Heroes15; Drabble 08: Pain
Title: For Weary Heads and Weepy Eyes
Author: jack_infinitude
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Heroes. If I did...well, you know.
Pairings: Peter/Sylar
Table/Prompt: Table 2/08: Pain
Word Count: 230 words
Summary: The best medicine is served with kindness.
Author's Notes: Peter/Sylar, as is my claim. End of Season 1 AU.
“He’s still...he’s still out there. Isn’t he.”
Cool sheets under his hands. The pain in his chest, it’s not....
“Isn’t he?”
It’s....
“Isn’t he, Peter?”
The blanket is heavy on his back, but the weight is comforting. The pillow is soft under his face -- softer than what he’s used to. The material feels good against his cheek.
“You know where he is, don’t you, Peter?”
“...Why would I know that?”
And the pain in his chest, his closest companion for weeks, isn’t.... It’s not....
“You do know where he is.”
Gone. The pain is gone, and he feels light headed, and he must have been drugged, but it’s hard to be worried about that when he is laying in soft sheets and warm blankets, with the scent of cinnamon filling him.
There’s something familiar about this, something that nags at the back of his mind. A memory of something warm, and good, and shining.
A breath, a smile, a warm arm around his waist --
Peter.
The slamming door is loud in the (Peter’s) apartment startles him, makes him jump. The movement pulls on the wound, and pain bleeds through. Peter’s footsteps are soft as he approaches the bed.
Then there is a hand on the back of his neck. And softly, “How do you feel?”
Sylar closes his eyes. “Fine,” he whispers, as the pain goes back again.
Author: jack_infinitude
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Heroes. If I did...well, you know.
Pairings: Peter/Sylar
Table/Prompt: Table 2/08: Pain
Word Count: 230 words
Summary: The best medicine is served with kindness.
Author's Notes: Peter/Sylar, as is my claim. End of Season 1 AU.
“He’s still...he’s still out there. Isn’t he.”
Cool sheets under his hands. The pain in his chest, it’s not....
“Isn’t he?”
It’s....
“Isn’t he, Peter?”
The blanket is heavy on his back, but the weight is comforting. The pillow is soft under his face -- softer than what he’s used to. The material feels good against his cheek.
“You know where he is, don’t you, Peter?”
“...Why would I know that?”
And the pain in his chest, his closest companion for weeks, isn’t.... It’s not....
“You do know where he is.”
Gone. The pain is gone, and he feels light headed, and he must have been drugged, but it’s hard to be worried about that when he is laying in soft sheets and warm blankets, with the scent of cinnamon filling him.
There’s something familiar about this, something that nags at the back of his mind. A memory of something warm, and good, and shining.
A breath, a smile, a warm arm around his waist --
Peter.
The slamming door is loud in the (Peter’s) apartment startles him, makes him jump. The movement pulls on the wound, and pain bleeds through. Peter’s footsteps are soft as he approaches the bed.
Then there is a hand on the back of his neck. And softly, “How do you feel?”
Sylar closes his eyes. “Fine,” he whispers, as the pain goes back again.