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Nathan Petrelli has a problem.

Has had it for a while now.

He still doesn't know when it got a hold of him, but he suspects it slowly dug its claws into him like a disease. No, not like... it is a disease. And unfortunately, it is too late to cure it.

In fact, it's only getting worse.

Just yesterday he fantasized about... no, he won't go there. He can't do that to HER. But oh, the things he wanted to do that delectable...

He shakes his head to clear the dirty images from his mind.

This is not appropriate.

And also a huge understatement.

He is a pervert and he's never considered himself being one. Sure, he has no high morals. After all he is a politician. No one can get as far as him - so fast - if he was completely straight-laced.

But he is a hard worker.

And if he has a young, blonde secretary for more than just secretary work while running for president, no one can begrudge him this.

Heidi is gone and the most suitable substitute wife, Tracey, is dead. Her twin – he could've molded after Tracey – is dead, too. And Meredtih, the firecracker, had never been suited for the wife of a president in the first place. May the devil have mercy on her. She'd gone up in flames.

Yes, blondes are definitely his preferred prey.

He just can't keep his pants on around them. Too bad the really good ones have died on him.

Except HER.

She can't die.

She is perfect.

Safe for the fact that he's perving after his own – barely legal – daughter.

He is a sick bastard.

Maybe he should ask Parkman to scrub him, erase these pervy thoughts. But Parkman would know and he just can't have him see how he sees his Cl... HER.

Or worse... Parkman would tell Mama.

No, thank you.

The tongue-lashing Pete received for his barely developed crush on her – and he hadn't known he was her uncle back then – is enough to cure Nathan of this notion.

There is no outside solution. He has to keep it to himself. He'll have to take his secret to his grave.

Good thing he isn't immortal. He doesn't want to go down this road of torture forever.

Then again... if he could live forever, all the people he knows, she knows would eventually die. And then no one would be around to judge him. He could make his move on HER.

She would need time of course and be sure she could trust him. But after watching each of her family members die and burying a few boyfriends, lovers, maybe a husband while she remained immortally frozen in her teenage body, she would come to realize that he was the only one who wouldn't give her grief.

He'd wait for her, comfort her, make her happy again, satisfy her needs, create a world with just the two of them. Then she'd be more than willing to explore the joys to be found in his bed. And she'd never leave his side because he knew how she ticked.

She'd want it sweet and she'd want to be worshipped to wash away the reminder of Brody's violation that sometimes still troubles her. He'd give her that and so much more.

He'd gently place her on his bed, spend hours – if need be - kissing her sensless and teasing her body with gentle touches, he'd spare her his weight at first, impress her with his strength and endurance, then lightly brush his body against hers until she demanded more, wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him down onto her, craving, begging him to fill her.

Maybe he could get her to wear her cheerleader uniform again. The red-white one. Definitely this one. He had a thing for red. And she had looked great in it, her long blonde hair a perfect contrast to the vibrant red.

His little red riding hood.

He grins voraciously.

He'd sure devour her, spread her out on his red sheets.

Oh, what a sight she'd make.

The white of her uniform portraying her innocence, the short red skirt declaring her a woman, her sun-kissed thighs shimmering golden, beckoning him to hunt for the treasure they hold hidden.

A call a big bad wolf couldn't withstand.

“Claire!“ he gasps her name in orgasm and opens his eyes. He has just come all over his hand and he'd not even noticed he'd gotten himself off to thoughts of her.

Not good.

So not good.

He'd have to wash the evidence away and change his suit.

Walking into his bathroom he realizes that he feels free, not guilty. Fantasizing has given him more than just physical relief. When he looks in the mirror, he sees why.

“Thank you, Claire.“

He grins evilly.

The wheels in his mind are already turning, making plans for revenge. There'll be no mercy after what they've done to him. He suspects Angela has had her hands in it, but she couldn't have concocted this all on her own.

He is pretty sure Parkman is in on it, too. Maybe Bennett as well. Only one way to find out. He'll start with Angela of course and make it long and painful because she'd made him believe she was his mother again.

+++

Sylar wears his Nathan suit as he enters her office.

“Gabriel.“ she greets him, sitting calmly in her chair.

She knows then.

“That wasn't very nice...“ He takes on his real form. “Ma.“ He lifts his finger, aware she knows and dreads what this gesture means. Still it is disconcerting that she doesn't even flinch.

Interesting.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.“ an unknown male voice interrupts from behind them.

Freezing Angela to her chair with his power, Sylar whirls around, ready to kill the unwanted intruder with his patented killer finger.

“I can't die.“ the newcomer states.

Bold.

But...

“We'll see about that.“

Sylar's senses hone in on the boy, trying to find a weakness.

“I don't have a weak spot like you do.“

It is the truth.

The truth doesn't tingle.

Interesting, Sylar thinks and his curiosity rises.

He studies the tall – almost as tall as himself – teen standing before him. His dark hair frames his tanned face on either side. The hair-do is reminiscent of Peter's emo-style. But it is not him. The brows are too thick and the eyes themselves are a familiar shade of green. He's definitely a Petrelli. The nose is proof enough. But what makes Sylar stop and stare is the boy's mouth. It reminds him of Claire.

“Who are you?“

“He's your son.“ the ever-knowing dreamwalker declares.

Sylar's head snaps back to her.

Impossible.

But Angela is not lying.

Sylar turns and takes a closer look at the boy, analyzing his features, concluding they share some similarities.

But how did he get here? Sylar didn't have sex at age ten. A time traveler then? Could his son suck the power out of others just like him? Or would Sylar himself get a hold of this power and pass it on to his son? And what other powers were out there?

His eyes gleam in evil anticipation. With whom should he start?

“You can't kill gr... Angela. Nor Parkman or Bennett.“

An order? A threat? Either way, Sylar raises his brows at the audacity.

The boy is unimpressed.

And Sylar wonders why he didn't mention Peter. Does this teen know he likes his not-really-brother too much to kill him?

“Not if you want mom to love you.“ the teen interrupts his thoughts, smirking in victory.

Sylar knows that smirk, knows that face. It's almost like a mirror image.

The dark-haired boy truly is his son.

A son who is threatening and blackmailing him.

Unimportant now.

Sylar slaps himself mentally. Scheming to acquire new powers always makes him lose focus. Who is the son's mother?

But isn't it already clear?

The familiar green eyes and her mouth.

Claire.

It is a shock to his system. He freezes in disbelief, even though the truth and proof stares him right in the face. The boy is Claire's and his. But there's no time for elation. His mind is already mulling over the implications. The boy didn't grow up with him, but how does he exist at all then? Claire isn't the type to have casual sex. Nevermind with someone who murdered people dear to her.

Shit!

Did his future self rape her?

“NO!“ his son denies vehemently. His facade of cool, controlled superiority crumbles, exposing that he's more like his mother. “It wasn't like that.“

Sylar is beyond relieved. But does the boy read minds, too? And what is his name anyway.

“Yes... Noah.“

Sylar chuckles. How ironic that his son's namesake turned Sylar into a killer and was now grandad to said killer's spawn.

His spawn. His and Claire's offspring. Sylar still can't wrap his head around it.

“How?“ He still can't believe she willingly had sex with him to start a family.

Noah blushes.

Yes, there's definitely Claire in him.

“I was created in a lab.“

Not the 'how' Sylar liked, but better than the alternative.

“Mom wanted me by any means necessary and well... you are the only one her cells are compatible with. She didn't know. When I started looking like you, she told me who you are, but she wouldn't let me near you, I mean your future-you. I didn't understand why, so I tried to find you, him, but he's... lost to the hunger. I couldn't read his mind, but I couldn't give up either because I need his help. My powers are accumulating and I can't control them all. Mom caught me of course and that was the only time he became lucid. He told me that I had to find you and tell you: your son needs your help, you need Claire and you know what she needs.“

Sylar grins.

It is not hopeless then.

THE END