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

[watchmakers_son]

Frowning, he looks down to where the orderly's pointing. There's nothing at first; then, red spatters in tiny, irregular circles on his shirt.

He touches his head again, and something damp sticks to his hair.

Oh, thinks Sylar with a strange detachment as his pulse quickens. That's why it's so warm.

And then, without warning, he's coughing: violent, chest-wracking heaves that send up more blood onto the sheets, lodging something thick and spongy in the back of his throat that won't come free no matter how hard his body tries to expel it. His grip loosens as he rocks forward, bent double.

The light sputters and settles into a rattling hiss.

[aj_crawley]

"Gabriel." The voice emerging from the orderly's mouth is hard and high, not his own. "Look what you've done, the sheets are ruined again - "

[watchmakers_son]

Even if Sylar could hear him beyond something garbled, tinny, and distant, he wouldn't be able to respond. Hands flat on the sheets -- the backs of them are flecked with blood, now, too -- his coughs trail into strangled, wet gasps before he catches his breath and starts all over again.

A thick band passes across his ankles. The hissing from the light's getting louder.

[aj_crawley]

Over his wrists, now, too - warm, and dry, and holding them in place, and the flickering of the light gleams on scales.

And the flickering

and the flick-ering

flicker

The orderly reaches for his brush, grasping it by the bristled end. He enunciates, clear as a bell, "God damn these lights," and in a graceful overhead sweep, jabs the handle into the fluorescent tube.

It shatters like a nova, and in the last glow, the orderly's eyes gleam gold.

And a thousand tiny shards of glass drift down and down, like snowflakes.