Title: Coming Closer

Pairing: Sylar/Claire

Warnings: angsty piece, violence, character death.

Summary: He began to act like a hero, proclaiming that he had changed because of a nightmare or something like that. The details are lost to Claire. This is the untold story told from the one and only unlikely hero.

A/N: So guys I wanted to write something for my 'Burn it to ashes' series of one-shots and this came. This installment is pre Burn it to ashes which was my first one-shot of this particular verse. I don't know how many chapters I'll add to this one, but I can tell that is going to be from Sylar's POV until –ehem- well his "death".

If anyone is interested in following this verse, here is the order of the one-shots:

. Coming closer (in progress)

. Burn it to ashes (complete)

. Time after time (complete)

. One (complete)

. Fire (complete)

. Cold snap (complete)

. ¿? I never know with this verse ;-)

Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes if I did, I would have given the series a proper ending *_*

Sylar has time - an unholy amount - and ways - many ways of operating in the form of powers.

He can adapt and blend in; he holds the intrinsic capacity of lending out new variables, adjusting to a new environment, in order to not perish. He was told that once when compared to a simple organism; a parasite, it was. Maybe he was, maybe he is. It's evolution – that's his mantra - and he has evolved time and time again. He has proven to be a master on it.

But when you take the variables aside, when you cut out the support, when solitude becomes a liability, he can't help himself. He goes back to where it all started. For the roots of what he is, the soil of what he was made from, and the essence of what he bestows is the glue that keep all the pieces of his pliable self stuck together. It's undeniable.

We're born to be the men and women we are destined to be.

The dreamer boy who sat at the back of the classroom, always looking out of the window, still sees the world through idealistic eyes. The meager cheerleader who sought her true identity is still figuring out who she is and fighting with who she wants to be. The son of a watchmaker, he mulls over as he thoughtfully gazes up and watches people sauntering past him on the busy streets of New York. The worn sign from above moves, facing up briefly as it's carried away by the wind – Gray & Sons it says. He snickers. Once again it is an unintentional witness of people's despondency, a watcher of his humble and ominous origins. The son of a watchmaker grows up to be an insignificant watchmaker himself.

It's so futile yet he doesn't have anything else left to fight against it with.

We fit; we match like puzzles pieces making the gears of the bigger design start ticking. All timepieces, too; clocks don't fit right. And like a magnetic pull that calls with its siren voice, the lost navigator always goes back to where he started.

Even if it is to sink.

His eyes fought to adjust in the barely lit room as he let himself into the building fully. A gush of wind comes in behind him and the dust flies around the shop. The layout is unfamiliar yet the ticking is still there, loud and clear like a perpetual symphony. He has a lot of cleaning to do as the years have taken its toll in here as well.

"Gabriel." A voice cuts into his scattered thoughts and he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes before a figure step out from the back of the shop.

"Noah," he utters in a calmness thinly veiling contempt as he recognizes the other man immediately, those horn rimmed glasses shining despite the swallowing shadows around. The use of his birth name is still foreign to him after years of disuse and neglect; he estimates it is going to take a lot more for him to get used to it, even though he is at least ready to embrace it again. "Long time, no see," he mumbles tersely.

He wants to ask why the hell Noah Bennet is here of all places but he is aware of the growl that is fighting its way out from inside his closed-off throat. The sensation makes his knuckles ache and Sylar deliberately unclenches his tightened fist as he attempts to calm himself.

There are vestiges of an old being claiming vengeance prickling in his gut; the switching of his body, the misplacement of his soul. Of what was left of it. His eyes lower minutely as he fully steps into the foyer. It doesn't matter now, he reminds himself.

"It certainly was." Noah agrees shortly and walks to the counter, wary of the spark of anger that scratches the surface when he uses Sylar's birth name. He dissects the serial killer's reactions and curves his mouth, placing his hand upon the cool surface, pocketing them for further study later. He leans against it, and wonders if Sylar could read the object –he knows he can, but could he determine if it has witnessed enough suffering? He wants to ask but refrains for doing so. It probably had. "I heard you're trying to leave your homicidal tendencies behind," he taunts, the corner of his mouth barely lifted up, expression blank, his eyes zeroed on the details of Sylar's face; as if reading an object too, he search for something.

Sylar jerks his head up and, despite himself, his eyes flash a tinge of uneasiness. "I am." He says tightly. For a fickle moment, he wants to regain the reigns of his dormant beast but instead he sighs and confirms more steadily, "I am trying." He says it more firmly with a conceding voice, convinced he is telling the true. He doesn't want to give Noah the satisfaction of gaining some leverage against him and besides, he wants more than anything to prove him wrong. Even if he is just trying.

The company man purses his lips. The beast did not rise to the bait like he was expecting. Instead, he retreated to himself, buffing insecure; Noah's brow tightened, the only visible response he gives as he thinks. I could work with this. His hand slips from the wooden counter and rejoins his side as he straightens himself to his full height, ready to do what he was asked to do here, thought he still has his doubts, he is more at ease now. "We could use a hand or two in the company," he abruptly says, his face stern, watching closely.

Sylar's eyes glint with bewilderment and, for a mere second, he struggles to say something. He notes the use of 'we' instead of 'they' and his confusion grows even more. "Are you asking me to work with you?" He finally formulates and asks through almost sealed lips, the words accompanied with a slight tilt of his head as he studies Noah's expression. He could tell what the truth was before the other could talk if he wanted, but words -especially Noah's- have more meaning when you can track them to its usually insincere source.

Noah's face filled with amusement at Sylar's obvious confusion. "Well, I don't need an unstable man around," he comments, it riddled with derision. At least he is opting to tell the true freely, it wouldn't do well otherwise. "However," he pauses and his smirk flattens as he struggles to continue, in spite himself; "there are people who seems to trust you for the job."

He doesn't mind to cover the withering look aimed towards the other man, but his second statement gives him pause. Sylar is sure that Peter has his hands in this matter but he was at a loss as to who else could rest their faith in his person - until the answer flooded to the surface. "Angela," he snarled curtly. The woman was surely the one to coerce Noah into this with what intentions he is never sure "What if I refuse?"

The company man nodded at Sylar's guess; the woman is probably the only person capable of convincing him to come here, even when he is not sure about the tidbit of working alongside his nemesis. But he can't deny Sylar's aptitude for the job. His shrug was noncommittal. "Well, you're a free man now," he quips and finally moved to the door. "You can do whatever you want." However, he hoped that Sylar did the right thing; killing him would be a waste of time, Noah pondered in thought.

Sylar took in Noah's words, bemused by the offer of an option. What he wants…. "How did you find me?" He muttered when Noah passes by him.

The man who always seems to have the plan, stopped with one hand on the knob and one foot out onto the sidewalk. "I know how you work." He looked over his shoulder. "It's a trait we both share," he added and then was gone.

Sylar was left alone in the middle of his old watch shop. Alone to ponders his thoughts, to weigh his options. What does he want to do? What does he desire? A sudden thought crossed his mind rendering all the others silent and he felt the swirling of ink dancing on his skin. A familiar face stared at him back as he gazed down at his arm. He wants a lot of things, he is sure of that, but some of them he is not going to have anytime soon; probably never.

But it is a start.

Maybe he doesn't need to go back to the beginning to start all over again. Maybe this new life can be initiated from a totally different point.

Maybe it is true that we're born to be the men and women we are destined to become, but when there are a lot of maybes and there is purpose, maybe Sylar can escape destiny's clutches and shape who he wants to be.

Purpose is like a spark; it ignites something in him with its burning and brightness. He is sure he is going to need all the fire he can make in order to illuminate his new path.

Hope someone has enjoyed it!

And I promise that now I'll work in MNTSK *runs away*

Kisses.