It really isn't a carbon copy. But it's not too far off. After dragging on a sweater—no sweater vests in his wardrobe these days, thank god—shaving, and combing his hair in a humble side part, he could pass for Gabriel. Which isn't a fact he relishes. In his experience, passing for Gabriel means passing by unnoticed.

For the finishing touch, he retreats to his timepiece room and dredges up an ancient pair of prescription glasses from a drawer. They have a loose screw, which won't quite tighten. Must have been stripped at some point. But he puts them on, nevertheless, unwilling to resort to those ghastly eye loupes, which, no doubt, would send Claire into unrestrained fits of giggles.

After all, Claire is not opposed to laughing at Sylar, but he has a slight suspicion her amusement might sting a bit more if aimed at Gabriel.

Kid's too soft, he thinks, chuckling as he peers over the frames to take in a warped view of himself in the surface of the eye loupes. He just can't take it.

Never could. And that's why Sylar put him out of his misery all those years ago.

So now he's . . . back.

Good lord, how did Claire talk him into this, again?

Running his fingers reverently over the face of a grandfather clock, Sylar shuts off the lights and returns to the upstairs living room.

Claire turns at his footsteps, and her eyes rove over him. Something akin to electricity shoots up his spine, and he averts his eyes unintentionally. To cover, he squints, pulling the glasses off.

"I can't see a damn thing," he says. "I haven't needed glasses since . . ."

"Since you decapitated me?" she finishes charitably. "Actually—does it count as decapitation if only part of the head comes off?"

"Well," he muses, raising a brow, "I think that depends on whether you live to tell about it."

Claire smiles thinly.

"Then it definitely counts."

"Are we going to fight?" he asks, walking past her to scoop up a bottle. He pushes it toward her. "Or are we going to drink?"

"Both, probably," she replies. She accepts the bottle and watches him open a second one. "You're giving me my own bottle?"

"Glasses will only slow us down," he explains with a smirk, clinking the neck of his bottle against hers.

"Speaking of which . . ." Claire tugs the spectacles from his hand. He frowns as she applies pressure with her thumb, popping the lenses out. She reaches up, hooking the frames onto his ears none too delicately. He bats her hand away gently.

"Seems a little pointless, doesn't it?" he points out. Not to mention more Clark Kent than ever.

"It's all in the effect. I mean—" She steps back and strikes a bit of a pose. "It's not like I plan on doing any cheers."

He half-nods in agreement, tilting the bottle up to his lips. He winces slightly at the first swallow, then points his chin at Claire. Time to get this ill-conceived show on the road. Warily, she takes a sip. Her face scrunches up as the liquid burns down her esophagus.

"Ugh!" she exclaims. "I think I like mine better in margaritas."

"Those would've slowed us down, too."

"Is it even on?"

"Hm?"

"That ability—is it on?"

"Oh." He takes another swig. Smiles. Tips her a rather un-Gabriel-esque wink. "It's on."

[] [] []

Claire is well into her second bottle when she starts doing cheers. Sylar is sprawled comfortably on the floor, his back against the couch and one knee drawn up, observing her curiously through the empty holes of Gabriel's glasses.

"Okay, and this one . . ." She wobbles a bit. "This one is one we would do when we were up against the Bears. God, they really thought they were the shit. Hate those goddamn Bears."

"That's pretty good."

"I haven't done it yet."

"Oh."

Pity. Gabriel was never one for pep rallies, but Sylar thinks he could have gotten behind Hate those goddamn Bears. It has a nice edge to it. The rest of the cheers run together in a stream of rahs and one-letter chants. Sylar would be incredibly bored if he wasn't so focused on Claire's lithe body flailing around in what would probably be a skilled fashion, were she not so liberally soaked in alcohol.

He's somewhat tipsy himself. It makes staring at her easier, as the tequila seems to have purged whatever shame might have holed up in the corners of his unconscious. Claire tries an awkward little jump-spin combo, and he's at perfect eye level to witness the way her skirt twirls up from her thighs.

The spin doesn't quite come off, and she hits the floor with a thump. The half-empty bottle she's clutching rolls away, drizzling the already blood-stained carpet.

Rather than rushing to aid the immortal girl, Sylar bursts into quiet laughter. He isn't sure why. Maybe it's Gabriel—maybe some buried, bitter part of him thoroughly enjoys seeing a beautiful cheerleader fall on her ass.

Hell, maybe he's more wasted than he thought.

"Well, it's a reaction," Claire slurs, pulling herself to her knees. "You gotta be the most lifeless crowd I ever cheered for in my life."

"That's Gabriel for you," he explains honestly, taking a drink from his own bottle before offering it to her. He supposes it's what a gentleman would do, passing the lady his liquor when she's too far gone to hold her own.

"Something tells me Gabriel Gray never made it with a cheerleader," she speculates, crawling toward him.

"No," he replies, too drunk for discretion.

"Hm," she laughs, taking the bottle. "Hey, you got any idea how many times I died in this uniform?"

He only shakes his head, because a drop of tequila has fallen onto her clavicle and keeps inching its way down to the round collar of her top.

"This one time, for instance—there was this—" Claire makes a disgusted noise in her throat. "—complete asshole, who did want to make it with a cheerleader. He put firecrackers in the other team's mascot, blew it all to hell—"

"You mean in effigy, right?" The drop expends itself in a shiny trail before reaching her top.

"Shut up, I'm telling it."

"You're kind of a mean drunk, you know that?"

"Anyway," she presses on, ignoring him, "I thought he was soooo sweet, I mean I was just about half-gone over him, you know? Prince Charming in a football jersey . . ."

Claire scoffs and, bracing on the tequila bottle, pulls herself level to his gaze. Her eyes, slightly bleary, are nonetheless blazing.

"Guess what happened."

"I thought you were telling it."

"He took me out to the bleachers, tried to rape me, killed me, stripped me, and dumped my body."

Sylar's lip curls. Claire only smiles—not a pretty smile—and shoves her hand aggressively into his chest.

"Now in light of recent events, you give me one good goddamn reason to believe men aren't uniformly scum."

"I don't know about that," Sylar replies in a low growl. He brings his face closer to hers, cups the back of her head so she can't look away. "But if I'd known . . . Claire . . . I would've killed the bastard."

It's as true a statement as he's ever made. He only laments that the man is long gone, or he might kill him this very night. There is no statute of limitations on revenge.

"Nah," she counters. "You were too busy trying to kill me. One hell of a year, let me tell you . . ."

"Claire, I'm—"

"Don't say you're sorry. Just don't lie, is all I ask."

Sylar shuts his mouth.

Breaking the tension, Claire reaches up and runs her hand over the smooth comb of his hair. It looks ridiculous this way. Why would he ever style it like that, when he had such nice, thick, dark hair? Who would style it like that? Just who the hell was this Gabriel, who comported himself as if he envied wallpaper?

"Say something Gabriel would say," she commands.

He rolls his eyes.

"I don't know . . ."

"Say something."

Wearily, he complies, reciting in a buzzed but steady monotone:

"Yes, ma'am, I can get you a new battery, but you see, it isn't the battery at all, it's the fact that you accidentally ran it through the washing machine and drier. Hello, mother, I brought you a new snowglobe. Yes, it is beautiful. No, it wasn't too expensive. Yes, I realize it's not the same thing as a grandchild—no progress in that department. Sorry."

He offers the last word so insolently that Claire emits a series of shrill giggles, clamping her hand over his mouth to stop him from going any further. He reaches up to grasp her wrist, but doesn't pull her hand away.

"Oh—sorry . . ." Claire gasps. "Oh dear lord . . that's depressing."

"Thus the amusement," he grumbles against her palm.

"Huh?"

Claire releases his mouth, and Sylar takes the opportunity to push her back on her heels as he rises to his knees, gaining the high ground. The tequila bottle tips beside them, abandoned.

"Now say something Claire would say," he orders.

"I . . ?"

"Something good." He gives her a grim smile. "Come on, Claire Bear, you know me. What do I want to hear?"

Claire looks down at her knees, poised between his, and chews on her bottom lip in thought. When she meets his eyes again, he can tell it's going to be good before she even opens her mouth.

"That boy?" she begins. "The one who killed me? I tried to return the favor. Asked for a ride home and plowed his car straight into a brick wall. Bastard didn't play football for a while, I can tell you that much."

His heart picks up a bit.

That's the sexiest thing I've ever heard.

Claire's eyes widen.

"What?" she asks.

"Oh . . ." Well, shit. He didn't mean to say it out loud. "I didn't—"

She laughs.

"Like that, do you?" she asks. "Not very Gabriel of you."

Well, maybe not—but maybe. He was always a little unhinged.

"I didn't mean to say that." He sits back, putting a few inches between them and feeling like a fool.

What an idiotic thing to think, much less to actually express aloud, never mind the alcoholic influence. How can he possibly fall into bed with her after saying something like that?

But he wants to fall into bed with her.

He isn't tired.

"You're blushing," Claire snickers. Now that, she muses, is Gabriel, one hundred percent. The boogeyman doesn't blush.

"So are you," he counters. "It's the tequila."

"S'that a fact?" she asks dubiously.

Claire feels bold. She's just drunk enough not to give a damn, and he looks weak, anyway—vulnerable with his deplorable side-part and glasses and the color that's risen in his face. She's never seen him weak. She wants to see more of it.

She recalls his assessment of their relationship: predator and prey. For the first time, she feels as if those roles have shifted in her favor.

"Didn't know gory car crashes turned you on," she says. "Should've guessed."

His eyes snap to her face.

"It wasn't the crash," he insists crossly.

"No?"

"It's just . . . I knew you had it in you. That's all."

"And that's sexy . . . how?"

He runs a hand over his face in discomfort. This is exactly why he doesn't do this type of thing. You say things when you drink, things you ought not vocalize. He decides to do what many drunks do—kill his booze-induced problems with more booze. His hand searches beside him for the bottle, but Claire gets it first and sets it behind her.

"Claire—" He goes forward, tries to reach around her, and suddenly her hands are at his shoulders, toppling him to the side. Aggravated, glasses slightly askew, he rights himself, his arms supporting him now that the couch is no longer at his back. His hand tries for the tequila again. He wants to hide his embarrassment with obstinance.

Claire slings a leg over him. Straddles him.

His hand stills, fingertips brushing the carpet. He's not sure what the hell is going on anymore. This is all very bizarre.

"Tell me what's so sexy about it," she requests.

No, it's not a request. He looks at her face, at her uncontrolled smirk, and he realizes she believes she's found a way to dominate. It's all because of this damn dress-up fiasco—clearly, she thinks little of Gabriel. Not surprising. Most people did, if they thought of him at all.

Sylar locks eyes with her. She's getting a kick out of his humiliated hesitation, so he reaches inside himself and kills it.

"Hearing you talk, how proud you are of what you did," he answers, "seeing your true colors . . . It's like seeing you naked. In a way."

Her smirk fades a bit at his candor, and she glances down. So does he.

This position, too, hints at her nakedness. The way her short skirt rides up around her hips with her thighs spread like that. The triangle of red underwear visible between them.

The mere fact that she's on top of him.

Claire catches him staring, and in her uninhibited state, she doesn't think twice about leaning into him, bringing her lips to the faux watchmaker's ear.

"You bring a lot of girls back to your shop?" she whispers through a smile. Kisses his earlobe the way she's wanted to do since they began sharing a bed. "You give the good-looking ones discounts? Hm? Maybe a free battery?"

He could push her away, pin her, frighten her, but he laughs softly, as if she made a joke. Which, he supposes, she did, though he doubts it's a good-natured one. Maybe he feels giddy. His head is certainly swimming a little. Because Claire is on top of him.

Kissing him.

Dropping his glasses onto the carpet, he nuzzles into her hair. It's so soft. It smells like . . . something. Her shampoo, he assumes, some kind of fruit. And the alcohol.

Tequila peach, he sums up inwardly.

The hand that was going for the bottle now returns to run up her thigh. He wants to kiss her and inhale her, but before he gets a chance to do either properly, her palms come up to his chest and shove him roughly down onto his back.

"Okay," he responds, laughing a bit harder, and she's laughing, too. She's so pretty when she laughs, with her cheeks all flushed like that. And the feel of her weight is so . . . right.

"You know what I think, Gabriel?"

He should make her stop calling him that. He doesn't. Maybe losing control isn't so bad, not really. Not always.

"What's that?" He lets his fingers trail under the hem of her knit top, dragging it upward to expose her smooth, tight stomach. He's going to kiss her there before this is all over. He's going to kiss her everywhere.

"Mm, I think we should've done this years ago," she finishes, putting her hands over his and looking down at where he's caressing her. Smiling, she remarks, "Lord, look at that. You'd never know I was pregnant three times."

Even through the vague haze of liquour, the non-sequitor strikes him as shockingly out of place. Sylar nearly chokes, and his hands freeze on her belly.

"S-sorry?"

"Hmm?" she murmurs, bending over him. Her eyes close as if she's about to touch her lips to his, and he wants her too—god, how he wants her to—but he just can't shake it. He catches her upper arms, and her eyes open.

"What did you say?" he insists. "Pregnant?"

"Oh—yeah. Never would take, you know? One of those immortal side effects . . . He said it was okay, he didn't want kids anyway, but . . . I don't know, can something like that ever really be okay?"

He wishes she hadn't said it. And he wishes she hadn't said he. He remembers the note he tossed into the fire back in Texas. The suicide note that was really a love note. The things she mumbles in her sleep from time to time.

Claire makes to kiss him again, and this time he rolls her onto her back.

"Wait, no, I just—I just—no," he stammers. Struggling to his feet, he begins to walk away, somewhat unsteadily but competently.

"Where you going?"

He hears her stand, too, and stagger. She catches a fistful of his sweater, and they both go down again, hard, Claire on her side and he on his hands and knees.

"Claire god damn it!" he snaps, more furiously than he intends. He tries to crawl away.

"What happened?" she asks, her voice bewildered.

Regaining a shaky footing, Sylar looks down at her. He sees a beautiful woman at his feet—and she's been hurt recently, and she's clearly a little unstable, and he has her drunk and dressed up in a cheerleading costume.

"Take that ridiculous thing off," he says. "Go to bed."

"We were getting there," she argues, her expression belligerent. "I thought you were going to take it off."

"Oh, god," he mutters. He turns, crosses the living room without tripping over his feet, and reaches the sanctuary of the bedroom. As he closes and locks the door, Claire's muffled and slightly slurred voice rings out, ripping into him.

"Are you leaving? Are you-? Well—fine! Fine! Who wants you, anyway? I wish you'd crawl off somewhere and die, you impotent psycho son of a bitch!"

"Oh, god," he groans again. He tugs the sweater over his head and flings it aside. Then he musses up his hair for good measure. Gabriel's dead, and he likes him that way. Someone that easily killed didn't deserve this half-assed impromptu resurrection.

Sylar collapses on the bed with his arm across his eyes.

Losing control, he remembers now that Claire and her body are locked away, is bad. Really and always.

Something smacks into the door. He thinks it might be Gabriel's frames. Something else hits with an extraordinary smash, and it's definitely one of the bottles.

It occurs to him that he should turn off the Haitian's ability. But he doesn't. Being sober has never seemed less appealing.