*note – here Claire can feel pain – it seemed better to fit it in this way*
He had been Nathan for three months. He remembered how it felt to sit in his body; to wash his face, to look into a mirror and be presented with a face that was his own and yet, was not his own. His mom – no, Angela - had removed all the clocks from the office, the apartment, her house. He never seemed to have a watch anywhere which was annoying. He'd ask her, "How am I supposed to know what time it is?" and she'd smile weakly and turn away. But she'd been right to take them from him.
Denko had told him to anchor himself. All he had ever really known was clocks, watches. It was the power he'd had bestowed upon him since birth. Angela might have known, but she didn't need to. After his words "It's just this clock. It's running a minute and a half fast." she had known. She had removed them all and thought she'd protected him. But he'd found the one left in his bottom drawer. It was an accident. He would never have found it if he wasn't searching for a pen. But there it was. Perfectly concealed in the back of the left drawer. It was dusty with age and along its surface ran a single crack. It was a wind up watch, its strap peeling brown leather, gold dials on its edge. He ran a finger over the glass, feeling some distant sorrow for a watch that had been forgotten, unloved, lost. Some sense of pity that a watch should never stop working; after all, what else were they designed for?
He had spent the hour after his secretary had gone home taking apart the watch, laying its intricate pieces across his desk, glowing bronze in the dim light of his desk lamp. Each cog, each bolt seemed to murmur softly, whispering their purpose, where their brothers and sisters where, where they sat among them. And then, almost as if he had learnt it, he took the empty husk of the watch and laid piece after piece back into it until the back snapped into place and wound it. The second hand quivered and started its journey, pulling the other hands with it in harmony. He'd watched it for another hour, feeling his heart rate quicken until he'd looked into the mirror hanging above his mantle piece and frowned. Then Nathan had bled away like smoke in a breeze and his face was suddenly his own; his memories exploding into reality with a force that caused him to gasp. His hair; dark, thick; his nose rounded; lips bowed and parted as he struggled for air. His fingers had traced his face, slicing wounds that trickled blood and that healed again silently. He half laughed in disbelief and then smiled darkly at his reflection.
"Boo."
Angela opened the door slowly. Nathan hadn't met her for lunch. It made her remember the same moment three moths ago when she'd been shocked by the Sylar still in her son. "It's just this clock. It's running a minute and a half fast." But then her son wasn't really her son. It was like they'd plastered over a drywall and left it, but the rot was still growing underneath; they'd never removed it completely.
"Nathan?" she called cautiously. She walked in anyway, easing the door shut behind her. She glanced around but there was no one. It was still dark in the room.
"I'm here, Ma." Nathan muttered. Now she saw him. He was by the closed curtains, his face spilt through the middle with a shaft of light streaming through a gap. She smiled slowly but warmly.
"You were supposed to meet me almost an hour ago, Nathan. I know you're busy with work, but you could've called your poor mother first."
He seemed to frown at this, his brow creasing. She watched his mouth, twisting strangely, as if it were unused to this position.
"My mothers are dead."
She stared as he turned around, and she couldn't tell if it was the shadows moving, but his hair seemed darker. Even in the light, as he straightened to face her she saw that he was not Nathan. Her gasp of shock was cut short by another as her throat was closed around by unseen hands. He stepped forward and the desk lamp flickered on. Now the light and shadows curved around him she saw the face that had haunted the dreams she had ignored. Sylar couldn't come back. She'd never seen the watch. It was impossible; her dreams must have been wrong.
"Nathan," she choked, struggling for air and begging that this was just another dream. Sylar raised a corner of his mouth in a tight smile.
"Now he's really dead. I'd ask you if you thought it was sick, what Parkman did to me. You'd probably say yes, but then you'd be lying. And I'd know. I can tell."
He raised a finger and as he did so the intercom buzzed.
"Mister Petrelli? Your daughter's here to see you. Can I send her in?"
He paused, thinking. Then he gave Angela a secret smile and spoke aloud in her son's voice.
"Sure. I'm not busy."
A door flew open to the closet and he smiled again.
"You don't mind if you wait for a moment do you? I don't want to keep your grand daughter waiting." With a flick of his wrist Angela flew into the closet, her head colliding with the wall. Her eyes flickered shut and she slid down to rest in a crumpled heap. The door closed again and Sylar morphed silently back into Nathan Petrelli.