A/N: Whew another long chapter!!! The longest in this Vol so far, I think. This happy author really only has one thing to say about this chapter: for anyone who is more than ready for some Sylaire at long last? Something? Anything??? Enjoy =D

I don't own Heroes or anything remotely related and I bow humbly before the television gods, please have mercy on me. Rated "M" for language, some violence, some blood & guts, and eventually some sexual imagery. And please review! If I've massively screwed something up, I'd like to know =D

9) Nine Years

*** several weeks ago ***

The bitter irony was that if he were looking for anyone else, and had Sylar's diabolically cunning intellect at his own personal disposal, his search could've been conducted much more efficiently. Despite the staggering number of abilities the Shadow Man possessed, none of them made him any better at math, let alone the kind of math that calculated this kind of algorithm. The first leg of the equation took some experimentation, trying to decipher the velocity at which the explosion would've flung Sylar's presumably intact yet lifeless body… which probably presumed a lot. He was able to access the architectural schema for the class of ship to which the Zephyr belonged, telling him exactly how much of the volume comprising her lower decks would've been filled with atomic energy, and it was easy to discover the inventory of items that had been housed in her weaponry bays. Detonating a small object and analyzing the data regurgitated by the shuttle's sensors had given him a base to scale from. From there he had distance and he knew the time elapsed. It was direction that provided him his greatest challenge, as all vectors were plausible and the more time elapsed, the more direction worked against him. The longer he spent doing math, the more math he'd end up having to do.

In the end, he went for broke and hunted down the ship's manifest, gleaning its contents, looking for names added at the last minute. He narrowed down his search to a small group of ten names – all inserted during a narrow window before the Zephyr left orbit, all assigned to quarters on the same deck. Combining what he knew of the ship's trajectory toward her ending coordinates and the position of the deck on the ship, he was able to make a final conclusion.

He now had an ever increasing sector of space in which to begin his search, and a frequency for which to scan. He did not, however, anticipate his search would take him nine years, although he was probably fortunate it didn't take longer. He was probably miraculously lucky his search ended at all.

And yet, there he was, at the end of it, staring at the jagged, crystalline form that occupied a fold-out bed in the shuttle's passenger area. The body's eyes were still open, but the pressure differential had ruptured all the vessels – they glittered like frozen rubies. He was stiff as an ice cube, hunched in a perpetually surprised expression, missing his left arm, part of his right leg, and his left foot. The scanner the Shadow Man still held in his hand, however, told no lies – it beeped like a nest full of starving and insistent baby birds, alerting the presence of Sylar's RFID tag.

This man was, in fact, Gabriel "Sylar" Grey.

Certainly no stranger to the things of which Sylar was capable, the black suit lamented not being able to use a power inhibiting collar. While it was still possible his body was just as useful dead as it was alive, there was simply no substitute for naturally pumping blood. It was for the best to allow him to revive, regardless of the risk. He wrapped his precious cargo in silvery, paper-like thermal blankets and gathered the supplies needed for intravenous fluids before settling in for a long wait.

A steady dripping had caught his attention some time later, after he'd input coordinates for their landing in the Pisces sector and called in for the requisite permissions. Putting down his fet, leaving it to reflect a backlit electronic version of Homer's Odyssey against the black viewport, he rose to investigate the sound. He nearly slipped in a puddle collecting on the floor, made up of a translucent pinkish brown fluid – a mixture of water, thawing blood, and space dust leaking from the wounds on Sylar's arm and legs. Checking them, he was able to note new bone growth, and the man's flesh was beginning to soften. The Shadow Man then put together a solution of liquid nutrients with a heavy tranquilizer which was administered intravenously. Feeling safer, his task complete, he switched off his fet and turned down another cot to get some sleep while the shuttle did the rest of the work. It would wake him before he'd need to control it manually, entering the planet's atmosphere to land at the docking station.

~*~*~

What woke Gabriel was a tingling sensation throughout his extremities, like his arms and legs had been asleep and were just coming back to life. He remained perfectly still, grimacing through the pins and needles, and he slowly opened his crusted eyes. The world swung wildly on an axis as he turned his head to survey his surroundings. Through the thick haze clouding his vision, he was able to make out a bag hanging from a pole near his left shoulder. He knew very well what was going on – someone else was making a foolhardy attempt at subduing him with drugs. He would've rolled his eyes if it didn't make his stomach lurch. It was amazing to find that, centuries later, the universe was still breeding idiots.

He slid his numbed right arm across his belly, trying to reach for the needle buried in the crook of his left elbow. He noticed his feverish skin was damp with sweat, and maybe something else. He recognized the symptoms: he'd been dead. Again. The memory hit him with the same force as the blast that'd caused his death. The Zephyr had exploded. Listless fingers fumbled with the line delivering the foul tincture to his striving bloodstream until at last he felt the sliding sting of the needle exiting his flesh. He remained where he was a few moments longer, waiting for his cellular regeneration to clear his head, and he briefly wondered how long he'd been floating in space. It hadn't been a bad way to die, he supposed, happening much more quickly than drowning. But the recovery, so far, was much more painful – icy crystals had run rampant through his thawing body once his blood had begun to circulate, millions of them tearing miniscule holes through everything that stood in their path. He felt like he was healing from zillions of microscopic bullet wounds. He hated bullet wounds. Lifting his hands out before him, he also noticed his left forearm was a distinctly different hue – it was new. Ughh… Yes, the next time he saw Claire they could goober and gush over lost limbs, it'd be great…

Despite his discomfort, he was anxious to ascertain the rest of his situation. Obviously he was in the possession of someone who'd rather not deal with him at his full capacity – this was someone who knew him. His suspicion was confirmed after he'd jerkily dropped his legs over the side of his cot to sit upright and look around. Further up the bulkhead, closer to the cockpit of the shuttle, another cot bore the weight of a singular black suit.

This was odd. Gabriel'd had centuries of experience with these fuckers, and he'd never seen one act alone. This one was either defective in the head, or… scary. He decided he wasn't going to find out. He gingerly pushed the thermal blanket from his lap and stood soundlessly. If there was one thing Sylar was very, very good at, it was sneaking. He employed a slight touch of telekinesis, lifting the IV pole an inch or so above the floor, hovering it behind him like a macabre sort of kite. Though the Shadow Man had no facial features, Sylar didn't miss the sharp gasp of surprise when he froze the suit, dropping the pole to land on its feet while he held him immobile. Sylar knelt down close – needle brandished between their noses, gripped tightly in his fingertips.

"You know," he began, using his free hand to knead the flesh of the other's elbow, "I swear. It just kills me." The bad pun might've been intended, maybe. "I really need to get my dosing instructions tattooed somewhere on my body, don't I. Like, maybe across my forehead? Think that'd help?" He drew his threatening finger in a line above his own brow (with irony that wasn't lost on him) before he sunk the needle deep into his victim's arm with a quick jab. "Make yer job a little easier, wouldn't it?" He watched the liquid trickle into the tube. "I dunno, just a thought." He shrugged mockingly as he stood. "Well, I've always hated being the bearer of bad news, so it just pains me to tell you that when you wake up… we're not gonna be where you were thinkin' we were gonna be. But have a good sleep, mmkay?"

He did not retract his grip, but turned to saunter to the control panel in the cockpit. His fingers reached with purpose toward the console - specifically the panel dictating their landing coordinates - and froze in midair at the horrifyingly familiar sound of a large 'crack'. Reflex snapped his eyes to the viewport although he didn't need to see it to know what was wrong. The thick plexi-cement had contained an unseen anomaly that had finally chosen to demand attention. Sylar held his breath unconsciously as he watched a jagged scar in the glass-like material tear across its length, inches at a time, spider-webbing into newer, smaller lines. What started as a hiss grew into a piercing wheeze and he could start to make out clouds of what looked like steam collecting outside to hang motionless in the vacuum. Their atmosphere was escaping.

"You have got to be shitting me." He threw his hands out and gritted his teeth, exhausting his telekinetic power in an attempt to keep the viewport from shattering, trying to plug the growing leak. "…hate fucking spaceships…"

His brows knitted together in confusion when he found that trying to keep the cockpit together was like clawing at open air. No matter how desperately he grabbed, the cracking surface slipped right through his invisible fingers. His chest began to heave in mounting panic – did the black suit have a new device that mitigated his powers? Something he hadn't seen?

There was a deafening crash and Sylar's jaw dropped, petrified, as he watched the entire nose of the shuttle crumple and fall away into the vast black void. His feet lost contact with the floor as he gasped with insatiably empty lungs, tumbling forward until - BAM! - he collided against a very real viewport that was very much still intact and unchanged. He was pinned in place facing his vengeful attacker's outstretched black arm. So the guy wasn't defective...

"Cute trick," Sylar quipped through a clenched jaw, referring to the elaborate illusion that the suit had conjured in order to subdue him, "but I've got a few of my own."

He didn't need to be able to move his body to allow the wicked blue bolts their freedom to wreak havoc. They covered the bulkhead, they jolted the Shadow Man off his feet to where he landed dazed in a corner, and they fried the automatic flight console leaving manual controls their only option.

"You want some more you black bitch?" Sylar taunted, landing on his feet. He delivered another frying dose, sizzling the air around them. The Shadow Man screamed as his body convulsed, but that didn't stop him from shooting out a trembling arm, lifting Sylar and bashing him into the viewport in rapid succession until his head left a spongy, bloody print against the surface. He dropped him and scrambled to his feet, digging into a compartment in his utility belt, presumably for an inhibitor collar. The last thing Sylar wanted that man to have access to was his fucking utility belt.

"Oh, you can just about kiss my ass," he growled as he blinked the stars from his eyes, crouching on the floor. The belt zipped from the Shadow Man's waist while his nimble fingertips were still undoing a clasp, leaving him empty-handed. It landed in Sylar's waiting palm. The black suit squared his shoulders and clenched his fists. The belt turned into a spitting cobra whose scaly body struck out to snap its fanged jaws a hair's breadth from Sylar's nose. He squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his fingers around what his brain knew was metal. He used his stolen power of disintegration to begin breaking down the matter, intending to render the belt and its components useless. Before he could make much headway, he was interrupted by electrifying blue energy emanating from the Shadow Man's fingers, splayed open at his sides. Sylar dropped the belt and grabbed at the console behind his back, shock waves rippling through him and lighting the outlines of his gnashing teeth.

"How many fucking powers do you have?!?" he yelled, hostile as a hornet's nest, hoping he'd seen the last one.

"The same could be asked of you," the Shadow Man finally spoke, glowering over him. The belt left the floor. Sylar couldn't let it reach its destination. While Gabriel had always been bookish, and hardly one someone would consider 'physically capable', Sylar was a bit dirtier – he thought maybe it might be time for a good old fashioned fist fight. He launched himself from the floor to bury his shoulder deep into the Shadow Man's gut, bending him in half and throwing him backwards. He landed on top of the man, throwing heavy punches, satisfied once he'd heard the dull 'clunk' of the belt as it hit the floor unattended.

Somehow, very unfortunately, the black suit got his hands free. He gripped one around Sylar's throat, just under his jaw, and lifted him up with a force he hadn't quite expected. The other fist barreled into his chest, shattering his rib cage. Great – super-human strength was added to the list. Just wonderful. He rolled away with a grunt, spewing thick splatters of frothy blood while his crushed insides began to repair themselves.

The Shadow Man stumbled from his knees to his feet, making a sudden move to grab the belt. Sylar flung a hand toward him, tearing him away and plastering him against the bulkhead. The move had been anticipated, however, and the black suit did the same, simultaneously pinning Sylar in a mirrored position across the shuttle. They were held there in a tense stalemate while the utility belt glittered innocuously between them. The Shadow Man didn't dare let Sylar go. Sylar, on the other hand, was a lot more daring.

He kept one palm against the bulkhead, letting the inanimate object feed him information, years of stored physical memories. The black suit had woken up here once, long ago. Before departing on his journey he'd checked his items, assuring himself everything was in its rightful place. Sylar knew which compartment held the collar. He took a deep, calming breath, and with a move as quick as lightning he let go of his opponent and ripped the collar from its pocket to fling it directly around the other's neck like a game of horseshoes. The Shadow Man clawed at the offending object, bellowing in frustrated defeat. Sylar crumpled, exhausted, to his knees on the cot he'd occupied earlier, panting from exertion.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, dude…"

"You have no idea what you've done!!!" The unusual black suit made one last charge, leaping from where he'd landed, murderous intent plainly obvious, but was easily buffeted aside with a final assault of Sylar's well-seasoned telekinesis. He tossed him carelessly headlong into the viewport with a loud 'thud' after which he collapsed to the floor and grew still, his shared cellular regeneration no longer functioning to return to him his consciousness.

Sylar had every idea what he'd done – he'd forcibly escaped capture yet again. He was more than a little tired of the fighting. In the process of bending to lift the black suit's limp form to a cot where he could be securely bound in place for the remainder of their trip to… wherever, a weak alarm began to sound. Some part of their scuffle had damaged atmospheric controls – they were still screwed. The ship was flying blind in the middle of space and was running out of air. Gabriel was confident he could fix the problem – he could fix anything – but he was running out of time. Thirty minutes later, surrounded by a cloud of componentry and loose wiring working frantically on his back under the wide open console, he gasped a final breath before passing out, allowing the metal pieces to clatter to the floor around him.

~*~*~

Gabriel woke up, dismayed that he'd managed to lose even more time, beginning to feel himself start to disconnect from the universe. He was glad, however, that this time he wasn't groggy from some sort of chemical effect, even though he found his surroundings to be dishearteningly uncomfortable. The air had a chilly bite to it and his blanket was too thin, and the lights were painfully bright white – interrogation-style. He was reminded of a time when he'd woken up in a cutting-board prison cell on a space station ages ago… Was he under observation? Was he in trouble? Was… was this a hospital bed?

"I think he's awake," he heard a voice mutter from across the room. "Agent Krtek?" Footsteps were obviously bringing the speaker, and maybe one other, closer. Why was that name familiar…? Oh yeah, that's right – he was supposed to be Agent Tom Krtek. That's how it was pronounced… Two faces loomed into his plane of vision, coming into sharp focus. One was an older gentleman, the lines on his forehead only further accentuated by his dark, receding hairline. The other was a younger, red-headed, and tightly freckled man with impish features and quick blue eyes.

"I'm Agent Dover, Director of Field Operations," the older man said, stooping his posture to take a seat next to the bed, "this is Riley. You know, you're really damned lucky you were found. Freighter almost mowed you down, and not a minute too soon either – you guys were sitting on ten percent atmosphere. Run into a little trouble, Agent?" There was a sharp tone in his voice that was unmistakable – it set Gabriel on edge. He was too dazed to answer the question appropriately.

"…where am I?"

"Your original rendezvous point, Pisces sector. I've got you marked down as MIA after the Zephyr blew up. But here we find you gallivanting around the cosmos in a dilapidated shuttlecraft… Federal Intelligence doesn't take kindly to rogue agents, Krtek. I would really like to know why it's taken you nine years to report for duty."

Uhh… nine years?!?

"And don't tell me," he continued, "that you got sucked into some kind of hole in the time-space continuum and, for you, you've only been gone an hour. You don't get to where I'm sittin' without hearing a lot of bullshit. I wanna know how you've survived," he started ticking on his fingers, "why you didn't show up immediately after, and I really wanna know why you're brutalizing one of your own damned Guard! You're lucky Riley, here, still had a file on you! Life would've been pretty damned hard trying to get around as the walking dead, you know that?"

Riley pinched the bridge of his nose in apology.

"I want a full report on my desk within forty-eight hours after you get out of this hospital or, you and me?" With this, Dover rose and disappeared from view, presumably to head toward the door. "We've got a big problem."

The fleeting thought Gabriel'd had apparently nine years ago about the steady paycheck? It went away. To hell with this. Dover had no clue how fortunate he'd been that Sylar hadn't had his way – there would've been a 'big problem', alright. A big messy problem, likely involving intestines and balloon animals. Hey, he could keep him from killing, but he couldn't keep him from being creative. Before he allowed a wolfish grin to spread to his face, he noticed Riley hadn't budged, and his eyes were glued to the door. As soon as they both heard it shut, he turned to face him.

"Are there any letters you'd like me to send to your mom?"

So… that was unexpected. Riley was a weirdo, no problem. He decided it was probably for the best to play along.

"Ummm… no…?"

"Dude. Are you sure you don't have any letters to send to your mom???" Riley's head tilted to the side and his eyes widened, obviously trying to import the significance of the jibberish he was babbling. Was this some kind of code? … was Riley a rebel? Gabriel's jaw just worked soundlessly – the whole situation was becoming a bit too surreal. A creeping sense of inescapable homesickness was threatening to overcome him, especially knowing that he really didn't have anywhere to go. Riley sighed.

"Alright, nevermind… get better soon." Gabriel was relieved he was no longer expected to answer. With those parting words, Riley stood and followed the steps of his superior officer. It took a few moments after the door latched shut for Gabriel to notice there was something stuffed in his palm, like a wad of paper. Given the mysterious circumstances of its arrival he thought it best to keep it a secret, leaving it under the blanket while he drew it up to his chest. He tossed over onto one side and pulled the ineffective expanse of cloth up around his ears and eyebrows, having a private peek at the clandestine note. It was handwritten, and was from Riley. It contained only three lines:

'He suspects you. I'm getting you out of here. Go with Tanna – you can trust her.'

As if on cue, the door slid open one more time to admit, as he pulled the blanket back to peer over his left shoulder, a tall, tan brunette. She wore a nametag on the shirt of her mauve-colored scrubs that read 'Tanna'.

"Hello," flipping through some paperwork on her clipboard, she discovered his name, "Tom. How do you feel about getting cleaned up? I'm here to help you into the shower – does that sound good?"

His day was suddenly sounding a lot better. Even though his ability had returned him to perfect health hours ago, he was more than willing to play the part of the invalid – it'd been far too long since he'd let a pretty girl undress him. He made a grand show of weakly sitting up and letting her ease him off the bed and guide him to the sanitary facility in the corner of the room.

The instant the sliding door concealed them she dropped her cheerful demeanor. She dug up under her shirt and procured a wad of clothing.

"Here, put this on," she directed bluntly before turning her back to him. He would've been disappointed if he hadn't already expected his luck to fail. Still, he frowned as he began to strip himself, unassisted. He tugged on the khaki pants and buttoned the white shirt before slipping into the shoes he found tucked in his pockets.

"Now what?" he asked when he was dressed, tossing a long coat around his shoulders. She turned and grasped him firmly.

"Hold your breath and close your eyes."

He'd barely had the time to suck in one long inhale when he felt himself become dizzyingly weightless.

"Okay," he heard Tanna's voice ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes to find them standing under a huge willow tree in an expertly manicured, lush green park. She had teleported them. He felt an old familiar tension bunching the muscles in his neck, begging for release, and he started to feel a little irritable. He swallowed, trying not to salivate. "Stay here." It was hard to remember that people in this day and age didn't really know him. "Riley will be here in thirty minutes to give you further instructions." With that, and not even so much as a goodbye, she popped out of existence. It was probably the best thing she could've done.

He could feel Sylar clawing at him, in the back of his mind, like a housecat begging to be let in. Their hunger for discovery was insisting he return to the hospital… hunt her down… the need was intoxicating and was clouding through his better judgment.

But she'd helped him. She never even saw the killer in him, just assumed the best and helped him. No one had ever helped him – no one but Claire. And Maggie. Others would need the nurse, too - he couldn't kill someone so guileless… He dropped to his butt and focused intently on red flowers until the sound of Riley's voice brought him back to reality.

"You need a really good cover story... or maybe a new identity. There are some people -"

"You know, thanks but no thanks?" he said as he rose. "To be quite honest, I didn't exactly live the past nine years, you know? To me, I just walked out into this world a few weeks ago and I haven't been able to stop running long enough to even breathe ever since. And I've done a lot more running than anyone you know, I promise. You guys... you saved me, I realize that, and I'm more grateful... than you will ever know because, let's face it, you don't know me or anything about me... but I'm not exactly a people person so... I'm not really interested -"

"That tattoo on your wrist - it's old. Really old. I researched it - you were in prison a long time." He took a very tentative step forward, holding up a placating hand. "I did some research on you too. I know more about you than you think I do, Sylar."

A nagging bit of empathy picked up the man's palpable fear, despite the boldness of his actions and words. Riley may not have been a formidable person, but he was a rebel equally desperate for his help as Gabriel was in return – he was a pillar of courage and sincerity. Sylar let his temper simmer down a bit, although a childish part of him was bitterly jealous of Riley's integrity. Riley was likeable – Sylar wasn't.

"I've got a hunch," the agent spoke through his reservations, "that you're really damned good at hunting people… right?"

Sylar darkened his eyes in response.

"I know why they put you away, Sylar. I know how you got your abilities. You might be the most powerful man in the universe right now, did you know that? And you're a natural born… I don't think you know how… much…" Riley sighed and slumped his shoulders, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He kicked at a clump of grass, continuing once he knew how. "My… wife and I… we were in a camp together. We were both sent out on work releases, three month contracts each. Different sectors, different colonies. We got to talk to each other for fifteen minutes a week – that was the time allotted to us, and we were monitored. One day she had been sent with her case worker to pick up some supplies for the man she worked for. The store was robbed: her case worker, one employee, and three by-standers were all killed. It went down so fast no one really saw what happened, all they knew was my wife was still standing and she wore a white band on her arm. It was assumed she was responsible, simply because she was a mod. She was mauled to death. I didn't find out until four days later, when she didn't call."

Riley turned his back to him, taking in a view of the city skyline – it was no secret Pisces was richly cosmopolitan, and enjoyed eternally spring-like weather, even if it were sometimes damp and cold. "When I got back to the camps at the end of my release, rebels had shown up to try to free us. There were riots, incited over what had happened to Karen. Some of us got out, others didn't. In retaliation, the Feds withheld mod injections, blaming rebels for sabotaging a supply transport, which everyone knew was complete bullshit. People died there. Friends, my wife's brother, his kids."

He abruptly spun around and charged forward a couple steps, causing Gabriel to retract out of reflex. Riley thrust his hands out in front of him, allowing the cuffs of his shirt to ride up over his wrists. There appeared to be two tiny scars, one on each arm, until they popped open to reveal a pair of wet, greenish, pointed appendages.

"Stingers," Riley said. "Poisonous. I suppose it could be deadly, I dunno. I'm also immune to salmonella poisoning – don't ask how I know. But my life is complete shit – I've lost everyone I've ever loved – because my great-great-great granddad wanted to make himself into this, and now I've inherited it. I gotta ask you, Mr. Sylar, what exactly were you trying to make yourself into?"

Riley's eyes were so pleading, Gabriel didn't know what to say. He was pretty damned sure he didn't want to hear, 'Well, I had given up on ever being loved, so I wanted to become the greatest evil the world had ever known just so I could stop hurting…' Riley dropped his arms to his sides and squared his shoulders.

"You don't realize it, but someone as powerful as you… someone as unstoppable… you mean everything to us. This thing I have, this ability… I would gladly give it to you. I would gladly give up my life if it meant that someone like you could use it to free our people."

Gabriel lowered his gaze in defeat. Claire's voice whispered to his conscience from across a deep mist of time, asking him what was his purpose – what was the point of collecting these abilities, really? Hadn't he wanted to storm the enemy stronghold once? Be a one man army? Wasn't that why he'd stolen the list of names from a missile silo in Oklahoma? Isn't that why Claire had chased him like a rabid bloodhound for as long as she did?

"I know you killed people, Mr. Sylar. If there's ever been anybody you wanted to make that up to, this would be a great opportunity."

Anger suddenly welled up like a bonfire in his belly. He wasn't sure what exactly he did need, but the lecture certainly wasn't on the list. "Don't you preach to me about missed oppor-fuckin'-tunities!!!" A spark escaped him to singe a few leaves draped around them, largely hiding them from public view. He could smell Riley's anxiety reach a new level. He almost couldn't stop himself, he was spinning out of control. "I've broken bones for lesser transgressions, Riley – you know that, don't you? I think you do. Spilled blood, all that." He furrowed his brows against his eyes as he sneered and took a challenging step forward. "I'm so unstoppable, right? Your personal fuckin' savior? A fuckin' murderer?!? What would you do if you knew the whole reason your world is so fucked up and your life is such shit is because they got me? What if it was all because of me? Because I stopped running and let them come and get me? What would you do if you knew your wife was dead because of me?!?" He rose a finger, but only to point. "I don't need your fucking guilt trip, and I don't need to hear about any fucking missed opportunities!!! "

"The first thing I would do," Riley answered bravely, "if that's what I knew, would be to beg you to not make it all for nothing."

Sylar hungered for the sticky red taste of iron. He hated how envious he was of this man, wanted nothing more than to scream in frustration and loathing, tear him limb from limb for being everything he still didn't quite know how to be… but on the other side lay the admiration that kept him from killing him. He closed the distance between them and met Riley nose to nose.

"Fuck you."

"Does that mean you'll help us?"

Gabriel held the man's gaze steady, blowing steam through his nostrils like an stubborn, menacing bull. And then it hit him. It wasn't anger he was feeling, or jealousy. It was fear. He was afraid of trying to be something someone could love – he was afraid of trying to be the hero – because he was terrified of failing. It was easier to just accept, that… but then… Maggie'd taught him a hard lesson about acceptance, hadn't she…

Don't make it all for nothing.

He closed his eyes in reluctant acquiescence and sighed.

"What do I need to do."

"I have a contact," Riley said after swallowing thickly, "he and his wife both work for the Go-Getter Bar and Grill on Piedmont Street. If you go there after hours you can catch one of them alone. They can get you a cover story and a really convincing report you can put on Dover's desk Monday morning. Go there tonight."

Gabriel nodded slowly. "Piedmont Street."

"It's about sixteen blocks north of here."

"Sixteen blocks north."

"You really can't miss it."

"Yeah, can't miss it."

"Here – give them this." Riley handed him a sealed envelope. "It's a letter detailing the entire account of how you got here – even things you won't remember. It'll help you guys piece something together. And take this," he said, digging another envelope from his pocket, this one smaller and blue.

"What is it?"

"Train ticket to the shuttle station. The freighter that found you brought you here to Carver City because it's a shuttle port city – it's the colony's link to space – there was nowhere else for it to take you. The Federal Intelligence building, however, is in Itasca, on the coast – it's about a four hour flight. Shuttle flight costs are covered for Federal agent traffic, just show them your badge – it's in your pocket." He grasped Gabriel's hand firmly as he handed over the envelope. "I have to go. Don't be seen tonight."

Gabriel shifted his features, this time mimicking the face of the officer who'd replaced Bob after he'd retired centuries ago. "That won't be a problem."

"Yeah? It'd be a bigger help if you got rid of that RFID tag in your wrist. It'd keep the Black Guard off your tail."

His mysterious capture by the Shadow Man suddenly made a lot more sense. Fortunately for both he and Riley he was no stranger to digging items out of open flesh wounds.

"And Mr. Sylar? Thank you." Riley paused a minute to lend significance to his words before turning and leaving the park.

Left standing a little lost and bewildered in a world that was much larger than the one he remembered, Gabriel was nearly overcome by the sudden craving for a roast beef sandwich. It had been nine years since the last time he'd eaten.

~*~*~

Gabriel had let his disguise drop the instant he'd seen the back of her head. He hadn't even meant to, it had happened completely by accident but in hindsight he thought maybe it was because, since she was the only person in the universe who really knew him, he was unable to be anybody but himself for her.

"Hello, Claire," he'd tried to say, but brutal emotion closed his throat around the words, choking them off to an inaudible whisper. Some unidentified thing had alerted her to his presence, nonetheless, and he stared transfixed as she straightened, allowing the clinging black fabric of her skirt to slide lovingly down the backs of her short, slim thighs. In nearly slow motion, the rag she held slipped from between her pink fingertips to tumble, forgotten, to the floor. And then… the fates smiled as she turned her eyes to him… glistening… so beautiful.

He was nearly three hundred and forty years old – almost three and a half centuries – and there had never been anyone in his entire life that had been this happy to see him. He didn't deserve it.

"Don't cry, Claire," he smiled sadly to her, finding his voice, unconsciously reaching out to see if she'd let him touch her face, "… not for me." Anyone but me.

Finding her breath and wiping away her own tears (much to his chagrin), she took a small step forward and –

"JENNIFER!!!!"

… was stopped in her tracks.

"WHERE ARE MY GLASSES?!?"

"Gimme a minute, will ya?!? Christ!!!"

She didn't budge, just continued to drink in the sight of him, and he was almost too captivated to stop her. Almost. He wouldn't get her in trouble – he'd caused her enough.

"I'll wait," he told her, thumbing over his shoulder to indicate the parking lot. He held her gaze as he backed away from her. She chewed her lip while she tried not to smile to largely.

Twenty minutes later he was perched on the hood of a stranger's car, the collar of his coat flipped around his neck and his head held low, trying to protect his ears from the harsh, chilly wind. At the sound of the closing door his head jerked up and excitement flip-flopped in his belly as he leapt to the ground. Claire grew still for a small moment, still in obvious disbelief, before she remembered the feet beneath her. She began to charge toward him before she was abruptly halted in her tracks by a passing car… one that stopped between them.

"Hey baby, I hope I didn't keep you waiting long," he heard a male voice call from inside. "There was a stalled car on the bypass."

"Oh, no, no," she lied with almost imperceptible disappointment, "just in time!"

Gabriel tucked his body into the shadows between the cars in the parking lot, something strong seizing a vice-like grip around his heart. What had Riley said? His contact had worked here… with his wife. But what did he care, what she did with her life? She didn't owe him anything. She wasn't his… even though she was gonna outlive her douchebag husband so much he sure as hell couldn't claim her either… Didn't she say she was never going to get married again? Even if she didn't, hadn't she learned her lesson? What could've changed her so drastically in the past nine years… that the previous three hundred hadn't?

… had it been his death…?

He ducked low and held back a growl when the driver, a young blond gentleman, stepped out to escort his wife to the passenger side of the vehicle, opening the door for her and helping her inside. Gabriel tried to assuage his growing rancor by telling himself the man was at least kind to the girl, obviously cherishing her presence, however temporary he may be for her. Yes, 'temporary' – he liked the term. He watched the car as it pulled away, it's sweet, golden-haloed occupant scanning the parking lot, heartfelt apology carved deeply into her features, accompanied by a magic, blushing pink glow to her cheeks – one for which he claimed full responsibility.

~*~*~

There was no way Claire was going to get any sleep, regardless of how achingly exhausted her body was. He was still alive – she'd seen him. He was real. Reality could drop away around her – crumble like an ancient parchment – and there'd still be him. She was never going to be alone. She bubbled with something like freedom or joy. How could she have been so naïve for this long? Sylar always had a 'weird cockroach power' – he was by far the hardest thing in the universe to kill, even harder than her. How could she have had such little faith. She lay in bed, staring at the stars through the upstairs window of their duplex, trying not to hum happy hymns to herself and wake up her unsuspecting husband when a sudden light tossed a pale , yellow glow across her face.

The porch light had come on… by itself.

She gingerly lifted her weight from the bed, stepping lightly into her fuzzy blue slippers, pausing in the dark to be sure she could still hear Jason softly snoring. She swaddled herself in her robe as she padded down the stairs and silently opened the front door. Gabriel didn't turn to face her, but remained still where he sat on her front porch, gazing up into the night. His body language spoke volumes about his mood, and Claire knew Sylar well enough to know there was a right way and a wrong way to approach him when he was upset. She kept quiet as she took a seat next to him, ignoring the errant spark of static that arced between their shoulders as they brushed a quick, whispery touch. She gave it a minute before she spoke, following his line of sight into the stars, as if there were something written there only the two of them could read.

"What happen-"

"Here," he interrupted, withdrawing suddenly to dig into a jacket pocket. He procured an envelope which he offered between his fingertips without making eye contact. "This explains everything. I need a cover story, quick. I leave at noon later today."

"No problem, I wasn't sleeping anyway," she said with meaning as she rose. "Come in but keep quiet."

Of course he would – Sylar was very good at keeping quiet.

She tried to lead him into a small office – one that used to be a dining room off to the side of their kitchen – but he paused at the foot of the stairs, staring up their length with an insidiously familiar glower on his face. She punched him in the muscle of his arm, grabbing his attention and the full heat of his glare.

"Knock it off," she commanded, pointing. "You will not slice anything of anyone's off in this house, got it? I know exactly how much you hate being shot, and I am not above -"

"You weren't supposed to get married again, Claire." He loomed over her, threateningly, narrowing his dark lids.

"… God, it's good to see you…"

He couldn't respond – she'd stolen his breath.

"Come," she tugged his sleeve, "this way."

He obeyed and followed her dazedly to a large wooden L-shaped desk where she sat before a holographic console. She entered a code that allowed the device to connect to her neural tap, bringing the display to a spectral blue glowing life. With a quick finger she flipped through a few options until she opened a new document, at which point she opened Gabriel's handwritten letter and read it. He watched in wonder as words began to fly in rows across the blank page portrayed by the console, presumably at the demand of the tap creating the direct link between the device and her brain.

"Well, obviously," she began, "the black suit was a rebel in disguise. He managed to capture a Federal agent in order to cart him off to some safehouse where he could be tortured mercilessly for information," she took a sip from a water glass that she'd left there earlier in the day, "and he'd made off with you after he'd planted the bomb that blew up the Zephyr. He placed you under some kind of weird hypnosis with one of his wicked mod abilities, but didn't get far enough from the ship for the shuttle's guidance systems and environmental controls not to be affected by the blast. And here's the good part," she took another sip. "He took you off to the safehouse in the Cancer sector where they kept you captive for nine years – it's under suspicion and is soon to be raided. They found this out from you – and I'm killing two birds here – so they abandoned it – emptied it and shipped everyone out – and the 'suit' packed you back on the shuttle to return you to Federal Intelligence with a hypnotic suggestion that once you get there you kill everyone you see. But, it didn't work, right? Because in the middle of the process you snapped out of it, and there was a fight -"

"You bet there was."

"- and you managed to get the upper hand, collaring the mod and taking him down. At that point, you realized the shuttle was faulty and slowly leaking atmosphere. You tried to fix it but just couldn't, and they know the rest."

He just looked at her and blinked for a minute.

"What?"

"Are you serious?"

"Umm… were you hoping for something more explosive? I don't exactly write screenplay…"

"You're very creative, Claire, but I could've done that myself."

"Oh yeah? Well, you don't have any of this," she told him plainly, holding up a stack of very official-looking Federal Intelligence letterhead – watermarked and imbedded with tracking, the whole works. "Your report ain't gonna be too awful damned official without it. Plus, I can also corroborate your story with some of our double agents who can support your case with invented circumstantial evidence – we can come up with stuff, make this very believable, more than you can do on your own. And on top of that even, I can use this situation to save a lot of lives in that safehouse in the Cancer sector – that part's real."

"Alright, alright, fine. Just… print it so I can let you get back to bed." He turned from her and mussed his thick, softly spiked hair, resigned to do nothing about the awkward silence that suddenly fell between them. As the printer filled the night with a gentle, muted swishing she entered his peripheral vision by his right shoulder. He lowered his chin, unable to meet her gaze.

"I know I wasn't going to get married again. But that was before…" she trailed off. "It's just that… I didn't expect you to survive that explosion, Gabe. And… I guess I was just so happy that you were finally flippin' dead that I had to do something to torture myself, bring it all back down to normal. Because if I didn't, you know, life was just gonna do it anyway."

For once, he didn't appreciate her sarcasm and he didn't hide it. She sighed.

"Alright. Fine. I took for granted that there was always going to be someone in my life – even at the end of time. And then you were gone. And… I got lonely. I missed you, alright?" He met her eyes. "I admit it. I missed you."

"You married some random dude because you missed me?"

The printer stopped, accentuating the tension in the room with even more pointed silence. Claire tore the papers from the tray and thrust them into his middle.

"Here. You're set. Welcome to the Rebel Resistance Movement."

He smoothed the papers into even folds before placing them in a jacket pocket. He nodded and met her level stare one last time.

"Thank you. Again."

"Yeah, the next time you need my help, maybe you'll think twice about chiding me for the choices I've made with my life."

He didn't want it to sting, but it did. His hand moved on its own accord to smooth a golden lock that was curling the wrong way from sleep. Something deep inside grew hot when she didn't flinch. Suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, itching for escape, he recognized it was time to make his exit. He quickly crossed the living room and had his hand on the doorknob when her voice stopped him.

"The last time you left, you didn't say good bye. You said, 'see you later.'"

With his chin perched over his shoulder, he told her, "And I did, didn't I?"

A corner of his mouth twitched into a quick smile before he disappeared through the door and into the frigid night air. From where she stood Claire could hear the ignition on the motorcycle he'd stolen from the restaurant parking lot roar as he sped away.

~*~*~

Gabriel hoisted his new duffel a little higher on his shoulder, turning slowly to watch as the line of people behind him grew impossibly longer. The train station was total chaos. There was duty-free mall attached, though – since most traffic was bound for the shuttle port – and he'd been able to access his fictitious credit account to load up on some clothing, some other toiletries, and a couple books that looked interesting. He almost felt human again, if not a little melancholy.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away a budding migraine, wincing at the sudden raucous din of his train pulling into the station. He suppressed a shiver as the airbrakes whistled, letting off their incredible pressure – the piercing screech was too similar to the sounds that still careened through his nightmares. He managed to keep his composure as the passengers started to disembark.

A well-dressed gentleman in a long, black coat stepped off the dais and threw his arms wide, beaming a smile and a booming laugh as his young son barreled through the crowd to crash into his midsection, digging his small face into the thick, plush fabric. He picked the boy up and twirled him happily, tossing him upside-down over a broad shoulder as he walked with his squirming passenger to kiss his eagerly waiting wife. Gabriel didn't know who he hated more, the boy or the man… His bitter train of thought was arrested the instant he caught the familiar sight of luminous green pools over the woman's shoulder in the distance.

They were framed by dark circles, sunken deep from lack of sleep and an aching soul. She'd tossed her hair into a hasty pony-tail and was currently tugging at her sweater, warming her elbows. He must've let something pass his face because she broke into a run. The planets aligned and the crowd parted before her. He thought she might slow her pace before she reached him but she didn't and he braced himself. She slammed into him, encircling her arms tightly around his neck, pressing her hot face into his cheek, knocking the air from him in one shocked, contented moan. She consumed him with her embrace. He'd never been held by anyone before, not like this.

He didn't take another breath. He never needed to breathe again. He just let his mouth hang open but his eyelids slide shut.

She balled her fists into his coat and squeezed him so hard he thought she might cut off the circulation to his brain. He didn't care, as long as his arms still worked – he brought them up, trembling, to smooth his hands across her waist and up her back, indulging one to twist into her silky, lightly perfumed hair. The chill in the air around them melted away and he marveled over how someone who had managed to carve such a formidable space out of his life could possibly feel so small in his arms.

"You were supposed to say, 'I'll see you later,'" she whispered hotly against the shell of his ear, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine and straight into his groin, unbidden. He rolled his still-closed eyes in pleasure as he finally inhaled and puffed a small laugh on her soft, sweet neck. She drew away slightly, only enough to mesmerize him with her gaze without removing the warmth of her body. He dropped his hands to hold her waist. Only a wisp of space existed between their noses and he was suddenly desperate to taste her. He'd never felt so helpless and pathetic in all of his long life. He'd tell her anything she wanted, he was unabashedly hers.

"You know I will," he breathed, entranced.

"You always do."

He had no idea what came over him. He had, at that moment, completely lost his mind. He tilted his head toward her, encouraged when she didn't pull away. His breath quickened and a blue spark snapped between them when he brushed his lips against hers, parting them innocently.

With a gasp she leaped away from him, both hands clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with every turgid emotion that boiled in a maelstrom beneath her surface. What he saw there was terror and disbelief. He dropped his head, blew a shaky sigh, and pressed a palm to his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Claire, I shouldn't have… I'm sorry…" he stammered, feeling like an idiot and quite a bit more interested in throwing himself under the train rather than boarding it.

"No, no, it's okay," she lied, still muffling her mouth with her hands. He hoped she wasn't going to barf or something…

A voice blared loudly over the intercom announcing that passengers could begin boarding. The world and its crowd and its noise came crashing back in around them. It was the chance he needed to leave this discomfort behind – maybe, over time, they could both forget it ever happened.

"I have to go," he stated the obvious, conducting a very thorough examination of his feet and the ground, raising his voice to cross the distance that had newly sprung between them. "But I am sorry. For everything." He hoped she understood what he was saying. He meant everything. "I know sorry doesn't really cover it, but you should still hear it."

A gossamer touch stole his eyes to his elbow where her fingers rested. He summoned the courage to look her in the eye.

"I know."

The voice rang the announcement again, as if they needed the reminder, and he felt a tightly wound coil of stress binding between his shoulder blades. Claire suddenly tore her hand away to dig into a small handbag she had dangling at her hip, from which she produced an old-fashioned inkpen. She quickly snatched his right hand and turned the palm to face her, scribbling numbers across its surface.

"Go," she said, "and don't be a stranger this time."

"I won't," he replied, tucking his hand protectively into his pocket. He started to leave but turned back around to face her, a question burning in his throat.

"… are we friends, Claire?"

She graced him with a smile that contained no hints of sadness or shame as she hugged herself vigorously. She nodded a firm affirmation.

"Yeah, we are."

Happy to have received confirmation that a relationship of some sort did exist between the two of them, that there was indeed a part of her that did belong to him, he returned a warm and genuine smile, nodded once and waved his fingertips, then turned to take his leave. On board, he tossed his duffel in the baggage compartment above his head before he took his seat, smugly satisfied knowing that they were at least on the same planet and, after nearly three hundred and forty years, he finally had Claire Bennett's phone number.

Meanwhile, the object of his affection stood on the platform far longer than she'd anticipated, relishing the sensation caused by the strange buzz between her ears as she watched the train glide down the tracks and out of the station. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting his scent still lingering there. Her feet were frozen solid where they stood, immobilized by terror. She was in big trouble. She was a married woman. Married to a man who could never hope to keep her, could never bear children with her, could never grow old with her. And then her mortal enemy had come along and he'd tried… to kiss her. To love her in a way no one else ever could.

She was paralyzed by guilt and shame, and fear.

Because she wanted more.

A/N #2: Oh yeah, startin' to heat up NOW! Vol 1 Ch 12 has, for a long time, been my favorite chapter, but this might be a close second.