Title: Imbalance
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: For events in season finale
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way.
Summary: In which Claire endures Sylar's bedside manner while he pries bullets out of her body and comes to a decision.
Notes: First venture into Heroes fandom, which is a pretty cool, if scary place. I really like the Sylar/Claire dynamic, however creepy it can be at times, and hope I stayed fairly IC for this fic.

Long ago, Claire stopped caring about how fair or unfair a place the universe could be.

But sometimes, just sometimes, contrived circumstances beyond her control remind her of her role as Fate's favorite chew toy.

Is it really that entertaining, watching her suffer? Is that why she turned into the indestructible girl with suicidal tendencies? And conversely, why does Sylar, bastard brain-molester-murderer extraordinaire, get all the breaks in life?

Well…

Some of those 'breaks' are debatable, really, but Claire is firmly in the camp that believes that not only does Fate work expressly against her wishes, but in direct tandem with Sylar's.

At the moment, for example, she is lying on her stomach on her bed, her cheek pressed against her pillow, her shirt half-cut off, exposing her bullet-riddled back to the world. Sylar—who clearly enjoys her suffering in a way that can't be healthy—hovers over her, extracting bullets out of her back with a loving delicacy that nearly makes her sick.

But while the thought of leaning over the edge of the bed and vomiting all over his shoes is intensely satisfying, it is also ungrateful, and however much she hates to admit it, Claire does have a smidgeon of gratitude within her for his…help. When he had popped into her dorm—to 'discuss his proposal further', a conversation she's grateful to have postponed, to say the very least—she had been lying on the floor, blood pooling around her body, unable to pick herself up. Automatic rifles, she decides, are a bitch; too many bullets that hit too many inconvenient places, burrowed deep enough that she can't heal all the way and, for once, needs extra help to get her ability jump-started.

"So, would you care to tell me why you look like a block of Swiss cheese?" asks Sylar, his light, airy tone projecting his amusement, his palm dragging over newly healed skin, before moving on to the next bullet, using just his fingers and what might be a very large pair of tweezers; she isn't sure. Whatever he's doing, it feels odd. Almost tickles.

Claire wishes it would hurt, the way that bullets getting dug out of a soft body should hurt.

"It's none of your business," Claire snarls. She shivers at the feel of his hands on her, wants nothing more than to swat them away. But she can't move; Sylar's telekinesis keeps her still, doesn't even let her lift her head. Completely unnecessary, probably just another perverted power trip of his.

Like that stint in the hotel.

"Don't say that, Claire," Sylar admonishes, in a tone Claire knows very well. "It makes me think that you want nothing to do with me. Back to my question—since you won't answer, let me guess. Boy troubles? Some lovesick kid who couldn't bear the cheerleader's rejection?" His fingers tap-tap-tap down her spine and it drives her mad that she can feel that but not the metal that has lodged itself so deeply under her skin.

"Something like that."

Actually, she considered accepting the guy. His name was Eric, and he was cute, reasonably smart and didn't act all that bad. But that was before today, when he entered her room carrying the gun, swinging it casually from one hand as he asked her out, and she, out of the sheer annoyance that came from having attracted yet another homicidal creep, rejected him. Told him to get out of her room before she called security. Turned her back on him.

He shot her then. Left her lying there. Stupid bastard didn't even bother to close the door.

"I see," says Sylar, and Claire can practically see the smirk he must be wearing. "How silly of him. Not a bad shot, though." A loud squelch and the feeling of tissues knitting back together alert her to the removal of one more bullet. Eight to go.

"In any case, Claire, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He leans to the side a bit, gets into her peripheral vision. "Have you thought about what I said?"

She bares her canines at him. "You're seriously screwed up if you'd think I would have anything to do with you after all you've done to me. You killed my parents, for God's sake."

Sylar shrugs, clearly unaffected. "You have two to spare. And Nathan was every bit as fucked up as I am, Claire."

Had she any more control over her body, she would have flinched at the past tense. It's still impossible to think that Nathan's gone.

Sylar keeps talking. "I spent six months as him; I would know."

"He was my father." She says 'father' as though it is a lifeline, to salvage the man she knows is good at heart.

"I am well aware." He gives her a faint smirk as his fingers work yet another bullet free. Seven left. "Why else do you think I'm only visiting you now? Residual paternal feelings interfered, comparing what I thought was best for you to what Nathan thought was best. Made it…difficult for me to remember what I wanted." He leers at her, an expression that makes her long for control of her arms, if just for long enough that she can take the alarm clock on her nightstand (his gift to her) and break that pretentious face in half. He can heal all he wants—it would still be satisfying.

"Go to hell." It's a half-hearted snap at best, and Claire grimaces as one of his hands slides between her shoulder blades, trailing his fingers over warm skin before setting to work on the next wound.

"No interest. Besides, I have no means to get there, remember?"

"Yes, you do. And I'll find it." She promises, glowering at him, daring him to contradict her.

Sylar doesn't take the bait. Simply smirks and returns his attention to the bullet he is working out of her spine. That and another one are dropped into the growing pile next to her head. She wonders how long it will take to wash the blood out of her comforter—for that matter, how is she going to explain the floor? Maybe she'll have to pull out that rug her mother gave her when she first moved in; she hadn't wanted to use it, but desperate times…

"How do you like college, so far?" Sylar asks, slipping the pliers into her left shoulder to work over a particularly stubborn bullet.

The change in subject and tone throws Claire; it's a few minutes before she responds.

"It's all right." She doesn't want to scream in frustration the way she did in high school, and her roommate isn't half-bad, just a little scatterbrained. It's a far cry from the last two years, and for the most part that suits her just fine.

"All right," he echoes. He's smiling again. "So…it's average. Mediocre. You must be bored out of your skull. Spend all day studying and all night partying with your friends, warding off the silly little boys like flies. The biggest dangers you face are the occasional psychos like the one that gave you this," he prods one of her gunshot wounds thoughtfully, "And maybe a bomb or two. That's the only time you'll be a hero. Or even a victim, if you're bored enough. And either way, no matter what happens, you'll just pick yourself up, walk away, and start over. You sure you want that?"

"I didn't say I wanted anything. Do I look like a fucking piece of art or something?" demands Claire, "There was no sexual connotations or hidden meanings or ambiguity whatsoever in that statement. I actually mean what I say. Unlike some people I could name."

"Language," he chides her, still smiling. "I was merely pointing out a few things I think you ought to consider. Mediocrity won't satisfy you forever; it couldn't keep its hold on poor Gabriel Gray, let alone pretty little Claire Bennet."

"I'll manage." She narrows her eyes at him, shifting as his invisible force lessens its hold on her. "The way I would've managed if you hadn't stolen my power from me."

Sylar gives her a look that shows just how little he thinks of her claim. "You would have gone insane, Claire. For that matter, if you refuse my offer now, insanity might come even easier to you."

"You call turning down a serial killer insane?" asks Claire, ignoring the fact there may well be truth in his words and instead wondering exactly how many bullets she has left to be pulled out. The blood on her back has long dried, her legs are going numb and she's pretty sure that he's just feeling her up at this point. "Your proposal was possibly the sickest thing I've ever heard."

Sylar has the grace to look offended. "How could anything I say be taken as sick? It's only the truth."

Claire stares at him, exasperated. "Because it's you saying it. And immortality aside, it's really, really creepy when someone like you is talking about 'building bridges' to a minor and trying to get her drunk and groping her at the same time."

"You wound me, Claire." Sylar looks both amused and slightly chagrinned at her statement. "In any case, both of your points are irreverent, considering that you can't get drunk and I would hardly count my little gestures of friendship as sexual harassment."

Claire groans in exasperation. He's completely missing her point and she's getting tired of his nonsense. "Whatever. Fine, be that way." She'll just do herself a favor and take the easy way out, for once.

The surprised, genuine laughter that erupts from him is enough for Claire to raise her head and look directly at him. For once, Sylar is looking at her with something that isn't predatory or calculating. His expression is almost…fond.

"You are so young, Claire." He says, a note of wonder in his voice, almost as though he is just acknowledging her age for the first time. She doesn't answer him, just keeps watching as he drops the last bullet in the pile besides her head and wipes his blood-stained hands clean with the corner of her comforter.

"Well, that's the last of them. Feel free to move around again—" Claire scrambles to rise in a sitting position, just barely remembering that her top is effectively ruined and will slip off if given the opportunity. She squeaks a bit at the realization and brings up her arms to keep any semblance of modesty she can get. Sylar just laughs again, tucks his pliers into the pocket of the coat resting on the back of her desk chair, then picks it up and pulls it on. Claire just watches, idly wondering why she isn't reaching for the nearest blunt object and hitting him with it, gratitude be damned. He's still a monster, after all.

"I'll be going now, Claire. Normally, I would love to stay and chat, but you clearly need more time to think my proposal—"

"Fuck that."

"Language, Claire." Sylar frowns at her in a way that reminds Claire uncomfortably of both Noah and Nathan. "As I said, you need more time and probably have some unfinished business with that idiot who just tried to kill you." Claire blinks, before a vicious scowl crosses her face as Eric rushes to the front of her mind, already dying a thousand unpleasant deaths.

"You have no idea," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. "Of all days—I have a chemistry final tomorrow. I need to study."

One of Sylar's eyebrows go up at the seeming non-sequitor. "Well, if it bothers you I could…"

"No, thank you," Claire cuts him off before he can finish his suggestion. "Kind as that offer may be, I'll do this on myself. You'd just saw off the top of his head, and frankly, that won't satisfy me."

He smirks both at her words and at her expression. Without speaking a word he takes her face in his hands, swoops down and presses a light kiss to her forehead ignoring how she squirms with surprise and revulsion. She stares, bemused, at Sylar when he draws back, smiles at her. He repeats the motion, only this time it is her mouth he kisses, less chastely, more demanding, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheek.

She tries to slap him. He evades her palm, looking so smug that she almost feels violated.

"That was disgusting." She tells him, not about the kiss itself, which is probably better than most, but the intentions behind it.

His smirk fades. He shrugs, neither agreeing with nor rebuking her.

"See you soon, Claire." And he turns around and walks out the door. No ceremony, doesn't wait for her parting shot. Even closes the door behind him.

Claire waits until she can't hear his footsteps before climbing off her bed and retrieving a new shirt from her closet. She strips off the old one and uses it to bundle up the bullets, to throw away in some dumpster. Time to filch one of her father's guns and go hunting. She has no plans of killing Eric, but every intention of making him suffer. Not just for killing her, but also for putting her on such uneven ground with Sylar and his power plays.

Claire's mouth twists in distaste as she thinks of him. She can tell Peter, tell Noah, tell anyone she pleases about Sylar's appearance and it won't do one mite of good. He can seek her wherever she may be, has stolen memories in his arsenal against her now, as well as his favorite weapons: his words and his touch. He'll use them as ploys, bait—anything to get her to see him as not so different from herself. They haven't worked yet, but already she's let him touch her in the name of help, who knows what else she might let him do, let him say.

If she's going to be subject to his games, she'll do it on her own terms, on her own ground.

She smiles, a bit grimly.

Their little conversations always seem to go so much better for her when she works on her own terms.

Once of the most interesting things to me about Sylar and Claire's interactions is that there is a definite imbalance there (i.e. age difference, powers, maturity) in Sylar's favor, but every now and then he treats Claire almost like an equal. It's interesting, and something that must be very difficult to overcome. Of course, the way the show's going, it'll be a very long time before Claire even considers not killing Sylar on sight. Or something dramatic will happen.

Reviews?