Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.
AN: Thanks to faithfulwriter and maxwell02 for your reviews! This is a short chapter, but the next one will be longer. Thanks to everyone who's reading, hope you're still enjoying it.
17
Claire is living a nightmare. She can tell, because if you think you're dreaming you're supposed to pinch yourself, and if it hurts you know you're awake.
Nothing hurts anymore.
The last pain Claire felt was the tiny saw – and Sylar was right, after all. It was more frightening than painful. And he was right about her brain. It didn't hurt at all once he'd gotten the top of her skull off, and slowly as he worked the nagging pinch of the tight skipping ropes melted away, and Claire lay there, listening to the calm flow of his voice, and she felt nothing. Still. Barely breathing. Sylar had realised she wasn't dying, that she wasn't going to die, and he told her all about how special she was – they were, now – and what that really meant, and Claire saw the abyss open up before her and she felt nothing.
He broke her. And then he put her back together wrong. Claire came back wrong.
Before, when everything became too much, Claire could go and throw herself off a bridge, cut her skin, break her bones. And a clean, brilliant flash of pain would wipe out all the terror and anger. Clear her head of everything. And when the endorphins rushed up to fill the empty space Claire would feel calm again and in control.
Now the pressure builds and builds inside her and Claire has no way of release. The horror she felt when the nail file didn't work is still with her. She still tries, when no one's looking. Can't really believe that it's gone, that it doesn't work anymore. Slowly, Claire is discovering that emotional pain is almost doing the trick. When that other Peter left with her son – her son, for God's sake – the void they left hurt. But not enough. Not enough. So she pushed it, let Peter tell her more about the little boy she felt instant, fierce love for, let him tell her more about what she's lost. And Claire lies awake til dawn crying for him, because she's heard that crying releases endorphins, too. But it's not as good as really smashing herself up. Nothing is.
In the morning Peter tells them what happened last night. He falters sometimes, and Claire suspects he's leaving things out. If it's to spare her pain – she feels a sudden hunger for the details.
Dad frowns. "Flint was there?"
"Yeah, do you know him?"
Nathan speaks up. He's been brooding. "Meredith had a brother called Flint. Big dumb guy, always in trouble."
"He's still around." Dad says.
Claire snorts. "Is this family even aware of people who aren't related to us?"
Peter sort of smiles. And then there's silence for a moment, and Claire realises they're all looking at Angela. "Gabriel told you we'd reformed the Company," she muses.
"And he told me about a place called Pinehearst. And someone's murdering Company founders. I think it's time you told us what's going on, Ma."
Angela is pale beneath the livid scratches. Claire thinks she's going to refuse, but she seems to make a decision. "Thirty years ago there was a falling out in the Company. We had developed a virus capable of ending life as we know it. Some of us wanted all research and the one remaining vial destroyed – some of us did not. The research was destroyed, but the Company still has a sample in a storage facility here in New York." She looks at Peter. "Five months ago I had a series of dreams about the virus getting out. Linderman, Kaito and I planned so many ways of stopping it, but none of them changed the future as I dreamt it. Not until you absorbed Ted Sprague's ability."
Peter's hands glowing. The look on his face. The gun.
"You saw the future I dreamt. You know what I was trying to prevent. I knew you could survive it."
"And New York?" Peter can't seem to speak, but Nathan calls Angela on her bullshit with a disgusted expression, like he'd never agreed to go along with it. "You would have blown up the city, Ma."
"Peter would have destroyed the virus." Angela corrects him coolly.
When Claire looks at Peter she knows nothing could ever, ever justify this – but then she remembers the warmth of that solid little body, the wide dark eyes of her son, and she imagines him sick, dying of the virus – and Angela's eyes meet hers. Claire hasn't felt that sudden connection to another person, that instant feeling that this is random human being is so much more important than any other since… not since she met Peter. Angela's son.
She doesn't want to understand Angela.
"So who's killing Company founders?" Dad asks.
"Someone who wants the virus released." Angela replies.
"Who would want a thing like that?"
Claire feels so sorry for Mom. She shouldn't have to deal with any of this. Mom honestly can't believe that anyone would want to release a deadly virus. And then Claire feels a little sorry for herself, because now she knows better.
"Someone I knew a long time ago." Angela says evasively. "If we're going to have a chance of stopping him and destroying the virus, we're going to need Sylar. We're going to need the Company."
"I can get him for you." Claire says. "But Mom and Lyle need to get out of here. Is there a safe place they can go?"
Mom immediately protests, but Dad looks at Claire approvingly. There's an argument, which Dad and Claire win by taking Mom and Lyle apart separately and telling them both that they want them to stay, but someone needs to take care of the other. It's almost scary, how easy it is to work with Dad. How easy it is to lie to them.
An hour later Mom and Lyle are packed off to a safe house, and Nathan's home is a little sadder and emptier. Angela won't tell them where she's sent them, just that there's no paper trail leading to it, and if none of them know either they'll be safer. And Claire's sitting in this guest room that's hers now, cell phone in one hand, piece of paper with a neatly pencilled number on it in the other. Alex Manion, the paper says. Feels like a long time ago. Every time she goes to dial her hands start shaking, she doesn't even know what to tell him, she's just a teenage girl and he's a monster and she's stupid to think she can do this, lie convincingly enough to trap him. But she has to.
In the end, Claire just dials without planning what she's going to say.
"It's me."
Silence. Then – "I thought it might be."
Smug bastard. Claire's nails dig into her palm, but the spark of pain doesn't come to steady her. "I need you to fix me," she blurts out.
"What?" Sylar doesn't sound like he knows what she's talking about.
Claire hesitates. Should she tell him what he did? But some deep conviction tells her that if Sylar needs to know more, to understand more all the time and she leaves things vague on the phone, there's a much higher chance he'll show. "I need you to meet me."
Saying I need you to him is disgusting.
"Did daddy put you up to this, Claire Bear?" But there's an edge of interest. She can do this.
Claire puts her real desperation into her voice. "Just you and me. You – did something. I'm wrong. I'm broken, and I need you to fix it. You owe me this."
"Broken how?"
Claire gives him a time and a place instead. And then she hangs up.
It's a gamble. He doesn't call back and she's not sure he's going to take the bait, but Claire reminds herself of the future and forces herself to act confident. Downstairs, her family waits to hear how it went.
Claire smiles. "He'll be there."
The coffee's cooling rapidly by the time Sylar approaches her. Claire feels a sick shock in the pit of her stomach when she recognises him crossing Kirby Plaza. Her hands are trembling. She puts her untouched cup down on the bench beside her.
Claire watches the wolf come towards her and wishes, with all her heart, that she were safe back at grandmother's house. But she stays where she is. When Sylar sits down beside her, he drapes his arm over the back of the bench. It's an arrogant, relaxed gesture that sets her teeth on edge.
"You're looking well." He greets her. Since the last time he saw her, he means, in that room –
"Coffee?"
He gives her an amused, reproachful look. Claire sighs. "Don't be such a baby," she says, throwing his own words back at him. "Take mine."
It's surprisingly easy to tease the boogeyman. Claire swaps the cups, and flinches back when he goes to take his too soon. Sitting here is one thing. Talking to him is one thing. But she recoils from touching him like she'd shrink from touching a week-old corpse.
"So what's this all about?" Sylar asks, raising the cup to his lips. Claire tries not to watch too avidly. She tucks her unoccupied hand into her coat pocket. Feels the syringe.
She takes a deep drink of her coffee before she replies. This is horribly familiar, but this time Claire knows who he is. And – more importantly – she knows now who she could become. "You did something to my brain. You put me back together wrong. Ever since – the attack – I can't feel pain. At all. I can't feel anything."
His head tilts. He looks at her appraisingly. There's an analytical gleam in his eyes. "Show me."
Claire has to take her hand out of her pocket. She holds it out. "Don't touch." she warns. When he nods, she says, "Cut me."
With a small smile, like he appreciates how bizarre this is, Sylar makes a little motion towards her bare hand. Claire and Sylar watch the line open, bleed, and close with the same detachment. It might as well be a stranger's hand. Claire rubs the remaining smudge of blood off on her dark coat. "Nothing."
"Well now," Sylar says. Claire drinks coffee, and he follows suit absently, his mind elsewhere. She tries to calculate how much he's drunk now. It's a small cup.
"I need you to fix it."
"Why? Seems to me like it'd be an advantage."
"It makes me a freak." Claire says passionately. "I don't know when I'm being burned. Or cut. I could catch my hand in machinery and never notice unless I could see it being mangled. Pain – let me know I was human."
Is she imagining it, or was that blink slower, lazier than normal? "I don't think that's the real reason."
When Sylar puts his cup down the hollow noise the paper makes hitting the bench tells Claire it's empty. But he doesn't look – he looks perfectly alert. He frowns. And Claire realises she's been watching his face too long.
"I need to feel pain." She says, without thinking.
"Sick little cheerleader," Sylar chides her. "Why?"
"Because I like it." Claire hisses, moving closer to him on the bench. Honesty will throw him off. It has to. Hands in her pockets, because she's scared he'll touch her, because it's cold. "Pain is the one thing in my life I can control. I need it."
Sylar leans back from her. The coffee hasn't had any effect Claire can see, and he's not letting her get quite close enough for Plan B. He's suspicious. And the coffee she's drunk is starting to make her feel slow. Clouded. Despair floods her. She has to do this, everyone's counting on her to do this, doing this will save them all, doing this will save – her son. Noah. With his round cheeks, his small hands, his big, trusting eyes. His big… dark eyes.
Sylar's eyes are dark like her son's. Like their son's. Claire looks into those eyes and fixes her mind on that little boy. "Please," she says softly.
Abruptly, his suspicion vanishes. And all Claire can see in him now is a hunger that terrifies her. She tries not to shake. Comes closer. Holding that gaze. And this time, Sylar doesn't move away. Her knee bumps the bench, knocks his empty cup to the ground as she rises, leans in, tries to make her mind completely blank and presses her mouth to his.
Sylar freezes. These are not the rules they play by.
And then as Claire fumbles for her coat pocket his hand winds into her hair and Sylar kisses her back, violently, and his mouth is moving on hers and he doesn't do this like Peter, this is nothing like Peter and Claire goes wild with fear for a moment before her fingers find the cool syringe, and tearing it from her pocket she thumbs the cap off and drives it as hard as she can into his neck. He yanks her away by the hair and she feels nothing, no pain, just sudden and vicious triumph at the shock on his face. Claire's panting with fear and elation, and Sylar's breathing hard as he struggles not to let the tranquilliser overwhelm him, and on the surge of power Claire feels an unexpected jolt of lust – her hand on his chest, one of his in her hair, the other grasping her waist so hard it should hurt – but, of course, it doesn't. Claire holds his gaze and with a shiver of pleasure watches him know that she's got him. She's got him. As consciousness slips from Sylar, Claire takes the opportunity to lean in and whisper, "Welcome to the family."
Some family.
X
Noah watches through the one-way mirror. Angela won't tell him the details of her reconciliation with the Company, but he's glad to have the use of their facilities again, and he's confident in Angela's ability to negotiate. He's somewhat less confident in her other ability.
Angela is detaching the sedative from the still, black-clad body on the table. He slowly comes round. And the whole time Angela is talking to him, her hands with their scarlet nails stroking his face, taking his hands, smoothing his shirt and his hair. Using the ability she has only allowed a very few people to know she possesses. Precognitive dreams are one thing. Coercion is a much more frightening ability. Keeping it a secret ensures that Angela can always get close enough to her targets to touch them with those long, persuasive fingers, to murmur suggestions to them.
She's good. But is she good enough to persuade Sylar that he's her biological son? The guy's got mommy issues; Noah knows that from reading his file. And he knows it from seeing the bloodied remains of Gabriel Gray's mother. Angela knows it too, knows the risk she's taking if this doesn't work – maybe a greater risk if it does. Noah has to wonder if there are any lengths that woman won't go to.
Sylar is sitting up now, staring at Angela. And – incredibly – he's nodding. Noah is frankly impressed. Claire joins Noah at the window. She's only just woken up, and her sleepy exultation as she watches Sylar is unnerving.
"I brought him in." She says again. Checks him for his reaction.
"You did very well." Noah says. Again. If she were any other new agent, bringing in a monster like Sylar on her first quasi-assignment – but she's not. She's his daughter. And while Noah can admire someone like Angela for coolly running insane risks, he can't condone it in his little girl.
They watch in silence as Sylar stands up. Looks up at the window. And Angela allows him to leave the room with her. "I've told him everything."
But Sylar only has eyes for Claire. "You."
"Me." She agrees. She tilts her head. Like him. "Uncle Gabriel."
"I thought it was the coffee," he says conversationally. "Set all my regenerative ability to countering any toxic substances in it. But that was just a blind, wasn't it?"
Claire shakes her head. A naggingly familiar smile. "Both cups were drugged. Haven't you ever seen the Princess Bride? The syringe was Plan B."
"And Plan C?"
Noah frowns. What's Plan C?
"Plan C I improvised." Claire says smugly. But there's something in the way they're looking at each other Noah does not like. "It also hid Plan B pretty nicely. I thought someone must have seen me inject you, but would you believe nobody called the cops? Even when the agents dragged you out of there."
"This isn't Odessa."
Claire just smiles again. She's on a high from the capture. Noah's seen it before – but not on his daughter.
Sylar folds his arms. "So. We're family now, huh?" He gives her a wolfish smile of his own. Leans in. "Thanks for the warm welcome."
Claire recoils. Noah reminds himself that in some unimaginable future he mentors this man. Becomes his friend. I don't think you ever forgave him, Peter said. But you made him a good agent. Gave him something to be, other than a monster.
Noah would like to give Sylar something else to be. He would like to give Sylar the opportunity to become a really excellent corpse.
"Claire." Angela says sharply. "Remember that you agreed to this."
But she's not talking to Claire. Not really. She's reminding Noah of her promise to hand Sylar over the moment he's outlived his usefulness, bless her, and not before time. Noah relaxes. Smiles. And is pleased to see wariness in Sylar's eyes.
Angela says, "Gabriel and I are going to have a little talk about procedure. And then I have an assignment for the two of you."
Claire folds her arms. Mirroring him. "It's called bagging and tagging because there are these two really simple steps to it." Claire explains patiently. "You're gonna be amazed, cause actually neither of them involves eating anyone's brain. I know, I'm going too fast. Angela's going to explain it way better."
"Claire. You know I don't eat the brain."
Claire gives him a level look. "I know a lot of things about you."
Part of Noah is horrified to hear Claire joke, however darkly, about what he did to her. Part of him's kind of proud to see her rally so quickly. And another part is just worried about the kind of things Claire knows about Sylar now.
Thanks again, Peter.
Claire breaks the tension by turning on her heel and stalking away. Noah follows her, leaving Angela with this terrible new son of hers, but any relief he felt is dissipated by the slight figure lurking at the end of the hall, taking in the whole confrontation.
Elle greets Claire in typical charming fashion. "Like you wouldn't hit that til it broke."
"Creepy Elle?" Claire stops and stares, nonplussed, and doesn't – thank God – seem to have processed Elle's disgustingly phrased comment. "Didn't you go to my school for like, two weeks?"
"I was on assignment, Cheer Bear. Hi Noah. Almost caught you back in California."
"Sure you did, Elle." Noah says genially. She's still trying for validation from him. "Remember what I told you about playing with fire."
This fascination with Sylar is no good for her. And now that he's working for the Company, Noah's worried that Elle will have too many opportunities to get too close. He knows what happened to her in at least one future. Still – if it's going to be one of them, Noah would throw Elle to the wolves every time. It's sad. But there it is.
Elle quirks a smile. "Not too worried about getting burned." A ball of blue lightning flickers in her upraised hand. Showing off for Claire.
Blue light in her eyes. "Peter got it from you."
"That's not all." Elle agrees suggestively. Damn it, Bob, Noah thinks, irritated. Would it have killed you to give your daughter enough affection to stop her throwing herself at crazy men?
"Nice to see you again, Elle." Noah says firmly, ending the bitchy stare contest. As they pass Elle the girls hold each other's gaze like cats. Neither wants to turn her back to the other. And Noah's torn, again – he has to admire the way Claire held her own. But he doesn't want someone as frankly screwed up as Elle anywhere near his daughter. He doesn't want this whole screwed up situation to touch his daughter in any way. He wants Claire to be able to go back to cheerleading tryouts, and colouring banners, and the bears from around the world that have been packed in a box in her closet since they moved to California. Noah's not going to pretend that didn't hurt. But in a way he knows it's right that Claire doesn't love them anymore, those stupidly grinning little symbols of every time he abandoned her. He doesn't want her to grow up. But there's nothing else she can do.
Except – obviously – become a crazy woman-child like Elle Bishop.
Noah rests a hand on Claire's shoulder. She stops and looks up at him. "You did good." Noah tells her, with an effort.
And Claire relaxes into the first real smile he's seen from her in months.
It's worth it.