Thank you, thank you, dear readers! Keep up the reviews! This chapter is dedicated to Sexy Scottish Accent. ;)
VVVVVVVVVVV
CHAPTER EIGHT
After about an hour's talk Beauty began to think the Beast
was not nearly so terrible as she had supposed at first.
Then he rose to leave her,
And said in his gruff voice:
"Do you love me, Beauty?
Will you marry me?"
…
"Oh, no, Beast," said Beauty hastily.
…
After he was gone she was very soon in bed
And dreaming of her unknown prince.
She thought he came and said,
"Ah, Beauty!
Why are you so unkind to me?
I fear I am fated to be unhappy
For many a long day still."
VVV
Gabriel tucked in his sheets of his bed, and glanced around his partially sunny room. He had chosen a small, single room on the first floor in the rear of the house—it was called "The Captain's Quarters," and was all done in a nautical theme. The walls were gray as Lake Superior, the overhead wallpaper border sported a vast sea battle between French and English sailing ships, and there were various other ship models, paintings and sea shells decorating the room. There was only one clock.
Bending down, he snatched up the plastic bag that carried the clothes Peter had bought for him yesterday, when he and Emma had gone into town—a pair of cargo pants and a dark blue, collared shirt, undergarments and socks. Peter and Emma had shopped at a thrift store for the shirt and pants, but they looked as new as the socks and such.
Gabriel pulled off his old clothes and threw them in a corner—though he had showered since he got here, those old clothes felt awful. Staring at the pile of them, he stopped, and laughed.
"Of course they felt like crap," he muttered. "I wore the same clothes for five years."
He quickly put on the new ones, decided they were quite an improvement, and moved to the dresser to comb his hair.
Sound rang out from the kitchen. The clang of a pan, and a laugh. He stopped in the middle of buttoning his cuff, and listened.
"Yes, I know how to boil an egg. I do! Emma, don't look at me like that."
That was Claire's voice. Unable to help it, he edged toward his door, used a touch of telekinesis to silence the latch, and eased the door open. Carefully, he peered down the long hallway into the kitchen. Two pairs of footsteps tracked back and forth within that bright, warm room, and then Claire crossed within his line of sight, heading to his right, toward the sink. Her hair was up in a loose bun, some strands hanging down by her cheeks. She wore the new clothes Emma had bought her—a blue blouse and loose-fitting black pants. Her feet were bare. Gabriel's breath caught in his throat.
She was beautiful.
Claire carried a carton of eggs as she walked, threw a grin over her shoulder at Emma, and then passed out of his line of vision.
"I'm sorry," Emma said, from the direction of the breakfast nook. "You just don't look like the kind of girl who has spent much time in the kitchen."
"Oh, yeah," Claire assured her, and water hissed as she turned on the sink. "I hung out in the kitchen with my mom all the time."
"Sorry, what did you say?" Emma said. "I couldn't see your mouth."
"I said I hung out in the kitchen with my mom all the time."
"Oh! Well, that's good." Emma then walked toward Claire and stopped where Gabriel could see her, her hands full of plastic utensils.
"Did she teach you recipes?" Emma asked, intent on Claire's unseen form.
"Sure. A few. But a lot of times, I just sat on the counter and sang old Girl Scout songs with her while she cooked."
"Songs?" Emma perked up as she grabbed a handful of napkins. Claire laughed.
"Oh, no. No, no."
"Please?" Emma urged. "I like seeing singing."
Claire let out a sigh.
"Okay, if you show me how to turn on this stove."
Emma smiled and stepped out of Gabriel's sight. Something clicked. He heard Claire sigh again. Gabriel smirked, and leaned the side of his head against his door.
"Okay, um…Okay, one song is called The Riddle Song," Claire said as he listened. "And it goes like…" She hesitated, took another breath and sang, her tones businesslike and frank—not at all like those Gabriel had heard two days ago.
"I gave my love a cherry
That had no stone
I gave my love a chicken
That had no bone
I told my love a story
That had no end
I gave my love a baby
With no crying."
Emma passed back to the nook again, then returned, a frown on her face.
"I don't understand," she confessed. "A cherry with no stone? And a chicken without bones? And a baby that doesn't cry—is it a doll?"
"Haha—what if I make you figure it out, like my mom did?" Claire challenged.
"I am not good at puzzles," Emma protested. Gabriel cocked his head, leaning forward.
"A cherry without a stone…" he whispered. "It's a riddle…which would include different forms of the…" He frowned, lowering his head. "Early on, when a cherry is—"
"Okay, fine," Claire resigned. "When a cherry is blooming, it has no stone."
"That makes sense," Emma admitted. Gabriel blinked, and straightened. A small smile spread on his lips.
"And the chicken?" Emma prompted, turning back toward Claire on her way to the nook with a pile of plates. Emma frowned, then beamed as Claire apparently held something up. Claire laughed. Sylar's smile broadened.
"An egg," he whispered. "A chicken without bones…"
"Ah!" Emma said. "I don't know why I didn't think of that, since we're cooking them."
"And can you guess the story one?" Claire asked.
"The story with no end?" Emma said, vanishing out of the doorway again. Gabriel's brow furrowed, and he took a half step out into the hall.
"Yes, I think so…" Emma mused. "A love story."
Gabriel went still, and swallowed.
"That's right!" Claire said, crossing briefly into his vision before going to the nook. "And…what about the baby?"
"It's not a doll?"
"No."
Gabriel glanced down.
"It's sleeping," he breathed.
"A baby that's asleep isn't crying," Claire revealed.
"Whoops, Claire," Emma warned. "Your water's boiling."
Gabriel withdrew half a step, leaned his head back on the doorframe, and let the sounds in the kitchen wash over him until Emma called them all for breakfast.
VVVV
There was a library on the second floor, down the hall from Emma and my bedroom. After eating another rushed breakfast, I left Emma, Peter and Sylar downstairs, as usual, and retreated upstairs. That library was my saving grace.
I entered the middle-sized, silent room and shut the door behind me. My feet padded on the elaborate rug as I hurried to the couch near the east window. I flung aside the curtains of the tall window, letting the sun stream in, and flopped down on the couch that stood right in front of it. I swiftly wrapped myself up in the blanket I had left there, and snatched up the book I had hidden under the couch.
Getting comfortable, I glanced at the painting of the Regency woman who adorned the front cover, and flipped open to the middle of Pride and Prejudice, searching for my place from yesterday. Yes, I knew there was not much more than talking, dancing, and some traveling in this book. I didn't care. In fact, I loved it. I loved the fact that neither a single gun, nor one drop of blood made an appearance during the whole story. And I just laughed when they complained about their problems.
"Lizzie, dear," I sighed, finding my place at last. "I'd trade places with you any day."
The book held my attention for a good part of the morning, and I was starting to feel drowsy when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I sat up, my eyes flying to the door. However, I relaxed as soon as I tensed. The footsteps were loud and quick, with no attempt at subtlety—definitely Peter.
He opened the door and stuck his head in.
"Hey," he greeted me, coming in.
"Hey," I answered, closing my book. "What's up?"
He shook his head and sat down at the end of my couch.
"Nothing. Just wondering where you were."
"Same place I have been," I answered, turning over on my back and propping my head on the armrest. Peter leaned back in the couch and gazed out the window.
"Could have fooled me. I thought you were a ghost leftover from the previous owners."
I glared at him.
"Why?"
He looked at me.
"Because you don't speak," he said. "I mean, I've heard you talk to Emma a few times when you're making meals, but when we all get together you just clam up like you can't talk. Emma talks more than you do and she can't even hear what we're saying."
I looked at him indignantly.
"What do you expect me to do? Chat about the weather with Sylar?"
"Yeah, that might be a good place to start," Peter retorted, turning toward me, a flash of anger in his eyes. "He's not going to disappear, Claire. You're going to have to deal with that. And he hasn't done anything to offend you since we've been here. He hasn't even looked at you very much."
I frowned fiercely and turned my eyes to the window, squeezing my book.
"I don't owe him anything," I gritted. "Why should I have to be the first one to say something?"
Peter sighed.
"You're not."
I blinked, and turned back to him. He opened his coat and pulled something out. I sat up. Peter held out a piece of rolled up paper tied with a white ribbon, and bound in the ribbon was a stalk of purple hyacinth.
"What's that?" I whispered, staring at it. He pushed it toward me.
"It's from Gabriel. He asked me to give it to you."
I stared at it a moment more, then slowly took it from him.
"I'm gonna go help Emma with lunch," Peter declared, standing up. "See you in a few."
He left, and shut the door. I held the paper in both hands for five minutes. After a while, the heady, sweet scent of the hyacinth drifted up and surrounded me. I made myself slip the ribbon off, set the flower down on my lap, and unroll the paper.
The words within were hand-written in black ink, carefully, with a deliberate pen. I recognized its cadence immediately. It had to be one of Shakespeare's sonnets.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
I sucked in, realizing I had not been breathing. Then my eyes caught sight of one last line at the bottom. Frowning, I read it slowly.
The Language of Flowers. Upstairs library, second shelf, north wall.
I sat there for another five minutes. Then, I slowly slid out from beneath my blanket, tiptoed over to the specified shelf, and ran my finger along the spines. I slowed. My finger landed on the book. I shot a glance back at the door. Then, I slid the book out.
With shaking hands, I flipped open to the table of contents. It didn't take me long to find the section for hyacinths. I turned several pages, until I finally found a lovely drawing of a purple hyacinth on the left hand page. And on the right hand side it gave its meaning—simple, in elegant letters:
I am sorry.
Please forgive me.
I dropped the book. The spine banged on the floor. I spun around, covering my face with my hands, fighting tears. I swallowed them.
I charged back to the couch, and thudded to the floor in front of it, my brow so twisted it hurt. I snatched up my book, found my place again with fumbling hands, and forced my gaze to the page. But the words blurred together in front of my eyes, and the aroma of hyacinth filled the room, as silent and persistent as the sunshine.
VVVVVVV
Supper was a trial. We ate where we always ate—in the breakfast nook. We had discovered the dining room the other day, but it was huge, fancy, and none of us wanted to spill something in there. So instead, I had to sit at the same little table and listen to Emma and Peter talk, and Sylar shoot occasional jibes into their conversation. Or at least, that was the usual pattern.
Tonight, Sylar said nothing. And perhaps that was my fault.
When I had entered the kitchen, the others were already there, and seated. Sylar, however, had been standing in the middle of the room.
And when he saw me, his entire bearing had lit up. His eyes found mine, and an almost-smile crossed his face.
I looked away.
And after that, nothing Peter could do would coax him to utter a word. In fact, he stared
so murderously down at his plate as he stabbed his food I was genuinely afraid it would catch on fire.
I was concentrating on my baked potato when I heard a chair grind on the floor. I jerked my head up. Sylar rose to his feet, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Are you okay?" Peter asked, rising too.
"I do not feel well," Sylar said tightly. "Please excuse me—I have to go lie down." And he left, passing out of the kitchen and down the long, dark hall to his bedroom. Emma watched him go, concern evident in her face. I swallowed and folded my napkin. Peter raked his hands through his hair and leaned back.
"Crap," he hissed. He threw down his own napkin, got up and departed as well, into the living room. Emma cast a sad look over the meal she had made, which had hardly been eaten. Then she sighed, rose, and started gathering up the plates. I grabbed her wrist.
"Hey. I'll take care of the table," I said, faking a smile. "You go hang out with Peter."
Emma studied my face and did not smile. But she nodded once, gratefully, and then left as well. The kitchen fell silent. I heard nothing from the living room, and nothing from Sylar's room. Biting my lip, I stood, and began picking up the dishes.
VVVVVVV
I walked alone through familiar streets in a familiar town. I passed yards and houses I passed every day. But everything was empty.
And it was night.
Only the moon lit my way. None of the streetlamps worked. My feet were loud on the paving. My breath was noisy in my ears. I drew to a halt, casting my fevered gaze all around me, searching, searching. I stood in the middle of the street. Cold wind blew.
"Hello?" I called. My voice sounded unused to speaking. Strands of my gold hair blew in my face. "Hello!" I called again. No one answered. Not even an echo. I wrapped my arms around myself.
Everyone was dead. Everyone but me. I had finally lived long enough that the world had disappeared and had not taken me with it. I had lost them all.
Peter. Dad. Mom. My grandmother. Emma. Hiro. Ando. All my friends.
No one was left.
Except…
There.
A shadow against a distant house. I clenched my hands around my coat. I gritted my teeth. My eyes fixed on that tiny movement.
He drifted out of the blackness like a wraith. His feet made no sound. He stood in the middle of the road, a hundred yards in front of me.
The last man in the world.
He opened his eyes. They glowed scarlet.
"Claire."
I gasped. The breath tore me. I staggered back. He said it again.
"Claire. It's me."
I whirled and ran. And now I heard his footsteps.
He was following me.
And gaining.
"Claire?"
My eyes flew open and I leaped into a sitting position, panting, my eyes unfocused. I could hardly see. My bedroom was dark, and my covers were twisted. A bit of moonlight filtered in through the window, and my gaze fell on Emma in her bed, asleep, her back to me.
"Claire."
I twitched. The door opened just a hair. A little light came in from the hall.
"Claire? Are you awake? May I come in?"
That was not Peter's voice. My heart leaped into my throat.
"I…" I choked. "I'm awake."
"It's Gabriel," he said softly. "May I come in?"
"What do you want?" I rasped.
He leaned in a little, and I could see the top of his head, his forehead and the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry it's so late—I'm sorry to bother you. I just wanted to talk to you. I have to talk to you. May I please come in?"
Did I have a choice?
I slid off my bed and stood, grabbed my jacket and put it on over my new pajamas, then folded my arms tightly. I took a breath and braced myself.
"Yes."
He hesitated. Then, the door opened a little more and he slid in. Then, he pushed the door open further, so the light entered the room. I glanced over at Emma. She did not stir.
Sylar's head stayed low. He did not look at me. I could only see half of his features, and his eyes stayed in shadow.
"Did you get my note?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And…the flower?"
My mouth tightened.
"I did."
His eyes flickered to mine. He waited. I said nothing. He shifted, but his eyes held mine.
"You have no idea…" he said, his voice unsteady. "How long I have wanted to tell you that."
I still did not answer. He took half a step forward. I stepped back. His forehead tightened, and he retreated.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. His voice lowered to a whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"How do I know?" I demanded, though I kept my voice quiet as well. He lifted one eyebrow, just slightly.
"I didn't hurt you the last time I saw you."
"No," I growled. "You just threw me on a couch and forced me to kiss you."
He took a breath.
"I am sorry," he murmured, inclining his head further. "I had no right to do that." He paused, then inched forward again. I almost stepped back again.
"Please don't," he said, holding up a hand. "I swear I won't touch you."
Every muscle stayed tight. But I didn't step back. He took half a step toward me again.
"I know I don't deserve to ask for your forgiveness," he began. "I asked Peter probably a thousand times before he even considered it." He shrugged with one shoulder. "And that was in a place where time didn't really matter. Nothing changed. Except us." He lifted his eyes to mine. Again, it was as if he had caught sight of a familiar painting. He went still for a long moment, just looking at me. "And you were there with me," he finally murmured. "You were my conscience—the light I looked for at the end of a very long tunnel. But out here…" He glanced around the room. "Out here, everything shifts and moves again. I can feel the minutes passing." His voice tightened. "They have power again—power to distract and delay and separate and frustrate. Nothing is constant." He took a step forward again, half of him lit by the hall light, the other half by moonlight. And he stood a mere foot away, gazing down at me. "Nothing is constant except you. And your fear of me." He leaned his face closer, his eyes flitting over my features, then resting on my gaze again. "I see it in your eyes every time I look at you, and reflected back at me is the murderer that I was—the man who deserved your hatred." His voice lowered to a whisper. "The one who made you afraid."
I couldn't move. I wasn't being bound up by telekinesis. I was captured instead by the emotion in his eyes.
"Claire," he murmured.
"What?"
"Reach up with your right hand," he instructed softly. "And put your finger up underneath my jaw, until you can feel my pulse."
"Why?" I closed my hand into a fist. He shut his eyes for a moment.
"Please. I want to show you something." He opened his eyes for an instant, then shut them again. "I won't touch you."
For a long while, I just stood there, my mind whirling. But he waited. And I realized he wouldn't leave until he had accomplished what he came for. So, my fingers quivering, I reached up my right hand, very slowly, and pressed my fingertips to the soft, warm skin of his throat.
He drew in a deep breath—as if he had just come up from under water. His heartbeat thudded against my fingertips. He kept his eyes closed. My hand stayed where it was.
"Okay…" he said. "I know you can feel my pulse. Now, feel along my jaw line, in closer to my throat. Feel for a small bump, like a piece of scar tissue."
I did as he said. My fingers searched carefully, and at last came to rest on a very small point, that did indeed feel like scar tissue under the skin.
"There." His eyes opened. And the corner of his mouth lifted. I did not move.
"What is that?" I asked.
"My weak spot," he said, barely moving his mouth. "Not even Peter knows where it is."
Minutely, I pressed on it. His jaw tightened, and he straightened a bit. I narrowed my eyes.
"Why would you show me this?"
Once again, his gaze hijacked mine. And his eyes shone in the moonlight.
"Because I don't want you to be afraid of me anymore," he breathed roughly. And he reached up with his left hand and lightly touched his fingers to the back of my right hand. His fingers were warm. He took half a step closer. I could not retreat. His eyes held me fast. He swallowed, then half smiled. "You are the Evangeline I've searched for my whole life. You are what kept me from despairing while I was in that prison. And I would be your slave for eternity if you told me I had even the smallest chance to...Claire…" He blinked, and two tears fell down his cheeks. One landed on my wrist. "Claire…" he said again. "Please tell me, I beg you—Can you ever forgive me?"
For just a moment, I stood, as if under a spell.
And then I drew my hand back and slapped him. As hard as I could. He staggered. I stepped in and hit him again. My palm thrashed across his face with all my force. His hand flew to his cheek.
"No!" I wailed. "No, I won't! Don't you remember? You tried this on me once before…right before you killed my father. And it hasn't been years since that happened—it hasn't even been months! You killed him. You slit his throat and left him there to strangle and bleed to death. You killed the people I loved." Tears spilled down my cheeks as a gaping, aching chasm opened in my chest. "I loved him," I gasped. "I loved him." I sucked in a jagged breath and spoke through my teeth. "And nothing you will ever do or say will erase what you've done to me."
His gaze fixed on me, his lips slightly parted. I had him in the palm of my hand. And so I twisted the proverbial knife as far and as hard as I could.
"I hate you," I said. "The happiest day of my life will be the day I find out someone has cut off your head, for once." My voice became low and savage. "I will never forgive you."
He blinked. More tears spilled from his obsidian eyes, and the red mark spread on his cheek.
"Claire—"
"Get out!" I screamed, beating my fists in the air, tears searing my face. "Get out of this room! Get out!"
He pulled in a haggard breath and turned from me.
"As you wish."
And he slipped out of the room as soundlessly as he had come.
I took fistfuls of my hair and stifled a wild scream. I covered my hot face with my hands and stood, shaking, for several minutes. Then, I shut the door, stripped off my pajamas and got dressed, then put the rest of my things in a bag.
I did not care what was going on with the FBI or the government or Hiro or Ando or the rest of the world. I did not even care that Peter would worry for me. I could not stand to be in this house for one more minute.
TO BE CONTINUED
P.S. (I don't actually know where Sylar's weak spot is. But for all intents and purposes in this story, that's where it needs to be. Thanks!)