The Thin Line – Chapter One

Disclaimer: All characters are not the property of the author and are being used without the owner's permission.

Rating: M (Sexual situations)

Explanation: Three months after the season finale of "Heroes," Sylar has returned and is after his favorite cheerleader. He's going to kill her this time…or is he? The first chapter of an ongoing series. (Note: Claire is 18 and technically an adult).

Noah Gaither leaned back in the new midnight blue sofa and put his arm around his wife. She, accordingly, laid her head against his shoulder and sighed deeply.

"Is it really over? Can we finally go back to our life?" she asked him.

Noah opened his mouth, intending to give her the "company man" answer he had so long practiced: Yes, we have our life back. Everything is fine. But he couldn't lie to Sandra. Not anymore.

So, instead, he replied, "I don't think we'll ever go back to the way we were. But we have each other. That's most important." On the last words, he kissed the top of her head.

"Oh I just wish I could always keep our kids safe. Especially Claire. Oh, Honey, she's been through so much. First finding out about…herself, and then learning about her biological family, and…and…" Sandra stopped. She couldn't bring herself to say that man's name.

"And Sylar," Noah said gently. "I know. But we have a network of people like Claire, they look after each other, and they'll help us look after her. We're not alone, babe. Hey," he said, turning Sandra to face him, "we have a brand new start. New city, new house, new last name. No one knows about us here. We'll be ok."

Sandra smiled as Noah drew her into an embrace. Neither one of them believed that they were "ok" but the pretension was worth so much just by itself.

Upstairs, third room on the left, Claire Gaither slipped her nightdress over her head and brushed her yellow hair. Lyle had made some friends at his new school and was sleeping over at one of their houses—she finally had some time to herself. Not that it wasn't adorable: her normally irritating little brother was trying to be protective and was hovering around her constantly. She loved him, of course, and she missed him terribly after she had to run. But she wanted to be alone to mull over everything that had happened to her.

Things had quieted down, of course. The Bennets fled from Odessa to Washington State, had changed their names to Gaither. Claire's father now managed the Red Rose printing press in their hometown (all that time at Primatech had paid off, after all). Claire's mother stayed at home, which was fine with her, because she wasn't really ready for the world just yet. Claire and Lyle went to new schools. Claire was thinking of joining the cheerleading squad. It had only been a few weeks, so the family became so busy with the new adjustments that the more disturbing issues stayed below the surface; everyone just pretended to be preoccupied. But now they had their first truly quiet night, and Claire had no excuse not to think about everything that she had been through, had learned about herself, had learned to worry about.

When she was finished brushing her hair, Claire walked over to her bed and lay down on top of the covers. As she looked up at the ceiling, she heard her parents' voices coming from below. She could tell they weren't jovial in tone; they couldn't be after what they'd been through. But they were…intimate. Claire was jealous. Her parents were normal, and they had each other. She wasn't normal. She'd never be normal. How could she expect any man to understand that? And even if he could, Claire would constantly worry that one day she'd bring harm to him because she was different.

That was her worry with Zach. He didn't know where Claire was; her father thought it was for the best that they sever all ties with everyone in Odessa, and for once Claire agreed with him. She missed him terribly, and cared for him deeply, but after all she had seen, Zach seemed…fragile to her. She couldn't risk putting him in danger. Besides, Zach was sensitive and thoughtful. He deserved to find a girl who would appreciate that. Claire's life was too eventful for her to ever really be able to do that for him. No, leaving Zach behind was for the best.

Claire pondered the possibility that she might one day find a guy that was like her. And she did…sort of. After the night Peter Petrelli saved her, Claire was certain he had the same power as her—and she wasn't alone anymore. Oh, Peter was so kind, so brave, and Claire felt safe with him. But that couldn't be. It wasn't even a question of the age difference; that wouldn't always be an issue. Claire was 18, after all. She had had her birthday a month ago and she was an adult—in the most basic sense. But Peter was now her biological uncle. She couldn't even allow herself to think of him in any way except as a platonic friend. Sometimes she was angry that Nathan was her biological father. That would tie her to Peter's family. But, there was nothing to be done about it. At least she had people who loved her.

Claire's thoughts darkened when she thought of those who were on the opposite spectrum. In weighing the sides, she realized there was only one man who hated her—Sylar. She wondered if she could really say he hated her. She remembered learning in her literature class that the opposite of love isn't hate, but indifference. Which meant that there was a thin line between love and hate. So was Sylar indifferent to her? To her life, maybe. But he wasn't indifferent to her as a person. He had pursued her relentlessly. She had something he wanted.

Claire shuddered as she thought of those coal-black eyes looking right through her, sizing her up, taking her in. The incredible powers he had, even if they were from others, were formidable. He could break her like a twig if he wanted to. No other man had ever terrified her like Sylar.

She wondered if Sylar found her attractive, and then instantly chided herself for thinking it. But did he…? She had grown up being told by everyone that she was beautiful. What did Sylar think of her? Didn't he ever have…desires? It couldn't be that the quest for power had eliminated other…needs.

But Claire shook her head hard and told herself to stop. She knew that girls lusted after bad boys, but this was ridiculous! She slipped beneath her covers, and, surprisingly, fell into a deep sleep soon after.

He was close enough to Claire's window to hear her breathing become the deep, even sounds of sleep. Noiselessly, he climbed through the window and was in the room within seconds. At last, he was here. No self-righteous pretty boy, no irritating Japanese comic book geek, and no overweight cop here to stop him from getting what he wanted. Sylar had come a long way and he had killed a lot of people, but here was the goldmine. The key to immortality.

Looking down at the blonde haired cheerleader with the healing factor, Sylar contemplated doing it right there. But there was a good chance that she'd wake up, start screaming, and the Bennets would be upstairs before long. No. He didn't want to take any chances. The best thing to do would be to take her with him, and do it some place where he'd have privacy. She—this—was too precious to him.

He got out the bottle of chloroform he'd packed before he left, doused a rag in it, and quickly brought it down over her face. Claire's eyes shot open, and she began to writhe and scream beneath the rag, but Sylar held it tight to her face. Eventually, her eyelids fluttered and shut and she stopped moving. Sylar looked down at his victim and smiled. He'd doused the rag with enough chloroform to kill a normal human being, but he knew in Claire's case it would just put her to sleep a little longer than expected.

He wrapped her up in the cover she was sleeping in and climbed out of the window, his prize slung over his shoulder. As he got to the ground, he used his telescopic vision (a handy gift he took from a squirrelly little barber in New York several weeks earlier) to see if any threat was within the vicinity. When he was sure he was safe, he slipped away into the night, very pleased with how his little errand went.

Sylar had become adept with staying out of public sight, and had already secured a boarded up building that had formerly been a shoe store not too far away from the Gaither home. He got into the building, laid his prize down on a table he had already carefully prepared, and beamed down on her with pleasure. His hearing told him that she was alive again, but her pulse was very weak. Perfect. This was going to be easy.

Oh, but it had been so easy already. Sylar laid low for the first couple of weeks after Hiro Nakamura had stabbed him, recovering from the wound. Sylar now chuckled to himself, thinking that after he was done with Claire, a wound like that would take mere seconds to heal. But he did recover, mostly, and he was back to work. He discovered that the Bennets had moved without a trace after the election, but that wasn't going to be a problem. He simply followed Mohinder, who clearly wasn't smart enough to follow the Bennet's example. He remained in New York, staying near Molly Walker, "the tracking system." But Sylar bet that Mohinder would stay in touch with Noah Bennet.

And he did. After Sylar acquired the barber's power, he was able to spy on one of Mohinder's telephone conversations at the hospital he now worked for, despite being on the opposite end of the building. The piece of paper the Indian geneticist wrote on had the Bennet's name, address, and phone number. Poor Mohinder. He was so helpful—especially when he was trying very hard not to be.

Now Claire was laid out in front of him, like a luscious feast. So tender. So vulnerable. And Sylar had so much time. It gave him such a pleasurable feeling of power, to be able to decide when this girl was going to die. He'd decided before, with his other victims, but it was so impersonal with them. Claire…oh, Claire was different.

Ever since that homecoming night he admired her. He had mistaken her friend Jackie for her, and as he did his work, Claire fought him with every ounce of strength she had. He repelled her easily, of course, but she stood up and let him see her face as it healed from the impact with the wall. She could have lain on the ground, tried to play dead, but instead she chose to face him.

And then there was the destruction of her house. She had braved a nuclear fire to pacify Ted Sprague. And he knew that if she woke up now, she'd probably try to fight him tooth and nail, to the bitter end. He had to admire that. He felt close to her in way that he had never felt to anyone else, much less any of his victims. She was forever out of his reach, something he aspired to but never achieved. And isn't the best always saved for last?

Sylar put his face close to hers. The skin was golden, and flawless. The lashes were long and dusky, gently caressing her cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing a point of white teeth. Beautiful. Flawless. He wondered what she might be dreaming at that very moment. She couldn't be dreaming of him, he thought smugly. She was very calm.

He was almost disappointed for a moment. Perhaps he did want her to dream of him.

Then, for reasons Sylar couldn't understand, he reached out his hand and gently touched her lips. Soft and supple—appropriate for a female her age. With his index finger he traced the lines of her mouth, then brought the finger to rest on her bottom lip. He rubbed it side to side, wondering then if it would awaken her. But it didn't. He could hear that her pulse was steadier than before, but it was still sleep-slow.

He took his finger away quickly. Why was he doing this? He brought the girl here to kill her, not to caress her in her sleep. But it had been a long time, he thought darkly. He hadn't had release in years. He thought that acquiring the powers he deserved would fulfill any sensual needs he had. But it didn't. He longed to bury himself inside of a soft warm female body, but who would want him now—after all he had done? It really was lonely at the top.

Claire was still asleep, and if she awoke, he'd do what he had intended. But for now…he longed for touch. It had been so long. And he might not ever have this chance again.

It was now that Sylar realized how flimsy the girl's attire really was. She was dressed for bed, after all. Her light blue silk nightshirt covered her to mid-thigh, the buttons not beginning until the hollow between her breasts. He was a little surprised that a good little girl like Claire would dress like this for bed. Then again, everyone had their…private choices. If Claire was his, she'd wear white lace. When he was a simple watch repairman, he saw girls that reminded him of Claire. They wore tight knit sweaters, short skirts, and high heeled sandals. Sometimes they'd look into his shop and then walk on to the yogurt shop next door, often pretending they hadn't seen him. Delicate, curvy, pretty girls who wouldn't gave him the time of day. If things were different—if they were all "normal"—Claire would have been one of those girls to him. But now he had power and she was at his mercy. He could do anything he wanted to to her.

Sylar found himself fascinated with the shadow falling on her clavicles. The collar bones were always a secret favorite on a woman for Sylar. Now he rubbed Claire's. He knew that if he pressed down hard enough, he'd break them. But oh, wouldn't it be a treat to watch her body heal? Just to give him a preview of what he could look forward to himself. That's when he realized that the skin was silky there, as it probably was everywhere else on Claire. Curious, he let his hands travel further, down to her breasts, and let them rest there, on top of the silk fabric. For a moment, he was surprised at the heat radiating from them, their soft weight. But he liked the way it felt, and his thumbs moved under her breasts, now cupping them. He could feel the nipples harden just below the pads of his middle fingers. Instantly he froze, in fear. Was she waking? The thought of her opening her eyes to find his hands on her was terrifying.

Why should he care? He was going to kill her anyway. But he was always so cold and removed from his work. He knew he was a murderer, but he never wanted to be a rapist. He somehow found it more brutal than taking a life.

But maybe it was also that he didn't want her to think that he wanted her, even if it was going to be the last thought she ever had. Looking down at his hands, still on his victim's breasts, Sylar wasn't so sure if he was going to have the chance to kill her.

Of if he could bring himself to kill her…

But if he couldn't kill her, what was he doing? How could he let himself do this? In that instant, something inside Sylar's mind snapped. It was like he was a child who had eaten a cookie when he wasn't supposed to, and now, already being in trouble, decided to eat all the cookies there were. His reason was gone.

His hands left the girl's breasts and traveled to the inside of her right leg. The tips of his fingers skimmed her calf, up to the knee, rubbing the back of it. As a teenager he stole one of his father's Playboys which claimed that the back of the knee drove girls crazy. He never put too much faith in it until he rubbed harder and heard a light whimper come from Claire.

Oh God! Was she waking? He thought. But her eyes were still shut. His advanced hearing told him her heart had sped up slightly, but nothing above the level of consciousness. He continued.

Sylar brought his hand to her thigh, gently pulling back the silk nightshirt. He pushed the fabric up until her ribs, and drank in the sight. Claire's legs weren't terribly long, but they were shapely, and her hips and buttocks would be the envy of any classic film star. Her last great treasure was hidden by a pair of white cotton panties. Good girl, he thought. No reason not to wear underwear to bed. Instinctively, Sylar brought his hands to her sleek flanks, and buried his head in the flat surface of her belly. Oh, but she felt wonderful. Soft and warm smooth. He wanted to rip off his pants and plunge himself inside her right then and there.

And he would have, except he heard her heart begin to quicken and her breathing become louder and shallower. She was beginning to wake up.

Sylar panicked. What should he do? Should be douse another cloth with chloroform and put her under again. Then he'd….well, he'd do something.

Or he could let her wake up, kill her, and take what he wanted most of all.

What was that, again?

But he couldn't face her. Not after what he had just done. Besides, it would be hard to instill fear in a victim while having a massive erection. He had to run. Just leave her there, and run.

He knew where she lived, after all. He'd find her again…and finish what he started.

She waited until she was sure he was gone. Even when she thought she was sure, she wasn't so sure. But she opened one eye, then the other, and looked around. No sign of him. Cautiously, she sat up and searched the room. He wasn't there.

Claire looked down at her front, touching her breasts where he had touched them. She couldn't believe he had done that. What was more, she couldn't believe that she had been able to lie there, pretending to be asleep the entire time. The chloroform had knocked her out, to be sure, but the moment she felt his hands on her breast, she had awoken. But she remembered the last time she had been in such intimate contact with him—she had stood to face him and would have been killed if not for Peter. She wasn't going to make the same mistake again; she was going to play dead.

Sitting in that dark room, afraid, Claire began to see the line between love and hate blur.