for badcompany_muse: poor
Nov. 30th, 2008 04:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayerSylar's not sure what wakes him in the first place.
His first thought is that it's the sounds of the city, but he's quick to dismiss it, as his ear is still pressed firmly to Mohinder's chest, his heartbeat and his breathing sweeter than any lullaby. His next is that, perhaps, someone has broken into the apartment and he's experiencing some sort of sixth sense of not being alone, but even when he pulls away from the geneticist he doesn't hear anything. Finally, his mind drifts to the notion that--well, actually, there's nothing else he can come up with to explain why he's suddenly and fully awake, and so his mind just drifts.
For a long time, he contents himself to watching the other man in the dim light coming in off the windows, mind blank. It's a favorite pastime of his, something that whittles away at the hours until the geneticist comes awake, something he's done since even before he and Mohinder were an item, and usually it suits him. Usually, but tonight, after what he gauges as an hour or so of letting his eyes dance over his sleeping face, he grows restless.
He frowns, fingers brushing a stray curl out of the Indian's face, lightly--so feather-soft, in fact, that Mohinder barely stirs--and then he slips out of bed. He's not sure where he's going or what he's doing, though, and so he pads into the living room aimlessly, coming to stand among headstones of cushions and wood in this graveyard of unoccupied furniture. It's a morbid way of thinking of it, he knows, but it seems so true, and for more than just the way the light's falling on the couch.
No one, save them, has been here in months. Not since Peter came to check up on Mohinder when he was nursing broken ribs. They all go to Isaac's loft, now--even him and Mohinder, when he's having good sanity days, and Mohinder's not working. It's the same routine over and over again. They get up, they assemble the team, the come home. Mohinder works--not real work, as he's not making any money (or maybe it's more than real work, as he's trying to fix him)--and then he talks the geneticist away from the laptop and into bed. Sometimes Mohinder even sleeps.
Sometimes, but he's starting to look as pale and old as the furniture Sylar's lingering by.
The frown that he's wearing deepens at the thought, and he casts a glance back at the bedroom, back to where Mohinder should still be sleeping. He is, thank God, but he's cocooned himself in the blankets tightly, shivering in the space where Sylar was, just moments before, clinging to lingering body heat. He's freezing, and suddenly Sylar knows why--and what woke him in the first place.
It's so very, very cold in here. He's amazed the windows haven't iced over.
Pulling his arms around himself, hands working over bare arms in an attempt to bring warmth, he pads over to the thermostat on the wall, and peers at it in the dark. And after a moment, when he finds he can't read it and the backlighting has long since died, he pulls a hand away from himself, fingers fanning out, an arc of blue sparks caught between them.
Mohinder's warned him against using Elle's power too often before his brain settles--he doesn't want him catching his madness back again, like it's a flu he's just getting over--but he'd rather not turn on the lights. Though, when he spots the temperature, a balmy fifty degrees, with the heat only turned up to fifty-five, he starts thinking he might revise his opinion. He starts thinking that he might just throw on every light in the house, wake Mohinder up, and demand to know if he's gone insane. The apartment shouldn't be that cold, after all, particularly not when they both know the Indian doesn't cope well with it. No wonder Suresh has looked like he's on the edge of getting sick for a week now.
He turns, fury as chill as the room, only to stop short as something occurs to him. Something that the ghosts of the furniture are all to happy to remind him of.
Neither of them have worked in weeks--months, maybe. Neither of them really have any money, since all of his came from keeping what he killed, and he hasn't had a good old-fashined hunt in months (Elle was a mistake and not even his). And all of Suresh's came from driving a cab, which he just hasn't had time for. No money means no heat; he's amazed they've even managed to keep the apartment this long, since rent in New York is far from cheap.
A sigh, rage evaporating, and he all but throws himself down on the couch. He's not used to being a poor man--even before murder, he had a steady income from Gray and Sons--but he can't afford to let Suresh get sick. He has to do something, find some way of keeping them afloat, and he really doesn't want to end up mugging old ladies in Central Park. That's beneath him--they're beneath him. So, what then? Beg Nathan for money? Ask Ted to bring the electricity and the heat with it to life on its own? His pride is too great for that.
He reaches up, pressing his fingers over his eyes, the picture of frustration, and drops his hand back to the arm of the couch. And when he does, something occurs to him. Something he wouldn't have thought of otherwise, because he's never considered himself a poor man before.
Elle isn't the only Bishop he stole from that night he and Bennet and Mohinder and Parkman raided the Company. He can turn things to gold, and this is New York. Pawn shops here don't ask questions. They can be as rich as they need to be. They can be as rich as they want to be.
A slow smile spreads over his face, nearly wicked for his realization, and he pulls himself up off of the couch, slowly. He'll show Mohinder tomorrow, maybe grab a stack of pens from the local bank and turn them all to gold, but right now? Right now, he's turning the damn heat up.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1052
His first thought is that it's the sounds of the city, but he's quick to dismiss it, as his ear is still pressed firmly to Mohinder's chest, his heartbeat and his breathing sweeter than any lullaby. His next is that, perhaps, someone has broken into the apartment and he's experiencing some sort of sixth sense of not being alone, but even when he pulls away from the geneticist he doesn't hear anything. Finally, his mind drifts to the notion that--well, actually, there's nothing else he can come up with to explain why he's suddenly and fully awake, and so his mind just drifts.
For a long time, he contents himself to watching the other man in the dim light coming in off the windows, mind blank. It's a favorite pastime of his, something that whittles away at the hours until the geneticist comes awake, something he's done since even before he and Mohinder were an item, and usually it suits him. Usually, but tonight, after what he gauges as an hour or so of letting his eyes dance over his sleeping face, he grows restless.
He frowns, fingers brushing a stray curl out of the Indian's face, lightly--so feather-soft, in fact, that Mohinder barely stirs--and then he slips out of bed. He's not sure where he's going or what he's doing, though, and so he pads into the living room aimlessly, coming to stand among headstones of cushions and wood in this graveyard of unoccupied furniture. It's a morbid way of thinking of it, he knows, but it seems so true, and for more than just the way the light's falling on the couch.
No one, save them, has been here in months. Not since Peter came to check up on Mohinder when he was nursing broken ribs. They all go to Isaac's loft, now--even him and Mohinder, when he's having good sanity days, and Mohinder's not working. It's the same routine over and over again. They get up, they assemble the team, the come home. Mohinder works--not real work, as he's not making any money (or maybe it's more than real work, as he's trying to fix him)--and then he talks the geneticist away from the laptop and into bed. Sometimes Mohinder even sleeps.
Sometimes, but he's starting to look as pale and old as the furniture Sylar's lingering by.
The frown that he's wearing deepens at the thought, and he casts a glance back at the bedroom, back to where Mohinder should still be sleeping. He is, thank God, but he's cocooned himself in the blankets tightly, shivering in the space where Sylar was, just moments before, clinging to lingering body heat. He's freezing, and suddenly Sylar knows why--and what woke him in the first place.
It's so very, very cold in here. He's amazed the windows haven't iced over.
Pulling his arms around himself, hands working over bare arms in an attempt to bring warmth, he pads over to the thermostat on the wall, and peers at it in the dark. And after a moment, when he finds he can't read it and the backlighting has long since died, he pulls a hand away from himself, fingers fanning out, an arc of blue sparks caught between them.
Mohinder's warned him against using Elle's power too often before his brain settles--he doesn't want him catching his madness back again, like it's a flu he's just getting over--but he'd rather not turn on the lights. Though, when he spots the temperature, a balmy fifty degrees, with the heat only turned up to fifty-five, he starts thinking he might revise his opinion. He starts thinking that he might just throw on every light in the house, wake Mohinder up, and demand to know if he's gone insane. The apartment shouldn't be that cold, after all, particularly not when they both know the Indian doesn't cope well with it. No wonder Suresh has looked like he's on the edge of getting sick for a week now.
He turns, fury as chill as the room, only to stop short as something occurs to him. Something that the ghosts of the furniture are all to happy to remind him of.
Neither of them have worked in weeks--months, maybe. Neither of them really have any money, since all of his came from keeping what he killed, and he hasn't had a good old-fashined hunt in months (Elle was a mistake and not even his). And all of Suresh's came from driving a cab, which he just hasn't had time for. No money means no heat; he's amazed they've even managed to keep the apartment this long, since rent in New York is far from cheap.
A sigh, rage evaporating, and he all but throws himself down on the couch. He's not used to being a poor man--even before murder, he had a steady income from Gray and Sons--but he can't afford to let Suresh get sick. He has to do something, find some way of keeping them afloat, and he really doesn't want to end up mugging old ladies in Central Park. That's beneath him--they're beneath him. So, what then? Beg Nathan for money? Ask Ted to bring the electricity and the heat with it to life on its own? His pride is too great for that.
He reaches up, pressing his fingers over his eyes, the picture of frustration, and drops his hand back to the arm of the couch. And when he does, something occurs to him. Something he wouldn't have thought of otherwise, because he's never considered himself a poor man before.
Elle isn't the only Bishop he stole from that night he and Bennet and Mohinder and Parkman raided the Company. He can turn things to gold, and this is New York. Pawn shops here don't ask questions. They can be as rich as they need to be. They can be as rich as they want to be.
A slow smile spreads over his face, nearly wicked for his realization, and he pulls himself up off of the couch, slowly. He'll show Mohinder tomorrow, maybe grab a stack of pens from the local bank and turn them all to gold, but right now? Right now, he's turning the damn heat up.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1052
