Before we get started: You'll pretty much know where this story takes place when you read through it, but just so there's no confusion (since I probably haven't made it that clear, but since it's in my head I know what's going on so…):

Story takes place after the series finale (stupid NBC), so spoilers if you haven't finished the series yet! Claire has NOT revealed her/their secret to the world, but everything else has pretty much happened…

It hasn't been touched on yet, but The Wall HAS happened.

I think that's about it… on with this long, long, long first chapter (nearly 10,000 words!)! If you have any questions feel free to PM me or ask it in a review! IT WILL BE RESPONDED TO!

Love to all, and enjoy the Claire/Sylar-y goodness!

An orange sun dipped below the horizon, tinting the sky a hot red; streaks of pink and purple were laced through higher up in the sky, melding into the deep blue of the night that was beginning to overtake the city. The city lights were blocking out most of the stars, but the few that were visible seemed to be shining impossibly bright.

Wind whipped around the girl, blowing her long strands of blonde hair into her face violently. She made no move to push it out of her way, nor wipe the tears that were streaking down her cheeks silently. She stared out at the sunset gloomily, and though she soon heard someone approaching behind her, she stood stock-still, frozen in pain.

"Thought I'd find you here," he told her, coming up to stand too close behind her, glancing about the familiar rooftop. "Seems appropriate, I suppose," he nodded, his hands coming up to gather her hair and pull it over her shoulders, neatening it down her back. They then came up to her shoulders, closing the little distance between them by pulling her back against his hard body; his arms wrapped around her waist snuggly.

"I can't believe he's gone," she murmured, and her voice had a distinct sorrow to it, as if she had died along with him. Her companion didn't like it.

He pushed his lips to her temple and she gave in, relaxing against him and resting her head against his shoulder. It was ridiculous how perfectly their bodies molded into one.

"I'm so…mad at him!" she fumed softly. "Why wouldn't he let us help?"

"He can't live forever. He knew that," Sylar offered.

"He could have!" she argued. "If he'd wanted to."

"Hey," he frowned, spinning her on the spot to face him. His thick eyebrows furrowed even deeper when he saw her tear-streaked cheeks. He brought one hand up to her neck, using the other to dry her cheeks. "Don't take it to mean he didn't care about you. You know it wasn't like that," he stood there for awhile, cupping her face gently and staring into her eyes. Finally, he tilted his face down to hers.

"Sylar," she breathed desperately. His soft lips covered hers for the first time in thirty years, and she kissed him back…

At that moment, in two different cities, two very different people woke with a start. One smiled lazily and closed his eyes once more, drifting back into a satisfied slumber. The other lay in bed staring at the ceiling, eyes wide as she tried to work through her dream. It was only after slivers of sunlight began to slide through the cracks in her blinds that her eyes fluttered heavily and finally closed.

Claire pushed her eggs around on her plate, not really feeling up to actually putting anything in her mouth. Had she still lived under her mother's roof, she would have suffered massive interrogation regarding her lack of appetite and wandering mind. She missed seeing her mother everyday, but she was grateful for the quaint (yet pricey) one bedroom apartment she'd acquired only few blocks away from her job at a small diner, Jillie's. Living alone she could mull over her dream—nightmare—from the previous night in peace without having to worry about her mother, or Lyle, or, worst of all, her mother's newest love interest whom, Claire found out by staying at her mother's for the first month she was back, slept over quite often.

It had felt so…genuine. She had been thirty years in the future, had felt and remembered every day that brought her there. And Peter… she grimaced, remembering the way the life had left him as the cancer finally won. When she closed her eyes she could feel the cool wind flying around her, smell the nearby cages that randomly housed pigeons, though the rooftop had long since been abandoned.

And then there was Sylar. She didn't know why (nor particularly want to know why) she had felt so safe when she was wrapped in his arms; didn't understand how everything seemed to be easier when he was there. And his lips… why had they felt so good pressed against hers? She tried to shake the thoughts from her head, but found it impossible. For some reason her dream had broken every carefully built defense against Sylar that she had put into place, and now her mind was flooded with him.

What the hell, Sylar, she thought angrily, stabbing her food with her fork with unnecessary force. What are you doing to me? She hadn't given him a thought since she'd left college and moved back to Costa Verde—six blissful months ago. She could deal with the nightmares starring her favorite psychopath, though even those hadn't plagued her for quite some time. But she couldn't deal with the dreams that turned her legs to jelly and her insides to mush. Nor could she deal with feeling that fluttering and contentment when it was his arms she was wrapped up in. She tried to remember that it was only a dream. It wasn't as if she had really been on that rooftop with him. Hadn't really kissed him. …Hadn't liked it…

With a frustrated sigh, Claire tossed her full plate of food in the sink for later disposal, wondering why she'd even bothered making breakfast in the first place.

Surprisingly, she couldn't help but wonder what Sylar was actually up to these days, though she vehemently told herself that she didn't care either way.

Water cascaded down his back, steam billowing from his feet and rising up to fog his vision. He stood with his head bowed under the stream of hot water, eyes closed as he willed himself to relive the feeling of holding that damn cheerleader in his arms once more. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd visited her in his sleep, but it had been some time since he last dreamt about her. "Claire," he muttered into the water, savoring the sweet way her name rolled off of his tongue. He couldn't even admit to himself how much he longed to utter her name like a symphony against her soft, golden skin.

He flexed and stretched under the water stream, willing the tension to leave his muscles. How is she, he pondered. And what exactly was she doing with her life?He knew that Claire had dropped out of school, positive that she could never live a "normal" existence (though Sylar couldn't for the life of him figure out why she would want to). Last he heard the former cheerleader had moved back in with her mother, Sandra in Costa Verde. "What is she doing there?" Sylar wondered aloud, as curiosity got the best of him.

Might be time to pay that girl a visit, he thought absently as he telekinetically stopped the flow of water. He stepped out of the shower, pulling a towel around his waist. Next he used his hand to wipe a streak of steam from the mirror and gazed at his blurred reflection pensively.

"Claire Bennet," he said audibly, and couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "It's definitely time for a visit."

"Order up!" Claire's ears perked at the call and made her way back to the kitchen window. "Table four," the young cook told her as she retrieved the dish.

"Thanks, Ben," she muttered, but before she could take three steps he called her back to the window.

"What's up with you today?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow as he studied her. His bronzed skin looked even darker than usual today, indicating that he'd likely been at the beach surfing the whole day previous, as it was his only afternoon off from the diner. His sun-bleached hair was getting longer than she'd ever seen it; wisps of bangs hung low over his brilliant blue eyes. Claire had been slightly taken with him when she had first started working there, but all those thoughts dispelled when she found out that he was a notorious flirt.

She sighed; annoyed that she couldn't get her shit together. "I'm just a little—"

"Distracted?" the attractive cook finished for her. "What's troubling that beautiful mind of yours?"

She gave him a small smile; his attention towards her had shocked her at first, but she found as soon as she settled into her new job that that was just the way he worked. "Just got a lot on my mind is all," she explained passively.

"Well you know you can talk to me about anything, anytime. Anytime at all, okay, Claire?"

Her grin widened in gratitude, "I know, thanks, Ben."

As Claire turned back to her duties she was halted after a few steps once more. Her green eyes detected a familiar yet unwelcome presence. In the far corner booth that sat in her section…was that? No, no way. Disbelief took hold as the young waitress blinked a few times and checked again.

Her smile faltered for a moment when her worst fear was confirmed. There, lounging in that very same corner booth, sat a dark being dressed in black sat with his dark head bowed. His long, slender fingers were twisting a small cup of coffee creamer absentmindedly. She didn't need to see his face fully to feel the wave of sinister power that swept out of him. The diner suddenly felt a lot colder and hotter at the same time.

At first Claire thought she was still dreaming. With hesitant steps she went back to the window and called Ben over. "Pinch me," she demanded, "hard."

Finding her request a bit odd, the good-natured cook obliged her nonetheless, only too eager to please the pretty, young blonde. But, after suffering a slight sting from having her skin goosed accompanied by the burning humiliation, Claire only turned around to find that the nightmare was still playing. A heavy, dark dread settled in her stomach like a ton of bricks, causing her whole body to begin to tremble immediately.

"Who's that?" Ben asked over her shoulder, but Claire could form no words for an explanation. Instead, she walked over to table four and dropped off the burger and fries. Then she made her way over to the corner. Jesus, I can't believe it's Sylar. Had he known which section she was working, or was it a coincidence? She seriously doubted the latter.

With each step that brought her closer to him all she could think was: why, why, why, why, why? Why is he here? Why now? Why, why, why, why?

She halted in front of him, instinctively crossing her arms tightly across her chest. She didn't know what to say, but Sylar never gave her the chance to speak, in any event.

"Waitress, huh? I can see how this career path would be much more advantageous than doing something foolish, like finishing college," he glanced up at her, that familiar, feral grin making him look like evil incarnate.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, but her voice was barely working, and it came out like a whisper.

"Can't pay my favorite cheerleader a visit every once in awhile?" he asked innocently, his eyes dancing with an emotion unnamable by Claire. "Let's chat," he suggested, motioning to the empty seat across from him.

"I'm working," she said angrily. "Order something or go."

Sylar raised one thick eyebrow, inspecting her with a smirk. "They don't give you ladies breaks around here? I'll take a coffee," he informed her, casually leaning back in the booth like he owned the place.

"Right," she muttered uncomfortably, turning away from him as fast as she could. It took every ounce of her self-control not to stomp back to the kitchen like a child.

"Old boyfriend?" a friendly voice suddenly boomed behind her and she jumped, slopping coffee over the side of the mug and onto the counter. Ben laughed next to her. "Sorry to startle you. Don't worry, I'll clean it up."

"If you mean Mr. Gloom and Doom over there, then absolutely not," she answered the insane question with a firm denial. "No, no way," was all she offered as she half-heartedly wiped the side of the cup and walked back out to the floor. She was tempted to spit into his coffee just to spite him, but with each step back towards him the idea fizzled away and died.

With an angry little huff she quickly set the steaming cup in front of him wordlessly and turned away. Unfortunately, she found that turning away was the only thing she could do. Soon enough she found herself fighting for control of her own limbs, furious at Sylar for pulling such a stunt in public. With the disjointed steps of a marionette, Claire's body moved of its own accord as she was forced to step back to the man currently pulling her strings. After a short trek she was coerced to slide stiffly into the seat across from him.

"Stay a bit," he urged her, a smug smile tugging at his lips. Claire could only glare back at him. "I know you're not too busy for a break," he added, glancing around at the nearly empty restaurant.

"What do you want?" she asked softly, looking down at her lap as she sat twisting her hands anxiously.

"As I said," Sylar shrugged, "I thought it was high time for a visit. I wanted to catch up. It's been too long."

"Not really," Claire disagreed, and Sylar gazed at her darkly; she saw his fingers snap shut, and found her mouth currently worthless.

He was silent for a few minutes, glancing around the diner, out the window, sipping his coffee, and Claire sat before him helplessly, wishing she had the ability to make someone's head explode with one thought. Finally, he set the cup down and took a deep breath. "I had a dream about you," he offered her cryptically. Claire felt her blood run cold. "It was strange…Peter had died and we were standing on that rooftop—the one where Peter used to work, with the pigeons?"

Claire shut her eyes. She didn't want to hear anymore, but that didn't stop him from rambling on unhindered.

"I was trying to comfort you. You were mad that he wouldn't let us heal him," he smiled up at her sardonically. "It hadn't surprised me, but…" he trailed off and let his eyes wander over her. Claire found herself forced to meet his gaze. He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before he shook his head and smiled.

Claire felt her heart rate increasing at a discomforting pace. She felt sweat forming on her forehead, back, armpits. It was getting a little difficult to breathe. So this was a nightmare after all, she concluded. Because there's no way that they would both dream that, with such precise detail, on the exact same night. It was utterly impossible.

"I held you," he continued, "and when you said my name…" he trailed off for a moment, his eyes boring into hers. "I'd never wanted you so badly," he finished softly. Claire shifted uncomfortably, glancing around them quickly to make sure no one could overhear this conversation. "And when I kissed you…"

Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it. She willed him mentally, desperately. Please just don't…

"You kissed me back."

Claire could hear her heartbeat in her ears now, thudding away in an abnormal, erratic tempo. He could hear it too, she knew, and she hated him even more for it. She wanted to slap that smirk right off his face. She took a deep breath in through her nose, trying to calm herself. When she spoke, she attempted to sound cool, dismissive, "That could only ever happen in a dream, Sylar," she made sure to twist as much venom as she could into his name, spitting it out like rotten food.

His eyebrows creased slightly, and he appeared to be studying her harder. "Why is your heart beating so hard?" he asked her outright. She stared at him in stony silence. His lips twitched and tugged up at the corners, eventually becoming a triumphant smile. "You dreamt about me, too," he deduced quickly. "Was it the same one?"

"That's ridiculous," Claire denied, "No two people could have the same dream on the same night."

He leaned back casually, victory written all over his body. "You're a terrible liar," he informed her, not even trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. "Not only am I a human lie detector, but…I never told you when I had this dream…"

"It was last night, alright?" Claire relented angrily, hoping that if she just played along he'd let her get on with her life. "Right? You and I shared this bizarre, twisted nightmare, so what?" she emphasized, as if she were explaining this to a five year old. "It doesn't mean anything," she seethed, attempting to sound strong and apathetic. And yet despite herself she could feel her hands trembling like leaves.

Sylar chuckled lowly, "Claire," he chided, frowning at her in a somewhat disappointed manner. "It means everything," he corrected.

She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the discouraging tears that were stinging her eyes. She took a shaky breath and attempted to stand, slightly surprised to find that he had relinquished control of her body. "You're wrong," she said softly, turning away for what she hoped was the last time.

"I'm never wrong, Claire," he called after her in a low, gravelly tone.

And to her dismay, to her utter horror, she knew Sylar was right.

To Claire's relief Sylar finished his coffee and left shortly after, bestowing a much more generous tip than was necessary for a hot cup of coffee and a cold attitude.

The rest of her shift was blissfully uneventful until, to her complete consternation, she found Sylar waiting for her outside the back door when she left for the evening. With a confident little smirk, the serial killer fell right into step next to her as if he had every right to be there.

"Go away," she attempted feebly, knowing that it wouldn't happen until he was good and ready. And who knew when that would be. "I'm going home, and my mom wouldn't take kindly to you showing up on her doorstep," she announced, trying her best to get rid of the giant-sized pest strolling behind her and gaining fast.

That actually had some effect; he paused momentarily, as if surprised by something. It only took a few of his long strides to catch up to her, though she was practically speed walking. When he finally slithered up next to her, Sylar broke into a boisterous round of laughter.

"That was a lie, but I don't know in which way," Sylar finally admitted in between guffaws. "The part about your mom is probably true…I don't doubt that she remembers me," he drifted off for a moment, thinking back on that first day in Odessa.

"So that can only mean that "home"…isn't Mama's home. Move out, did you?" he asked her, leaning closer to her conspiratorially as his voice lowered. "Enjoying the freedom?"

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the twist in her stomach when his voice rumbled that way. "I've already lived away from home, remember? College?"

"For all of six months," he retorted quickly.

Claire cursed herself internally for deciding to "go green" and skip out on buying a car to save money. Although, she wagered, even if I did have a car he probably would have just climbed right in. Sanctimonious bastard.

"Oh don't be mad at me for bringing it up," he pouted, mistaking her silence for anger at his comment.

"There are plenty of things I'm mad at you for, Sylar, but your choice of conversation is probably the lowest on the list."

"Is it really that hard for you to drop the past and look forward?" he asked her, sounding irritated by her for the first time since he'd shown up.

Claire stopped walking abruptly, nearly causing Sylar to plow into her. "I can't believe you just said that to me," she hissed, glaring at him through terrifically narrowed eyes. "You; who have been my very own boogey-man for the last, what, six years of my life? You're a fucking psychopath Sylar!" she cried, letting go of her control and releasing her anger, frustration, fear. "And a sociopath. And a killer. And a monster. Should I go on?"

She stared at him hotly, feet set firmly on the ground, hands on her hips, seething. Sylar returned her stare, his face a complete mask. For a full minute neither of them moved nor spoke. Claire took the opportunity to keep venting.

"Every time I find myself in a shit-storm you're nearby, throwing dung bombs," she continued, though her voice had lost most of her harshness. "When are you going to get sick of turning my life upside down and leave me alone?"

"I'll never leave you alone," he swore solemnly.

"Fuck," Claire muttered, dropping her stance and running her hand through her hair in frustration. "Why?" she looked up at him, absolute desperation etched across her face.

"We're meant to be together," he stated, as if this should have been perfectly clear to her.

"You're definitely wrong about that," she told him, crossing her arms as the wind picked up around her.

Sylar took a step closer to her, and her entire body tensed. She eyed him warily, ready to make a run for it if it looked as though he were going to continue with that. Then she remembered that if he wanted she wouldn't get very far.

"Claire," he sighed, he looked frustrated too, as if this reunion was somehow not going the way he had planned. "You can't run from me forever."

"You may be right about that," Claire admitted, shrugging as if it didn't matter to her one way or the other. "But I have forever to try, don't I?"

Sylar started towards her once more and Claire took a quick half step back. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he changed his mind and gestured around them. "Why are we standing here?" he tried.

Claire looked away and shifted her weight from one foot to the next. Sylar glanced to the building they were standing in front of. Eyes lighting up, he pointed to it and asked, "Is this it?" he grinned at her reluctant nod. "What are we waiting for?"

Claire frowned. "What makes you think you're invited?"

He gave her that "come, now" look that sent an interesting jolt to her center. "Claire," he purred, as if he were offended that she wouldn't want him in her home.

She ground her teeth and spun around, stalking up to the door and jabbing the key into the lock. She let the door fall shut behind her but Sylar was right there to catch it and let himself in. He hovered close behind her as she walked to her apartment. She unlocked it and touched the handle, but before she opened the door she spun around to face him; they were too close. She looked tired.

"I really don't want to do this tonight," she told him, pleading with her eyes for him to give up and go, if just for one more day. "Please," she requested softly, staring up at him helplessly. They really were too close.

He finished closing the space between them, trapping her between his body and the door. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she had the sudden feeling that the floor was dropping and her head was expanding. Every inch of her body was overcome with a numb, tingling sensation.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to keep his gaze. If her eyes fluttered shut she was done for; Sylar would definitely go in for the kill if she gave him the chance. "Sylar," she breathed, and just saying his name sent another one of those jolts to her groin. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is this his influence; new power? God, I can't move and it's not because of him, this is scary as shit! Her thoughts planted a seed of panic inside her, and she found breathing becoming difficult once more.

"Claire," he uttered as he released a shaky breath, reaching up to touch her face; she almost shut her eyes at the contact, but forced herself to blink and keep them open and locked on him. His gaze was intense and lined with lust; Claire couldn't believe a man like him could send her body into such a state. Stupid hormones, she cursed inwardly.

Down the hall a door opened and shut. Sylar heard the tumbler clunk over as its owner locked up behind him. The footsteps came towards them, slowing as they neared. Claire and Sylar stood trapped in their own universe, pressed flush up against each other and ensnared by silence.

"C-Claire?" a hesitant voice called out. "You alright?" It probably did look bad; a short woman like herself towered over by a dark, dangerous looking guy. The proximity of their bodies and incredibly tense silence probably didn't help either.

Claire saw Sylar's eyes narrow infinitesimally at the interruption and feared for her kind neighbor's life. She did her best to make herself sound a healthy combination of drunk and happy. "I'm great, Alan, how're you?"

"Fine," he muttered back, averting his eyes and speeding up past them. Sylar waited until the front door shut behind him.

"Let me in, Claire," he breathed, and to her utter shock she found herself complying immediately. She told herself it was only because she couldn't stand to be that close to him for another second.

She turned on the light and set her keys on the counter nearest the door; she couldn't miss the fact that Sylar locked the door behind him. When he glanced to her he noticed the panic in her eyes.

Shrugging, he explained, "Safety. I don't know how things are here but in New York…" he pointed to the deadbolt, "that always stays locked." He frowned when she didn't look placated. "Force of habit, Claire, come on," he dogged her, and she finally nodded and walked away after kicking her shoes in the general direction of the door.

She placed herself on the couch, folding her legs up under her and staring at the coffee table, where her pedicure items still sat from this morning; various files and buffers, clippers, Q-tips, the hot pink polish. She wished she had cleaned up before work; wasn't as if she hadn't had plenty of time.

The couch was a mistake, she realized instantly, because Sylar sat himself next to her, once again much closer than he needed to be; he let his arm rest straight across the back of the couch. Claire's stomach dropped once more and she brought in a shuddering breath as discretely as she could.

She was still staring ahead, but from her peripheral vision she watched him drag his finger slowly over the fabric. She chanced a glance to him and found his eyes shut. Recalling his ability, Claire grimaced as she tried to think back on any embarrassing events on this couch. One memory in particular floated to the surface of her getting hot and heavy with Alan from down the hall, but before things could get far she had stopped him and told him she didn't want to get into anything at the moment.

When she glanced to him again he was staring at her, a small smile on his lips.

"You're a little tease, aren't you?" he asked her darkly, scanning her over a few times. Claire could only blush and look away.

His hand snaked around and turned her face back to his. He was less than half a foot away from her. "It's sexy," Sylar told her, his grin spreading. "Nothing to be embarrassed about." He moved his hand from her cheek up and through her golden locks, twisting them around his fingers when he reached the end. He hadn't missed the extreme change in Claire's heart rate. She blinked a few times and tried to take a deep, steady breath.

"Why'd you leave school?" he asked her, his dark gaze piercing into hers.

She blinked again, her eyebrows furrowing at the question. "I didn't see it working," she told him. "I can't live a life where I hide who I am."

Sylar studied her, shaking his head. "That's not what you ran from."

"What?"

"Having to hide who you are wasn't the problem; it was being who you are that you couldn't stand."

Claire stared at him. "…What?"

"Gretchen knew the real you, accepted it—hell, embraced it—and that's why you left. You can't stand to let someone get that close to you because your whole life the people that have been close to you are the ones that have hurt you the most," he explained, as if she should already know this and the fact that he had to spell it out was boring him.

"You're the one that's hurt me the most," she corrected in a whisper, staring at the coffee table in front of her once more, forcing herself not to rehash those memories. She was so much stronger than that now.

Sylar shrugged, brushing that off. "I have eternity to make it up to you."

"Thanks to me," she spat instantly.

"You're going to hang onto that one, aren't you?" he questioned her, thick eyebrows furrowing low over his dark eyes. "You'll still be bringing that up in five hundred years, won't you?"

"Every single day, if you insist on bothering me," she stated coolly, arching an eyebrow as she challenged him. Just go, just go, just go. Just get the picture already and LEAVE!

He sighed and shrugged. "Well…I guess we might as well get used to each other's foibles or we'll never make it past the first century."

Claire didn't like it when he said stuff like that; didn't appreciate him talking about her—their—curse as if he couldn't wait for forever to start. Didn't like being reminded that in no time at all to her everything she knows and loves will be gone. She thought back to her dream once more; Peter had been dying slowly and refused their power. Would he…really do that? It was actually the first time Claire had the thought, and her heart started pounding once more.

No, no way. Peter would never force me to watch him die. Peter will be with me forever. He has to, otherwise I'll live for eternity alone with—Claire's eyes snapped up to Sylar's in horror. No, no, no. I will end my life before I turn to him.

Sylar smirked at her, "Finally catch on, did you? Surprised it took you this long. I knew the instant I felt the power course through me."

Claire set her jaw and looked away, not even sure how to respond to that. Up until now she honestly hadn't even believed that she would live forever. She supposed she could have figured it out after attempt number 20 or 30, but to actually face the truth that she would always exist, let alone with a man like Sylar, was too great a task until now. Now she felt stronger, wiser. Now she felt ready.

"I'm going to go take a shower," she declared abruptly, standing and walking towards her bedroom. "I really, really don't want you here when I get out," she called from down the hall.

The steaming water did nothing to relieve her tension. If nothing else, Claire felt even more rigid than when she had been sitting next to that psychopath of a man. She had locked the bathroom door, even moved her laundry hamper to sit in front of it, but she knew that if Sylar wanted in no amount of barricading would stop him.

She jumped at every sound, though any other day she would have known it was just the neighbors through paper-thin walls. Claire had never washed her hair faster and when she realized that she needed to shave she made lightening-fast work of her legs. She noticed quite a few nicks letting blood run out of her body before healing quickly, but she barely even felt the sting from the cuts.

It's getting harder and harder to feel anything, Claire thought dismally as she watched the faint red swirls swivel down the drain. She brought the razor up to her face, inspecting the sharpness of the blades closely. Holding her other arm out straight, Claire brought the Lady Bic down her forearm in a violent slash. Red bubbled up and out of her skin for a second before the flesh stitched itself back together; she could feel the cells splitting apart as her skin opened up, could feel every nerve ending that she'd sliced through, but she still only felt the dullest of prickling.

The crash of something falling in the apartment above nearly made Claire slip and fall, and she quickly rinsed off and exited. She found herself staring at the door knob the entire time it took to dry off, just waiting for it to start turning. When she had slipped into her yoga pants and tank top, hair wrapped up in a way that only women can attain, she opened the door slowly, popping only her head out and listening for something, anything.

She heard her refrigerator open and shut and the kitchen sink turn on. Pouting, and looking not unlike a five year old, she stomped toward the kitchen. "Didn't I say I wanted you…gone?" her angry question lost steam as she stepped into the kitchen and looked around. A pot of boiling water sat on the stove, next to a smaller pan of red sauce. Sylar was standing at the sink with his back to her, washing lettuce.

He ignored her inquiry. "That was fast. I thought girls were supposed to be notorious for taking exceedingly long showers?" he shrugged to himself as he pulled the lettuce apart underneath the cold water and deposited it into a large salad bowl; the fancy glass one that Sandra had given her when she moved into her own apartment. The one they usually used for large dinners like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. When her mother had given it to her she had inwardly thought that it would never be put to use. "Is the water boiling?" he asked her as he continued on, as if cooking her supper were a routine thing.

"Yeah," she answered as she peered into the bubbling pot. She reached for the box of spaghetti next to the burner, but it moved before she got to it. It floated up a foot above the counter and opened, pouring itself into the large pot. "That's creepy," she informed him.

"I don't have eight arms, Claire," he answered disparagingly. "I have to do it mentally."

"Or you could do one thing at a time like a normal person," she suggested. Sylar turned then, shutting off the water without even touching the tap.

"You say normal like it's a good thing," Sylar picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the sauce a few times before entering her fridge once more. "The world is full of people trying to be something more than normal. Those of us lucky enough to be born above the rest should embrace it, not let it go to waste."

Sylar pulled out her tomatoes and shredded carrots, adding them to the lettuce and mixing them up. "Claire," he started, and he sounded like he was winding up for a long-winded sermon. "There are a billion and one people out there that want to be just like you, and will never have the chance. Every other person on this earth, save myself, of course, will have a maximum lifespan of, what, eighty years? Ninety? But you…you can do it all. See the whole world, learn all the languages, experience everything you want because you have unlimited time. You'll never grow old, feeble and sickly. You'll never be limited by your body, just your mind," Sylar paused then, raising an eyebrow at her, "And it already is, by the way; limiting you, I mean. You need to get over these mental blocks and embrace what you have. Doesn't it make you feel special at all?"

He looked at her as if he seriously didn't understand why she didn't enjoy what she had.

"No," she retorted quickly. "It makes me feel like a freak."

"Ascending above the rest of society doesn't make you a freak," he said softly, pausing in everything he was doing and staring straight at her. "It makes you a god."

She snorted, walking around him and opening her pantry to pull out a box of croutons. "Don't start that crap, please. I'm not a god and you—" she looked at him pointedly, eyes narrowing. "You're closer to a devil than a god," she slammed the box down onto the counter next to the salad bowl and turned to pick up the boiling pot of water; one nice thing about the regenerating/no pain situation was that she never had to worry about pot holders. "Much closer," she added as she drained the noodles into the strainer that sat in the sink. Clouds of steam billowed up from the sink and she dumped out the boiling water.

Claire set the empty pot back on the stove, reaching passed Sylar, who stood before the stove stirring the tomato sauce slowly, eyebrows furrowed. As her now empty hand brushed passed him once more, Sylar reached out with his free hand and snatched her wrist quickly, eyes never leaving the gurgling red paste.

"Sylar!" Claire huffed in surprised annoyance, attempting to tug free of his grasp. Sylar simply moved the spoon around in a few more circles before resting it on the edges of the pan and turning to her.

He took her hand into both of his; making her stumble closer to him so her arm wasn't stretched out uncomfortably. Sylar's gaze was locked on their hands, turning hers over in his and caressing the soft skin with his thumbs. He trailed a long finger across her lifeline, and Claire felt a shudder run up her spine. She looked up to his face, realizing suddenly with a flush of embarrassment that their bodies were nearly touching.

"Why are you shaking, Claire?" he all but whispered.

He's doing it on purpose, Claire kept thinking. He's making his voice all husky like that on purpose; he's messing with me. He—"What?" she feigned ignorance, and forced herself to keep looking on as he tilted his head up to look into her eyes.

She thought she heard the faintest of growls come from his throat. He pulled her closer still and leaned down to her ear. "You're shaking. I'm curious as to why," he pulled back, assessing her with that dark stare. "I know it's not because you're scared of me. You're long passed that. So…" he gave Claire's hand a slight squeeze before releasing it; when Claire pulled her hands behind her back she could feel that they were, in fact, trembling quite violently. She looked to the sink, the stove, the floor.

"So…?" Claire repeated sassily, waiting for Sylar to either elaborate or shut up. When she brought her eyes up again she found her entire body locked as her gaze met his; she knew it wasn't because of anything he was doing.

Sylar's lips twitched at the corners before pulling into a small, smug smirk. "I can feel that you want me, just as much as I want you. I can feel what you desire."

Claire cursed internally. How could she have forgotten about that one, when six months ago he used it while forcing his lips to hers? She made a mental note to keep every inch of skin covered at all times from then on.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she informed him, turning back to the sink and shaking the strainer of excess water. "That's completely insane."

"You're lying, Claire," he told her confidently. "Even if you don't know it yet, I do. I always know…" he trailed off and she heard him snap the heat off of the stovetop under the saucepan.

Claire tried her best to keep her voice light, uninterested. "And how would you know something like that?" she questioned, turning around and depositing the noodles back into the pan, careful to avoid glancing towards him.

Sylar chuckled. "I told you. I'm a human lie detector."

It hit her then that he was talking about a power that she hadn't known about. "Ah," she nodded. "I hadn't taken that quite so literally." She pulled two plates out of the cupboard and sat them next to the stove. Claire found herself wondering exactly what had happened that brought her to this moment, sharing dinner with Sylar.

Sylar unzipped the black hoodie he had been wearing and tossed it over the back of a chair sitting at the island. The black t-shirt he was wearing underneath hugged his hard chest tightly; Claire found her eyes examining his sculpted biceps when he wasn't looking. When he shifted her eyes darted down to his right forearm, where her face sat, staring back at her grimly; a chill flew up her spine.

She dished up her own pasta and salad and took a seat slowly, staring down at the counter as she slowly twisted the spaghetti around her fork. Sylar sat on the other side of the island, staring across at her as he ate. "So what do you want, anyways? I mean you said you wanted to visit but I can't help but feel like there's something more to it."

Claire didn't look at him as she talked, but stared at her plate, stabbing a bite of salad with her fork.

"I want to sleep with you," Sylar responded, and Claire dropped her fork to her plate with a loud clang, choking on her bite of lettuce. When she looked up at him in horror, Sylar laughed. "Not like that. Well," he paused, smirking, "Yes, like that. But not now. Right now I just want to be by you."

"Ironically, I want the exact opposite," she told him, finishing up her last few bites and retreating to the sink so she didn't have to face him. "You should just go back to New York," Claire suggested, rinsing the plate of sauce before ditching it in the bottom of the sink. She went to a cupboard and pulled out a few containers for leftovers.

As she carefully poured the remaining sauce in the smaller dish, she chanced a glance up to him. Sylar was studying her carefully. "One night," he requested. "Just let me have one."

Claire frowned, her thin brows furrowing so deeply they nearly touched. She snapped the lid on the sauce and started on packing up the leftover pasta. Surely he's insane. Off his fucking rocker if he thinks I'm going to let him stick around, share my bed? Yeah, insane. That's it. She wished she could just make him disappear. "One night," she started, voice wavering slightly. "And then you go back to New York."

"Straight back to New York," he repeated, his lips tugging into a small smile.

"For good," Claire specified. "I don't want you back in Costa Verde."

Sylar brought his plate over to the sink and started washing the dishes. "One night and I'm gone until you call me back."

Claire tried not to snort at the absurdity of that statement and failed. "So yeah, for good," she emphasized, grabbing a dish towel and starting to dry their now-clean plates.

Sylar retrieved the pots from the stove and started on those. Claire stood next to him with the towel, waiting. Part of her reasoned that she was closer to him than she needed to be. She dropped the cloth and unfolded her damp hair from the towel while she waited, placing it back in the bathroom over the shower rod to dry. She combed her fingers through it until it was mostly straight and untangled, then returned to the kitchen.

"Fully clothed," she demanded on her way back to him. "And I swear to God, Sylar, if you so much as—"

He raised his hands innocently, "I'll be a perfect gentleman," he interrupted her. "I promise."

She sighed, dropping her head. "I can't believe I'm even considering this," she muttered to herself. "Okay," she agreed, looking up at him. "One night."

When the dishes had been finished Claire moved to the living room couch and turned on the television. She ignored Sylar pointedly when he sat down next to her, focusing instead on flipping through the channels in a bored fashion. She finally settled on some sitcom she'd never heard of just to have something to stare at.

They sat in silence, to Claire's great relief, for an appropriate amount of time before Claire decided to give up and call it a night, since she had to be up the next morning for work. She hated closing one night and opening the next day, but Jillie's had been short on waitresses as of late, and Claire was thankful for the extra income anyways.

"Let's go then," she stated quietly as she flipped off the tube and stood up. Sylar followed her to her bedroom, and Claire found butterflies appearing in her stomach once again.

She only had a twin bed, and she knew it would be impossible for them to share it without touching somewhere. She climbed under the covers wordlessly and double checked that her alarm was set for the correct time. Sylar slid under next to her, pulling her back against his chest and resting an arm over her stomach. Claire tensed instantly at the contact, and Sylar gave a low chuckle.

"Relax, Claire," he purred in her ear, and she found herself obliging instantly. It had been quite awhile since she'd had a bedmate, and under the cover of darkness she could ease back into his body and pretend that she wasn't wrapped up in the arms of a psycho.

She usually drifted right to sleep when she went to bed, but tonight Claire lay awake for awhile, staring into the darkness, pretending to hate the way his fingers were threading through her hair.

Sleep finally took her, but not before she felt Sylar's face nuzzling into her back affectionately. In her drowsy, half-asleep state she could no longer pretend that she detested the feeling.

Claire scrutinized her reflection in the floor length mirror. Nervous hands fluttered up to check her hair and then down to smooth out her silky white gown. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest, quickly spreading adrenaline throughout her body; her stomach was doing the usual butterfly dance that happened when she thought about him.

"It's time, darling," the sweet, old minister's wife informed her as her reflection appeared behind Claire. "You look wonderful."

Claire smiled graciously at the woman and allowed her to escort her to the large, oak double doors. The pattern carved into them was so ornately beautiful that Claire was almost sad when the opened away from her—until she focused her view into the sanctuary.

He was standing there, at the head of the church, dressed in an all-black suit and looking entirely like the devil. Claire felt her breath hitch in her chest, and was amazed that her feet would move at all, let alone in the delicate line that she walked down the aisle, her eyes fixed on Sylar's dark ones the whole way down.

When she arrived at the front, he gave her a little smirk and bowed his head toward her. "Should you be wearing white?" he teased.

"I'm a virgin," Claire claimed softly. When Sylar's only response was a raised eyebrow she smirked and blushed. "Well, technically."

The minister started his speech then, and Claire was so captivated by the man next to her that the whole thing went by in a blur. When he arrived at the bit about any objections being made, Claire gulped.

This was it. Would someone say something? Part of her knew that marrying Sylar was crazy, but he made her so happy… Things just felt right when she was around him. She took a breath and chanced a glance over her shoulder.

Dozens of empty pews sat staring back at her. Claire turned back to her future husband quickly in alarm, panic seizing her heart. "Where is everyone?" she questioned, eyes wide.

Sylar gave her a sad smile, brushing some bangs out of her eyes gently. "Everyone is gone, Claire-bear. It's just you and me."

For the second night in a row, Claire startled awake, half-sitting up in bed. When a body moved next to hers she nearly screamed, until she remembered who it was. Then she wanted to scream even louder.

"You okay?" Sylar's voice was groggy with sleep; she'd obviously woken him in her panic.

Claire sat in the darkness for a full minute, focusing on taking deep breaths. It was only a dream. Just like last night. Dreams don't mean anything; they're random and weird. Hell I once dreamt about setting fire to the school and running away to Seattle. Breathe… just breathe. Finally, she sank back down to her pillows. Sylar reclaimed his possession of her midsection, pulling her into him snuggly. "Just a dream," she stated softly.

She flinched when he asked what it was about; she had known he was going to. "It's not important," she told him, shaking her head and trying to regain that comfortable sleepy feeling. It wouldn't come back.

Claire woke before her alarm to an empty bed. She turned over and curled up into his side, still warm with his heat. When she buried her face in the pillow her nose was assaulted by his Old Spice aftershave. She took two deep breaths through her nose and fell back asleep.

The second time she woke it was to her clock radio going off. She stretched and allowed the music to play for a little bit; that song "I Got You Babe". Wondering where her absentee bedmate was, she finally roused herself from the warm, inviting blankets and stumbled sleepily into the hall.

Claire had almost expected Sylar to be in the bathroom, but the door was open, and it looked unused. She made her way to the kitchen and living room. Nowhere. She glanced to the door; it was locked but his shoes were gone. Easy enough for him to lock it from the other side, I suppose. Claire was surprised. Though she was thrilled that he'd kept up his end of the bargain, she couldn't believe he wouldn't take the opportunity to say goodbye to her.

She was about to turn back to the bathroom to start getting ready when the refrigerator caught her attention. There, on the dry-erase board that stuck to her fridge, was a message scrawled in blue ink. Claire stepped over to it slowly.

Claire,

Last night was perfect. Thank you. There's breakfast for you warming in the oven.

Under that was a New York street address, followed by ten digits. His phone number. The whole message was signed with a simple, elegant 'S'.

She went to inspect the oven and found a plate of eggs, bacon and toast waiting for her. As she poured her orange juice she tried not to consider how Sylar had known that she liked her eggs over-easy.

She sat down on the far side of the island, staring at the message board as she ate. Her eyes scanned the eraser on top of the fridge twice before darting back to Sylar's note. When she finished with her breakfast (delicious and appreciated, though Claire would never admit it) she dumped her dishes in the sink and stepped back over to the refrigerator.

Claire stared at the message for a full minute before her hand darted up to snatch the eraser. She pushed it to the dry-erase board and held it there. Pretending that her hand wasn't shaking, Claire started to move the eraser from the top-left corner downwards, halting almost immediately. She tossed it back on the top of the fridge and stared at the message once more.

Her name was gone, along with the top half of the first few words. To her (relief?) the address and number remained intact. Claire spun away from the kitchen and marched to the bathroom, not even bothering to think about why she would want to keep such information.

She had done her daily bathroom duties and changed into her uniform when a knock sounded at the door. Claire's heart stopped. She warily made her way down the hall, her breathing shallow and shaky. When she was a few feet from the door, the knocking sounded again. Claire nearly jumped a foot in the air.

"Claire-bear? It's dad. You home?"

She gave a breath of relief and started towards the door. "Yeah—" she started, then froze. Her eyes darted back to the contact info Sylar had left scrawled right on her fridge. "One second!" she amended, rushing into the kitchen area, her socks, luckily, padding her footsteps.

Claire went through three drawers before she found scratch paper and a pen. She copied down the info furiously and then shoved it all back into a drawer. After wiping the board clean she rushed over to the door.

"Hey!" she greeted breathlessly as she swung open the door. "What are you doing here?" Of all the people to visit her, she hadn't suspected that Noah Bennet would be one of them.

Her adoptive father smiled brightly, pulling his ageless daughter into a warm hug. "I was in the area; your mother gave me your address. I thought I'd come by and check the place out. How are you doing?"

"I'm good!" Claire lied. I had a sleepover with a deranged "ex"-murderer last night, doesn't that sound fun, Daddy? "I'm actually just on my way out to work."

"Oh," he looked disappointed; Claire saw his expression fall a little.

"I'm only a few blocks away, actually," she explained, doing her best to pull her mouth into a smile. "I have time for a quick tour."

She stepped aside for him, leading him through the small apartment. "The shower has amazing water pressure," she offered as they glimpsed into her bathroom, looking like a tornado of toiletries had blown through. Noah nodded.

When they stepped into her room, Sylar's scent hit Claire immediately. She glanced at her father from the corner of her eyes, worried that he might detect it as well. The last thing she wanted to do was explain why her room smelled like a man.

"This is a nice place. The rent okay?" he asked as they walked back to the door.

"A little expensive," Claire admitted, "but it's in a nice area and it's close to work. I don't even need a car. I can walk or bus pretty much anywhere I want to go. Walk with me to work?" she requested as she ushered him out the door, grabbing her keys on the way and locking up.

"Certainly," he smiled, and when Claire looked up into his eyes she saw something familiar there; the same thing she used to see when he knew something she didn't that she probably should.

"So what brings you to Costa Verde?" she scrabbled for conversation as soon as they hit the sidewalk. "Work?"

"Kind of," he admitting, nodding. "I've been having an associate keep tabs on someone recently and they were seen in the area yesterday afternoon."

"Oh," Claire smiled, nodding. "Convenient then," she laughed, hoping that it didn't sound as fake and nervous as it felt on her lips. Sylar, then, she confirmed, nodding mentally. He does certainly stand out. Moron. Did he know he was being watched, or did he just not care? Panic flickered in Claire's stomach and immediately rippled throughout her body. Did whoever was watching see Sylar contact me? Is that why dad is here? Does he know Sylar was with me last night? She tried to slow her steps slightly, fighting the strong, strong urge to flee from her father.

She thought about coming clean and just spilling her guts to him right there on the sidewalk, but shooed away that absurd idea just as quickly as it had popped into her brain. Luckily she didn't have to do anything, as they soon arrived outside her work. Claire thanked whatever power was watching over her.

"Well I best get in," she said, taking a few steps backwards towards the door. "It was great to see you, dad. Will you be in town long?"

"Possibly another day or two," he nodded, his keen eyes following her like a hawk. "We should do lunch, or dinner or something," he suggested.

"Definitely!" Claire agreed, probably too quickly and animatedly, "Yeah! I'll call you when I get done here."

"It's a date," her father replied, though the response was probably only heard by the door as Claire rushed inside.

Okay, I'm breaking here because I've officially hit 22 pages, and I think that's quite enough for the first installment. The last half is unbetaed… I've sent it out but unfortunately I'm quite impatient and must have feedback from readers.

So! A great, great, GREAT thank you to all that have given me feedback/advice with this chapter (there are numerous of you, you know who you are =D ) And a great big thank you to all of you readers for checking this out!

(And thank you in advance for all of the marvelous, detailed, long reviews. A writer enjoys knowing their work is appreciated! Also: motivation to keep going! So review! Do it now!)