AN: Thanks for reviewing! And I will try to update more frequently in the future (examination period soon to be over!).
There was also a question about pairings in this story. I presume you referred to the main characters (since there's sort of a Claire-West thing already) and to be honest, this answer is harder to give than it was to write the following chapter. The simplest would be – I don't know exactly, I'm not sure how far I'm going to take this story. So let's just see what'll happen…
The car came to a stop in front of a shabby liquor store in the heart of the little town. Somehow, Claire couldn't exactly explain, they hadn't ended up in a horrific traffic accident. Still, when she climbed out of the vehicle she could hardly stand up straight for her legs felt like noodles.
Mr. Colter got out of his seat, closing the door with a loud thump. His sight seemed to linger a little too long on the neon sign on the store window that declared cheerfully "Booze 24h" to be considered healthy. But then, suddenly, he turned around and stretched out his arm rather awkwardly, tearing his eyes from the store, to say goodbye to his companions.
"Thanks a lot, Jim," Sylar nodded to their bald driver, accepting the hand Mr. Colter was offering him.
"No problem," he replied with a crooked smile since he hadn't really been very enthusiastic about their trip to town. "Just next time," he continued, eyes narrowing, "try not to waste any beer in the progress."
The two men shared a short laugh before parting their own way. Claire had barely time to utter a hasty farewell to Mr. Colter who disappeared to the liquor store thereafter.
"Strange man," Claire sighed following Sylar's lead down the street. He still managed to walk impossibly fast although he carried both of their bags.
"Don't get me started," he agreed, smiling to himself as if he'd just recalled some funny story starring Mr. Colter.
It took them about five minutes to get to the bus station. To be precise, there was no real station to speak of, simply a bus stop sign and a bench to sit on. Sylar proceeded going through the departures board, his frown growing deeper by the second.
When he was finished, he turned around to face Claire, who had taken seat on the bench, dangling her feet in the air out of boredom. "Alright, tell me, which ones first – the good news or the bad news?"
Claire didn't like where this was going. "Well… I suppose I'll take the bad ones first. It's sort of a tradition, wouldn't you say?" she said cautiously.
"As you wish," he said in a mockingly melodramatic voice that only managed to irritate Claire. "The bad news would be that the next bus goes at 05:45." For a moment they both stayed silent, him staring at her, probably waiting for her to explode.
"Let me guess," Claire said mirthlessly, "the last bus went like five minutes ago?"
"Twenty, actually, but still, pretty good guess."
"Not funny," she snapped at him. "So tell me the good news."
The boyish smirk on Sylar's face was quickly replaced by an innocent smile. "There's happy hour in the local bar."
"That's the good news?" Claire found herself shouting but there was no anger in her voice. She was too tired for anger. The car had been hot as a hell hole and all the way she'd dreamed of a comfortable bus with a functioning air-conditioner. "Honestly, Sylar, this is not funny at all." For once he used his alias purely to annoy him when most of the time she simply forgot it wasn't his real name.
As per usual, Sylar seemed to detect her intentions and refused to give her the satisfaction of taking the bait. He did give her a condemning headshake, though, before he started walking away from the bus stop, both of their bags still in his hands.
"Where are you going?" Claire bellowed, straightening up. He didn't stop, in fact he didn't even turn around to look at her. "Oh, come on! This is counterproductive!"
When Sylar vanished behind a street corner, Claire was left with no choice but to get up. She actually had to jog a little to catch up with his stubborn comrade who was, just like she had predicted, wearing a victorious smirk once she reached him.
Apparently the local bar was called the Dancing Hound which didn't really make much sense to Claire, but as Sylar pointed out, "why can't hounds dance?"
The place was half-empty at that time of the day, but there were a few people scattered around the spacious room that included a long bar counter and numerous round tables. Sylar took a seat by the counter and Claire followed to do the same.
"Gabe, my man, what will it be?" a melodic baritone voice called from the back of the bar. The barkeep was a tall sturdy man with the richest pair of sideburns Claire had ever encountered. That coupled with the small black vest he was wearing and the fact he was in the process of polishing a glass made him look like he'd stepped out of some weird picture book.
"A beer for me, Jer," Sylar stated, then turning to Claire expectantly. Her eyes skidded from one bottle to another, not knowing what she wanted. A part of her wanted to get wasted but she knew that, firstly, she wasn't capable of getting drunk and, secondly, even if she'd be, it would be foolish and unprofessional – she was on an assignment after all. No, she wouldn't get wasted solely out of boredom and heat exhaustion.
"Same," she decided finally. A cold beer would certainly wake her from this state of numbness.
"That's the spirit," Sylar chuckled, "live a little. Because you look like you've stepped out of the "Night of the living dead", no offence."
Claire had to suppress a laugh. She glanced at her wristwatch while the bartender poured their drinks. "So we have a little more than three hours to kill. Any ideas?"
"Well, we could chat," Sylar suggested, picking up the beer glass that had appeared in front of him to take a long sip.
"Chat?"
"Yes, for example you could tell me how Noah and your mother- what was her name? Sandra? -are doing."
"Oh, how sweet, you want me to tell you about the two of my parents you haven't killed? Isn't that a jolly way to spend time?" Only after the words had left Claire's mouth did she realize just how wrong they were.
Sylar visibly flinched at her comment, his eyes growing to the size of saucers.
"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," Claire said quickly. "You were trying to be nice and I'm acting like a complete bitch." She attempted to untangle the knot that had suddenly formed in her stomach and realized with utter shock that it was guilt she was feeling, genuine guilt for crossing that unchartered line between acceptable and cruel. When did she start feeling guilt for anything she did to him?
They sat in silence drinking their beer for a while. It wasn't by any means Claire's favorite beverage, but a cold beer on a day as hot as this was definitely most refreshing.
"How do you do it?" Claire asked, eying the golden liquid in her glass and the countless little bubbles that rose from it. "How can you make yourself feel the effects of alcohol?" Truthfully, it had always been one of the things she'd kind of missed. Not that she'd want to abuse alcohol or couldn't have fun without it, no, but whenever everybody around her got drunk and had a good time, she felt somehow out of loop. Drunken people seemed simply stupid to a sober one and it was rather lonely to be the only one who couldn't find the jokes funny.
"I don't know exactly," Sylar ruptured her train of thought. "You have to concentrate on… um, I suppose it's easier for me since I have active powers too, so I know how it feels to control them. You have to find your own way and when you do it comes pretty naturally," he explained absent-mindedly, sliding his beer glass from one hand to another. When he looked up again, a small smile appeared on his face, "the good thing, though – you may get drunk but you'll never have to bear a single hangover."
This time Claire didn't try to stop the laughter that wanted to escape her throat but let it out freely. She raised her glass and announced "So we may never learn the tortures of a single hangover!"
Sylar chuckled as he tipped his glass at her.
An hour later the duo was in a much better mood already. Claire wasn't completely sure if the drinking was working, so she swapped her beer glass for a bottle of rum. Sylar suggested they could play darts and they moved their little party to the back of the bar where the dartboard was hanging on the wall.
"Alright, look at this," Sylar said, beer glass in one hand and a red dart in the other. "This is how it's done." His eyes narrowed as he tried to aim the dart at the bull's eye, moving his throwing hand slowly back and forth.
"And no cheating!" Claire screeched before he could release the dart. "If you have some wonder-skill for that – off limits!" She sat on a ladder back chair, the rum bottle and two shot glasses next to her and a clipboard in her hands to mark down the results.
Finally Sylar let the dart fly and it barely hit in the board. "Dammit!" he swore under his breath.
"So what do I see?" Claire said in a teasing voice after she'd had a good laugh. "Nine points, is it?" She marked the number down.
"I'm just being a gentleman, giving you a head start," Sylar said as he approached the table to pour out two shots.
Claire set the clipboard aside, downed her shot and grabbed one of the blue darts. "Okay, I haven't played this game for years," she mused. "But I'm still going to beat your ass. You know why?"
Sylar's eyes sparkled with amusement in the dimly lit bar. "Why don't you tell me?"
"I have no idea," she grinned. Was she getting drunk? She didn't feel drunk… But the truth was she hadn't had so much fun in ages. The past few years had gone by so fast and Claire hadn't taken a single day of vacation. Always one mission after another. And when she was home, West was usually on one of his assignments. It was almost impossible to find time they could spend together. Her life was passing by her and she hadn't even noticed. Good thing she lived forever. But then again… West wouldn't.
"So let's see that winning throw of yours!" Once again it was Sylar's voice that brought her back to reality.
Claire threw her dart, one eye closed and brow furrowed in concentration. "Triple ten!" she yelled throwing her hands in the air. "That's three times ten equals thirty."
Sylar pouted and mimicked brushing away an imaginary tear as he wrote down the number.
If someone had told Claire about, uh, two days ago that she'd be drinking rum and playing darts with her former arch enemy, she would have had the poor lad institutionalized. But apparently miracles do happen or at least very improbable things.
Another hour passed and the darts started to hit the board less frequently. Claire had to conclude that her rum experiment was working, even if just a little. She felt mildly tipsy, though considering the amount of liquor they'd consumed she should have been dancing on table tops (it was the Dancing Hound after all).
Sylar, who was much bigger than Claire, seemed certainly more under the influence than her. Claire's only real question was: how the hell was he beating her at darts? Especially since he had tripped over a chair and knocked over a table when heading to the bathroom no more than ten minutes ago.
"Okay, I'll admit, this isn't working out the way I had hoped," she announced after one of her darts somehow ended up in Sylar's beer glass.
"I concur," Sylar agreed trying to receive the small object from his glass. Only his hand was too big to fit into the slim glass so Claire nicked it from his hands and fished the poor dart out.
"I say we move to the pool table," she suggested, grabbing the rum bottle by the neck.
"Couldn't agree more. I'm scared you might start throwing these darts at me otherwise."
They spent the third hour of their waiting time around the pool table. Sylar had ordered yet another glass of beer and Claire noticed he had started to mouth the words of the songs playing in the background in between his turns.
"Honestly, I thought you didn't drink on principal," she remarked as she circled the table, assessing her situation.
"Huh?" he chuckled but there was odd curiosity in his voice. "Why so?"
Claire bowed lower to take her shot. "I guess you always seemed like, um, a man who wanted, no, needed to be in control. Later, when I found out you were a watchmaker, it somehow made sense. I mean watches – time is what controls us and you literally fix timepieces. Also I don't think it's something you can do with shaky hands."
Sylar looked almost impressed and that's how Claire knew she was right. Apparently quitting murdering people of all things had driven him to drink.
A loud smack! pierced the air when the cue ball hit the red 3 that obediently rolled to the pocket. Claire could feel a proud grin curving her lips.
"Nice move, but you didn't think ahead and now you're in trouble" Sylar said, pointing at the position of her solid-colored balls. "You always have to think one step, better yet, two steps ahead."
"Is that something you learned when running from the police and the Company?" Claire quipped just before she executed another shot.
The yellow number 1 stopped merely quarter of an inch from the pocket, making her sigh with frustration.
"You could say that," Sylar chuckled, giving her the I-told-you-so look at the same time, "but playing a lot of snooker lately has probably been more helpful in that department. And by the way, if I remember correctly, weren't you the one who brought down a plane full of government's prisoners, helped that rebel kid and fled to Mexico? So you should be pretty good at thinking ahead by these standards…"
"Well," Claire looked at him, her eyebrows raised as she thought about it. "What I did consisted less of thinking ahead and more of acting on instinct," she finished with a hearty laugh. "Gosh, our lives sound like soap operas."
Sylar spent most of the game in the lead, but that only made snatching the victory from him at the last second that much sweeter for Claire.
She celebrated by downing three shots in a row and he ordered her a huge plate of what he called "victory fries". They spent their last moments eating, before Sylar settled their check (Claire didn't even bother to argue about that, knowing it would be totally pointless) and they strolled out of the Dancing Hound to catch the bus.
After three hours in a dark bar, the bright Texan sunlight almost blinded Claire. The air wasn't as hellish as it had been around noon but it was still hot outside.
When Claire finally collapsed into a comfy bus seat, she flipped out her cell phone with a satisfied sigh and texted the Company to book them plane tickets to New York. Sylar had already pulled out a book, though it seemed he was having trouble concentrating on reading it in his half-drunken state.
"So the rum worked?" he asked, setting his book aside.
"A little. I tried to concentrate on feeling it and stuff, it really is hard to explain," she backed up his previous statement. "But I think I got the essence of it."
"Got to keep practicing," Sylar said in a sing-song voice, laughing, as he turned back to his book.
They got to the airport around 8 o'clock, little more than an hour before their flight. During the bus trip all the effects of alcohol faded away and Claire felt rather brisk when they walked to the terminal. But Sylar dragged his feet and demanded that they'd have a sobering coffee before they proceeded to their gate.
Check-in and security control were annoying as always. Claire was simply too used to them to get frustrated due to her frequent travelling schedule. All that Sylar said was, "Those cheap bastards could have gotten us business class tickets since they're making me work for them against my own will. But no. What a bunch of cheapskates."
Once her belt was buckled and the plane started to move, Claire felt peace settle over her – the mission was basically accomplished or, well, at least the first half of it. They still needed to get to Boston and very soon, but right now all she thought about was that they'd be in New York before midnight.
For Claire it was going home… from her past home (or home state in the least, Texas did always represent her childhood to her). And for Sylar it was exactly the opposite. Pretty weird.
Claire stared out of the small oval window as the plane took off from the ground. The sky was clear, without a cloud in sight, so she watched as the city below them reduced to nothing but a clump of bright lights in the darkening evening.
"So, are you ready for…" Claire turned to her companion only to discover that Sylar's head had fallen to one side, his mouth was half-open and he was snoring lightly. Alright then…