Author's Note: This chapter is all Sylar. Just wanted to show things from his point of view. =]
Sylar sat alone in the dark apartment, lounging back lazily on the couch. The only hint of light in the room came from the moonlight that shimmered through the opened window. The air conditioner was off; he was content with the gentle summer breeze that danced through the window. He was watching the door intently, waiting for Claire to sneak into the house. He doubted she would, but she managed to surprise him before.
He knew exactly where she was, she fled to the only place she felt safe. She was with Peter. A stab of resentment pinched somewhere inside of him, and he gripped the arm of the couch. He was thinking about going over there to crash their party, how could Peter stop him? He remembered that he could only take one power; Sylar had a whole selection at his fingertips.
He moved, sitting up. His feet almost carried him to the door, but he paused just before it. His fist clenched together into a tight ball, and he turned, going back to the black sofa. He admired her taste in furniture at least, although he questioned if it was because he was here that she went with a color so dark. She seemed more like a yellow daisies and pink butterflies kind of girl. He was surprised when he seen the living room set the next day.
After that night with the hot sauce, they avoided each other like the plague. She avoided him because she thought she hated him, because she thought he was a monster. He avoided her because she infuriated him. She was like an on/off switch. She could control exactly how he was feeling, and she didn't even try.
One second she satiated his hunger, when she was around he wasn't always fighting for control. He wasn't always thinking about who to go after for the next addition to his collection of powers. And the next second, she made him hunger for her. It was always a different type of hunger when it involved her. He wanted her to feel. Anything. Mostly pain, but sometimes pleasure.
He hungered for her, in general. He wanted to touch her; he wanted to feel her, to control her. He had a desire to make her feel bad. He wanted to kick her ass off that high horse, to show her that everyone did wrong. Not any one person was perfect, and she surely wasn't. And neither was her precious hero, Peter.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so cruel that night when they came home from the stores. Maybe he was too harsh on her. She was invincible; she could take all of his anger, all of the fury that he kept inside of him. Physically she could take it. But he knew that emotionally, her heart was still uneasy. Her heart was still as fragile as glass, and it wouldn't heal as fast as her body would.
The reason he had been so violent the other night was because he was conflicting with himself. The insatiable monster inside of him that fought to claw its way out when she was around had won. She sent him over the edge when the hot sauce exploded in his eyes, and though a part of him was furious with her, he was also proud of her.
He could bet on it that she didn't even think about what the hot sauce would do to him if it broke open on his face. It had been her natural instinct for survival, and out of all the things around her, she chose the one thing he couldn't heal from immediately. Sure, the broken shards of glass that shattered when it hit him across the head could heal. But the hot sauce that leaked into his eyes was agonizing. He could heal from wounds, but he couldn't not feel the pain.
She made him a hypocrite. He wanted to prove he wasn't growing soft; he didn't want anyone to think he had gotten weak. And yet at that same time, he could silence that voice in his head that whispered to him to protect her. Was that because he had spent 2 years of his life as Nathan? Or was it something deeper…? There was a gentle ache in his heart that felt a pang of guilt whenever he seen her hurt, especially if she was hurt because of him.
His pride wouldn't let him show it though. He wouldn't ever show it.
She drove him insane with all of the things she did. Like the tight clothes she wore that screamed for attention, and yet her eyes told another story. The way her hair smelled when she got of the shower. The way she tried to avoid him, but somehow he could always see her eyes drifting away when he turned to look back at her. Like she didn't want to get caught in the act of looking at him.
The guy who put his grimy hands all over her at the club that night really set him off. Why would she let some stranger hold her like that? So when she didn't do anything about it, he did. He wouldn't let any man touch Claire that way; no one would take her from him. He knew she didn't want that stranger to touch her, she'd only said that to piss him off. Usually he could keep his composure, but she enraged him all the time.
He pulled his hands up behind his head, laying his long legs out over the couch. He didn't bother to take his shoes off, maybe she'd say something to him about it. He liked it when she was defiant, but only a touch of defiance. He enjoyed watching the fire in her eyes burst to life, and he liked diminishing it sometimes too.
As much as she confused him, he would have to figure out how to deal with all of the troubling feelings.
They would be spending much more time together, and he didn't want her to eventually figure out the power she had over him. He knew she despised him now, but he also knew that she would eventually come to love him; she would have to.
They were stuck together for eternity; time had no control over them. Sylar had sealed his fate when he took her power, and it was a path of destiny he didn't mind walking. Just as long as he knew he wasn't alone, just as long as she made life a bit more exciting. She'd find no else like him, no one else like herself.
Unless there were other people who could grow detached body parts and live forever, then she'd always come back to him. She'd get bored after living alone for centuries. She'd get tired of being hurt after watching all of her loved ones drop like flies. She wouldn't always be able to resist his advances. She wasn't perfect, she would let the temptation overtake her at some point. If he had to, he'd wait. He was a clockmaker's son; patience was something that was written into the very essence of his soul.
It had been nearly 2 hours since she escaped from the nightclub. A tinge of anger came over him for a moment, until he regained control, growing calmer. She wouldn't be coming home tonight, he wondered if she would even be home by tomorrow night. Letting his eyes slide shut, he allowed sleep to claim him.
The crack of light that shone through the windows woke him up. His eyes blinked open, and he looked around for any signs of her arrival. The birds sang delightfully outside, and it only put him in a sourer mood. Flicking his wrist, the window slammed down abruptly, and silence filled the apartment. She didn't come home at all, and it was already noon. Standing up, he ran his fingers through his thick, dark locks of hair and headed towards the bathroom. He was a patient man, but he wouldn't sit around doing nothing while he waited. And he didn't doubt she'd be back eventually, she would always come back.