It's such a nice day, the soft breeze wafting in through the open driver-side window on the way to the airport. It lifts Claire's hair gently around her face. Glancing at her, where she's slouched there staring through the windshield, Sylar can't help but wish she'd liven the hell up. He's getting a little sick of this constant gloominess, but he doesn't say anything. He's still a little nettled from being called a show-off, and he knows that's playing into his annoyance.

"Radio?" he asks lightly, reaching over to push in the knob without waiting for her response. Who doesn't like a little driving music? The previous driver tuned it to an oldies station, and Sylar leaves it there, tapping his thumb on the wheel.

"I love this song," he tells her. A burst of nostalgia fills his chest at the rhythm of the drums—there's a memory there, something exciting and invigorating. "I haven't heard it in the longest time. I remember, I was—" stalking a woman with an ability "—at a club."

Oh, right. Now he knows why the song hits him so. It's the thrill of the chase coming back to him. The woman is a snapshot in his mind: wavy brown hair, almond eyes, waxed legs that went on forever past the short cut of a gold skirt. Lovely brain. She could do the most amazing things—should have run from the club and hailed a taxi the moment he shouldered through a gyrating couple to approach her.

But all she wants to do is dance, dance . . . He smirks, and without realizing it, his eyes take on the same dark, hazed quality they'd held as he led her out the exit.

"Hard to picture you dancing," Claire remarks.

"Relieves tension," he says with an unseen lift of his eyebrow. He doesn't dance. For a moment he considers saying I was there on business, but that's too obvious, very nearly tongue-in-cheek. Claire wouldn't find it funny.

Omitting little facts has become more than a habit over the course of time. It's an ingrained part of his nature. Sometimes, even he doesn't fully realize he's left something out. It makes for pleasanter memories, though. The ugly bits just disappear.

Some of them don't.

[] [] []

"Show me what you do," Sylar commanded, a hand pressed up against the brick wall on either side of her.

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific," the woman said, and she leaned into him, and he kissed her, because obviously she was an idiot and didn't understand the gravity of her situation. He didn't mind coaxing her along, drawing out the fun a little.

"Oh, I'm gonna mess you up," she whispered against his mouth, and if he'd fully understood his situation, it might have struck him as an odd thing to say. But he was in control . . . he thought. Maybe she was just kinky like that.

"How's that?" he murmured, and she responded by sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. After a moment, Sylar drew his head back sharply, a slightly dazed expression on his features. Something was off.

Suddenly, he wanted her lips back, but she turned him so that his back was against the wall, and then she was sliding down his front. The swell of her breasts brushed past him, and he drew in a sharp breath. She knelt down with her knees resting on his shoes, in order to protect her bare skin from the asphalt. He barely noticed the weight. His head was swimming a little. It was strange; he hadn't had anything to drink.

She popped open the bottom buttons of his shirt, then slid his belt out of the loop, tugging on it. Resting her chin against his stomach, she craned her neck back, smiled up at him teasingly.

"Say my name," she ordered.

"Allison Louisa Crow," he recited automatically, without thinking.

Her smile broke open, exposing a row of perfect, white teeth between her full lips.

"See that, now?" she said, laughter in her voice. A part of him knew that wasn't right—why was she the one laughing? "I knew you knew. You thought you were so slick—strangers in the night, and all that shit."

She giggled. At him. And he didn't kill her on the spot. Something was very, very wrong. Exceedingly wrong.

She pressed a kiss against his stomach, and the most overwhelming wave of lust he'd ever felt swept up through his groin and lower abdomen, forcing a short groan from him. She bit the lower edge of his navel, and his head rocked back, slamming hard into the brick. He swore loudly into the silence of the alley, lifting a hand to touch the now tender spot on the back of his head.

She stood, leaving his belt buckled, which was a gut-wrenching disappointment. But at least her mouth was back. And her tongue.

"You said you wanted to see what I could do," she whispered, kissing his ear. "You like it? Sylar?"

"You knew who I was . . ."

"They talk amongst themselves, special people do, and you've got a distinctive description." She never stopped with the kisses—his eyebrows, his chin, all along his jawline, the pulse in his neck, the hollow of his throat. It was hard to work out what she was saying over the sound of his own breathing. "You're a legend, still, after all this time. The boogeyman . . ."

That felt good, like praise. Her hand felt good, too.

"And now you're all mine," she continued. "Mm, I don't think I like your hair that way. We'll have to fix that." She raked her fingers over his scalp, drawing his hair forward, and breathed onto his lips, "You know, keeping a pet is easy once you figure out how simple their minds are. I've had several. Men or animals, it's all the same. You like to think they love you, but what really makes them stay put . . ." She kissed him one last time. "Is hunger."

Hunger. His half-lidded eyes snapped open. Something about that word brought him back to himself a bit. Images popped into his mind, and senses into his consciousness.

Angela Petrelli, may she writhe in hell. The Company. Being lied to. Manipulated. Kept—like an animal. Like a useful pet. Anger washed through him, purging him.

One deft motion, and Allison Louisa Crow was the one against the wall.

"That's a good one," he said roughly, and he meant it. "I bet you break a lot of hearts." He considered, adding, "And beds."

A thrill of fear flickered across her face, and she visibly tried to crank her ability up a notch. He grinned in response, but it was an ill-humored smile. Sylar didn't like being made a fool of.

"Don't bother!" he snapped. "I turned it off."

"You turned . . . my ability . . ?" Her hands were on her own body now, as if she was feeling for than intangible sense of power. She touched her breasts momentarily, and this time he felt nothing, save for contempt. "How? That's not even possible!"

"Oh, it is," he assured her, raising a hand to kill her. "But it's goddamned expensive, let me tell you. Had to have it imported all the way from Haiti."

And she was dead before she could even begin to comprehend what he meant by that, before she could scream. He cracked her open like a walnut, right there in the alley, but . . .

He didn't take it. He was afraid.

Sometimes he didn't do it on purpose . . . He didn't mean to heal. He just did. And when he looked at a watch, he didn't will himself to understand it. That just happened.

What if he took it, that power (that stunning, provocative, positively juicy power)—and he never knew? He'd know when he used it, of course, but would he ever be certain he wasn't using it?

He felt a pit in his stomach at the very thought, and he knew to walk away. Be satisfied she was dead, and let that be the end of it. Hurting people was his pastime, but he was loath to hurt himself.

Sylar looked back at her only once as he left, pausing at the end of the alley, with a Gabriel-esque notion that he might turn into a pillar of salt. Her head was in shadows, but her long legs stuck out of her gold skirt, catching what dim light there was. For no reason at all he thought of shorter legs, pumping furiously beneath a cheerleading skirt, running up the bleachers to escape.

He'd heard Claire Bennet was getting married.

He gazed at where Allison's exposed brain probably was for another long moment, then wrenched his eyes away and turned into the window-lit sidewalk.

He'd been Gabriel in his life. Sylar. Others, too, from time to time. But he didn't want to be that person.

[] [] []

The song isn't filling him with anything like excitement anymore. His fingers have stilled their tapping on the wheel. What is that under his ribcage—shame? Horror? Regret, maybe?

Restlessly, he switches the channel, and another song pours out of the speakers—another classic, but a different genre.

Claire makes a slight noise of surprise in her throat.

"That was our wedding song," she murmurs a little wistfully.

Sylar's mouth thins.

"Screw it," he growls under his breath, punching the radio off with extreme prejudice. "I hate music."

They've reached the airport, anyway.

He's in a bad mood when he climbs out of the car (which he never intended to return to the rental company). Claire stretches as she closes the passenger door, and she looks around as if she failed to notice the blue sky till now.

"Well," she says, shrugging, "nice day for flying, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, looking at her.

"Careful, Claire Bear," he says bitingly. "That almost sounded cheerful."

"What's your problem?" she asks, surprised and a bit affronted by his tone.

"No problem," he answers, rolling his eyes as he snatches up her bag. "Just a five-foot blonde with a death wish, is all."

"Five-foot two," she adds irritably, taking the bag away from him.

"In your shoes." He sighs, sullen. "Let's go."

Without thinking, he reaches out and grasps her free hand. When she tries to pull it back, he gives her a definite look. She gives up.

"I've done a lot for you, Claire," he lectures as they make their way to the entrance. "You don't even know the half of it."

"What have you done for me?" she asks skeptically. "Aside from abducting me at present—much obliged, by the way."

I could have made you forget your wedding song and your wedding, period, he thinks, Allison Crow's face lingering behind his eyes. You wouldn't have known what hit you. It isn't that he wants Claire, he tells himself. But if she wanted him—that might have been an interesting change. Might have staved off boredom for a few weeks.

"It doesn't matter," he replies. "You're determined to be ungrateful."

"You cut my head open, you narcissistic bastard!"

He laughs darkly, which is a mistake, and says, "Oh, sorry," which is a bigger mistake. Her hand rips out of his fingers, and he has to lunge to catch it up again, squeezing it harder this time, his own hand white-knuckled.

"I swear to god, Claire!" he snarls into her hair, dragging her through the doors and onto the shining tiles. "I will actually kill everyone here if you don't cut it right the fu—"

"Excuse me, sir!"

They both still instantly, and looking around, see a somewhat rotund female security guard making her way toward them. Sylar straightens, but he keeps a grip on Claire.

"Is there a problem, sir?" questions the guard. She turns her eyes to Claire and adds more significantly, "Ma'am?"

"Oh, I see," says Sylar, cutting in with a smile. He holds up his palm, the one that isn't occupied keeping Claire at his side. "Look, it's not like that. Trust me, if anyone's battered in this relationship, it's me. Hands me my ass every night before bed." He looks at Claire. "Isn't that right, pumpkin?"

Claire shoots him a slightly sickened look before turning her eyes on the security guard.

"Between you and me, I think he gets off on it," she says dully but complacently enough. No need to get everyone in the terminal cut up like jack-a-lanterns.

The security guard throws Sylar a questioning look, and he shrugs as if to say Guilty as charged. With a slightly disgusted shake of her head, she waves them on. As they pass her, he feels an upswing in his mood, accompanied with a strong urge to thump Claire on the back and say That's my girl! He resists.

Getting through security is tedious, but they have time to eat before they board their flight. He releases her hand, at least, when they sit down, since she seems to have calmed down. They order nachos, but whereas he orders something alcoholic to go along with it, she asks for sweet tea.

"I thought you liked margaritas," he observes. He saw her drink one once.

"There's nothing more depressing than being carded," she explains, plucking a tortilla chip from the plate.

"Not sure many women would agree with you there."

"Most people are idiots," she mutters, popping the chip into her mouth.

He smiles at her cynicism and raises his bottle to clink it against her glass.

"I love it when we agree," he says happily.

Claire looks away as she chews and, closing her eyes, shakes her head—and smiles despite herself. She doesn't want him to see. She'd forgotten how infectious his particular brand of crazy could be sometimes. It should worry her . . . did, a little . . . but, hell, she offed herself just last night, what does she have to lose? Maybe she could use a little crazy.

It takes her by surprise, but her optimism only seems to grow, corresponding to the plane's ascent into the sky. He's given her the window seat. So chivalrous.

Claire remembers what she wrote in her note to Robert, about Sylar typically being right. Maybe this is another such instance. These are hardly ideal circumstances, but maybe it will be good for her to get out of Texas. Maybe suicide was a rash decision.

Randomly, Sylar makes a soft noise of outrage in his throat and curses under his breath.

"What's the matter?" Claire asks, looking over at him with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, nothing," he says, but clearly he's agitated.

"Tell me."

He shakes his head, a dark look on his face, and responds without looking at her, as if he's talking to himself.

"I meant to look up Micah."

Claire's eyes widen, and she stares at his profile for a moment, studying the intense set of his face.

And by 'look up' you mean 'carve up,' she thinks, her new-found hope waning. She turns to gaze out the window.

"I guess I should have . . . omitted that, too" he says a moment later. "Just forget I said it."

"Will do."

Mile high with a psychopath. Lord, I wish I had my gun.

The rest of the flight, Sylar struggles with a desire to tell her about Allison Crow. He's never told anyone-the entire incident was embarrassing-but for some reason he wants Claire to know he had a chance to own that ability and chose not to. He wants her to know that, somehow, she had something to do with that. But he can't tell her, because the rest of it might come out, too. That would ruin everything, because though she might disdain his company, she no longer has any reason to fear him. And she would fear him again-might be positively petrified-if she knew about the Haitian.