Title: In a Blind
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Claire/Gretchen
Warnings: none
Word count: 3123
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
Summary: Gretchen is horny and Claire is paranoid. In a world of reporters and fame, what's a girl to do?
A/N: Thanks to M for beta'ing! Originally written for the Heroes Exchange on LJ.

Gretchen doesn't want to push. God knows pretty much the last thing in the world Claire needs is someone pressuring her right now, and definitely not for sex. But, damn. Gretchen is getting pretty frustrated. Hand holding is sweet and all – and, okay, second base is nothing to shake a stick at, not with Claire – but it's all just too high school for Gretchen's tastes.

Well. Not her high school. She had sex in high school. More like Claire's kind of virginal high school experience.

But without the serial killer.

She starts out subtle – lacy bra she's never actually worn thrown over her bed post, wearing short shorts to class even though there's a biting undercurrent to the DC spring that still gives her chills. A website or two, casually left up on her computer, the screen saver turned off.

Claire notices the last, frowning over at Gretchen from where she's reading on her bed.

"You should really fix that," she says, inclining her head toward the laptop. "You'll burn out your monitor. Lyle did that once and Mom was pissed."

Claire doesn't elaborate on exactly what images got burned in, but, well, she did meet Lyle that one time. She also met the stash of magazines under his bed that he didn't hide quite quickly enough.

Gretchen flushes, embarrassed at getting caught, embarrassed at Claire's lack of embarrassment – hi, did the nudes have no effect? – and embarrassed because she's pretty sure her mom won't replace a laptop with kissing lesbians burned into the screen.

Too subtle, Gretchen decides. She needs to ramp it up.

As always, for budding stalkers and pornographers, the internet provides. There are brochures. You know, Gretchen thought she'd had the whole sex thing down, but even her eyes widen as she skims through some instructional pictures. Save, she thinks to herself. Save a lot. Save forever. Some of those need to be reevaluated in the light of day. She casts a look over her shoulder at Claire, sleeping despite the bright glare of Gretchen's computer and the loud patter of midnight rainfall from outside. Maybe not reevaluated, she decides. Tested.

Step one, though, is getting Claire interested. Takes two to test, after all.

Gretchen plans on leaving the informational material discreetly around the dorm room. It's really, really tempting to put some of it into Claire's notebook. She actually has it open, laying on the floor between her feet. Claire snoozes behind her, breathing softly into the night, but Gretchen takes the extra precaution of hunching over, shielding the notebook with her back. It makes it a little hard to read, sure, but Gretchen can squint.

The notebook is full more of doodles than notes. More than once, a weak line just trails straight off the page. She never could handle eight am classes, Gretchen thinks with affection, fingers tracing the tell tale marks. On other pages there are mermaids in the margins and diamonds between squiggly lines. The last few pages are dog eared, and doodle dedicated. A large stick figure drips what she must presume is blood, an indistinctly drawn, stick-y pencil protruding from his eye. Claire helpfully labeled both: "Sylar" and "pencil." Above it all, she wrote, "die die die."

Gretchen's heart thumps strangely at the sight. Sylar impersonated her once. The thought gives her a shiver, and she suddenly realizes just how late it is. She stuffs the pictures from the internet into her books and into the drawers of Claire's desk, feeling more than a bit stupid as she does.

Maybe it's not a lack of information, Gretchen thinks, laying in her bed to listen to Claire's breathing and her own unsteady pulse. Maybe it's a lack of trust.

Dawn is just breaking through the windows and Gretchen eventually gives up completely on sleep, drawing herself up to perch on the edge of her bed. She stares at Claire, at her fitfully turning body and the lines that uncomfortable dreams scrunch into her face. Creepy, Gretchen can admit. The staring. But sort of sweet, too? She hopes, anyway.

Ten minutes after eight, Claire wakes with a start. She gasps, sitting up like a shot – and seriously? Gretchen thought that was only in movies – eyes wide open as she stares directly back at Gretchen.

Gretchen waves awkwardly, swallowing.

"Hi... roomie."

Claire's brow furrows in muzzy, drowsy confusion before she flops back down, covering her eyes with her arm.

"I thought we were done with the stalking thing," says Claire, voice muffled.

"Hey, no, we were. We are. I'm just... concerned."

Claire takes a long, deep breath and then she uncovers her face, turning on her side to arch an eyebrow somewhere toward Gretchen's midsection.

"Concerned? Gretchen, it's," she stretches, struggling to turn her clock around so she can read the time. Eventually, she gives up. Her arms just don't reach, and clearly getting up isn't quite an option yet, "early. On a Saturday. What do you have to be concerned about on a Saturday?"

Well, Gretchen thinks, if I'll ever get laid, for one. If you have serial killer related trust issues about me. If you'll realize I'm completely crazy.

For the last one, it's looking more like a "when" situation than "if" – when being very soon indeed – but Gretchen squares her shoulders, bursting out with, "I think you think I'm Sylar."

Claire gives her a long, unblinking look.

"But I'm not," Gretchen adds.

"Right," Claire heaves out. She musters the will to throw off her covers, standing. She shuffles over to her closet. "I hope you don't mind. But. I'm … going to go take a shower before I deal with that."

Gretchen's mouth twists and she lets out a rueful sigh, averting her eyes when Claire twirls a finger to let her change out of her PJs into her bathrobe. She grabs her toothbrush, and the door swings shut before Gretchen has the chance to make her case.

She collapses backwards with a groan, knocking her head against the wall.

"Ugh, good one, Gretch," she mutters, rubbing at the back of her skull. It's then, turning over and readjusting her position to a more appropriate, pouting parallel with the wall that Gretchen notices the glint of light coming through the blinds.

She narrows her eyes, inching forward ever so slightly as she tries to pinpoint the source. The...bushes? Gretchen frowns – and then jumps at the sudden slamming of the dorm room door.

"Remind me," Gretchen casts a look at Claire over her shoulder to see her scrub one foot against another, yuck face in full effect, "to never go in there barefoot again."

Gretchen winces.

"Vomitorium?"

Claire just shudders in response.

"And you wanted to join a sorority," Gretchen continues, sing song. "They're not any better, you know."

"Ugh. It's giving me fond memories of being on the run. So, hey, what was that before? About... Sylar?"

"Oh, hey, um. Nothing?"

Claire rolls her eyes. "Gretch."

"It's just, I don't know. We never talked about it, really, and it seems like you've got an issue. With me, with us. You never just let your guard down, even when we're alone. You can trust me, Claire. I'm totally not Sylar."

"You know, that's exactly what Sylar would say."

"Claire," Gretchen groans out. "Come on, I'm serious."

Claire bites her lip, fingers toying with the fluffy terrycloth belt of her robe. For a brief moment, Gretchen thinks Claire is thinking along the same lines she is – because really, it's not a talking thing. They've talked through serial killers, and explosions and secret fathers and crazy conspiracies and carniefolk. It's not the coming out issue – been there and done that and Gretchen still has some of the scars from meeting Angela Petrelli, emotional though they may be.

So, yeah, Claire's gotta be aware, on some level. The trust thing is about taking their relationship to the next level, moving past hand holding and above the shirt action to distinct no shirt action.

And Gretchen is suddenly very aware that Claire's in a robe, and it's slipping down her shoulder, and Claire's lips are parted in a way that makes her think, just for a second, maybe it's on purpose.

But then that glare of light shines quickly across Claire's face. Her expression flattens and hardens before smoothing out, and the moment is gone. Gretchen twists around, gaze searching frantically out the window for the camera... and that's what it was, wasn't it? A camera.

Oh. So not the Sylar thing then.

When Gretchen turns back, Claire is smiling brightly and falsely, hand clinching her robe securely shut. She plops down onto Gretchen's bed.

"Okay, you want trust. Ask away. I'm an open book."

Gretchen sighs, racking her brain for questions – questions that aren't "What would you do if I pushed you down and ravished you?" or "How long has that reporter been out there?"

"So," she struggles to say, eyes skimming down to where cleavage was apparent just moments ago, damn it. "How about those Nationals?"

Claire's eyes crinkle quickly in thanks, and she blathers on something about baseball for a moment. Gretchen tunes out.

It seems her plan has an entirely new wrinkle. Goddamn paparazzi.

She spends the day mulling over what to do. In the shade of a large tree on the deck of the only coffee bar on campus, Gretchen takes a moment to almost study, and pulls out some of her abandoned, very pornographic brochures stuffed into her PolySci book. Ha, appropriate, she thinks. And then she thinks a little more. Yeah. Appropriate.

Slight problem of the paparazzi publicizing everything they do together aside, Gretchen thinks her initial plan could still work. After a fashion. She just needs to get Claire hot and bothered enough to forget for a few minutes. And to distract the paparazzi away for a night or two – but the hot and bothered is key, because paranoid as Claire is, even if the paparazzi were gone she wouldn't be able to relax enough to enjoy herself if the thought of reporters still lingered in her mind.

Gretchen worries her lip between her teeth, flipping her phone open and shut as she considers. She needs some kind of bait to lure the paparazzi away...

Well, that can come later, she decides. No use in calling right now when Claire isn't even aware of how desperately Gretchen wants to screw her brains out.

The next few days are filled with furtive printing while Claire is in class and Gretchen is leaving both pornographic images and how to sheets in Claire's notes. A couple of times she leaves the brochures on her own bed stand, affixing gold stars next to particularly interesting items – she just hopes Claire is the snoop Gretchen herself is. Between researching and a little me-time when her plan is a little too successful in the hot and bothered aspect, she contemplates her options for a distraction.

What she needs is someone as famous as Claire to do something spectacular in public. There's actually another Special on campus, but all he can do is some kind of enhanced shadow puppetry. Claire's convinced he's a faker, and the press is apparently inclined to agree. They don't cover him at all.

Claire's kind of the only Special that Gretchen knows. She's heard a lot of stories about the others Claire has met, and of course the murder at Union Wells was well publicized. But the funny thing is that in all of Claire's storytelling about Primatech and Building 26, she never actually told Gretchen any addresses or phone number. Or where Noah Bennet keeps his files.

Not, you know, that stealing them is a good idea. But it does, briefly and crazily, pass through Gretchen's mind.

She settles for a lesser felony: stealing Claire's phone. Well. Picking it up from Claire's bed when she forgets it and goes to class. That's almost like stealing, right?

"Jackpot," Gretchen whispers, eyes going wide as she takes in the sudden wealth of information.

Grabbing her notebook, she flips it open and begins scribbling down numbers: Hiro, Alex, West, Tracy, Emma, Rene, Angela, Peter.

Wait. Peter.

Gretchen draws her legs up onto the bed, pen tapping Peter's number on the page where she's written it. She bites her lip momentarily, wondering if this is a good time. Middle of the day, sure, but from what she's heard of Peter's shifts at work. Well, it's not like he's ever not working. Might as well give it a shot.

She punches in the number with trembling fingers – from excitement and nervousness both, since hi, hero of the world and also, hi, Claire's uncle who she's about to ask a favor so she can deflower his niece.

Amazingly, after only a few rings, he picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Peter Petrelli?"

"Yes," he replies cautiously. Or is that sleepily? Man, his shifts must be killing him, Gretchen thinks, eyes flicking again over to the clock. Sleeping in the middle of the afternoon. "Who is this?"

"Gretchen? Gretchen Berg? Claire's... friend. We met at Christmas?"

She almost thinks she can hear him wince. Yeah, she doesn't really like thinking about that particular holiday gathering either.

"I remember," he offers eventually. "Is Claire alright? Is something wrong?"

"No, hey. Didn't mean to worry you. I'm a big fan of your work. I mean, Union Wells. Wow," she laughs weakly. "I just. Um. I was calling to ask a favor?"

There's a long period of silence on the other end, and Gretchen pulls the phone back from her ear to make sure the call wasn't dropped. Distantly, she thinks she can hear another voice, the soft rustle of fabric.

Oh, she thinks with a flush. Maybe he wasn't napping after all. Furrowing her brow, Gretchen slips from the bed and creeps over to the computer. A couple of discreet, quiet taps bring up a certain web page. It's smattered with a goodly collection of provocative photoshops of Peter. A handful of genuine photos are intermixed, Gretchen notes as she scrolls down. She flicks the cursor back up, taking in the title again.

Petrelli watch, the size forty Comic Sans header reads. Under it, there is a ticker: Day ten.

"What kind of favor?" Peter asks just as Gretchen cusses softly to herself. Some help Peter's going to be when he won't even leave his house.

Still, she thinks, insides tightening at the unfairness of it all. Someone is getting laid, avoiding the paparazzi, and it's not her.

"I wanted you to distract the paparazzi so I can have a date with Claire," she says at a rush.

There is another long silence. Followed by a beep. Peter has hung up on her.

Gretchen stares at her phone in dismay.

"Some hero you are," she grumbles.

A moment later, her phone shakes in her hand as she receives a text message: Venetian blinds.

"Oh, sure. Go for the obvious."

But, yeah. Not altogether a dumb idea. She'll have to spackle the room up a bit when they move out at the end of the year, but, well. Definitely worth it in the short term. She has just enough time to hit the Home Depot and get her install on before Western Civ. If she's quick.

Refreshed and reinvigorated by her hard work, Gretchen happily takes notes during class. She manages to raise her hand a couple of times. And not even for derogatory comments. Her professor raises her eyebrows, marking something on a paper.

"Very insightful, Gretchen," she says, before adding quietly to herself, "Who would have thought?"

But even Professor Gregson can't bring Gretchen down. It's with an uncharacteristic spring in her step that Gretchen walks home from class. The smile falls from her face when she opens the dorm room door. To find Claire, on her bed, all of the inciting and enticing paraphernalia spread in an arc before her.

"We need to talk," Claire says, expression flat.

"Um. Okay."

Claire made a sharp gesture toward Gretchen's bed. Fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, Gretchen swiftly moved to drop her book bag before sitting. Despite herself, her eyes go to the newly installed venetian blinds – still open. Damn. Seems Claire hasn't really registered their presence.

"You have to stop this," Claire says, startling Gretchen to attention. Her tone is soft, eyes sympathetic and rueful, and Gretchen feels a flutter of panicked remorse. She's pressuring, isn't she? She doesn't want to pressure!

"Oh God, Claire I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to –"

"Gretch, it's okay. I know I haven't been the most," Claire looks down, searching for the word. She shrugs, settling on, "forthcoming. Especially not about us, or me. Or what I've done. But I'm not completely ignorant, you know."

"Ignorant?" Gretchen parrots stupidly. She looks again to the brochures. Claire picked one up at one point – Manual Masturbation and You – and her fingers now toy with the edges. "Oh. Ignorant. Claire, I never thought you were ignorant!"

Claire lifts her eyebrows sardonically, waving the brochure.

"You could have fooled me."

Gretchen laughs with relief, embarrassment still coloring her cheeks.

"No, Claire. That's not... it's not educational. It's," she licked her lips, standing just long enough to slip over to Claire's bed, sitting down next to her. She nudged Claire's knee with her own, giving her a coy smile as she added, "It's inspirational."

"Oh," Claire says, voice ever so slightly strangled in the way Gretchen loves. She leans forward, brushing her lips against Claire's. She moves her hand from the bedspread, touching lightly at first at Claire's hip, and then sliding her fingers around to hook into Claire's belt loop as she deepens the kiss.

Gretchen breaks the kiss, tilting her forehead against Claire's to catch her breath.

"Get the idea?"

"Yeah. I..." Claire trails off, drawing Gretchen back in for another kiss. Abruptly, she shakes herself, pushing Gretchen away and scooting down the bed. Curses, Gretchen thinks.

Claire clutches her hands primly in her lap, a distinctive hitch in her breathing even as she tries to look unaffected. Her eyes go to the windows, somehow missing the blinds as she stares unhappily toward hidden reporters. Seriously? Gretchen wonders. It's not like blinds are a little thing to miss.

"I can't, Gretch."

"Claire," Gretchen says patiently. She lifts up a hand, grasping the rod of the blinds. "Look again."

Claire looks. And then she stares. And then she blinks, a giddy laugh spilling out from her.

"It's that easy?"

Gretchen twists her wrist, shuttering their room from the world and prying eyes.

"It's that easy," she says with a grin, right before pushing Claire down, scattering brochures everywhere.

It is also, she concludes later, that good.