Title: Dream Catcher
Characters: Sylar, Angela Petrelli
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 1,400
Setting: The Wall / Sylar's mind
Summary: Based on the S3 episode, Eris Quod Sum, that had Angela seem to project into Sylar's mind while he was in torpor. I have posited that this is a feature of her ability (she says as much in the episode). It seems reasonable that knowing Peter was headed out to find Sylar in S4, The Art of Deception, she'd try to tip the scales a little and influence Sylar's response.

"Gabriel?"

It was a female voice, familiar to him. It evoked feelings of longing, yearning for a home and a comfort he'd never known, and yet resentment and bitter disappointment as well. He opened his eyes at the feeling of the back of a hand touching his cheek. Turning his head, he saw her – Angela Petrelli. 'Mother' leapt to mind, echoed from his own past and that of Nathan. With a snarl, he batted her hand away and sat up, yanking off the various medical leads and lines attached to his body.

He was back on Level 5, in a grey concrete cell featuring only this gurney of a bed and the stool Angela perched on. He rushed to his feet, ignoring Angela as she repeated his name in a more remonstrative tone. He grabbed up the IV stand and swung it at her without hesitation for what she'd done to him. She shrieked and recoiled, blocking the blow somewhat with raised hands as she fell from the stool. The IV pole broke, it being a lousy excuse for a weapon. He snatched up the stool instead, making sure he was between her and the door so she couldn't escape. The stool was a better bludgeon. He brought it down on her without mercy or pity, ignoring her brief screams.

Then it was dark. It was as though his consciousness had ended when hers did. He lay as he had before, asleep and unable to wake himself. His eyes moved restlessly behind closed lids, the smell of dust and wet mortar in his nostrils. He was helpless, confined in his own mind. On some level, he knew this was for the best. He'd put himself here. He wanted to stay – almost unaware of the monstrosity that he was. Almost.

"Gabriel?"

A cool cloth blotted at his forehead. It felt nice, but he'd recognized the voice. His eyes opened reluctantly. It was her, again, on the same stool in the same cell, showing no sign of injury from their previous encounter. He pushed her hand away and sat up, pulling off the medical leads with less haste this time. "Claire's ability should have come as a surprise to no one," he said, "given how hard it is to keep any Petrelli dead."

She grimaced and said nothing. Her lips tightened.

Sylar considered that with Nathan's death, one of the family may have finally perished for good. He stood up from the bed and said no more. He walked out into the hallway, surprised to find the door unlocked. The hall seemed foggy though, or maybe that was just his perception. His awareness of reality disintegrated within a few steps … and then he was gone.

"Gabriel?"

This time her voice was more tender and she wasn't touching him. He rolled his head to one side on the bed and regarded her where she awaited him on the stool. He brought himself upright slowly, scanning the room more carefully. This time he noticed the commode and the sink, but it felt like his mind was filling in details as he looked for them. "This is a dream," he stated.

"Yes."

He tugged loose the monitoring cables, resisting the impulse to see what they connected to, for he had previously noted the absence of equipment. He fingered the intravenous line for a moment before pulling it out. It felt numb as it left his body. He knew it should have stung. He looked up at her. "This is your ability." He waved briefly at the cell.

Angela made an acquiescing nod. "I woke you once before in a place like this."

"When you had need of me," he said bitterly, getting off the bed and stalking around the small room. "It wasn't for my benefit, then or now, I'm sure. What do you need this time? Another stand-in for a son?"

She paled slightly, a faint shift in coloration that his observant eyes caught. "My only remaining son is coming to find you, right now. He believes you have the capacity to save people. He thinks you are something other than a monster."

She had his complete attention. "And am I?"

"It's no longer for me to say. Or for him."

"You want mercy, is that it? Peter had his chance at Mercy and he dropped the ball. Why would he think finding me again would turn out any better for him?"

"He has seen a future where it is possible."

Sylar paused, considering that. Then he chuckled darkly. "That might have been possible once, but I'm not sure it is anymore. He may be coming to his death, just like you fear."

"Has all the killing you have done solved your problems? Is that why you're here, trying to sleep everything away?"

"Has it solved yours?" he bit back.

"I went back to Coyote Sands, where it all began, so I could unearth the past and learn from it. What have you learned from your past, Gabriel?"

He squared his body towards her from the other side of the gurney. "I have learned that you have no right to call me by that name."

She regarded him silently for a long moment, her eyes seeming to go through him and past him. Finally, she said simply, "Sylar."

"Amazing," he said with dry sarcasm. "So you can teach an old Petrelli new tricks after all." He came around and climbed on the bed again. It put him considerably above her.

"You have learned how to define yourself," she said. "Good. Will you let that extend to areas aside from your name?"

It was an annoying question, reminding him of his biological father's judgmental tone about his targets. "I've done more than enough for the Petrellis in regard to my identity," he snarled.

"This isn't about us. It's about you."

"I thought it was about the safety of your baby boy," he crooned, "who is about to walk into the dragon's lair with nothing but a hope and a prayer."

"You model yourself after a dragon – a symbol of powerful evil, consumed by greed, slumbering away beneath the mountain. Perhaps you should consider better role models."

"And what do you model yourself after, Cassandra?"

She frowned and sighed. "We can spar like this for eternity, Sylar, or we can address the issue that has plagued you from the beginning. You want to be something better than a base murderer, unoriginal since the first descendants of the biblical Adam, stealing from others because you imagine some father figure finds your gift to be unworthy. You look for approval from others, Sylar, and never approve of yourself. Peter is coming for you. I have told him where to find you. His approval is based entirely on who you are – and that is your decision to make. You must find a way to make the changes you …" Her voice faded away, losing itself in the depths of his mind. The entire scene changed.

He was sitting in his apartment in front of his work table, bent over a partly disassembled pocket watch he was endeavoring to repair. Some vital piece was missing from it. He felt like he'd diligently repaired this particular chronograph hundreds of times trying to find a way to make the changes the voice (had it really been Angela?) had told him he had to effect. But no matter what he did, it didn't quite come together right. His labors were interrupted by the unexpected sound of metallic clanging – a broken pipe against pavement. In an instant, he was on the street outside, wearing his jacket. A moment later, it was a different street. He looked around in wonder and some trepidation as his sense of reality flickered. The last time that had happened, he'd been talking with Angela Petrelli in what must have been a dream; she'd told him Peter was coming for him. Was any of that real? He'd thought it was just another hallucination – his mind playing tricks on him.

Another flashing blink, and there the man was, a hundred yards away, slamming the pipe into the asphalt one last time before noticing him and heading his way.

"Peter?" Sylar breathed.