Sylar leaves home Monday in a mood as black as hell's underbelly.
He had a dream about her last night. This time around, it was a good one. Well. That's an understatement. She was back in his bed; let's leave it at that.
Then, of course, as it tends to happen, he woke up right in the middle of the glorious proceedings, to the grating rediscovery that she wasn't in his bed, and she probably isn't going to be anytime soon, because she absolutely despises him. So there.
He slammed his palm against the mattress, body still reacting to the vivid fantasy and under the apparent assumption that all was going down as planned.
Quasi-permanent, she said. Shit.
Why couldn't he have shut his mouth, god damn it? Why bring up babies, tease her with the one thing she wants and can't have?
He's afraid he's beginning to understand how that feels.
Well, screw it. Fine. She despises him, so what? He despises her right back. Sort of. Of course, if she'd just come home, that would all go away, but conditional hatred still counts, technically.
So when he sets out for The Chocolate Chipped Mug, he isn't sure what his intentions are. Scope out the place, perhaps. See if maybe it has some faulty, frayed wiring hooked up to the percolators. If maybe it wouldn't be all too shocking if the place just burst into one giant inferno one of these days . . .
Or he might just have a coffee.
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The café . . . it's cheery. Oh, god, it's sickening. Little tables scattered all over the place, a few overstuffed chairs set off in nooks, and a general air of peace and happiness. The scent is like heaven, all brewing coffee and baked goods.
Sylar hates it as he has hated few locations in his life. That room in Primatech where they put a shunt in his head and The Chocolate Chipped Mug, that about does it. As if to punctuate, there goes Claire, bustling past with an oversized, steaming cup, and she doesn't look nearly as miserable as he had hoped.
Well, that's where he comes in. He settles at a table near the center, where Claire seems to be gravitating the most.
In fact, Claire isn't miserable at all. The morning, admittedly, was a little rocky, but now she feels she's settling in. Frank seems pleased with her. The other barista on shift, Sean, seems pleasant enough. Overall, she thinks she quite likes it here. She can't wait to thank Joshua again. He promised to drop by at some point during her first day.
Then she sees him: Sylar, seated in her station, dressed as always as if he just came from a funeral, with an expression that suggests he'd like to cause one. Briefly, she considers asking Sean to take this one.
No. That's what he wants. To make me uncomfortable, to ruin this for me so I'll come crawling back begging for a place to stay.
Claire sighs, then sets her face into a pleasant smile. Tucking back a tendril of hair that has fallen loose from the blond bun at the back of her head, she starts toward him.
Not likely, Sylar.
"What can I get for you today?"
She asks as if he's just another customer, or possibly a favored one, rather than someone she'd like to boot off the edge of the Grand Canyon. He stares at her for a long moment, and her only response is to raise her eyebrows questioningly, smile still in place.
""I don't know . . ." Sylar shakes his head, his tone one of subdued petulance. "Coffee. Black."
"That all?"
"Yep," he responds tightly, as the bell over the door dings lightly, announcing a new customer.
"We have a batch of muffins fresh out of the oven. Peach—awfully tempting . . ."
"If you don't bring me the damn coffee, I'm reporting you to the manager of this rat-infested hellhole," he says in a monotone.
"Coffee it is. Decaf?"
"Mm-hm."
She walks away. No, he thinks she's sashaying. Either she's in a ludicrously happy mood, or she's trying to wrangle as many tips as possible from the male clientele.
Tapping his fingers on the table, he glances around and decides that most of these men look like sexual deviants. Even the roly-poly old man nestled there in the corner, grasping hands with his roly-poly old wife, has an air of perversion hanging over his gleaming scalp.
Damn it, how long does it take to get a simple, no-nonsense coffee?
His eyes seek her out again, and his lip curls.
At the counter, she's been engaged in conversation by some scrawny, long-banged idiot. He looks familiar somehow.
Sylar's nostrils flare.
Peter. The man looks like Peter.
That's who she was waving at, he realizes, flashing back to their arrival, to her cryptic explanation. Has to be.
It explains a lot. The number. The job, for all he knows. The easy, genuine smile she bestows on him, the way she lets him touch her arm in that casual way.
Son. Of. A. Bitch!
God, how he hated Peter. Not Claire, though, no, she worshiped the imbecile. She would have done anything for him, and thank god he wasn't shameless enough to ask, because he probably had a whole list of things he wanted Claire to do for him. To him.
Petrellis. If they weren't trying to screw you over, they were just flat-out trying to screw you.
And now here he is back again, here for her to worship—well, in appearance, anyway. A near-carbon copy of her very own personal hero. Lovely to see you, Fake Peter.
Well, well, J the Stray. You look like a dead man in more ways than one.
Oh, how Sylar wants to murder him. Or at least put a fork in his happy little face.
Joshua slips behind the counter and disappears into the back, confirming Sylar's suspicions about Claire's means of employment. He watches him go, and where Claire sees her beloved uncle, all he sees is a wrench in his plans. As if he needs another one.
"Here you go." Claire is back. She sets his coffee down before him with a clink. "Don't guess you've changed your mind about having one of those muffins?"
He refuses to dignify that. This facade she's put up exudes spite. By speaking to him this way, she is ignoring him.
"So," he says frostily, running his finger around the rim of the steaming mug. "That's the bedwarmer."
"Excuse me?"
"That boy. The one who was groping you."
"Right. Enjoy your coffee." She turns to leave.
"I'm not going to tolerate another Rutherford, Claire."
She stops mid-sashay at the sound of the low, ominous words. When she turns back to him, her expression is cold, that service-with-a-smile persona shot to hell.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
As if she doesn't know.
Without looking at her, he lifts one hand as if to say Who knows? and sips his coffee. She steps closer.
"What does that mean?"
"I'm not leaving you a tip, by the way. And I could turn this cup into gold if I wanted to, so you should take it personally."
"Are you . . . are you threatening me?"
"No. Not you."
There's a pause.
"Get out," she says shakily.
"I'm having my coffee. Speaking of which, I changed my mind. I want regular instead." He sets the mug down and gives it a gentle nudge in her direction.
"Get out."
"I like it here." He runs his hands over the Formica, inspecting it. "I think this'll be my table from now on."
I'm coming back, you bitch. Every goddamn day.
Bending down, she puts her hands flat on the tabletop, bringing her face level with his.
"If you don't leave right now," she threatens in a whisper, "I'm going into the back and telling Frank you grabbed my ass."
Pointless bluff, since Sylar would just as soon leave wearing Frank's scalp like a stylish hat. But he looks up at her with something like a snarl.
"And I'll tell Frank you said if I waited till your break, we could go out back and I could do whatever I wanted with your ass for fifty bucks."
He'd swear he can actually hear his skin sizzle when the coffee hits his face.
Sylar's rough cry of pain is involuntary, as is the motion that sends him tripping backwards over his chair with a clatter. But when he gets to one knee, swiping the coffee from his eyes with one arm, he feels like applauding his own performance, because the other customers seem very taken with the show. Every single person present turns shocked eyes to the center of the shop, as a general murmur of confusion and outrage breaks out.
Claire caps it off with her expression of horrified guilt, staring down at the emptied mug as though it were a smoking gun.
"What's wrong?" A middle-aged, slightly heavyset man hastens over. He stares down at Sylar, and his eyes go round, swiveling to focus on Claire. "What the hell happened?"
Frank, realizes Sylar. And right on cue.
"I—I—" stammers Claire.
"What happened?" Sylar echoes angrily, standing. He gestures at her. "This woman is completely insane, that's what happened!"
Frank's brows draw together.
"No, he was—" Claire begins dazedly. "He was threatening me . . ."
Sylar scoffs.
"How? Are you single, is that a threat these days? Good god, how sensitive are you?"
"I saw her!" calls a woman in a rather righteous tone. "She was walking away, and then she went back—and she just picked up the coffee and threw it in his face!"
Who is that woman? Sylar wants to send her flowers.
"Is that true?" Franks snaps.
"That's not . . . the whole truth," Claire returns, her blood-red face condemning her. "He came in on purpose, he—This is what he wanted!"
Then, another voice joins the fray, as Joshua strides out from the back.
"Hey, Frank, what's going on?"
"I have a lot of money," Sylar informs Frank quickly. "I might sue."
Frank's eyebrows shoot up, and he holds out his palm in a placating manner.
"Sir, that's not necessary. Listen, I apologize for whatever—"
"I think consumers have a right to know what kind of service they can expect here," he hastens onward, driving whatever stakes he can get hold of into Claire's new career, before Joshua can assess the situation and ruin it. "Crazy, coffee-hurling baristas—"
"No, no." Frank holds up one finger and points it toward Claire. "She's gone, trust me."
"What?" Claire asks miserably. "Frank, please, just—"
"No, I gave you a chance—against my better judgment-!" Here, Frank shoots Joshua a critical look. "And it didn't work out. Sorry, Bennet, this is just too much for a first day."
The man turns his back on her with an air of finality in order to deliver some more first-class bootlicking to his assaulted customer. Sylar doesn't even hear Frank's appeals. Thrilled beyond belief, he has to hide his grin under guise of dabbing his face dry. His eyes—almost feral with victory—lock with Claire's—despondent and accusing.
Then they find Joshua, and recognition finally lights the young man's face.
"Wait, wait, wait . . ." Joshua looks Sylar up and down, as if sizing him up.
Laughable. Although Sylar is kind of itching for a throwdown with this idiot. There's nothing more he'd love than watching him try to crawl away without kneecaps. Besides, an agonized scream or two would greatly improve The Chocolate Chipped Mug's atmosphere.
"Claire . . ." Joshua steps up protectively, putting a hand on her arm. Again. Sylar stares at that hand, head tilted, as Frank gabs on endlessly. Joshua lowers his voice, but his whispered words are still audible: "Isn't that your ex?"
Claire's lips part, and then she sees Sylar's face.
"It doesn't matter," she says softly, brushing his fingers away. When Joshua continues to peer at her in puzzlement, she looks at him apologetically and says, "Thanks for trying to help me, Joshua. Just—just . . . don't. Anymore."
Pushing past him, she heads for the exit. The little bell dings again, and Sylar turns automatically at the sound-Show's over-leaving Frank to stand bewildered and concerned at the sudden departure. The last thing he hears in the cafe is the sound of Joshua turning on the proprietor, demanding answers.
Out on the sidewalk, he zeroes in on Claire's retreating form and shoves rudely past a throng of pedestrians to fall into stride with her.
"Well, that was a complete fiasco," he points out obviously. Happily.
Claire shakes her head bitterly.
"You're really proud of yourself, aren't you?" she asks.
He smirks.
"Hardly. You were twice as convincing as I was. Bravo, by the way."
I'd like to break his goddamn face, thinks Claire, and then she glances down at the mug she's still holding. Why am I not doing that?
She puts all her weight into it, but he's too tall. The mug catches him in the jaw, instead of crunching beautifully against his nose the way she wanted it to. Sylar rips it out of her hand before she can rebound, tossing it casually into the road, where it shatters, a tire pops, and someone begins cursing fluently.
Claire's face is twisted in anger. Taking her wrists, he pulls her into an alley.
"Talk to me, Claire," he says roughly, shoving her back and blocking her exit. "I think we can work this out."
"Work it out?" she shrieks. "You just got me fired!"
"I only did it—" he begins with a roll of his eyes.
"What?" she cuts in. "Out of love? You crazy-! I should have known—god, I should have known the instant I woke up in the trunk of your car, you'd never save me if you didn't expect something in return!"
"That's not true," he claims.
"Yes, it is. You brought me back here to entertain you, for god's sake! You're too goddamn cheap to buy a television, so you thought you could just install me in your home, and I'd be there, something to watch when you didn't have any lobotomies to perform-!"
"Okay, first off!" He holds up a hand to stop her. "I am not cheap."
"Yeah, you're so rich, you can just buy anything, can't you?" she replies, voice trembling with adrenaline. "Well, you can't buy me, Sylar."
"I never wanted to."
"You wanted me to be helpless. What other reason could there be?"
"No, I just wanted you to be . . . there," he says honestly. "Claire . . ."
He looks at her, mouth tight in agitation, and she looks at him, eyes still full of rage but waiting, and he's on the verge of telling her . . . things. Foolishly.
And then Joshua is there, catching himself at the opening of the alley, twisting this opportune moment into just one more hideous episode in a seemingly endless farce.
"Claire?" Joshua sounds out of breath, as if he chased her from The Chocolate Chipped Mug.
Claire blinks, startled.
"Joshua?"
"What is this?" Joshua asks, tone clarifying that he's speaking to the back of Sylar's head. "Hey! You!"
In response, Sylar wraps his fingers hard around Claire's shoulder and jerks her closer.
"Get rid of him," he orders through clenched teeth.
"You can't just harass her like this!" Joshua continues, idiotically. "I won't let you."
"You were right, Claire," Sylar breathes beside her ear. "About death, how I carry it around inside me. And if he comes over here, I'm going to spring a goddamn leak."
"Don't," she begs. "I'll never forgive you, I swear."
"You never did, anyway."
"I was getting there. You're making it really, really difficult, but I was."
There's a small pause as he mulls over this assertion. Surprisingly, it seems to be the truth. At the same time, that earnestness on her features is all for the man behind him.
So he's conflicted.
As Joshua nears the couple, he can feel that energy mounting again. Strange, yet not entirely displeasing, that it seems to be involuntary. He'll have to study it, learn what situations or emotions are required to summon it. Because he wants it badly, that power. To be a hero.
He studies Sylar's back, stopping a foot from him. Slowly, Sylar turns to face him.
"You have no possible way of understanding what I could do to you," Sylar states evenly. "Go away now, and I won't. For Claire."
She sidesteps, peeks out from behind him. She nods emphatically, mouthing Go away, just go away. Joshua ignores her. Sylar is wrong, he thinks; it's the other way around.
"You're the one who's going away," he contradicts maddeningly and shakes his head, floppy bangs swinging to and fro. "You don't deserve her."
Sylar's eyes flash.
"That's true," he agrees calmly. Glances down and raises an eyebrow. "What are you doing with your hands?"
Joshua has lifted his hands loosely, elbows bent, in much the same stance Sylar has seen in paintings of Christ's ascension. He looks down, notices for the first time, realizes he's holding the power inside him, that he can control it, because it's simply another functional part of him.
As soon as he's distracted, Sylar lunges, thrusting his arm out and telekinetically ripping Joshua over the scant ground separating them; the toes of the other man's shoes scrape noisily across the asphalt. There's a muffled gasp as Joshua's face smacks into Sylar's open palm, and then he's threading his fingers painfully into the man's silly goddamn bangs, twisting them out of sheer vindictiveness, as he presses the heel of his hand over Joshua's eyes.
The energy pending inside Joshua dissipates with shock and with the extremely disorienting flickering that begins behind his eyelids, as if a film projector has burst into action inside his skull.
A scuffle ensues. Claire screams, pouncing on Sylar's outstretched arm and vainly attempting to pry his fingers loose, while Joshua reaches up and grapples with each of them, momentarily incapable of distinguishing friend from foe.
Sylar wishes she wouldn't defend the bastard. It only makes him hang on harder.
"Now, look," he growls to Joshua, to Claire, to whatever fates there may be. "You made me lose my temper."
Joshua groans, and his hands fall away from Claire's.
Sylar releases him, breathing roughly, shoving him back so that he knocks his head against the ground as he falls like a rag doll. Claire immediately hastens to him, and Sylar has to clench his fists to keep from finishing the job with his trusty index finger, better than any whetted butcher's knife. Doesn't she know he just did her a favor, leaving J the Stray woefully alive when he wanted to put him down once and for all?
Joshua writhes slightly.
"Joshua?" Claire prompts waveringly. Sylar steps up and peers down into the man's face, observing his own handiwork. "Joshua? Joshua Gallo. Can you hear me?"
Her eyes, accusing, dart to Sylar.
"What did you do to him?"
"Kay . . ?"
The quiet word captures their attention, and they both stare down into Joshua's blinking eyes, Claire with a rapt worry and Sylar with a suddenly detached, almost clinical curiosity.
"What is it?" Claire encourages.
"Kay, is that . . . God, I dreamed you died." His eyes focus, widening. "You did die. That son of a bitch . . ."
Joshua seems to become aware of his surroundings, exhaling sharply, his body twitching in a motion reminiscent of a hypnic jerk. Claire flinches, and Sylar steps back politely to give him room.
"What happened?" he demands hoarsely, pushing away with his heels. "Who are you people?"
"Joshua, it's me. It's Claire. Listen, just lie still for a—"
"I don't know you . . ." Joshua replies to Claire's consternation. "I don't . . . I don't."
He repeats it, staggering to his feet, where he weaves for a moment before struggling away. As he reaches the alley entrance, he tosses back a final look of frightened bewilderment. Sylar lifts a hand and flutters his fingers in farewell.
Claire remains in her kneeling position at his feet. When she lifts her face, he finds it hard to read, to sort out the mess of emotions written there.
Disgust. He anticipated that. Sorrow—sure. Disappointment—okay, unexpected, but what the hell?
It's the horror that stings. She hasn't been truly afraid of him in so long.
This is why he never wanted her to know. But now he knows, it was bound to come out, eventually. He couldn't keep it in forever, not with all the temptations that keep turning up just begging for a brain wipe.
"You took the Haitian's ability," she states bluntly, rising to her feet. "That's—that's how, that night—and you . . ."
She looks after Joshua, who has disappeared around the corner.
"He's fine," Sylar says, voice surly. "I didn't hurt him."
"Didn't hurt him?" Claire repeats, snapping her eyes back to Sylar. "You don't think screwing with someone's mind like that hurts? I've seen it—and it does!"
His face twitches as he tries to come up with a soothing response.
"All right, fine!" he acknowledges hastily. "But I know what you're afraid of, and I'm telling you right now, Claire, you can just forget it. I would never hurt you."
This resolution doesn't exactly put her at ease.
"What are you talking about?" she nearly shouts at him. "You used to hurt me all the time! It's how we met, for god's sake—it's why you're here right now! Every hour you live is a result of you hurting me!"
He parts his lips to protest, but she isn't finished.
"God, Sylar! No wonder you're okay with living like this—every single day is a new reality for you!" She points down the sidewalk in the direction Joshua left. "And I'm supposed to believe you wouldn't do that to me? Why? Because you believe it? What're you gonna believe tomorrow?"
Claire steps back, throws up her hands.
"I'm done. I am finished, Sylar. Give it another fifty years, maybe I'll feel like nodding if I see you somewhere, but I don't want you near me."
She turns and starts to leave him. For good.
"No!" he says harshly, lurching forward to grab her wrist. He jerks her back around to face him a bit more roughly than he intends. It doesn't help matters. "Listen—fine, yes, okay? I did hurt you. I did. That's—" He makes a dismissive gesture in the air with his free hand. "That's just a given. But that's not the same thing."
She gives him a look of deep revulsion.
"No, it's not!" he insists, and it doesn't please him to hear the underlying frantic quality in his tone. "What you're talking about is manipulation—memory theft, Allison Crow's power—there's a reason I didn't take her power, you know—"
"Who the hell—?"
"—and it's because I don't want you like that! I want you—I mean, I don't want you, that's not—"
He's just scaring her off, as if he needed to do that more thoroughly. Shit. Shit.
"Look, I had a chance to take an ability once, and I didn't." He looks hard into her eyes, willing her to trust him. "If I had, I could have used it on you, and you would've wanted to stay with me, to never, ever leave. I could have kept you like a pet or a slave, but I don't want that, because it doesn't do anything for me, god damn it!"
His voice rises to a shout near the end; he can't help it. He can see that her eyes aren't softening in the least, and hot frustration flares out of him. He releases her arm, practically flinging it back at her.
"What's the matter with you?" he nearly screams. Her only response is to whirl around and begin to walk away from him at a very clipped pace. He follows her, livid.
"Where are you going, you bitch?" he seethes alongside her, but she won't dignify him with a glance. "Back to your hotel room? Hm? Back to Texas, back to your goddamn dying dick of a husband?"
He lashes out, slamming the heel of his hand into the wall. A little piece of brick crumbles off. He could dismantle these buildings if he wanted to.
He wants to.
"Do you really think you can just leave? Do you think you can just brush me off like I'm nothing? You're acting like you don't even know who I am."
He whips his arm around, and the dumpster behind them overturns noisily, bending upon itself as easily as aluminum foil.
"Look at me."
She won't.
They emerge from the alley, and he starts crashing parked cars into each other as he strides along beside her, crumpling fenders. He isn't sure if he's doing it because he wants her attention or because he needs so badly to destroy something. If it's the former reason, then it's perfectly fruitless. All around them, people react noisily, but Claire remains unmoved.
"You look at me," he commands again. "Or I swear to god I'm going to start killing people."
He resorts to threats, and still nothing. She calls his bluff. And quite frankly, she's fortunate it is a bluff, because he feels like snapping necks. Random people, just anybody he crosses would do. That scaffolding in the distance—he could send it crashing down in a fatal cacophony of steel bars.
"You thought you were miserable when Rutherford left? You walk out on me, I'm going to make you a thousand times more miserable than you ever dreamed you could be," he promises. "I'll cut a ditch through your life and fill it with dead people. Every friend you make, every man you touch—it'll be their blood on your head."
What is he doing? What is he saying? Why can't he stop?
"Angela was right." Her words are quiet, but all too audible.
"Oh, really, about what?"
"About you." She still isn't looking at him. "You're like a child, a spoiled one. If you don't get what you want, you pitch a big fit and everybody suffers for it. My way or the highway, as the saying goes."
"Angela Petrelli said that?"
"Yes."
"What a hypocrite! All she ever did was use people, including me—and you, and her own sons. Nobody was off-limits." He only half-cares. He just wants to keep her talking. He'll go mad if she puts up that shield of silence again.
"You're probably right," she allows without enthusiasm.
"I know I am. And so do you."
Dexterously, he sticks one of his long legs out and plants himself in her path.
"You're not really leaving," he says. Or maybe it's a question. He isn't sure.
She stares at his chest.
"It wouldn't have lasted, anyway," she states. "Forever is longer than you think, Sylar. Somehow I doubt you really thought it through before . . ."
Claire trails off, breath catching in her throat.
Cautiously, he tucks that loose bit of blond hair behind her ear. To his surprise, she grasps his hand before he can take it back.
Her eyes meet his at last. Suddenly, they seem wide, full of suppressed excitement.
"I'm coming home with you," she declares. "We need to talk."