watchmakers_son | Isaac's loft, November 7th

Isaac's loft, November 7th

[From here.]

Take your hand. Tighten it into a fist, as hard as you can. Hold it.

Keep holding it.

Hold it even as the muscles seize up, fingertips starting to tingle from lack of blood, cramps spreading down your entire arm and into your shoulder; hold it without the slightest change in pressure, knowing that if you let go -- even for a second -- you might bleed to death.

Add in the searing pain from the wound itself every time he moves or so much as breathes, and it may be understandable why Sylar's progress through the bar is labored at best.

He's several feet from the front door when a loud clatter catches his attention; he turns his head, watching Kaylee slam open the lake door with a gurney in tow.

He's still watching when the white-haired doctor sprints into the infirmary.

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There's a certain rhythm to suturing, when it comes down to it. Not too tight, not too loose; not too deep, and not too shallow.

Kim's good at it, but then she's had a lot of experience very recently.

"I'll be done soon," she mutters, stitching as quickly and as neatly as she can, focusing all her attention on the wound to the near-exclusion of everything around her. "I know it hurts."

Each word's forced out through clenched teeth as he slams his head back against the pillow, more of the color draining from his face.

"And how many times have you been sewn up without an anesthetic?"

"Well, it's not as though I'm doing it on purpose," she snaps at him, fingers flying.

"Believe me, I'd much rather be able to give you something for the pain, but I don't happen to be carrying drugs in my pockets-- you're lucky I had the suture kit at all!"

Whatever response -- physical or verbal -- that Sylar looks as if he's about to give is cut off midway by another strangled yell. The glow around his hands flares up again; it isn't merely frost this time, but a quarter-inch thick layer of ice that rapidly lattices out over the fabric.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pallor edging toward a more greenish hue.

"Sorry--"

Maybe he'll pass out, she thinks, and it's half a prayer, or would be if Kim believed in such easy interventions anymore. It'd be better for both of us if he did.

No matter what, she doesn't stop working.

With Dr. Tam, there had been a local anesthetic for the actual stitches. With Mohinder, there had been the curare to keep his abilities in check.

With nothing, the ice continues to thicken and spread, creeping over the sides of the mattress, and Sylar's unable to care through the strengthening nausea and dizziness anymore.

Ted, he thinks muzzily. Ted Sprague. It's the day before the explosion, and you must find Ted Sprague before midnight.

Thinks...and, disconnected by the pain, doesn't realize he's mouthing like a litany, a prayer.

For all that she's concentrating on her work, Kim's well aware of how the pain's affecting her patient (for he is that, now, no matter how she came to be involved in the first place) and there's worry in the clear gray eyes now.

Five more stitches.

Then three.

One, and Kim ties it, snips the silk, and sets the instruments down with a small metallic clatter.

"There." She winces at the gray hue to his skin, at the sight of his hands and the spreading ice, and reaches for his wrist to check his pulse.

"Stay with me, okay? Can you hear me? Come on, look at me--"

He's aware of the pain in his stomach lessening first: not by much, but lessening nonetheless. He's aware of Kim touching his wrist next as she lifts his hand away from the ice to turn it over.

Sylar, by this point, has had enough of being touched. It isn't a conscious thought, nor decision, but it's enough of something for Kim's fingers to be clumsily (and rather feebly) pried off of his wrist.

His own hands haven't moved, and beyond that, he doesn't respond to her.

His hand falls limply back to the bed, and Kim is swift to react.

Shock. He's going into shock.

"Sylar. Sylar, look at me. Come on, open your eyes, you can do it, I know you can--"

She's already stripping away the blanket with its icy coating, pulling it out from beneath his shoulders and upper body, dumping it to the floor beside the bed. Kim reaches for one of the clean sheets that she'd brought earlier, draping it over his abdomen before reaching for a second blanket to cover him with.

A part of her can't help but observe, coldly, that she could use this chance to run. Could escape, could try to find another way back, somehow. He couldn't possibly stop her, not in his current condition.

If I leave him like this, he could die.

"--look at me, come on, damn it, don't you dare quit now!"

Hearing his name, Sylar makes an indistinct noise in the back of his throat, eyelids fluttering as he tries to turn his head to locate the sound. Moving seems much more difficult than before, and Kim's voice is echoing as if being shouted down a long tunnel.

His breathing quickens as his eyes blink open for a second -- unfocused, confused -- and slip closed again.

I can hear you just fine, he tries to mutter. It's doubtful if any of this makes it through.

She's glad to see him react, but still it's not much. Kim's glance travels over Sylar as she looks for the beat of the pulse in his throat, as she assesses his breathing.

"That's good, that's great," Kim encourages him, putting one hand on his shoulder. "Come on now, wake up, stay with me--"

She reaches out with her other hand to touch his cheek, to see if he's clammy, if his skin is warm.

"Stop."

It would be viciously angry; instead, it's hardly above a hoarse croak as Sylar tries to pull away. There's another telekinetic push to accompany it, no stronger than before.

His gaze isn't focusing any better, either, when he manages to open his eyes.

Her hand falls away from his face, but the shove against the hand on his shoulder isn't quite enough to dislodge it, or at least not permanently.

Kim's clear gray gaze meets his, and against all expectation, she smiles at him.

"Not until I'm sure you're going to be okay. That's why you brought me here, isn't it?"

A disoriented blink, and another; then Sylar's jaw sets as he glares at her. (It's a slightly better display of focus, if nothing else.) One hand lifts and begins weaving, uncoordinated, toward his stomach.

"Are you done?"

"Almost." Kim raises her chin stubbornly, returning his glare with a level look of her own. "You need bandages."

A beat.

"It won't hurt anywhere near as much, I can at least promise you that."

Just as clumsy, Sylar tries to reach up with his other hand to physically knock Kim's arm aside. His face tightens at the movement.

"How long was I out?" he rasps.

(As the shock and a fraction of the pain recedes, he's slowly tuning in to the sound of Kim's heartbeat again. He can hear people's moods, just as Dale Smither could; under certain circumstances, he can even hear if they're lying.)

She doesn't try to replace it.

"A few moments, a minute or two at most, I think. You were going into shock."

A beat.

"I'll be perfectly honest-- you could do with better care than I'm able to give you here. An IV wouldn't hurt, nor would some antibiotics and pain medication."

"Just finish your work," he mutters, still glaring as he moves his hand away from the stomach wound. Sylar returns his attention to the ceiling soon after.

Kim manages not to sigh or roll her eyes. Briskly, she turns back the blanket and the sheet, then reaches for the gauze she'd found and the clean strips torn from a second sheet.

It doesn't take long.

"There."

As Kim moves away, Sylar, very carefully, begins working to ease himself upright. It happens in fits and starts as the continued pain -- and the need to catch his breath -- halts him every few seconds.

When he's done, he pauses for a moment with both hands flat against the blanket, arms shifting unsteadily as his head swims.

And then he meets Kim's eyes, all semblance of the earlier daze gone.

She doesn't even try to kid herself-- she's in very real danger here, and Kim knows it, just as she knows that it would be a mistake to show fear or uncertainty.

"You'll need to have your stitches out in ... call it seven to ten days, if you're healing well," Kim says casually.

"Should I expect to see you back at Milliways then?"

"I doubt it."

Sylar tips his head to one side, utterly calm and just as casual. He does not glance at the mural on the floor of the loft.

She keeps her breathing steady and her tone just as matter-of-fact as before, but she can't help the racing of her own heartbeat as the familiar cold feel of fear spreads through her.

Kim's fairly certain it wouldn't be a good idea to ask the first question that flashes through her mind.

Are you going to kill me?

Instead, she says,

"Well, okay. That's your decision."

A beat.

"But if you wouldn't mind, I'd really like to go back now."

This is more familiar, and far more steadying than anything else could be. Slowly, Sylar brings his legs up, partly to judge his range of motion, partly to try moving them off of the bed.

"Why would I do that?" he asks. It sounds honestly curious, and the slightest bit amused.

Without looking away from him, Kim waves a hand out toward the rest of the loft.

"Maybe because it's likely to be a little crowded otherwise?"

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