Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes

01 December, 2009

The ink swirled under his skin, like pigment in water, not mixing or settling, just flickering about. It was an odd sensation, a ghost of a breath upon his chest, his shoulder, his back, his neck. It prickled too, not painfully; more like gooseflesh after someone trails their fingers over warm skin.

His pulse raced as the ink seemed to settle slightly. When the ink did settle the tall man swallowed. Of course. It would be that, it always was, always would be. It was her. The ink had formed a perfect three-quarters portrait of the Cheerleader. Every millimeter was her, from the sweep of her hair to the disillusioned look in her eyes. His fist curled in reflex as he looked at her, the muscles cording beneath his flesh causing her image to ripple slightly, her pout flashing into a smile for half a second before disappearing. It was very her. It was the mask that she wore so easily, the cheerleader that had always been so much more than she appeared.

"Well, isn't that interesting," the sly comment was breathed with an underlying smirk. Sylar's jaw tightened a little further before he consciously relaxed it. He knew better than most the danger of that particular brand of smirk. It wasn't idle. There was a deeper subtext of glee of a plan unfolding perfectly. That irked the dark man. He was no one's plaything. Not again, not ever again. He had been stung once too many times by that beehive to be unaware of the signs of the trap.

Sylar relaxed, letting his newly inked arm fall to his side. "I guess you were wrong. I don't belong here," he told the Carnival's Master with as unaffected an air as possible. He stepped back and turned to face his would-be puppet master. In swift movements that lacked the aggression of the man's nature Sylar tugged his t-shirt on and smoothed it down, moving towards the exit of the tent.

His steps faltered at the opening, turning his head to look back at the older man. Sylar snorted softly, "Who am I kidding." The animal in the man burst forth in one powerful push. Sylar had his foe immobilized. Sylar's lip twitched, itching to curve upward into a smile, as Samuel's dark-lined eyes flickered frantically. He epitomized prey searching futilely for an escape. There would be no escape.

"Oh Samuel, I am grateful to you," Sylar stepped up to the man who was pinned against a beaten-down trailer. A large breath slipped past the killer's lips, "If you hadn't tried to make me play your game I never would have gotten this power. Realized what I now know I have to do."

Samuel choked, his breath rasping from his throat.

"Shh, shh," Sylar slid his hand up the other man's throat, long fingers tightening along with his power. "I can see the path now. The funny thing about this is that Lydia wanted to manipulate me to kill you, and I wasn't going to do that. And then…well, you can imagine the influence a girl like Claire has over people." Sylar smirked. "You see, Claire and I are…she's special. You wouldn't understand."

Sylar stepped back, "So thank you, for reminding what has always been important."

The rasping became a gasp and a sharp crunching. Samuel died without screaming, it was pitiful, a small death befitting a small man.

Straightening, the man's slack face stretched into a dark smile. Already the path was straightening, Sylar glanced down at the portrait and his smile softened.

He wasn't particularly handsome. He knew that, he certainly hadn't been popular in school. He was an outcast, a geek, scorned by her type. Hell, he still was. Sylar wasn't blind or a fool. On occasion he let hope overcome his senses, but he had seen how she acted with the younger Petrelli. She was all eyelashes and sweet smiles. She had been smiling up at her hero, all the adoration and love in the world in her eyes. It had enraged him to a point, even when he was hunting her she wasn't focused on him.

His desperation to be recognized, to be seen, had driven Sylar. He had needed to make her see him, fear, pain, hatred were better than nothing. It made her look at him. Made her eyes light with anger, she saw him. So Sylar played the part, he hunted her; he made a nuisance of himself. It was the role he was destined to play. The geek to her cheerleader, always lingering on the fringes of her life.

Then things had changed. He had been caught in a trap. He had been played, used. He had been told he was a Petrelli, wanted, special. He felt like maybe he wasn't the outcast, and for one brief moment he got to be the hero. He saved her, saved the Cheerleader. For a brief moment when his hand closed around her delicate wrist and their eyes locked there was no glint of hatred or anger, there was only the fear of the unknown and a flash of relief. Her pulse under his hand had shuddered and clamed.

Sylar reveled in being the suave hero who rescued the damsel in distress in the nick of time. Claire had pulled away, but the moment didn't disappear. She saw him, saw him in a way no one had before. His mother, Angela and her sons, The Company, Elle, Noah, Mohinder and his father, Hiro, none of them had seen him. They had seen who they wanted to: their precious boy, the weapon, the tool, the pawn, the killer, the Boogeyman.

It hadn't made sense, grabbing her, preventing her removal from the world. He had what he had sought from her: the power to heal. If it were anyone else he would have sat back and relished the turn of events. Not with Claire, he had grabbed her wrist and he had pleaded with her. He had let her see the desperation, the desire to be accepted for who he really was. Sylar wasn't a bad man despite what Hiro and Molly might say, he was, once, a good man who followed the rules and genuinely tried to help people.

His power had changed things, changed him. The whispers in the back of his mind, the unquenchable thirst for power overpowered him. Gabriel had tried to stop himself, had tried to be good again, but he had become Elle's pawn, the Company's pawn. In those moments of hope he had been too blind to see the trap. Now he saw the path he had traveled on to get to this moment.

Everything was a product of a choice in a previous moment. The hotel, Nathan, Matt, the Carnival, the tattoo, Samuel's death and the deaths of those immutably loyal to him. Those seemingly small choices had brought him here to this moment.

Sylar breathed shallowly as he watched her slump down onto her bed. A note fluttered to the ground and he heard her exhale sharply. She wasn't happy. She was annoyed, Sylar knew that exhalation perfectly.

Claire unzipped her boots and slid them off her feet, toes wiggling at the new-found freedom. She padded across the room to the window. Sylar's upper-lip twitched upward minutely. She stared out, past him, but Sylar saw her, met her gaze and the tension and uncertainty inside him uncoiled.

Each breath was fire in his lungs. He could almost feel her silky soft skin under his fingertips, the sleek strands of her hair beneath his palm, and the press of her full lips against his, the sweetness of a peach against his tongue.

He needed her. Sylar would admit it to no one but her. Sylar had never admitted it to anyone but her. He had been sincere in the hotel. Sylar would never let her go, she could rage and hate him, kill him, but he would be there for her, on the fringe of her life.

Now, now Sylar knew that would never be enough. Not after the tattoo had settled. He needed Claire to see him, to see value, to see a man she was…proud of, that she could care about.

He had been lost after coming back to himself. Sylar needed Claire to give him answers, to give him purpose again.

So he stood, watching her, waiting for the next choice on this path.

A/N: 1/25. Each Christmas I pick a fandom I love and write a Christmas fic a chapter a day. So in exchange for a chapter please let me know what you think. I'm writing this for all the Sylaire fans as my first foray into the world of Heroes.