Sylar isn't completely without resolve. He realizes that contacting her too quickly after cutting her off, so to speak, would show weakness on his part. So he gives it a few days.
After all, want does not equal need. He doesn't need her. God forbid.
But it's boring without her. Boring and sleepless. He hates the empty portion of the bed. He tries to tough it out, to distract himself with his hobby, but when he starts hating his timepieces, as well, he knows the charade is over.
Turns out it's not so easy to get an apartment in New York when you're unemployed. Claire dials number after number, pounds the pavement, even flirts with an overweight, cigarette-chomping landlord or two, but at the end of the week, she's still holed up in her modestly-priced hotel room, hope rapidly deteriorating.
She should have found a job first, of course, then gone apartment hunting. But noooo, the instant she told him her plans, it was How dare you this and I'm not speaking to you that.
What a goddamn baby, she thinks, sprawled out on her bed, as she flips open her newspaper to the classifieds. Should've just fallen into bed with him as usual, then told him I was moving out the day I was moving out.
Of course, it all sounds good in retrospect. Now that he's had one too many melt-downs, and she's expending her savings in this dreadful little hotel because of it, he doesn't seem nearly so tempting. But the truth is, one kiss to the nape of her neck while they were curled up in his room, and she would have been doomed.
Thank god he never knew how simple it could have been.
Claire is staring, unseeing, at an add for an experienced copy editor for a small publishing house. Unconsciously, she lifts her hand to her neck, sweeping her hair aside, curving her fingers over her skin, imagining someone else creating the sensation.
God, it's too early for this. I can't feel like this all day, I'll go crazy.
So, to prevent herself from doing . . . whatever the hell she's doing . . . to prevent herself from throwing her own personal pity party, she picks up the phone.
[] [] []
You're kind of my hero, she told Peter. One more thing he and Joshua have in common, as it turns out.
"If you really need a job," says Joshua, "I've got a cousin who runs a café downtown. I mean, it, uh, well it ain't nothing glamorous." He laughs, nudging her in a slightly apologetic way. "But it's something. I could put in a good word for you."
Claire's eyes practically shine with gratitude.
"You'd do that?"
"Sure." He ceases his stroll and peers at her closely. "You're not in trouble, are you?"
"Oh . . . no. It's just, my. . . boyfriend and me . . ." She trails off for a second.
Applying that word to him still feels unspeakably wrong, and even more so because it feels all too close to being appropriate. Certainly she and Sylar were more than mere roommates these past couple of weeks. Just what they were, she isn't sure, but it's what they might have been that keeps her awake at night.
"We kind of called it quits," she continues, "and it's his place, so . . ."
"Out on your tail, huh?" Joshua nods sympathetically. "You got somewhere to stay?"
There's an offer in his big, brown, puppy-dog eyes. They express his innate kindness, contrasting starkly with another pair of familiar dark eyes, ones which have looked bored and mocking, even ravenous, but never kind.
Claire finds herself considering Joshua's unspoken offer.
Though she's known him but briefly, there's something about Joshua that she adores, something that isn't entirely encompassed by his resemblance to Peter. He must have his bad points—god knows she has them in spades—but they can't possibly be more off-putting than a history of serial murder. He's nice. She likes him. He's the type of person she could find herself loving, if she let it go that far.
Claire smiles sweetly.
"Yeah," she answers, which is not a total lie, after all. For now she's got that claustrophobic hotel room to call home. "Just gotta find a way to pay for it."
"I'll talk to my cousin," he assures her, returning her smile.
Rob was nice, too. At one point. She loved Rob.
At one point.
The only welcome Claire Bennet has for love these days is a swift middle finger.
[] [] []
Where the hell has she gone? Out on an interview? Out with Number Boy—what's his name, again, Joseph? Joshua? Some similar name, beginning with a J . . . Some male name.
Sylar hopes Mr. J gets plowed over by a taxi, maybe while crossing the road to say hello to her. If he should die—
If, what am I saying? He laughs.
-then he should definitely die in front of her. It would make for a nice cautionary tale, a preventative measure against future affairs.
Once upon a time, Gabriel found a stray cat in the alley outside his apartment. He started tossing it the odd scrap. By the time he set out a disposable cup filled with cream, the ragged little creature was comfortable enough to rub against his ankle. He scratched gently behind its soft, furry ears as it began to lap up the drink.
One night, there was a commotion in the alley. A mangy, ribbed wretch of a dog got hold of the cat and . . . well. All animals are hungry, he supposed. It was only natural. But Gabriel didn't feed strays after that.
It's the same principle, really. There's nothing like a good trauma to break bad habits, and Mr. J is just another stray.
J the Stray. Hm.
Still, he probably shouldn't bank on a convenient dog-mauling to rid him of Mr. J, or even that rogue taxi possibility. It's a pleasant fantasy though, and he's so deeply immersed in it that he barely hears the footsteps in the hallway, heralding Claire's return.
Things are looking up at last. She's got a job on the horizon. A shitty, caffeine-hustling job of the waitress variety, but a job, nonetheless. Next up, her own place.
Noah would be proud.
When the telephone on the dresser goes off in a rapid series of cricket-like beeps, Claire flinches. Is someone calling from the front desk? Is something wrong?
"Uh—hello?"
"Claire," greets a smooth, familiar voice. "Hello."
She sighs.
"Well, if it isn't Dr. Lecter," she says, smirking. "I haven't made it to hell yet, sorry to disappoint you. I'll send you a postcard as soon as I get there. I'm sure if I tell them I know you, I'll get some kind of discount."
"No, you're in room—what is it again? 12B?"
Claire goes silent, and the smirk drops off her face.
"Wait a minute, where are you?" she asks warily.
"Why do you ask?" he responds innocently.
She hangs up immediately. Stomps over to her door, flings it open, and launches her fist at the one immediately opposite her room.
"Open up, you bastard!" she grinds out through her teeth, pounding on the door.
The knob turns, and it opens inward. Claire's fist nearly collides with a paunchy gut.
"The hell?" says man in a faded red tee-shirt. Who has long, unkempt, grayish-brown hair. And a beard. And who may be one of any number of people, but who is by no means Sylar. "What's your damn problem, girl, you got a trick paid you in counterfeit?"
Claire steps back, blinking, face hot.
"I didn't—I'm sorry," she stammers, too stunned to fully comprehend he just called her a whore. "I thought you were . . ."
"Christ's sake . . ." he mutters, beginning to retreat into his room once more.
A door to the left clicks open.
"Is this lady bothering you, sir?" calls a vaguely sardonic voice, and Claire pivots to find him leaning out of the room two doors down, peering at the stranger with mock concern.
"Goddamn right she's bothering me," he grumbles without looking at Sylar and, with that, slams the door closed.
Under her glare, he bites his lip, the smugness so thick on his face it must be about to crack.
"Accosting strangers, Claire?" he asks, shaking his head. An idea strikes, and he lifts his eyebrows. "Have you considered a career as a bouncer? Or perhaps some sort of debt collector . . ."
Shoving past him, she strides into his room, halts in the center, and spins to face him.
"What is this?" she snaps. "What, are you stalking me now?"
"Claire, Claire . . ." he sighs, shutting the door. "Clearly, you never read the handbook. It isn't stalking if we say hello."
"Like hell it isn't!"
He shrugs.
"You know, this is my city, not yours," he points out. "I live here. You, you're a country girl at heart. Technically, you're on my turf."
"Oh, I see, so you just happen to be right down the hall from me." Also, good god, does he really believe he owns the city?
"I like to get out of the house every now and then."
"Wow, never realized cheesy hotels five miles away from home were such popular vacation spots."
Laughing appreciatively, he strolls past her, hands in his pockets. She wants to slug the arrogance off his face. Make him eat it.
"Oh, can I offer you something to drink?" he asks suddenly, opening the small, brown refrigerator in the corner and peering into it. "You probably can't afford the mini-bar in your room. Don't worry, it's on me."
"Why the hell are you here, Sylar?" she demands.
He straightens, closing the refrigerator. Thoughtfully, he seats himself at the foot of the bed, crossing one leg over the other. After a moment's pause, he answers nonchalantly:
"There was nothing good on TV. It occurred to me that watching you fail would probably be more entertaining than the average stale sitcom."
It stings a little. It nettles more.
"Sylar . . ." Claire shakes her head bitterly. "You don't even own a TV."
"Hm." He nods. "That would explain it, then."
"Okay." She straightens her shoulders. "Fine. You want to see me fail?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
Claire crosses the small room slowly, stopping just before his knees. She doesn't exactly tower over him, even when he's seated, so she only has to bend slightly to bring them nearly nose-to-nose.
Sylar automatically looks down at her mouth. It curls up at the edges. Not a good sign.
"Then you'll have to come down to The Chocolate Chipped Mug on West St. Joan Street to do it," she says happily, smile broadening. "I've got a job there."
Hopefully.
If not, she'll have to kill herself all over again. Maybe if she takes a cruise, bails overboard, and blows her brains out in the middle of the Atlantic, it'll take this time. But no . . . he'll probably be there, observing, ready to retaliate by sending hundreds of innocents into shark-infested waters. Then, no doubt, he'll haul her back up, wring her out, revive her, and tell her it was all her fault, but oh well, at least they finally have the deck to themselves, and he makes a great margarita, would she like one?
Damn it. He always shows up to ruin her best suicide scenarios.
"A coffee shop?" His voice holds a sneer, but his face has gone devoid of all previous satisfaction.
"That's right."
"Not exactly glamorous, is it?"
"Well, I wouldn't expect it to appeal to King Midas the Unemployed, but I'm pretty thrilled about it."
"Sure." He stands, his mouth almost brushing hers in the motion. Claire pulls back sharply but stands her ground. "It's called desperation."
"It's called independence," she counters.
"Relying on a troupe of caffeine-addicts to shuffle in jonesing for mochas and espressos?" He scoffs. "Whatever you say . . . Though I admit, I do find it a little offensive you'd rather waste hours out of every day doing that, when I was giving you complimentary room and board. Says something about my company, I suppose."
"Says something about my upbringing," Claire retorts. "Where I come from, they teach us to leave before we overstay our welcome."
Of course, when Sylar's involved, Leave them wanting more goes hand in hand with Get out while your legs still work.
"My, my, how refined we are," he says sarcastically. "Almost made me forget you really left because of a drunken grope you initiated."
She bares her teeth, seeming to hiss at him.
"That was your fault," she snaps.
"Was not," he says confidently.
"Well, you're the one who keeps bringing it up, anyway," sneers Claire. Because he embarrassed her, and he deserves it, she leans in slightly and conspiratorially asks, "You got a crush on me or something?"
The blush that steals onto his face is the highlight of what's been a surprisingly good day.
He feels it, his cheeks hot, and he hates her for being right. Without her compliance, this fixation—this crush, as she so understatedly terms it—is ruining him. It doesn't help that there seems to be a direct correlation with the clean desire for her companionship and the barely repressed urge to simply throw her down on the bed and strip her. The result being that with every step she takes to assert herself as something other than his new best pal, his physical frustration climbs right along with his indignation.
Sylar doesn't like feeling this way. Dirty. So much for the rabid puppy act. This is all a little more sick, with him trailing after her like a mongrel sniffing around a well-formed bitch, panting for her to do him a favor and come into estrus, pretty please.
He couldn't be more pathetic if he tried. Or even if he was Gabriel, for god's sake.
The worst part of it is, he knows he'll never get her out of his system. If he ever gets what he wants—and god damn it, he better, he only has forever—he'll only want it again, each fulfillment prompting the next hunger. Like a drug, each fix ensuring the need for another.
Maybe not, he thinks hopefully. Maybe all lovers feel that way in the beginning. He never got far enough to find out with the other ones. They had a tendency to drop dead when things started getting serious.
Lovers. God. Does she know?
She can't know.
"Oh, dear lord, you've found me out," he expresses dramatically. "What was it?"
He steps closer, lifting his hand to cup her cheek as his eyes, bright with eager sarcasm, bore into hers.
"Did you run across my book of love poems? My collection of all that hair you never bother to pick out of your brush?" His face goes slightly pained, and his voice drops to a whisper. "Not the shrine in the basement!"
Claire plants her palm in his chest and shoves him back sharply.
"You're an asshole," she mutters.
He smiles, pleased, tension evaporating inside him.
"What happened to your genteel Southern upbringing, Scarlet?" he asks.
"Scarlet O'Hara was a complete bitch," she retorts with a smirk.
"True," he allows, "although I'm going to assume your summation of the character is based on the movie, rather than the actual—"
"Yeah, that's right, Sylar!" Claire snaps loudly. "You've worked your way through the entire Library of Congress, and I've worked mine through twelve issues of Cosmo a year! Goddamn dorkiest serial killer who ever existed, that's you."
He appears slightly affronted.
"At least I'm not a ditzy cheerleader," he shoots back.
Claire snorts.
"I haven't been a cheerleader for one mother of a long time—why can't you get over it? And for that matter, why even want a roommate like me in the first place? Wouldn't I clash with your decorating? I mean, if I'm so ditzy?"
"Oh, well, maybe because I haven't had company over in fifteen years," he replies, throwing her own words back at her.
"That's not my fault!" she tells him firmly, and suddenly they're staring at each other with angry, tight faces again. How the hell does this always happen? "I can't be your babysitter, Sylar, no matter how much you clearly need one. Why not try going out, huh? Meeting new people and all that?"
Listening, he puts his hands on his hips, stance angry.
"You want me to make friends?" he asks, face sour and voice dripping disdain. "Fuck."
Claire laughs shortly.
"That's your response?" she asks. "I say meet new people and you drop the F-bomb? Oh, yeah, spending eternity with you would be a real hoot."
"I never said eternity—and by the way? It is your fault!" he contradicts suddenly, voice rising. "You went and married that—that—"
He flings his hand around, searching for the proper obscenity, but there just isn't one strong enough to describe Rutherford, so he proceeds:
"—like a complete imbecile, so there you were in Texas, stuck there dragging around this big, rotting anchor of a husband—"
"I've got news for you," she cuts in, "Rob isn't what stopped me from popping in for coffee and chit-chat. It's just that, see, I already had a friend who took me out scalping, so maybe if you could've found something else to bring to the table—"
"Oh, admit it, Claire, you were so busy trying to make hideous little babies with that jackass you wouldn't have noticed—or cared—if I'd walked around systematically slaughtering your entire neighborhood! You forgot I even existed for thirty years—and you really ought to thank me for making it so goddamned convenient for you."
"Lord, where are my manners? Thank you, Sylar, for being so charitable as to not walk around systematically slaughtering my neighbors." Suddenly, she crosses her arms over her chest and takes a step back, her face darkening. "Also . . . You know, you're kind of a prick, mentioning babies. You did that on purpose."
Her voice wavers a little, but no pity rises in him, only bile.
"Maybe you don't understand, Claire," he says in a tone of slow, gentle explanation. "Babies, you see, are a lot like their furry counterparts—puppies and kittens, you are familiar with those, yes? All right, well you see, they don't stay little and cute forever. They actually get bigger and older. Older. They age, Claire. And whatever adorable mutts you might have spawned with Rutherford—they would have grown up and eventually died, though probably not before disowning Mom for making them look ancient in public."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Your body did you a favor, Claire. Repaired the damage, just like always, only this time it was smart enough to do it in advance."
"You bastard," she says in a low voice. "You sick son of a bitch."
Her eyes are drilling into him with hate, draining some of his anger, so he lowers his gaze to the maroon carpet.
"I'm not saying it was pleasant," he acknowledges quietly. "Just that it was for the best. That's all."
He sort of wants to say he's sorry, so he says:
"I'm sorry if you can't see that."
Which really isn't the same thing.
"No . . ." Claire shakes her head. "I'm the one who's sorry."
He looks up at her, and she approaches him, arms still crossed, face still flushed with wrathful anguish. She stops when they're almost touching, and he wants to tell her to close her eyes so he can kiss away the wetness on her lashes, murmur a decent apology against her cheekbone.
She reaches up and takes his face in her hand, her fingers curving under his jaw and the pad of her thumb resting in the valley beneath his mouth. Without thinking, he curls his fingers over her wrist, his thumb running over her knuckles.
"How could I expect you to understand what it was like, having a life in me," she asks, "when you've always been content to carry death around inside you?"
His fingers contract almost imperceptibly, his only outward reaction.
"I am sorry," she reiterates. "For you. Because for all your books and those abilities that mean so much to you, there's a lot in this world that you're never going to understand."
She draws away. He lowers his hand slowly, otherwise immobile.
"Not that you care," she adds. "But it would bother some people."
She reaches the doorknob and turns to leave.
"When do you start work?" he inquires, his voice husky.
His obstinacy astounds and dismays her.
"Doesn't really matter, does it?" she responds, opening the door. "I'll be expecting you. Oh, and Sylar? Next time you say you're never going to speak to me again . . . Try to follow through, okay?"
Claire checks out of the hotel—to further insult him, he thinks.
So he leaves, too. Finds a cab and tells the driver to tag along behind the one that just passed. This time, he doesn't follow her into her new hotel. Just watches as she takes her bag in, then tells the driver to take him past The Chocolate Chipped Mug, where he'll be seeing her next.