Title: Out of time
Author: sweet_babymomma
Characters: Sylar/Claire, implied Peter/Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through 4x18
Summary: Sylar is broken and for once he needs Claire to fix him.
Written for: h0pefulregret
Prompt: «Character death that brings them closer together. (Please, not one of them who dies». Raiting R to NC-17, darker!Sylar, no crack!fic, no OOC, not necessarily non-con but that's fine, as is dub-con, or just BDSM-themed.
Disclaimer: these characters don't belong to me. Life is not fair!
A/n: many thanks to kathrynthegr8 for holding my hand throughout writing and, of course, for betaing this fic.
OUT OF TIME
All we need is time. Every thought we have, every emotion we experience needs time. To surface. To bloom. To die. And maybe to revive again.
*
There are so many things Claire wants to do to him. To smash his face. To knock his teeth out. To break his nose... No, to break every bone in his body. Twice. To cut him open. To spill his guts out. To hurt him so bad he forgets his name. To make him plead for mercy, but give him none. To kill him. And then again. And again. And again...
For this she's got all the time in the world. He wanted an eternity together? Fine. She can indulge him. And yeah, – one shared eternity might not be enough for everything she plans for him.
She hesitates; eyeing a row of shiny medical devices, then chooses a scalpel. That'll be a good start. She's always had a thing for ten blades.
Claire gives Sylar a quick glance. He's lying on his back, tied to a cold metal table at Pinehearst, where Claire brought him, dripping with blood and unconscious. It was after Samuel did what he did to the carnies – and yeah, the rest of the world too.
He's just lying there now, blinking at the sharp light of the fluorescent lamps on the ceiling. Since he came to he doesn't say a word. Having heard the click of the metal blades, he turns his head to face Claire.
«Funny thing,» his hoarse voice breaks the silence. «Why does all of this feel so familiar? Have we done this before?»
Claire presses her lips into a thin line. How dare he be so casual about it? She's going to punish him for this too.
She closes the distance between them and raises the blade.
«Oh,» he says as if he had sudden insight. «I remember now. You didn't do it to me. It was in that flashback from the future... He told me... You did it to him... In four years' time.»
Claire's mouth is suddenly dry.
«To whom? Who did I do it to, Sylar?»
«To Peter.» He pulls at the restraints. «Where is he? What the...»
The sound of Peter's name sounds like thunder. Claire feels as if a bomb went off in her chest, having turned her insides into a bloody mess. That's when she cuts him. Forces the knife into his chest. Fights the sudden urge to slit his throat right away.
The scalpel scratches his ribs, pierces his lung, makes Sylar eyes go wide with pain. The scarlet stains her hands, splashes smearing her hair and cheek.
«Peter is dead,» she hisses, cutting deeper. «You killed him.»
«What... I didn't...»
His screams are like music to her ears. A scalpel suddenly feels too small. Maybe she should have bought a cleaver with her. Or a chainsaw. Or a sledge-hummer to crush his joints. Hatred blurs her vision, makes her hands shake. No punishment is good enough for him. Nothing can bring Peter back.
His body heals around the knife, but she is in no hurry to take it out.
«I didn't do that,» he finally manages. «I wouldn't. I remembered.»
Amnesia seems to be a common occurence with him, but now, Claire is sure, it's only a pretense.
«You're lying. I saw you!»
«What did you see?»
«I saw you standing there. At the Carnival. Over Peter's dead body. Covered in his blood. You murdered him. I know you did. And for that I'll make you suffer. I'll be hurting you until you realize: it's you who should've died there. Not Peter. You.»
He pauses. Closes his eyes. Tries to breathe. Looks defeated.
«True.»
She can't believe her ears. He wants to surrender? So soon?
«Shh,» she says harshly, pulling a knife out of his chest. «Don't you dare spoil the fun for me!»
But Sylar doesn't seem to listen.
«I should've been faster,» he mutters to himself. «I should've saved him. Who needs Emma now that he's gone? I should've been there for him...» His voice trails off and he closes his eyes again. Shakes his head as if haunted by an unwanted memory.
A thousand thoughts are in her head, a million words on her tongue.
«Why would you want to save him?» Claire asks weakly. Her voice is shaking. «You killed him! I saw you!»
«It was about Emma,» he says as if it explains everything. «Peter wanted me
to save her. He went to Matt Parkman...»
Claire listens as intensely as if her life depended on it. When he's done with the story, she only asks one thing.
«How long did you stay there – with Peter?»
Claire is a bright girl, he should give her that much. She cuts deep, getting to the very core of the subject. Their eyes meet.
«It felt like years,» he says. «I wouldn't kill him, Claire»
She nods, understanding. Feels empty inside. Comes closer. Brushes his hair up, touches his cheek, leaving a trail in the blood. His skin is silky soft to her touch.
This is what Peter felt, she suddenly thinks. This is what he felt when he was touching him like this.
So she leans in and kisses him. He doesn't reciprocate. He's tense – probably thinking that this is another twisted game of hers.
But she insists, presses harder, bites his lower lip... Swallows his sigh. Forces her tongue into his mouth. She wants to taste him, to feel what Peter felt. And for this she needs to think like Peter. To be Peter. Just this once.
She traces her lips down his throat. Licks his salty skin. Kisses the pulse point beneath his ear. Breaths him in.
«Please,» she mumbles into the hollow of his neck. «Please. I need.»
A pause. A shaky sigh. Then:
«Untie me.»
She does as he says – no hesitation, no asking why he didn't use his abilities to break free. She trusts him now. Maybe. Or probably she's too shocked to think and chooses to feel instead.
Or maybe she's doing it because it feels right. His mouth on hers. His arms around her waist. The wild beating of his heart against her chest.
He gets up. Steps into the pool of blood on the floor. Raises her off the ground and sits down on the table. The metal is still warm from the contact with his body. And sticky. With Sylar's blood.
*
There are so many things he wants to do to her. To taste her. To feel her skin under his fingertips. To see those sad green eyes close in pleasure. To fuck her in each and every way he's ever heard of. To make her stop thinking of all the things he's so desperately trying to forget.
His kiss is rough and possessive. There's nothing gentle about it. It's not «I'm-sorry-for-letting-you down» kiss, nor is it a «I-grieve-with-you» one. He's claiming her as his.
She's so docile now. Kissing her is like kissing a doll. Not that he knows much about kissing dolls. What he knows however is that his unbreakable girl is broken – probably beyond repair. News flash: some things just cannot be fixed.
But at least he can try.
He's pulling at her shirt until the fabric gives way with a tearing sound, and rips her jeans off. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry though – just bitter and angry: with Peter, with Claire, with himself.
He peels her clothes off until she's sitting on the table naked, her skin milky white in the merciless lamplight. He'd peel off her skin too. God, he'd cut open her head if it would help her to forget about Peter. Anything.
Because she's sitting there – all soft curves and messy hair and blood-
stained baby face – and sees right through him. And as much as he misses Peter and wants him to be alive again, Sylar can't stand her thinking of another man as she spreads her legs for him.
He takes off his shirt – or, rather, what remains of it. Unclasps his belt buckle. Unzips his pants.
«Which of you used to be on top?»
His fingers stop midway. A wry smile twists a corner of his mouth.
«We used to take turns,» he lies.
He pushes her and she falls down. There's no fear in her eyes. She's not a victim any more. She knows his secret now. And she wants this. Her nipples are hard and she's glistening wet between her thighs. He's not sure though that it's him she's wet for and not the thought of him and Peter. Together.
So he slides his pants and boxers down his legs and looms over her. Her eyes flutter shut when he presses the head of his cock against her slit, listening to that delicious muffled «mmm» reverberating in the back of her throat.
He cups her breasts, teasing her nipples with the pads of his thumbs. Gives her a lingering kiss. Enters her. Sets a agonizingly slow rhythm. Feels her grow impatient. But when her hips thrust forward, he moves back. They have all the time in the world. First he'll have her writhe with need. He'll have her plead for mercy, but gives her none. And then he'll make her scream his name. Again. And again. And again.