Let me state for the record that I am very frustrated with the limited formatting options with . This story was structured a certain way that I cannot figure out. There may be some super smart, complicated way to do it, but I do not have the apparent skill to uncover it so I am stuck with lots of line breaks, and I hate them. On a happier note, this is a dark and twisted Sylaire story that I had lying around unfinished and I am proud to have finally completed it. I own nothing and mean no harm. Please let me know what you think. This fic is dedicated to devilishlysas who is the author of amazing Sylaire fic. They've never been afraid to go there or anywhere and I have mad respect for that. I hope you check this out!

School had started. The days had fallen into familiar routines although the green and white on the uniforms in no way called to her. Been there done that she would say with a smile.

If the laugh sounded hollow in the sparkling bright kitchen no one commented.

Normal was the only thing on her menu and she was so very ready to fast.

The rumors had started innocently enough. A late night call between her Dad and an unknown frantic caller, it's a damn shame how loud some cell phones could be, but she dismissed them.

It hadn't been as easy to dismiss the extra long looks she was given over breakfast.

Something was coming.

Something big and bad and when she got her first glimpse of the man, Danko her mother had whispered to her from the stairs, she had shuddered and wished briefly for the tall man to reappear.

A villain is only as scary as he is known and she knew nothing about what this man wanted.

Betrayal cut cleanly and swiftly through her heart. All she could hear were the echoes of Matt's words in her head.

Nathan had revealed them, had begun rounding them up, and they were all scattering, running.

All of them except her.

She was Claire, she was special.

Claire learned how to hate that night. Discovered that her enemies before had never truly earned that distinction, but the lovely senator from New York had earned it.

Rules were always made to be broken.

Rebel had little convincing to do; she was eager to act and anxious to help.

Name after name had rolled through her phone and it became easier, the helping, until that name, the name on a string that tripped up her routine.

There had been no contingency plan, no one she could call in for back-up.

She had stood alone, fighting as best she could, and so she would fall; alone and fighting.

Drugs had made the fight not so important had made the days blend and the nights drip.

Her body was poked and prodded and she watched through heavy eyes her blood slipping away.

More blood, marrow, skin; for days and days, they took and cut, the men in white never left her alone.

Never let the drugs run dry.

She smiled when the cut into her legs, removing the muscles from her thighs, asking them in turn for a few artificial inches.

This had been hilarious to her; the laughter had come unbidden until the drugs slid her down deep.

Sobriety was overrated.

Three hours clean and she ached for the plastic tubing and their magic fumes.

Her wishes were dismissed, she didn't believe in fairy godmothers anymore, and her hair was washed.

Dried and clean and fed she was deposited into a cell.

Cement and glass.

A bed a sink a toilet, she blushed at the thought of using it, at them watching through the glass.

'Home' they had snickered slamming the door ferociously, the heavy lock engaging had made her jump.

She would be going home, she would.

The first night had been the easiest. She had stayed awake all night, or what she guessed was night, but time moved strangely under lock and key. Every passing hour the conviction had made it bearable, her Dad would come, he would save her and she would go home.

He never came.

And by the time the guards had made their 'morning' rounds the reality of her situation was beginning to settle.

Dreams assaulted her the next night. Sleeping fitfully, having gotten no sleep the night before, her body drank in the REM, even though she wondered why, it wasn't like she needed the sleep. Regardless her mind had turned it over and under and around.

Men in white came and cut and took and hurt. Danko was there smiling with those dead eyes his fingers would ghost across her collarbone until she sat up fully awake, panicked, the call for her Mom was on the tip of her tongue until she remembered.

She was here and not there and no one was coming for her.

No one came to talk to her; there were no interviews, no more testing. A part of her was grateful of course, another part of her hated the fact that she was being treated differently.

The walls of concrete were thick, but not thick enough to muffle the screams.

'Special Claire', she supposed it was Nathan (he was never ever going to be her Father again (and he had never been Dad)) thinking he was protecting her by running interference.

Perhaps he didn't know of her first few (days?weeks?months?) she had never figured out just how long she had been strapped to that table and she sincerely hoped she had the chance one day to let him hear all about it.

But for now she was left alone, ignored and fed, she was by no means complacent, they were no doubt cooking up some new and terrible way to torment her; regardless of whether she was special she knew there would be more suffering.

Had she been special enough she wouldn't have been here in the first place. Locked away by scared men with guns; she had seen the looks on their faces when they came with her meals and she greeted them with cuts that healed before their eyes.

It was wrong; she knew it, throwing her ability in their faces. Distancing her from them when all she had wanted was to be normal.

But it was fun. Truth, harsh as it was, seeing the disgust and fear and jealousy in their eyes had become her one and only source of amusement.

Boredom set in quickly. One could only walk in so many circles. So she had begun to jog. Then she began to stretch. And soon the one or two yoga classes she had gone too had become a Godsend.

Exercise became routine, became appreciated, and she was changing her body. She supposed since what she was doing was in no way harmful her body was not rejecting the changes.

There was tone to her arms and stomach that had never been there before.

When her Dad came to the observation window after a particularly brutal series of push ups she slipped, smashing her face into the floor, the pain of her broken nose disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

Rising, she had stared at him as he had stared back at her, he had tried to speak to her then, but the words were lost on her, blood had dripped down her chin but she had not thought to wipe it away.

In that moment she knew that she had still been waiting for him to show up, to save her, Noah Bennett was going to be the hero that saved her from this hell.

"Claire-bear", she turned away from him, giving him her back.

No sooner had Noah left, frustrated by her lack of acknowledgement at anything he had said than she had been visited by yet another of her 'protectors'.

Nathan had been quick to point out that her 'adoptive Father' had known of her whereabouts the entire time. Had in fact given them the information on when and where her collection would be optimal.

The blood had dried on her chin by the time he had left; she had fallen to her knees, the wail that tore through her bounced off the walls and back inside her head.

Her eyes stayed closed for the next three days.

Curled up on her bunk she rolled it around in her head, in her heart, until the betrayal became a hard knot of truth that rested just below her ribcage.

No matter what any of them thought, this was not safety; this was no kind of love. You could not protect with a cage no matter how many words of love you spilled through a speaker.

Claire was going to have to save herself.

No longer a Bennett, and never ever a Petrelli, she was Claire.

She liked the one name thing; it separated the girl she had been to whom she was now, and hell it had worked for Sylar.

Food came and she ate.

Lights went on and she exercised.

Lights went off and she slept.

There were no more freakish shows for the guards.

No more smiles at their grimaces.

She hadn't spoken in weeks, wasn't even sure she remembered how.

Until the door opened, her eyes flicked to the half eaten tray of food, it wasn't nearly time for dinner.

A guard looked down, his smirk hit her and she stepped back, he barked out a laugh and stepped aside, her mouth opened the words she had thought she had forgotten rushing forward when a body was pushed unceremoniously down the three grey steps.

The body was male, the arms and legs unfurled gracelessly on the floor in front of her feet, revealing a tall frame, landing face first on the concrete.

He was dressed in the same generic clothes she was, black pajama pants and black tank top, and yet there was something familiar about the way the color set across his back.

She gasped.

The first sound she had made and it was strange to her own ears.

Jumping at the sound of the door shutting, the lock sliding into place, her eyes flicked up to the closed door.

Locked up tight and thrown away the key.

Her heart flipped over in her chest, the sense of change wasn't impending any longer; it was here.

Dropping to her knees she took hold of one shoulder and rolled the body over.

A part of her had known, had sensed it, but the shock of seeing it for herself had her falling back on her butt.

"Sylar."

Stunned she could only stare at him, her hands over her mouth holding back the inappropriate giggles at how funny her first word turned out to be his one name.

Eyes wide she took him in head to toe and toe to head.

They had done a number on him. Bruises littered the limbs she could see and his face was a mess of broken and bloodied skin. He would have put up a fight, of course, a big one judging by his injuries and a not so small part of her was thrilled by it.

Revenge; he would have wanted blood for what they were doing to him. Something that had never even occurred to her; she wanted them to pay. All of them for every fucking thing and it filled her up.

Her elation was short lived as she registered the reality, the new reality, the man was broken and bleeding on the floor in front of her and she needed to do something.

Not doing something was also an option.

She had had so few options in the time she had been here that this was one she had to make.

Help him, hurt him, ignore him, it didn't matter, but she simply had to act.

Rising to her feet she took in the half eaten meal, the small coffee cup that accompanied the tray that would be confiscated at the next mealtime, and flicked her eyes over towards the small sink and toilet that sat in the far corner.

Her decision was made before she had fully acknowledged the choices.

Cup in hand she went to the sink and rinsed out the brown liquid, filling it with the coldest water she could will from the tap, she approached him carefully. Even unconscious he was still Sylar, still the man that had terrorized her for so long.

She was wise to be cautious.

Slowly she sank to her knees she considered the logistics of what she was about to do, she had little in the way of tools (and really first-aid had never needed to be her thing), so she dipped three fingers into the cup slowly, hesitantly, fully aware that everything was about to change, she dragged her fingers over his lips.

Warm skin met the cool pads of her fingers and she lifted them quickly. Monsters weren't supposed to be warm, they were cold and fierce, and gave you chills.

She dipped her fingers back into the cup and this time traced a line across his forehead; still warm, the skin was softer than she would have ever predicted.

Settling down she sat cross legged next to his head and idly traced the water across his face. Breathing had become difficult; she had realized that in her concentration, in her anticipation of his eyes opening; she was forgetting to breathe.

Snickering she considered the likelihood of blacking out from holding her breath and whether or not she would fall forward onto him, or back into the harsh concrete.

Soon enough her fingers were red and her cup empty so she rose and refilled and resumed her activities excited, she could admit it, to have something to do even if it was for Sylar, after so long of absolutely nothing.

Real worry began to set in after the third cup.

He wasn't waking up.

His shirt was soaked with the cool water and now her fear was the cold so she shifted him as best she could, dragging his head onto her lap and smoothing her only blanket over his chest.

Idly she began to play with his hair, yeah he was a killer blah blah blah, but damn it was soft and thick.

The floodgates opened.

She began to speak.

The lights went out and she gasped briefly she considered that they had not brought dinner but dismissed the concern; she had bigger worries at the moment.

And she kept up her steady stream of words. He might not have heard them to appreciate but it did ever so much for her sanity.

Beneath her palms she would catch the steady breaths slipping through his parted lips, he was alive, yes, but he wasn't awake, he might not ever wake and that was when she began to pray.

He slept through breakfast.

He slept through lunch.

He slept through her first set of exercises.

He slept through her second set of exercises.

She found herself unable to be away from him for too long enjoying the beating of his heart and the overly warm skin against hers.

Sylar's presence had become a comfort.

The thought was accepted as incredulous and promptly dismissed.

Not too long after dinner arrived, her worry had driven away her appetite and the food sat untouched, and before her third set of exercises, he moved.

Well groaned and moved, sort of rolled to the left, surprising her to the extent that she nearly let his head roll off her knee, catching it just before it hit the ground.

"Sylar," whispering seemed the only acceptable way to say his name; he was after all her boogeyman.

The groan turned into a moan and he blinked his eyes once, testing, and she cursed the fluorescence; there were no shadows to be had in the room, they didn't wasn't to let you out of their sight.

So she cupped a palm over his eyes, affording him a moment to adjust.

He continued his roll to the left and this time she was prepared, his body curling, and she was ever so surprised that those long legs could fold up quite so tightly.

Their hours together had been revealing. She had scrutinized him and studied him and considered him like nobody else. You didn't realize how much you missed a face until you didn't have one to look at.

And his it turned out was one to see.

She knew that he looked much if not exactly as he always had. Dark shock of hair, strong nose and chin, the stubble on his jaw had literally grown under her palm and she found she enjoyed rubbing her arm against it.

And lest she forget the strong sweep of his eyebrows; she had wondered once, in another life, if there was anyone, anywhere that had eyebrows as awesome as Sylar.

Her mother had gasped and yes he was a serial killer, but that didn't change the fact that he had intriguing facial hair. What she had once considered to be an interesting feature was ever so much cooler now that she had traced them under her thumb.

What would he have thought of her perusal of his feet, his toes especially, and the way the black hair had tickled as she trailed her fingers over her ankles. She had hoped at that moment, the moment she slipped the fingers of her right hand between the toes of his left foot that there were eyes on her.

Men and women in white would be observing her careful ministrations and would be jotting down notes and assumptions; reporting back to supposed 'Fathers' and 'Dads' of her actions.

Even now as he began to wake, she slipped her hand over his large one and smiled when he clutched her fingers tightly; squeezing, she felt the first tears slip down her cheeks as she squeezed back.

She cried, the first time since that rough third night, she cried and sobbed and cradled him close.

And when the last of her hiccups faded she felt his head twist against her his nose brushing awkwardly up against her belly and she felt what could only be considered a kiss.

A breath and sigh later, her fingers had sunk deep into his hair her nails scraping against his scalp they stilled when she heard it, unsure at first she slid tapped her pinky in encouragement.

The head beneath her palm turned dragging a weary, "Claire" across her abs as dark eyes lifted up to meet hers.

"Claire," there was disbelief in his voice, she couldn't blame him, there had never been anything more than disgust (hers) and coveting (his) between them.

"Funny huh?" she tried for a smile, watched as he tried to absorb it, she wondered if it looked as funny on her face as it felt.

"I bet you never thought you would wake-up with your face there," there was no stopping her, the inappropriate comments continued even as her fingers resumed sliding through his hair.

So she discontinued her anecdotes and picked up on facts.

"They dropped you in here with me yesterday not long after lunch, and it's almost time for dinner now," glancing at the door she wondered if they were planning on feeding them both now that he was awake, or if they were even going to leave him in here.

"I've been here for three months," she wondered how much longer in reality, "That I know of," their eyes met and through the cloud of pain she saw the understanding seep in.

She wondered how long he had been here, struggled to think back before everything had gone to hell and could not remember the last time his name had been mentioned.

"So that's it then," silence was easier to handle now that he was looking at her, his eyes fluttering open and then closed, and she wished there was something more she could do.

Duh, "Are you thirsty?" she reached across to the cup of water she kept nearby and brought it to his lips. With the blood washed away she had discovered the splits in his lips were from knuckles as well as a distinct set of bite marks she could only assume were his own.

As he drank slowly she considered what they might have done to him to warrant such an infliction and if she could ever consider that he had deserved it.

Had anyone justified it that way? Had Nathan washed the blood off his hands thinking 'monster'?

And what had she done to deserve what had been done to her? What justification had there been for the meat sliced from her body?

Pushing aside the thoughts as a fit of coughing snapped her back, water spit across the floor tinted red.

"Hey," she rolled him onto his stomach, "Hey," as tenderly as she could she rubbed his back as bile rose and spewed across the floor.

Drugs were a specialty of the men in white. They liked their vials and needles and Sylar was fighting off their liquid mix.

"It's the drugs," she knew he knew, but her nerves and concern were pushing out the words, "No worries."

She shushed him and held him and whispered encouragement as his body rejected and revolted at what had been done to it until he could only dry heave.

Panting and soaked with sweat he collapsed back onto her lap curled this time to his right his arm had slipped under her leg and he clutched at it.

There were more tears; she shed them silently rocking them.

The harsh clang of the lock disengaging made her gasp; his body went rigid beneath her hands as the door swung open.

They were coming, they were going to take him and she would be alone again.

She held him tighter, she wouldn't let him go without a fight, told him so, and she swore he looked at her then with an expression she had no name for.

Booted feet appeared on the top step and she sucked in her breath her muscles tight and ready for a fight.

The men in black ignored them.

One went for the mess of sick (Number Two), the other (Number Three) to the half eaten tray of food and a third man (Number One) stood to her left staring down at her disapprovingly.

They weren't here for Sylar, she almost snickered; they were here to clean-up.

There was a laugh or maybe a snort ready to burst out; mocking them would have been so nice, but Sylar had chosen that moment to begin shaking.

Convulsing was a better description. He was all arms, twisting wildly and a sob of frustration tore through her before she could catch it.

It was all so fucking hopeless. She was helpless and Sylar, a killer, the killer, was falling apart in her arms and all she wanted was to put him back together.

If Sylar was Sylar again than he would be strong and angry and would make them pay, even if it took her own life; she accepted that his hunger would be an issue if he were ever upright in this confined space but it would be worth it.

Death was a price worth paying if they all suffered.

All this she told him, a wet whisper in his ear, she didn't know if he heard her; if anything could penetrate the locked jaw of pain, but she shared regardless.

A booted foot kicked out catching Sylar in the thigh, she gasped, sending a glare up to Number One, "Asshole."

That remark earned a kick to the small of her back, so worth it though, the pain faded and she smirked.

It didn't matter that she healed over and over they just tried harder and harder to make the bruises stick

Their continued frustration continuingly amused her.

Abruptly Number One dropped to a knee, the needle caught her eye and was jabbed, without warning, into Sylar's bare arm, and she was so not amused, "What the hell?"

There was no answer, of course there wouldn't be, no one was allowed to talk to 'them'.

A hard lesson to learn, one after hours strapped to a table with the knives and needles, she had finally learned.

Why talk to 'them' when they were considered less than human, hovering somewhere under lab animals, but above crash test dummies, but only just. Truth was 'they' were so much more.

For so long she had just wanted to be normal, to live her life in peace. Her attitude had changed; she had been forced to change.

Seeing the fear and envy in so many eyes, it was hard not to hate them, not to now see herself and others like her, like Sylar, as something different, something better.

Peter would have had a shit fit. Demanding compassion and understanding, to forgive and work towards peace.

Fuck that.

Maybe someday it could be that way. Maybe someday she might regain some of those feelings.

Not now.

Man in black One pulled the needle out of Sylar's arm, none to gently, and barked an order at Two and Three. Whatever had been in the syringe their affects were instantaneous; the good stuff for once, Sylar went out like a light.

Automatically she checked for a pulse, not breathing until she found the steady beat under her fingers; she would not put anything past them. The count to fifteen put her at ease, never ever his biggest fan; she in no way wanted him dying in her arms.

Or removed from hers.

"Hey!"

Ignored again, she scrambled to her feet as Two and Three grabbed a hold of Sylar, hoisting him up they weren't careful or gentle with the grips under his arms and around his ankles.

Her protestations continued, her punches never met their mark as number One caught hold of the back of her neck and squeezed.

"Ow!"

He snickered, she glowered, and Sylar got tossed on the bunk.

Huh, the bunk was certainly better than the floor.

Two trays of food, beef jerky, apples, and two strips of saltines were deposited on the table with fresh bottles of water; all food that would keep.

Damn. They wouldn't be back for a while. It happened. Days would go by, no visits, no fresh food, just isolation.

Rationing had become easier and she eyed the supply; there was enough for two days, three if they stretched it hard.

Number One pushed her away roughly, making a show of wiping his hand on his shirt.

Whatever, she rolled her eyes and headed towards the bed, he would have to come up with a lot worse if he wanted to hurt her feelings.

Her skin had gotten real thick, real quick.

The lock clanged shut, signaling their exit.

"Just you and me," alone, finally, she hated the isolation, the silence, but solitude was much better than having them around.

Sitting on the edge of the small bunk, made even noticeably tinier with Sylar's long, lanky form draped across it.

She had no idea what to do now, her hands sat idly in her lap. Without him to care for, and it looked like he was out for a good while, she was faced with too much time.

Pulling the thin cover that passed as a blanket up to his chin, she stood and rolled her neck.

Under her feet the floor was still moist, her nose tickled from the harsh disinfectant; her anger peaked.

There wouldn't be the terrible hospital smell in the air if they hadn't pushed Sylar's body to the breaking point. 'Breaking point' sounded like something to work for. She had always done well when faced with a goal.

Dropping onto her butt, ignoring the smell and the moisture she hooked her feet around the welded and double bolted legs on the bunk.

"One,"

The first sit up was the always the worst

"Two,"

Always her favorite, the adrenaline begins to build, and the starting creep of burning fat.

"Three,"

Peace of mind.

His breathing had changed five minutes ago. Twelve hours of hard sleep later and he was finally waking up.

Seven hours in she had shook him, worried, he had grunted rolled over and begun to snore. Her worry had faded into bemusement.

Sharing a bed with him had been an experience, he was a restless sleeper, all arms and legs everywhere; even with the drugs he couldn't keep still. She had not found a comfortable spot until he had turned to his right, deciding her shoulder was a decent enough pillow (she had always thought them bony) and finally settled down.

Sleep had come and gone and there had been a meal, more exercise, as close to a bath as she could manage considering their even closer quarters, a round of stretching and a half assed attempt at some yoga, and now his eyes were blinking open.

Saying nothing, she took a seat directly in his line of sight; it would the first time hopefully free of drugs they would be interacting and she didn't want to provoke him.

They might be prisoners and roommates, but he was still Sylar.

"Cl-Claire?"

Nodding, not quite trusting her voice, she searched his face, watched the memories come back and his subsequent wince.

"You've been out twelve hours or so."

His eyes were squinting, adjusting, God he was awake, and her nerves were catching up to her, fuck.

"Whatever they gave you must have been the good stuff."

A weak smile, but she was grateful for it, that he wasn't raging at her or whatever a serial killer did; she eased out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"You want some water?"

This was going to be harder than she imagined, he was struggling to sit and she reached for him reflexively. Dark eyes were on her, she could feel his stare, but she concentrated on slipping her arms under his and helping him sit.

Touching him awake was so very different than the explorations she had made while he had been asleep; it almost undid her.

He was so warm.

Quick as a lick she was off the bed as soon as he was upright and that treacherous thought had formed; putting distance between him and the thought both. Retrieving the water off the table, she allowed herself one deep breath, and turned to face him.

Eyes, dark and intense, blatantly staring at her she lifted her chin, holding her ground; smirking when his eyebrow quirked up. They were on equal footing here.

Sure, he could probably rip her into little, bitty Claire pieces; but she would just grow back. There was no way she was going to let him bully her around her own cell with his 'I am Sylar' scary eyes.

So a little bit braver she extended the water bottle, cap on, taking a bold seat next to him; they didn't quite touch but his shoulder was awfully close to hers.

He drank; she played with the drawstring on her pants. She would never ever take clothes for granted, "I miss jeans."

Mid swallow he choked, she thumped him hard on the back until he breathed easier, "I'm just saying I miss real clothes," he looked at her like she had lost her mind.

And maybe she had, but he was considering her words, his face was more expressive than she would have imagined, as he drank.

"Bread, hot out of the oven, sourdough," his eyes had closed, she could almost taste the dough melting on her tongue, on his tongue, as he spoke; yum.

He was a foodie; she filed that away in that special part of her head for random facts.

More facts were shared between the two of them over the next couple of hours. It occurred to her several times that this was Sylar but it was great to have someone, anyone, to talk to.

No orders, no grunts, just conversation. Claire had never been one to be quiet, she had been a cheerleader for a reason, and having a person to speak to even if it was only arguing the merits of sharp cheese, she was reveling in it.

"I need a moment," her mouth snapped shut; she felt her skin blush as she nodded. Of course they were sharing a cell and there were going to be awkward moments.

Jumping up from the cot Claire eyed him as he stood, "God you're tall."

She wasn't sure she had spoken out loud until he smirked down at her, but she just rolled her eyes and went to the corner furthest from the sink and toilet.

Plugging her ears with her fingers she hummed until it annoyed her and switched to low singing until she felt a tap on her shoulder.

Jumping out of her skin she whirled around, Sylar had backed out hands splayed.

"Sorry not used to any company," Claire was quick to apologize; she really didn't want to start off on the wrong foot.

"Not to worry," Sylar took a slow circuit of the room, checking the wall, observing the thick glass and the location of the cameras. Nothing she hadn't done for hours after she had been dumped off.

"They've managed to suppress my abilities," his matter of fate declaration startled her to the point that her jaw dropped.

"Seriously?" she couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it.

"As serious as a heart attack," his dark eyes flicked her way and she shivered, not all of his abilities were 'special' he had certainly drawn a shiver out of her with that look.

That put a damper on her mood. If they could suppress Sylar's abilities than they could suppress hers, and if they could take them, than could they give them?

"They want to weaponize what we can do," Claire began to think it through.

"If they can take it away from us, neutralize those with natural abilities, than the next step will be to artificially recreate abilities in other people," she had begun to pace, chewing on her thumbnail as ideas and theories began to swirl in her head.

"Huh," her feet stopped dead and she looked up to find Sylar with his head cocked to the left studying her as if he had never seen her before.

"What?" his eyebrow rose in response and she frowned, crossing her arms, she was so about to not like what he was about to say.

"I had no idea," he all but purred at her.

Don't ask, don't ask, that damn eyebrow was daring her to ask though, "No idea about what?"

Sylar smirked, he had won and he knew it, "Claire the cheerleader with such a pretty little head on her shoulders," she shivered again as his eyes flicked to her scalp, all to aware of what he would do to her head if he could, "I had no idea you ever put it to better use."

She sniffed, her chin rising, "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

And more than one thing that she knew about him, like the feel of that lip that he was biting under her fingers, "Well I can't wait to find out."

Oh boy, when he grinned wolfishly down at her she was just about as weak in the knees as she could get without actually falling.

She was in way over her pretty little head.

A few hours after the last of their three day stretch of food was consumed the guards came back.

Sylar had kept himself in check. No more weak in the knees moments, although they had certainly shared a few special occasions, such as bathroom breaks, sponge baths, and his fascination with her yoga movements.

They had also talked, non stop, while the lights were on and even when they were out at times. Sylar had a motor mouth on him that she had not expected and they had gorged themselves on inane conversations and arguments.

He loved to argue, debate, as preferred to call them, and given that she was only a little bit pig headed, she could defend a point to death if it only meant getting him to admit defeat.

The past seventy-two hours had been the best out of her three or so months of existence.

But they were here and they wanted him.

If she had expected him to fight than she was to be disappointed. He went without a word of complaint, his eyes keeping steadily on hers until the door swung shut between them.

She did fall to her knees than.

Tears falling as soon as her ass met concrete; they had given him to her and she wanted him back.

Dread filled her as did the certainty that when he came back to her he would be hurt again, she knew it, he had known it and her heart had broken.

Food had come.

Exercising had been brutal.

More food had come.

She had not been above banging on the door with questions she knew would never ever be answered.

Another fucking meal had been delivered.

Her tears still fell and she didn't believe there were many more in her.

The blood stains on his neck and shirt indicated there had been fists.

"Bastards," she whispered into his hair.

He had clung to her hand, not a sound escaping his lips, as she reset his broken nose.

More blood spilled and her tears mixed with them.

Two days later, he had been slower to recover without the drugs, the door had opened and there had been no food.

There had been six men, armed with electricity and helmets, her eyes had gone round the second she realized they weren't here for him, but for her.

Sylar realized a second after her and his reaction had been immediate.

Claire had been nearly as impressed by the damage he could cause without powers as she was by the strength of his response to the two guards who lifted her kicking body off the floor.

That had been the moment that she had realized that Sylar had become as attached to her as she had become to him.

More blood had been taken from her.

She had lost her left arm up to her elbow.

Both of her feet were new; as were both of her ears.

There had been no drugs.

Her screams echoed in her head until she could hear little else.

He would tell her later, huddled under their meager blanket, their only source of privacy, that the bastards had piped her screams into their cell.

That was the first time he promised to kill them all.

That was the last time she hid her tears from him.

It had taken her a half day before she would come out from under the blanket.

A full day had passed before she would speak again.

"Old habit," he had only nodded at her explanation, he hadn't pushed and she had been grateful.

His acceptance of her reaction had made it that much easier for her to share, in hushed tones she had explained in detail what they had done.

He reciprocated, their eyes had met when their tales were done and Claire was certain that she had never been closer to another person than in that very moment.

Routine formed.

They came for him.

They came for her.

They had two days rest in between.

Then it would start all over.

At the end of the sixth rotation, when she had new hands to go with her new nose, he had sworn she had looked just as beautiful as ever.

That swear had shifted the dynamic in their relationship for her, "I think 2009 is over," he had nodded, puzzlement clear at her comment, "I'm eighteen now."

Realization had hit him right between the eyes; the dynamic in their relationship shifted for him then.

The changes were solidified the second he bent down to meet her lips.

If their observers were appalled that their 'special' Claire couldn't keep her hands or mouth off of the one and only Sylar, they kept their opinions to themselves.

The guards that came for him, they were on a routine after all, had a few choice words for her; she simply laughed and blew Sylar a kiss.

He had come back much worse that time.

Her hands had shaken as they had rinsed their abuse from his skin.

Claire had studied him as he slept.

Her screams had torn through her vocal chords the next night as they peeled skin away from every limb.

"They've eased up," she nodded at his words; she had been thinking the same thing the past week.

"That can't be good," he was rubbing her feet, his long fingers making complete mush of her insides; she was having trouble caring about that when she was feeling so good.

It would be the last time she would be feeling good.

Sylar came back, different.

Claire had been hesitant to go towards him. From the stairs he stood even taller, his presence that much bigger, the wrongness of his aura was even more exaggerated.

"Sylar," she called out to him, but her feet carried her backwards.

He was wrong wrong wrong.

There was a flash of something dark, Hunger dark, in his eyes and she thought for one brief second that he had his powers back.

"Claire," her heart clenched the pain in that one word, she hadn't thought anything could hurt more than the scalpels; she had been wrong.

She was moving towards him before she could reconsider.

He crumbled to the floor before she could take three steps.

Drugs were the name of the new game.

Drugs that made him see things that weren't there.

Drugs that made him hear things that couldn't be.

Drugs that made him forget his name.

Drugs that made him forget her name.

And there was the drug that made his touch so very very wrong.

"I can't control it."

He was rocking, sitting Indian style in the middle of the floor, he had begged her to get back, that her touch burned him.

"What Sylar, talk to me," Claire was frustrated, Sylar was hurt and she was confused, and she had a feeling, a bad one.

"You Claire, they want me to touch you."

Claire might have been eighteen, she might have spent the better part of three weeks making out with Sylar, but she stepped back at the word touch and what it implied.

They wanted him to do to her, with drugs, what they were waiting, by mutual consent, to do when there weren't cameras on them.

"Fuck," she mumbled, not thinking.

"Not helping," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Claire stepped as far away from him as possible, curling herself into the smallest ball possible, burying her face into her knees.

Disbelief hit first.

Fear came second.

Shame barely stayed long enough to be counted as third.

Anger rose up like the sun.

Anger, now that she could work with.

How dare they fucking force that?

Hours passed.

Sylar rocking in his pain, Claire seething in her anger, he had barely recovered when they came for him again.

Not for the first time Claire was afraid of what she would face when he returned.

Sylar never made it past the stairs. He had sat down heavily on the top step; back pressed to the steel, and had begun to talk.

Gibberish at first, she had been frightened by his ramblings; Sylar was about control and power, neither of which had been present in those first hours he had been back.

"The instincts are overwhelming, primal urges to taste and touch and claim," for the first time he looked up and across the space between them to meet her eyes.

They were dragging an animal out of him and it broke her heart.

Claire didn't know how long he would be able to keep it at bay and she needed to face that.

Facing things had never been her strong suit.

Half way through her set of crunches Claire paused, facing things wasn't the problems, figuring out solutions were.

Parents and uncles and bio-moms and well meaning painters had always made the decisions for her. Now Claire had to make a decision for herself.

Correction, she had to make her decision for herself, and for Sylar.

Resuming her crunches she worked through the problem from the new angle assessing and rejecting various possibilities, circling time and again around one option.

From the moment Sylar had been dumped, literally, at her feet, she had been given a choice; accept him or reject him. Sylar was a killer, the monster man of her nightmares, the man who rubbed her feet and loved food.

Sylar had never denied killing, had never promised her that should he regain his powers that he would stop, and she had never once pushed away his mouth as it came towards her skin.

Accepting all of him was a decision she had made without thinking about.

Now she was thinking about it and the decision was proving more difficult.

Changing to sit-ups she rolled the idea back and forth in her mind.

Accept or deny.

That was her choice, she either accepted all of him, including the side that came out of those fucking drugs, or she rejected him.

Neither choice would affect the outcome of what would happen the second he stepped back through that door. Claire was absolutely positive that when Sylar came back there would be no space between them.

She was just deciding in her head and heart if what would result was consensual.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she laughed, flopping to the ground and staring up at the concrete ceiling.

The decision made she shrugged her bare shoulders chafing against the floor; it hadn't been that hard after all, rolling over she attacked her push-ups with a clear head.

As predicted he had come back fighting, raging against the beast they had grown inside of him.

"It's OK Sylar, It's OK." She was kneeling on their bunk, the one place they had avoided after each of these returns. When he looked at her, looked at the legs not covered in clothes his eyes went wide.

"They can't force what I want to give you freely."

She didn't know how much of what she said made it through to him. The words had barely left her lips when he was on her. Hands and fingers touching and scraping, his lips were everywhere all at once.

The panic was a little bit hard to overcome at first. This had not been how she had imagined her first, or any time. But he was overwhelming when not stripping her naked.

There had been pain and very little pleasure. Watching him move above her, she understood that there could be pleasure, she hoped that one time it would be for her. His control was stretched so thin she did not complain nor fight him when not five minutes after he came inside of her he rolled back on top of her and pushed back inside.

The fucking had lasted for hours. Lights on and then off he had toyed with her body. Whatever drugs he had given her had been made to make him last. Slowly he had regained control over himself.

Eyes looking down at her had been Sylar's again and there had been a twist in his touches. He still pounded into her, his releases had sounded almost painful, the urge to claim and control in his orgasm had not abated; but he had reigned himself in enough to make it good for her.

And he had made it very, very good.

"Are you OK?" She was curled up on his chest in their tiny bunk, the blanket was somewhere by the table, the sheets were twisted around their legs. For the first time in hours he sounded like himself.

Propping her chin on his chest she looked up at him. "I'm fine." Smiling at him she willed him to believe her, to believe that she had chosen him, this, and not to give them the power.

"I especially liked that part at the end, you remember with the tongue and fingers," she never would have imagined making him blush. He did so prettily.

The eyebrow that arched in her direction was telling he was considering her, trying to understand what exactly she was saying. She smiled; he smirked.

He got the message.

More drugs the next day.

Rougher sex that followed had brought out the tears and she had cursed them with her screams.

He had held her close when he had come back to himself she might have felt tears against her waist.

Drugs that made him rougher.

Drugs that lasted too many hours to remember.

She held none of it against him and would not accept any of his apologies.

Held him close and peppered his face with kisses.

They would survive this.

The next time they took her they made a mistake.

Someone spoke, not too her, never to the lab rat, but near enough that she could hear. They had taken pints of blood, a new tech handling the bags as though they were worth their weight in gold.

"Can it really cure anything?"

The realization had hit her hard. She hadn't needed to hear more. She had heard more than enough. Pieces stumbled into place, the blood they drained from her had healing properties, and it made all kinds of sense.

Why they hadn't hooked her up to the blood lines constantly was a mystery. She supposed there was power if there wasn't too much. Snorting she looked down at her feet, she missed socks, imagining all the blood she would give away when she got out.

Or maybe not.

Who exactly had earned her help?

The light went on in the next instant.

Sylar had earned her help.

Holding her tongue had never been easy for her. Claire liked gossip, she hated secrets, and for the first time the constant surveillance was proving to be an issue.

Finally she had a plan, a tangible idea that would get them the fuck out and make them all suffer.

Getting him to understand was going to be a problem.

"Would you want to live forever?"

He had responded immediately, "Absolutely."

She smirked, "Why didn't you ever come for me then?"

"Oh I've come for you." Her laughter filled the space between them. "You always had quite the little army of protectors around you."

The look she gave him was earnest, he had to understand, and he had too. "I haven't in a while. It's all in the blood you know." Whatever they thought about the strange conversation from their video room she hoped it was enough for Sylar.

"Yes it is isn't it?"

Predatory was the only word for the smile he gave her. The shiver gave her hope.

Another visit for him, another for her, they were biding their time.

After he had come back again, this time his skin had been raging with fever as it moved against her. He had carried her by the sink; she had held back tears as she had scooped water from the faucet, splashing it onto his back as he pounded into her.

The grunt of his release was one word, "Tomorrow."

An off day, neither of them would be taken if the schedule held. Sleep hadn't been easy to come by. Not wanting to show any change, any deviation from their routine had been agonizing.

This was it, the moment.

Breakfast, he had joined her for a work out, and had offered up a sponge bath. Letting him take the lead, he had sat her on the edge of the table; the rag slid over her skin, the water was cool and delicious.

"I miss bubble baths."

He grinned. She knew there was more to it than that. Smiling in return she ran through the list of things she wanted to do when they got out; it was one her favorite past times.

His lips pressed against her neck; that was another of her favorite past times. The tension coiling in his muscles was entirely different this time. Whatever he had planned was coming.

The look he gave her before the kiss was an apology, she kept her face neutral accepting what he offered and not resisting when he kissed her; slipping his tongue brutally into her mouth.

Pain came swiftly, he had sucked her tongue into his mouth, bitten the tip clean off. Fingers dug into her ass as he sucked deeply, then slipped up to her hair and yanked the tie back out. Long strands hid the desperation of their connected mouths.

Her ability kicked in, the tip of her tongue staunching the blood flow. He still held her close, his body tight with anticipation.

It wasn't working.

It had to work.

It had too.

They needed something more, a bigger, better exchange.

Resuming the kiss she tugged at his tongue, biting hard until his blood flowed. He groaned, understanding warring with desire, and bit her right back.

This kiss was different.

As her blood mixed with his wound she could feel the changes in him. Their clothes were falling to the floor. Appearances had to be kept after all.

The fingers that trailed over her naked skin were full of a power she remembered.

She groaned with delight, he was healing.

She groaned with desire, he was inside of her and she was inside of him.

Telekinesis had been the first power he had stolen; he had confessed all of his sins to her and she had absolved him. There were ghost fingers running over her back and across her forehead.

"Yes, yes, yes," she hid her delight with desire. Those watching had no idea what was coming for them.

They came together, a shout a groan. When their eyes connected again she was looking at Sylar, whole and hearty and ready to fight. The sight warmed parts of her she couldn't remember feeling for some time.

One more thing; he wouldn't have asked or taken, maybe before but not now. They dressed quietly both moving without revealing what was about to come. Moving to the bunk she sat down back pressed to the wall.

He was beautiful. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his muscles he was preparing for the fight. Tall and dark, the nightmare had become the hero. And she wasn't willing to let go of that.

His attention was on the door, the cameras, and not on her. She couldn't have that.

Clicking her tongue she smiled slowly when his eyes swung her way. "I thought you wanted to live forever." The invitation hung between them. Head cocked he considered her words, the position she sat in.

His grin was absolutely devastating.

The alarms were triggered too late. By the time the gas had started seeping in through the vents he had crushed the locks on the doors and destroyed the vents the gas could no longer slip through. He moved towards her slowly, his power, his hunger was barely contained.

She didn't know if she would survive it. She thought she would, had a strong feeling she would and she saw the questions in his eyes. Through the hunger she saw him and that gave her hope. Reaching for him she cupped his cheek, much as she had that first night.

"Do it," she whispered, "No matter what I want them to suffer." With a kiss to her free palm he nodded.

She couldn't help the screams as he began to cut into her skull.

Security crumbled within minutes, those who didn't run were killed. There was no mercy from the dark menace. Claire smiled as the labs started to burn, the scientists with their detached eyes screaming as the flames licked at the skin.

For every pain they inflicted on her he returned tenfold. Other specials were freed. Some stayed to fight, to get back what was taken from them, some ran wanting nothing more than distance between them and the horrible memories. The ones that had pieces taken from them that hadn't grown back Claire stopped and cut at their palms, pressing her own cut hand against the wound.

They too had earned her help.

All too soon, the building that had caged them all fell under the weight of Sylar's retribution.

"It's beautiful isn't it," he asked as he strode up next to her. She slipped her hand into his; the hill they stood on gave them a perfect view of the burning structures. The government had poured lots of resources into their project.

"Yes it is," she smiled at him squeezing the arms that snaked around her waist.

When the fires died and the ash had begun to catch in the air he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I owe you a bubble bath."

Claire laughed, "And I owe you some sourdough bread."

"Any place in particular," he asked, their bodies lifted with ease as his powers shifted. Flight he had acquired in Topeka, she was glad it hadn't been from West and had grinned when he had wished it had been Nathan. They could go anywhere now.

"Somewhere cold, I want snow." She wanted to make a snowman and drink hot chocolate. "I want to ski."

Sylar considered her choice, "I don't ski." Claire laughed.

She had a lifetime, times, to change his mind.

They men watched the footage in silence. Side by side the color picture held nothing back.

Neither cringed when the skull had been lifted, or the fingers had begun to explore. The months of watching far worse on the daughter they loved had steeled them to all visuals.

Nathan had at first expressed disbelief that she had offered the gift. Noah had not been surprised at all.

"She's not the Claire we remember." They had made sure she would never be the same when they had agreed to let Danko take her in. The deal had been protection for her and compliance from them. When the promise had been broken, the lure of her gift had been too much for the government to resist, they had done everything they could to save her.

"Do you think she will forgive us?"

Noah didn't think she would, not in this lifetime, "Maybe."

One day she would learn of what they had orchestrated. Convincing the men in power to test the drugs on him, her resilience had made her the perfect guinea pig. Watching his daughter caged up with that monster, had almost killed him but Noah had known that if anyone could save her it was Sylar.

He had not disappointed. No one would be getting anywhere near Claire; including them.

Someday she would know and maybe then she could forgive them; if what they had subjected her too had left any forgiveness in her.