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VVVVVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I woke up. Sunlight streamed into the sitting room. I remembered where I was. Domestic sounds came from the kitchen—the gurgle of a coffee pot, pans being put away. I felt a sudden pang, like I was home. Almost.

Emma came out of the kitchen carrying a cup of tea. She smiled broadly at me.

"Hello, honey," she said, set the cup down, knelt and wrapped me up in a tight hug. I hugged her back, closing my eyes. She backed up and smoothed my hair.

"Hi, Emma," I said. She looked at me intently.

"Are you hungry?"

I shrugged.

"A little."

"Okay. Come in the kitchen with me."

I pushed the quilt off myself, my hand lingering on it for a moment. I stood, and started to follow Emma. Then I turned back, picked up the quilt and wrapped it around my shoulders, and it dragged behind me like a long robe. Emma entered the kitchen and went straight to the refrigerator. I eased myself down at the table. I glanced around.

"Where are…the guys?"

Emma didn't answer. She was peering into the fridge. Biting my lip, I lifted my hands, and clapped.

She blinked, and faced me.

"What?"

"Where are Peter and…" I trailed off, suddenly at a loss as to what to call him. Emma answered anyway.

"They went for a walk," she said. "Peter said Gabriel needed to get out of the house and stretch. He sat beside you all night long."

I frowned.

"He did?"

Emma nodded, pulling out the orange juice. She gauged the amount—there wasn't much left in the carton. She threw a smile at me as she turned to get a cup.

"Gabriel likes you very much. He told me all about you while you were sleeping."

My frown deepened, more with confusion than anything else.

"How the heck does he know anything about me?" I asked, but Emma wasn't looking at me. She was pouring the orange juice, and kept going with her train of thought.

"He told me all about how brave you are, and determined—and pretty." Emma smiled at me again. "Peter said he didn't want to sit and listen to all that 'mushy stuff'—he said he'd heard it all before—and went to bed. But I liked it." She came over and handed me the juice. "It's refreshing when a man admits that he's in love."

My heart thudded, and I drew in a breath, my eyes wide at her. She didn't see. She turned back to the refrigerator, opened it, and pondered over its contents.

"In…In love?" I repeated. "That…Sylar doesn't know the meaning of…I mean…" My words couldn't possibly come out coherently. It didn't matter. Emma wasn't paying attention. She shut the fridge, and went to the counter to pull out the loaf of bread and plug in the toaster.

"He did not come out and say that, of course," Emma went on. "But I could tell."

She looked at me. I seized the chance.

"How could you tell?"

She shrugged and took out two pieces of bread.

"I usually can't see voices. And I can't when he's talking about the weather or something. But when he talks about you, his voice is different—I can seeit. It's like…" She trailed off, thinking. My hands closed around the blanket.

"Like what?" I demanded. Emma looked at me.

"Like music." And she smiled at me again. Then she cocked her head. "Do you want butter on your toast?"

VVVVVVVV

The rest of the day passed quietly. I took a walk around the garden, checking on that tulip, and noticing that a rosebush by the side of the house had just started to bloom. I then retreated upstairs and finished Pride and Prejudice.

Peter came up and sat with me for a while in the middle of the afternoon. He didn't say much. But once, he got choked up and tried to tell me he was sorry for not protecting me. I scolded him hard, then hugged him. And I told him I loved him. Normally, I'm not like that. But the events of the previous night had given me a new perspective, at least for a while.

As evening fell, I lay on my couch alone in the library, drowsily considering the way the soft light crossed the floor.

A thought struck me. It made me sit up straight, and my skin went cold. The possible ramifications of this thought settled in the pit of my stomach like ice. But I knew I had to do it, now that it had come to me in such clarity.

I got up, crossed the floor and picked up the book of flower language from the place where I had dropped it. I flipped through it thoughtfully, and finally came to a page that made me stop and study it for a long time. I felt a small smile lift my lips, and I nodded. Then, all I had to do was wait.

I waited until darkness fell. I listened atop the stairs while Emma and Peter played their piano duet and Sylar listened and commented once in a while. I noted when they each said they were heading to bed. I heard them express their concern for me, and decide to let me be for now. And then I made certain each one had gone to bed. Then, I slipped downstairs, book still in hand, and out the back door.

I was barefoot, the grass was cold, and the wind cut through my clothes. I hurried around the side of the house, folding the book close to my chest, and found the rosebush by the light of the moon. I peered at it, trying to find the right sized bloom. Once I did, and looked at it for a long time, I flipped the book open and compared that bloom to the one in the picture. I nodded again, closed the book, and then broke off the bloom I wanted, with a long enough stem. I then crept back in, trying to keep the thorns from pricking me.

I hesitated in the middle of the living room, nearly losing my nerve. I hesitated again in the kitchen. Then, I rolled my eyes, muttered to myself to quit being stupid, then set the book down in front of Sylar's closed door. I then laid the rose blossom on the cover. Wincing, and hoping I had made no noise, I quickly retreated back through those two rooms and up the stairs.

I ducked into the bathroom and got ready for bed, changed into my pajamas, slipped into the bedroom and crawled under the covers.

As I lay there in the dark, gazing up at the ceiling, I thought about what I had done. But the small smile crossed my face again as I reminded myself of the meaning of the tea rose I had set outside his door:

I will always remember.

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

I woke up to the sound of a bone-wrenching scream. I flung my covers off and shot to my feet, only to freeze, my skin crawling.

The wail issued again, and I threw my arms around myself, backing up against my bed.

"Sylar," I whispered. For it was his voice. And it sounded as if he was being killed. He howled again, shaking the rafters. And then a door banged, and Peter's tones cut in.

"Gabriel! Oh, man, okay—hey! Hey, hey, wake up."

I darted to the door, pulled it open and crouched on the top step.

"Gabriel!" Peter shouted again. Sylar gasped hard.

"Oh!" His breaths shivered uncontrollably. "Peter…"

"Hey, it's okay," Peter soothed. "Same old crappy dream, huh?"

"Yeah," Sylar said hoarsely. My muscles tensing, I crept down the steps to the bend in the staircase, then knelt down and peered around into the living room.

Peter had hold of Sylar's arm, and guided him to the couch. Sylar sat down, bent over and covered his face, strands of dark hair hanging down.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Peter said. "Get you something for your stomach."

"Nothing helps, you know that," Sylar muttered.

"Hey, all we had to work with before was water and coffee," Peter answered, heading toward the kitchen.

"All we have is water and coffee," Sylar retorted, dropping his hands. My breath caught. His cheeks were tearstained, his brow tight. He swiped at his face.

"Just sit tight, okay?" Peter said. Sylar sniffed, and brushed his hair away from his face, then folded his hands, bent his head and closed his eyes. He took deep, purposeful breaths. I couldn't take my eyes from him.

Peter came back bearing two mugs. Sylar lifted his head.

"What is it?"

"Hot chocolate," Peter answered. Sylar's brow furrowed.

"We have hot chocolate?"

"I bought some when I went on the walk with Emma today."

Sylar accepted one steaming mug from Peter, and Peter sat down in the armchair next to him, and braced his elbows on his knees, and gazed at Sylar, as if waiting. Sylar held his mug in both hands and gazed down at the liquid inside.

"I haven't had that nightmare since we got out," Sylar murmured. "I wonder what caused it this time."

Peter shrugged and took a sip.

"Dunno. I mean, the thing with Claire was scary. And you haven't used powers like that since…"

Sylar put his mug down on the coffee table and suddenly sat back. His face twisted, though he clearly fought his emotion, and tears welled up. He swiped desperately at his face with both hands, then clenched his hand into a fist and pressed it against the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, God!" he suddenly cried, and if it was not a plea, it was nothing. And then he broke down.

"Hey, hey," Peter quickly put his own drink down, got up and sat next to Sylar, putting an arm around his shoulder. Sylar bent over, burying his face in his hands and openly weeping—and looking as if he might throw up. Shock opened up inside me, and I leaned against the banister, unable to look away. Peter gripped Sylar's shoulder tightly, leaning down toward him, intent and determined.

"Man, it's going to be okay," Peter said.

"Peter, you don't know what I…" Sylar tried, moving his hands enough to speak. "I almost…Those men last night, I wanted to…I almost…" He gestured helplessly. "I followed the highway, like you suggested. When I flew over and heard her screaming, and then when I came down and realized what was happening, what they were doing to her…" He clamped his hands together. "I…My vision went red. And I wanted to be a murderer again."

Peter rubbed his hand firmly back and forth between Sylar's shoulders, as my dad had often done to me when I was upset.

"But you didn't," Peter said, finally letting him go and folding his hands together. "See? You didn't kill them. Any of them."

"I wanted to."

"So?" Peter countered. "Everybody's tempted, all the time. It's what you actually do that counts. That's what matters."

Sylar let out a long, rattling breath.

"It doesn't matter."

Peter frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Sylar glanced at him.

"No, I'm glad I saved her," he said quickly. "I just…" He raked a hand through his hair. "It didn't change anything."

"Give her time," Peter urged. Then he sat up. "Hey, how did you wind up in here, anyway? I don't remember you walking this kind of distance in your sleep before."

Sylar shrugged.

"We're in the real world now. And no, I don't have any idea how I got here. All I know is that I kicked something when I came out of my room. I think."

Peter straightened.

"Kicked something? There's nothing on the floor in your hall."

"That's what I remember," Sylar sighed, rubbing his eyes. Peter got up and went into the kitchen so I couldn't see him. Sylar leaned back again.

But then his gaze sharpened, and he sat up.

"What's that?"

Peter came into the sitting room again.

"This is what you kicked," he said, and held up the language of flowers book, and the tea rose. Sylar's whole frame lifted. He held out his hands. Peter handed them both to him.

He caught up the rose, holding it carefully, then took a deep breath of it.

"So…what's up?" Peter asked, sitting in the armchair again.

"It's a message," Sylar said. "I just have to figure out…" He set the rose down, opened the book, and flipped through the pages. He glanced over at my rose several times, comparing it to the pictures. I felt my little smile return as I watched. Finally, he stopped turning pages, and stared down at one.

"It's a tea rose," Sylar murmured.

"Okay…" Peter raised his eyebrows. Sylar didn't say anything for a long while.

"Is that…supposed to mean something?" Peter prompted.

"Yes," Sylar murmured. "It means 'I will always remember.'"

Peter straightened.

"Is that from Claire?"

Sylar nodded.

"Well, that's good!" Peter declared. "It means she's grateful you saved her!"

"Or it could mean that she's still unwilling to forgive me," Sylar replied, picking up the rose again and studying it.

"Maybe. Whatever," Peter shook his head. "Don't you get it? It's good, regardless."

Sylar's brow furrowed.

"How?"

"She's talking to you," Peter said. "All on her own. I didn't tell her to do that. She took the initiative to communicate with you. And yeah, it could mean that she won't forgive you. But you have to admit that it could also mean that she'll always remember that you saved her."

I leaned the side of my head against the banister. And something pulled against my heart as I gazed at Sylar—pulled alot harder than I was comfortable with. Especially when he fingered the petals of the rose, and gave a small smile that bore an emotion that cut into me—but it was an emotion I suddenly realized I had been subconsciously trying to inspire:

Hope.

TO BE CONTINUED