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In Metropolis, there is a motel.

It's haunted by something that you can't see, can't hear, can't smell, can only feel as a chill in the air.

It's been abandoned for a long time. There are signs of later habitation -- clothes, disturbed dust, a little food -- but nothing more recent than the unbroken circle of salt around it that was laid down more than a week ago.

Sylar can't cross it. He's tried, many times, but an invisible wall rises up in front of him, as high as he can go. He can't touch the stuff, can't disturb it, can't do anything but hope that someone living will come and create a break in the circle. He's trapped.

The whole setting is somehow eerie.

He wasn't killed by the battle and the exorcisms, wasn't sent over to some more distant afterlife or oblivion, but he was weakened considerably. And, bereft of any human contact, Sylar is losing his grip on the world of the living.

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It is, in fact, a little-known ability of Sylar's that he is able to radiate pride.

The invisible grin becomes somewhat toothy.

Amazing what a dash of abrupt freedom, an unexpected reunion, a sprinkling of hope and a spot of ego-boosting will do for one's mood!

"And look, that's our house now, down the end of the row."

It's really not difficult to tell which one.

Plants. Lots of plants. Plants everywhere.

Almost enough to distract the ear from that word. Our. Our house.

Darla Isabel Wood, ladies and gentlemen.

No kidding. Sylar does a partially-visible double-take. Guess how often he hears that word used in connection with him!

He attempts to comment on the plants, but it turns out that he's not quite up to complete sentences yet. There's a whispering sound, faint on the air, but it contains no distinct syllables.

Of course, Sylar being Sylar, that's just a cue to get annoyed and try the same feat again, more forcefully (and with just as little success).

She graciously holds her peace, although she doesn't slow down.

Funny thing, the closer they get to the house, the easier it is to form not-quite-words.

It is! And when Darla's glowing vitality is teamed up with Sylar's sheer stubborn bloody-mindedness, anything is possible.

Which is why, eventually, in a voice like the wind curling through leaves, every syllable concentrated and deliberate:

"...improved since the bowl..."

Well, Sylar hates to see something worthy of compliment go unremarked-upon.

Darla takes a moment to process this, and then beams.

"I rather have, haven't I? Well, I've had a lot of time to practise. And look at you! Four words in a row, and I heard every one. We really will be having proper conversations by tomorrow."

Sylar gets the feeling that she's being condescending towards him. He's not a child.

(Never happy unless he's complaining, this one!)

But he resists the annoyance that flashes inside him, and is careful not to mention it. Perhaps he'd have to beat her off with a stick to make her abandon him, but he isn't willing to test that theory. Not when she's his only link to the world -- and to his life.

Blithely unaware of her misstep, Darla leads him into the house, setting down the now-useless paper and pencil by the door and hanging her jacket up on the hook.

"There we are. Home at last. How d'you like it?"

The word to describe this house, above all-- with its overflowing garden and its motley collection of pots decorating every window, plus the hydroponics lab in the basement-- is vibrantly, wonderfully, unreservedly alive.

Annoyance is forgotten as they step (or float, in Sylar's case) inside the house. Because it's so--

He isn't overwhelmed, because to be overwhelmed is to be brought down, suppressed; rather, he is made to overwhelm, he is filled like a balloon inflates with air, like a sponge grows heavy with water. And though he hasn't truly breathed for a long time -- he opens himself to it and breathes it in.

The stain on the air that is him is silent, unmoving, still pale, but stronger. A little darker. A little more defined.

That's an 'I like it very very much', then.

"Glad you approve. Make yourself at home; I think I'll hunt up dinner."

Mmmm, muffins.

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