Sylar

i.

"I have something for you."

Mohinder looks up, smiling. "What?"

His fingers curl around the box in his pocket. It's not a ring, that part of their relationship almost two weeks behind them, but it's just as good and he's just as nervous. So much so that he finds he can't find the words, no matter how much he wants this.

Somewhere in the distance, bells toll the start of the new year, giving him an out, and he darts around the table to crush his lips against Mohinder's, wordlessly. He has all the time in the world to ask later.



ii.

The new year comes with a raucous cry and an explosion of color, and despite the fact that he was damn sure he wouldn't be awake to see it, the sound is more than enough to rouse him from dozing. He shifts a bit, straying just far enough away from Claire to glance at the clock, and then he curls up around her again.

He waits, counting the minutes until the fireworks stop making the shadows shudder, and leans to brush a kiss over her lips. She smiles against his mouth, never really asleep either, and kisses him back, softly.



iii.

( "It's midnight on the East Coast." )



Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1000
Note: Each of these ficlets are 100 words exactly. May I never, ever decide I want to do something like this again.

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