"How in the world is she taking so long..." Sylar mutters under his breath, leaning against the cream-colored building.
"Talking to yourself? Why am I not surprised?"
For a supposed hostage, Claire sounds pretty amused. Sylar's lip curls in a self-assured smirk as he turns around to face the young blonde."They say talking to oneself is an indicator of a sane mind. Plus...you were taking forever."
"I did not take forever," Claire protests, even though there are almost a dozen shopping bags clutched in her tiny hands. "I had to use the bathroom before I came out, that's all...Lady problems." And then that specific ringing goes off in his ears for the first time since Sylar has been around her...So Claire is actually lying to him now? What an unexpected twist.
The vehicle Sylar stole after persuading Claire to join him awaits in the shopping mall's parking lot; a dark blue, beat-up truck with peeling paint and moth-eaten seats. Inconspicuous, old, tarnished. Good enough to get them out of state, or so he tells himself. Sylar has two more people to visit in the US before they can make their way across the Atlantic and change history as he knows it.
"Where are we even going?" Claire's voice cuts into his thoughts as soon as they're moving.
"You'll find out soon enough."
"Sylar. You can't just—abduct me—and then—"
"I did not abduct you," Sylar replies tersely, his gaze never leaving the road. "We made a deal, Claire. You have been a nuisance ever since we left hours ago...I have been dealing with it as best I can. But you've been nothing but unhelpful and condescending...constantly complaining, and I don't think—"
"I don't give a shit what you think!" Claire suddenly yells. Sylar takes his eyes off the road for a second to look her way. The glaring accusation in her vibrant green eyes causes him to feel only mildly uncomfortable. "You really are fucking crazy," she adds in a small, defeated tone.
"Language, Claire," he says. "Seriously...Grow up."
"I'm not the one going around kidnapping people, am I?"
Seconds later, they're parked on the side of a dark, empty, chilly road in the middle of nowhere, California. Sylar turns to look at Claire. Her gorgeous, expectant face is what really stops him from hurting her as he'd initially planned. Even though she can always heal right back...No harm, no foul, right?
"Well? Why'd you stop the car?...I thought you had something important to keep from happening? What happened to that whole, Together we can save the world," and then Claire's voice gets all low and scratchy. Is she really trying to mimic him? Not doing a very good job of it, in his opinion. "You're not even listening, are—"
"Claire, if you don't quiet down I'm going to take physical measures to ensure your silence ."
"Um...What are you talking about?"
Sylar turns to look at her. Those luscious pink lips have been haunting his nightmarish fantasies for years.
"Yes, I am the devil. Yes, I would enjoy killing all those you hold dear. Yes, I'm driving a car so I need you to stop talking. I need to concentrate...I have too many things going on in my mind right now..." Like how hard it is to concentrate with Claire looking that good, her curves so soft-looking, petite, and yet delightfully sinful. Or how awful it is for him to keep his hands away from her lithe body; it almost feels like he's doing something that goes against his body's instincts, goes against nature itself. Sylar would just as soon fuck Claire as he would kill her. And since he can't do the latter, well...
"Probably won't take more than another half hour to get to a hotel...But right now, you need to keep your trap shut...if ya know what's best for ya, sugar." The southern tinges at the end are purposeful, and he sees Claire blush furiously out of the corner of his eye as he starts up the car and they resume their drive.
Claire's breaking the silence only a few minutes later, and Sylar wonders if she just can't help herself. He never realized females could be so chatty. Surprisingly, the man finds he doesn't really mind her voice all that much. Most people irritate him to the point of, well, murder. Claire makes him feel oddly revitalized even while going against direct orders...Perhaps it's the fact that she's always presented a real challenge for Sylar, or perhaps the mere presence of another evolved, immortal human is making him feel a little...strange. Different.
"Are you just going to ignore me?"
"I apologize. What were you saying?"
"I asked where you acquired that ability. It was Matt Parkman, wasn't it? When part of you was in his head...When you were Nathan?"
Sylar turns to her briefly before focusing back on the road. Claire's gaze is heated and defiant, as if she's daring him to say something she won't agree with so they can continue arguing about how much of a 'bad guy' he really is.
Sylar's had just about enough of other people's self-righteous ramblings, especially in regards to matters they haven't the vaguest clue about.
"It wasn't Parkman," he breathes, not daring to look at Claire again, afraid he might attack her in this fleeting moment of weakness. "It was a man in Russia. Parkman can read minds, yes, but he can also control them...He can push thoughts. Control one's future actions. Erase memories."
"And the guy in Russia?"
"Not nearly as strong as him. Parkman is," Sylar hesitates just a moment, "extremely strong. Kostomarov's ability was similar...surely good enough to read your mind whenever I have a need for it. Something I wasn't even doing before, by the way...I simply heard some of your thoughts earlier."
"So when did you last read my mind?" Claire presses.
"Hours ago. When we were at your place."
"Liar," Claire laughs.
"You're the real liar here, Claire. Running off with the villain? Hoping to get back at daddy Noah...and uncle Peter?"
At her lack of response he sneaks another look only to find her grinning.
A fascinating specimen.
"You find this amusing?" Sylar's eyes are back on the road. He feels oddly provoked now. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as he imagines wrapping them around her slender neck.
"Damn right I do," Claire mutters. "You emotionally blackmailed me into coming with you, Sylar. The least you can do is tell me where we're headed."
"Emotional blackmail...Really now."
Another swift peak, and he's greeted by a look of pure loathing. Sylar delights in the reactions he can elicit from her, even without trying. Silence stretches between them a bit longer, and then, "You said you'd kill my entire family if I didn't go with you. And then held the future deaths of billions of people over my head! Seventy-eight percent of the world's population will be wiped out if we don't stop this, Claire. What else would you call that if not emotional blackmail?"
"Outstanding negotiation skills?" he offers.
"I'm done trying to have a legitimate conversation with you," she huffs. "Maybe you're the one who needs to grow up."
"Ouch, Claire. I didn't know you cared so much," he says with a pleased smirk. "Already copying my insults."
"You're an asshole. You know that, right?"
"I think the name calling is a little below us, wouldn't you agree?" He shrugs. "Evolved beings, and all that."
"That right there. What you just said." Claire sighs heavily. "Perfect proof that you're a crazy asshole."
"I'm starting to regret not tying you up and gagging you," Sylar confesses darkly, and he can almost feel her bristle beside him.
The rest of the drive is silent, almost motionless. Less than an hour later they pull into the Hillside Motel, a few miles from a national park that extends up into Oregon state. They're parked in one fluid motion, and Sylar gladly notes there are only three other cars in the lot.
Before entering the building, he's already morphed into a wiry, blonde-haired man he met months before. Not a victim but rather an acquaintance, which is quite a rarity for Sylar, even these days. Claire waits for him in the car as he gets a room for James Nichols and his made up bride-to-be, Clara. Fat, heavy drops of rain start falling as Sylar's walking back to get her. He pulls Claire to the safety of the building as the sky rumbles loudly above them.
Room number eleven seems water-damaged yet clean; the air is stuffy and it smells of bleach and carpet cleaner.
"One bed?" Claire whines before sitting on the squeaky mattress in question. She busies herself with the numerous bags she brought in, not meeting his eyes. "You're sleeping on the floor." Her cheeks darken. "Right...?"
He doesn't answer her, merely steps inside and locks the room door before proceeding to lock himself in the bathroom. Sylar is in the shower for seven minutes when Claire starts pounding on the door, seemingly desperate to use the toilet.
"You never said you were getting in the shower," is her mumbled excuse when he opens the door. Claire's bright, curious eyes fill with what might be appreciation as they roam over his lean, towel-wrapped physique. Sylar suddenly feels a tad self-conscious, something he hasn't felt in ages.
When Claire awkwardly comes back out of the bathroom, Sylar commits her fleeting, bashful expression to memory. Minutes later a strangled moan catches in Sylar's throat as he rubs himself to completion, that shy yet alluring look on her face playing behind closed eyelids. When he's finished, he lets the hot water wash over him until his skin glows red from the constant burning and healing. As if the water could wash away his horrifying sins, wash away the thoughts Sylar has about the girl out there in that room, thoughts he can't put into action otherwise Claire would probably call their deal off and think him a sick bastard.
Sylar expects her to be ignoring him when he comes out of the bathroom, naked save for the towel wrapped around his waist. Instead, Claire is sitting in the same exact spot she chose when they first walked into the room, shoulders hunched and hands clasped on her lap, shopping bags left forgotten. At the sight of him standing against the door frame, she lowers her lashes and blushes profusely, her arms folding beneath perky breasts. Sylar's mouth starts to water.
"This is the part where you kill me, right?"
Claire shakes her head and lays back on the bed so her legs dangle off, closing her eyes and sighing deeply, tiredly. For a moment, she looks so lovely and peaceful he wants to slip away and leave her be, never bother this beautiful young soul again. Yet so devastatingly broken Sylar wants to take her face in his hands and never stop kissing her, never stop showing her how amazing they can be together.
Take her, fix her, keep her.
"Killing you has not made it into my plans...Thought that was clear years ago. You're special. We are special. We can't die, Claire." Her eyes open and she smiles slightly, but it's so damn mocking he immediately wants to slap it off her face. Claire's next words are unsurprisingly harsh and true.
"I hate you." A small pause, and then, "I watched you die. I just wish you had stayed dead."
Sylar's ears start ringing immediately. He can't help the smug look that crosses his face.
"No, you don't," he says in a low tone as he approaches the bed. His legs press against the edge of the mattress, nudging the side of Claire's knee. He looms above her small frame, the sly, bloodthirsty hunter and his cornered, unaware prey. Claire opens her eyes and stares up at him questioningly.
"Hm?"
Sylar considers using his telepathy on the girl, but soon dismisses the thought. He has all the information he needs from her...for now. His hands twitch with an uncontrollable, twisted longing to damage her, to heal her; a contradiction of desires rages war within him. "You're lying to me, Claire." Far too much innocence shines out of those emerald pools. Sylar wants to hurt her, pleasure her, make her scream his name and beg for tender mercy. "Very soon...I'm going to find out why."