Sylar cannot remember ever being quite this content with his life.
Claire is not running away from him. She is not trying to put bullets in him, or kitchen knives, or shards of glass, or (so they finally wised up, did they?) steel spikes. She is not screaming at him to get the hell out of her life or politely informing him that she hates his face, god damn it, and would very much like the opportunity to rearrange it for him. And she is not—he would like to repeat not—in Texas.
Claire is with him. The woman with whom he has been obsessed—or, he can now admit, a more accurate word might be infatuated—for a lifetime is with him, and he is happy.
Her lips compress when he refers to them as a couple, but that's all right, because they are one. No amount of protest on her part will alter that fact as long as she continues to live in his home, dine with him, pass the time with him, sleep alongside him.
Because when they go out together, it is not like it was before. Now they go out together. He grabs her hand as they traverse the crosswalk and doesn't have to hang on for dear life lest she rip her fingers away and use them to rake long scarlet grooves into his skin. It's fine. No big deal.
And when they fall into bed together, they are falling into bed together. Once, he would wait on her breathing to signal that she had fallen asleep before he cautiously curled his arm over her waist and drew her to him; now their limbs are already tangled when they begin to drift off, and more often than not he presses a final, drowsy kiss against her forehead in place of Goodnight.
Which is another milestone in itself, come to think of it: Claire says Goodnight to him now. Over the vast, multifaceted course of their relationship, they have gone from I will always try to kill you to Goodnight—oh, and let's have waffles in the morning. Reflecting upon this development, he marvels that time is kind only to those that defy it.
Darkness has always felt good to him, like a reliable hiding place; now, with Claire dreaming at his side, it feels like home.
[] [] []
Sylar cannot say for certain why his previous sexual encounters tended to fall so few and far between. Gabriel didn't get out much, but it wasn't like he didn't want it, like he didn't feel that he might be going out of his damned mind some days. He took a lot of cold showers, and not for the purported health benefits.
But all that sort of receded once Chandra introduced him to his true potential. Sex was still exciting, but it couldn't hold a candle to the unholy and near-constant stimulation provided by the acquisition of new power. In the ever appropriate ice cream metaphor, sex itself would have been vanilla. He still liked vanilla, and he'd undoubtedly still have it from time to time (or even, you know, buy it). For the moment, however—dear god, rocky road, where have you been all my life?
In any case, he isn't sure when he last bought contraception of any kind. Though he's fairly positive he never bought tampons.
"Never once in your life?" Claire asks. "Not even for—"
"I think I would remember, Claire."
Ironically enough, he thinks it may have been Gabriel who last ventured into a drugstore on such a quest, and that was one hell of a long time ago. Sylar imagines that, had he been able to prevent the inevitable mortified, tomato-like flush from rising in his face, Gabriel might have quite enjoyed the double purchase of condoms and tampons. Might have demanded a transparent bag to carry them in. It would have been like screaming to the world, Look! I have a girlfriend! A real, live woman, I swear to god—she bleeds and everything! See?
He bursts into laughter at the imagined scenario, causing Claire to look over at him questioningly. He doesn't even attempt to explain how very comically pathetic Gabriel was. They covered the topic pretty thoroughly that disastrous night with the tequila.
It was for Elle.
The memory hits him spitefully, a soft tap on the shoulder followed by a bucket of ice water, and the grin dies on his face as if shot.
Yes, he remembers now. If only lie detection had been Brian Davis' ability. Merely being in Elle Bishop's deceitful presence would have set his entire body on pins and needles. But like the needy simpleton he was, Gabriel made such a fool of himself over that poor, damaged bitch, that fallen angel who just couldn't tell the truth . . .
Of course, they wound up never even opening the little package. Wound up succumbing to a bout of spontaneous consummation many months and murders later on the wrecked floor of a dead man's house, right before his current girlfriend's father capped his then-girlfriend in the ass. Funny old world.
Kind of gives a new meaning to the phrase unprotected sex, he muses as he steps into the drugstore. Claire pushes in behind him at the last moment, having decided to accompany him. She wanders away down an aisle, presumably in search of the sanitary items she asked him to find.
As squirm-inducing as he finds said items, the instant he plants himself in front of the store's supply of contraceptive products, he wants to swap tasks with her.
What in god's name . . ?
He's never seen such an array. The entire shelf is a stupefying monument to depravity, the wide selection of condoms becoming somehow less daunting compared to other options, and he has no idea what the proper selection might be. Linking his hands behind him, he wracks his brain for the long-buried memory of what Gabriel bought—though, does he really want to go the Gabriel route on this one, on anything?—as his eyes seek out something simple, ordinary.
A blond man with a small, square goatee strolls up and reaches out, easily selecting what is probably his standard choice. Sylar glances at it sharply to read the label, and the man catches his eye.
"Cherry flavor," the man supplies, twiddling the box at eye level and grinning from ear to ear.
Swiftly, Sylar turns and goes in search of Claire.
He finds her standing very still, almost surreptitiously, near the end of an aisle situated near the pharmacy counter. At the sound of his approaching footsteps, she turns, and there's a strange look on her face. What is that? Remorse? Guilt?
Frowning, he opens his mouth to question her, but she wipes her face of the unidentified sentiment, smiling at him.
"Um—did you find what you needed?" he asks instead.
"Yep." She pats the box in her hands before looking at his. "You didn't?"
"Ah . . ." He briefly peers down at his empty fingers as if he just noticed. "Actually—I thought . . . we might wait. You know. Until you've seen your doctor and gotten a prescription. I mean, it seems sort of . . . silly to rush. As if we don't have forever. Literally."
Claire studies him.
"But I don't want to wait," she states after a moment.
He sighs; his shoulders seem to drop an inch.
"Well, I don't, either, Claire," he admits as if, really, it should be obvious.
"Well then what—"
"It's just—"
"I don't get—"
"I—"
They talk over one another, haltingly, until he finally clamps his lips shut in annoyance as Claire, too, falls silent. He raises his eyebrows: May I? And with equal sarcasm, she gestures for him to proceed.
"I don't know what you want," he rushes in a hushed voice. "I'm positive I'm going to come back with something ridiculous or—god only knows—not ridiculous enough. So if you would just—" Taking her shoulders, he pivots her and nudges her gently down the aisle. "—go and pick out whatever you want, that would be fantastic."
Claire snorts, stubbornly facing him once more.
"You're buying a box of condoms," she points out, "not a house. This really isn't the monumental decision you're making it out to be."
"Look, Claire, it doesn't . . ."
He trails off as his ears detect a familiar, masculine tone drifting over the shelf from the counter. Thank you, it's saying. Cocking his ear, he begins to drift curiously toward the end of the aisle, when Claire reaches out and clutches his sleeve in a suspiciously talon-like grip.
"Come on," she says, changing her tune all at once. "I haven't bought them in forever, either, you know—it's probably been even longer for me than you, come to think of it. Rob and me said goodbye to condoms the day we got married."
Reflecting on that, she scoffs.
"Or I did, anyway. Doubt Rob was riding Sharon bareback . . . but never mind. I guess they still make the ribbed ones, don't they? Those were always fun."
"I suppose so . . ."
She tries and fails to swivel him into an about-face an instant before the thin, pale figure of Joshua Gallo strides into view.
Except . . . mm . . . stride isn't really accurate. It's more of a preoccupied shuffle. With his head down, one hand ruffling his floppy bangs, he's far slower crossing the space from the pharmacy counter to the door than he has any right to be, leaving him in view long enough for Sylar to analyze him leisurely. In that time, he notes that Joshua is clutching a small white parcel at his side—some purchase from the pharmacy—and, more interestingly, that he appears to be a man in deep, distracted thought. As if he's trying desperately to dredge up some forgotten plan. Some stolen memory, perhaps.
Sylar suppresses a spiteful smile—J the Stray is looking just about ready for the pound—and turns back to Claire. Her eyes remain focused on Joshua until he's completely out of sight, through the door and past the window front.
"Did you speak to him?" he asks. What he really wants to say is Did you introduce yourself? but he's trying to be nice here. He hasn't had many girlfriends, but he's sure you're not supposed to glory over a woman as if she's a slain enemy, not if you want her to go home with you. It is tempting, though, when the other man is right there and she's trying to conceal the fact.
"No," Claire replies softly, not looking at him. "I was just eavesdropping, is all. Frank called him while he was waiting on his prescription . . . He has headaches."
"Frank?" he asks with an innocent lift of his eyebrow.
"Don't be a bastard." She turns and wanders down the aisle, her fingers releasing their grasp on him, trailing lightly over his arm in a motion that seems more distant than affectionate. "Joshua. His doctor can't find anything wrong with him, thinks they might be migraines."
"Well, people do have migraines, Claire. Your little friend wouldn't be the first."
"You screwed up his head," she accuses flatly. "He was fine before."
Wouldn't be surprised, Sylar agrees silently. It typically took several special visits from the Haitian to inflict significant damage . . . but the Haitian didn't make a habit of operating while in the firm grips of jealousy and blind rage. That Joshua may have been harmed by their little run-in is hardly inconceivable. All the same:
"How do you know he was fine?" he reasons. "How long did you know him? How well did you know him? Did you follow him around? Did you follow him home?"
Wait, did she? He remembers his snide comment at The Chocolate Chipped Mug—So that's the bedwarmer—and wonders if it might have been truer than he realized at the time. The idea is a knife-twist to the stomach, all right, but he rides it out. Things are okay now—things are good now. He wishes Claire would focus on the present, that she would let go of Joshua the same way she sometimes seems to have let go of Rutherford. If she can't, then he can't, and he's trying.
"Of course not," she replies in a tone dripping with dignity. "But I knew him well enough to know he didn't have chronic headaches."
"Maybe he was just having a good week. Maybe he didn't feel the need to give his latest conquest a complete rundown of his medical issues. Really, Claire-you hardly knew the boy, and you're acting as if he's your oldest friend. Which he most definitely is not."
In hopes of assuaging her growing irritation, he pulls her around and smoothes her hair back.
"That would be me," he adds with a smile.
That would be highly optimistic of you, actually—I think you mean Micah, Claire corrects inwardly. Well—unless he means oldest in the literal sense, in which case, yes, he's getting to be pretty goddamn ancient at this point. What is he, a centenarian by now? Rising up on her toes, she pulls his head down and gives him a quick kiss.
"You screwed up his head," she reiterates against his lips.
The utter certainty in the whisper—I know it, you know it, let's not play games—flows into him, and when he returns the kiss, it feels oddly like an admittance of guilt. Not a bad feeling, however, in this case. Confessions made in secret, solitary rooms are their own form of punishment, but when Claire's lips are involved . . . Well, there's something to be said for Claire's lips, the way they can turn a damnation into a blessing.
"You're not angry?" he asks as she pulls away and leads him back to that intimidating shelf. The blonde, bearded man is long gone, having absconded with his candied condoms. Claire plucks a box from the display and turns it over, reading the label.
"What's done is done," she answers, rather casually, and it isn't until she finds herself leaving the drugstore with their purchases in tow that she realizes she means it. She can't really say she's forgiven him or even forgotten what he's done to Joshua and to others. But somehow, in the shameful recesses of her mind, all that destruction has become fair trade for the cuts that are even now bleeding into her socks as she steps out onto the sidewalk. She recalls her detour through the cold and flu aisle where she ran her fingers over all the boxes, hoping wayward germs might take hold for just a day, how she was so excited at the prospect she almost missed Joshua entirely. In the wake of her own gain, she is becoming desensitized toward the pain of others.
You killed people I cared about, she told him. And now they're nothing more than memories, her memories alone, and look how she treats them. She rakes them all beneath some mental rug because their murderer can give her things. A smile here, a pleasant shudder there, a chance to experience normalcy . . .
Trinkets.
Something sick is growing inside of me, she assesses, and she wants to blame the man at her side for planting it there. She wants to badly . . . but she just can't anymore. Noah's Claire Bear is a big girl now. Decisions, decisions, and all of them her own.
Sylar threads his fingers into hers, and she squeezes his hand.
[] [] []
Sylar cannot believe what just came out of his mouth.
He lies beside Claire now, shaking in the aftermath, as well as in something very like humiliation. His arm is over his eyes; for the first time he can remember since he met her, he doesn't want to look at her. Having just gasped out the words near the climax of their embrace, he would now give anything to suck them back into his lungs. They must have been lying in wait at the back of his throat for days, he imagines, watching for the first opportunity to slip past his good sense.
The worst part, truly, is that there's a distinct lack of an echo. Claire doesn't say it back. Simply acts, in fact, as if she didn't even hear him.
God, how he wishes she didn't hear him.
She did though, he laments inwardly . . . and a little angrily.
Claire really ought to answer. It's just rude, that's what it is. Sylar grinds his teeth, contemplating the audacity of her silence. Her brush-off. Good lord, she could at least acknowledge it—give him a tight little smile, say Oh, that's nice. Something, for god's sake.
Her silence seems to increase in volume, his ire ratcheting up a notch with every soft, satisfied breath that puffs from her parted lips.
I'll give it a year, he decides rashly, though the thought makes his stomach churn slightly. He'll be done with her by then . . . he thinks. Surely to god.
So that's it. She has a year to age, and then he'll tell her, Well, Claire Bear, it's been real. And she'll respond, Well, it's been something, and disappear, extraordinarily pissed off beneath a resigned exterior. He won't see her again for a while.
The idea really shouldn't make him feel so gutted, but he allows it on the assumption that when the time comes, he'll be ready. The sex will slow down. He'll start feeling crowded, craving his old solitude (not that ever actually wanted that, but perhaps in time . . .). Maybe she'll get wrinkles or something. Shit, he doesn't know.
Sylar stares at her piercingly through the darkness, trying to imagine that if the room were lit, he could see hundreds of little lines criss-crossing her face. Crow's-feet when she smiles . . . She has such a nice smile, when it's genuine.
"I can feel you watching," Claire says suddenly, and he jumps.
"I'm not," he denies. "You're paranoid, you know that? Invincible and paranoid, that's quite a combination."
"You were staring," she insists, rolling over to curl against his front. "You breathe all slow and quiet when you're being weird, but it's not what you really sound like when you're asleep. You used to do it all the time when I was here before. Back when we were just sleeping together, you know."
That's an embarrassing bit of information to learn about himself, but at the same time he finds it oddly gratifying that she's aware of such a silly, trivial quirk. It's like when his mother used to tell him to stop biting his nails, and he didn't even know he was until she smacked his hand away from his mouth. He's been alone for so long, without anyone to chide or make fun of him, that he's lost sight of his own habits.
"What else?" he asks.
"Hm?"
"Tell me something else about me, something I don't know."
"Well . . . lemme see." She ponders, sighing pensively. "I already told you about the snoring . . ."
"Which I maintain is a malicious lie meant to ruin me."
"Hmm . . . You hold your breath when you come, did you know about that?"
He can feel his ears turning red, even as he considers that he might have done better this time to have held his breath the entire session. Saved himself the grief.
"Ah . . ." he replies. "Never mind."
They are quiet, and he strokes the tousled silk of her hair, petting her as if she were a kitten while she falls asleep against his chest. He lies awake for a long time, staring out into the room as his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Retreating into his mind, he reworks the situation, fiddling with it as he would the long-uncompleted German watch that occupied the final seven years of Gabriel's sorry life.
In his imagination, he doesn't say it, thank god. Doesn't think it, either, and they collapse against each other without a trace of awkwardness. Claire presses a palm against the side of his face as she's wont to do afterward, and her lips press against his lips, his cheekbone, his brow, and then he rests his head between her breasts and listens to the slowing of her heartbeat. He loves her.
No. Shit. No, he doesn't.
In his imagination, she says it, and he disregards it entirely, maintaining a vindictive silence. In his periphery, hurt crosses her face. Something wells up in his chest unexpectedly, and he finds himself kissing her hard, too thoroughly for a kiss that isn't leading into anything more. A big, fat apology of a kiss.
And, spite be damned, he's saying it back and then some. Elaborating like a fool as eighty years' worth of adoration spews out of him in one long, sickening geyser. He tells her that she's violence and tranquility, vice and innocence, rage and joy, chaos and stability, and every other thing necessary to his existence, all wrapped up in the most undeniably gorgeous package he's ever beheld. She's a timepiece he can't fix—wouldn't want to. He needs her.
That's what he means, more than anything. I love you is surprisingly easy to say, as it turns out, maybe because it carries considerably less weight in his mind. It just pops out, a positive thing, almost like paying a compliment—Why, you look fabulous today. You know, I just love you.
I need you is a punch to the gut. It hurts. It makes it hard to breathe. And that part is not imaginary. Not in the slightest.
A year, he thinks again, and he scoffs slightly at his own absurdity. Who is he kidding?
[] [] []
Sylar cannot quite bring himself to meet her eyes that morning, but his obvious discomfort is entirely lost on Claire, who sits picking over her breakfast, inattentive. After using her fork to file all the golden brown crumbs off the surface of her toast, she finally places it on her plate with a clatter and pushes her chair back, standing.
"I'm going out," she declares bluntly. "Won't take long. I don't need you."
"What—where?" he inquires, frowning only slightly at her choice of words as he lifts his eyes to her face for what feels like the first time today.
"Oh, my stuff I got at the drugstore—they're the wrong brand. I don't like that kind. Don't know where my head was . . ."
And that familiar tingling sensation rolls up his torso.
He notices now that she seems as loath to look at him as he is to look at her, that she has an air of hushed anxiety hanging about her. The already tense muscles of his neck and shoulders knot impossibly tighter.
Listen, about last night, what I said, I didn't mean it—I mean, it's not so much that I didn't mean it as it is I just didn't mean to say it, it just sort of, you know, popped out—not that I did mean it, that is. You know. Ha.
It's so eloquent, she'll have to buy it. Perhaps he can get a good sweat going and knock his coffee into his lap for added credibility.
Claire snatches up her purse and the light jacket she picked up on their most recent outing. She was able, as it turned out, to retrieve some of her possessions from the hotel. It seemed the staff had no use for a ratty, generations-old cheerleading uniform, but the more desirable items (such as the olive green dress and a leather bag with a label that oozed expense) were mysteriously absent.
"Listen," he begins slowly, "about . . . um."
Ah, yes, that's how you get the ball rolling.
He clears his throat and tries again.
"Last night . . . I said something. Well, I guess you heard me. I didn't intend to say it, and I feel like I shouldn't have—"
"Oh, my god," Claire mutters beneath her breath as she tugs the jacket over her blouse. Then, more audibly: "Listen. We were screwing. I get it, okay? People say stuff. I mean, I sure wasn't praying when I yelled Oh, god, you know? So let's . . . let's just forget it. No need to get all bent out of shape."
Sylar listens, a crease on his brow, and isn't certain whether he feels soothed or slighted. He's undeniably thrilled that his mistake is not going to become an enormous wedge between them . . . and yet there remains that nagging sense of umbrage, as if Claire is intentionally ignoring something of great import. Is she right to be so flippant, equating his declaration, inadvertent as it was, with her own passionate but meaningless exclamations?
I said I love you, god damn it! he wants to snap. I've never said that to—
He blinks; a muscle in his jaw jumps.
"You're sure you don't want company?" he asks casually, leaving the remainder of his breakfast behind as he rises, taking his coffee with him. "You realize you have to be in range of me for the Haitian's ability to have any effect."
"Yeah, it occurred to me," she acknowledges, even as she leaves the kitchen and heads for the door. "But it's only a few minutes. Anyway, it's not like we can be together all the time. I think that would drive both of us crazy. Crazier. Whatever."
He can't tell if the shot is aimed at him or at herself or both.
"Wrong brand, did you say?"
"Well—" She appears to think it over as she reaches for the doorknob. "I meant to get the regular, but I got the super for some stupid reason. Toxic shock . . . Guess that's something I have to worry about now."
And on that lying note, she takes her leave.
"Toxic shock," he repeats sardonically, staring at the door and swirling his coffee around, repressing an overpowering urge to transform into some nondescript figure and trail her. Instead, he wanders into his timepiece room and prods aimlessly at the innards of an antique cuckoo clock that stopped chirping decades before some callous grandchild decided the heirloom was both ugly and useless. He knows he could resurrect it if he dedicated himself, but his mind is swimming, tossed by waves of speculation and puzzlement.
There's a part of him, deep down (he wants it to float to the top, but it keeps sinking under the pressure of some suffocating sentiment), that rejoices at her lie. You can't love someone you can't trust. Elle is-was-a prime example. And you certainly don't need such a person. That would be illogical, to say nothing of self-destructive—and Sylar's all about self-preservation. It's why he fixated on the young, golden cheerleader in the first place, all those many years ago when years still held some significance.
People say stuff, she said, and she's right. People do.
Claire returns in as little as fifteen minutes. She goes straight upstairs and spends an inordinate amount of time locked in the bathroom. The irrepressible paranoia in him speculates that she's washing someone's scent away—Joshua, for instance, that goddamned boy scout, she's got him all mixed up with Peter, and oh good god how she adored that son of a bitch—while his rationality reminds him again and again that it was fifteen minutes. She'd have to screw him in the alley up against the dumpsters to make such good time. Add in the necessary preamble (Claire Bennet, lovely to meet you again; we had kind of a thing going before my psychotic boyfriend magically erased your memory, which totally makes sense if you read this book; here), and he just doesn't see it happening.
But then, why lie?
[] [] []
Sylar cannot quite force himself to want to control the electric anger that arcs through his chest when he nuzzles into her neck from behind and she says, "Don't."
It's not I have a headache. It's not I'm not in the mood. It's just . . . Don't. Terse and full of rejection, containing all the warmth she'd employ to repel a drunken come-on in a sleazy bar. Gabriel would have drawn away at once, confused and quietly devastated. Sylar doesn't appreciate being dismissed in so careless a manner.
He takes a moment, head tilted as he bites his bottom lip, noting how precariously she's balanced on the very edge of the mattress, as far away from him as she can get without tumbling onto the floor, before he succumbs to the pounding behind his eardrums. Digging his fingers into her arm, he flips her onto her back, none too gently.
"Honeymoon's over, I see," he snarls, looming above her. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Claire's face, rather than surprised or apprehensive, is merely pinched. There is impatience in her gaze.
"I'm tired," she tells him, "and I'd like to get to sleep, if you don't mind. Next time I'll be sure and write you up a report before declining, okay? But if you could just let me off the hook this one night, that'd be awful sweet of you."
He glowers at her, trying to fathom this downturn in her attitude. Mere days ago he thought things were going well. One week goes by, and this happens. And she asked for a year, at least-she asked.
"I'm on the rag," Claire snaps when his grip fails to relax. "Is that blunt enough for you?"
A humorless laugh finds its way out of his throat.
"That's the second lie you've told me today," he says.
"You think I'm lying?" She smirks. "Did your stalking routine involve keeping track of my cycles, too? You got a little stack of calendars stashed somewhere?"
"No need." He doesn't really want to reveal his ability to detect dishonesty—it feels like an ace in the hole, somehow, more of a personality test than anything else—so, in crude explanation, he tacks on, "I've got a nose like a bloodhound."
"Well, how disgusting, not to mention disturbing on a number of levels—"
He finds himself grabbing her chin roughly with the hand he isn't using to balance.
"You know me better than anybody in the world, Claire Bear. You know how I feel about liars."
Before his dark, slightly stunned eyes, the smirk spreads until it's a full blown, vaguely malicious grin. It would be beautiful if it weren't for the strange hollowness taking root in her eyes.
"No."
Taking hold of his wrist, she pushes his hand away from her face, and then keeps on pushing, hooking her leg back and planting her heel against his hip. He allows her to topple him over, and she rides along with the momentum, winds up straddling him. Still clutching his wrist, she bends his arm back over his head. Her hair falls, tickling his cheek, as she caresses him, stroking his earlobe with her index finger.
"I forgot. Remind me, how do you feel about liars?" she encourages. "Hm? Do you like 'em better if they smell like peaches? Do you love them?"
His lip curls, so she leans still closer and starts trailing little kisses over his skin, the line of his jaw, his pulse. He absolutely hates that, despite the blistering fury amassing beneath his rib cage, he can still feel himself responding. She can feel it, perched on him so snugly.
"Come on," she whispers against his ear, "I'm not tired anymore—and you're right, by the way, that period excuse was a load of shit. So come on."
Straightening, she rocks against him, just one single roll of her hips, and he inhales a sharp lungful of air through his teeth. She laughs.
"Tell me how much you hate being lied to." And she gives him a wink that he realizes she stole directly from him. "Then we'll see if I can get you to tell me you love me again."
Claire is immobile before the next beat of her heart. For good measure, he silences her hateful mouth.
Sylar pushes himself up, face to face and very nearly nose to nose with her.
"You . . ."
Insults fail him.
"Where did you go today—really?" he inquires coldly. He waits several seconds for an answer, until Claire rolls her eyes, and he remembers to release his hold on her tongue.
"You know I've been cutting myself to make sure I'm not getting ripped off?" she informs him blithely instead of answering. "Down on my feet—used your razor, too."
Clutching her behind the knees, he gives her a yank that sends her onto her back again. Grasping one slim, curved ankle, he takes in the dark gashes on her feet, the angry red skin raised up around them. Wants to tear them open anew, but knows she wouldn't feel it, so instead he simply allows them to heal. For her, he knows, that's the more painful form of retribution, anyway.
"So much for your nose, I guess," she cracks. "See, we just don't trust each other at all, do we now?"
His face is hurt but hard and determined when he bends over her once more.
"Where did you go?" he demands slowly, deliberately.
"Well, I wasn't buying tampons."
She tries to look triumphant, infuriating, but her chin begins to tremble. That bizarre emptiness in her eyes grows, swells, and splits open. A watery outrage spills free.
"I'm pregnant with your goddamn mutant monster baby!" Claire spits, livid.
Shocked, he instantly looses his telekinetic grasp, and her palms come up, shoving painfully hard into his chest. He falls back, kneeling in the center of the bed.
"And now what?" she shrieks, shoving him again as if it's all his fault before disentangling herself from the sheets and leaping off the mattress. In the middle of their bedroom, she stands facing him, disheveled, fuming, and quite clearly grieving for something she hasn't even lost yet. "Best case scenario, I give birth to the next . . . well, the next you, for god's sake! Hey, congratulations! But that's not even gonna happen, is it? No, because you can't—" Her face twists as she fumbles for words, gesturing toward him accusingly. "You fucking killed people for all that shit, and you can't even . . . Shit!"
Striking out at the wall, she whirls and exits the room. Sylar, never a fan of the give her some space mentality, jumps up and follows her, his legs liquid-like, his heart thudding. In the sitting room, Claire pauses before a shelf, one fist pressed against her mouth and an open palm across her flat abdomen, where he likes to kiss and nip beneath the navel and where even now a life is blossoming.
"Claire," he says to her back. "Claire."
Nothing. Sylar squares himself.
"I'm going to make you a promise," he declares. "If it falls through, then hell, you've got forever to hold it against me—and we both know you can do it. But, Claire . . . If it kills me . . . if I have to stay awake for nine months straight . . . you are going to have this goddamn mutant monster baby."
The noise she makes could be a laugh or a sob or some wrenching hybrid.
"I bet it has hooves," she remarks, waveringly, after a short silence.
Because it means she believes him, he smiles. Loves her.