What happens when you throw a naive but book-smart politician's daughter and a hot super-powered serial killer in the same fanfic together? Feel free to read and find out!

If you're getting an update about a new chapter addition to this story, I'm sorry. I realize the error of my ways. I had a semicolon problem.

Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or the characters.

Claire collapsed on the stiff mattress in her hotel room. Although it was a meager accommodation at best, it was all they had available when she checked in, and she would have slept on a rock after smiling and posturing with her father all day. The life of a politician, what an exciting future she had to look forward to.

Claire was many things, but unintelligent was never one of them, that much was clear to anyone who knew her. She couldn't deny that she was very grateful to have all of the things that she did: a loving family, a robust wallet, and all the well-bred connections that went along with being a U.S. senator's daughter. Feeling guilty about her momentary lack of gratitude, Claire glanced suspiciously at the mini-bar in the corner of her hotel room, just what she needed to unwind after a long day.

An hour and several empty bottles later Claire started to get frustrated, she wasn't feeling relaxed at all! Channel 10, 11, 12, 13, oh we don't get 14… Resigned to do something about it, she picked up her mobile and dialed one of her many socialite "friends." Although this life wasn't all about social benefits, the perks included really did help, particularly when one wanted to get into an exclusive club.

It only took Claire a half hour to get ready, and she was stuck waiting around for Jessica to show up. She sat patiently though, knowing perfectly well that when she did finally get there, they would have a guaranteed good time. She knew money couldn't buy happiness, but it could buy distractions.

Claire and Jessica walked right past the hundreds of people waiting in line as usual, a privilege they were thankful for, they didn't need the bad press releasing compromising photos of them frequenting a considerably shady joint like The Atomic. Claire didn't bother to look around her when they were finally safe from camera flash inside the club.

All clubs were basically the same to her; the same sex-driven bodies swaying and grinding to the music on the dance floor, the girls paying their way through college by dancing in cages, the bright flashing lights and hammering techno beats that forced their way into your head. No, that would come later… maybe. Claire headed straight to the bar, slammed a couple of bills down on the bar, and told Larry to leave the bottle.

As she sat in the corner, Claire spent what felt like hours trying to get drunk and watching Jessica be pawed at by many able-bodied males. The whole thing was a little barbaric for her tastes. Claire had appraised her friend before, and she couldn't help but be jealous. Jessica was tall, blonde, stacked, and had an elegant face to go with it all; she was the very definition of a blonde bombshell. Claire looked at her comparatively careless appearance and she knew that she wasn't likely to receive any positive attention tonight, so she decided to call it quits.

After she made her way toward the middle of the dance floor, Claire discovered that Jessica was no where to be found. She made the decision to check the bathrooms before heading out on her own. Luckily for her, in the process she ran into a recent acquaintance of hers whom she had met the last time she was out. His name was James Mortimer, and he was tall, dark, and handsome with a great smile and even more charm than she could claim to have.

Up to her current place in life, Claire had never met any one that she could really say had swept her off her feet. As a member of the May family, she had learned to recognize (for the most part) when people were posturing and merely trying to get what they wanted. Her family was little more than a treacherous web that was entirely founded upon deception.

Claire was starved for the right kind of attention, she wanted to know what true affection really felt like. Was it more like passion? Lust? It would have been an easier conclusion to reach if she had known what feelings she actually held for James, and which ones he returned. Her evaluation was entirely clinical really. Since she had virtually no experience in relationships of the romantic persuasion, she didn't really feel qualified to place actual feelings two people may have for each other- it was all qualitative.

They had talked for a little while and Claire was nearly bored to tears. It really was a nice offer by James to take her home. In fact, the proposal would have been plain silly to refuse, it was nearly impossible to get a cab in that part of town, and especially at that time of night.

Claire considered the ramifications of her actions, she had after all been assured that Jessica had left with his friend. Being fairly positive that her friend was in well enough hands, she was obliged to accept the ride home. This guy was more boring than watching paint dry, and that definitely pointed in the opposite direction of trouble.

Much to her dismay, only ten minutes into driving, James started to get a little too fresh for her liking, particularly since he knew that she had been drinking. Despite whether or not she was feeling the alcohol in her system, Claire was fairly positive that scamming on supposed drunk girls crossed some sort of moral lines somewhere, it was at least morally gray and pathetic. Claire started to get seriously concerned when things took a turn for the worse and James pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. Wherever they were, she was absolutely positive that it was nowhere near Manhattan.

Claire clumsily fumbled around in her purse for her mobile, the movements were awkward as she tried to act casual in the threatening situation. James unbuckled her seat belt and started to slide his too large hands up her thighs, the contact made her cringe. "Stop it!" Claire shouted at him in disgust, and shoved his hands away, but it only made him forceful as he pinned her to the passenger door with his body weight.

"Come on baby girl. I know you've been eying me." Claire struggled beneath him. She couldn't believe that this kind of thing was happening to her of all people. "Don't be a tease Claire!" he growled at her and ripped at the top of her dress. Claire was infuriated with him for exposing her like that.

"Get off me!" she snarled angrily, and when he didn't, she tried her best to summon the strength necessary to bury her fist in his nose. Her punch connected weakly with his jaw as he fought to keep her underneath him.

"You're going to pay for that you bitch!" It was an absolute nightmare, the stuff from bad movies. Claire tried screaming but he clamped his hand over her mouth and brought his face closer to hers so that he could whisper something awful in her ear, "Do you think your daddy will care? Do you think he will care that his dear little daughter got the attention she was looking for, just like the god damn filthy whore you are?" He slapped her hard. "He doesn't give a damn about you. No one cares about you."

A cold feeling set in her stomach as Claire realized that he was right, no one was coming to help. no one could hear them. She refused to let this happen though, she wouldn't let her first time be forced, and especially by this guy. If the way he was speaking to her was any indicator of events to come, it wasn't a sure thing that she would even come out of this night alive if she didn't act fast. It was time for a plan B.

She looked around, deftly scanning the vehicle for things she might be able to use against him. Eureka, the idiot had forgotten to lock the doors. Claire attempted to inconspicuously feel out the door handle with her fingertips. When she found it, she connected her forehead to his nose- hard, and tumbled out from underneath him onto the pavement below.

The rough ground tore at her skin as Claire scrambled to right herself, and she felt as if she had at least twisted an ankle upon landing. As far as Claire was concerned though, this was a lucky conclusion to her night. At first she contemplated trying to maintain some of her dignity by walking away from the vehicle cool and calmly, but she knew better than to not look back. She spared James a last glance. The look in his eyes frightened her. He started to stalk after her with malice and purpose in his steps and she broke out into a run, trying her best to maintain a sprint in high heels. With nowhere to go, Claire ran toward the lights and the sounds of people and traffic ahead of her.

Once surrounded by the safety of the public, Claire evaded her pursuer by weaving through the bodies that had gathered on the street to see a group of live Jazz performers. Her emotionally tattered body was hardly able to offer much resistance against the sea of shoulders that slammed into her as she used the people around her for cover. Although Claire was reassured by having narrowly escaped what she suspected had been escalating to rape, she found herself in a new predicament- she had absolutely no clue where she was.

Just like in the club, the masses of people, loud music, and lights caused chaos where she was trying to find order. Claire's head was spinning. She needed to get out of the ocean of confusion around her, so she looked to the quietest place she could find on the street, shuffling with an awkward gait because of her broken heel.

Claire found herself wishing that this could have at least happened near home, no one here seemed to bother to notice the distressed girl. Not that any of the snooty entitled residents back home would have helped, but she would have at least felt safer, and someone would have likely notified the police about her state of indecency. There was only one seemingly open shop at the end of the street she had found herself exploring.

Upon leaning forward to knock on the entrance of the drab looking shop, Claire was knocked backward onto her rear by the front door, once again her skin shredding against the unforgiving ground. Gazing up from the sidewalk for the second time that night, her eyes fell upon an outdated but perfectly pressed plaid shirt and vest. Claire allowed her eyes to continue to travel upward until they fell upon a face hidden behind thick black glasses. The man above her wore a surprised and decidedly uncomfortable expression.

After a moment of awkward and inquisitive silence passed between the two loners, the man finally brought it upon himself to speak, "I'm just closing up for the night." Claire saw that he did not extend a hand toward her and heaved herself up from her place on the sidewalk.

Determined to rise above his awful manners, even in her horribly disheveled state, Claire held her hand out to him, "I'm Claire," she said as confidently as she could, giving him a prize-winning smile. Still shaken from the night, her confidence was crushed when he tilted his head slightly and stared at her.

Instead of returning the friendly gesture, the man eyed her extended hand with obvious disdain. Another beat of awkward silence crossed between them, and It occurred to Claire that her hand was probably filthy. The man was very likely still looking for an explanation as to why she was at his door in the first place. She wished she could see his eyes. She was done trying to figure people out for the night, and his large frames that masked his face certainly didn't help.

Claire ashamedly tucked her hand into the folds of her barely there dress, looked at him hopefully and spoke again, "I'm sorry, but I'm a bit lost. I was wondering if you could…" tears began to gather in her eyes as she continued, "tell me where I am please." The tall man looked at her, his face pull of pity. He must have initially taken her for a common streetwalker of sorts, Claire was fully aware that she probably looked like one in her filthy clubbing get-up.

"Well Claire, I hate to tell you this but you're a little outside of Ridgewood," he said, and apology was actually present in his voice. Claire looked up him blankly, so he started again; "Let me guess… mid-town Manhattan?" Claire abashedly admitted to his observation being correct.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked him.

"Well actually… from the way you're dressed, I doubt that most people would come to that conclusion." For the first time that night, Claire looked down at her clothing and grimaced.

"Oh," was all she could manage through her embarrassment, and instantly found a spot on the ground that piqued her interest. Although she would rather they had both just stayed silent, he spoke again.

"It's a long way back to Manhattan Claire, and you don't look in any shape to be traveling on your own. My apartment is just a block over, why don't we go get you cleaned up, and then I'll see what I can do about helping you get back to where you belong." It struck Claire as odd that even though the words should have sounded fatherly, this strange man gave a stranger twist to them… it was somewhat appealing really.

"No. No! I feel fine!" protested Claire, who didn't want to be a further bother to the stately man in front of her. "I'll just call a cab." No need to get herself into further trouble that evening. The man gave her another odd look, and straightened his shoulders.

"Miss," he said, "You're covered in blood." Claire thought that the mock-authoritative way he said this was most endearing. She realized her first impression was wrong, the shop was just the man's facade, he was every bit a little boy playing dress-up in a man's body, a regular Clark Kent. She watched carefully and studied him as he looked at the ground for a second and man started to add to his previous account, "My name is-" shifting his eyes to the right, he fixed his statement, "My name is Sylar."

Claire stood behind Sylar as he pulled an array of tricks to pry his door open, he didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed when he declared more to himself than anyone else, "I'll have to fix that." Claire stayed close behind Sylar as she followed him into the small apartment, and scrutinized the room. It didn't take her long to notice that from what she could see, the entire place was covered in clocks, large and ornate grandfather clocks, old steam-punk looking devices, and beautiful, priceless watches. It figured that he would live in such an old run-down apartment, the clocks must have been worth a fortune.

Claire concluded that Sylar must have been man of impeccable taste, and as she looked around the rest of the apartment, she did not feel that she had made a false examination. The surfaces and cabinets in Sylar's apartment were of obvious high quality, but they were all very old; from the condition they were in, Claire supposed that Sylar was the kind of man who never failed to use a coaster. She ran her finger across the surface of a small end table and internally smiled, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," she said quietly but out loud. Sylar heard her.

"That's what my mother used to say," he told her in a far away voice and turned a set of of suspicious eyes on her. There was indeed something strange about this man, Claire almost saw homicidal tendencies in his mannerisms. The impeccable state in which he kept his living quarters, his strange reaction to mention of his mother, his obvious anti-social behavior- they all came together to give her a strange feeling, but it was subdued beneath the warm tone of his voice and his childish sense of confidence. Claire instantly felt ashamed and decided that she had misplaced the connection. Sylar wasn't a serial killer, he had mommy issues, possibly very severe mommy issues, but a trivial affectation nonetheless. After all, who didn't have problems with their parents? It wasn't as if Claire wanted to be a politician, she found the entire field to be utterly tiresome. Now a criminal profiler…That would be an interesting career.

Claire was curious now about what kind of shop Sylar owned, so she asked him the first thing she could think of, "Is that what you do?" Unaware that her thoughts had gone back to his statement about the door, he looked at her confused again; the question clear in his eyes. Claire paused and started again with renewed enthusiasm, "Do you fix things?"

"Yes," as he said it, Sylar gave himself a private smile that she was sure she wasn't meant to see, and quietly continued "I fix things, I even fix people."

Claire was slightly taken aback by the sheer creepiness factor that this guy exuded sometimes. He had less of a tall, dark, and handsome thing going on, and more of a tall, dark, and possibly not all there thing going on. Something about him intrigued Claire though, implored her to stay.

"What do you mean you fix people?"

"Oh." He seemed not to realize that he had said it out loud. "I um..." he stuttered, "Well I went to medical school when I was younger, but had to drop out to take care of my mother."

"But mostly you fix clocks right?"

"Hmm?" He replied absentmindedly, expecting her to continue as he wasn't aware that she even asked him a question.

"You fix clocks," she restated.

"Ah yes, I repair timepieces," he threw back at her flippantly.

Drawn out of his reverie by her nervous shuffle, Sylar smiled at her this time. "I'm sorry, I'll get the bath started up for you miss." He disappeared down the hallway and left Claire in the living room. Claire was thoroughly wigged and even more curious about him. She wasn't used to people simply ignoring her, and frankly it was refreshing to be around someone who wasn't viewing her as either a political pawn or a piece of meat. She hadn't noticed it before, but Claire realized that she actually felt a little offended that Sylar didn't seem to find her remotely attractive, she frowned at the thought and set off toward the sound of running water… Maybe after she'd cleaned up a bit, she thought as she self-consciously twaddled her thumbs.

Claire stayed in the bathtub until her fingers began to prune and the smell of something delicious and home-cooked started to resonate through the apartment. Even for as long as she lay in the bottom of the tub trying to figure out how she was not even remotely injured, she came up with no answers. She recalled the pain that she had felt when she had escaped from James, the twisted ankle, the torn flesh. None of it made any sense at all.

The bigger mystery was where all the blood came from. If she was not injured, then there shouldn't have been any blood right? It certainly didn't belong to anybody else. Claire briefly wondered if maybe she did actually get drunk, so drunk that she didn't remember what happened. That theory would have made sense had she not been perfectly able to account for every second of the night. Claire thought to herself that she must have done something she didn't know about. She hoped that she was just dreaming, even if everything about the night had felt so real.

Disgusted with herself for getting into such a situation, and humiliated at the thought of James' hands all over her body, Claire picked up a sponge and began to scrub her skin raw until it turned a bright and painful color. The color red inspired vivid images in her head… No not images- memories. Claire distinctly remembered getting pretty beaten up while she was trying to get away from James. She remembered the blood as the skin on her knees gave away to raw flesh. But how was it possible that she wasn't hurt anymore? It was time to get some answers, and take matters into her own hands.

Eying Sylar's straight razor on the sink, Claire stretched out to grab it, she held it in her hand for a moment and then grasped the blade as hard as she could. She cried out, definite pain there! Blood started to pour from her hand and turned the water around her a light red. At least it was official, she wasn't dreaming, dreams couldn't hurt so badly.

Almost instantaneously, Sylar's concerned voice could be heard from just outside the bathroom door, "Miss?" he tried, receiving no answer, "Claire! Are you alright in there?" She thought that he sounded as if he were standing at the opposite end of a tunnel, and she became confused from the rapid loss of blood. After a few seconds however, Claire stopped feeling light-headed and looked at her hand again. Her eyes widened in amazement as she watched the deep red gashes on her hand cover themselves with skin. The angry and fresh wound almost immediately scarred over and eventually healed itself completely. Her hand now looked as if no wound had ever been there in the first place.

"Yeah…" Claire breathed, disbelief staining her voice, "Yeah I'm fine."

Claire sat at the small dining table tucked away in Sylar's kitchen. She had a sick, unsettling feeling in her stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with her current state of hunger. Her host placed a plate in front of her and gave her a dazzling smile, albeit a purely obligatory one.

"This smells delicious," Claire told him. "It's refreshing to eat something other than sushi and fillet mignon for once."

"No, you wouldn't be likely to find sushi around here," he told her, "well not edible sushi anyway." He smiled slightly at his joke and continued to watch her eat; his eyes followed her every movement.

Claire smiled as she savored a bite, "Yep! Good old fashioned home cooking, just like mom used to make." Sylar shifted uncomfortably at this, but no more than a second later he froze as a realization hit. Sylar looked at her long and hard before opening and closing his mouth a few times, as if he were trying to figure out the right words to use. Claire glanced up to measure his response, but was taken aback by the pale shade that had washed across his face.

"Sylar, what's wrong?" she asked him cautiously. He was looking at her as if she were some sort of alien.

Still staring straight at her, Sylar began with just her name, "Claire." He paused, looking very thoughtful. A look of understanding came over him before he continued, "Claire… As in Claire Bennet; the illegitimate daughter of the infamous Dennis May?" He more stated the fact than asked her.

Claire was caught off guard by his sudden declaration. She dropped her fork and pierced the silent air as it plunked to the plate below. She had hoped that her father's career wouldn't come up- he wasn't exactly a favorite among most intelligent people. They studied each other's guarded expressions carefully.

In an attempt to get her to relax from her tight shouldered position at the edge of her chair, Sylar hastily began with an apology. But as Claire rose up from her chair, he surprised them both by forcefully shoving her back into place at the table. As if recognizing what he had just done and the line he had just crossed, Sylar grew wide eyed and immediately ripped his hands from her body. He backed up until he hit the wall behind him.

"I… I'm" he stuttered.

"I don't like it when strangers put their hands on me." She eyed him dangerously, positively seething.

"I'm sorry Miss Bennet!" Sylar exclaimed. "It's just that I'm not used to having company." Claire started toward the front door.

"Clearly!" Claire cried, "I can see why most would avoid such a mistake."

"No! Miss Bennet please," he protested. "Claire" her name rolled off of his tongue like a song. "Claire wait. I was just surprised is all. Why didn't you tell me who you were when we first met?" The tone of his voice made her pause, he sounded offended.

Looking over her shoulder she clarified, "I did." With a little more moxie she continued to tell him, "I told you my name is Claire," with carefully placed emphasis on her name. A smug look was cast upon her pretty face she spoke the rest of her piece, "Besides, it would seem that neither of us have been completely forthcoming with our true identities. So tell me," she demanded as she spun around and stalked up to him, "What is your real name?"

Sylar took a moment to recover his composure and looked at her stonily, "My name is Sylar," he stated clearly.

"No." She said with a tone of finality, "It's not. Now tell me who you are. No lies."

"Fine," the man spat. "My name is Gabriel Gray".

"See that wasn't so hard, now was it Gabriel?" Claire said; a fake smile accompanying her sour tone.

"How did you know?" he questioned her with a hard and searching look.

"I'm majoring in behavioral science," she replied simply. "Your eyes told me that your mind was fabricating an auditory memory. You should be more careful."

Gabriel's eyes flickered with interest, "That's an interesting gift you have there Claire. Such talents, they're rare. I suppose you want to know why I gave you the name Sylar."

"Clearly."

"Maybe later," he smirked. "Your food is getting cold, you should eat. I'm going to have my turn in the shower now. I'll know that you trust me if you're still here when I get back." Gabriel retreated to the bathroom. Claire gaped at his audacity. No doubt he actually thought she was going stay.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Claire followed him.

"If you'd like to take your chances out there-" Claire glanced behind her at a window that revealed the dark street with hooded figures barely visible in the buildings' shadows. "Feel free. It matters very little to me," and at that he closed the door a few inches from her face and disappeared.

At some point during the time Claire swept around the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, Gabriel seemed to materialize behind her clad in nothing but a towel, toothbrush dangling from between his lips.

"Do you make it a habit to poke around in other people's kitchens as a guest?" His tone was friendly and amused.

Speechless for a moment, Claire toyed with the clean plate she held in her hands and nearly dropped it, "I'm sorry. I was just trying to-" Gabriel leaned around her and spat out a mouthful of toothpaste in the kitchen sink. Claire immediately stopped speaking and froze at the new proximity he offered, momentarily distracted by the unexpected heat and electricity that radiated off of his well muscled chest and broad shoulders. Her eyes involuntarily followed the dark trail of hair extending down… down… down his long torso to the attractive v revealed by the towel that he had slung dangerously low around his hips.

Fully aware of her examination, Gabriel cleared his throat and gave a straight, white toothed grin closely following look of horror she wore upon realizing that she had been discovered checking him out.

Claire attempted to recover from her blunder with a breathless and obvious statement. "You're not wearing glasses," she attempted innocently. That was innocent! A completely non-sexual observation… Right? She thought to herself as she powerlessly tried to avoid being entranced by the warm depths of his eyes. She was thankful to be ripped back into reality at the sound of his reply before she could embarrass herself too thoroughly.

"They help with my work, but aren't actually necessary for me to wear all of the time," Gabriel explained self-consciously. The confidence he gained from her obvious appraisal apparently long-since disappeared as he awkwardly distanced himself from her and the sink. Gabriel was well aware that the glasses hid his dark and unusually thick brows, a detrimental flaw which he was convinced prevented his face from being considered handsome, to any extent.

Claire found herself thinking just the opposite. Without his face hidden by the large spectacles, she could easily admire the hard square of his jaw, full lips, straight nose, and the dark set of expressive eyes that made him so interesting. 'So that's why', she surmised. Whether his name was Sylar or Gabriel, it didn't really matter to her, he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She had never before been so attracted to someone, and realized that she finally knew what it felt like- the electricity, the heat, it was like playing with fire. The danger she recognized behind his eyes no longer seemed out of place, it seemed right, and he seemed right.

"So um… Claire." Gabriel was the first to break the spell. "I should probably go get dressed. I guess you can stay here tonight if you want to. We can wash your clothes and you can return home in the morning."

"Sure," she almost whispered, "I'd like that."

"Yes. You must be beat, I'll go set up my bed for you. I'll take the couch," Gabriel sputtered as he hurriedly made his way to the only bedroom.

"Thank you," she said a little too late.