found a way to suppress the regeneration skill enough to feel the effects of alcohol but Claire had never mastered that. She still enjoyed the burning sensation it caused though. It was probably the closest thing to pain she could feel.
She poured herself a generous glassful of scotch and took a big gulp. Sure Sylar wouldn't mind. As it was snooker and she didn't really know the rules, she only used the red balls and tried to hit them in the holes with the white one.
An hour passed but the door to the watch room remained shut. Claire didn't dare to bother him there but she did find a radio from the study and used it to blast the oldies station all over the house, adding even some dance moves to the music. She did it partly because she was bored, but mostly just to express her impatience and annoy the hell out of him.
She had to conclude that it didn't work. Sylar exited his den exactly at twelve o'clock when the delivery guy arrived and not a moment before. He handed him two neatly wrapped parcels, signed some papers and after the FedEx van had sped away he announced he was finally ready to go.
He looked so relaxed after his time with his watches, his eyes glimmering with such pride for his work, that Claire thought she might have found the answer for her question before.
Sylar had a duffel bag ready, so he threw both of their things in the car and locked the house up. Claire actually felt a sudden tinge of regret as she sat to the driver's seat, ready to drive away. All in all, it had been good to be back in Texas and part of her could understand perfectly why Sylar seemed so fond of the place. But he would be back here in a few days, while she would be in her small apartment on Manhattan and that was fine too, just… it wasn't a home. Not really.
Her sentimentality was quickly replaced with irritation when the car refused to start. They both stared at each other with puzzlement before Sylar climbed out of his seat and popped the hood.
Claire followed his lead and seconds later they were both staring down at the engine.
"Well, can you fix it?" Claire inquired, crossing her fingers for the answer to be 'yes'. Her patience was really running out.
"Uh," he was looking at the engine so intensely, she was afraid it might burst into fire. "It seems the battery is empty. You must've left a light on or something-" he was silenced by the glare she gave him.
"So can you fix it?"
"From what I can tell, all it needs is a good zap." He smiled raising one of his hands and waving it slightly at her. Claire only rolled her eyes. Showoff. "Okay, get back behind the wheel and try to start the engine when I tell you to," he instructed.
She could see the blue light dance on his face for a split second before the engine roared to life. Thank God. Sylar jumped in and they were finally pulling away from the house.
They were about half-way down the long driveway when the engine died again. "No freakin way," Claire muttered incredulously.
When Sylar opened the hood once more, Claire knew they were screwed as soon as she saw the look on his face. The amount of smoke rising from the engine might have given her a hint as well.
"Um," Sylar started awkwardly. "I think I zapped it a little too hard. It's, uh, the engine is pretty much toast, I'm sorry."
"You've got to be kidding me!" Claire shouted out in frustration, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "Alright, we'll just take your car and I'll contact the Company when we get somewhere I can get a signal, let them take care of this." She eyed the smoking hood with resentment.
The roar of laughter that welcomed her suggestion left her more at loss then anything. "That car doesn't work, it doesn't even have an engine," Sylar explained when he'd calmed down a bit. "I was supposed to fix it but I didn't have the right parts." Claire could feel her jaw drop.
"So how do you get around? I mean, even you have to go the store and stuff, right?" she was honestly interested and also grasping at straws. "Do you just fly around?"
"Definitely not. I don't want to cause a national incident and you know how well the airspace is monitored these days," he barked another laugh, "My nearest neighbors live three miles away. A disturbance in the airspace would automatically paint a nice red X right on my house."
"So what? You walk?"
Sylar looked like he was about to reveal some huge secret. "I ride a bike of course," he announced with a wide smile. The bastard found the whole thing funny.