[Author's Note]

This is my first adventure into Sylaire, but I was listening to "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum and it's all I could think of. Hopefully, you all find the end product as enjoyable as I did.

"Need You Now"

A century, he thinks absently, staring at the tumbler of scotch in his hands. Ten decades. One hundred years. One hundred long, miserable years.

The fireplace illuminates the previously muted amber liquid, setting it ablaze in the dim light of the fire. His eyes catch the faint hue of gold, and then he's lost all over again.

Sylar takes another long pull from the glass and lets the burn slide down the back of his throat. For a moment he thinks he might be drunk, but it's only that—a thought. He long ago surrendered the ability to become impaired; in this way, at least. Now he drank out of habit alone; he enjoyed the comforting sound of liquor hitting the bottom of the glass and working its way up to the top, the lukewarm substance causing the ice to crackle against the ice in the bottom. The unwavering need to feel the weight against his palm was purely psychological, but he doesn't care. He cares about very little.

She's been gone a hundred years and he's alone in a home he used to share, staring at a fire he can't feel.

***

"Can you stand?"

A light, melodic voice penetrates the fog behind his eyes. He wishes he could place it—he probably could if he tried hard enough—but even that faculty is beyond him now. His only interest is in the small frame doing its best to support his larger one and failing miserably. He can hear her coughing and it's no stretch of the imagination to feel his lungs burning with the billowing black smoke he senses rather than sees around them. When he finally opens his eyes, he's met with miles of rubble and scorched blonde hair.

"What happened?" he slurs, tentatively placing his left foot before his right.

"McCoy went nuclear," she replies, coughing again. "They must have prodded the wrong neuron this time."

"Everyone else?" he asks reluctantly, slowly feeling his strength return as his body begins to mend. He leans less on Claire now, pausing for a moment to hear her answer. She looks up at him, her green eyes dark and haunted. Her answer is simple.

"Gone."

"How long do you think we have?" he asks, putting the matter out of his mind for the moment, content to start moving again.

"An hour," she says and winces. "Maybe."

"What should we do?" he inquires, more than willing to accept suggestions. He can walk now, but he leaves his arm around her tiny shoulders anyway. He likes it there.

"Run," she replies simply. "Run like hell."

"The tracking chips?" he asks, inspecting the back of his neck for a familiar scar. It was strange to feel smooth skin rather than ragged tissue there. It was ten years they'd been in captivity, the tiny computerized chips embedded into the base of their skull. The location was clever; neither of them dared remove it for fear that they would accidentally insert something in the wrong place and stay dead.

"Pulverized in the blast," she explains. "Everything is, and they don't grow back. You were a blackened skeleton up until about fifteen minutes ago." She clears her throat. "For a minute, I thought you might not regenerate this time."

He spared her a smile that was more like a grimace than anything.

"And miss out on another of your escape attempts? Not likely."

She smiled and worked their way past the rubble, her arm wrapped around his waist and his around her shoulders.

"Well, what's the plan?" she asks. "You're the mastermind, not me."

"Get out of the blast radius fast," he says, briefly considering his options. "They'll be too busy smoothing over the cover up to worry about keeping track of the body count. If we can get out of here before it's swarming with agents, they'll write us off."

"You think that'll work?" she questions, and he understands her trepidation. He doesn't particular want to be caged again, either.

"It's better than anything else we have going," he replies frankly. He picks up the pace, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to a jog next to him. "Let's get out of here."

***

However strange, the years they spent in captivity—the long days and nights spent together, wondering if the next day was even worth living—had done more than its share in bringing the two closer. The two of them had been battered into submission. In the end, they'd realized they were equals in status if nothing else. For once in their lives, they were at exactly the same place at the same time. Time and extensive torture had robbed Claire of her innocence and naiveté, much like it had broken Sylar into tiny pieces that could never have been rebuilt to mimic the man he'd once been. Somewhere between the blood, the drugs, and the broken bones he'd lost his rage. He'd lost the energy to hate, and the drive to kill. It may have taken Claire five long years to realize it, but he was no longer the monster he used to be.

There was something unifying about their situation, provoking odd kindness in each other where there was once loathing. Claire had taken his care upon herself for the long weeks that Sylar underwent experimental brain surgery, only so the bloodthirsty doctors could see what happened while the butchered tissue grew back. He suffered severe neurological symptoms that were both painful and humiliating. Claire had handled him with more patience than he deserved, and he was sure to repay her when it was her turn to be called in front of the medical staff. Day after day her immune system was tested, and she was injected with every pathogen known to man. Could she fight the infection faster? Would it affect her at all? These were the questions answered when she survived everything from cancer to AIDS to bacterial meningitis.

While the so-called invincible girl survived every assault on her body, the results were ugly. She seized every so often, biting her tongue and flailing violently to bruise her now pallid skin. Blinding migraines rendered her helpless and even the thought of food had her doubled over in pain. She'd been paralyzed on more than one occasion. This carried on for almost a month, and Sylar held her hand every minute of it. He did his best to keep her from choking on her own vomit, and held her when the seizures were at their worst. At first his actions had seemed unnatural and took careful consideration, but slowly they became the only thing he genuinely wanted to do.

The morning after her last test, she looked up to find concern in his molten brown eyes.

"How did we get here?" she'd asked him, her voice a shallow whisper.

"The same way everyone else does," he said, holding her against his chest with the ghost of a smile, "Slowly."

***

Sylar loosens his tie and removes it completely, throwing the slate-gray wedge of fabric away from him. He vaguely remembers that it was Claire's favorite on him, and the realization makes his mouth twist into a humorless smile. Giving into the sentimentality he hasn't embraced in years, he sets down his drink and retrieves the tie from the floor. It takes one slight touch—the barest whisper of his fingertips against the satin—to remember everything. The saleswoman putting it out for display, the dozens of hands that had picked it up and scrutinized it, and finally Claire picking it out and placing it in a gift bag. He can feel it as she ties it around his neck for the first time, smoothing it against another one of his black dress shirts. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine the gentle heat of her hand through the fabric.

Where were we going?

He considers the question carefully, sorting through memories.

Opera in Venice?

No, that's not right.

Broadway, then.

Wrong again.

He touches it again and the scene appears behind his now-closed eyelids, showing Claire in an emerald-colored ball gown and gold jewelry. Her smile encompasses her face and spreads onto his as he leans down to kiss her.

Paris, he thinks with a long sigh. She gave it to me in Paris.

***

"I'm almost afraid to think we're in the clear," she tells him, folding her legs under her as she claims a place at the window seat. The nightgown she wears is still warm from sleep, and she yawns. She intends to watch the sun rise, but the sea has other plans. The world beyond the pane of glass rages on, pummeling the small beach house with wind and rain.

"It's been a month," he replies from the kitchen, pouring cream into the coffee he'd made for the two of them. Hers with sugar, his without.

"Exactly," she says back as he walks into the living room. "Is that long enough?"

"Here," he says, handing her the warm cup and catching her eye.

"Oh, thank you," she says and watches as he claims a seat next to her. "I like it here," she confesses offhandedly, bringing the mug to her lips. "I've always loved the ocean."

"We'll see how much you still like it when the gale rips the house to shreds," he points out, receiving a silent glare. Honestly, he likes it there too. He just wants to see her lips press together and her eyes narrow, because he finds her absolutely breathtaking when she's annoyed at him. He's careful to add, "But it works for the time being."

"How long would that be?" she asks, perfectly aware that the true question resides between the lines. He knows her too well now not to notice.

"As long as you want," he says honestly, more than willing to stay in the shaky little beach house until the walls crumbled around them if it meant she was happy.

"It might be years before we're safe again," she replies. Her voice is soft and sad now, as though finally grasping the fact that nothing will ever last for the two of them.

"You're safe enough as it is," he tells her pointedly. She doesn't miss the hidden meaning behind the words. Whether or not he's currently willing to admit it, there isn't much he wouldn't do to keep them safe. To keep her safe. She offers him a smile that has enough reassurance for both of them before turning back to the window.

"I keep waking up expecting to be back in that lab," she says, still staring at the storm raging outside. He tenses; this is the first time they've discussed their time there. "It feels like I never left, and that I'm still trapped. Then I hear the ocean, and I can hear your snoring from the couch."

"I don't snore."

"Says you," she says playfully, reaching to set her coffee cup on a table a few feet away. Despite the early hour, she doesn't feel much like caffeine at the moment. "It takes me a few minutes to figure out where I am, but every day is another question. Will they find us? When?" She faces him with solemn eyes. "Do we even have a chance?"

"They'll never touch you again, Claire," he says, the familiar burn of rage beginning to form at the base of his skull. "Never."

"How can you promise something like that?" she asks incredulously, finally turning away from the window and scooting a little closer to him. "We were never supposed to be found in the first place, remember? My dad hid us to the best of his abilities, and we still wound up in that goddamn lab."

"I'm not Noah," he says simply, expecting that to be assurance enough.

"No," she replies. "No, you're not."

"And I say that we're fine here," he says pointedly. "And if the time comes that we're not, we'll leave. Whatever happens, whoever chases us, you're not going back there."

She gives him a watery smile. "Really?"

"Can you trust me?" he asks, pushing his cup away now that it's gone cold. "Can my word be enough for you?"

"It always is."

Before he realizes what's happening, Claire leans forward and tentatively brushes his mouth with hers. Her lips are insistent, and demand his surrender. He stiffens, because there's not a single thing in him that deserves her affection. But his body is a traitor, and always has been. His hand comes to rest at the back of her neck, angling her just a little closer against his lips. Unable to pull himself away—not wanting to—he pulls her closer, sending both of his hands into her hair. Moaning at the exquisite pressure against her scalp she leans into him, relishing the sensation of their first kiss.

He remains withdrawn at first, pausing at the end of every small kiss as though waiting for her to slap him and run out of the room. Instead, she leans further into him. His long, lean body dwarfs hers and she finds herself more than content to curl against him, placing her knees on either side of his slender waist. He can't help but notice her proximity, and gives a strangled cry when she shoves her hips mercilessly against his. She does it again, harder this time, and the firm ridge in his jeans against the thin silk at the apex of her thighs creates a friction that's almost enough to drive them both insane.

Finally he removes all hesitation, rivaling her attentions with his own. He runs his hands over her rib cage, pressing his fingers into the slope of her waist and the curve of her hips. He gets close to the embers glowing at her center, but only barely passes over it with the briefest of touches. Still, it's enough. She gasps, and his heart beats just a little faster. He gently bites her bottom lip and is rewarded with a throaty moan that sounds very little like the Claire he's grown used to. He repeats the action and gets the same result. Her small hands bunch in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric.

Neither of them notices.

"Please," she whispers against his lower lip, pulling it gently between her own. The single syllable is enough to sever any semblance of control he has. He kisses her again, single-mindedly running his tongue across the roof of her mouth. He can feel her breath stuttering in her chest and against his mouth, and he fights the smile he feels building.

When he pulls away he keeps a careful eye on Claire's expression, watching with muted delight as her eyes gracefully flutter open again. Her mouth remains slightly open, swollen from kisses that have rendered him just as breathless. She's looking back at him now, her eyes focused solely on him. If she has any doubts, they aren't showing. A voice in the back of his head is telling him to leave her alone, and that he'll only hurt her in the end. The voice is convincing; he's beginning to object when Claire shakes her head.

"I've died thousands of times over, and I can't spend another day dead inside." She kisses him again, crushing her lips against his. "I need to feel something. I want to feel you."

"Claire…"

"You're the only reason I've made it this far," she insists, taking his head in her hands. "I don't want to lose you now, when we've already survived so much."

"I can't give you what you need," he argues, momentarily fighting biology in the interest of sparing the only person on earth he gives a damn about.

"You idiot," she says with a laugh, "You already have."

He wants to ask how. He wants to ask a million questions that would convince him of nothing, but she has no intention of nursing his insecurities. Instead she finds the hem of his shirt and lifts it over his head, tossing it to the floor. Her lips find the dip of his sternum, her fingers tracing the shallow planes of muscle that make up the frame of his abdomen. His body clenches and shudders in the oncoming avalanche of sensation, his mind fervently praying that he doesn't wake up to find that this is all a dream.

When she sits back and pulls her own nightgown over her head, he knows it isn't.

Her skin is perfect; bare and ageless. She's sweet to the taste and responsive to every brush of his hands against her. He takes his time discovering her, intent on finding every inch of skin that makes her shake and committing it to memory. In a few short moments, they're both naked and sprawled across the length of the window seat. Thunder pounds outside as both their hearts hammer painfully in their chests. Her body is smoldering above his, and every breath takes more effort than the last. They move together, finding a rhythm that's reminiscent of the waves crashing outside.

Silently observing, he takes in gulps of air as she throws her head back and clings to him with desperate fingers. He's fighting a losing battle for control, and he realizes with some surprise that he doesn't care. Through some ridiculous twist of fate, an angel is grasping his hands and begging him for release. Relinquishing all logical thought, he does as he's asked. His hips jerk upward, colliding into hers with a little more force. The action tears a cry from her lips, and she holds his hands tighter. He realizes with a jolt that she's refusing to let him go, and for some reason the thought doesn't terrify him. Instead, he pulls her down to claim her mouth in a kiss gentle enough to startle them both.

"Don't… don't stop," she begs quietly, her eyes closing again as moves within her. He can feel his own pressure building, seemingly from the very tips of his toes. His lover's breathing is shallow now, punctuated by short moans. Her muscles clench him sporadically, telling him with little doubt that she's close to the relief she so desires. He wraps his arms around her and presses his mouth against the delicate shell of her ear. His whispered words are simple, but they're more than enough to send her over the edge.

"I love you."

Claire falls into oblivion with a broken sob, reflexively gripping his biceps hard enough to leave bruises that would last a few seconds before healing. Her vision goes blank, and the blood roaring in her ears is deafening. She's left only with the excruciating ecstasy that's crashing over her in waves, prying his name from her again and again. It's agony and bliss, and more than anything she'd ever experienced. Just as her world is calming and sliding back into place, his erupts. His head flies back and he holds her against his chest greedily, his hips still moving roughly against hers of their own accord.

After a few long seconds his movements slow and finally come to a stop, leaving them both sated and fighting for breath. Claire finally pries her eyes open to find herself being studied intently by dark eyes that stop her short. She knows he's waiting for a reaction, and for once she's more than willing to give him one. She tilts her head upward and presses a chaste kiss to his chin, and then to the shallow indentation just below his lower lip. The corners of his mouth are her next destination, ending finally with a kiss that she hopes with soothe all his fears as easily as he seems to soothe hers.

"How?" she asks him, a smile playing gently across her face.

"How what?" he questions, his voice rumbling low in his chest.

"You said you loved me," she says, her tone incredulous. "How?"

"Seemingly without any effort at all," he replies with a small grin, pushing a damp strand of hair from her face. He steadies his expression and Claire wonders at the sudden change. Without warning he says, "If you're going to run, do it now. Before I can think well enough to stop you."

"I'm tired of running," she assures him softly, letting her head rest just on top of his heart.

***

His hands are in his hair, pulling at the roots. The channel he'd opened a few minutes before was refusing to close, plaguing him with memories that are threatening to bring him to his knees. The sights and smells they used to share between them were running rampant, drawing a desperate groan from his throat. He decided the year she left that he couldn't go on feeling her everywhere, and so he'd closed off the connection between them. He'd done everything in his power to move on, but he couldn't. There was too much history now to ever be erased.

He twists the silver band on his left ring finger, feeling the metal rub slightly against his skin. The jewelry itself is battered and dented in some places, but he doesn't care. He wears it out of habit and out of love, just like he likes to believe Claire wears hers now. He imagines the slim silver band on her slender finger, the small diamond sparkling against her golden skin. Inside he could see the inscription just as clearly as the one on his own ring that matched it.

Until then.

"Until death do us part" didn't cut it for either of them, so they chose only two words to symbolize their marriage. He sees Claire in his mind now, running her fingers over the words. Is she doing it now? He wants so badly to believe she is. Just because they're separated doesn't mean they've forgotten one another.

***

"It's beautiful!" she exclaims, climbing out of the car with her jade eyes fixed on the massive edifice in front of them. He grins.

"You like it," he observes, stating it rather than asking.

"I love it," she cries, walking out in front of the car. Her eyes take in the acres of green surrounding them and the moss growing along the tops of the stones. "It's perfect. How did you find this place?"

"It's Ireland," he replies with a casual shrug. "There are plenty of castles to go around."

"Oh, my God," she whispers, amazed. "We have a castle."

"We have a castle," he repeats, his chest constricting with the powerful emotion he still finds resting behind her eyes. They'd been side by side for close to fifteen years now, but it's felt like threadbare seconds compared to the time they still have ahead of them. He loves her completely, inexplicably, and it still takes him by surprise if he's not careful.

"It's so secluded," she says, thinking of the long drive. "We'll still be able to go out, right?"

"I'd intended to keep you locked up for my own sick pleasure," he jokes with a dark glimmer in his eyes, "But it's whatever you want, Claire." He reaches for her and presses a kiss to her forehead. "It's your home now. It's anything you want it to be."

"I want it to be our home, then," she says emphatically. He smiles.

"Then that's what it is."

***

Sylar stares at the dark wood and lush carpets around him, and wonders that she'd ever stayed with him in the first place. Of course he'd done everything she'd ever asked of him and more, but it couldn't have been enough. He was demented and needy, and required more emotional upkeep than any one person should. Claire was his rock; her steady, smiling face the only reason he bothered to pretend he could be who she needed. In the end, it didn't work. They shared a life that was, in the beginning, pure bliss. It was inevitable, though, that heartache should find its way through.

No one is immune, he thinks. Not even the immortal.

***

"It's not working," she tells him, tears glistening in eyes that suddenly seem much older than the rest of her body. "How can it not be working?"

"We can try mine again," he insists, holding her hand while she removes the IV from her arm. "It may work this time, after we've done yours. The combination could be strong enough to work." He falters for an explanation. "Or maybe it just improves slowly, like a therapy treatment. We still have options, Claire."

She muffles a sob and he pulls her against him, burying his face in her hair.

"I can't do this," she cries, and he rocks her back and forth.

"Everything's going to be fine," he assures her, wishing that he could believe it. In all actuality, he's terrified that it won't. "Okay? I swear to you, nothing is going to happen to him."

"Is Mommy crying?"

The tiny voice stops them both short, hearts lurching. He looks up and sees their son standing in the doorway, his skin pale and his green eyes gaunt. They observe the dark circles under his eyes and try to pretend they don't exist, just like they always do. It never works. Watching his parents, the boy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and grimaces; a habit he picked up from his mother.

"No, baby," she finally says, reaching to pull the four-year-old into her lap. "I was just giving Daddy a hug. Like this!" She pulls him close against her and the boy giggles. Claire laughs with him, ruffling his hair and tickling him lightly on his ribs. For a moment, nothing is amiss. He holds his wife and son in his arms and keeps them close, trying his best to stop time for just a moment… just long enough for this to last forever. But then Claire meets his eyes, and somehow they know in that fleeting glance that they won't be able to do this many more times before the end.

Unfortunately, they're right.

Noah's body rejects both their blood infusions, his white cell count consistently falling. Claire cries almost constantly with every day that passes, and he can find nothing to say to her that would make any difference at all. He holds his son and reads to him every day, trying to ignore how the little boy is thinning and quickly losing strength. The child's black hair—a father's gift to his son—is lank and without the shine that it used to have when he was a baby. He cries once, while watching Noah sleep. Doctors come and go, but even five decades of medical progress can't change where their life is going. Nothing can, it seems.

They bury him beneath an oak tree, in the bleakest depths of February. It hasn't stopped snowing in weeks, and he has the off-handed concern that they won't be able to find their way back to the house. The ground is hard when he strikes it with a shovel, wishing to a God that he didn't believe existed that he could go back in time and save his little boy. Something, somehow could have helped him. They just didn't look in the right places. They didn't try hard enough.

The thought is obliterated, however, when he looks at the other side of the grave and sees Claire silently crying. His sensitive ears can just pick out the sounds of her breathing, but that's all. She'd long ago run out of the energy and will to fall to pieces. Instead, she stands still and watches as they say goodbye to their only child. Looking at her, he knows that they did everything they could. If they'd known of something else, someone who could have helped them, they would have found them in a heartbeat. Claire wouldn't have just sat back and watched her son waste away, and neither would he.

No. They had tried everything.

An hour later, he wipes the mud from his freezing hands and watches as Claire sets down a tiny toy truck on the head of the grave. It's the only thing that marks the location's significance, and it would be gone in a few weeks. Buried under the snow, and then washed away when it all begins to melt. Nevertheless, he would see it there in perfect clarity for the rest of his life; however long that happened to be.

He guides her inside, removing her coat when she makes no move to do it herself. Leading her up the stairs, he aims for their bedroom rather than any other room in the house that would still contain memories of a child they weren't quite ready to let go of. Her eyes stick to the floor and she goes quietly, content to be led. When he closes the door behind them, she sinks to the floor. He follows her down, stifling a sob as she wraps her arms around him.

"He's gone, Gabriel," he hears her say, using the name he's preferred for some time now. "How can he be gone? He was a baby. Our baby..."

He can't think of anything to say that would help either of them, so he stays silent. He presses kisses into the top of her head and wipes away her tears with the pads of his thumbs. It's all he can do to keep his composure while she breaks apart in his arms. She writhes and shouts, but he remains steadfast. He'll grieve later, after she's fallen asleep, when he's alone with a bottle of something. For now, he's her anchor and he's more than willing to weather the storm.

***

Tears stream down his face, unimpeded by any half-formed ideas of self control. He stares at the carpet and can still see Noah's toys spread across it, despite the fact that they haven't been there in several lifetimes. He can almost hear Claire humming softly as she picks up behind the toddler, chiding him to make sure he has an eye on Noah. It's a scene he's watched over and over again, unable to help himself. At times, it's more real than anything he could actually reach out and touch.

"Noah's fine," he says into the empty room before draining his glass in one long pull. "I'm watching him."

He throws the glass, smiling through the tears as it shatters against the opposite wall.

***

He misses her, but he can't say it.

They're strangers now, both connected and separated forever by the soul of a little boy they had no time with. Claire is barely a ghost now, drifting through the halls of their home with an absent expression and a broken heart. He stays drunk, content to lock himself in his study and watch the logs in the fireplace turn to ashes. Nights are spent there more often than not, passed out on his desk until Claire comes in and brings him to bed. He's not sure why she bothers anymore. They hardly speak, hardly touch. They share a house, a bed, a life but she couldn't be farther away. He stopped trying to reach her months ago.

She knows it, but won't acknowledge it.

Sometimes she finds him looking at her the way he used to, like he thinks she must be a cruel trick of his imagination. She meets his eyes then, wishing she could still feel for him what she used to, but they both know it's gone. Some bonds were meant to last a lifetime, and theirs had lasted several. Just not enough for them to survive now, after their shared world had been brutally ripped apart.

He knows she's leaving before she does. He can see it in the way she stares out the window and then looks overcome with guilt, as though considering something she shouldn't. Watching her expressions carefully, he wonders if he should padlock the doors. Should he wish to, he could keep her there forever. It's Sylar who wants this, not Gabriel. Gabriel is in too many pieces to be of any use, but he still manages to override Sylar's desire to keep her prisoner. Gabriel knows that if Claire wants to leave, she will. He would just rather she not hate him when she finally does.

The day comes in late October, when the leaves have turned rust-colored and fallen to the ground. He's in his study, knee-deep in bourbon and poring over an old medical textbook. She leans her shoulder against the doorway, watching him for a few precious moments and trying to remember what it felt like to love him. She knows she did, once upon a time. The only thing she feels now is grief, and it plagues her from the moment she opens her eyes to the time she goes to sleep. She eats and breathes desolation, intentionally suffering through it alone.

Gabriel knows she's there but says nothing, waiting instead for her to initiate their exchange. She doesn't. Finally he lifts his head, the air rushing out of his lungs at the site of her green eyes alight for the first time in two years. For a moment, it seems as though she feels as young as she looks. It could be a trick of the light, but he doesn't think so.

"You look beautiful," he tells her honestly, doing his best not to slur the words that mean so much. He fails miserably.

"Thank you," she says with a small smile. "I'm headed down to the village to grab a few things. Can I bring you anything back?"

"Only if you manage to stumble upon a first edition of Faulkner," he says lightheartedly, not yet willing to acknowledge what's actually happening between them.

"I'll keep an eye out for it," she assures him and then she's gone.

He keeps the fires burning that night, waiting for her against his better judgment. Morning comes, and she hasn't returned. Thanksgiving passes just outside of his realm of consciousness, and then the new year has begun. None of them bring Claire with them. He's not surprised, not really, but he misses her now more than ever. He waits for her to come back, to fly through the doors like she used to, but it doesn't happen. Part of him is screaming that he should be panicking and looking for her, but his rational mind knows better.

Claire doesn't want to be found.

***

"I can't stay here anymore."

The words leave his mouth before he's even really considered them, thoroughly shocking him when he realizes that they're the truth. He's spent a century waiting for her, wasting away in a home that's no longer theirs. The only thing that remains to wander the halls are the ghosts he can't bear to face; what's he left with, then? Another move? Another empty house, in another town, in another country. That means an entirely new set of neighbors to avoid. It meant putting this house up for sale and surrendering to the idea that it will be empty.

Leaving meant saying goodbye to Noah, and to Claire.

Could he do that? He'd never once considered leaving before because it would imply leaving his son behind. Noah's room was exactly how it had looked the day he died, although without all the medical equipment. Every week a local teenager came to clean it for him since he couldn't go near it anymore. He paid her with cash left in a blank envelope on the kitchen counter every Saturday; they never spoke and he was content to let that stand. He stared out the window every morning when he woke up, imagining the bright red truck on top of the snow. It was a constant reminder that he'd loved someone once; two people, and he'd loved them more than he loved himself. The question now is if he could love them enough to let them go.

***

Sylar moves in the early spring, forsaking Ireland's green valleys for something cooler. Colorado promised snow and evergreen and—more than that—solitude. He buys a tiny cabin several weeks in advance with the spare cash in his wallet, assuring the former owner over the phone that the furniture inside would be more than enough to tide him over. Taking care of his affairs in Ireland poses very few problems since he's remained well off the public radar for so long. The only one who would even realize his departure would be the girl who cleans his house, and only then because she missed the paychecks. His life was there was unfettered, save for the memories that insist on following him around.

He leaves at three o'clock in the morning for the airport, hoping to catch the flight at five. His flight to Colorado stops several times along the way, but finally the plane lands and he's jostled awake. He claims the few items of luggage he bothered to bring with him and leaves the airport behind.

He stops to talk to the owner and get the key to his new home, politely pausing long enough to make idle chit-chat that he would have generally found repulsive. Instead, the company is almost welcomed. It must have be the long years alone, he thinks, but refuses to make it a habit. His next stop is to buy an SUV that can handle the roads, as well as a grocery store somewhere along the way. He has every intention of locking himself inside his new place until an avalanche forces him out or he needs a change of scenery. Already it's cold and dreary, the unrelenting rain forming rivers of running water along the sides of the roads. It's the kind of weather most people avoid.

He loves it.

When he pulls up in front of the cabin, he instantly notices the smoke billowing from the chimney stack. His first thoughts are curses, muttering about the depth of his bad luck to find his new home on fire before he'd even arrived. He grabs a worn backpack from the front seat that contains the only clothing he deemed necessary to bring and locks the car behind him, heading for the front door. All it takes is one step onto the small porch to realize that the cabin isn't on fire; it's occupied.

His fingers reach out to touch the knob, sending his body into shudders when his mind replays the image of another, smaller hand doing it two days before. Suddenly the scent of flowers and the sound of the ocean flood his senses and he staggers back, disbelieving until the very second he pushes through the door and finds Claire curled up on one end of a quickly unraveling couch. She hasn't changed; he knew she wouldn't. Her hair is a little longer now, and she wears more makeup than she used to, but she was still his Claire.

"Took you long enough to get here," she says calmly, her mouth pulling into a smirk. "For a little while I thought I'd have the place to myself."

"Claire."

It was all his brain could manage as he lets his backpack fall from his shoulder and clatter to the floor. She only smiles in return, as though it had been a mere five minutes she'd disappeared from his life.

"Who else would it be?"

When he doesn't answer, she continues.

"I have something for you," she says, climbing off the couch. She leans down and picks up a black paper bag, offering it to him with what looks like an expression of contrition morphing her pretty features.

He takes it, unfazed by its weight. Shifting aside the decorative tissue paper, he instantly smells old leather and dust. He pulls the volume out of its wrapping, admiring the scarlet cover that had faded to the color of rust. He ignores the millions of memories sifting through his fingertips and focuses instead on the faint print that scars the spine.

"Faulkner," he observes, his mind numbed by the weight in his hand and the scent of her perfume in the air.

"Sorry it took me so long," she says, her smile slowly disappearing. "It was harder to find than you'd think."

He can't reply; his mouth refuses to play along. She misinterprets his silence and he can feel her brace herself for what she thinks will turn into an argument.

"Gabriel, I'm sorry," she sighs, tears building behind her eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you, but after Noah… I just couldn't do it anymore. He was everywhere I looked. He was so much like you…" she trails off, her voice breaking. "Every time I looked at you, I saw our baby."

"He looked more like you," he replies absently, "But I understand. You didn't need me; salt in the wound."

"It was like that at first," she admits, "But then I realized that I should have been thanking you and loving you more for giving him to us in the first place. It took a while, but it dawned on me that I wasn't the only one who lost someone."

"I lost both of you," he says, his voice gaining a bit of weight as he acclimates to the idea of her standing in front of him after so, so long. "Every morning was hell, when I woke up and reached for you and you were gone." He's seething now, finally allowing these things to lift off his shoulders. "I was terrified that something had happened to you, wondering if I should be looking for you or letting you run. Every day I thought about finding you, but I couldn't stand the idea of being turned away if I did."

Claire shakes her head.

"I couldn't have done that," she insists whole-heartedly. "There were days I wanted nothing more than for you to bust down the door and carry me out of there."

"So why didn't you come home?" he cries incredulously, finding his voice rough after years of disuse. "Why didn't you come back?"

"I couldn't!" she yells, tears streaming down her face. "I couldn't face you and admit that I was a coward, or that I didn't deserve you or our son. I would rather die a million times over than look as weak and pathetic as I really am."

"Claire, you're a lot of things," he tells her, "But pathetic isn't one of them."

"We watched our son die, Gabriel," she whispers heatedly, her voice unnaturally low, "And I ran. Instead of being a good wife and friend to the man who loved me unconditionally for all those years, I took off to let you deal with it alone. If that's not pathetic, I don't know what is."

"Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?" he asks sullenly, unsure what he's hoping to gain from his conversation. He can't decipher whether or not she's staying, and he does his best to keep an emotional distance in case she decides to walk out again. Unfortunately, emotional distance is never something he's excelled at when it comes to her.

"I tried," she tells him, "But I was stupid. It's taken me all this time to realize that I wasn't looking for something. I wasn't looking for closure, or even a way out. I was looking for you."

"I was home," he replies, blunt as ever.

"You didn't leave?" She looks incredulous.

"Not until two days ago," he admits, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why?" she asks breathlessly. "Why did you wait for me?"

He crosses his arms across his chest.

"Waiting wasn't the hard part. It was not knowing that kept me up at night."

"Then why?"

"You know why," he scoffs. When she doesn't answer, he sighs and sets the book gently down on the table. "You needed time and space. I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but you and I have all the time in the world. I was out of options. I hoped that you would come back if you decided that you needed me, so I wanted you to know I'd still be there."

"I needed you then, and I didn't know it," she confesses, stepping tentatively closer to him. "I've needed you all this time, and I was too blind to see it."

She doesn't know what she expects from him, but the only thing she's afraid of now is the idea that he won't forgive her. She watches his eyes carefully, examining the smoldering brown irises for the myriad of emotions she can so easily recognize in him. The anger or bitterness that she expects is nowhere to be found, surprising her more than she's willing to admit. The only thing she finds is compassion and warmth that looks suspiciously like love.

"I'm still here," he whispers, reaching out to take her into his arms. His lips find hers with a tiny jolt, both of them thrilled at how easily they still fit together. Claire's heart thrums in her chest, speeding up with every second they spend connected. He holds her close and finds his decorum slipping, his body intensely aware of hers for the first time in what feels like forever. For all intents and purposes, it had been forever.

Gabriel breaks apart with a harsh gasp, fighting to keep his rampaging heart under control. Claire stares back up at him, fearful of whatever he feels the need to say to her now.

"Next time," he warns and her heart skips a beat, "I'm coming after you and dragging you back home."

She laughs.

"There won't be a next time." She kisses him deeply, pouring out every apology she would never be able to utter aloud. "I promise."