Sylar

He'd managed to talk them into stopping in New York on their way south. It hadn't been hard really, even though they all knew going home was just as stupid as, say, storming Washington would have been, but he wasn't going to point that out. He wanted to see the fireworks in Times Square, and he was convinced that, as close to Godhood as he was, he could take anything that came their way. If anything came, though he severely doubted it would, that idea just as foolish as their being here in the first place, what with all the civilians down on the Square and the things he could do to them if provoked.

Smiling at the idea, he stepped out onto the balcony of the room they were renting and looked down out over the crowd. Peter was down there somewhere, inconspicuous in the swarm and probably wearing someone else's face, and briefly, he considering joining him. He'd gotten as far as shooting a glance over his shoulder to watch his twin meander out of the bathroom, the both of them feeling a bit like Agent Smith, and the thought evaporated just like that. Claire had come into the room, and his attentions -- their attentions -- were fixed on her, now.

The pair of them stared at her for a long moment, one from the bathroom door, the other from his place by the window and over his shoulder, and then the killer was pushing away from the balcony. He moved into the room, the door behind him sliding closed on its own, and offered her a mute, wolfish grin. His twin stayed in the doorway to the bathroom, both of them half hoping that Claire hadn't seen him.

It really hadn't taken much to convince Claire of the idea that they should stop in New York in their way south. She knew it was dangerous, but she couldn't resist the urge of being somewhere they had been before, something familiar to them all though it would be even more so for the boys. Plus they could blend in, and with the two of them, she was protected.

Perhaps it was because she was on her own sort of high after the holidays and pulling off what they had managed to achieve at the Carnival, or maybe it was just because she wanted to see the fireworks in Time Square, but either way she could barely sit still. It had been that way for the last few days. She still had to be somewhat safe though, and she almost envied Peter for the fact that he got to be down in the crowd but then she reminded herself that she wouldn't have to deal with being pushed around. Or Sylar potentially getting pissed off and hurting someone for pushing her.

Walking back into the room carrying a bucket of ice, she closed the door and walked over to place it on the table. She could feel Sylar's eyes on her but she was unaware of his 'twin' standing in the bathroom doorway. Looking up in time to catch the wolfish grin, she arched a brow at him before smirking a bit. "What?"

( He popped one shoulder in a shrug, heading further into the room; his twin took a half-step back into the bathroom, just in case she looked that way. )


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 4586

He forces her back onto the table, hips hitching upwards so that he can press into her once she's settled. She moans and hooks a leg low around his hips, heel of her palm pressing against his shoulder as she forces him closer, and he leans against her, their bodies pressed flush together. She turns her head, mouth working at his collar bone, and slides her fingers up into his hair. For a moment they hold there, their breath coming short and soft already, and then he's pulling away.

A soft, displeased noise falls from her lips, humming against his skin, and she twists her fingers in his hair, pleadingly. He huffs out a sigh of a laugh, turning his head into her hair to murmur something dark and wordless, then he's jerking forward, hips grinding against hers without mercy. She whimpers in spite of the fact that she arches up to meet him, body working on it's own, and drags his head down to her shoulder with a tug of her fingers.

Teasingly, he nips at her shoulder, then settles his chin against her as they fall into a rhythm. Her hand drifts back down to his back, resting comfortably for a moment, and then she shifts against him, swatting at her hair to push it over the shoulder he's not leaning against. He shoots her a sideways glance out of the corner of his eyes, wondering hazily why she bothered -- in the heat of the moment, the fall of her hair is hardly important -- and then it hits him.

Why she moved her hair. Why she picked this room in the first place, when it's not the Good Senator Petrelli's usual. Why she seemed so insistent on getting him to the table the second they were in the door. It all suddenly makes sense and all because the wall at the far side of the room is paneled in mirrors.

He watches her in the glass as she resettles against him, the muscles in her shoulders quivering with the rise and fall of her breath. Sweat gathers in the small of her back, and he slips his hands down to trace shaking fingers through it, fascinated somehow. And when she breaks around him, he holds on for a few more seconds, unmoving and teeth gritted, just so he can watch as she bucks up off the table violently, her shoulder blades nearly touching as she forced herself into him as she climaxes.

With a cry, he follows her down, his eyes sliding closed, and minutes later when they settle and he pulls away to just hold her, she raises her eyes to him hazily, a smirk on her lips. "Enjoy the show?"

If he wasn't sure before, he is now -- he likes this room.


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 464
Note: Elle is not_myfirstday and is used with love and permission.

(Baileigh is deep_red_bells and is used at their request. This is not biding on the verse unless the mun wants it to be and/or thinks that I didn't butcher her character.)


He hasn't slept for more than a few hours at most in years, his thoughts too full to be bothered with something so mundane. He closes his eyes, tries to quiet his mind, and he gets no where, numbers and fact and memory etching smoky pictures on the insides of his eyelids, coming and going like the rise and fall of a phantom tide. It doesn't bother him much anymore--maybe it did in the beginning, shadows of all the things he understands but no one else ever will near enough to send him falling back into his own madness, but he learned to cope with it, so long ago.

Now, he doesn't mourn his in ability to sleep, he relishes it, revels in it. So long ago he learned how to shield his thoughts just enough to stop the ebb and flow of his mind from keeping Mohinder awake, when he's home to lay with him, and how to let his mind wander just enough to be mistaken for sleeping. He's king of the twilight between awake and the sleep he can't claim anymore, and it suits him. Some of his best ideas come from that place near meditation when he lets his thoughts go to the wind, past and present and future shifting around him like the sand so often used to represent it.

While the others don't understand it--he can't quite find the words to pin down what's become of his mind in five hundred years--they at least accept it. They let him be, afraid to talk to him or to get to close, like he won't be able to pull himself back together if they do. They treat him like he's made of glass, when he rests, and he can't say he blames them. It would be so easy to just let go; be a creature of thought rather than physical being; exist everywhere and no where at once. He stays for them.

And when he senses Baileigh lingering in the doorway of his and Mohinder's room, he gathers up the pieces he's let scatter and comes back to himself, his eyelids fluttering open so that he can consider her. She looks so tired, worn and beaten by time and the immortality she doesn't want anymore, but neither of them comment on it. She nods, unconsciously grateful, and he offers her a small smile before nodding her into the room.

"Julian said you were home," she says, moving to linger near the arm of his chair.

( He nods. "No more war, no more reason to be away." )


Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1488