They aren't, if I'm truthful, my favourite pairing. But as soon as I saw that episode I had to write it.

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"Well...that's very interesting" Samuel's Irish lilt breaks the silence, and it's slightly amused. His eyebrows are raised as he peers over the other man's shoulder, down at his tattoo.

The man grips his forearm, looking at his wrist. Looking at the tattoo. Yes, it's very interesting.

Sylar's lip curls as he lunges for his discarded shirt. "You're wrong" he rasps. "I don't belong here" He pulls the shirt over his head and walks briskly, almost runs away from the carnival man.

He almost doesn't feel himself lifting off the ground, flying into the sky. He's deliriously happy and murderously angry. The tattoo stings and the pain is terrible and beautiful.

He soars through the night and the cold air whips through his hair and his eyes nearly run and then he begins to laugh, and the laugh is somewhat mad.

It couldn't have turned out better! He knew it, he knew it. He knew there was a connection between them. Oh, it's brilliant. This euphoria is just mind-blowingly great.

He remembers, as he flies, their last conversation. Proper conversation.

We're very similar, you know that....I can't die, you can't die.

And there was something horribly gorgeous about inspecting her brain in particular. He still feels her blood on his fingers: warm, wet, sticky, alive. She was alive. That was the difference. He held not a cold, lifeless lump in his hands, trying very hard to find that little spark, that little specialness – but a living thing that moved and breathed and controlled. And he loved it.

I was adopted, you were adopted.

There just isn't enough love in the world for people like them. The children no one wants. The ones they hand over or give away or swap. Or sell...
She didn't like that; the adopting quip. She thinks her adoption was bad, with not being able to see her real father due to politics? She doesn't know she's born – her father didn't leave her in a diner, her father didn't sell her for money, her father

Our real dads are both pretty disappointing.

-But Papa Petrelli is gone now. Sylar saw to that. And he is never, ever ever as long as Sylar lives and breathes, coming back. And the poor girl is just going to have to deal with it. There are far too many shoulders to lean on but not one of them will fit the shape of her face just right, she won't get comfortable with one and cry. That shows how broken she is. Well, Sylar is the master of broken things, maybe he can fix her. Hell, he'd sure like to.

And then he's found her. And he can't believe how easy it was. Sylar hovers, outside her dormitory window, gazing at her, a small smile on his face.

She looks so sad, so alone. So stunning. Her golden hair fans out across the bed and her lips are pushed up in a grief-stricken pout. He could tap on the window. Or just go through it. Surprise her. She would probably throw something heavy or sharp at his head.

And part of him would gladly throw it back at her. Part of him would pin her against the wall and gut her stomach all over her bedcovers. Part of him would grab her, run his fingers through her hair and kiss her.

Tell her how much he completely loves her. Tell her how much he completely wants her dead.

Then he would show her the tattoo. The tattoo of her lovely face he now has imprinted on his wrist. And she would probably run from him. And he would not go after her for not knowing what to say. He doesn't know what to day now, as he floats.

"Hello cheerleader" A malicious hiss and he likes how ominous it sounds. It says, "Welcome to hell".

And oh, Claire-Bear, Sylar thinks smugly, I am going to make you love every single minute of it.