She's coming back, Sylar realizes once his initial upset has evaporated somewhat. Her possessions are still here. His possessions are still here (with a tinge of guilt, he checks his wallet). She has nowhere to go and no way to get there. That's a cruel thought, but it's soothing.

So he showers. He dresses. He waits. He tries to pass the time working on a watch, but he's too restless, so he settles for pacing. The sound of the clocks accompanied by his own rhythmic footfalls settles him into an easy, thoughtful sort of trance.

Around this time, he gives up.

For years, he's put on a pretense of ambivalence—outwardly, of course, but the main stage for the charade was in his own head. He kept tabs on her—stalking is such a harsh term—but he didn't care how she spent her endless supply of time. He propositioned her once or twice, but that was a joke, a play for power, and she knew it. She was the only person in the world of any significance to him, but he didn't need her. He raced down to Texas when she threatened to take a permanent leave, but he could go for decades without communicating with her in any form, and he was fine, just fine.

I love you, I love you not. Wishy-washy children's games.

I like you, though. Whatever that's worth.

It's over. He's finished. The proof is in the brief but sharp knife of panic that cut through him when he awoke to find her gone.

He wants Claire Bennet. Has wanted her for god only knows how long. And he missed her for thirty years.

Of course, that realization is rather useless at the moment. Now that she's apparently stormed out beneath a cloud of morning-after regret, he doubts the right course to take is hiding behind the door until she returns, then pouncing on her with declarations of undying affection.

But he has to brush all this over somehow. Make it as if it never happened. Laugh it off, or—if she's game—pretend he can't remember a damn thing. Ha, well, that's intoxication for you. Told you it was overrated.

Something along those lines.

And he won't say anything, try anything. He'll just . . . keep her here. After a while, she'll just be here. With him. They'll simply exist together, in their own bubble, away from the changing, dying world.

Hm. He supposes snowglobes do have their beauty, after all.

At least, he finds the idea appealing.

The doorbell buzzes.

Sylar straightens, and for a split second he thinks it must be Claire. But Claire would surely just let herself in.

So he opens the door, and of course it isn't Claire at all.

It's her aging bastard of a husband.

The last time Sylar saw him in the flesh was at the wedding. Of the two men, only one has undergone any significant physical deterioration, but Rutherford is still recognizable. Sylar never forgets a face—not one he detests this much, anyway.

Rutherford examines the man blocking the doorway. He's taller, yes, and there's a certain quality to his face that whispers Don't screw with me, but all in all, he thinks Sanders' warnings were a bit over the top. The way Sanders talked, Rutherford rung the bell half-expecting this Sylar to open the door, rip out a shotgun, and blow him back to Texas.

Rutherford lets his eyes wander over the man's shoulder. Claire is nowhere to be seen in the background.

"Mr. Rutherford."

Sylar steps back, and though his tone is cordial, it is far from warm.

"Please," he encourages when Rutherford hesitates. "Come in."

"I . . ." Rutherford steps over the threshold. "I take it you know why I'm here."

Sylar has turned his back, strolled ahead with his hands linked behind him. The door drifts shut unaided, and Rutherford fancies that he hears it latch.

"Claire isn't here," Sylar replies over his shoulder, then quickly adds, "at the moment."

Rutherford looks him over with dislike.

"Where is she?"

"Out. There's a sitting room upstairs. You can wait for her, if you want. I think she'll be home soon."

You won't be here.

Rutherford pauses at the foot of the staircase, taking note of the word home and all it implies. Sylar continues toward the living room, prattling onward, playing the casual, gracious host.

"I haven't seen you since the wedding. You look so different." He lays a subtle emphasis on the word. "Oh, can I offer you something to drink? Tea?"

Strychnine?

"Coffee?"

Bleach?

"Or some tequila? We've got two bottles left."

You could drink it all at once. I could make you.

"I'm afraid I don't have much of a selection."

Sylar turns to face him when they arrive in the living room, tilting his head, eyebrows raised questioningly. Rutherford shakes his head.

"Nothing, thanks," he declines. Frowning, he begins to stroll about the room, on pretense of going over the shelves. Something about Sylar's gaze makes him want to keep on the move.

"You say you were at the wedding?" Rutherford asks.

"That's right."

"I don't remember you." He doesn't bring up the fact that Sylar looks as though he would have been a child at the wedding. These days, his wife looks as though she wouldn't have been conceived yet, much less legal.

"Well, it was a long time ago," Sylar points out. "And I didn't stay long."

He watched them drive away. The crowd threw rose petals, and Sylar fantasized about shattering all the champagne glasses and throwing shards, sending a barrage of crystal stems straight into the groom's chest.

"Didn't care for the ambiance?"

"Something like that," he says, then acknowledges, "Not that I was invited, anyway. I left a gift, though. I was polite . . . A clock, do you remember?"

Recognition lights Rutherford's lined face.

"Grandfather clock?" he asks, sticking a hand out to indicate height.

"Right," Sylar confirms. "You remember."

Rutherford nods.

"Damn thing didn't work."

"That was intentional. It was supposed to be a metaphor."

"A metaphor, is that so . . ." He shrugs a shoulder in clear indication of whatever you say. "Claire called it a piece of junk. She wanted to throw it out, but I liked it—"

"You've always shown yourself to be a man of excellent taste."

"Aha—yeah." Vague animosity is visible on Rutherford's face now. It's wonderful. "Anyway . . . I wanted to keep it, have it repaired. I took it to—oh, several people, but nobody could ever tell me just what the hell was wrong with it."

"Well, I put a lot of work into breaking it," Sylar admits, a touch of pride in his voice.

"You put a lot of work into a lot of things," remarks Rutherford, ceasing his journey about the room.

"Meaning?" One corner of his mouth quirks up, and he has to force it back down. Now they're getting to the good stuff.

"Meaning I think you've put a lot of work into Claire."

Rutherford faces him full-on and feels a rush of indignation, because the bastard has the nerve to look flattered.

"Oh—hardly." Sylar steps around the couch toward the other man. "I mean, when compared to how much work you've put in . . . Thirty years, isn't it? My god . . ."

He raises those broad, maddening eyebrows.

"I guess your shift is finally over. Well, no one can fault you for retiring—least of all Claire. Running away like that, it was so ungrateful of her, wasn't—"

"Do you think you know something about this, Mr. Sylar?" Rutherford cuts in, face coloring. "Do you think you have some sort of insight into our life?"

"Not your life, no. I might have had, but it's never interested me." That's not entirely true. Rutherford's life has carried a certain weight of interest these past three decades due to Claire's entwinement. "But when you say our life—you understand, obviously, that's all over and done with."

His brow furrows thoughtfully.

"That is, unless you're planning to suggest some sort of ménage a tois situation—and between you and me, I don't think Claire's going to go for it. What's her name, by the way?"

Rutherford laughs sharply and turns away, beginning to pace.

"I see she didn't waste any time filling you in on all the sordid details," he remarks, his voice hard. "Her name is Sharon."

"Hmm. I was hoping for something trashier. Candy, Trixie . . . Bambi, maybe. Something evocative."

Sylar can feel Rutherford getting worked up, angry. It's in the air, dancing along his arms and spine like an electric charge.

"Are you judging me?" the man asks bitterly. "You have no idea. Did you know, the day I left—that day, we'd gone out, and some cops stopped us. Thought I was some kind of dirty old man, wanted to see her ID. You should have seen the looks people gave us while they were passing by, while we were standing there trying to explain ourselves to those idiots."

I should have, Sylar agrees, but he can only wish. A small, appreciative smile tugs at his lips as he imagines Rutherford blustering, embarrassed. He goes a bit further in his fantasy and adds handcuffs. Hell, why not?

"And our private life, good god! Did you know that every single time we—well, shit, you probably do know, don't you?"

He shoots Sylar something like a leer, and clearly he's implying something, but Sylar isn't sure what.

"I got to where I couldn't stand the thought of touching her anymore," he continues.

"Ohhh . . ." Sylar says softly, comprehending. "But she can't feel pain."

"Does that matter? It was so bizarre! I barely understood how she could live with it."

"Of course, you knew, going in—"

"I knew shit going in! She told me, sure, but I was a goddamn fool. I thought we'd get married, have kids . . . I didn't realize she'd be a kid, forever!"

"So you just . . . outgrew her, is that it? Like a child losing interest in last year's toy?"

Rutherford's face is scarlet. Sylar imagines the man's head exploding, like a cartoon thermometer. Lovely image, that.

"There's blood on my carpet," Rutherford says roughly, coming to the point.

"Mine, too. Did you notice?"

"I need to see Claire! I need her to behave like an adult, so that we can start the divorce proceedings—"

"Technically, your marriage is already over. Till death do us part, and all that. Consider yourself parted."

A hint of suspicion blossoms at the statement. Just what is the meaning of all those stains? Rutherford looks at him closely.

"Where is she? Is she even . . . all right? I know about you—they told me you were like her. Do you know something the rest of us don't? Have you done something to her?"

"Worried you'll take the fall?" Sylar guesses, smirking.

"Where the hell is she?" Rutherford shouts. "I want to see her! Now."

"Oh, no . . . No, no, no. You've seen her already. The exhibit's over, Rutherford. Closed up. Moved on to another town—a better town. You know, the old town was starting to look a little shabby—"

"You told me that she would be back, you said wait here—!"

"I was buying a little time," he explains, his tone changing rapidly, losing all teasing elements. It suddenly seems to Rutherford as though a chill emanates from this man. That's only a whimsy, certainly . . . but his stance is rather off-putting, nonetheless—and his eyes, good lord, where'd he get those things?

"Time?" Rutherford snaps, nervous.

"You see, I'm not quite sure what to do with you."

Sighing, Sylar settles himself on the couch, arms sprawled along the back, staring at him.

"How do you handle pests, Rutherford?" he asks. "You must get mice, living out in the country. Do you dispose of them humanely? Inhumanely?"

"What the f—"

"My mother used those horrible glue traps." He studies the nails on his right hand. "Nothing quite like heading into the kitchen for a snack and finding a tiny, frantic animal trying to chew its own legs off . . . Kind of ruins your appetite. I started killing them. I wasn't sure how to do it at first. I beat one to death with a rolling pin. That was messy, so I drowned the next one under the faucet. But that took too long. The meat cleaver seemed like the best compromise. Decapitation—" Here he made a little to-and-fro slicing motion at his own throat. "—is quick. After a few tries, it became easy. Routine. I guess practice really does make perfect."

Rutherford stares at him as if he's grown a second, far more disgusting head.

"What about you, Rob? Hypothetically, if you were a pest . . and I was me . . . how would you like me to kill you?"

Rutherford takes a step back, his mouth set in a grim line.

"I think I'll come back later."

"I think you're wrong about that."

That's it, he's had enough. Sylar—just what the hell is his first name, anyway?—can go to hell. How in god's name Claire wound up with this lunatic is beyond him, but the lunatic can keep her, for all he's concerned. He'll check into a hotel nearby, call and hang up until he catches Claire alone, and then discuss the proceedings. Once she's signed the divorce forms and is safely off his hands—once no one can ever accuse him of doing away with his wife—he'll go back to Texas, to Sharon. Let this weirdness unwind as it may.

But as it happens, he can't go anywhere, because he finds himself oddly immobile.

"How did you find me?" asks Sylar curiously.

Rutherford makes a small noise in his throat, struggling against these iron-clad restraints that don't really exist, can't exist.

"You said they told you I was like Claire. Who are they?"

"What are you doing?" Rutherford responds hoarsely.

"Who are they, Rutherford? Tell me. It's time for you to buy a little time."

Rutherford's eyes are wide, shiny with fear and disbelief.

"I—I . . . Sanders," he sputters. "Micah Sanders. He said Claire contacted him, asking for you—for your number."

"And he told you where I lived?"

"No . . . God, what are you doing?"

Sylar sits forward, dropping his forehead against his palm in exasperation. He whips his other hand out and clenches his fist, turning his knuckles white.

Rutherford screams.

"Who are they?" he repeats, releasing his grip. Rutherford relaxes, panting at the passage of the pain. "Sanders is one. Now, who told you where I lived?"

"His wife!" rushes Rutherford before he can hurt him again. "He told me she'd know, but then he changed his mind, he said he didn't want to mention it to her, that she wasn't in any condition for it. So I went to see her on my own. She—she wasn't—quite right. She seemed okay at first. A little shaken. But she got out this map . . . She told me, and I turned to go, and she just flipped out, grabbed onto me and started raving about a boogeyman, and someone named Matt, how he would protect her . . . I pried her off and ran out. Last I saw, a nurse was shooting her up with a sedative."

Sylar glares at him from beneath his dark, heavy brow.

"It's true, I swear to god," Rutherford insists desperately.

"I know." He sits back. "Molly . . ."

"That's her! That's her name."

"Hmph."

Sylar seems lost in thought for a moment, then stands abruptly. Rutherford flinches.

"I want to kill you. I'd enjoy killing you."

So much. And it's been a while. He has a feeling killing Rutherford, of all people, would leave him breathless and almost eerily satisfied. Sort of like an unusually talented lay after a long dry spell.

But Claire would hate him for it if she ever found out. And he supposes she would, eventually.

"I do that sometimes, you know. Kill people. For instance, there was this man, a long time ago. He was so powerful. His ability was twofold, and I wanted it. Coveted it. But he was . . . well, kind of a dichotomy, I guess. He was powerful, yet completely vulnerable. He could stop me from using my powers—that was the first part of his ability—but he couldn't stop a bullet. What's the point of it all, if you can just die? People try so hard to put their mark on life, to be remembered, but I don't think they'd scramble for it if they could just . . . be."

Oh, lord, Rutherford groans inwardly, still straining against invisible bonds. Is Sylar really going to wax philosophical before murdering him?

"Oh, would you like to know what his other ability was?"

No. No, he does not.

"He could do the damnedest thing, but he had to touch you first."

Sylar approaches him, raises his hand to place it against Rutherford's forehead. Rutherford is aghast at his own helplessness, how he can't even lift his arm to knock him away.

"Like this."

I'm going to do it, Sylar thought darkly.

He wants to do it. Mindfuck him so hard he can't think straight afterward. Strip it bare, take away anything and everything, right down the first day he laid his sorry eyes on her. Leave him with a gaping hole in his memory and the belief that he was twenty years old. He wants to do it as badly as he ever wanted to do any of the awful things he did. And, just like those awful things, it makes perfect sense.

But would she find out? Could she?

He hates himself a little for his reluctance. No one should have that sort of hold over him, and a month ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. But a month ago, he had nothing to lose. He's gotten used to her being here. To the way she throws her leg across him sometimes in the middle of the night.

He hates himself a little, yes, but he hates the thought of her leaving more. He slides his hand down from the man's forehead and grasps his chin, makes him look him in the eye.

"Now you listen to me, Rutherford," he speaks at last, his voice low and trembling slightly with the suppression of the havoc he'd like to wreak upon this frail and pathetic creature. "You are nothing. I am the only man on earth who can call myself Claire Bennet's equal, and she is the only woman on earth who is my equal. And I worked for that, and I've been waiting you out for thirty years, and if you even dream of screwing this up for me, I will turn you into a shell of the miserable excuse for a man that you currently are."

And Rutherford knows it's true, that he could and would. And might.

"I won't," he whispers. "I won't. Just, please—you'll never see me again."

"She'll never see you again."

"She'll never see me again," he agrees hastily, searching Sylar's eyes, like dark pits, for some sort of mercy.

Sylar senses his sincerity. So he relents, stepping back.

"All right, then," he says simply, his tone suddenly lighter, as if Rutherford had never been dangling on the verge of death, no sir, not in Sylar's apartment. "If that's all, I have things to do. I suggest you go back to Texas. Take up your carpet. Move Sharon in. Enjoy life. Well, what's left of it."

Rutherford tries his feet, and thank you god they're working!

Swiveling rapidly, he dashes for the staircase.

"Not the way you came, please." Sylar's voice catches him. "There's a fire escape down to the alley. That way. That's right."

He doesn't want to risk even a slim chance of his running into Claire.

Rutherford boards the first flight back to Texas. He has as many drinks as the attendants will allow. Nervous energy bubbles inside him, anger at Sanders and his wife, at Claire, at himself. Fear and adrenaline, the urge to get up and run, hide somewhere safe. He's never going back to New York, ever.

A demon lives there.

And it seems to have a thing for his wife.