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heroslayer(Based on this picture. Set immediately before this.)
He wakes up shivering, and he doesn't understand. He should be warm -- Mohinder doesn't exactly run the air conditioning often, and despite the fact that he's not wearing much beyond his boxers, the geneticist's body heat is almost an ability unto itself -- but he's not. He's not and in an attempt to fight the cold that's somehow inched its way into his bones, he pulls away from the other man, all but scrambling into a half-sit so that he can wrap his arms around his knees. He shoots Mohinder a glance, just to make sure he hasn't woken him in his sudden albeit short-lived movement, and then once he's sure he hasn't he takes a deep breath.
He holds it for a moment, his heart picking up its cadence to match the violence of his shuddering, and then he lets it out slowly, fingers spidering up and down his legs in an attempt to either instill a sense of warmth or calm himself down. He can't quite manage either, however, and fueled by something nearing panic, he slips out of bed, bolting for the bathroom. He doesn't bother to check to see if he's woken Mohinder, this time. He just opens the door hurriedly and then closes it behind him, fingers fumbling with the lock before he turns to lean on the counter, short of breath now, the world all but spinning around him.
Taking a moment, he tries to steady himself -- another item for his ever-growing list of futile actions -- and then he reaches with shaking hands for the light switch. He finds it after what feels like an eternity of groping the wall, winces as the light reaches eyes that aren't quite ready for it, and turns to face the mirror.
For the briefest of instants, he's almost sure that his skin is rebelling against him somehow.
Sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, he brushes his fingers over day-old stubble, tilting his head to one side to examine his jawline in the mirror out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing moves this time, however -- if it was ever moving in the first place -- and he lets out a shaky sigh, convincing himself that it was a trick of the light, and drops his hand away from his face with a muttered swear. He stares at his ring blankly, still all but convulsing, and then he reaches down to turn the sink on to run some water over his face.
It manages to calm his heart a bit, thankfully, and he sighs, dropping his hands back to the counter top, his eyes closed as he revels in the fact that he can almost breathe again. He sucks in a handful of slow breaths, eyelids fluttering open, and returns his attentions to the mirror, intent on seeing if he looks like he feels -- like death warmed over.
Sylar's reflection waits for him over the rise of his shoulders. So much for breathing like a sane person.
He stiffens immediately, teeth gritted in an attempt to keep his cool, but he doesn't turn. Maybe if he doesn't turn around to face the killer, he'll disappear. It's not the best logic in the world, and the part of his head that's managed some kind of coherency in the last few minutes screams at him to try running, but it's all he has.
"Sylar."
The other man flashes him a wolfish grin. "Hello, Nathan."
"How the hell did you get in here?" he asks lowly, taking great pains to keep his voice down. He doesn't want to wake Mohinder -- something else he'll be kicking himself for later, assuming he lives long enough to sit down and think about this.
"Does it matter?"
"I think it does, yeah."
"Going to get me on a breaking and entering charge? Send me off to jail?" He makes a soft, amused noise at the back of his throat, fixing Nathan with a wide, wild-eyes stare in the glass. "Somehow, I think that's the least of your worries, right now."
"Says the guy who's outnumbered," Nathan shoots back, summoning up a thin-lipped smile. "And if what happened last time is any indication, you run away if the odds aren't in your favor."
"Your security people?"
"Yeah." The senator nods, standing up a little straighter as if his posture somehow helps his argument. "Only this time, it's Mohinder in the other room, not a bunch of guys with guns, and somehow, I get the feeling he'd love to get his hands on you."
Another amused noise, this one closer to a laugh, and the killer bows his head for a moment before returning his attentions to Nathan. "If you only knew."
Nathan can't help it; he shoots a bewildered look over his shoulder back at Sylar. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Cryptically, the other man pops one shoulder in a half-shrug, and then he's changing the subject to possibly the most bizarre thing Nathan can think of. "Say my name again."
"What?"
"Someone hasn't been keeping up on the Harry Potter books," he answers mockingly. A pause follows, and then, "There's an old belief that naming something gives it power -- that if you name something, it gives it a sense of identity. Of self. It's why people call their fathers 'dad' and not by their names. Why there's the words husband and wife -- son and daughter. Relationships -- names, whatever -- remind us of who we are, and I need to remember. It's been helping."
Another skipped beat, and Nathan turns slowly, pressing his back to the sink, trying to keep his distance even as he stares at him, uncomprehending. He doesn't get to question, however, as the killer starts up again. "The little things have been helping, too. Like when you drove past Hartsdale a few weeks ago. Or when you fixed your clock, while you were talking to your mother. It woke something up, sparked something, and you started -- I started -- "
He shakes his head, trying to get back on track, and the senator wonders for a moment if he can bolt past the killer or call for Mohinder. It doesn't even occur to him to think or ask about how he knew about Hartsdale or the clock -- he just needs to get out of the room. When Sylar fixes his eyes on him again, however, he thinks better of it. Not a good idea when the other man seems to know exactly what's going through his head.
"Hearing my name has helped the most, though," he continues, something between a sneer and a frown curving his lips. "I never really believed in the whole power in names thing, but it's -- it's like every time someone says my name, a piece of me falls back into place. Like maybe I won't lose myself to this. Like I can remember or make you remember."
"... you realize how nuts you sound, right?"
"It doesn't matter," he answers. "Just say it."
Nathan studies him critically, trying to decide whether or not doing what the madman says would be in his best interests. He doesn't see the harm in it -- doesn't really understand what the hell Sylar is talking about in the first place -- and if it gets him to go away? Why not? And so he takes sucks in a breath, letting the other man's name out a near-frustrated sigh.
"Feel better?" he asks, after the silence that follows stretches far too long for his tastes.
Sylar suddenly seems so much bigger in the dim light of the bathroom. "Oh, much."
Considering his present company, it really shouldn't surprise Nathan when the world goes dark around him, but somehow it does. It's the last thought he manages before something shifts somewhere and he has no thoughts at all.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1315
He wakes up shivering, and he doesn't understand. He should be warm -- Mohinder doesn't exactly run the air conditioning often, and despite the fact that he's not wearing much beyond his boxers, the geneticist's body heat is almost an ability unto itself -- but he's not. He's not and in an attempt to fight the cold that's somehow inched its way into his bones, he pulls away from the other man, all but scrambling into a half-sit so that he can wrap his arms around his knees. He shoots Mohinder a glance, just to make sure he hasn't woken him in his sudden albeit short-lived movement, and then once he's sure he hasn't he takes a deep breath.
He holds it for a moment, his heart picking up its cadence to match the violence of his shuddering, and then he lets it out slowly, fingers spidering up and down his legs in an attempt to either instill a sense of warmth or calm himself down. He can't quite manage either, however, and fueled by something nearing panic, he slips out of bed, bolting for the bathroom. He doesn't bother to check to see if he's woken Mohinder, this time. He just opens the door hurriedly and then closes it behind him, fingers fumbling with the lock before he turns to lean on the counter, short of breath now, the world all but spinning around him.
Taking a moment, he tries to steady himself -- another item for his ever-growing list of futile actions -- and then he reaches with shaking hands for the light switch. He finds it after what feels like an eternity of groping the wall, winces as the light reaches eyes that aren't quite ready for it, and turns to face the mirror.
For the briefest of instants, he's almost sure that his skin is rebelling against him somehow.
Sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, he brushes his fingers over day-old stubble, tilting his head to one side to examine his jawline in the mirror out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing moves this time, however -- if it was ever moving in the first place -- and he lets out a shaky sigh, convincing himself that it was a trick of the light, and drops his hand away from his face with a muttered swear. He stares at his ring blankly, still all but convulsing, and then he reaches down to turn the sink on to run some water over his face.
It manages to calm his heart a bit, thankfully, and he sighs, dropping his hands back to the counter top, his eyes closed as he revels in the fact that he can almost breathe again. He sucks in a handful of slow breaths, eyelids fluttering open, and returns his attentions to the mirror, intent on seeing if he looks like he feels -- like death warmed over.
Sylar's reflection waits for him over the rise of his shoulders. So much for breathing like a sane person.
He stiffens immediately, teeth gritted in an attempt to keep his cool, but he doesn't turn. Maybe if he doesn't turn around to face the killer, he'll disappear. It's not the best logic in the world, and the part of his head that's managed some kind of coherency in the last few minutes screams at him to try running, but it's all he has.
"Sylar."
The other man flashes him a wolfish grin. "Hello, Nathan."
"How the hell did you get in here?" he asks lowly, taking great pains to keep his voice down. He doesn't want to wake Mohinder -- something else he'll be kicking himself for later, assuming he lives long enough to sit down and think about this.
"Does it matter?"
"I think it does, yeah."
"Going to get me on a breaking and entering charge? Send me off to jail?" He makes a soft, amused noise at the back of his throat, fixing Nathan with a wide, wild-eyes stare in the glass. "Somehow, I think that's the least of your worries, right now."
"Says the guy who's outnumbered," Nathan shoots back, summoning up a thin-lipped smile. "And if what happened last time is any indication, you run away if the odds aren't in your favor."
"Your security people?"
"Yeah." The senator nods, standing up a little straighter as if his posture somehow helps his argument. "Only this time, it's Mohinder in the other room, not a bunch of guys with guns, and somehow, I get the feeling he'd love to get his hands on you."
Another amused noise, this one closer to a laugh, and the killer bows his head for a moment before returning his attentions to Nathan. "If you only knew."
Nathan can't help it; he shoots a bewildered look over his shoulder back at Sylar. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Cryptically, the other man pops one shoulder in a half-shrug, and then he's changing the subject to possibly the most bizarre thing Nathan can think of. "Say my name again."
"What?"
"Someone hasn't been keeping up on the Harry Potter books," he answers mockingly. A pause follows, and then, "There's an old belief that naming something gives it power -- that if you name something, it gives it a sense of identity. Of self. It's why people call their fathers 'dad' and not by their names. Why there's the words husband and wife -- son and daughter. Relationships -- names, whatever -- remind us of who we are, and I need to remember. It's been helping."
Another skipped beat, and Nathan turns slowly, pressing his back to the sink, trying to keep his distance even as he stares at him, uncomprehending. He doesn't get to question, however, as the killer starts up again. "The little things have been helping, too. Like when you drove past Hartsdale a few weeks ago. Or when you fixed your clock, while you were talking to your mother. It woke something up, sparked something, and you started -- I started -- "
He shakes his head, trying to get back on track, and the senator wonders for a moment if he can bolt past the killer or call for Mohinder. It doesn't even occur to him to think or ask about how he knew about Hartsdale or the clock -- he just needs to get out of the room. When Sylar fixes his eyes on him again, however, he thinks better of it. Not a good idea when the other man seems to know exactly what's going through his head.
"Hearing my name has helped the most, though," he continues, something between a sneer and a frown curving his lips. "I never really believed in the whole power in names thing, but it's -- it's like every time someone says my name, a piece of me falls back into place. Like maybe I won't lose myself to this. Like I can remember or make you remember."
"... you realize how nuts you sound, right?"
"It doesn't matter," he answers. "Just say it."
Nathan studies him critically, trying to decide whether or not doing what the madman says would be in his best interests. He doesn't see the harm in it -- doesn't really understand what the hell Sylar is talking about in the first place -- and if it gets him to go away? Why not? And so he takes sucks in a breath, letting the other man's name out a near-frustrated sigh.
"Feel better?" he asks, after the silence that follows stretches far too long for his tastes.
Sylar suddenly seems so much bigger in the dim light of the bathroom. "Oh, much."
Considering his present company, it really shouldn't surprise Nathan when the world goes dark around him, but somehow it does. It's the last thought he manages before something shifts somewhere and he has no thoughts at all.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1315
no subject
Date: 2009-07-26 08:45 pm (UTC)