for the_lucky13 - 13 songs you hate.

1. Anything by Alanis Morissette. Her voice drives me insane.

2. Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton. It was our song for prom, back in high school, and considering that I didn't have a date yet my mother made me go anyway? You do the math. One of the stations around here also over-plays it around this time of year, for some reason.

3. Anything by the B-52s. I could give a damn about a rock lobster.

4. The Warning by Incubus. It reminds me too much of who I used to be.

5. Take On Me by A-Ha. Overplayed and annoying.

6. Best of You by the Foo Fighters.

7. Your Funeral, My Trial by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. Or anything by the, for the matter. There's something about his music that grates on me--this song just seems to be the worst.

8. Anything by Britney Spears. Do I need to explain why?

9. Mostly anything by Eminem. The only song by his I can say I like is Just Lose It, and that's only for a couple of lines.

10. How to Save a Life by The Fray. I just do.

11. Won't Get Fooled Again. The Who. See above.

12. Life on Mars by David Bowie. Normally, I like Bowie; this song just annoys me.

13. Anything by Jonathan Coulton. I don't think he's funny, and I don't understand why other people do.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 223

for muses_gonewild: is that ... ?

"I meant to give you this at your party," Angela called over her shoulder, casting him a quick glance before turning back to the safe she'd revealed behind one of the walls, "but I wasn't quite sure how you'd take it. Or if it would have been in bad taste to give it to you in front of all those people, family or otherwise."

For not the first time that day, Sylar arched an eyebrow in silence, only half-paying attention to the code as his mother keyed it into the safe. He had more important things to think about, after all--namely trying to decide what this was all about--seeing as how Angela hadn't been entirely forthcoming as to what was going on. She'd simply pulled him away from Mohinder, claiming she needed to borrow him for a few hours, lead him out to where he'd had his motorcycle parked on the lawn, and told him to take her home. When he'd asked why, she'd pointedly ignore the question, putting on the helmet he very rarely used before wrapping her arms around his waist. And when he'd commented on the fact that it seemed she knew what she was doing, his mother had failed to grace that with a response, too, instead nodding towards the path that lead towards the road.

He hadn't been able to keep the frown from his face, but he'd done as she asked, riding them back to her mansion in silence. Her refusal to explain persisted even once he'd killed the engine and she was leading them up the stairs, and for a moment, he'd considered demanding to know what the hell was going on, again. He seemed to realize that that would get him no where, however, judging by what little he could pull out of her thoughts, and so he'd stayed silent grudgingly, following her through the house without pause, only stopping once they'd reached Arthur's old office. Her office.

And here they were, now.

He sighed, pushing away from the wall where he'd taken up leaning, and moved over to her. "What is it?"

"Something I asked Arthur to get rid of a long time ago," she replied, turning away from the safe, a small, battered shoebox in her hands. "I wanted him to throw this away--I thought he had, honestly--but, well. It turns out your father was a bit more sentimental than I gave him credit for."

She pulled off the top of the box, offering it to him, and he leaned forward to look into it. He could see why Angela hadn't wanted to unearth this in front of the others; he was nothing short of stunned. "Is that ... ?"

"Either that, or he thought he could use this to win you to his side. Prove that you were who he said you were, when he got back on his feet and started trying to move against the rest of the family. How he planned on getting in here while I was still around, I don't know, but ... " Angela made a face, equal parts sour and apologetic. "It's what I would have done, if our roles had been reversed."

It wasn't an answer, his mother clearly just rambling at this point as she waited for his reaction, but he wasn't listening, either. Instead, he continued to stare into the box for a moment, before reaching into it, pushing aside a collection of photographs that had been taken in the hospital, the day he and Peter had been born. His fingers curling around a small, plastic hospital bracelet that had been buried under the pictures, he pulled it out carefully, holding it up so that he could study it.

Gabriel Robert Petrelli, it read, in neat type, December 23rd, 1979; 7:16pm. 5 lbs. 11 oz.; 18 1/4 in.

He traced his thumb over the words lightly, resisting the sudden, near-consuming urge to pull memory from the plastic, and then he was looking up at her. "If you wanted him to get rid of it, why did you keep it?"

Angela shrugged, her eyes dropping down to the box, something near shame running off her in like sheets of rain off a rock. "I couldn't tell you," she answered, honestly, "but regardless, this is yours, now. I gave Peter and Nathan theirs ages ago--less for me to use against them, as a mother. It's only fair you were allowed yours."

He hummed acceptingly, setting the bracelet back in the box as gingerly as he'd taken it out. Then, slowly, he was taking the box and its lid from her, closing his history back away. "I want to stop at my apartment, before we go back to the Hamptons."

Looking back up at him, she studied him for a moment before nodding. "Of course."

A deep breath, and Sylar flashed her a small, tight-lipped smile--something he'd clearly learned from his mother even without her presence in his life, growing up--before heading for the door. He wasn't sure how he felt about his mother's gift, and he could only hope she'd remain just as silent on the way back as she had been coming out here so that he could think about it.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 862
Note: Angela is mapetrelli and is all mine to use and abuse. Cross-posted to thepathwechoose.

for writers_muses: regret

Claire had fallen asleep nearly a half an hour ago, still sniffling into his shoulder, but he he hadn't dared to move. Strange, considering that she'd dozed off curled up around him on more than one occasion, and he hadn't thought twice about getting up and carrying her to the bed--nor had he ever woken her in doing so--but still true, something he couldn't name keeping him cold on the tile. Maybe it was the circumstances under which she'd slipped into sleep; maybe it was his own lingering unease. He couldn't quite say for certain, but whatever it was, it was enough to make him give up any illusions of carrying her off to bed, instead shifting ever so slightly to put his back to the wall, trying to get comfortable.

Looking down at her once he had, her thin frame snuggled up against his chest, he fought back the urge to sigh, afraid of waking her, and contented himself to studying her, instead. She looked tired, wholly drained, even in her sleep, and he pulled a hand away from her waist to trace just the tips of his fingers over her cheek. Without ever waking, she recoiled a bit, and he took his hand away, frowning at her hard, suddenly sure he'd lost whatever freebie points he'd gained in helping Peter, if not her trust entirely. All because he couldn't control himself; because she'd pushed his fucking buttons.

His frown turned to a sneer, though it wasn't quite directed at her, and he wondered where the hell he'd gone so wrong. A year ago--six months ago--he'd had a handle on himself and his urges. The mindjob the Petrellis had done on him, while unfortunate, had taught him to keep himself in check. Barring Luke, who had touched what wasn't his to lay a hand on, he hadn't killed anyone since Primatech had burned. He'd been better. It hadn't even been a struggle to maintain his handle on himself--it just was. And then what? What had changed? What had reawoken the uncontrollable addiction?

He took a deep breath, trying to fight it back, the mere thought of his hunger enough to reignite need in his blood, and then he was letting the breath he'd taken out a sigh. As he'd feared, Claire shifted a bit in his arms but she didn't stir, and he froze for an instant as he waited for her to resettle before shaking his head. This whole situation was a joke, a wreck, a source of constant confusion and frustration, and he was beginning to wonder why he stayed. Why he'd been the one to start it in the first place, when he'd kidnapped her on a whim.

He should never have changed the rules of their game, the both of them caught now without means of escape. He should never have touched her tonight, despite the rage and need that had coiled itself around his heart, chokingly. Yet he couldn't stop--wouldn't--no matter what it cost them. He loved her too damn much. And here, with her asleep and him doubting himself, was the only place where he could find the strength to apologize for not wanting to stop and for hurting her in earnest, tonight.

"I'm sorry."

Then he was dropping his head back to the wall, counting the tiles in the ceiling long into the night.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 562
Note: Companion piece to this. Sleeping!Claire has been borrowed without permission, but with love and respect.