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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She's the one in shock now, shocked into stillness. Everything around her seems to have grown suddenly distant, suddenly dim, as she stares at him, into him.

"You -- how do you know? How do you know that?"

"I can see it."

A steady, muffled tap, tap, tap begins against the blanket as Sylar smiles: weak, still several shades too pale, but fully and unmistakably aware. "Like double vision. Looking with your eyes crossed.

"And what would cause that, I wonder?"

Kim's nearly as white as her hair, now.

I can see it. Double vision.

She knows what he means-- how can she not? She's the one who now bears Ysanne's soul, Ysanne's desperate gift, as an otherworldly twin to her own, after all. Kim knows, even if Sylar doesn't, or not exactly-- because there's something there, something more to him. That much she can tell, now that she's looking-- the same way she'd been aware of the strangeness to the paintings, the way Ysanne had recognized her in the court at Paras Derval in Brennin, in Fionavar.

I am a Seer. The dreamer of the dream.

But in the end it doesn't matter, not really, not in this, and when she answers him there's no give in her, no uncertainty.

"No." Kim raises her chin, looking flatly back at him. "If you can see that much, then fine, so be it, but this is as deep as you go."

"What would you do to stop me, if I wanted?"

"That's not how -- I don't --"

He eats brains, Hiro had said. A beat of silence, and then Kim bursts out,

"Why are you doing this? Why? I helped you!"

"You did, yes," he agrees placidly.

Once a tool serves its purpose, though, it is put away. There is also --

"But you're not something I expected to see here." Sylar splays his fingers wider against the blanket. "Outside of the bar."

"I didn't exactly expect to be here," she quips, dryly.

(It's a little like whistling in the dark.)

He shakes his head, stopping midway through the motion as his mouth tightens in a grimace. Sylar lightly presses his fingertips over one temple and starts to move them in small, cautious circles.

"Time stops," he explains, distracted. "The dead walk. You'd never think it to look at any of them."

Silence, for a second, and then--

"I know," Kim says, simply. She's watching him, but there's a hint of something that might be understanding in her expression now.

"It's hard to get used to."

(And for the first time, she wonders: what would her life have been, had she not known Fionavar before she'd encountered Milliways?)

Another faint, vacant smile. "I did get used to it. I found a way. And you -- "

His hand falls.

"Almost sound like they did."

"It's a long story."

She's nervous still, how can she not be? The way he's looking at her-- You're not something I expected to see here, he'd said. Something, not someone, and she's smart enough to know that's not a good sign. He's dangerous, and she's nowhere near safe.

And yet, she's faced other men (and powers who might be called more than mere men) and other situations easily as dangerous, and survived, and whatever else she may be, Kim Ford's never been the sort of person to just back away.

"Do you want to hear it?"

His eyebrows draw together, just slightly, then relax again before lifts his chin a quarter of an inch.

"Of course."

"Then I'll tell you."

I wonder if this is how Scheherazade felt?

Kim takes one cautious step toward the man sitting on the bed watching her, the kidnapper who's the only one she knows in this world who can open the door that will get her back home, and tries a smile.

"But as I said, it's a long story. And I'm afraid you're not-- you're still hurt, and you should be resting. I can tell you over coffee the next time I see you at the bar, though."

Sylar scoffs at that, as one side of his mouth tilts into a half smirk.

"Didn't I just say," he asks, straightening up further, "that I don't think we'll be seeing each other in Milliways again?"

"You said you didn't think you'd -- "

She bites off the protest and shakes her head, and her gaze doesn't leave his.

"... you mean at all. Ever."

Kim takes a slow, careful breath.

"Why? Because of the fight?"

"Please," he sneers. "I have more important concerns than running into that one again."

Sylar angles his head again, this time to indicate the paintings; the gigantic explosion billowing across the floor.

She'd been careful not to look too closely at them before, but as he tilts his head she doesn't think about it. Kim looks where he's indicating, and suddenly grows very still as her attention is caught fully.

"They're real." There's a soft, awful weight to her words as she stares at the billowing cloud painted above a city skyline. "It's real. A dream given shape for others to see."

"Yes."

Then, the sound of fabric shifting: Sylar, with the same pained care, is easing himself off of the bed. Standing isn't quite a possibility yet, but his feet are flat against the floor, more weight resting on them than his hands.

He's watching Kim closely.

"You've had experience with that kind of thing." Quiet.

She nods, still staring at the mural on the floor.

"I ..."

Her voice dies there, lost under the awful weight of the painted images that press in on her, stealing breath and light and everything but the flame. For a dizzying timeless instant it's almost as though she's wearing the Baelrath again, carrying the burning wild power of the crimson fire on her hand. There's a different sort of power here, present in these paintings, one of a sort that's hauntingly familiar to the white-haired young woman known to some as the Seer of Brennin.

How could possibly I have missed it before?

And yet, even as she asks herself the question she realizes the answer. This isn't her world, nor is it Fionavar, the two worlds to which she belongs by right of birth and inherited knowledge -- both hers and Ysanne's combined -- and the vision captured in this art isn't the same, can't be the same, for all that it's near, both close and familiar.

Close enough for her to be slowly becoming more aware as she stands here in this apartment, in the presence of the paintings. It's as though something within her is straining to hear a whispered echo, or to understands words spoken in a different language.

More weight shifted to his feet; three rapid blinks follow as the room threatens to start tilting again. Sylar shakes his head to clear it and, very briefly, shifts his focus to a canvas propped against the legs of an empty easel.

"And what do you see now?" he murmurs, turning back to Kim. "Is there anything to see?"

There's a lot to see.

Kim doesn't answer him at first; she can't. She manages at last to lift her gaze from the floor, only to immediately catch sight of another image, this one of a familiar figure. For a second she almost smiles.

But as she slowly begins to turn back around, Kim spots a carefully-assembled series of paintings, and then a second, and as her clear gray eyes meet the painted dead ones of Isaac Mendez, Kim understands.

The sound of her low, shocked gasp is far too loud in the stillness of the loft, she knows it, and as Kim spins to face Sylar she is is suddenly, acutely aware of her surroundings.

Say something, for god's sake! You can't let him find out-- if he even guesses...

"You're frighteningly talented," she hears herself say, as if from a distance. Kim's never been a good liar, ever, but then again it's not exactly a lie, is it?

"It's hard to look away."

First weight, now balance. The dizziness is continuing to retreat; Sylar keeps one hand against the mattress anyway as he starts to stand up. His other hand ghosts over the bandages again, as if he could steady himself there, too.

And the smile he gives Kim is the same nasty smile one would expect from a snake.

"Oh, it's much more than just talent, doctor," he tells her.

"Oh?" she echoes, faintly. "What do you mean?"

She's got to do something, she knows that, but Kim Ford is frozen and utterly at a loss.

Think! You have to think-- if you don't, you're dead!

A step. It's tentative, still shaky, but it's forward movement.

It's something other than lying on Isaac's bed like an invalid.

"'Talent,'" and there is the slightest weight of scorn to to that, "is something anyone can have. But gifts like mine..."

His hands fall to his sides, fingers curling inward.

"Those are much rarer."

"Oh," she says again. "I'm sorry, I didn't-- this isn't my world, I didn't realize."

It's inane, she thinks, but if she can only keep him talking-- well, that has to be better than anything else, right?

As he moves forward, she has to fight the urge not to shrink back, and just the very fact of her fear sends a wave of annoyance through her.

Oh stop it, she snaps at herself, silently. He's not Darien!

Even as she argues it, she recognizes the flaw in her logic. Darien hadn't wanted to hurt her... or anyone.

This man already has.

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