for justprompts: ghosts
Apr. 10th, 2009 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayer(Claire is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girl_ofsecrets and is used at their request.)
She's sitting on the couch in the room when he steps out of the wardrobe, and he can't help but jump. He hadn't heard her come in, and judging by the way she shifts suddenly, the leather creaking underneath her, she wasn't aware he was in the room, either. He writes it off as him being quiet when he changed, shifts a bit on the balls of his feet as his nerves settle, and then takes a few steps forward so they're not shouting at each other across the room.
"Jesus, Claire," he mutters, shaking her head, and she flashes him a tiny, wry smile.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you." Somehow, he doubts that, but he lets it go with a shrug. "Angela said you'd gone out, so I wasn't exactly expecting you."
"It's fine." He waves the apology away, and moves for the desk. There's a bottle of brandy there, and while it's not his usual--he's not sure he has a usual--he wants a drink more than anything, right now. He's felt like that for days, now. Life has gotten far too complicated, and he's teetering on the edge of losing himself, not sure who he really is anymore, and so he drinks. He knows it won't really help, not in the long run, but he can pretend, and so he pours himself a glass before shooting her a sideways look. "So, what's up?"
"Not much." She shrugs, fidgeting with her bangs idly, before dropping her hands back into her lap. They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them really sure where they want to go with this conversation, and then she's wetting her lips with her tongue, hesitantly, before probing. "I heard you had another fight with Peter."
"Pete, he ... " He sets his glass down on the table, untouched, and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I don't even know where to start with that one. He's Peter. You know how it goes."
Claire nods, looking away. "Yeah, I do."
Silence falls between them again, and he shoots a glance at the glass of brandy on the table. It would be so nice to get drunk right now, he decides, but even so he thinks better of touching it. That's not who he is, and he needs to hold onto that. He needs to hold onto something, and that in mind, he looks away, canting his head to one side, considering her. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"The whole not getting drunk thing."
She raises her eyes to him, reaching up to brush a piece of her hair out of her face, somewhere between smug and embarrassed. How she pulls it off, he has no idea, but she does. "What, you mean doing like fifty shots, while we were down in Mexico?"
"Yeah." A pause, and then he amends, "That and not feeling pain." She shoots him a pointed look. Something near fear follows, shining in her eyes for just a second, and he can tell he's stepped over a line somewhere, though not in their subject matter. She might not want to talk about it, but that doesn't explain that flash of terror--what does is the fact that Bennet's told them all that Sylar's a shapeshifter by now, and he's not supposed to know that she can't feel pain. And so he holds up his hands, defensively. "It's ok, Claire. It's just me. Peter told me."
She relaxes ever so slightly, hands going to grip at her shoulders, hugging herself, and looks away. "I don't know," she says after a long moment. "I mean, I guess it should be a good thing, right? I can do anything and not get hurt--like, not at all--but being able to feel it made me feel alive. It let me know that I was still human. And now, I just like ... like this ghost who sort of wanders through people's lives. I'm just a ghost, and it's kinda funny, since I can't die."
"Hey." She doesn't look up at him, so he crosses the distance between them, fingers curling under her chin lightly, to tilt her head up, forcing her to look at him. "You're still human. Just because you can't feel things doesn't mean things don't still get to you. Physical pain's not the only kind of hurt, trust me, and if you can hold onto that--if you can still feel for people after ten years? Twenty? A hundred? Then you're still alive." He hesitates, dropping his hand away, and then turns, marching back to where he left his drink. "Me? I'm a dead man walking."
"What do you mean?" she asks, softly.
"Pete won't talk to me. I'm pretty sure Ma's still pissed at me. I could make a list a mile long." He shrugs. "I used to define myself by other people, Claire--what other people thought of me was everything. And now everyone's caught up in doing their own things, to hell with me. I'm not a threat or a brother or even a friend, anymore. I'm just--I don't know. A nobody. A face in a crowd. Maybe not even that, anymore. I don't know who I am without other people, much as I hate to admit it, and I figured it out too late. I'm the one that gets to be a ghost for forever, not you."
"You're not a ghost, Nathan."
"Drop by in ten years and tell me that."
Then, just like that, he's marching back into the wardrobe without so much as a word. She lingers, he can hear her, but she gets fed up--bored?--whatever--eventually, and he hears the door open for an instant before slamming shut. And after he's spent a moment in silence, holding his breath as if he's afraid she'll come back, he moves towards the back of the closet, pushing aside racks of clothing, kneeling down in the space he's made. Kneeling down next to the body of the real Nathan Petrelli, his head neatly sliced open, the smear of red around him already cold and congealing. He reaches out, fingers stroking through the remains of his hair, gently, and in a shudder of flesh, it's Sylar frowning down at the corpse, rather than a doppleganger of the dead man.
"You never knew who you were, either," the killer murmurs. "We're just ghosts, you and I."
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1069
girl_ofsecrets and is used at their request.)She's sitting on the couch in the room when he steps out of the wardrobe, and he can't help but jump. He hadn't heard her come in, and judging by the way she shifts suddenly, the leather creaking underneath her, she wasn't aware he was in the room, either. He writes it off as him being quiet when he changed, shifts a bit on the balls of his feet as his nerves settle, and then takes a few steps forward so they're not shouting at each other across the room.
"Jesus, Claire," he mutters, shaking her head, and she flashes him a tiny, wry smile.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you." Somehow, he doubts that, but he lets it go with a shrug. "Angela said you'd gone out, so I wasn't exactly expecting you."
"It's fine." He waves the apology away, and moves for the desk. There's a bottle of brandy there, and while it's not his usual--he's not sure he has a usual--he wants a drink more than anything, right now. He's felt like that for days, now. Life has gotten far too complicated, and he's teetering on the edge of losing himself, not sure who he really is anymore, and so he drinks. He knows it won't really help, not in the long run, but he can pretend, and so he pours himself a glass before shooting her a sideways look. "So, what's up?"
"Not much." She shrugs, fidgeting with her bangs idly, before dropping her hands back into her lap. They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them really sure where they want to go with this conversation, and then she's wetting her lips with her tongue, hesitantly, before probing. "I heard you had another fight with Peter."
"Pete, he ... " He sets his glass down on the table, untouched, and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I don't even know where to start with that one. He's Peter. You know how it goes."
Claire nods, looking away. "Yeah, I do."
Silence falls between them again, and he shoots a glance at the glass of brandy on the table. It would be so nice to get drunk right now, he decides, but even so he thinks better of touching it. That's not who he is, and he needs to hold onto that. He needs to hold onto something, and that in mind, he looks away, canting his head to one side, considering her. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"The whole not getting drunk thing."
She raises her eyes to him, reaching up to brush a piece of her hair out of her face, somewhere between smug and embarrassed. How she pulls it off, he has no idea, but she does. "What, you mean doing like fifty shots, while we were down in Mexico?"
"Yeah." A pause, and then he amends, "That and not feeling pain." She shoots him a pointed look. Something near fear follows, shining in her eyes for just a second, and he can tell he's stepped over a line somewhere, though not in their subject matter. She might not want to talk about it, but that doesn't explain that flash of terror--what does is the fact that Bennet's told them all that Sylar's a shapeshifter by now, and he's not supposed to know that she can't feel pain. And so he holds up his hands, defensively. "It's ok, Claire. It's just me. Peter told me."
She relaxes ever so slightly, hands going to grip at her shoulders, hugging herself, and looks away. "I don't know," she says after a long moment. "I mean, I guess it should be a good thing, right? I can do anything and not get hurt--like, not at all--but being able to feel it made me feel alive. It let me know that I was still human. And now, I just like ... like this ghost who sort of wanders through people's lives. I'm just a ghost, and it's kinda funny, since I can't die."
"Hey." She doesn't look up at him, so he crosses the distance between them, fingers curling under her chin lightly, to tilt her head up, forcing her to look at him. "You're still human. Just because you can't feel things doesn't mean things don't still get to you. Physical pain's not the only kind of hurt, trust me, and if you can hold onto that--if you can still feel for people after ten years? Twenty? A hundred? Then you're still alive." He hesitates, dropping his hand away, and then turns, marching back to where he left his drink. "Me? I'm a dead man walking."
"What do you mean?" she asks, softly.
"Pete won't talk to me. I'm pretty sure Ma's still pissed at me. I could make a list a mile long." He shrugs. "I used to define myself by other people, Claire--what other people thought of me was everything. And now everyone's caught up in doing their own things, to hell with me. I'm not a threat or a brother or even a friend, anymore. I'm just--I don't know. A nobody. A face in a crowd. Maybe not even that, anymore. I don't know who I am without other people, much as I hate to admit it, and I figured it out too late. I'm the one that gets to be a ghost for forever, not you."
"You're not a ghost, Nathan."
"Drop by in ten years and tell me that."
Then, just like that, he's marching back into the wardrobe without so much as a word. She lingers, he can hear her, but she gets fed up--bored?--whatever--eventually, and he hears the door open for an instant before slamming shut. And after he's spent a moment in silence, holding his breath as if he's afraid she'll come back, he moves towards the back of the closet, pushing aside racks of clothing, kneeling down in the space he's made. Kneeling down next to the body of the real Nathan Petrelli, his head neatly sliced open, the smear of red around him already cold and congealing. He reaches out, fingers stroking through the remains of his hair, gently, and in a shudder of flesh, it's Sylar frowning down at the corpse, rather than a doppleganger of the dead man.
"You never knew who you were, either," the killer murmurs. "We're just ghosts, you and I."
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1069
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Date: 2009-04-10 10:10 pm (UTC)omg, so good!
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Date: 2009-04-10 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:18 pm (UTC)So, yeah, I'll totally remind you when the season is over.
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Date: 2009-04-10 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-10 10:55 pm (UTC)*BOWS*
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Date: 2009-04-11 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-12 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-12 06:40 pm (UTC)Also, Happy Easter! Or Happy Spring Holiday of Your Choice, if you don't celebrate that one.