When he put her down on the bed – on the new bed, the California king sized bed for the self-proclaimed 'California King', the bed she'd told him he didn't need to get and he'd replaced everything instead, a full matching bedroom set that she'd suspected he had to have had Mary's help with, the bed she hadn't been able to help being as comfortable in as the other one she considered 'theirs' – Claire was finally moved to action. She was almost halfway across the room when she was unceremoniously put right back so he could strip her, clean her, take care of her.
Didn't he understand? This was the part where she was supposed to be sorry, but she was missing those feelings.
"Stop." She grasped his wrists loosely, trying to stop his ministrations. Didn't he understand? There was something in her that wasn't what he needed around. Not when he'd made so much progress. He'd want to be with her, be there, and she didn't want him to see that. He needed to understand.
"I gutted it," she pronounced with a distinct and distant calm, not clarifying what or who that 'it' was, "but it wasn't Sylar."
And then she looked up at him, almost unblinkingly, and she waited for him to understand why he needed to stop and get far away from this before... before something. Before he realized how she was broken. Before she did this again. Before finding Sylar. Before something, because something was coming, even if it was the realization that she wasn't going to be able to fix this.