heroslayer | Entries tagged with community: couples therapy

Claire sighed as she continued to recline against the mountain of pillows that were stacked at the head of the hotel bed where she had spent the last couple hours trying to read. It was useless though. They hadn't moved for a couple days, finally feeling safe enough to stay off the roads and to keep from moving around so much. They were pretty used to running after all but it could be a bit much after hours and days on the road. But now she almost didn't know what to do with herself when they stopped. Brushing her fingers through her hair, she bit back an irritated sigh as she let the book fall away to the bed and she looked around the room.

Finally she pushed off of the bed, glancing towards the door as she thought of finding Sylar and Peter. Shaking her head after a moment, she glanced at her phone on the dresser before disappearing into the bathroom. She still hadn't told Sylar about calling the Haitian. She figured she would wait till he called.

Sylar, too, had found himself growing restless in spite of the fact that it was his idea to stop, and so he'd stepped out for a bit, hoping for luck to strike and for him to find what he was looking for in town. That, unfortunately, had never happened, and so he had returned to the hotel room, empty-handed and near sulking. He took a moment to look around as the door closed behind him, as if he half expected stroke of genius to hit him, shook his head when it didn't, and moved over to the bed.

( He'd gotten as far as flopping down on the mattress when something on the dresser rattled ominously. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1520
Note: Follows this and this.

He wasn't sure where the flower had come from, the only living thing in the woods beyond the half-grown Evergreen trees they had come for, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Samuel had something to do with it. He couldn't say how exactly, aware of what the barker could do and knowing keeping something so fragile alive didn't exactly fall under terrakinesis, but how else could it have survived? The ground was frozen, a thin layer of frost blanketing what remained of the grass and the trees, and yet there it was, bright red petals reaching up towards the dark sky like a woman in prayer.

Regardless of the hows and whys, though, he moved over to it mutely, shooting a glance over his shoulder. Claire hadn't noticed it or him, too busy trying to find a tree that would work for them, for Christmas, and he smiled slyly, turning back to the flower with a plan in mind.

He murmured an apology to the flower -- silly, maybe, but he felt like a vandal, somehow -- and pulled it out of the ground. He looked down at it in his hands, thumb brushing lightly over the petals and mindful of the thorns, pushing dirt away, and then he was tucking it carefully into the flannel folds of his overshirt. He patted the space where it rested over his heart, making sure it wouldn't fall out while he walked, and turned back to Claire.

"Find anything?"

"Yeah," she called back, pointing to a tiny tree that would, hopefully, fit somewhere in the trailer. "What do you think of this one?"

"It's good," he said, moving to join her. And after a moment of the two of them studying it in silence, he knelt down next to it, pulling it free of the ground with grunt.

( She nibbled at her lower lip briefly. "I guess we should have brought a shovel, huh?" )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 831
Note: Claire is

its_notluck and is used with love and permission. ♥

They're back in New York now, Dale and her ability miles behind them, forgotten. The city feels cold, colder still than Montana as the autumn dies and winter moves to claim its crown, and the apartment only strengthens the chill. It shouldn't, not after Mohinder's turned the heat up high enough to sweat, but it does. He blames the ghosts that linger, this place more than familiar -- if he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine it's Chandra and not Mohinder sitting at the desk across the room. He blames the lies and the betrayal, and he wraps his arms around himself to fight off the shivering shadows that haunt.

As if he can sense his discomfort, Mohinder looks up at him. He tips his head to one side, the frown that follows like poison on his face, and pushes away from the desk to move to him. He touches his fingers to his elbow lightly. "Zane?"

He decides in that instant that he hates that name. There's a weakness inherent in it, flaws that bring him further from being God every time Mohinder uses it. If he'd know that it would bring him down he never would have taken it, but he has no choice now, and he offers Mohinder a thin smile. "I'm fine. I'm just -- I'm freezing."

"I'll turn the heat up." Mohinder turns to move to the thermostat and he darts forward, fingers curling around his wrist to stop him. They both look down at their hands; the both look up and Mohinder frowns a bit more, curious now. He wishes he could tell him what the hell he was thinking. "Zane, what's wrong?"

"I don't know."

Mohinder shifts, tugging his wrist out of his hold, and laces their fingers together slowly. His eyes drift back down to their hands, to the light and the dark, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. He loves this. He hates it. He needs more than anything for this to be real, rather than another lie from another Suresh. He needs to throw Mohinder into the nearest wall and demand that he give him the list. He feels pulled in a hundred different directions, so broken and lost, and he wishes that he never thought of trying to seduce Mohinder. He wishes that Mohinder had gotten them two rooms that night in the hotel, rather than recognizing the connection -- the heat -- between them.

"I need you," falls out of his mouth instead, and inwardly he curses himself. Not that it stops him from opening his mouth again. "I feel like -- like I don't know who I am, anymore. I'm losing my sense of self and I don't know how to stop it. And you're the only thing that feels stable."

Confusion replaces curiosity on Mohinder's face. "Because we helped Dale? I thought you wanted ... "

"I did." Of course, his idea of help varied greatly from Mohinder's. She didn't deserve her abilities; he wanted to take them off her hands for her. Mohinder had stopped him, though; he hadn't let him 'help'. "I just ... "

"Just what?"

He drops his head to Mohinder's shoulder, burying his face in it, and lowers his voice just enough so that he's sure that he won't be heard. "You should be dead. I want you to be dead. This -- all of this -- it's not fair. It's not me. You're ruining the game. You're ruining me." Pausing, he raises his head, resting his head against his, mouth near his ear. "But I can't let you go."

Reaching up, Mohinder threads his fingers through his hair, still bewildered but trying to be soothing. "You won't have to. I promise."

"I know." And that's what bothers him.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 627
Note: Mohinder is

witnessof_fate and is used with love and permission.

He doesn't understand why his mother doesn't come with them into the diner; what the money passed between his father and his uncle means; why his father turns to leave without trying to manhandle him back into the car like he did when they set out. All of it makes so very little sense to a six-year-old, and so he calls out to him, feet pounding gravel as he bolts away from his aunt and uncle and after his father.

Samson Gray ignores him, gets in the car, and turns to his mother. An argument explodes between them and Gabriel can't say he's surprised even if he doesn't understand it, as it's all they've done in the last few weeks, so he just keeps running. Pretends it isn't happening, just like they pretend it hasn't happened -- they don't fight and he didn't watch his father hit his mother last night -- every time they catch him listening in or spying on them from the top of the stairs.

( His mother raises a hand in anger but his father is faster. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 793

Dissect a trillion sighs away -- will you get this letter?
Jagged pulp sliced in my veins, I write to remember
'Cause I'm a million miles away -- will you get this letter?
Jagged pulp sliced in my veins, I write to remember

War, he learns fairly quickly, is not pretty. Not that he was expecting it to be, but there's a difference between being told, hearing countless stories from Adam over the years, and actually seeing. Shadows of pain and death linger in every corner of the wasted battlefield, bathing him in horror as they latch on to an ability to empathize that's only grown stronger over the years. Could have dones and what ifs creep into the way he frames his shoulders, weighing him down. And all of it -- every corpse that used to house a friend that he stumbles by as his body puts itself back together; every voice he can make out, shrieking into the night as they suffer themselves to death, unable to be saved -- it takes a toll on him.

He manages to hide it from Claire, barely as she's known him for centuries now, and feigns tiredness after every battle, retreating to the barracks to try to remember how to breathe. It doesn't quite work for him, no matter how many times he tastes the horror that is war, but at least it gives him clarity of mind enough to block some of it out, pulling his arms away from his chest as the chill battle has left in its wake fades. He takes a moment, every time, to wonder why he came out here in the first place, and what it would cost to leave, and then he thinks better of it.

He's never been one to abandon the things that matter to him, too possessive even in his old age to change his opinions in that field, and he won't leave Claire to suffer the war alone. She's gotten so cold as the years have gone by, but he still likes to think things like this affect her in some way, and besides. He's seen what happens if he's not here -- his aptitude has gifted him with the ability to see how time lines run if he focuses hard enough, and he knows it's not pretty. He won't condemn her to that.

Pushing it out of mind, as he doesn't want to dwell too long on the things that hurt, in the wake of a sting of pain too sharp as it is, he sits on the bed for what feels like forever, blank. Then, slowly, he shifts, reaching for the trunk that he keeps at the end of the cot. He rifles through it, pushing away the things he's squirreled away over the course of the war -- clothing he never wears, weapons, and so on -- finding a stack of letters, bound in a leather cord, hiding at the bottom of the trunk.

He pulls them out, unwrapping them slowly, and sinks back into the cot as he settles them in his lap.

One by one, he reads them over, his own words, penned on anything he could find, and meant to be sent to Mohinder. He's never gotten around to sending them, isn't sure he even can this far out, but it doesn't stop him from writing them. The letters help him remember that somewhere, far away from here, things are saner -- that the Indian is waiting for him, somewhere. That the pain and fear and terror won't follow him home, when this is all over. That there's something untouched back home.

Marginally comforted, he pushes them out of his lap and leans over into the trunk again, pulling out a stub of a pencil he's managed to find and hold onto and a smattering of paper scraps. They're not much, but they're enough he figures, and that in mind, he rocks back, setting what little open space he has on folded legs and sets to writing. And slowly but surely, as he talks about things that have little to do with war and death, the chill falls away from his heart, giving him the strength to fight another day. Guiding him another day closer to being able to go home, to being able to see him.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 663 (without lyrics)
Note: Lyrics are from One Armed Scissor by At the Drive-In, and were included for flavor because they helped inspire the writing.

He keeps a candle in his apartment that he never lights. Not that he's ever been much of a candle person, the very idea of burning wick and wax too romantic for his tastes and a little pointless, when he can make his own light if the power goes, but this is a special case. He doesn't light it because he doesn't need it; he doesn't light it because the smell of it reminds him of Mohinder, and he needs it to remind him of better times.

His memory, while perfect, only counts for so much after all, and the scent of the candle -- patchouli and amber, or so the sticker on its side reminds him -- even unlit, does wonders for washing away the last memory he has of Mohinder's scent. Memories of fire and ash, as he put him to rest years ago, unable to find a way to save him. To keep him. A candle is all he has to hold onto, and he's half afraid that if he burns it, if he lets it slip away to time and fire, he'll never be able to find it again.

Even with all his power and Mohinder's faith's belief in reincarnation, he hasn't been able to find the Indian again, after all.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 215

He should be asleep; intellectually, he knows that. He hasn't managed more than a few hours over the course of the last few days, most of them the night before, and it's starting to wear on him. He might be immortal, his body ready, willing, and able to fight off the things that wear him down physically, and his mind always possessing of the ability to keep him from being mentally tired, but they can only do so much. He still needs sleep, however little, and yet in spite of how easy it would be to rest, curled up in bed now, his arms around Mohinder, he won't allow himself. He won't because sleep means dreaming and the dreams anymore are memories of things he shouldn't remember, and while most of them have been happy, they hurt. And the one upsetting one his subconscious decided to sic on him the other night as if to spite him is all the more painful in the midst of the good ones.

Where ever they were, whatever that was (he's still not sure yet), Mohinder left. Married to him and then gone. Disappeared without warning, just like everything else he's ever loved has. He doesn't know how long he was there without him, the dream thankfully not that cruel, but he woke up sobbing silently then, and his chest and eyes burn now, just thinking about it.

He's a killer. He hasn't grieved, hasn't really cried since he accidentally murdered his mother, too emotionally dead to bother. He didn't even cry for Elle, despite the fact that he should have--he could have ignored her lies and been happy again, even if he didn't remember ever truly enjoying life before hand--but he didn't. He just murdered her and walked away. So why now? It shouldn't hurt--it's not like he remembers all the pieces and before now, he and Mohinder haven't been on anything nearing good terms in an age--but it does, and he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Without thinking about it, his arms tightening around Mohinder sleeping next to him a little more surely, and he lowers him head to his shoulder. He realizes belatedly that that's probably not his best move ever, as the geneticist is stirring in his arms. Suresh makes a sleepy noise, not really awake but not entirely asleep anymore either, and he turns his head into his ear, pressing a kiss there before murmuring something soothing. Mohinder hums, accepting, and he shifts a bit, snuggling closer before going still again, slipping back into sleep.

He takes a minute. Holds his breath. Counts out time to the ticking in his head. Then, once he's sure the Indian has had enough time to fall back asleep in earnest, he sighs, letting the pain of losing him once bubble up in his chest again, forever hovering near its breaking point. And eyes clenched shut, he whispers three words to him, not trusting his voice above that volume.

"Stay this time."

He knows now what he meant when he asked Claire how to make love stay.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 517

( Cut for spoilers for the season finale of Heroes. )

"When was the last time you touched me?"

The question comes out of the blue, one night when they're lying in bed, and he can't help but look confused for an instant, his head turning to stare at her in the dark. Funny how he'd though she'd been asleep when he'd climbed into bed--it's after midnight; anyone else would have been asleep--and even funnier that he didn't notice. But then her breathing was steady enough to pass for sleep a minute ago, and it never hitches now, her query as calm as it is random, her eyes still closed even, like she can't bring herself to look at him.

"What?" he manages finally, sheets shifting as he does, as he rolls over to face her.

"When was the last time you touched me?"

"Heidi, I'm--" She cuts him off, and he doesn't bother trying to talk over her.

"A very busy man," she supplies, knowing that's his usual excuse. "President. People depend on you to keep this country safe." She squeezes her eyes closed tightly, and he's sure for an instant that he can hear the flicker of guilt she's wrestling with. She knows how dangerous it is out here, having seen it in the people she thought she was able to trust, to care about--Peter for one--but she can't let this die. She can't, and whatever her reasons, they conquer the guilt, leaving her staring into the dark at his silhouette. "But your also my husband, Nathan. Here, in this room, you're my husband."

( "You think I don't know that?" He tries to keep the malice out of his tone; he's not sure how well he manages. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1159

He hadn't slept since he'd escaped from the Company, half terrified that he'd wake up and find his freedom had been a dream or, worse yet, that he somehow wouldn't wake up at all, so he supposed it made sense that he'd fallen asleep now. His body had simply needed it more than he'd realized, and what Mohinder had done to him--what he'd done to the Indian--hadn't helped, he was sure. Not that he was complaining. If anything actually, quite to the contrary, a hint of a smirk tugged at his lips at the memory, as he rolled over to check the clock on the nightstand. His night thus far might have been amazing, yes, but he had things to do; people to kill.

And when he caught sight of the time--nearly three in the morning--he had to bite back a swear to keep from waking the geneticist.

It was much later than he thought it was, much later than he meant to go over and pay a second visit to Dale Smither, and at this point, who the hell knew if she was even still at her shop? He didn't, but that didn't stop him from trying to untangle himself from Suresh like an animal that had suddenly realized it'd been caught in a snare. He needed to get over there. Now. He had to at least check to see if she was still there or else his ruse would all be in vain, and he couldn't have that--wouldn't have it--regardless of where the other man's mouth had been earlier.

He managed to get as far as the edge of the bed before Mohinder reached for him, sleepily. "Zane?"

"Go back to sleep, Mohinder," he murmured, smoothing a hand over his hair in an attempt to coax him back towards dreaming, before trying to pull away again.

The geneticist didn't listen, and for not the first time, he found himself wishing he'd managed to acquire Eden's ability, rather than having to watch as she splattered her brain all over his cell. "Where are you going?"

Zane grimaced, resisting the urge to look towards the door, despite the fact that he was burning time even having this conversation. "To the bathroom," he lied, shifting on the bed again.

Mohinder let him go, this time, and so he got up from the bed slowly, heading for the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he stared at the tiled wall of the shower balefully, convinced that if he did so for long enough, a window he could escape out of would magically appear somehow, but he wasn't that lucky. No window materailized, and he could hear the other man shifting around in the other room, faintly, awake now and awaiting his return. He supposed that he could try waiting for him to give up and fall back asleep, but somehow he didn't think he'd get that lucky. He'd burned off whatever good luck he'd been carrying around since his escape from the Company in Mohinder getting them one room instead of two, apparently.

Sighing, irritable, he cast a glance at the toilet, then flushed it pointedly, so it looked as though he'd actually used the damn thing, and then he was headed back out to the room to rejoin Suresh in bed. There had been no argument, no epic battle, and yet Suresh had still somehow bested him. Changed his mind about killing Dale, if only temporarily--he'd have to see if he couldn't get her alone before they left. Stopped him. That was something even Chandra hadn't managed to do, and he wasn't sure if he hated the son more or less than the father for being able to manage it.

Either way, however, he wouldn't sleep again, that night. Maybe he still needed it, but there was something he needed more, right now. A way to stop Mohinder from keeping the things that were his from him ever again.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 658
Note: Mohinder is

witnessof_fate and is used without permission (for once) but with love.

He can't see. Blind. There's glass in his eyes still, from where the bitch fucking threw it at him, and he knows that if he could get a minute, he could force it out, either through his healing or more violently, through telekinesis. He could have his sight back so easily, if he could just get Claire off his back--literally--but he's not having much luck and he can't say the panic he's fighting is helping much. He's always been afraid of losing one of his senses.

"Get off me," he snarls, reaching up to grope for some kind of handhold. Her hair. His fingers through one of her eyes. He'll take whatever he can get, and what he gets is lucky, coming up with a handful of curls, which he tugs at, viciously.

( She doesn't so much as hiss in pain, and he remembers belatedly that she can't feel it, anyway. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 482
Note: Claire is

girl_ofsecrets and is used with permission.

(Mohinder is

genetic_fate and is used at their request. Yes, I'm still working on these, and yes, yet again I copped out on actual smut. Shut up.)

and soon it will be all said and done
and we will all be back together as one
if we will continue at all

He's old now. So old that he's lost count of the turn of the years, each passing moment like grains of sand, slipping through fingers that don't even bother to try and catch them. There's no point to it, no reason to savor the moments, everything, even the near insatiable hunger of his youth, having long since shriveled and died. For as dark as that seems, however, there is no sadness, this loss of his not something to mourn. It just is, just like he is. Fact, forever.

He supposes it's easy to mistake, though; he hasn't spoken in nearing ten years.

It's not that he's so broken by his own timelessness that he's lost his mind. He still goes out in public, still lives and breathes and does, it's more that everything he could possibly say has already been said. Everything but three words, and since everything dies, there's no point to that, either. It's like that song from centuries ago that only he remembers the words to. It's dust in the wind. And while he knows that his silence earns him odd looks and pointed fingers, when he has his back turned, but he doesn't care.

( He's never cared much for the opinions of others, and people seem to be able to read his facial expressions and archaic gestures well enough. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 625 (without lyrics)

(Mohinder is

witnessof_fate and is used with permission; Claude is

not_theactor and all mine to use and abuse.)

"Gabriel?"

The man in question snapped his head up from the set of blueprints he'd been looking over, eyes jumping to the door of his workshop. He recognized the voice of course--it was Mohinder--but the call had still caught him off guard. He hadn't known he'd left the door open, too busy trying to wrap his head around schematics and then making annotations, and even beyond that, he hadn't expected Mohinder to come and find him. Not that the visit was completely unfounded, the geneticist having come to him on more than one occasion, but well. Mohinder made him nervous in a way he just couldn't make heads or tails of, for all his ability to know.

( That in mind, all he could manage was a weak, almost shy smile. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 926

It's silly, really.

He knows that Mohinder knows that he loves him, having told him enough times and leaving it very clear in his mind at all times, so that the geneticist can pick up on it through their link. And even if it weren't for that, he's brought the Indian flowers twice now, once on his birthday and once right before Adam's, on a whim. Flowers, a traditional show of love and appreciation, of romance when he doesn't peg himself a romantic. He watches the brat daily. He's offered to pay Suresh's rent, with Bishop's ability. Taken him to dinner and, most recently, out to Rockefeller Center to learn to ice skate so that he could bring Molly and not look like a fool. Hell, he's let him live, when it would be so easy just to kill him to stop the damn ticking.

All this for Mohinder--anything for him--and yet, he has moments where he feels inadequate, like he's not doing enough. Like his geneticist doesn't understand how deep the obsession or the affection runs. And for a man who prides himself on being able to understand things and, when he feels like it, making others understand, it gnaws at him, teeth cutting and sharp like the hunger in his heart.

He knows it's ridiculous, that Mohinder knows, but it doesn't stop him from having moments of weakness. Nor does it stop him from trying to push the envelope--be a better lover, somehow--when he has those moments. And that in itself probably explains why, when he and Adam go shopping for lights for the Christmas tree that afternoon, he makes them take a detour to FAO Schwartz.

He'll only be a minute, he tells his fellow immortal, and then he leaves him in the lobby among the overflow of toys and their admirers, his mind on one thing. An art set.

He picks out the most expensive one he can find, pays for it with money he more often than not forgets he has, and lets the woman at the counter gift wrap it for him. The wrapping paper is too bright and festive, nothing like he would have picked out if left to his own devices, but he gets the feeling Suresh will know where it came from, regardless, and that the brat won't, and that's all that matters.

Smiling to himself, convinced that he's clever, he signs tag that the woman hands him to go on the package From Santa, and sticks it on before tucking it under his arm. Later, when Suresh has his Christmas Tree--or whatever they're doing, since he's fairly sure that Parkman's Jewish--up, he'll break into the apartment when no one's home and put his present under it. But for now, as he rejoins Adam, who's fiddling with a train set, he can be content in the fact that he's done yet another thing to show Mohinder he loves him.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 488

They've never really talked about having a family before. She's tried, of course, but he always avoids the topic, finding some clever way to dance around it because it scares him.

It's not that he doesn't want to be a father, though--it's more he's afraid of ending up like his mother. Either of them. That he'll come on too strong and smother the poor kid. Make him--because he's sure they'd have a son, for some bizarre reason--hate him or believe that he has to be something more than he is.

Or, worse yet, he's afraid that their son will be like them. Special. And that he'll have a relapse, a day where he can't control what he used to be, and that he'll end up hurting their child. Every time she brings it up, he can imagine her face, walking into that, and so every time he avoids the conversation and his imagination.

It's just too frightening, and he's never handled fear well.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 163 (yes, it's short :P)