heroslayer | Entries tagged with community: muses gone wild

He knows that Molly standing at the edge of the door, watching him. She's trying to avoid being seen, fingers curled around the door frame so that she can peek around it whenever she thinks he won't catch her reflection in the mirror, but he can sense her. Smell her. Hear her breathing.

He thinks that she should know better, and briefly considers commenting to that effect, but he thinks better of it. So she's not in bed -- so what? A few more minutes isn't going to make or break her ability to function in school tomorrow morning and he has a feeling she'll wander off when he's finished here in the bathroom. She's just waiting for him to get done brushing his teeth and go to bed, after all. She, like Mohinder, seems to have some extra sense that tells her he hasn't been sleeping lately and she wants to make sure he gets into bed tonight.

He smiles a little around his toothbrush at the thought. The both of the need to worry less about him. With a great number of his abilities combined and working against it, it's not like he needs to sleep. He can function without it and they don't seem to understand that. Maybe it's because they've never thought just functioning is enough.

Pushing the thought away, he leans forward to spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, and spots her hovering by the door as he straightens. She darts back behind it; he ignores her and rinses out his toothbrush, hanging it up next to Mohinder's with a smirk to himself.

He can't say he minds being worried about, even if he thinks it's ridiculous; it's nice to know that he's swayed Molly's opinion of him that much, that he's won her heart away from Parkman. He did promise to take everything from the cop, and even if he never said it out loud, never even thought it too loud, it's good to know that he's still a man of his word. It's good to feel like the winner. And, beyond all the sinister intentions he's certain he'll never be able to shake, he can't say it's not good to simply feel loved.

The smirk turns to a simple smile and he pads out of the bathroom, heading for his and Mohinder's bedroom. Molly follows a few steps behind him, quiet as a mouse, and he continues to pretend he doesn't see her, though he only closes the door halfway once he's cleared it. She lingers just outside even as he slips under the covers next to Mohinder, though he's not the only one who knows Molly's there anymore.

Mohinder shifts away from him. "Molly's -- "

He pulls him back against his chest, shushing him softly. "She'll go back to bed on her own in a minute. She just wants to make sure I got there first."

"She's worried about you," Mohinder concludes, softly.

Humming, he steals a bold kiss from Mohinder -- he can half-imagine Molly drawing little hearts on her notebook tomorrow with their initials in them -- and drops his head back to the pillow. And just loud enough for Molly to hear, his eyes slipping closed, he announces, "I'll sleep tonight. I promise."

That seems to be enough for Molly and she wanders off, heading back to her own bed, and true to his word, he's asleep just a few minutes later.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 575
Note: Molly is

humanmapquest and is used at her request. Mohinder is

capableof_both and is used without permission but with love.

"Miss -- " He paused, looking down at the card tacked to the clipboard in his hand and stifled a smile. " -- Jennifer Dunne?"

The woman in question studied him suspiciously through the screen door of her porch and Sylar tried his best to look innocent, though he doubted he needed to go the extra mile to get her to open said door. He looked the part, after all, from the sharp brown uniform to the potted Rhododendrons tucked awkwardly under his arm and his accent, while out of practice, was still passable. He'd gotten lucky when the flower delivery truck had rolled up to the curb with a name and the perfect cover story; he expected his luck would hold out at least long enough to get what he'd come here for.

And if seemed he was right as, after a moment of toying with the rope of salt and pepper hair that hung over her shoulder, a smile crept onto her face and she nodded. "That's me."

( "Well, ma'am, seems these are for you." )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 668
Note: Follows this, this and this.

The foreman just wouldn't shut up. He supposed, on some level, that it was understandable -- the man was proud of what he and his construction team had managed to accomplish in the few short months they'd been given to build the office complex and their benefactor was nothing if not demanding -- but it was still irritating.

So much so that he's spent the last twenty minutes wondering what would happen if he dropped Nathan Petrelli's face and just destroyed the place. He planned on doing it later anyway, after all -- his own little contribution to the economy when he blamed terrorists and commissioned a new crew to build bigger and better -- and the cameras weren't hooked up just yet. No one would see him for who he truly was but the foreman, and he would die tragically as the building came down on his head, its supports mysteriously collapsing.

It was a tempting idea truly, and the only thing that was stopping him was the fact that people knew that he would be here. They knew that Nathan would be here. It had been all over the news that the good senator had planned on visiting his shiny, new business complex, and if he escaped the devastation, it would appear suspicious. Nathan just dropping dead wasn't on the agenda either, unfortunately; he needed his position as much as he hated his face.

( He also apparently needed another way out of this ridiculously one-sided dialogue. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 752
Note: Elle is

not_myfirstday and is used without permission but with love. ♥

The party is in full swing when he finds her hanging out by the buffet table, smiling and nodding and looking for an out in the conversation she's holding with one of the foreign dignitaries that ended up stopping by. He has half a mind to leave her there, as amusing as it is to watch the pained faces she's making and the way the man either doesn't recognize them or ignores them as he babbles on, but he thinks better of it. She'd make him regret it, if she knew he'd been lurking nearby the whole time, and she always seems to know, so he steps up behind her, fingers touching her arm lightly to let her know he's there. She makes no attempt to hide her relief.

"Ambassador." He smiles winningly, but he has no intentions of getting caught in this stupid conversation, too. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I borrowed my wife for a minute?"

The man smiles and waves them off, and he wraps his fingers around Elle's arm, leading her off towards one of the private rooms. The door closes behind them, and he pulls away, stepping up to the desk with a sigh, his back still turned to her; it's not hard to miss the shift, even so. He reaches up, running his fingers through his hair as if he needs to fix it -- as if he's been stuck in costume for an age, and it's the end of a long Halloween -- and turns to face her.

"You realize that's probably not the best idea, right?" Even so, she leans back against the door to ensure that no one walks in on them, her arms folding under her breasts. "I mean, all those people out there and me in here with a wanted murderer?"

He scrubs a hand over his face, then drops them back to his side, shrugging. "Good thing I'm not going to be here for very long." She tries to start and he cuts her off. "I'm tired of this. Tired of playing this game and all the stupid parties and the film crews. I'm getting out of here."

( "Because people aren't going to notice Nathan Petrelli's suddenly fallen off the face of the Earth." )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 930
Note: Elle is

not_myfirstday and is used without permission but with much love. Merry Christmas, hon. Hope this works for you. ♥

Through the haze and dimly, he came aware that he was uncomfortable. His hip was digging into something cold and metal, his arms twisted up over his head, and he was half certain his fingers were numb. Where in any other situation this would have been cause for alarm, however, too much like how he had felt the day Mohinder had poisoned his tea, he couldn't quite muster the presence of mind for it. He was too tired, and his discomfort was too distant too matter much; all he wanted to do was go back to sleep.

That in mind, groaning, he shifted against the frigid metal beneath him, trying to roll over onto his side and escape the harsh, bright light above him that was slowly cutting into his planned naptime as awareness started to bleed back in. His arms refused to move and he grit his teeth, tugging at them hard, demanding obedience. Still, he couldn't seem to move and slowly, with the rise of his anger, it occurred to him why. His arms were bound over his head.

His eyes snapped open, panic hitting him like a bucket of water, and through blurred vision, he could make out medical equipment all around him, silver and black glittering like knives against the whitewash walls. He had a moment to wonder where he was, how he got here, and then like a shock to the system, it all came running back. The fight with Peter over Nathan's very literal dead body; the laser sights that had appeared on them both near the end and the endless barrage of tranquilizer darts; the realization that he was caught, caged, and in a lab somewhere. It was all painfully familiar.

Gritting his teeth, he twisted against his binds, trying in vain to get one of his abilities to work -- something, anything -- but to no avail. And worse yet, his struggling seemed to catch the attention of someone else in the room, as he could hear someone approaching now.

"Let me out," he slurred.

Whoever it was ignored him. "He's awake."

"Already? Damn it." A second set of footsteps approached and Sylar twisted, trying to see if he could make out his captors, but he had no such luck. They were behind him, and with his wrists pinned over his head, he couldn't turn his head far enough to see. "Sedate him again. We need to get this done quick."

That was all the motivation he needed, really, and suddenly he was thrashing on the slab, trying desperately to escape. He managed to at least get his restraints loosened enough to attempt to pull one hand free when he felt the pinch at the back of his neck. All his motivation shrunk away in an instant, panic snapped up bit by bit with every beat of his heart. He sunk back into the metal with a moan.

"He's calming down."

"Good." Something that sounded passingly like a buzz saw whirred to life at his back. "Let's do this before he comes to again."

Through the haze and dimly, he came aware that someone was screaming as the saw pressed to the back of his head. He didn't have time to register that it was him before the world caved in around him.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 551

Still the night -- kill the lights
Feel it under your skin
Time is right, keep it tight
'Cause it's pulling you in

It starts with a lie.

It's something small and inconsequential -- something about his mother -- but the words shudder up your spine nevertheless and you just know he's not being straight with you. You don't call him on it, since it's not that big a deal and you're not sure you can explain even if you wanted to, but he still looks like a deer caught in headlights for a minute. He knows he's caught; you know that much, too, somehow. It doesn't occur to you that you heard his breathing hitch when you shivered, despite the distance between you.

You offer him a wan smile. "Sorry. I guess someone just -- just walked over my grave."

Despite the fact that he accepts the apology and crosses the distance to meet you, fingers immediately finding your hair, the expression he's wearing is almost sick, his eyes haunted. This hasn't been the first time he's looked at you like that and it probably won't be the last, but you can't bring yourself to ask about it. You both have your ghosts, both have things you don't want to discuss, and you're half certain that if you question him now, you'll be met with more cold dishonesty. So you don't bother, instead tipping your head into his hand with a sigh.

He combs his fingers through your hair for a few minutes, then tells you quietly he's going to bed. It's late and you should probably follow after him, but you're not tired. The dreams of places you've never been and things you've never done, so vivid you're sure they belong to someone, have stopped and with it has come boundless energy. Not that you actually do much with it -- you're on vacation, and your afraid of taxing yourself to the point of more lost time -- but it's kept you from sleeping the last few nights. You just lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe, and you're more than a little bored with it. You tell him you'll be in in a few minutes, that in mind.

( He nods, watching you with an uncertain expression, and then leans down to brush a kiss over your forehead. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 806
Note: Mohinder is

witnessof_fate and is used without permission but with love. ♥

Claire wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Matt Parkman had left her mind and took the picturesque park with him to leave her in darkness. It could have been days or it could have been just mere minutes. Either way she knew she was in trouble. She had no way of knowing how close Sylar was to finding her or if he would even beat her father there.

She had no doubt Noah Bennet was on his way and he most likely had a little army in tow. He wouldn’t see forcing her home as a bad thing. That was if she made it out of this whole mess; the mess being the fact that she was dying without the use of her ability to save her.

There she was, trapped in the hospital bed that was meant to aid in saving her life, surrounded by machines that were supposed to keep her alive. She was familiar with the steady whoosh of air coming from the machine feeding her oxygen, the constant dripping coming from her IV that was feeding her and keeping her hydrated but she was worried about the other machine she could barely hear. It was there, weak and steady; the monitor that kept track of her blood pressure and her heart rate, both of which seemed low. Or at least she was going to assume her blood pressure was low considering how slow her heart sounded even to her own ears.

She just wished she had the energy to open her eyes but she didn’t. She was fading fast and she knew it.

The door opened a moment later, loud over the hum of the machines, and two nurses let themselves into the room. One moved over to the heart rate monitor without pausing, reaching up to push a few strands of her curly hair out of the way before planting her hands on either side of the machine as she looked it over. The other simply closed the door behind them, leaning her petite frame against the door as it shut, arms folding under her breast as she watched the other nurse.

Maybe this was some kind of training session.

"I think we got here just in time," the nurse at the monitors murmured, casting a glance over her shoulder at her companion, "but I think Matt was right. She's sick, and she's not going to get any better."

"Lucky thing we can fix that, isn't it?"

( Maybe not. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 5004
Note: The use of Noah Bennet is not directed at any specific journal.

"Shame neither of us have Molly's ability."

Unsurprisingly, that earned him a dirty look, but he couldn't summon the will to care. This was the third hospital they'd been to after finding Claire missing, after all, and he had lost all hold on anything even remotely resembling patience. His temper running high, it was a small miracle he hadn't murdered Peter just for existing at this point, but somehow he'd managed to restrain himself. That restraint, unfortunately, didn't apply when it came to pushing the other man's buttons though, and he offered Peter a small, sick smile in response to the look.

Peter sighed, gritting his teeth for a moment as he pushed some of his annoyance down, and then he was shooting a glance up at the sterile, white building in front of them. "Yeah, well, we don't. And if we're going to find Claire before Bennet does, we need to keep looking."

He made a soft, accepting noise, following Peter's line of sight up to the rows of windows on one of the top floors. He studied them for a moment, wondering how much time this search would waste -- they'd gone through three Jane Does at two hospitals who had matched Claire's description already -- then pushed past Peter to head into the building. He made sure to accidentally bump shoulders with the other man as he passed, more than content to wind him up further.

Much to Sylar's dismay, however, he gave no response, following him mutely into the hospital. And to make matters worse, Peter wasn't the only person the killer shoulder checked, bumping into a very familiar face as they made their way into the lobby. This time it had genuinely been an accident, but in that instant, he wished it hadn't been -- wished he hadn't even touched the guy -- because there, staring at him in something approaching horror was Matt Parkman.

( "Sylar," he hissed, instinct driving him for what he could only assume was a gun, concealed under his jacket. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 935
Note: Peter is

hadtobeahero and is used with love and permission. The use of Matt is not directed at any particular muse. Follows this.

It's been two years. Two years and a small miracle if he's gotten to be himself as many times over the course of the years. He can't say he minds, though, as he's built up a certain level of trust with them, wearing Claire's face, and he's almost sure that no one really suspects that there's a wolf living among the sheep. He's been too careful, and the only one with more than a handful brain cells to rub together seems to be Claude, who would rather be spouting insults than scrutinizing his friends.

It's been two years. Two years and they're finally starting to think that he's dead or that the Company recaptured him. He can't say he minds, though, as he's a patient man and this is all with the end game in mind, for once. He needs to be stronger than Peter, and with his latest new ability, he's almost sure he has it in the bag. Peter won't be able to figure out how to use it fast enough, if he realizes he has a new ability at all, and he'll finally be able to take what he's coveted -- obsessed over -- since he first came to Virginia.

It's been two years. Two years and they beat him to the punch, waiting for him when he walks in the door of Peter's apartment, wearing Claire's face. That, he does mind. He wanted to be the one to make the great reveal, but Claude doesn't give him the chance, naming him without doubt or hesitation as the door closes behind him. He supposes he could keep up the act, but he's not stupid. His house of cards has come tumbling down, and people who have managed to catch the edges of truth behind a good trick never let go.

( It's been two years, and he can't wait two more. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1788
Notes: Claude is

not_theactor and is all mine to use and abuse. Peter is

hadtobeahero and Erin is

touch_and_know, and both are used with permission and love. This is meant to be the 5YG Dark Future equivalent for the verse, and is a prelude to this.

"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.

Elle's not home.

Not that he expects her to be, as that's the whole point of coming now while she's away, but it still strikes him as odd, somehow. Maybe he expects her to be better than this, to know that he's been watching her and would pick today to come for her, and to be waiting for him, the second he picks the lock. Maybe he's half afraid that she's gone because she does know, and she has no intentions of coming back, wanting to put as much space between the two of them as possible. Not that he'd blame her on the latter count, given what happened on the beach. For whatever reason he feels so strange breaking into her empty house, however, it still gives him pause, making him linger in her doorway for a moment, tense as he opens it. And when no handful of sparks fly down the hallway, he figures he's safe on one count (she really isn't here) and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, before making his way inside.

He takes a moment to look around, taking stock of her things, and decides that she hasn't left forever, either. She'll be back. That alone brings a smile to his face, and he meanders into the kitchen, figuring he might as well make himself at home. Not that there's much to make himself at home with, the refridgerator surprisingly barren, given it's nowhere near her usual day to do the grocery shopping. She doesn't order out all that often, either--too afraid, he figures, given Nathan and his damnable Hunter--and he hasn't seen anyone come home with her, to explain the lack of food.

A soft noise escapes him, equal parts curious and confused, but he pushes the thoughts aside. He'll badger her later about her lack of anything suitable to eat, instead of getting to the heart of why he's here in the first place, he figures. It'll be a good way to avoid actually talking about anything that might even remotely border on painful.

That in mind, he turns, closing the refrigerator behind him telekinetically, and moves deeper into the apartment. His fingers trail along the walls, clarisentience catching snatches of her life over the last few months as he passes. Nothing interesting, nothing he can slip into conversation to deflect real interaction, but that's not what he's really looking for in the first place. He just wants something of her to hold on to, something more than the dead cell phone in his pocket, assuming that he can't silver tongue his way back into her good graces. He needs connection, as much as he hates to admit it; he needs her.

The rooms blur with the colors of her life. Living room, bathroom, bedroom--and he stops there. With the bedroom, fingers coming away from the wallpaper so that he can move around it properly, rather than moving like a ghost around the room, confined to the other edges of her things and her being.

He steps over a pair of shoes she's left in the middle of the room, and stops at the foot of her bed, imagining her there, though when he lowers himself to it a moment later, he doesn't bother chasing phantoms. He doesn't open himself to whatever actions might cling to the sheets. He's not afraid of what he might find--there's been no one here but her; he's sure of that now--but he can't bring himself to steal more little fragments of however long she's spent here. It feels cheap, somehow. It's why, in all the time that he's stalked her, he's never bothered to watch her sleep.

Not that it stops him from stretching out on her bed, turning his face into her pillow to breathe the shadow of her scent in. Not that it stops him from tracing the curve of the dent she's left in mattress on what must be her side of the bed, imaging that his hands are on her, rather than on imperfect upholstery and coils. What does stop him is the sound of the door opening and then closing, locks falling back into place as if she's afraid something far worse than him will come beating down the door at any second.

He smiles, sitting up, and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket (his, not the one Elle left behind on the beach). Then, just like that, he's dialing the number he's forced himself to memorize, even without the aid of his perfect memory.

"Hello, Elle."

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 763

"Captain?"

Sylar, or Gabriel Sylar as he was calling himself these days, looked up from the cargo manifest from their most recent job, frowning. Whether the expression was directed at his crewman or had simply been lingering distaste for the simplicity and subsequent tedium of their work, however, was anyone's guess, but regardless, he didn't look happy. And despite the fact that over the course of five hundred and some years, he'd managed to get a handle on his sanity, no longer one to fly off the handle over the smallest of things, there was still an unspoken rule on the ship. When the captain ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. So, naturally, his crewman retreated a few steps to linger in the doorway, not wanting to be caught simply standing in the middle of the common room.

"There's a wave waitin' for you," the boy started finally, considering the floor intently. A pause, and then hesitantly, he added, "It's that man from Londinium."

Not Mohinder--if it had been him, his crewman would have called him by name, or at very least referred to him as the doctor, as had become the norm. Not Sark either, as usually he let Baileigh put out the transmission, and then came on screen only once he was sure Sylar was alone--he was Alliance and they both knew that that wouldn't sit well with his crew, considering most of them were Browncoats. So that left only one person and that explained the mild stab of fear he could sense from the boy.

"Adam." The jury was still out on Adam, though most of his boys were convinced he was bad news in one way or another. It was almost funny, considering the fact that their ship had been a gift from the man himself, and he couldn't help but crack a small smile at the irony. "I'll take it in my cabin."

The kid nodded, retreating back out of the common room in full now, and an instant later, Sylar was on his feet, moving to follow him out, then heading towards his room. Settling down in a chair, he sighed, pressing his fingers to his nose briefly as he hoped this wasn't some sort of bad news, and then he was flicking on the screen on the table. Adam's face appeared on it a moment later, and all hopes for good news evaporated.

"Hello, Gabriel."

"Adam." He nodded a bit, frowning. "What happened?"

The other immortal flashed him a small, wry smile. "You need to come home."

"What happened?" he repeated, teeth clenching, his jaw steeled.

For a moment, Adam looked thoughtful, the sound of his fingers drumming on the desk caught on the recording, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I'm afraid it's more than a little complicated, really, but ... details." He shrugged. "All you really need to know is this: Suresh needs you."

"We're on Persephone. I can be there by tomorrow morning." He barely paused long enough for Adam to register the fact that he had changed the subject, however minutely. "If he's dead or hurt--"

"He's fine," he assured him. "Physically fine, just upset."

"About what?"

"Get here, first. I'll fill you in, after you've seen to him." Assuming Mohinder didn't tell him first, and that much hung in the air, unspoken by either of them.

And Sylar let that linger for a moment, frowning, before he nodded. "I'll be there tomorrow morning," he said again, as if Adam had missed it the first time. Another pause, and then, "I'll see you then."

Then he was killing the screen, on his feet in a flash a second time that day, though this time his destination was the cockpit. He loomed in the doorway when he reached it, his shadow stretching out of his pilot, his niece, that and his expression more than a touch dangerous--something he hadn't been since the war. And forever covering fear with anger, unmoving, he hissed five simple words to Claire.

"Get us to Londinium. Now."

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 671
Note: Adam is

changehistory and is used with permission.

"Why do you have these?"

Sylar looked up from the newspaper just in time to see Claire wave a stack of coupons at him. He frowned, tilting his head to one side, trying to remember when he'd clipped them or why he hadn't thrown them away an age ago, when if nothing else good could be said about him, it was true that he was nothing if not cleanly. He couldn't quite bring the memory to mind, however, and so he shrugged, figuring it had to have been something he'd done before he'd killed Charlie, and therefore unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

They were just coupons, anyway, and so he refocused himself on the reading the news as if he actually cared about it, before telling her, "Oh, those expired four years ago."

She huffed, dropping the stack of coupons on the table so that she could put her hands to her hips. "I know," she shot back, scowling. "That's why I asked. Aren't you super neat-freak guy or something?"

For the second time that morning, he looked up from the paper, his expression a mirror of hers, as he wasn't sure what annoyed him more. The fact that, clearly, she was looking for another fight, if she was harrying him about things like expired coupons, or the fact that she must have poked around his apartment while he'd been asleep, if she knew what state he kept his things in. Next time, he decided, he'd have to make sure she stayed pinned to the bed, when he made her stay. Next time, she wouldn't have a chance to go through his things.

Now, however, all he offered was a small, sick smile that never reached his eyes. "Your eggs are burning."

"Shit," she hissed, spinning gracelessly to face the stove, bare feet slipping on the linoleum. He went back to his paper, smiling, pleased with himself, as she went about cleaning up her mess. Moments passed in blissful, almost domestic silence, and then she was trying to get his attention again. "Hey, Sylar."

He didn't bother looking up this time, something about Nathan Petrelli having caught his eye. "Hm?"

She paused for a moment, and then in a tone that was too saccharine sweet to be anything less than false, she chirped, "Here's your eggs."

Sylar barely managed to avoid the frying pan as it sailed through the air. It hit the wall behind him with a helpless thunk, rattling on the floor as it settled to try to catch the mess of burnt eggs that slid down the wallpaper, leaving lines of yellow in its wake. Really, he should have looked up when she'd tried getting him to look up at her that last time.

He sighed, surprisingly calm, and folded the paper in half, setting it down on the table. A baleful glance was shot at his coffee, before he picked the mug up, downing the rest of it--he'd almost been finished, anyway--and then he set the cup back down, looking up at her.

"Finished your coffee?" she asked, a smirk of a smile dragging her lips upwards.

"All done," he assured her.

Then, just like that, he had a hand raised, throwing her back onto the still-hot oven, their feud begun anew.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 550
Notes: Claire is

girl_ofsecrets and is used with permission.

The first time he had been at JFK airport, it had been an experience. Getting checked in. Going through security, never once stopping to worry that his falsified papers would be a problem, because Sark was that damn good. Mohinder's murmured quips about how the airport staff addressed him as Brian or Mister Russo, as per his passport. It had been fun.

Now, however, standing in the baggage claim area of the airport, it felt like a cage, and he paced it as such, shoulders rolling with each step in such a way that made him seem more animal than man, and he didn't care who saw. He'd do what he damn well pleased, heedless of the small, disapproving looks he was getting from his partner, because this? This was the biggest waste of time he had ever encountered--he had to go find Sark and Bailiegh--and it, quite possibly, an act of God that he'd managed to stop himself from climbing up on the stationary belt, and up into the ceiling to find the damn bags himself.

Mohinder, who had dealt with his impatience well enough, caught that thought, and reached out to grab his wrist on the last pass, spinning him to face him. "That's not helping anyone, you realize."

"It's helping me, Suresh," he hissed, trying to tug his arm away; the geneticist only tightened his grip.

"No, it's not," he pointed out, frowning. "Baileigh and Sark aren't going anywhere, anytime soon, and your trying to pace a rut in the floor isn't going to make the bags come any faster. All it's serving is to draw unwanted attention to us."

Sylar was silent for a moment, tense, watching him from under his eyebrows. For as patient as he seemed on the surface, the killer could tell he was anything but, from his thoughts to the way he felt. Whether it was concern for Baileigh that was making the other man just as impatient as he was, want to get back to his family after being away for days, or simple bleed over from his racing thoughts, he didn't know, but under other circumstances, it would have been amazing. How controlled Mohinder was, despite evidence to the contrary.

It was also a small miracle that he, himself, wasn't having a telekinetic temper tantrum right here in the middle of the airport, but that was neither here nor there.

He sighed, relenting, and took his hand back from Mohinder--this time more gently--before lacing his fingers with his. He figured it was still safe territory, after all, since it wasn't as though they were going to see anyone they knew here, and well. Even if they were going to, it was just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of things he didn't care about, right now. Clearly, he thought he was a fairy from popular culture--he only had room for one care in his head at any given moment.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, closing his eyes, briefly, before reopening them to watch him. "This is why I don't have friends. I can't--" He didn't know what he couldn't, but it didn't matter, because first, Mohinder was shaking his head, and then the alarm signaling the release of their baggage was blaring.

Sylar sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, fairly sure that Mohinder had done the same for how loud it was, and then let his eyes jump to the belt as it sprang to life, with a sigh of relief. Soon, they would have their luggage, and they--or maybe just he, if Mohinder didn't particularly feel like playing tag-along--would be at Sark's apartment, on the East Side. Soon, this nightmare would be over for all of them.

Or so he hoped, in spite of Sark telling him they were all likely helpless.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 630
Note: Mohinder is

witnessof_fate and is used with permission.

When Sylar was a child, his mother had insisted he take swimming lessons at the local community pool. He'd always thought it was stupid since, barring the weeks he'd spent learning, he'd barely ever used the swim club membership Virginia Gray always kept current, and his father had been too constantly busy to bother with a vacation to the beach. Though, even if he had seen water more frequently, he still would have thought the lessons a massive waste of time, because even though he'd passed the test at the end of them, he wasn't particularly good at swimming. He could tread water well enough, but that was about it.

And standing in the middle of yet another party in a France long forgotten by time, that's exactly what he felt like he was doing. Treading water.

Where he'd had his mother standing by the edge of the pool before, however, now he was completely on his own. He hadn't seen Reinette yet tonight--she was probably and understandably spending time with her King--and he didn't really know anyone else in the court. Oh, he knew a few names and knew that a few people knew his, pointing fingers and whispering when they thought he couldn't hear them, but he'd never actually spoken to any of them for more than a few minutes.

This was a shark tank, and he was drowning, alone.

Frowning at the thought, he pushed through the crowds, out to the very same balcony where he'd met Reinette, and leaned on the railing, pretending to take interest in the gardens as he considered simply leaving. Going home, back to his time. Getting out of this ridiculous costume Reinette had found for him, weeks before, and back into his old clothes, so he could get back to work. Places to go, people to kill, after all, and anything would be better than this, but as per usual, something stopped him. His promise to the good madame.

When they'd first met, she'd tried to send him away--expected him to want to go--and he hadn't then. He'd told her he'd stay, and he was, generally, a man of his word, when he wanted to be. The honorable villain, if he could even be considered a bad guy anymore, so fascinated with the clockwork in her head that he hadn't killed a single person the entire time he'd been here. He'd promised, and so he'd stay, even if it meant sulking out on the balcony, pointedly avoiding the scavengers inside.

And with any luck, Reinette would show up soon.

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

( Cut for spoilers for 3x04 - I Am Become Death )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 531 (without lyrics)

( Cut for possible spoilers for 3x01 - The Second Coming )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 682
Notes: Spoilers in this are a little vague, but better safe than sorry, right?

It should be easy, sixteen-year-old Gabriel Gray thinks as he tries to sneak in the door, one afternoon after school. So easy. It's just a piece of paper, and if he can make it past his mother, she'll never need to know. He can just take it to his room and shred it to tiny pieces and stuff it in the space between his lumpy mattress and rickety box spring. Or maybe take it out back and set it on fire, while his mother sits on the couch and watches Her Stories in the stretch of minutes between twilight and dinner.

Or - Gabriel? Is that you? - his mother can catch him, amid his escape to his room. That's always a possibility, too.

He cringes, clutching that singular, simple piece of paper to his chest as he turns. "Yeah, mom. It's me." Not that she can't already tell that, since she's come out of the kitchen and moved halfway down the hallway to stare at him, as if waiting for something. She doesn't seem to have noticed the paper though, and he's surprised.

Virginia Gray - What's that you're holding? - notices everything.

"It's nothing," he promises her, closing his hand more tightly around the note. It's too late. She moves swiftly to close the distance between the two of them, and snatches the paper from his hands. She looks it over critically, frowning, and he's almost sure that she recognizes how bad it is. He's relieved, thinking for once she gets it, as she's raising her eyes to him, and her expression hasn't changed.

But - The school is doing Romeo and Juliet? And you're the Apothecary? This is wonderful! Gabriel, why were you trying to hide this? - she disappoints him as usual.

"Oh ... this is just the bane of my existence. That's all," he mumbles, and thankfully his mother misses it. It's the only relief he's had all day.

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 325

The weathermen, Sylar knew, were expecting snow to come of the dark clouds that had been steadily sweeping in over the course of the last few days. Not surprising, he thought, considering New York had seen flurries, a week ago, and it was getting to be just about time for the first real snowfall of the season. But then again, it also wasn't surprising that they were dead wrong. Meteorologists had a knack for inaccurate predictions, he'd learned, and they didn't understand the whims of mother nature like he did.

He could feel the static building in the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, a herald to the war chorus of impending lightning. He could hear thunder growling in the clouds, so low and distant that he was sure no one but him would ever be able to make it out. Oh, the weathermen were right, a storm was coming, but it would be rain that fell from the sky, not snow. And he damn well intended to be inside, when it started.

( Judging Suresh's apartment too far away to even be remotely reachable before the rain hit, he ducked down an alley. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Verse: Second Chance
Word Count: 1376