Sylar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heroslayer) wrote2009-01-31 02:41 pm
heroslayer) wrote2009-01-31 02:41 pm
for philosophy_20: the killers lyrics (rp for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hornrimmed)
In all honesty, Sylar had no idea why he'd been so adamant on meeting with Bennet in the first place.
He had no reason to love the man, after all, no reason to care, when he fell in the same category as Nakamura, both of them people to be hated rather than to try and make amends with. Perhaps Bennet was worse, in a way, even. The man had tortured him, deliberately and to death, despite the fact that it was revenge, which he understood, and he'd survived, his brain having forced his heart to start beating again. He'd also threatened Mohinder, from what his geneticist had told him, hurt the Indian when he had very clear rules about what happened to people who touched the things that were his.
Bennet was worse than Nakamura because the damn Japanese kid hadn't done what he'd done with malicious intent where the man in the hornrimmed glasses had, and yet here he was, getting off a plane from Manhattan to meet the sonovabitch at a coffee shop in Costa Verde. He'd even offered to let him walk away with his life, just this once, and for what? Because he was important to Claire? Because he wanted to rub it in that it had been him that had saved Baileigh, when he'd sat around and been powerless? Because he wanted certain assurances, threatened out of Bennet or given freely, that he'd leave Suresh alone?
He didn't know. And as he had when he'd gone to visit Molly in her dreams, he was immediately regretting his decisions, all too willing to blame it on outside factors.
At least it was a coffee shop they were meeting at. It wasn't his usual, nor was it the one that Claire worked at that he'd taken up frequenting to bother his niece, but he could still make it work in his favor. Coffee shops always did, regardless of whether or not they were on his home turf.
Sighing, unhappy, he thumbed idly at his carry-on--he hadn't bothered with an overnight bag as he was catching the first flight back, once this was over--he moved to the row of pay phones outside, and looked up the number for a cab company. Then, once he'd called for a pick up, he moved to the curb outside, shifting from one foot to the other, restlessly, as he waited for the car to come.
And sooner rather than later, he in the cab and then out, heading into the coffee shop Bennet had specified, every inch of him on edge, ready for a fight, just in case Bennet couldn't keep his word.
He had no reason to love the man, after all, no reason to care, when he fell in the same category as Nakamura, both of them people to be hated rather than to try and make amends with. Perhaps Bennet was worse, in a way, even. The man had tortured him, deliberately and to death, despite the fact that it was revenge, which he understood, and he'd survived, his brain having forced his heart to start beating again. He'd also threatened Mohinder, from what his geneticist had told him, hurt the Indian when he had very clear rules about what happened to people who touched the things that were his.
Bennet was worse than Nakamura because the damn Japanese kid hadn't done what he'd done with malicious intent where the man in the hornrimmed glasses had, and yet here he was, getting off a plane from Manhattan to meet the sonovabitch at a coffee shop in Costa Verde. He'd even offered to let him walk away with his life, just this once, and for what? Because he was important to Claire? Because he wanted to rub it in that it had been him that had saved Baileigh, when he'd sat around and been powerless? Because he wanted certain assurances, threatened out of Bennet or given freely, that he'd leave Suresh alone?
He didn't know. And as he had when he'd gone to visit Molly in her dreams, he was immediately regretting his decisions, all too willing to blame it on outside factors.
At least it was a coffee shop they were meeting at. It wasn't his usual, nor was it the one that Claire worked at that he'd taken up frequenting to bother his niece, but he could still make it work in his favor. Coffee shops always did, regardless of whether or not they were on his home turf.
Sighing, unhappy, he thumbed idly at his carry-on--he hadn't bothered with an overnight bag as he was catching the first flight back, once this was over--he moved to the row of pay phones outside, and looked up the number for a cab company. Then, once he'd called for a pick up, he moved to the curb outside, shifting from one foot to the other, restlessly, as he waited for the car to come.
And sooner rather than later, he in the cab and then out, heading into the coffee shop Bennet had specified, every inch of him on edge, ready for a fight, just in case Bennet couldn't keep his word.
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"But if you want to call her, I'm not stopping you." He'd said his peace, and the sooner he got back to New York, the better.
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