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?"

[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."