Heroes: "Shades of Gray" (Mylar, PG-13)
Title: Shades of Gray
Author: airspaniel
Recipient: rebootfromstart
Prompt: Shades of grey
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1238
Notes: For the mylar_fic Summer fic-a-thon, week 3 - "gen week." I feel a little adrift without a more specific genre, but I guess it turned out okay. ^_^ Comments/crit always welcome!
Summary: The history of Gabriel Gray, and the present and future of a man named Sylar.
In the small space between his apartment building and the bodega, a young boy crouched in a dark pool of blood.
He had broken the cat's neck before he cut it open. He didn't want to be unnecessarily cruel; he just wanted to see how it worked. Still, it had screamed as it died.
With a gentle, if inexpert, incision he split the skin over the ribcage and splayed the animal's chest open. Pale bones stained with crimson parted sharply under his mother's carving knife, and he wiped it carefully on his shirt.
Hands shaking with anticipation, he reached in and separated the ribs. It was sort of hard to see, there was a lot more blood than he had expected, but after a moment he found it easy to distinguish the individual organs. One by one he lifted them from the cat's body, placing them reverently on the sidewalk next to him. He was fascinated by the way they were connected, a seemingly endless network of tubes and vessels.
Distantly, he heard his name being called, but he was too focused to care. Just a few more cuts, and he could see the whole structure. An angry hand pulled him up by the back of the shirt, and the knife clattered noisily to the street.
His mother had yelled for a long time, until she was red-faced.
His father said nothing, but the next morning there was a pocket watch and a small set of tools on his desk. He brought them to his father, curious and eager to learn.
The man smiled down at him. “Clocks don’t bleed, son. And you can always put them back together again.”
It became their secret. Gabriel had been seven years old.
-----
He was thirteen. His mother and father were fighting again, angry voices reverberating through the thin plaster walls.
He blocked them out, concentrating hard on the broken timepiece in front of him, the single beam of light that fell from the small desk lamp. It was soothing to him, seeking out the flaws and using his hands to repair them. He felt powerful, as the last gear clicked into place and the mechanism came to life.
It felt good to fix things.
He heard a door slam, felt the wall tremble with the impact. Heard his mother sobbing in the living room, voice high and uncontrolled and pained.
He squinted his eyes, trying to lose himself again in the clockwork, but he couldn’t.
There was nothing left that he could fix.
-----
He stared at his hands, palms slick with blood. It wasn’t his.
Not for the first time, he wished it was.
He hated what he had become, hated the blood; the screaming. Hated the need that pulsed through his flesh, hated that it was never sated
He hated the man who made him this way. The man who awakened this hunger. The man he once loved as a father. He wanted to be special, but not like this. Not like this.
He smeared the blood against the yellow wall of the closet, one final plea in this dark place that had become his sanctuary.
Gabriel cried himself to sleep that night, curled up on the bloodstained floor of the dingy room. It was his twenty-eighth birthday.
Sylar woke up the next morning and left all of that behind.
-----
His footsteps echoed in the empty church. It was so bright and open, sunlight pouring in through stained glass, painting the marble floor with reds and golds.
It made him uncomfortable. He entered the dark confessional gratefully, relishing the feel of soft velvet under his knees; hard familiar oak under his clasped hands.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been,” he did some quick math, “Twelve years since my last confession.”
The priest’s voice was warm and kind. “That’s a long time, my son. What brings you here today?”
Sylar lowered his head, eyes falling on the broken watch he wore like a shackle around his wrist.
11:53
This was a ridiculous idea. Why had he come here? Some vestigial craving his former self had for the love of an obsolete god. He was disgusted at the weakness.
“My son?”
A drop of water splashed hot against his interlaced fingers. Tears slid silently down his face, and he couldn’t stop them.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
And then he was gone.
-----
Blood had become nothing more than oil in a mechanism; the screams of his victims the same as the gentle whirring of clockwork had been once upon a time.
It pleased him. He found it relaxing.
There had been… obstacles to overcome, but he was once again on the path to greatness. All he had to do now was wait for the new Doctor Suresh.
He stared disinterestedly at the crumpled body on the kitchen floor. Zane hadn’t put up much of a fight. Had barely even begged for his life; hardly screamed at all.
Sylar was disappointed.
-----
The man at the table was agonizingly beautiful; so eager and innocent and open.
Not at all like his father.
And when he smiled, brilliant white teeth in perfect rows, surrounded by dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair…
So much darkness and light in one place. It was entrancing.
He could feel the ghost of a poor watchmaker pressing against his eyes, begging him to take those caramel hands in his and tell this man everything. Begging him to beg for forgiveness. He would understand. He had to.
Mohinder laughed. “Do I have something on my face?”
Sylar dropped his eyes. It was fortunate that Zane was naturally nervous. It saved him the trouble of being composed all the time.
“No! I, uh…” he stammered guilelessly. “I’m sorry. My mind was wandering.”
“I’ll say,” the geneticist replied, sipping his tea. “I knew there couldn’t be anything about me worth staring at for ten minutes.” His tone was ambiguous. Was he teasing?
“You’re wrong,” Sylar said, a little too intensely, eyes a little too dark. It was calculated, he told himself. All part of the ultimate plan to increase his powers.
Mohinder smiled at him, suddenly bashful.
He couldn’t resist the urge to smile back.
-----
He could be Gabriel Gray again. He could fix watches for a living, and live a normal life, and forget everything about these last few months.
He could suppress the things he can do, never show anyone, never use his talents again. Most of them, anyway.
Could live without the intoxicating rush of the kill; the acquisition. The feel of a man’s brain, still throbbing and wet and alive as he held it in his hands.
How hard could it be to deny who you were?
He wants to laugh; wants to cry. He knows that decision is no longer his to make.
He snarls, slamming himself hard into Mohinder’s slender frame. The man under him moans, breathless, and the name he cries again and again is not his. It rings hard in Sylar’s newly hypersensitive ears.
He collapses against that elegant back, pressing kiss after kiss down the curve of Mohinder’s spine. Mohinder shivers, humming into the pillows, lazily arching back into the touch.
This man will be the death of him. He’ll figure it out soon enough.
Mohinder is blissfully unaware, turning his face into the crook of Sylar’s neck, sighing contentedly.
Sylar lies back, and waits for the inevitable.
2007 heroes_slash award winner - Best Sylar/Gabriel Characterization in a Fic
Author: airspaniel
Recipient: rebootfromstart
Prompt: Shades of grey
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1238
Notes: For the mylar_fic Summer fic-a-thon, week 3 - "gen week." I feel a little adrift without a more specific genre, but I guess it turned out okay. ^_^ Comments/crit always welcome!
Summary: The history of Gabriel Gray, and the present and future of a man named Sylar.
In the small space between his apartment building and the bodega, a young boy crouched in a dark pool of blood.
He had broken the cat's neck before he cut it open. He didn't want to be unnecessarily cruel; he just wanted to see how it worked. Still, it had screamed as it died.
With a gentle, if inexpert, incision he split the skin over the ribcage and splayed the animal's chest open. Pale bones stained with crimson parted sharply under his mother's carving knife, and he wiped it carefully on his shirt.
Hands shaking with anticipation, he reached in and separated the ribs. It was sort of hard to see, there was a lot more blood than he had expected, but after a moment he found it easy to distinguish the individual organs. One by one he lifted them from the cat's body, placing them reverently on the sidewalk next to him. He was fascinated by the way they were connected, a seemingly endless network of tubes and vessels.
Distantly, he heard his name being called, but he was too focused to care. Just a few more cuts, and he could see the whole structure. An angry hand pulled him up by the back of the shirt, and the knife clattered noisily to the street.
His mother had yelled for a long time, until she was red-faced.
His father said nothing, but the next morning there was a pocket watch and a small set of tools on his desk. He brought them to his father, curious and eager to learn.
The man smiled down at him. “Clocks don’t bleed, son. And you can always put them back together again.”
It became their secret. Gabriel had been seven years old.
-----
He was thirteen. His mother and father were fighting again, angry voices reverberating through the thin plaster walls.
He blocked them out, concentrating hard on the broken timepiece in front of him, the single beam of light that fell from the small desk lamp. It was soothing to him, seeking out the flaws and using his hands to repair them. He felt powerful, as the last gear clicked into place and the mechanism came to life.
It felt good to fix things.
He heard a door slam, felt the wall tremble with the impact. Heard his mother sobbing in the living room, voice high and uncontrolled and pained.
He squinted his eyes, trying to lose himself again in the clockwork, but he couldn’t.
There was nothing left that he could fix.
-----
He stared at his hands, palms slick with blood. It wasn’t his.
Not for the first time, he wished it was.
He hated what he had become, hated the blood; the screaming. Hated the need that pulsed through his flesh, hated that it was never sated
He hated the man who made him this way. The man who awakened this hunger. The man he once loved as a father. He wanted to be special, but not like this. Not like this.
He smeared the blood against the yellow wall of the closet, one final plea in this dark place that had become his sanctuary.
Gabriel cried himself to sleep that night, curled up on the bloodstained floor of the dingy room. It was his twenty-eighth birthday.
Sylar woke up the next morning and left all of that behind.
-----
His footsteps echoed in the empty church. It was so bright and open, sunlight pouring in through stained glass, painting the marble floor with reds and golds.
It made him uncomfortable. He entered the dark confessional gratefully, relishing the feel of soft velvet under his knees; hard familiar oak under his clasped hands.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been,” he did some quick math, “Twelve years since my last confession.”
The priest’s voice was warm and kind. “That’s a long time, my son. What brings you here today?”
Sylar lowered his head, eyes falling on the broken watch he wore like a shackle around his wrist.
11:53
This was a ridiculous idea. Why had he come here? Some vestigial craving his former self had for the love of an obsolete god. He was disgusted at the weakness.
“My son?”
A drop of water splashed hot against his interlaced fingers. Tears slid silently down his face, and he couldn’t stop them.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
And then he was gone.
-----
Blood had become nothing more than oil in a mechanism; the screams of his victims the same as the gentle whirring of clockwork had been once upon a time.
It pleased him. He found it relaxing.
There had been… obstacles to overcome, but he was once again on the path to greatness. All he had to do now was wait for the new Doctor Suresh.
He stared disinterestedly at the crumpled body on the kitchen floor. Zane hadn’t put up much of a fight. Had barely even begged for his life; hardly screamed at all.
Sylar was disappointed.
-----
The man at the table was agonizingly beautiful; so eager and innocent and open.
Not at all like his father.
And when he smiled, brilliant white teeth in perfect rows, surrounded by dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair…
So much darkness and light in one place. It was entrancing.
He could feel the ghost of a poor watchmaker pressing against his eyes, begging him to take those caramel hands in his and tell this man everything. Begging him to beg for forgiveness. He would understand. He had to.
Mohinder laughed. “Do I have something on my face?”
Sylar dropped his eyes. It was fortunate that Zane was naturally nervous. It saved him the trouble of being composed all the time.
“No! I, uh…” he stammered guilelessly. “I’m sorry. My mind was wandering.”
“I’ll say,” the geneticist replied, sipping his tea. “I knew there couldn’t be anything about me worth staring at for ten minutes.” His tone was ambiguous. Was he teasing?
“You’re wrong,” Sylar said, a little too intensely, eyes a little too dark. It was calculated, he told himself. All part of the ultimate plan to increase his powers.
Mohinder smiled at him, suddenly bashful.
He couldn’t resist the urge to smile back.
-----
He could be Gabriel Gray again. He could fix watches for a living, and live a normal life, and forget everything about these last few months.
He could suppress the things he can do, never show anyone, never use his talents again. Most of them, anyway.
Could live without the intoxicating rush of the kill; the acquisition. The feel of a man’s brain, still throbbing and wet and alive as he held it in his hands.
How hard could it be to deny who you were?
He wants to laugh; wants to cry. He knows that decision is no longer his to make.
He snarls, slamming himself hard into Mohinder’s slender frame. The man under him moans, breathless, and the name he cries again and again is not his. It rings hard in Sylar’s newly hypersensitive ears.
He collapses against that elegant back, pressing kiss after kiss down the curve of Mohinder’s spine. Mohinder shivers, humming into the pillows, lazily arching back into the touch.
This man will be the death of him. He’ll figure it out soon enough.
Mohinder is blissfully unaware, turning his face into the crook of Sylar’s neck, sighing contentedly.
Sylar lies back, and waits for the inevitable.
2007 heroes_slash award winner - Best Sylar/Gabriel Characterization in a Fic