Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes.
04 December, 2009
"What are you wearing," Claire quirked a brow as she leaned against the doorjamb.
Sylar crossed his arms uncomfortably. "We're going to a frat party," he told her flatly.
"Dressed like that," she asked, looking him up and down.
The object of her scrutiny shifted slightly before folding his arms and stepping forward, forcing Claire to retreat into her room. Another large step left him inside her room and the door swinging shut behind him. "What's so wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"A white button up tucked into blue jeans," Claire asked incredulously, backing away from Sylar, desperate for a little personal space.
The ex-cheerleader dropped onto her bed amidst a pile of books and papers. Nimble fingers plucked papers up and assembled a neat pile on top her desk. Bed clear, Claire tucked her legs underneath herself before finally returning her attention to Sylar.
He had watched distance herself. Sylar's toes curled in his boots, he refused to crowd her. Not when they had actually had a few brief moments of near normality. She had let down her walls, let him in, just a little. Watching her desperately attempt to maintain her calm and her hatred was amusing. The tall man knew it would hardly be easy to put aside years of pain and hatred, history was hard to forget. Sylar would coax her along like a skittish kitten. He would convince Claire he was harmless, to her at least.
"So," Sylar wheedled, "what's wrong?"
Claire's head rolled to the side a little before she levered herself up with a little sigh. She walked towards him, tilting her head slightly so she could see him fully. She stepped around Sylar, ignoring how his head turned in an attempt to keep her in sight. Coming back to focus Claire rested her left arm across her stomach, hand on her right him. Her right hand propped up her chin, elbow resting on against her wrist. She hummed softly before dropping her stance and stepping up to Sylar. She just barely came up to his shoulder, her nose brushing the center of his chest. She felt him stiffen slightly, his breathing becoming a little shallower. Claire slid her arms between his arms and his side, wrapping her arms around Sylar's back and began tugging the button up shirt from his pants, systematically pulling and sliding the shirt free. When she reached his sides she leaned a little closer, the soft cotton of the shirt gathered in her fingers as she tried not to actually touch him.
She gulped as her hands became trapped between her stomach and his. Each twist and tug caused him to rock forward a fraction of a millimeter. It was almost unnoticeable, except, with every tug he brushed against her hands.
When the last of the cloth had been freed Claire stepped back and looked at him, she shook her head before her fingers darted upward to the small button pressed against his collar. She stared at the button as her fingers slipped the button from the shirt. Forcing her body to take clam, regular breaths, Claire's hands slipped down to the next button, and then the next.
Sylar stood frozen as her delicate hands slid down his chest, a light pressure that spoke more of a lover's touch than a mortal or immortal enemy's. As the last button slipped free Claire reached up, hands skimming aside the edges of the shirt, short nails and soft fingertips trailing against firm, pale, skin and thick dark hair.
Claire was certain she stopped breathing as she slid her hands under the fabric of the shirt and slid her hands down his arms, helping Sylar shed the button up. Forcing herself to exhale, Claire looked up at Sylar, her green eyes meeting his molten hazel eyes. She shoved the button up off his hands, head dipping with the force, her nose brushing against warm skin and smooth hair.
She inhaled sharply at the contact and felt her knees lock. Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it to still the movement. He smelled like fire and pure masculinity. He wasn't supposed to be any of this. He wasn't supposed to show up looking like he was taking her to a five-star restaurant and the theatre. He wasn't supposed to be so fit: firm chest, defined abs, strong arms. More importantly, Claire wasn't supposed to feel butterflies.
She stepped back and spun towards her closet as he opened his mouth to speak. "Going shirtless is more appropriate?"
The blonde tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed in relief. Claire hadn't been sure how to break the silence. It had built and thickened with each moment and each small movement of her body against his. It was too intimate, her actions alone were overly familiar, add the silence and the scene became charged.
"No," Claire responded to his almost-sarcastic comment as she opened the door and began to dig through her clean laundry basket. "Here," Claire held up what was clearly a man's black t-shirt.
White teeth gritted at the sight and muscles tightened visibly, "And you have men's clothing because?"
"It's mine," her nose wrinkled at his train of thought. "I like to sleep in it."
The shirtless man took the shirt from her and tugged it over his head. It fit nicely; it was tight without being choking. Sylar wasn't a particularly vain man, however in recent years he had become much more aware of his appearance and how it could be used to benefit him. He caught his reflection in the mirror and Sylar could admit he looked good. He jerked slightly as Claire's fingers threaded through his hair, ruffling the strands into a more relaxed look.
"There," Claire stood back to admire her work, "That you can wear to a frat party."
The smile that spread across the blonde's face slipped as a grin etched itself on Sylar's face. "My turn," he purred taking a firm step forward.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Claire grumbled at the man who stood next to her in the corner.
"The party or that dress," Sylar asked innocently.
"Both," was the sharp reply as Claire shifted in her three inch red pumps. Her hip cocked, emphasizing every curve of her body that little bit extra. Sylar had managed to dig out the one dress she owned that she hadn't ever worn outside the comfort of her own room, mostly because her father would probably lock her up in Level 5 if she ever did. It was a vivid red sweetheart-neckline bandage dress that stopped mid-thigh. It was tight and bright, she couldn't blend in if she tried.
"You're gorgeous," Sylar leaned down to whisper in her ear, eyes scanning the crowd of college kids.
Claire rolled her eyes. She had fought him on the dress, done her makeup grudgingly, and allowed him to curl an arm around her waist as they walked to the party. This wasn't her scene. Claire wasn't interested in the same things peers were. She had bigger concerns, like avoiding people finding out that she couldn't die or keeping out of the governments hands.
These kids were just that: kids.
"Look at them," Sylar's arm curled around her back, Claire stiffening as hand around her side, just above her hip. "They have no concept of the world outside of themselves."
"Yeah," Claire agreed. "It's kind of funny to watch them get drunk. I wonder what it feels like."
"You've never had alcohol," he was in disbelief.
She shook her head, "No, I have, I just can't get drunk. It's like poison, my body regenerates immediately. No light headedness, no tipsiness, no detachment from reality."
Sylar's fingers stroked small circles against Claire's stomach, soothing her and alarming her all at once.
"Don't get me wrong, it has its upsides," Clara looked up at him with a toothy smile. "I once drank a group of frat boys under the table on a bet."
He pulled away from her and moved to stand in front of Claire. Sylar inclined his head slightly and extended his hand, "Feel like a repeat? Let's go be the life of the party, Ms. Bennet."
Claire tried to suppress the smile, pressing her painted red lips together. She dropped her hand into his larger one, shoulders curling slightly as she gave him a coy look, "Certainly, My Good Sir."
He pulled her towards the center of the crowd, her hand in his. Sylar wasn't going to let her go, not now, not ever. Claire didn't flinch this time as his warm hand enveloped hers, the contact making her shiver warmly.
It was almost nice, Claire thought, pretending to be like everyone else, but not having to hide who she was from everyone. Sylar's words in that hotel room echoed in her head.
You'll get bored, after like a hundred years of trying to off me, watching all your loved ones drop like flies. You may eventually come to forgive me. Maybe you'll even love me.
He was right, in a way. Claire was already feeling the ravages of loss. It would only ever get worse. He was the only one who would never leave her. She glanced down at the hand that led her through the throngs of people. Sylar would hold onto Claire, she would never have to face the prospect of being alone. No matter the pain he had caused her in the past, Claire was beginning to see the lifeline he might be in her future.
A/N: 4/25. Thank you for the lovely reviews, I really enjoy hearing what guys think of where I am taking this. I am really fighting myself with development of the relationship, and I think that comes out a little bit with the dichotomy of Claire's feelings. On one hand she is attracted to him, or at least aspects of him, and on the other she has a very dark, painful history with him. Well, hope you enjoy this installment. Anon, anon until tomorrow!