Lovely reviewers, you delight me, as always—and I hope to continue to delight you!

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Barely even friends

Then, somebody bends

Unexpectedly…"

-Beauty and the Beast

I heard birds singing before I opened my eyes. Warmth from morning sunlight rested all over me. I took a deep breath and sighed, and finally looked around my room.

Emma was already gone, her bed made. I sat up, feeling a pang of guilt. I ought to help her make breakfast.

I got up, got dressed, and hurried into the bathroom. I washed and brushed my teeth, and braided my hair, so that the bare patch didn't show as much. And when I looked in the mirror, I decided I looked cute today, in spite of everything.

Pushing my ever-present worry about my dad to the back of my mind, I went quietly downstairs, and passed through the empty living room.

My footsteps slowed before I entered the kitchen.

There was someone in there. But it wasn't Emma. Slowly, I stepped in…

And saw Sylar sitting alone at the far end of the little table, a mug of coffee cradled in both hands on the tabletop. He lifted his face and saw me.

He was pale, with dark circles under his brilliant black eyes, one strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. He was dressed, but his collar was crooked and his cuffs were unbuttoned.

His eyebrows went up and his mouth opened, but he didn't speak. I stopped. For a moment, we just looked at each other.

Then, slowly, I bent my head.

"Good morning."

He swallowed.

"Good morning," he managed.

"Where are Emma and Peter?" I asked.

"They walked to town," Sylar said, rubbing the rim of his mug with his thumb. "Emma said we needed more food, since…Well, Hiro and Ando should be back today."

I nodded, and stood there for another moment. Then I turned to the refrigerator. I pulled the door open, feeling Sylar's eyes on me, and picked out the carton of milk. Then, I shut the door, stood aside and poured myself a cup. I turned around. Sylar looked down quickly, clearing his throat. I took a breath, my chest tight, both hands around my cup.

"How did you sleep?"

My voice didn't come out as loudly as I had planned. His eyes flew to mine. He studied my face for a second, then glanced around. He swallowed again.

"Not very well, to be honest," he finally said. I nodded.

"Yeah." I stared down at my milk. "I…haven't been sleeping too good, either. Probably has something to do with being in a strange place, you know?" My eyes found his again. "Strange bed and all that."

He was quick to nod.

"Yes, that's probably it."

I looked at my milk again, and took a step forward.

"It's kind of irritating. Strange places always make me have bad dreams," I said. He didn't answer. But when I looked up at him, his eyebrows came together, and his eyes were like open windows. Taking a breath and drawing myself up, I pulled out the chair on the opposite end of the table and sat down. He straightened, staring at me, but said nothing.

"I have this one dream…nightmare, really," I said studying my cup. "I've had it since I was little—I'm walking through my hometown, but there's nobody there. It's totally empty. I don't even think there are any birds. I remember it being windy, but that's the only thing that moves. I run everywhere, yell for my mom, but…nobody answers." I shrugged, looked up, then almost smiled at him. "Weird, huh?"

He watched me for a long moment, the nodded once.

"That would keep me awake."

I took a drink of my milk, and made myself swallow. I glanced at the door.

"I'm starting to get jealous of Peter and Emma."

He cocked his head.

"Why?"

"'cause they get to go out and walk around," I gestured indignantly, for the sake of conversation. "You and me are stuck here like rats in a cage and they get to go breathe fresh air and go shopping."

"Peter says there's not much in town," Sylar said. "A little general store and a clothing place."

"I don't care—shopping for paper towels sounds fun right now," I sat back in my chair. He smirked—a stifled laugh—and took a sip of coffee. We were silent a moment, and he took to rubbing his mug with his thumb again.

"You know," he cocked an eyebrow as he watched the motion of his fingers. "There's a large stretch of woods behind this house. Goes on for miles."

I looked at him sideways, unsure of what he was suggesting. He must have sensed my suspicion.

"You and Peter could easily walk through there and nobody would see you," he said. My shoulders relaxed.

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe we'll do that."

Silence fell. I bit my lip, having run out of ideas. Shrugging with my eyebrows, I got up and headed toward the counter. Sylar shifted, scooting back in his chair.

"Well…I'll go out in the…" He got up, and picked up his coffee. He cleared his throat again. "I'll sit out…"

I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes for just a moment, then grabbed the loaf of bread.

"You don't have to."

I sensed him stop. I glanced at him, trying to keep my tone light.

"You want a piece of toast?"

For a long while, he just looked at me—

Then gave me a genuine, albeit hesitant, smile.

"Yes, thank you," he answered, and sat back down.

Claire…A voice hissed in my head. What are you doing?

I reached up and pushed a loose strand of hair out of my face, and my fingers traced over the bare patch for just a moment.

Swiftly, I unwrapped the loaf of bread, pulled out a paper towel and the toaster, and began buttering two pieces of bread.

VVVVVVVVVVV

Sylar and I didn't have much of a conversation over toast—but we did talk. A little. And neither of us ever mentioned any words like "hate," "forgive," "sorry," or "bloody murder." Instead, we talked about completely unimportant things, like when we thought this house had been built, and how in the world the previous owners had kept that rosebush alive through the terrible winters. Our sentences were halting, like slow footsteps on a half-frozen pond, and Sylar was very quick to agree with anything I said…

But it was okay. Which was stunning in itself.

Sylar finished eating before I did, cleaned up his place, and then, with a cordial word and another careful smile, left the kitchen. I finished my milk, then sat there, gazing at the place where he had been, as a new realization slowly sank in:

Being with Sylar was—just barely—better than being alone.

Sighing, I cleaned up my own place, wandered up to the library and picked out another book—The Count of Monte Cristo—and trailed out into the sunny garden.

I halted when I caught sight of Sylar's form reclining back against a tree in a patch of sunshine halfway across the garden. He was engrossed in a book. I watched him for a minute, but when he didn't lift his eyes, I found my own tree on the opposite side, in my own bit of sunlight, and sat down.

I sighed. I loved the feel of the sun on my face, and the sounds of the birds all around me. The wind did not intrude too much, and the beginning of the book was engaging. I almost—almost—forgot Sylar was there.

After about an hour, I heard footsteps, and looked over the top of my book to see Sylar strolling along the path, observing the plants that were coming up.

I took another breath as I considered, weighing the possibilities. I opened my mouth, stopped, then just blurted it out.

"What book are you reading?"

He looked up, startled, then glanced at the cover. I arched an eyebrow, expecting him to answer "Dracula" or "Catcher in the Rye" or "Grapes of Wrath."

"I just finished The Princess Bride," he said.

"Oh," I frowned, thrown. Then, I distantly recalled seeing him reading it several nights ago. "Is that, like, an adaptation of the movie or something?"

He shook his head and came over to me, still studying the hard, brown cover.

"No, it was written before the movie by quite a bit—but the author was really clever." Sylar opened the front cover. "He makes you think that he only translated a book by S. Morgenstern that was written in the native language of Florin…which of course, doesn't exist." He flashed a small smile and looked at me to gauge my reaction. For a moment, I gazed up at him, seeing the sunlight dance across his face. I resisted the urge to smile back, and cocked an eyebrow again.

"So…you've seen the movie?"

He nodded.

"Yeah. Who hasn't?"

"Probably Peter," I muttered.

"You're right—he doesn't get out much," Sylar turned toward the house, but I caught a glimpse of a smirk. I suddenly went cold, weird chills racing all over my skin. This was impossible—this right here. And I shouldn't be letting it happen. Talking with him should not be…easy.

He glanced back down at me.

"You're welcome to read it, if you want." He held it out to me. "When you're finished with Edmond Dantes, of course."

I stared at it a moment, then took it from him. The cover was warm where his hands had held it.

"I'm going to look for another book," he decided, turning and striding back to the house with his hands in his pockets. "Pilgrim's Progress caught my eye." And he looked back over his shoulder at me for an instant, and beamed. My heart thudded. The back door swung open for him, squeaking as it did, and he disappeared into the house.

"Stop it, Claire," I scolded myself, regulating my breathing. "You—" My fingertip brushed the corner of something sticking out from between the pages of The Princess Bride. My brow furrowing, I opened the book to that spot…

To see a little strand of ivy resting on the pages. I shot a glare at the back door, then fingered the green leaves. That had been deliberate. He was answering my rose message.

But what did this mean?

I ground my teeth. Crap. He was going to be up in the library right now, so I obviously couldn't go up there and poke through the language of flowers book in front of him. I would have to stay out here until he came back out, and then wait even longer, so it didn't look like I was going straight up there to find out what ivy stood for…

I put Princess Bride down on the grass and tried to keep reading Count. But the words went blank, and I realized I had turned three pages and not retained anything. Grunting in exasperation, I shut it, and moved to The Princess Bride, hoping it would hold my attention, since I already knew what it was about, and I could picture the characters easier.

But it was a struggle. And that had nothing to do with the cleverness or the skill of the writer. Under other circumstances, I was certain I would be enraptured. But for some reason that I did not want to explore, my attention just wandered, and my eyes kept drifting up to the back door—or I reflexively looked there when I imagined I heard it opening. As a result, I finally clenched my teeth so hard it hurt, and I forced myself to pay attention to the story.

But then, gradually, I didn't have to be forced. And when I got to Buttercup's speech to Westley, I think I stopped breathing altogether, my eyes riveted on the page.

"'I love you,' Buttercup said. 'I know this must come as something of a surprise to you, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman has ever loved a man, but a half hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that, I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know? Well they are.'"

I bent over that book, tilting it so the full sun spread over the page. I didn't blink as I kept reading, my heart speeding up.

"'I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now then when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do.'"

My eyes misted up, but I blinked quickly and kept going, unaware of myself as the words unfolded in front of me.

"'Dearest Westley--I've never called you that before, have I?--Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley,--darling Westley, adored Westley, sweet perfect Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.' And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done; she looked right into his eyes."

I stopped. I came back to myself in a rush. And I realized that, in my suspense, I had pressed the ivy leaves up against my lips.

I sucked in a gasp, sat up straight, and stared down at the ivy, and then at the book, as if they both had turned against me.

"This," I declared hoarsely. "Is unacceptable." And I shut the ivy in the book, snatched up Count, and stomped all the way around the house and in the front door instead.

VVVVVVVVVV

Later in the day, in the bustle of Peter and Emma returning with food, and the three of them going to the kitchen to unpack the groceries and begin fixing lunch, I stole away to the library. I had not been able to think of anything but that stupid ivy branch for hours. I told myself I was just finding out so that it could quit distracting me. I didn't pause to examine myself further. I refused.

My hands finally found the book, I glanced all around the room and listened to make sure no one was going to come into the library while I was looking this up. I flipped open to the page with the illustration of ivy, and my eyes rested a long time on its meaning—I turned the words over and over in my mind, and let them settle down inside me. Finally, I shut the book, and went back downstairs, the words etched in my memory for later study:

I am your faithful friend.

TO BE CONTINUED