By the time Sylar steps out of the cab in front of his building, all he wants in the entire world is a hot shower and Claire. Maybe at the same time.
His apprehension that she might be gone upon his return fled him after his visit to Molly, but now it trickles back as he slides his key in and opens the door. He isn't even aware it's happening until he calls her name.
"Claire?" And his voice is too quiet, as if he's afraid no one will answer and is trying to protect himself from it for as long as possible.
He shuts the door. Takes a few tentative steps inward. Clears his throat rather loudly.
Nobody emerges.
She's gone. Suddenly, he is certain of this, all his self-assured visions of the future no more than ash heaped at the bottom of his heart.
She ran. She actually called his bluff (was it a bluff?) and ran from him. So now what? Chase her? He said he wouldn't . . . but he could. But didn't that get a little pathetic after a while? Wasn't that why he stopped for thirty years? Chase a woman too long, and you wind up in a suite with your nose in her hair, pressing a glass of wine on her while she rolls her eyes and threatens your life.
Okay, don't chase her. Just . . . distract himself, that's what he needs to do. He really enjoyed taking Laughlin's ability. He could go back and take Shonda's, as well, carve her open and see if it was any kind of ability at all. Maybe it was all bullshit; maybe she was crazy like Gabriel had suggested. In any case he wouldn't be thinking about—
"Claire?" He tries again, more audibly.
There's a padding of bare feet over head, and she appears at the top of the staircase, glowing in her pregnancy, golden hair pulled back in a ponytail.
"You're back!"
Sylar releases the breath he doesn't remember holding, and looks down at his shoes for a moment before stepping toward her, unable to keep the wide, almost jubilant smile from breaking open on his face.
"You don't know how I missed you," he informs her.
"Yeah, sure," she replies with a touch of sarcasm, reaching the landing at walking into his embrace. "It was probably a nice little vacation for you."
And he's too stupidly relieved to hear the dubious hope in her voice, as if she wants him to respond, Well, now that you mention it, it was nice to get away.
"Did you miss me?" he demands instead, lightly. He's not having any more of her non-answering. And he next time he says I love you, she better cop up to that, too.
"Of course I did," says Claire, pulling back. "The whole time you were gone."
The words come out of her mouth on automatic, but she isn't all that surprised to find that they're true.
He stoops, takes her face in his palms, and kisses her. Hard.
[] [] []
"Claire—Claire, stop."
"Oh, are you gonna beg me now? Fight back, you big sissy."
"You know, that's not—hey!"
They topple off the front of the couch, and he employs a quick gravitational shift to slow her fall, so that she lands softly and without emasculating him via her careless knees.
"I said no abilities," she complains.
"And I said no wrestling while you're pregnant." He scoops her around the waist and tries to set her back on the cushions. "It could hurt the baby."
"What do you know about it?" She fights being placed on the couch, holding onto the bottom of it with her heels and locking her knees.
"I know something about it." He tries to dislodge her feet by pushing the couch back. She takes advantage of his distraction and lunges. He's on his back before he knows it, staring up sourly at her where she straddles him, leaning on his stomach and grinning in triumph.
"Pinned you," she declares. "Round one to me."
"Okay, sure. Fine. You pinned me. Can we stop this now?"
"It's just eating you alive, isn't it? Getting beat by a girl?"
"I'm confused, actually. Clearly, pregnancy causes a woman to produce a massive influx of the airhead hormone. What is the function of that, exactly?"
"Aw, somebody's snippy after his business trip."
"I'm not snippy, Claire. I seem to be the only person here capable of exhibiting common—"
"Oh, lord. Just turn over."
"Why?" He narrows his eyes.
Claire rolls hers.
"Well, I was planning on staking you in the heart with a crucifix, but I like to attack my enemies from behind—you know, because I'm non-confrontational. God, would you just turn over? I'm gonna give you a backrub, you suspicious jackass."
"Oh. Well. All right, then."
He complies as Claire snorts, rolling over to allow access to the musculature of his back. Her little hands are on him, and she's actually kind of terrible at it, dear god, poking and prodding and causing him to grit his teeth against a surge of tickle-induced manic laughter. It's like she's finding bones he didn't even realize were back there and playing them like a xylophone. He lets her keep going, though, because it's such a nice gesture, and because there's something in her utter inexperience that's comforting, in a way. Seems Rutherford didn't get a lot of backrubs.
Her remark about him being snippy was her first mention of his trip. She still hasn't asked him about it—not a single thing, not even Were you successful? He'd like to assume she simply has that much faith in him, but he knows her too well. She's avoiding the issue.
Maybe she doesn't want to know . . . but then, maybe she knows already. It's been all over the news. Apparently Laughlin was a minor celebrity of sorts, and his untimely demise has boosted him into loftier levels of fame. Of course, there's so little media technology—and no television, as she's noted before—in the loft that she could still be ignorant. Perhaps he'd do better to break the news himself.
"Claire, I think we should talk about ow!" Son of a bitch, is she using her toes?
"No good?" She pauses.
"No, it's, um—maybe just a little more to the . . . not there." He clears his throat. "Sorry. Listen, I think we should about L.A."
"L.A.?" She resumes the massage, more slowly. "Is that where you went?"
"Yes." He really doesn't see the point in mentioning Texas. He was in . . . well, a bad place when he paid his visit to Rutherford. Bringing it up is a sure way back. "I know I told you I might not have to kill anybody—"
"But you did," she finishes for him.
He's quiet for a few seconds. Her hands are still moving, and he supposes it's a good sign, even if they do make him writhe.
"I tried to avoid it," he says. "I wanted to avoid it, because I knew . . . well, I know how you feel about it. And after what I told you, I really wanted to prove that I didn't have to be that person, you know? That I could be someone else. That it's not . . . It's not really an imperative, is it?"
The questions hangs in the air for a moment, and it may be the first time he's ever truly acknowledged the idea. He is on the verge of a great self discovery—and then Claire digs her knuckles damn near into his lungs, and he bucks. Twists to grab her hand and, more kindly, resituates himself onto his back so that he can look up at her.
"Guess I need practice," Claire admits, somewhat sheepishly.
"Never mind," he hastens. His brown eyes meet her blue ones, and she feels like they are trying to bore into her brain. "What I'm trying to say is . . . I don't want our child to deal with this, and I don't see any reason why it should. He—or she—can never know what I did."
"You mean what you do," she points out.
"No," he denies. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. What I did."
"Sylar . . ." She looks down for a second, loosened hair cascading over her face. "Don't kid yourself, okay? Don't kid me."
"I'm not kidding anybody. I have everything I want. Now I just have to keep it." His eyes are earnest, his tone even. There's a vow in there somewhere.
Claire meets his gaze.
"You know . . . you're sweet," she says, quiet unexpectedly for both of them. "I mean, usually you're not—but you can be very sweet."
But there is absolutely no vow in her voice, in her eyes, as he listens and looks back. Somehow, it's the exact opposite of a vow. And it hits him: the open-armed welcome when he returned, the miserable attempt at a backrub, the atypical endearments . . .
"Why are you being so nice?" he wonders, eyes and tone returning to their earlier state of suspicion. A colder state.
"It's just . . ." Her voice has dropped. "There's always going to be some reason, you know? Even if it's a good reason. You and me together—we've already found a reason to take a life. And, God, Sylar, our baby isn't even born yet. We can't stop this now unless we stop it completely. You see that, right? I know you can see that if you try."
"What exactly do you mean . . ." He sits up. " . . . by stop it completely?"
But he knows already. Sylar remembers lying in this position beneath her months ago when they drank tequila, and he remembers coming home and feeling sure she had abandoned him. Everything in between suddenly feels like a dream.
"I can't be like my dad, Sylar," she tells him. "I don't want to, any more than you want to be like yours. I can't spend my life justifying the unjustifiable. When I think about all the people I loved, I just . . . I can't let them down by becoming . . ."
"Me?" he guesses. "I mean, you say Noah, but really you mean me."
"It doesn't even matter what I mean. We have to stop this now."
Her face begs him to understand.
So, clearing the thunderclouds amassing over his brow, he does. In appearance, anyway.
"If that's what you want," he says. And he manages a smile, a tight, painful little curve of the mouth that is nevertheless a smile.
Claire seems taken aback. She blinks.
"You're not mad?" she asks.
He shrugs one shoulder.
"I can't pretend I'm happy," he says. "Where will you go?"
"I haven't figured that out yet," she answers. Just what he would expect of her. Short and short-sighted. "Listen, I really am sorry, okay? I meant it back when I said I considered you a friend."
"Sure," he replies. It's not sarcasm. It's just . . . sure.
Shockingly, he is really convinced that—if he keeps mainly to monosyllables, if he restricts himself from sudden movements—he might keep his cool, against all odds and ulterior emotions. They can end this on good terms, leaving potential for the future.
And then she tries to make it into a going-away party.
"Let's . . . let's just go to bed one more time," she suggests softly, maddeningly, gently palming his chest through his shirt. "One for the road, you know?"
"Go to bed," he echoes, chuckling as he runs his thumb over his lower lip. "Claire Bennet's version of Go to hell."
Smirking against the digit, she licks the pad of his thumb and sucks at it before nipping it with her teeth.
"You like it," she accuses playfully.
His eyes glint as he smiles, leaning in to kiss the junction of her earlobe and jaw.
"Two months ago," he whispers.
"Hm?" Her eyes flutter shut.
And suddenly, the pressure of his thumb beneath her mouth is unpleasant, crushing her lip against her teeth. His fingertips snake into the hair at the nape of her neck, tangling and tugging.
"Mmph!" she protests, fighting to shove his hand away. "What the hell!"
"I liked it," he emphasizes, "two months ago."
He shoves, not hard enough to send her sprawling, but enough to knock her back on her heels. His face is hard, all traces of the forced, weak smile gone.
Ohhh, okay. So he is mad. Right, she probably shouldn't have fallen for that one.
"I liked it back before you got pregnant!" he rants, eyes flashing fire. "I liked it before I said I love you and you took it like I'd just complimented your goddamn haircut!"
"Oh, oh, of course!" Claire snaps, rubbing at her lip. "God, I knew you were gonna hang onto that till you managed to squeeze it out of me! Why did you have to say something like that in the first place, if it was gonna—gonna eat away at you like this?"
"Well, jeez, we were in bed, remember?" he reminds her, as he flips her knee from around his legs and stands. Towering over her, he continues, "I mean, god knows you're so good in the sack, my higher brain functioning just flat-out shuts down when your legs open!"
"I never said that."
"No, but why else would you have the unimaginable audacity to think you could tell me you were leaving me and aborting the baby I just—"
"Watch it, you bastard—" she interjects furiously, scrambling to her feet.
"—killed a guy to protect, and then ask me for a goddamned quickie before you start packing?"
"Since when did killing anybody bother you?" she yells. "And if you want to know the truth, I already packed."
He stops, seething.
"What?"
"While you were gone," she informs him, lowering her voice. "I packed, and then I unpacked, and then I packed . . ."
Sylar passes a hand over his forehead.
"Why didn't you just go?" he demands, defeat in his voice. "I told you before I left, if you wanted to have the baby, be here. That's all you had to do, be here or don't be here. How could even somebody as blond as you mess up something so simple?"
"Look . . ." Claire swallows and crosses her arms over her chest, taking a step back. "Don't be mad—"
Oh, god.
"—but before, I thought . . . I mean, I wanted the baby, but I didn't think you'd want it, or at least I thought you'd probably get sick of it real quick the way a lot of guys do, and I figured you'd probably get sick of me, too. Because the baby and me would be sort of a package deal, you know. A real annoying one. So I guess I thought—"
"You . . ." He pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes. "You were planning on walking out after you had the baby. You bitch."
He says this in a tone of dull, unemotional realization.
He's been a fool. And, what's worse, an optimist. Gabriel was right.
"I honestly thought it would be over by then," she insists. "And besides, I knew you couldn't hurt me, and I was sort of hoping you wouldn't hurt a kid if it was yours."
If it was—! Well, he supposes he earned that one. Little Molly and all . . .
"But then I told you about my father," he says, and at any other moment he might have burst into laughter at the irony. "My inheritance. Am I right?"
"Well . . . yeah," she admits softly.
"So let me ask you again: Why didn't you just—go?"
Claire shrugs, and the rims of her eyes are reddening.
"I missed you," she states simply. "I wanted to see you one more time, touch you and smell you and kiss you again, and I wanted to tell you to your face. I didn't want to sneak away like you were just a bad date or something."
"Well, I wish you had," he replies, only half sincerely. "I can't believe you thought this was better."
"Not better, just . . . less wrong. I mean, I know how it looks, but honest to god, I was trying to do you right. You know? I thought you deserved that much."
"No," he disagrees. "No—no, you were trying to screw me over. That's what Petrellis do, and I should have expected it."
"Don't—"
"Don't what?" he snaps, and his voice is rising, and he can feel the negative emotions clashing in his chest, building to a quick combustion. "Don't talk about the Petrellis? Is that it? Hey, did I ever tell you how happy I was when Peter finally died? Or how much I hated the bastard? Or what about Angela? God, that diabolical bitch, I wish I'd killed her myself. And your father—I hated him, too. And, you know, I hated Parkman, and I hated Nakamura, and I hated Nakamura's little Japanese friend, and—"
"Sylar, would you please just—"
"—I hate Micah, and I hate Molly, and I hate Rutherford, and to be quite honest with you I don't remember meeting very many people I didn't wind up hating, but Claire Bear?"
Without warning, so quickly she has no time to register the motion save for the swoop of sudden speed, he whips her toward him. Her throat now conveniently encased by his fingers, he tilts his head toward hers.
"I love you," he reminds her, voice and face entirely devoid of the softness one would expect to accompany such an assertion. "I said it. Twice, as I recall. I made it perfectly clear how I felt. You knew, and you—were trying—to screw me."
"I—I wasn't," she insists hoarsely.
"Say it," he growls. Yet still she insists:
"I wasn't. I swear."
He glances away for a moment to laugh bitterly, then turns his eyes upon her once more with renewed animosity.
"Cheerleader," he accuses.
So now he's going for the low blows. God, he must be angry.
Claire glares at him in disgust and reaches up to push at his fingers. His grip only tightens, and now she can hear her blood pounding, feel it pressing at the back of her eardrums.
"Petrelli," he continues, the name leaving his mouth like the most foul slur he can summon. "Daddy's lying little girl."
Snarling, he releases her roughly, stepping back.
"Noah wanted me to kill people," he informs her. "He didn't give a shit until I went after you."
"I'm leaving now."
He doesn't move to stop her, but he walks alongside her, then in front of her, spewing defamation as they go.
"And why did he even have you Claire? Hm? The only reason I got the pleasure of killing your mother is that the Company didn't get to her first. And oh, what about dear old Granny? Let's see . . . You know, I thought she was my mother once—can't imagine where I got such a ridiculous notion, probably had something to do with her telling me so. Then Papa Petrelli got in on the act, too, told me Angela tried to drown me in the bathtub when I was a baby. Well, holy hell, thanks for the history, Dad! 'Course it all turned out to be a gigantic lie. Which was kind of disappointing, you know—I mean, that made three mothers! I was really racking 'em up for a while, wasn't I? Then again, I thought I was your uncle, so that was confusing. And speaking of uncles, did you know Peter wanted to nail you to the bed so bad he probably had to sit down whenever you walked into a room?"
Claire disappears into the bedroom. He leans against the doorframe, watching her back as she bends to remove her suitcase from beneath the bed.
"And let's not forget Nathan," he goes on. "Remember that time he launched a government initiative to round up and imprison his own kind? I'm a little hazy on the whole thing myself, probably because I kept getting tased and shot and attacked in diners. It was funny at first, you know, but it did get annoying after a while."
She comes back, shoulders past him, and makes for the staircase. He follows.
"Now there was a guy who knew how to look out for number one—Nathan," he commends, soles tapping down the steps. "And yet that initiative . . . You have to think there must have been a lot of self-loathing there, too. I think you get a lot from him."
He laughs shortly.
"These are the people you love, Claire. These are the people—the dead people, mind you—you just can't stand the thought of disappointing. Well, you'll have a hell of a time living up to the standards they set; I mean, they were spotless, all of them, just absolutely immaculate. But not me, right? I'm the Bogeyman. I'm a monster. I'm a black-hearted villain. I kill people, and I have the unbelievable gall do it without getting paid for it. I'm evil, and I'm dirty, and Claire Bennet's too good for me. Well, hell!"
Her hand goes for the doorknob, and he grabs her wrist, spins her around to look at her one more time. He wants to cut her. If they're going to part on awful terms, he wants them to be his.
"Go back to Texas," he suggests. "Poor little Sharon is mind mush, you know. I hear Rob's got an opening."
"I hope you die," Claire says blandly.
At her back, the door opens. Sylar's grin is wide and unkind.
"I hope you live forever," he replies. With a twitching of fingers, he puppets her backward over the threshold, and slams the door in her face.