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

[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.

[simon_doctor]

"Shh," the doctor says, "careful. Try to relax."

The light overhead flickers again. Maybe it's just the movement of shadows that makes the cast of his face seem to change.

"You don't," soft, insinuating, "want to overtax yourself."

[watchmakers_son]

Inhale, slower this time. Exhale.

His brow furrows slightly as he searches Simon's face, the look no less meandering than before. It is, however, an expression that's a bit more suspicious than it is confused.

"Dr. Tam," he says again, fighting to keep each word separate and distinct. "Tell me what I'm doing here."

[shimmershift.livejournal.com]

"You're sick, Gabriel."

(Is there just a touch of ... emphasis on his name?)

"That's why you're here. Because you're broken."

Simon smiles, and it's very, very cold.

"And we can fix you."

[watchmakers_son]

It's strange, how quickly Sylar became used to hearing the changes in his heart rate rather than feeling them. The rapid, anxious palpitating isn't the most comfortable of sensations.

Especially when it's coupled with the pain.

"I can fix myself," he rasps, trying to flex against the restraints again. "Did you think it was all without purpose?"

[simon_doctor]

There's nothing cold about Simon's smile at all; it's compassionate, and a little sad.

"I know it seems that way," he says gently, "and I know you would rather be self-sufficient, but you need our help, Gabriel."

[watchmakers_son]

A low hiss: "That isn't my name."

[simon_doctor]

Patiently: "We both know that's not true."

He turns to pick up a clipboard that rests on the counter beside him, and leafs idly through the pages clipped to it.

[watchmakers_son]

The next breath forms into an indistinct noise in the back of his throat. Frustration, maybe. Anger, certainly.

It fades as he focuses on the light above him. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick: it flickers again.

"Why is it so quiet?" he asks softly.

[simon_doctor]

"We don't want our patients disturbed."

It's said half-absently, as he runs one finger down the paper he's looking at.

"Does the quiet bother you?"

[watchmakers_son]

"It shouldn't be this quiet." Sylar tries to track the pulse of the light; distracted, the vague slur returns to his speech. "It's never been. I should be able to hear that."

The light stabilizes.

"I can't -- " In one sudden, vicious movement, he yanks at the restraints. It's immediately followed by a choked shout.

[simon_doctor]

He frowns in something between concern and calculation.

"You haven't mentioned impaired hearing before. I can run a test, if you think --"

[watchmakers_son]

"Not like that."

He's glaring.

"Like before. Like how I always -- " There's a fresh spike of pain in his palms; it takes a minute to realize it's his own doing, nails unconsciously digging into the skin. "Peter knows, too, is this your idea of fixing me?"

[simon_doctor]

"Let's just see."

He takes a step toward Sylar, leans closer. Draws a slender implement out from under the clipboard.

A tuning fork.

[watchmakers_son]

The sickening rush of Sylar's heartbeat suddenly reverberates outward, squeezing at what little air is left in his lungs.

"No." He tries to move, put as much distance between himself and Dr. Tam as he can. He can't take his eyes off the tuning fork, but just as sudden, the initial panic veers sharply, returning to the stream of hatred as he spits, in hitching starts, "I had no reason to deal with you or your wife, but if you -- run your little test I will kill you both, Doctor."

[simon_doctor]

"Nnno," thoughtfully, "I don't think you will."

And bending closer, he lowers his voice to a hideously confidential murmur.

"You shouldn't have said that to her."

[watchmakers_son]

Said --

The memory swims up, after a too-long second. Sylar stops breathing.



And then, when he begins again, the fitful, wheezing gaps shape themselves into something else entirely.

Laughter, soft and shaky and fierce with defiance.

"And was I wrong?"

[simon_doctor]

Still soft: "Oh, yes. Very."

He extends one finger, and touches Sylar's chest, just above the heart. The lightest pressure.

"Because the most broken thing in the 'verse isn't her, Gabriel."

Slowly increasing.

"It's you."

[watchmakers_son]

Light, but still too much, and it's like (a sword?) a knife as Simon presses harder. Sylar's laughter falls into a hoarse shout as stars explode in front of his eyes.

He bites down on nothing, doesn't stay there for long; the next yell's louder and completely involuntary.