No Other Road
Title: No Other Road
Author: LuminentLight
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Gabriel "Sylar" Gray
Rating: PG?
Warnings: Slight language
Spoilers: Through Season Four
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.
Summary: Sylar needs those glasses.
A/N: First thing I've ever written for Heroes. Wow, I never thought I'd let myself get into the fandom. Guess I was wrong, but oh, well. Gah, I love Sylar too much to leave this alone. This little plotbunny jumped into my head, and since I haven't been able to write in over a week, I rolled with it.
The weight of thick-rimmed glasses rests heavy in Sylar’s pocket. They’re Gabriel’s glasses, why the fuck are they there? Sylar inwardly cringes as he reaches down, pulls the glasses free and dangles them up in front of his nose. They look so pathetic, so empty and hollow, and that’s not him anymore; he isn’t the worthless watchmaker who sits and tinkers, wasting his life away. He’s special.
Sylar snaps the glasses back up into his hand, closing his fist tightly around them. Glass shatters and the frames crack, the plastic and sharp edges splintering into his fingers, but he doesn’t even notice. When he opens his hand again, the stray fragments tumble to the ground, and his skin starts to heal over, pushing out the alien glass and plastic. The frames, nearly unrecognizable, stare up at him from the cold pavement, and his face hardens into a reproachful glare. They’re mocking him, he just knows it; they’re a pathetic reminder, and he’ll be damned if he lets them stay there. He growls quietly, and lifts his foot to slam his heel down into the remains, grinding until they’re nothing but broken pieces.
Satisfied, he kicks a few pieces aside, and turns to walk down the empty streets of New York. He’s gotten used to the emptiness, the loneliness - and, to be fair, he deserves it. Parkman had made the right decision, but god, years in this world, Sylar’s forever; it’s all going to be hell.
Fuck immortality.
Sylar kicks at the ground, pausing to stare at the concrete. It’s scattered with various flyers, litter, and everything looks, feels so real; it is hard to believe it is nothing more than a dream, but there it is, his own mind playing tricks on him in his unique little prison.
Shifting the backpack on his shoulder, Sylar glances up at the sky - grey, like always, looking like it’s on just this side of rain, and yet with the promise of sun, just a hint. He wishes for a bright day, but he can settle for his little watch shop instead, because as much as he wants to deny it, it’s the tinkering that gets him through his days, listening for the quirks and just what makes the watches tick. Those glasses, destroyed on the pavement, however much of a reminder they may have been, he still needed them, wore them, and those glasses made him Gabriel again. They made him a lot less special, they made him normal, and he needed to be Gabriel now. Not Sylar, not Nathan, just…Gabriel.
Gabriel Gray, with his copy of Pillars of the Earth, and the weight of thick-rimmed glasses back in his pocket, returns to the small shop where he fiddled with watches and lived through his innumerable years.
Author: LuminentLight
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Gabriel "Sylar" Gray
Rating: PG?
Warnings: Slight language
Spoilers: Through Season Four
Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately.
Summary: Sylar needs those glasses.
A/N: First thing I've ever written for Heroes. Wow, I never thought I'd let myself get into the fandom. Guess I was wrong, but oh, well. Gah, I love Sylar too much to leave this alone. This little plotbunny jumped into my head, and since I haven't been able to write in over a week, I rolled with it.
The weight of thick-rimmed glasses rests heavy in Sylar’s pocket. They’re Gabriel’s glasses, why the fuck are they there? Sylar inwardly cringes as he reaches down, pulls the glasses free and dangles them up in front of his nose. They look so pathetic, so empty and hollow, and that’s not him anymore; he isn’t the worthless watchmaker who sits and tinkers, wasting his life away. He’s special.
Sylar snaps the glasses back up into his hand, closing his fist tightly around them. Glass shatters and the frames crack, the plastic and sharp edges splintering into his fingers, but he doesn’t even notice. When he opens his hand again, the stray fragments tumble to the ground, and his skin starts to heal over, pushing out the alien glass and plastic. The frames, nearly unrecognizable, stare up at him from the cold pavement, and his face hardens into a reproachful glare. They’re mocking him, he just knows it; they’re a pathetic reminder, and he’ll be damned if he lets them stay there. He growls quietly, and lifts his foot to slam his heel down into the remains, grinding until they’re nothing but broken pieces.
Satisfied, he kicks a few pieces aside, and turns to walk down the empty streets of New York. He’s gotten used to the emptiness, the loneliness - and, to be fair, he deserves it. Parkman had made the right decision, but god, years in this world, Sylar’s forever; it’s all going to be hell.
Fuck immortality.
Sylar kicks at the ground, pausing to stare at the concrete. It’s scattered with various flyers, litter, and everything looks, feels so real; it is hard to believe it is nothing more than a dream, but there it is, his own mind playing tricks on him in his unique little prison.
Shifting the backpack on his shoulder, Sylar glances up at the sky - grey, like always, looking like it’s on just this side of rain, and yet with the promise of sun, just a hint. He wishes for a bright day, but he can settle for his little watch shop instead, because as much as he wants to deny it, it’s the tinkering that gets him through his days, listening for the quirks and just what makes the watches tick. Those glasses, destroyed on the pavement, however much of a reminder they may have been, he still needed them, wore them, and those glasses made him Gabriel again. They made him a lot less special, they made him normal, and he needed to be Gabriel now. Not Sylar, not Nathan, just…Gabriel.
Gabriel Gray, with his copy of Pillars of the Earth, and the weight of thick-rimmed glasses back in his pocket, returns to the small shop where he fiddled with watches and lived through his innumerable years.