It's her first night in Sylar's abode, away from a home that will never be hers again. She takes refuge from his surveillance in the bathroom, dawdling over her bedtime ritual.
Before the sink, Claire levels her reflection with an unwavering stare. It's time for a pep talk.
"My marriage is over," she says firmly. When her mirror image fails to shriek in horror, she continues, "It's over, and that's . . . well, it's not okay. But it's not the end of the world, either."
The sun going out, now that's the end of the world. Kissing a strange, strange man . . .
"I can do this. I can be alone." She tries on a cheery smile and recites, "It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
No, that smile isn't cheery. It looks rather stoic. Reminds her of her paternal grandmother. She drops it immediately. She doesn't want to be like Angela. No. Thank. You.
"So. You listen to me, Claire Ru—Bennet. Claire Bennet."
It's funny, but a strength rises in her when she says the name aloud. It conjures images of a life long past. Noah Bennet. Now there was a man who knew how to save the situation, no matter how grave it got. He's no more than dust now, but she's still proud to call herself his daughter.
"That's right, Claire Bennet," she continues, squaring her shoulders. "You get your ass in there on that couch, and you have a good night's sleep. No bad dreams. And tomorrow—" The smile is a tad less false now. "Tomorrow will be a good day."
After all, today was . . . sort of a good day. With the ice cream . . . and the simulated murder.
She quirks an eyebrow.
"Or something," she amends.
She is playing house with Sylar, after all. Let's not push it.
[] [] []
They overlook the rather obvious bloodstain in the middle of the floor. It doesn't even seem to require a conscious effort on his part. He strolls right over it to hand her the blankets.
"If you need extra," he says, "well, you'll just have to suck it up, because I don't actually have any. I don't get many guests—go figure."
"Pretty sure these will do," she replies, taking them from him. It isn't exactly cold, anyway, as evidenced by her pajamas: a girlish, summer-appropriate tank-and-shorts set of yellow cotton. They're the same ones she wore in the hotel, being the only pair he bothered to pack. Other choices he spotted in her dresser felt out of place, either too winter-y or too . . . sexy. He turned his nose up at the skimpy ones; it was too easy to visualize her cavorting for Rutherford.
He watches her spread the blankets on the couch, clutching a pillow at his side. Those shorts really are, well, short. He wishes she wouldn't bend over like that. Good god, it's indecent.
She straightens and whirls back around to face him. He yanks his eyes up and clears his throat hastily.
"Pillow," he offers, holding it out.
"Great." She takes it, then stands there awkwardly. Glancing from him to the couch, she pointedly says, "Well . . . you know—sleep tight and all that."
She can't bring herself to say Goodnight, Sylar. It just isn't happening.
"Are you implying I have bugs?" he quips, but he can take a hint. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he retires to his room with a departing, over-the-shoulder, "Goodnight, Claire."
[] [] []
No bad dreams, she told herself, but at this point, she'd welcome a hair-raising nightmare if she could just drift off. Each time she clamps her eyelids together, they spring back open of their own accord. Her pupils adjust to the darkness, and the sight of the ceiling is soon stamped on her brain. The steady tick-tock of the many synchronized clocks pulses in her eardrums until she imagines taking a mallet and smashing their faces one by one.
Claire knows what the problem is, and it's embarrassingly pathetic.
She desperately wants something to hug, or simply something to lie alongside her body. Like an extra pillow. Or one of her bears from around the world.
A hint of moisture wells up in her eyes.
Gah, no, damn it! Making a face, Claire slugs her fist into the back of the couch. Remember the pep talk!
How long can she handle this, lying owl-eyed on a narrow couch with no contact? How long can this insomnia hold out? Maybe she should have accepted the bed when he offered it. Stuck him out here and huddled in the indentation made by his heavier body. That would teach him to pry bullets out of her head and feed her frozen desserts.
Claire flings back the blankets and plants her bare feet on the cool floor.
She was never good at pep talks, even as a cheerleader. Kicks and cartwheels, those were her forte.
[] [] []
Sylar opens his eyes groggily, pulled from a sound sleep by a light, repeated smack against his foot.
"Mmm—hm?"
"You don't sleep naked, do you?" comes the quiet voice from the foot of his bed.
"What?" His voice is hoarse, his eyes bleary.
"What are you wearing?" she persists, raising her voice slightly to aid his lagging comprehension.
"Um . . ." He shakes his head, befuddled. "Not much." A pair of dark blue boxers, that's it.
She emits an exasperated huff.
"But you are wearing something, right?"
"Yeah . . . Why? You need something?"
"No," she says briskly, walking around the edge of his bed. "Just go back to sleep." And flipping up the corner of the blanket, she slips beneath it. He scoots closer to the wall to accommodate her while she makes herself comfortable.
"I thought you didn't want to sleep in my room," he reminds her. Not that I'm complaining.
"I didn't."
"So?"
"So I'm a figment of your imagination, Sylar!" she snaps in a weary tone.
"Oh . . ." He drops his head back against the pillow thoughtfully. "That would explain it."
She stretches, the firm curve of her calf running briefly against his leg. Her skin is warm. The only sort of noticeable warmth he's used to feeling in his bed is when he rolls over into a spot he vacated moments before. Someone else's body heat feels foreign and overly conspicuous, as if his nerves are suddenly hypersensitive.
Must be what she was missing, he assumes astutely.
With a contented sigh, he lets his eyelids flutter shut.
[] [] []
"You snore," is the first thing that greets Sylar's ears when he awakens in the morning.
The lower half of his face feels hot. His head is turned to the side, and he realizes he's had his nose and mouth stuck in her hair. Claire noticed ten minutes ago, but she didn't bother moving, the heat of his long, even exhalations strangely peaceful. Now he pulls his face away.
"That's a lie. That's—" He yawns enormously. "—a damn lie."
They're both on their backs, Claire's head resting in the crook of his shoulder, his out-slung arm passing beneath her, fingers trailing over the edge of the mattress. He takes care not to disturb this arrangement as he stretches, pushing his legs out and arching his spine so that it cracks audibly.
"You do," she insists lazily. "Not constantly. But you make up for the lulls by sounding like a damn tractor every hour or so. I kept dreaming I was back in Texas, on a hay farm."
"You're making that up."
Claire laughs.
"How can somebody live as long as you and not know they snore? You must not have had many bedmates. Guess that Sex and Your Sanity book is one hell of a convincing read."
"Would you shut up about that book?" There's no real fire in the rejoinder. The lingering haze of sleep won't allow for humiliation. In fact, this is probably the most comfortable argument he's ever taken part in. "Anyway, I've probably had more than you."
"I find that doubtful."
"Why? How many have you had?"
"Some."
"Some? Don't be coy, Claire Bear—scandalize me."
"How many have you had?"
He draws in a long inhalation, then releases it in a pensive whoosh.
"All right, so I snore," he allows. "Any more complaints? And might I remind you that you're a guest here?"
"Guest, really . . ." she repeats, noting his brush-off. "S'pose that's Sylar-speak for prisoner. And, yes, actually, I do have one more."
"Namely?"
"The next time you wake up needing to pee, could you find a better way to get out of bed that just rolling over me like I'm made of feathers and fluff? I thought I was being mauled for a second."
"I forgot you were there. It was as disturbing for me as it was for you. Anyway-" Lifting the hand nearest the wall, he flicks his fingers out, and the bed scoots a couple feet to the left with a long, low grating noise, creating an easy passage on his side. "Problem fixed."
"Fabulous."
"So . . ." he begins reluctantly, "I take it this is . . . a permanent arrangement?"
"Hmm. Permanent is a strong word." Applying it in any shape or form to this situation strikes Claire as a grave mistake.
"Semi-permanent?"
"Um—quasi. I like quasi-permanent better." She supposes she has to give him something if he's going to rearrange his furniture for her. Then she frowns, twisting around so that she's on her stomach, head craned back to look at him. "I mean, unless it annoys you."
It occurs to her that he may find the bed too crowded now, just as she found the little couch uncomfortably spacious on her own. Old habits.
But he shakes his head quickly, almost too vigorously.
"No," he assures her.
For a moment, they study each other. Then Sylar's face splits into a grin, and he drops his head back onto the pillow, laughing.
"What?" asks Claire.
"Oh . . . nothing," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "I've never seen you in bed before, in the morning. You look like a tornado blew you in."
Glaring, Claire sweeps her fingers over the tangled mess of her hair. Digging her elbow under his ribs to shut him up, she stretches her legs, sliding them stiffly off the mattress.
"I should get the shower first, then," she reasons.
"Be my guest."
While she's steaming up his bathroom, Sylar tugs on a tee-shirt and swipes her bag from the living room. He takes it to the bedroom and unpacks it, shoving her things unceremoniously into a couple of empty drawers in his dresser. He pauses over the final item in the bag. Glancing over his shoulder toward the door as if to ascertain she isn't looming there, watching him, he closes the bag, leaving the item inside. He tosses the bag into the depths of his little-used closet.
He meets her in the living room, where she's emerged with a towel on her head and is in the process of hunting for her bag.
"I unpacked it," he informs her, walking past on his way to the bathroom. He gestures toward the open bedroom door. "Check the bottom drawers."
[] [] []
Over the course of the week, they slip into a comfortable groove. They go out for ice cream or cake; sometimes they dine at a nice Italian place down the street. They stroll the park, and he shows her where he used to work before he cracked up (her words). Some days they just hang around the apartment building. Claire jibes him about his books and his clocks, and he cracks a blonde joke or two. He would swear they're having fun, but he never asks Do you like it here?
At night, they sleep together. He becomes accustomed to her presence there, and she to his, so typically it comes off without a hitch.
Typically.
One morning he wakes to find her folded in his arms, her head beneath his chin, her back molded to his front. He's heard spooning described as sweet and romantic. While the latter might be true, sweet is the furthest adjective from his mind. With her bottom fitted into him like that, the instinct to move against her is so powerful it's almost overwhelming. It reminds him strongly of how he felt with Allison Crow, only Claire isn't doing it on purpose—is, of course, completely oblivious.
All you know how to do is violate things. She said that to him. But that was days ago. Besides, she didn't mean it.
Splaying his fingers, he slides his palm flat down her abdomen. Nuzzling into her hair, he presses her into him a bit more securely. Then he merely holds her there. It feels good, mostly. It feels like torture, a little.
He allows himself to caress her innocently while he inhales the scent caught in her hair. He'll drift off in a moment, he's certain—must be half-asleep even now, since otherwise he wouldn't be doing this. Her pajama top has ridden up a few inches, and the pad of his thumb dips into the shallow contour of her navel.
"Mm . . ." Claire makes a little humming noise in her throat.
He freezes as her body shifts against him. She mumbles something in her sleep. It's unintelligible, but one syllable sounds far too similar to Rob.
As he draws away and flips onto his other side, he jars the mattress as much as possible in order to end whatever disgusting dream she's begun courtesy of his touch. When she follows him, running her toes briefly along his ankles, his shudder is accompanied by a pronounced scowl.
No fine line exists between acceptance and affection. The two can be as alien to each other as joy and sorrow. He knows that. He isn't stupid.
So he never asks, Do you like it here?
She's here. What more does he require?
[] [] []
It's hard for Claire to admit it even to herself, but it does a little something for her when she feels him wanting her like that. Maybe it appeals to her vanity. Maybe it's just the affirmation she needs after being abandoned. She likes to think so. But the touch of his long, masculine frame encompassing her smaller form, his hands on her skin, makes her want to wrap herself around him and savor the sensation.
That's insane, though. So she feigns sleep, twists a bit to loosen him from her. When he draws away, the loss of his heat is more than slightly regrettable, so she turns with him, cuddles against his back. The shiver that passes through him makes her imagine pressing her lips to his skin, up his spine to his neck and around his jawline. She wonders what kind of reaction she could get out of him if she ran her hand across his stomach and sucked his earlobe between her teeth, if his long fingers would clench around the sheet.
Completely insane. What's wrong with her?
Claire needs to get out of his bed, out of his home, and stay out. This forced cohabitation is getting less involuntary by the day and far too cozy for comfort.
She's almost starting to like it.