Fic: A Far Distant Future - Volume Two

[vespaer]

CHAPTER FIVE: The Liontamer - Part Three
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Summary: It's amazing what absence will do to the heart...
Rating: "R" for some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery
Spoilers: Up through season 3 I guess, but this got started before season 4.


A/N: So... this chapter ended up a bit harsh. Have you ever written something that was harsh enough to just stick with you? To the point where you just kinda have to put it aside for a night to take a break? That was this chapter. But, I think the hard part is behind us now =D Is there kissing yet????
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. And if I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know.

Read Chapter Four | Read Chapter Six

*** the present ***

For the first time in weeks, Claire did not stop to look at the distant, alien view of her home planet on her way into the “office”. The evening she’d had prior and the morning she’d just finished were both just too weird for her to feel nostalgic. She felt like the rug had been ripped from beneath her feet. The man in her domicile was the only living person to truly know her, as she’d been in her first life, to know the real original her - to call her by her actual name. And she could not claim the same for him. He was just as new as everything else around her, and it disturbed her. It bothered her how eager she was to see his face, hear his voice, smell his smell and feel that old familiar fire burn in her rib cage. She wanted the anger, she wanted the hurt, and she wanted to want to take her kitchen knife and plunge it deep into his neck. She wanted him to fling her across the room and electrify her and she wanted the fight. She needed to have an old, dead piece of her resurrected… she didn’t want another person to learn, just like everyone else around her, just like everyone around her twenty years from now, and twenty years after that, spiraling off forever into the fathomless abyss of eternity.

Regardless of what she wanted, what she got when she woke up that morning was the smell of fresh coffee and… was he making eggs? Holy shit. She’d ripped the blankets back and stumbled, groggily rubbing her eyes, into the front living area, careless of her disheveled appearance and Japanese cartoon pyjamas.

“Morning, sunshine,” he told her without taking his eyes from what he was doing. “You had some eggs and cheese, I hope you don’t mind…”

“What kind of weirdo minds breakfast?” she mumbled, dumbfounded by the artistry he employed as he lovingly and nimbly flipped an omelet in the small pan she’d had tucked away under her little stove top. She blinked in amazement as she witnessed the spectacle before her: this was a man in his element. She, personally, had never been this excited about her painfully tiny demi-range or the dismal contents of her mini-fridge. But he flipped and turned like he hadn’t held a spatula in… in… well, yeah. The tip of his tongue parted his lips, pressed together in concentration. The man had been a prisoner for over three hundred years, she supposed it wasn’t so unbelievable that he’d enjoy the use of a kitchen, regardless of how… unimpressive it was. It probably wasn’t so much that he enjoyed cooking (although, for all she knew, he might), it was that he craved the freedom to do so. She was suddenly very ashamed of the world he’d woken up to.

She began to suspect he was cheating with his telekinesis as he made another perfect flip and slid the folded mass onto a small plate. Supplying a fork, he finally met her eyes as he handed it to her. For a moment, she was a little too stunned to take it until he nudged it toward her again. But who could blame her? Regardless of the fact that he’d paid for his crimes, it was still a surreal thing to be served a fluffy, warm, delicious breakfast by the man who… holy crap she loved eggs and cheese. And the omelet was a far better creation than any of her attempts, that usually ended up crumbling into scrambled eggs, or were burnt in the frustrated effort of making something that actually folded. Ahhh, there was the fire. Yes, she still hated him. Her appetite picked up a bit.

He placed the cooking utensils in the cleansing unit then poured two cups of coffee.

“What about you?”

“Already ate. Been up for a little while, I’ve, uh… had a lot of sleep lately.”

“Right.”

He handed her a perfectly creamed cup before he sank Indian-style in the middle of the floor. He closed his eyes over the rim of his own cup and inhaled hungrily. Probably been over three hundred years since he’d had coffee too. She squirmed a little at the thought of how many pyjama-clad women he hadn’t spent time alone with in the past three centuries, as well…

Regardless of her reservations, they’d made small talk and watched the news before she rose to shower and prepare for her work day, thanking him for the eggs. When she’d emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in her robe and toweling her hair, she stole another glance at him as she’d crossed over to her bedroom. He sat, bathed in a pool of light cast by the television, with his knees drawn to his chin and dark brows furrowed. A piece on the growing violence in the mod camps was being aired.

“Claire, I think this is my fault,” he’d said plainly as she paused. “This has something to do with the shadow people, doesn’t it?” She didn’t respond - she was late enough as it was and didn’t have time for a long discussion with him on the current life and times. When she re-entered the living area, dressed and ready to make her way to the medical bay, he spoke again, pointing at the screen.

“I was in a camp like that for a short while, right after I got out of prison. There was a man there who told me I wasn’t like most of the others - that I didn’t belong there. I’m not sure what he meant, but he helped get me and some others out.” He turned to look at her. “I’m not gonna lie to ya, Claire, I got in a big fight…”

Well, some things hadn’t changed… he was nothing if he wasn’t honest. And she knew what he was getting at. He’d probably killed someone. Several someones. And it was likely in self-defense. She wasn’t sure she’d act any differently.

“There’s leftover soup, eggs and milk in the fridge,” she told him, motioning her hand to the unit, then grabbing her things and heading towards the door, “and there’s some cereal and other stuff up in the cupboard. You’re welcome to any or all of it. I’m expecting a courier today to get you an I.D. and some walking papers. I promise we’ll have a long conversation when I get home.”

He fought to suppress an overwhelmed expression - it was the first time it had been verbalized between them that he couldn’t stay there, even though they both knew it. He gave her a few slow nods as she left and the door slid shut to separate them. From her doorstep she plodded forward distractedly, replaying every word he’d said to her the night before. Three hundred years! In a prison cell, deep underground. Years spent working to rewire his personality. Personalities. His sentence had been matched by her own extensive stretch of relative solitude - she wondered briefly if he considered her as changed as she did him. She wasn’t sure that could possibly be true. And how bitterly ironic was it that the day after they’d been thrown together after all this time… they’d have to say goodbye?

It was probably a blessing that the man who’d been her nemesis had become a complete stranger.

~*~*~

*** two hundred and seventy-seven years earlier ***

Trauma

Bob was mad at him, but he didn’t care - he wasn’t going upstairs to fix their stupid fax machine, no matter what kind of muffins his wife was going to make him. He’d explained to both he and Maggie a million times his reasons for staying underground as much as he could.

“There’re people out there like me,” he’d said, “with abilities, but not exactly like mine. I knew a little girl once who had a very dangerous ability - she could find anyone, anywhere - anyone who wasn’t dead, in fuckin’ space, or underground. Your dumbass fax machine isn’t worth risking my life, thanks.”

So, now Bob was grumpy. He knew he was going to hear it from Maggie too: “three hundred years in a hole underground isn’t good for the mind, young man, and I don’t appreciate you trying to undermine my exhausted efforts - you get your scrawny butt outside and get some sunshine and socialization!”

Well, they could all just kiss it. They didn’t understand, and he’d long ago stopped expecting them to. He ignored Bob ignoring him, grateful for the peace and quiet, while he crossed his legs to sit on the floor, leaning back against the cool concrete wall. He practiced the breathing methods he and Maggie’d been working on for the past three years to place himself in a meditative state. This was an activity that had become a daily routine - it was a part of his life. After a few breaths he was no longer aware he was still breathing, as the object of his uncompromising focus came into view. Before him grew a red blossom. That blossom became several that surrounded him in a circle. Those blossoms became several more, which became several hundred. Before long, he found himself in a wide, sunny field of red flowers, patiently awaiting the arrival of his visitor.

In the distance ahead of him he heard a soft giggle, and saw a rustling in the blooms betraying the presence of his companion. After a few moments a flushed little face peeked into view followed by the body of a small boy who came to sit cross-legged before him, mimicking his posture. He was out of breath and wearing a backpack.

“Hi!” the little one smiled.

“Hello, Gabriel. How are you?"

“I'm alright." He absentmindedly chased a bug - a pretty metallic green beetle - with nimble fingertips. It flew away on a soft, warm breeze. "But I think Maggie’s gonna talk to us about mom today.”

“You think so, huh? Does that scare you?”

“Yeah, a little…”

He remembered the day he’d first seen Gabriel as he’d spoken to him. It hadn’t been long after he’d painted the flowerbed, and Gabriel had reached out to him through their shared notebook - an item they no longer required. Sylar had been suffering what Maggie had termed "a form of depersonalization", and was in a state of crisis. He hadn’t wanted to talk to his other half - he was fiercely jealous of the affection Maggie held for him, and felt threatened. Truthfully, he was bitterly desperate for a way to eradicate him in order to make himself feel more real, regardless of the fact that what he’d actually be destroying was an extension of his own self. He was as turbulent inside as a viciously cold body of water encased in a layer of paper thin ice, a scarcely-contained tragedy waiting to happen. Maggie, fortunately, was very good at treading softly, and Gabriel ended up being a pretty damned good bridge.

There had been a night, though, when he’d been too mixed up to sleep and he’d decided perhaps it might not be a bad idea to sink back into that place where his mother had held him - perhaps he could even see her face this time, remember her. But when the flowerbed rose around him, she was nowhere to be found. He was met, instead, by a vaguely human-shaped blur or distortion of the surroundings. The smudge of color coalesced into the body of a small boy, clutching tightly in his hand a chaotic little bundle of sticks. Sylar had been alarmed but curious, inching closer to the boy to investigate why his subconscious had dug this thing up and spit it out in place of the comforting arms of his mother - and there had better be a damned good reason. The boy’s features were hard to read, shifting and moving, making him difficult to recognize at first but Sylar had eventually been able to see him plainly smiling with an open invitation. He’d been sitting on his knees in the grass, bobbing and weaving the sticks in a playful childlike dance, animating and anthropomorphizing the objects within his own imagination. He sung and cooed at them nonsensically.

“Play with me, Sylar,” he chimed, and suddenly his face zoomed into sharp focus. Sylar was looking at himself. No, not himself, not exactly. He knew who the boy was. “Don’t be sad. You’re my friend - come play!” He reached across and tugged at his pant leg. Slowly he knelt before the boy, who then handed him over the wad of sticks. Accepting them, he turned them over in his hands and came to the determination that they were actually the remnants of a crude doll. His eyes glossed with tears as he voiced the question to which he already knew the answer.

"Who is this?"

"He's you!" the boy giggled as if to say 'silly'. "I made him! He's awesome and has super powers, he can do all kinds of things, you wouldn’t even believe it. He can shoot lightning and stuff, and pick people up and throw them - see!” He snatched the doll back and made a series of complex motions with him, lips bursting with the mimicked sounds of explosions and mayhem. His shoulders slumped as he brought the makeshift toy down into his lap. “But I broke him and he got hurt."

Sylar turned just as a tear fell. He caught it quickly, he didn't want to scare the boy.

"Will you help me fix him? I miss him. I’m pretty good at fixing stuff, but I don’t think I can do this by myself."

“Yeah, Gabe,” he murmured around the tortured knot in his chest, “I think I can help.”

Gabriel had made Sylar, made him to be better than what he was, to be this iconic super hero he idolized. But he didn’t know how to build Sylar without including pain and a crippling insecurity because he didn’t know any better - he’d never known a life without these things. So, he broke - Sylar could see it now, plain as day, like a miniscule drop of water could interrupt the circuit to a battery, stopping a watch cold dead. These were the things that turned a hero into a killer and perpetuated a cycle of self-destruction, circling endlessly inward until the epiphanous moment he realized that no amount of fearsomeness and power was going to make him significant - was going to make him special - when all it did was drive the people he needed further away. The fortress of isolation he’d built for himself wasn’t going to make him less of a failure to this little boy, who in turn had failed him. A boy who needed him.

If he could fix these things that were broken, Gabriel could guide him and shape him into a better man - be his moral compass - and he could perform the duty Gabriel had intended for him that he’d never successfully accomplished - he could heal the monumental wounds that the death of his mother had left behind to fester and scar.

They could help each other. They could be partners. They could be one. He was necessary.

Sylar swallowed and wiped the evidence of his poorly hidden emotion on his sleeve before he held his hands out between them.

“Lemme have a look.”

It had been a few years since they’d begun to build their relationship, and while the work was slow, it was progress. Sylar’s introspection had been interrupted when the wind picked up around them in conjunction with Gabriel’s mounting sense of anxiety, causing a large, plump blossom to tap heavily against his left ear. He swished at it and leaned forward to get out of the range of its assault.

“Did you bring the doll?”

“Yeah!” Gabriel huffed, the smile returning to his face. He pulled around the backpack and vigorously unzipped its main compartment. He withdrew what looked like a pair of legs constructed completely out of toothpicks and glue.

“He’s gonna be tall!”

“Hell yeah!” Sylar dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve a bag filled to jaggedly overflowing with toothpicks, beneath which rested a bottle of classic white glue and a surprise. “Got something new for him for when we get up to his shoulders.” He tossed it into Gabriel’s waiting lap - it was a triangle of red felt.

“A cape!” he gasped. “Yes!!!”

Sylar watched, bemused, as the child took the item on a few test spins through the air.

“Thank you for being honest with me about being afraid,” he told him, gazing at the whipping corners of the red fabric.

“It’s no good to lie to yourself,” he was answered. Such wisdom from the mouths of babes.

“Well, don’t stop. I need it. And I don’t want you to be afraid to talk about mom today. I’ll be right here. You just come here and I’ll take care of you, okay?”

“I will,” was his distracted reply as he dropped the “cape” into his backpack and smeared white globs of glue over a finger-pinch full of tiny wooden sticks. All of a sudden, he stopped, looked up, and disappeared. Maggie had arrived.

~*~*~

His eyes fluttered open at the feel of breath tickling his eyelashes. He was greeted by Maggie’s face, a bit closer to his own than he’d liked, hovering over him while she sat in the chair. She was smiling like the man in the moon and smelled a little like coffee and chocolate. Damn her.

“Why, hello Mr. Sy…” She cocked her head to the side in momentary contemplation. “Hello Gabriel.”

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at her. “How do you always know?”

“To be honest? One looks innocent and the other doesn’t. I’ll let you decide who is who.”

“Hmmm… right.”

“Well, I’m sorry I interrupted. I hope you were having a nice chat,” she said as she leaned back, folding her hands in her lap.

“Yeah, he made a cape.”

“A what?”

“… nevermind. He’s a brave kid, you know. I think he’s ready to work on the hard stuff, think he’d like to give it a shot.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. He’s gotten very good at grounding, and things between us seem a bit more… cohesive. He doesn’t seem to be as spooky and skittish anymore. Seems more secure. Might be worth a shot.”

“You know, it’s funny - he tells me you’re the kid.”

“Really? That’s weird,” he said as he unfolded himself from his position to move to the cot, stretching out across it in preparation for their work to begin. “Is that normal?”

“I assure you, Gabriel, there is no normal. Every situation - every person - is unique. If you were to ask my professional opinion, however, I would say this: it is my belief that you both view each other as children because you see each other as something precious and worthy of protection. And, at some level, because you are of child-rearing age, I suspect part of it is also something instinctual.”

“Wow. So, yeah, that’s not creepy or anything.”

“No, it’s not.” She paused to give her next question the importance it deserved. “He hasn’t mentioned wanting to kill you in a while, has he?”

“Not that I’m aware, no. Not to me, anyway. You?”

She waited until he was settled, with his hands crossed over his chest, before she began.

“No. I think you’re both making great progress. I truly mean that, and I would appreciate it if you would tell him.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now, last time we inspected memories of when you went to visit your father, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And everything is still okay?”

“Yes.”

“… because Sylar had presented a bit of aggression that had me worried for him.”

“Maggie,” he replied, taking some deep breaths and closing his eyes, ready to get the show on the road, “I’m pretty sure Sylar’s always going to have a bit of aggression towards dad, and I’m not so sure it’s a bad idea to let him, I think it keeps him honest.”

“Fair enough, I just don’t want to see him hur-”

“Maggie, we both appreciate your concern, but if we don’t get this moving one of us is going to lose our nerve.”

“Okay, okay. Fine. Give me your hand.” Completely supine, he slid his left arm in her direction allowing her warm, smooth hands to encompass his. Gently she turned the palm to face her, stroking his fingers open, tracing the outline of each the way she always did. She muttered words about breathing and relaxing and letting go, but he stopped hearing her, his mind already following its own well-worn path. This was a exercise in trust and acceptance, allowing him to refamiliarize himself to her proximity before she pushed the “button” she’d placed in the center of his palm - the one that would automatically and instantly place him under her complete hypnotic control.

It had taken many sessions for this part to become so routine. Maggie had fought many battles, flexing her ironclad courage before the howling lion with the thorn in his paw. They’d discovered that, in tandem with the personality disorder, he was also a victim of a secondary condition having to do with anxiety, manifesting in an intense fear of being manipulated or experiencing a loss of control. Getting him to surrender to her the first time had taken no less than an entire year of constant, diligent work. She'd ridden a torrent of different emotions and reactions from him, some brutal, and had survived no worse for the wear - a mouse unafraid of being swallowed whole. The key to earning Sylar's trust, and ultimately his timid and fragile kinship, had been her dogged sense of devotion. In spite of this, it had still been nothing short of miraculous that he'd go so far as to allow her to place a mechanism on him that would provide her easy and immediate access to his most innermost intimate sanctum. It was a testament to the time spent invested in their relationship and reflected his own positive personal growth. When his hand felt heavy, every whispery vibration of tension having left his body through long slow exhales, she tapped her fingertip lightly on the not-quite-fictitious button and he fell away to oblivion to dangle only by the silver thread of her voice. She took a few breaths to steel herself. Regardless of the journey they’d made to this point, this was still going to be the beginning of something as unpleasant as it was necessary (as most necessary things were).

“Gabriel, I want you to remember the last time you saw your mother.”

His hand twitched. She waited to see if she’d need to bring him out before pressing on.

“Does Sylar remember any of this?”

“Just…” his throat sounded a smidge tight. “Just bits and pieces, only once. Long time ago.”

“Okay. How old are you, sweetheart?”

“Just turned seven.”

“Well, you’re a big boy! Alright, sweetie, can you tell me where you are? Tell me what you see?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his adam’s apple merely trembled a bit as he shifted his head. Then, he whimpered.

“What’s happening?”

“I dropped it.”

“Dropped wh-”

“He’s calling me.” His tone of voice had changed - it carried the soft, grave quality of a child in trouble, and not the kind of trouble that earns a grounding. This was serious trouble. A sneaking suspicion sank into her stomach like a brick.

“What’s the matter Gabriel? Are you afraid?”

He pulled his top lip into his mouth, held it tight with his teeth.

“Gab-”

“Yes.”

“Why are you afraid of him?”

He brought a hand up to rub his eye. He rubbed a little too hard. He sucked in a breath and didn’t answer. Maggie didn’t want to ask the question, she feared the answer, but her duty didn’t give her any choice.

“Gabriel, is this the first time you’ve been afraid of your father?”

He turned his head away from her and was silent a long time. Just when she thought he wasn’t going to answer, thinking she’d pushed him too hard and was about to resurface his awareness, he whispered.

“No.”

Merciful Mary, mother of God… She sighed and ran fingers across her brow. She should have known better, and truthfully some buried instinct told her she’d suspected it all along. The gruesome murder of his mother had only been the proverbial cap on the bottle, placing a stopper over a young life boiling and turgid with violence and fear. No matter how much work they’d done, they still had a long way to go. Well, if he wanted to get to the hard part, this was it. It was time to stomp into uncharted territory.

“Sweetheart, I know you were thinking we might chat a little about your mom today, but there’s some more I’d like to find out about your dad.” His fingers twitched again, briefly contracting into a fist before flattening to their original position. “Honey, did your dad ever hit your mommy?”

His entire body jerked. He plunged headfirst through a wall of color and sound. He sat, hidden, for a moment while his head reeled and his stomach turned, his surroundings twisting around him. He might as well have been on an alien planet - nothing seemed real or familiar until it just… did, and the spinning stopped. His body was small enough to conceal around the end of the couch, but he could still see the scene play out before him through the kitchen door. He clutched his abdomen at the clear sight of his father, wild-eyed and crackling with energy, hand held high in the air - he grew much more nauseous. He could hear his mother’s strangled begging, hiccupping between sobs for breath, could see her feet kick out from someplace high on the wall, just inside the door on the right. She had lost a slipper. Something crashed to the floor, but he didn’t see what it was. She was obviously struggling.

Maggie didn’t ask the right question. If he had to answer honestly, he’d have to say his father never laid a finger on his mother. But he’d raised his finger to her many, many times.

He had trouble understanding what his mother was saying. His father was angry at her for something he’d done… he’d broken something or lost something. He never wanted him, boy’s more trouble than what he’s worth. But he was his son, he’s just a little boy - little boys do things, he can’t help it, didn’t know any better. He yelled something incoherent - was he drunk? No, he remembered - his dad was prone to uncontrollable rages, times when he was more of an animal than a man. Having a child was something he’d never wanted, and the accidental pregnancy put an innocent life at risk. He bared his teeth wide and squared his shoulders, pulling his elbows back into a vicious roar of a cry before he swung his arm and threw his mother’s limp form across the room into the opposite wall, slamming into cupboards that splintered and shattered under her weight. She hit the countertop hard on her way to the floor where she landed unconscious, smearing a trail of blood behind her.

His father stalked into the living room like a predator and Gabriel’s bladder nearly failed him. Shadows crossed his face, but didn’t manage to hide the hungry gleam in his murderous eyes. Gabriel didn’t have a choice - he stayed as still as he could because he was gripped by quivering, paralyzing terror.

“Gabriel, sweetheart, why are you crying?” he heard Maggie’s disembodied voice ask him. Where was she? And where was his hero? Everything would be okay if he had superpowers. He’d throw the man out into the street and electrocute him until his eyeballs boiled and popped and his brains leaked out of his ears - he’d disintegrate him until nothing remained of him except a nightmare and a few wisps of ash. He’d be more than this sobbing, huddling little piss-stain frozen solid behind the arm of the couch, clamping tightly down on his jaws in an effort not to vomit. He’d protect his mother, and be someone she could be proud of. He’d never break anything. He’d never lose anything. No one would ever be mad at him again. He could shapeshift and be whatever anyone wanted and where the fuck was Sylar?!?! His eyes locked with his fathers’ and he knew he’d been found. Bile rose in his throat and pooled inside his cheeks - he swallowed hard. He tried hard to focus on the red flower, tried hard to visualize it in his mind, to make it real, to make it come to life and take him somewhere else - anywhere else - where was Sylar???

“Gabriel - slow down, honey, it’s okay - did he hit you too?”

He found it was incredibly difficult to concentrate when he was being flung against a wall. In a split second everything turned black, like a light switch turned off the world, then reality rushed over him as he doubled over the side of the cot and threw up all over Maggie’s feet. When there was nothing left in his stomach to wretch he continued to heave dry, silent screams. As he slid off the cot to land his face in her lap she swung him around to keep him out of the puddle. He wasn’t the first patient who’d barfed all over her, and she knew it was really only a matter of time. It was, unfortunately, a normal side effect of dealing with trauma. Bob ran over to confirm he’d heard what he thought he had, then dejectedly sauntered off in search of a bucket and a mop, muttering something about shrinks always making the loonies puke then never lifting a finger to clean it up. She knew he meant well, but also recognized she had the harder job of the two. She stroked his back with long, soft, gentle strokes while he convulsed with horror, balled up on the floor using her knees as a pillow, and she hummed an old hymn she’d known since she was a girl.

He’d said everything. He spoke so rapidly, and sometimes the speech of a panicked seven year old is a bit tough to follow, but she’d understood what had happened and a tapestry was woven before her very eyes. She now knew Gabriel. She knew what had happened - everything. They could now move on and she could help him heal, help him fix this. Yet she couldn’t shake this nagging feeling, or doubt, that somehow she’d failed him. He’d tried to escape, was desperate for his other, and he couldn’t. He’d called for him, frantic and lost, and hadn’t been heard. The grounding mechanism hadn’t worked. He’d become trapped and she’d pushed him too hard. She had been the responsible party and hadn’t removed him from the situation before it hurt him. She felt like one of his abusers. She sought solace in her Lord. She prayed that she hadn’t obliterated his trust, and that he’d be able to recover - that he’d be able to put his faith in her again so that they could continue the work that they’d put so much effort into. She prayed that he’d be okay.

Unable to leave him, she stayed much longer than she ever had, long after Bob had come and gone mopping around them and over the tops of her shoes, and she held him. She was aware that professionals in her position should refrain from physical contact with the patient as much as possible, but she didn’t care. She stroked his back, she hummed words of comfort, and she prayed.

~*~*~

He felt like he was suffocating. He couldn’t gasp enough air. Everything was darkness - everything.

“Gabriel, you know, you were born with an incredible gift...” a voice floated to him from somewhere he couldn’t reach. “You can understand anything. You can fix anything. Fix this.”

He twisted and spun, searching for its source, suddenly desperate for her face.

“I am, Claire - I am!” he called to her.

The silent, inky nothingness began to take on a texture, like cool cloth caressing his cheek.

“Who is Claire?” he heard Maggie ask and he lifted his head, instantly regretting the sudden motion as the migraine ground against the inside of his skull and filled his vision with nasty blinding spots. “Is she the blonde you painted?”

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely, deciding that mutely nodding would be a bad idea. His mouth was so dry…

“Here,” Maggie whispered, sliding a full glass of water into his hands. “You need this.”

The crisp chill the liquid left on his lips as it trickled down his throat, saturating the parched tissue, was heavenly. He was halfway through guzzling down the glass when his sense of time caught up with him.

“Maggie… what time is it?”

“Almost ten.” She beckoned for him to finish the glass in a gulp then took his elbow to help him into the cot. “I will stay until you fall asleep, then I will take my leave.”

“No, it’s late, go on home, I’m-” He caught the look she’d tried to disguise behind her eyes. “You… feel guilty about what happened.”

She leaned back in her chair, her features suddenly resolute, and performed her characteristic mannerism of clasping her hands in her lap.

“I should have stopped it.”

“Maggie, I’m fine. Go home, get some sleep. Really, I’ll be fine.” He wanted a chance to convene with Sylar privately before he drifted off, to take stock of the situation and perform any necessary maintenance with the boy.

She nodded and stood, straightening her apparel as she always did, and retrieved the glass to give back to Bob. She turned to him before she left.

“You are very strong, you know that?”

He wasn’t sure what to make of the statement - Sylar’d been called many things that Gabriel’d lived vicariously. It was easy to be strong as a telekinetic, he didn’t really see the challenge in -

“And I find it very interesting,” she continued, “that it didn’t take a single one of your super powers for me to see it.”

A blazing heat flushed across his cheeks. He sucked on his lip as his eyes shot to the floor. He didn’t know what to say, all he could do was shyly nod - he believed her.

Ten years from that night Maggie would still remember walking out of the cell door and down the corridor to meet Bob by the elevator. It was the most crucial turning point in her treatment of the infamous Sylar. Her fear of failure, the horror of her own inability to act, was met instead by her greatest success. She wasn’t sure she deserved it, but it didn’t matter - he did.

“Maggie!” he’d called after her, his face pressed between the bars. “I’m sorry I barfed on you!”

“It’s better than being peed on, I promise,” she’d returned.

It wasn’t the last time he showed her his lunch, either. Unraveling several years of terror, solitude, and neglect - on top of witnessing his own abandonment followed by the decapitation of his mother who was probably the only foundation the boy had ever had - was a repugnant process that, in and of itself, would take several more years.

But it would be done.

His greatest lesson was still to come, however - the acceptance of his own well being. Their time together would eventually draw to a close, and he would have to learn how to say goodbye.

*** back to the present ***

Tami eyed the Shadow Man with the same disdain she’d use to appraise perishing meat. She understood the necessity of the black guard - they were like a vaccination, fighting an infection with a small amount of the same infection, keeping the general modular populace under control - but that didn’t mean they were natural. They were human in shape and biology, but beyond that they were effectually more like machines. They were faceless and emotionless, rigidly following programmed directives like a train follows its tracks. Like mods, they were predestined for exceptionally short lifespans, except they didn’t receive the injections the mods did - the shadow men were allowed to expire only to be cloned again and replaced. It was termed “turnover”. They were ungodly, as was any life created from man’s hands and not the designated reproductive organs, and thus an abomination, regardless of the purpose they served.

This Shadow Man was different, however, in that he was somewhat expressive. The thought chilled her as she stared into his blank, black face. The last thing she really wanted to think about, let alone talk to, was an abomination with charm.

“And these are all the bodies that were aboard the hijacked vessel?” he had asked her, tossing the end of a sheet over the face of the last one he’d inspected with a lazy flick of his wrist. These were easily identifiable as mod rebels - they checked out against his database - Sylar would’ve been with these people and yet, inexplicably, he was missing… which meant he could be up and walking and anywhere, gaining a head start.

“There was a fourth, he had a weird tattoo with an ancient RF tag embedded. My co-worker took him upstairs to have him scanned by our pathologist for further investigation.”

“I see. Do you-”

“I was able to identify the frequency - would that be any help?” she’d interrupted, eager to be rid of him.

Would that be of any help? The ability to be able to track him easily was the best news he’d heard in years - it was just the kind of breakthrough he needed to finally put an end to this exhausting chase. There would be no place Sylar could hide, regardless of who he made himself appear to be. He could run for galaxies and still he’d be beeping out a signal that said ‘come get me’, whether he wanted to or not.

“Yes,” he replied, “that would be greatly appreciated, thank you.”

He waited patiently while Tami retrieved her neural tap reader, subduing the nervous energy that hummed through his tense muscles. He resisted the impulse to snatch the information and bolt, eager to make an immediate scan, pinpointing his location before he could get too far - if he wasn’t already. Instead, he watched stoically as she made a mobile note, jotting down the odd mixture of numbers and punctuation, that she then beamed to his fet.

“There ya go. Rosie took him upstairs to see Jesse - he’s up one deck - he should still have him. If you hurry, you could probably still catch him before Rosie heads up there this morning to bring him back down.”

“Thank you. Your assistance was most helpful.”

Now there was the canned spam response she’d expected from the automaton. She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him turn and leave, taking his icy weird aura with him. Talking to one of them was like talking to a ghost: nothing about the conversation seemed real and their bizarre presence had this odd way of muting all other ambient noise, purposefully making them the sole focus of one’s attention. It was just plain unnerving and completely thoughtless. She was glad Rosie hadn’t shown up yet. She might’ve arrived with Mr. Popular Number Four and the Shadow Man would’ve stayed even longer. She was more than aware how much Rosie hated those guys, as well - she made no mystery about it, the way she always seemed to never be where they were when they were on board the station. She mused over her friend’s phobia, thinking for once that it might not be so unrealistic.

Like demonic hunters, they were seriously creepy. Not for the first time that day Tami was glad she wasn’t a mod. She snapped her gloves back into place, rubbed some warmth into her shoulders, and took another sip of her coffee, getting back to work.

A/N #2: So, I was never really one to buy that Samson Gray just woke up one day, out of the blue, and said to himself, "you know, today I think I'll sell my son to my brother and his wife, then go murder my own wife in front of them in a really public place!" I have to kinda believe there was a little more to it that led up to the actual event. I'm also under the impression that Sylar not only didn't remember the death of his mother before he'd gone to look for his dad, but maybe doesn't remember his childhood at all - partly because Sylar didn't really exist until that point, and that Gabriel had repressed, really, the whole lot of it because, other than the bright point that was his mother, the rest was not always so great. Anyhoo, I think we've made real progress here folks and now we'll start to see the benefit of it.