November - December 2006; location unknown

[watchmakers_son]

There's nothing remarkable about this room, nor anything inside of it.

It's a perfect square lit in sickly yellow and off-white tones, the walls irregularly patterned from years of repainting. One of the fluorescent lights strobes every so often; when it doesn't, it buzzes, almost subaudibly, like a distant insect's whine. The single bed in the corner has a thin mattress and thinner sheets, and medical equipment -- all of it small and carefully cased and free of exposed wires -- arrays around it, holding sentinel.

The shoes by the bedside are the same dingy white shade as the walls. They have no shoelaces.

The window's crisscrossed with thick bars.

On the bed, Sylar makes a small noise -- something between pain and grogginess -- and cracks open his eyes.

Comments

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

Someone's watching him. A familiar face.

As Sylar's eyes open, Peter leans forward, smiling. His hair is brushed back neatly; his hands are folded in his lap.

"How are you feeling?"

[watchmakers_son]

Everything's hazed and hard to see, like trying to look through a fogged-up window. Sylar blinks once, woozily.

Before the face comes into focus, he hears the voice.

Focus doesn't matter very much after that.

Teeth bared, hands tightening convulsively on the sheets, he sucks in a breath and croaks out a hoarse, "You."

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

"Me," Peter agrees, still smiling -- pleasantly.

He tips his head to one side, watching Sylar with clinical interest, and without fear. "Bad dreams?"

[watchmakers_son]

Sylar drags his hands back and tries to lever himself to sitting. He barely makes it an inch upright before gasping and falling flat again, expression screwed up in pain.

"What're you doing?" he wheezes. The words slur and bump into one another; it doesn't mask any of the vitriol.

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

Peter's gaze is steady. Much steadier than Sylar is.

"We're trying to help you," he says gently, and puts his hand on Sylar's shoulder. "Careful -- you're weak, you don't want to hurt yourself."

[watchmakers_son]

Were he stronger, the movement would be almost instantaneous. As it stands, it's uncoordinated, wobbly, and far slower than he intends.

But Sylar reaches up and clamps a hand around Peter's wrist all the same, digging his nails in, glaring as best he can when he still can't see very well.

"I should've killed you," he rasps. "I was supposed to." His grip tightens (not very much). "Get away. You -- "

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

"I'm not going anywhere."

His hand closes around Sylar's, careful but firm, and tugs it away. "Can you tell me who you are?"

[watchmakers_son]

"You know who I am."

He tries to wrench his hand free. As his arm twists, another bolt of pain shoots up through his abdomen, and Sylar bites back a yell. "Get away from me."

What he can remember -- Hiro, he thinks he remembers Hiro, but what -- ?

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

"I do," says Peter, letting go, and studying him with clear concern. "But I need for you to tell me if you know who you are. It's been a while since you've been lucid."

[watchmakers_son]

"I -- "

It's the concern, as much as the words, that pulls him up short. Chest heaving as he tries to reign in the ache, Sylar balls his hands again and stares, uncomprehending.

"What?"

The light flickers, its constant buzz stuttering into a tick-tick-tick-tick. He doesn't notice.

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

Peter folds his hands in his lap again, forearms balanced against his thighs as he leans forward. His expression is calm, patient; the easy way the question rolls out suggests this isn't the first time he's asked it. "Can you tell me your name?"

[watchmakers_son]

His jaw sets.

"My name," he tells him, as if speaking to a small child, "is Sylar."

[morelikeasponge.livejournal.com]

Peter sits back with a soft sigh, and shakes his head.

"Your name is Gabriel Gray," he says; there's only kindness in his voice. Kindness -- and pity. "You're very sick, Gabriel. Now, I'm trying to help you get better, and you can get better, but I'm going to need your help, too."

[simon_doctor]

A gentle hand is pressing him back down onto the bed before he quite realizes he's awake again, much less that he's struggling to sit up.

"Shh," says a voice, equally gentle. "Try to relax."

Simon Tam is looking down at him with a small smile. "You gave us all quite a scare back there."

[watchmakers_son]

He's groping sightlessly at nothing, fighting to breathe; the air rips into his lungs every time he tries. It hurts, everywhere, and it's like the haze has migrated to his ears: he knows he's hearing something, but whatever it is is garbled and indistinct.

When Sylar tries to rub at his eyes, his hands don't move very far, either. Something's pinned them back.

Gulping in another breath, he squints up at Simon, working to piece the features together. "Dr. Tam?" he croaks at last.

[simon_doctor]

His eyebrows edge upward a touch, in mild surprise.

"That's right," he says. "Very good. Just relax." The hand's still resting on his chest, and the fingertips are pressing lightly now. "Take a deep breath, and let it out slowly."

[watchmakers_son]

Involuntarily, he twitches at the pressure, hissing in the requested breath between his teeth. It's neither particularly deep nor slow. Sylar wets his lips, gaze slipping sideways, then further up as he tries to study the room.

Why can't he hear anything?

"How did I get here?"

[simon_doctor]

"Well, let's talk about that."

He lifts his hand away from Sylar's chest, and studies him measuringly.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

[watchmakers_son]

He swallows -- it sets off another blast of pain -- and closes his eyes, trying to think through it.

(He shouldn't have to be trying this hard.)

Disjointed: the same bed, a familiar face, you're very sick, I should have killed you --

"Peter," he hazards. Sylar's eyes snap open, unfocused but very dark. "He was here, too."

The end of the sentence rises, like a half-question, without his noticing.

[simon_doctor]

A barely perceptible hesitation before he repeats "That's right," in that same approving tone. "He was. That was yesterday."

A longer pause, as though waiting to see if he'll volunteer anything else.

[watchmakers_son]

"Yesterday," he echoes.

You haven't been lucid for a while. Another fragment, dredged up with far too much effort.

"He said I -- " Sylar's teeth meet with an audible click, and for a moment, he's unable to focus on anything but trying to breathe. "How long has it been?"

[simon_doctor]

Simon gives a very small sigh, and meets his patient's eyes.

"You were admitted to this hospital a little over seven months ago, Gabriel. You've been very sick."

It's said gently, as though trying to ease the burden of knowing.

[watchmakers_son]

If Peter shouldn't know that name, then Dr. Tam certainly shouldn't. Sylar's nostrils flare.

And...seven months. Seven months. It can't have been --

(This hospital. Not Milliways?

And he still can't hear anything -- )

He jerks his wrists against the restraints, uselessly, breath speeding up. "What has he been telling you?" he growls.

[simon_doctor]

The eyebrows go up again.

"I'm sorry?"

[watchmakers_son]

"What else," he repeats, "has he -- "

An unintentional pause as his breath snags again, hard enough to turn the last few words into a gasp.