![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Character: Sylar/Peter
Genre: slash
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thewatchmaker
Fandom: Heroes
Word count: 1050
Rating: PG
Prompts:
After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true. vol3.week28 for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
scifi_muses
7. Stairway to Heaven for30_ballads 3/30
054. How wide the world is. for100_fairytales 50/100
12. Autophobia; Fear of Being Alone for13_fears 6/13
Notes: A bit of the madness from Sylar's POV before Peter arrived inside of the Wall. Forempath_peter with great love and affection as always.
The silence was deafening. We take for granted the background white noise that fills our day to day existence. Each footstep, the sound of someone drawing a breath, the cries of a child, the honking of a horn, or the flap of a bird’s wing all combine to fill our world with sounds that we don’t consciously hear. I have none of that now for I am truly alone.
When I first came to my senses in this lost world, I enjoyed it. There was no one hunting me. No one was clamoring to prove that they were better than I was, but now I would give what was left of my tarnished soul for that. I would have given anything to hear Noah pounding on the glass of my cell calling me ‘Gabriel Gray’, and telling me that I was an insignificant watchmaker from Queens.
Am I insignificant now when I’m the only one left on the Earth? I know I’m alone. I looked. Walking alone until I wore through the soles of my boots, I’d walked from one end of New York to the other. Then I’d moved outside of the city, walking for endless days and nights. It was silent.
It was silent everywhere. One would think that I’d be more annoyed by the loss of my powers, but I wasn’t.
The only sound I could hear was my own breathing and the roar of the blood in my ears. I wondered if I’d gone deaf until I walked into my abandoned shop, and I could hear the ticking of the clocks. I fell to my knees on the threadbare carpet, so grateful to have the noise that I didn’t care about how much dust was covering everything. I’d been gone for such a long time.
I stayed there for over a year. In the beginning I spent day after day cleaning, dusting and working to get the smell of mildew and Brian’s blood out of the carpet. I spent three days carefully cleaning the windows, making sure the etching was pristine. All the while my only company was the ticking and chimes of the clocks. The absence of one of them would wake me from a sound sleep on my little bed in the back of the Shop, and I’d rush to wind or replace its battery. I kept food in my stomach by looting the restaurants around the neighborhood, but eventually they ran out of anything that I could stomach.
When I ran out of food it was time to move on. I’d spent one year on the road and one year in my shop. Now it was time to hole up in my apartment. I filled box after box of the clocks to bring with me. I carried each of them one at a time to my little apartment, filling every spare inch with a clock. I covered my kitchen table with watches, and I brought my tools with me as well. If I looted a store for canned foods, I’d hit a jewelry store to steal whatever clocks or watches they had too. The ticking was the only thing keeping me sane.
By the end of the third year not even the ticking helped. I was sick from having only myself to talk to. I thought about increasing my collection with music boxes, but I wasn’t quite ready to turn into my mother again. The clocks would have to do.
Then I heard the pounding. I thought it was one of the clocks at first. Then I thought it was all in my head. It had to be. For three years there was nothing, and now I could hear the clanging of something hitting something outside. I was afraid to look. Afraid to find out I was imagining it again. I’d lost count of how many times I’d rushed at a sound that I couldn’t explain only to find nothing, but I had to go. Someone might be out there. Some other survivor might have come to the city looking for someone.
My hands were shaking as I buttoned my coat, and I set off down the street, following the echo through the canyon of skyscrapers to find the origin. I saw the figure at the end of the street, but it wasn’t the first time I’d seen the specter of another soul. I approached cautiously as if to keep the mirage from evaporating.
Then he turned towards me, and I saw the thick mop of his dark hair. It was Peter. My tongue slipped out to moisten my lips, and I swallowed hard, trying to build the courage to face his apparition. He couldn’t be real. He didn’t have his power anymore. If Arthur hadn’t have taken them away, I’d believe he’d survived like I had. But in his crippled state it was impossible. I hadn’t even been able to find Claire, and of all of us she should be here too.
“Peter? Are you real?” I asked as I approached. He turned toward me, and he threw the pipe he’d been holding away. He looked at me like I was crazy, but then that wasn’t new. He always looked at me like that. I couldn’t tell him I was happy to see him. How could I when I felt so horrible for what I’d done to him? I’d killed Nathan. It was unforgivable. Even though his arrival gave me hope. It gave me a chance to have someone else to spend the endless monotony with. He made me feel alive.
But if anything kept him alive in this nightmare it was his hatred for me. So I did what came naturally for me.
“If you follow me, I’ll kill you!” I screamed and took off, running as fast as I could home. Home to my books. Home to my clocks. Home to my solitude. But Peter wouldn’t let me get away. I could hear his feet pounding on the pavement behind me. He’d come to kill me, and I might just let him if it meant I’d be free at last to go to Hell for what I’d done. Of course I couldn’t make it easy for him. I hefted the hammer I used to hang the clocks, and I waited for him to come through the door.
Genre: slash
Author:
thewatchmakerFandom: Heroes
Word count: 1050
Rating: PG
Prompts:
After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true. vol3.week28 for
scifi_muses7. Stairway to Heaven for
30_ballads 3/30054. How wide the world is. for
100_fairytales 50/10012. Autophobia; Fear of Being Alone for
13_fears 6/13Notes: A bit of the madness from Sylar's POV before Peter arrived inside of the Wall. For
empath_peter with great love and affection as always. The silence was deafening. We take for granted the background white noise that fills our day to day existence. Each footstep, the sound of someone drawing a breath, the cries of a child, the honking of a horn, or the flap of a bird’s wing all combine to fill our world with sounds that we don’t consciously hear. I have none of that now for I am truly alone.
When I first came to my senses in this lost world, I enjoyed it. There was no one hunting me. No one was clamoring to prove that they were better than I was, but now I would give what was left of my tarnished soul for that. I would have given anything to hear Noah pounding on the glass of my cell calling me ‘Gabriel Gray’, and telling me that I was an insignificant watchmaker from Queens.
Am I insignificant now when I’m the only one left on the Earth? I know I’m alone. I looked. Walking alone until I wore through the soles of my boots, I’d walked from one end of New York to the other. Then I’d moved outside of the city, walking for endless days and nights. It was silent.
It was silent everywhere. One would think that I’d be more annoyed by the loss of my powers, but I wasn’t.
The only sound I could hear was my own breathing and the roar of the blood in my ears. I wondered if I’d gone deaf until I walked into my abandoned shop, and I could hear the ticking of the clocks. I fell to my knees on the threadbare carpet, so grateful to have the noise that I didn’t care about how much dust was covering everything. I’d been gone for such a long time.
I stayed there for over a year. In the beginning I spent day after day cleaning, dusting and working to get the smell of mildew and Brian’s blood out of the carpet. I spent three days carefully cleaning the windows, making sure the etching was pristine. All the while my only company was the ticking and chimes of the clocks. The absence of one of them would wake me from a sound sleep on my little bed in the back of the Shop, and I’d rush to wind or replace its battery. I kept food in my stomach by looting the restaurants around the neighborhood, but eventually they ran out of anything that I could stomach.
When I ran out of food it was time to move on. I’d spent one year on the road and one year in my shop. Now it was time to hole up in my apartment. I filled box after box of the clocks to bring with me. I carried each of them one at a time to my little apartment, filling every spare inch with a clock. I covered my kitchen table with watches, and I brought my tools with me as well. If I looted a store for canned foods, I’d hit a jewelry store to steal whatever clocks or watches they had too. The ticking was the only thing keeping me sane.
By the end of the third year not even the ticking helped. I was sick from having only myself to talk to. I thought about increasing my collection with music boxes, but I wasn’t quite ready to turn into my mother again. The clocks would have to do.
Then I heard the pounding. I thought it was one of the clocks at first. Then I thought it was all in my head. It had to be. For three years there was nothing, and now I could hear the clanging of something hitting something outside. I was afraid to look. Afraid to find out I was imagining it again. I’d lost count of how many times I’d rushed at a sound that I couldn’t explain only to find nothing, but I had to go. Someone might be out there. Some other survivor might have come to the city looking for someone.
My hands were shaking as I buttoned my coat, and I set off down the street, following the echo through the canyon of skyscrapers to find the origin. I saw the figure at the end of the street, but it wasn’t the first time I’d seen the specter of another soul. I approached cautiously as if to keep the mirage from evaporating.
Then he turned towards me, and I saw the thick mop of his dark hair. It was Peter. My tongue slipped out to moisten my lips, and I swallowed hard, trying to build the courage to face his apparition. He couldn’t be real. He didn’t have his power anymore. If Arthur hadn’t have taken them away, I’d believe he’d survived like I had. But in his crippled state it was impossible. I hadn’t even been able to find Claire, and of all of us she should be here too.
“Peter? Are you real?” I asked as I approached. He turned toward me, and he threw the pipe he’d been holding away. He looked at me like I was crazy, but then that wasn’t new. He always looked at me like that. I couldn’t tell him I was happy to see him. How could I when I felt so horrible for what I’d done to him? I’d killed Nathan. It was unforgivable. Even though his arrival gave me hope. It gave me a chance to have someone else to spend the endless monotony with. He made me feel alive.
But if anything kept him alive in this nightmare it was his hatred for me. So I did what came naturally for me.
“If you follow me, I’ll kill you!” I screamed and took off, running as fast as I could home. Home to my books. Home to my clocks. Home to my solitude. But Peter wouldn’t let me get away. I could hear his feet pounding on the pavement behind me. He’d come to kill me, and I might just let him if it meant I’d be free at last to go to Hell for what I’d done. Of course I couldn’t make it easy for him. I hefted the hammer I used to hang the clocks, and I waited for him to come through the door.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:08 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:27 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:10 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:28 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 11:12 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:14 pm (UTC)From:((Really love this and I can so see it happening just like that too. It'd make sense and explain all the clocks/watches in the apartment.))
no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:30 pm (UTC)From:((I need you to pick a song for Peter to write for his verse with you.))
no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:50 pm (UTC)From:((Do you have a link for the master table or something so I know what I have to pick from? :D))
no subject
Date: 2011-02-15 10:51 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 03:21 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 03:57 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-16 04:07 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-21 05:35 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-21 05:44 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-02-21 10:46 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-13 08:19 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-03-14 01:20 am (UTC)From: