She is feeding herself on wrath in church; when she realizes this later (if there is a later), she'll feel driven to confess her sins for the first time in well over twenty years.
She can't grieve for her eldest child anywhere that anyone can see. Anywhere anyone could suspect.
Yes; she's full of wrath.
"You will let me see your face," Angela says, low, "because you owe me that much for not raising every resource I have remaining to me against you the moment I knew what you'd done."
None of the Secret Service entered with them. They stayed outside, covering the doors, once the crowds had been escorted away.
If Angela already knows the truth, and this will only strengthen their agreement --
(and he has not forgotten, in five years, the look on his own mother's face as she screamed I want my son -- )
Sylar straightens in his chair, and there is a curious moment where he seems to keep straightening, even though he's stopped moving. A thick, liquid-like vibration shimmers the air around him; Nathan's hairline shifts forward, his eyes growing smaller, eyebrows broadening as the neatly-pressed suit morphs into a solid black trench coat.
"Satisfied?" he asks her in his own voice. It fairly drips false politeness.
One more phone call, once she's at the rear of the motorcade, and then away.
"I think I'll be able to manage their after-school snack on my own today."
She will not let her eyes get too bright, here or anywhere.
"Yes."
The traffic in the city is too horrific to take one's eyes away to reach for a tissue.
"Quite well, thank you. We'll speak again soon."
With a soft snap she lets the phone close and tosses it in the passenger seat; another button and the sunroof is open; she has time to wind her way the long way out of town and then back in (to lose anyone who might be following her) before picking up the boys.
She can't grieve for her eldest child anywhere that anyone can see. Anywhere anyone could suspect.
Yes; she's full of wrath.
"You will let me see your face," Angela says, low, "because you owe me that much for not raising every resource I have remaining to me against you the moment I knew what you'd done."
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If Angela already knows the truth, and this will only strengthen their agreement --
(and he has not forgotten, in five years, the look on his own mother's face as she screamed I want my son -- )
Sylar straightens in his chair, and there is a curious moment where he seems to keep straightening, even though he's stopped moving. A thick, liquid-like vibration shimmers the air around him; Nathan's hairline shifts forward, his eyes growing smaller, eyebrows broadening as the neatly-pressed suit morphs into a solid black trench coat.
"Satisfied?" he asks her in his own voice. It fairly drips false politeness.
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And then dismissal.
"Comb your hair," she says, and rises.
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By the time he stands as well, it's Nathan Petrelli's shoes that are tapping out quiet footsteps along the aisle.
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"I think I'll be able to manage their after-school snack on my own today."
She will not let her eyes get too bright, here or anywhere.
"Yes."
The traffic in the city is too horrific to take one's eyes away to reach for a tissue.
"Quite well, thank you. We'll speak again soon."
With a soft snap she lets the phone close and tosses it in the passenger seat; another button and the sunroof is open; she has time to wind her way the long way out of town and then back in (to lose anyone who might be following her) before picking up the boys.
Reply
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