February 2007

[watchmakers_son]

When he wakes up -- is lucid again, as the dark-haired man who's removing his IV calls it -- the restraints are gone.

A mild concussion from self-inflicted head trauma, is what else he calls it. They removed the restraints once Sylar had calmed down; this is a hospital, after all, not a prison. You haven't been back with us for some time, he adds as Sylar carefully settles a hand over his abdomen, pressing lightly, and grimaces.

It hurts a bit less than it used to, though. It's healing.

How long? he asks, and receives no response.

Later, he falls asleep, to no dreams, and wakes up again to the silent, flickering fluorescent light. The cycle repeats itself three more times.

A second doctor mentions during one of his visits, in tones of pleasant surprise, that it's good to see the lucidity persist for this long. So many months have passed lately with no change.

On the fourth day, with effort, Sylar is able to work through the pain enough to sit up, his hands braced behind him to keep himself upright.

Comments

[eclipsednpcs.livejournal.com]

"My Gabriel." One hand is still on his arm; she smiles and leans forward, finally pulling her other hand away from her chest and reaching out to brush cold fingers over his cheek.

(The light flickers again, and as it does the walls of the hospital room seem to glisten, reflecting the intermittent illumination.

They almost look ... curved.)

Her fingertips are damp, and leave red trails on his face-- marks as red as the crimson flower that, with the pressure of her hand now gone, begins to blossom bloodily on her sweater, over her heart.

[watchmakers_son]

"No -- "

He scrambles away, clumsy and too slow and beginning to shiver harder.

"I didn't mean to," he pleads. "Mom. Please. It was an accident."

It feels like the bed's pitching underneath him, like something caught in a tide.

[eclipsednpcs.livejournal.com]

"My poor boy," Virginia croons.

Her hold on his arm remains firm, anchoring him.

(She's too small, too frail, to be this strong. Isn't she?)

Her other hand slips from his cheek and comes to rest over the stab wound left by Hiro's sword.

"I know how it hurts."

A beat (but how long? there are no clocks in this room), and she reassures him, softly, sadly,

"Don't worry. Soon it'll be over, and you won't feel a thing."

[watchmakers_son]

There's too much blood on his shirt for it to be from her fingers alone. Sylar can feel it on his face, too, thick and far too cold as it streaks down from his temple.

This isn't real. This isn't real.

(He doesn't know that.)

Seized up and dizzy with panic, he can't move as the lights flicker again, as more of the snow lands in tiny cold drops and sends the blood on his chest running out into thin pink streaks.

[eclipsednpcs.livejournal.com]

"Shh. Don't try to talk."

Or perhaps even to breathe, as the air thickens around him. It could be terror that's robbing him of his breath, of course.

(Or it could be something else.)

Virginia is smiling fondly as she watches him, waiting; fondly, protectively, and almost possessively, as she'd once looked at a picture of a much younger Gabriel, trapped like an insect in a bubble of amber.

[watchmakers_son]

"Stop," he wheezes. Every word's laborious, choked. "Stop it."

The pain's swimming back up; so is a sudden, acute nausea that grabs hold and makes him buckle against the bed. Black spots seep across his eyes.

"Please."

And then there's no breath left to say anything else.

[eclipsednpcs.livejournal.com]

It's an interesting thing; a clock generally doesn't stop working all at once. Pieces wear out, or gears wind down, but the mechanism as a whole struggles to keep (living) time, beat (tick) after beat (tick) after beat (tiiiiick).

As he jerks, gasping under the cold weight of (guilt) Virginia's hand, the room itself stutters with the unevenness of Sylar's heartbeat.

(TICK)

[watchmakers_son]

And when it jolts --








Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The fluorescent light steadies, bright and bleak. The constriction in Sylar's lungs drops away.

There's no snow; no blood.

But the cold doesn't fade, and Sylar keeps shivering as he gapes at the perfectly ordinary ceiling above him.

It happened again, he thinks, and it's followed by a sudden, bewildering, Maybe they were --

No.

(Then how else can he explain how it works?)

[eclipsednpcs.livejournal.com]

"Gab - - el"

The broken sound of his name is faint and distant, barely above a whisper.

It's coming from the direction of the door.

"Gabriel - - hear me?"

[watchmakers_son]

Sylar tries to lift his head. When the room tilts uncontrollably and his stomach lurches, he shuts his eyes with a groan.

A few seconds pass before he can open them again, to barely more than slits. The light wavers above him.

There's a voice. He knows that; he can hear it.

Can't he?

[eclipsednpcs.livejournal.com]

Virginia's voice is much louder this time, and sharp with worry.

"Gabriel--"

(As if in response to her cry, the sound of hurrying footsteps can suddenly be heard.)

[bannion_sight]

"Is there something wrong?"

The white-haired young woman who enters the room takes in the situation with clear gray eyes, and gives one brisk nod.

"Okay." Kim Ford's tone is kind, but firm. "Come with me now, Mrs. Gray. He needs to rest. We'll look after him."

[watchmakers_son]

Too late, Sylar realizes why he recognizes the first voice. His eyes widen.

"Wait," he tries to cough out, but the voice is already gone, replaced by nearly inaudible footsteps ticking down the hall.

The vertigo spins faster. Hissing, Sylar shuts his eyes and fumbles at the sheets, trying to drag them closer for warmth.

Outside the window, there's a faint chorus of cawing.

[aj_crawley]

It resolves, slowly, into the squeaking of wheels; when the door opens, this time, it brings with it a wave of warm air, admitting in its wake a tall man in the neat white uniform of the orderlies (not so very different from the simple white pyjamas of the patients). He backs through, manoeuvering around the light steel frame of his cart. Rattling off the side: a broom and pan; on the top: juice, a deep cranberry, and a small plastic tub.

"Gabriel Gray," comes a voice through the spinning vertigo. "What are we going to do with you."

[watchmakers_son]

And that voice --

Sylar forces his eyes open. They refuse to focus, for several disconcertingly long seconds.

He's already pale, but if possible, he's even more so now.

[aj_crawley]

"Steady on, now," it says. "Easy. Always getting yourself so worked up."

There are hands, a solid, welcome warmth in the unnatural chill of the room, easing him into a sitting position with the sureness of long practice.

Someone is checking his pupils; when Gabriel's eyes focus, it's opposite a gaze as blue as honesty, vivid under the fluorescent light.

[watchmakers_son]

He blinks, twice, trying to clear the last of the haze.

"I," he begins at a mumble, twisting in an effort to turn his face away. It's only for a moment before his gaze snaps back, almost unbidden.

And then, incongruously: a laugh, quick and harsh and a little manic.

"And you're meant to be a doctor, too," Sylar tells him, as if he can't quite believe it.

[aj_crawley]

"Don't get sarky," the orderly says warningly, straightening up. Rather than edged, though, his tone has a note of familiar banter to it. "We'll see who's laughing when all their hard work finishes paying for med school."

The light above flickers; he casts a glance up at it before continuing with a snort.

"Dad always said I could be anything I wanted. Though I'm not sure he meant taking lip from ingrate patients."

[watchmakers_son]

Sylar's breathing, not terribly steady to begin with, hitches.

"There was someone," he begins, then pauses to swallow. "Who was just here. Someone I knew. Did you see them?"

He darts his own gaze to the light, following the orderly's.

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah," he says, pulling the cart up alongside the bed. "Your mum. Familiar face around here by now - she's some kind of saint, I swear. The Holy Virginia," he adds, and laughs, amused by the awfulness of his pun.

(It's a fine laugh, clear and deep with merriment, and infectiously uncomplicated. The room seems warmer already.)

[watchmakers_son]

"She's been here before."

It's a question, despite the lack of inflection, as Sylar briefly turns his attention to the cart. It skips up to the orderly's face soon after.

There's an odd expression on his face.

"So I didn't hurt her."

[aj_crawley]

"Everyone knows that was an accident, Gabriel."

There's no pity in his voice. What there is: understanding, and those eyes, a forgiving blue.

[watchmakers_son]

They're difficult to look at for very long, and yet Sylar can't look away. He cracks a small, completely humorless smile.

"Does she?"

[aj_crawley]

Quietly:

"She wouldn't be here if she didn't, I can tell you that."

A moment in silence, and then he turns to the tray atop the cart, handing Gabriel the juice (plastic cup thin enough, translucent enough, to let the light seep into the wine-coloured liquid). In the other hand, the smaller cup, with three pills inside, round, white, and flat.

"These for the panic attacks," he says, "and this for the vitamins. Go on."

Do this in  m e m o r y  of me.
(The light flickers again; the orderly tsks.)

[watchmakers_son]

The liquid darkens, seems thicker; the light steadies and it's a clear vivid red again. Sylar tips the cup slightly. It slides over the plastic with no trouble.

He glances up at the other man again, curling his fingers around the brim of the smaller cup, nails scraping the pills.

"I thought forced injections were more your style," he remarks, very level.