Sylar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heroslayer) wrote2009-12-05 04:45 pm
heroslayer) wrote2009-12-05 04:45 pm
for writers_muses: no way out
Throughout the course of the day, Nathan had felt as though someone was watching him. On one hand and knowing what he did now, he supposed it made sense -- Mohinder had mentioned the fact that Sylar was all too aware of what they'd gotten up to since they'd played Trading Spaces on a more dangerous level. On the other hand, it didn't make him feel much better. He didn't particularly like the idea of the killer spying on him, and if he'd been restless before, counting the days until they left India for Colorado, he was all but climbing the walls, now.
At least he was lucky enough that Mohinder wasn't around to see him like this. Another thing he didn't really care for was the odd looks the geneticist kept giving him whenever he thought he wasn't looking, and he didn't doubt this would make it worse. Possibly for both of them, given how short his temper felt on top of his inability to sit still. He'd hurt Mohinder once, even if he'd fixed it, if Mohinder swore up and down that had been Sylar and not him; he didn't want to be back there, looming over him, the geneticist bloodied and beaten again.
Sighing at the thought, he stopped pacing abruptly and ran a hand over his hair in an effort to steady himself. It didn't help much -- nothing had, since the great reveal -- but maybe a shower would. It was the only thing he hadn't tried yet today, and he had to have something, some great hope to cling to. Of course, that would probably get torn to shreds the second the water started running cold and he still didn't feel any better, but he could try. He could keep fooling himself. It was what he was good at.
Another sigh, and he turned on his heels and marched towards the bathroom. He'd managed to get as far as noting how hellish he looked in the mirror when he caught a shudder of black in the glass above his shoulder. And as he turned to see what it was, he immediately wished he hadn't.
There, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Sylar. He looked like a far sight worse than Nathan did, almost as pale as the sheets and thinner than the politician last remembered him, but that did nothing to stave off the fear that settled in the pit of his stomach. Looking very much like a man on his death bed, as Mohinder had suggested, or not, there was still the little fact that the sonovabitch had killed him once. He wasn't too keen on repeating the process, especially not when he knew this was all he had left. There were no magic outs this time.
Still, however, he still managed to summon some semblance of bravery and turned to face him. "Funny, I thought Mohinder said you were dead."
"We're hallucinating," the killer pointed out, calmly.
"I'm hallucinating," Nathan corrected. He realized how stupid -- how insane -- that made him sound a moment after he spit it out, but he'd damned himself to this line of conversation already. No turning back now if he wanted to keep his brave face, and so he pressed on. "You threw in the towel, remember? Which, speaking of, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I wish I could tell you. I'm not doing this."
Understandably, Nathan looked as though he didn't believe a word of it. "Right. I just decided on my own that I wanted to be haunted by the Ghost of Crazy Past, and here you are."
Sylar studied him for a moment, seemingly exhausted, and then he was shaking his head. "Maybe you did. You were the one that told Mohinder you wanted to talk to me."
"I told him there was no way I could talk to you, even if I wanted to," Nathan said, folding his arms over his chest. "Which was an underhanded way for me to tell him that I don't want to have anything to do with you. I was hoping he wouldn't press it; he didn't. Everyone went home happy. And I stand by my decision -- you forfeit your life when you took mine, so you get to stay locked up and I return the favor."
"You realize that makes you no better than Angela, right?" he asked, dropping his arms to his knees so he could lean forward. "Judge, jury and executioner. What makes you think you deserve that kind of power?"
"What makes you think you deserved mine? Or Claire's? Or, hell, any of the people you killed?"
He didn't answer -- neither to apologize for his crimes, nor to argue. Instead, he just sat there, watching him with a world-worn look that never gave hints to anything else. Nathan didn't particularly care what was running through the killer's head, but being stared at was unsettling, and so he looked away. And the moment he did, Sylar was speaking again. "You know he's not going to let us go. Mohinder, I mean. He doesn't want to have to pick a side. He doesn't want to be Angela or you, and it's going to kill us both."
"Things look pretty good from where I'm standing. I feel fine."
The killer made a soft, amused noise, one corner of his mouth turning upwards into a none too kind half-smile. "How are you dealing with it? The hunger?"
Nathan didn't have to ask what Sylar meant by that; he knew, and it was enough to make him turn back to the bathroom, face suddenly as stark white as the other man's was. In the glass, he could see Sylar smile wryly, knowing he was right and that there wasn't a damn thing either of them could do about it. In the end they would both lose themselves, and if this conversation -- and the fact that he'd already exhibited most of Sylar's abilities -- was any indication, it had already started.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1007
At least he was lucky enough that Mohinder wasn't around to see him like this. Another thing he didn't really care for was the odd looks the geneticist kept giving him whenever he thought he wasn't looking, and he didn't doubt this would make it worse. Possibly for both of them, given how short his temper felt on top of his inability to sit still. He'd hurt Mohinder once, even if he'd fixed it, if Mohinder swore up and down that had been Sylar and not him; he didn't want to be back there, looming over him, the geneticist bloodied and beaten again.
Sighing at the thought, he stopped pacing abruptly and ran a hand over his hair in an effort to steady himself. It didn't help much -- nothing had, since the great reveal -- but maybe a shower would. It was the only thing he hadn't tried yet today, and he had to have something, some great hope to cling to. Of course, that would probably get torn to shreds the second the water started running cold and he still didn't feel any better, but he could try. He could keep fooling himself. It was what he was good at.
Another sigh, and he turned on his heels and marched towards the bathroom. He'd managed to get as far as noting how hellish he looked in the mirror when he caught a shudder of black in the glass above his shoulder. And as he turned to see what it was, he immediately wished he hadn't.
There, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Sylar. He looked like a far sight worse than Nathan did, almost as pale as the sheets and thinner than the politician last remembered him, but that did nothing to stave off the fear that settled in the pit of his stomach. Looking very much like a man on his death bed, as Mohinder had suggested, or not, there was still the little fact that the sonovabitch had killed him once. He wasn't too keen on repeating the process, especially not when he knew this was all he had left. There were no magic outs this time.
Still, however, he still managed to summon some semblance of bravery and turned to face him. "Funny, I thought Mohinder said you were dead."
"We're hallucinating," the killer pointed out, calmly.
"I'm hallucinating," Nathan corrected. He realized how stupid -- how insane -- that made him sound a moment after he spit it out, but he'd damned himself to this line of conversation already. No turning back now if he wanted to keep his brave face, and so he pressed on. "You threw in the towel, remember? Which, speaking of, what the hell are you doing here?"
"I wish I could tell you. I'm not doing this."
Understandably, Nathan looked as though he didn't believe a word of it. "Right. I just decided on my own that I wanted to be haunted by the Ghost of Crazy Past, and here you are."
Sylar studied him for a moment, seemingly exhausted, and then he was shaking his head. "Maybe you did. You were the one that told Mohinder you wanted to talk to me."
"I told him there was no way I could talk to you, even if I wanted to," Nathan said, folding his arms over his chest. "Which was an underhanded way for me to tell him that I don't want to have anything to do with you. I was hoping he wouldn't press it; he didn't. Everyone went home happy. And I stand by my decision -- you forfeit your life when you took mine, so you get to stay locked up and I return the favor."
"You realize that makes you no better than Angela, right?" he asked, dropping his arms to his knees so he could lean forward. "Judge, jury and executioner. What makes you think you deserve that kind of power?"
"What makes you think you deserved mine? Or Claire's? Or, hell, any of the people you killed?"
He didn't answer -- neither to apologize for his crimes, nor to argue. Instead, he just sat there, watching him with a world-worn look that never gave hints to anything else. Nathan didn't particularly care what was running through the killer's head, but being stared at was unsettling, and so he looked away. And the moment he did, Sylar was speaking again. "You know he's not going to let us go. Mohinder, I mean. He doesn't want to have to pick a side. He doesn't want to be Angela or you, and it's going to kill us both."
"Things look pretty good from where I'm standing. I feel fine."
The killer made a soft, amused noise, one corner of his mouth turning upwards into a none too kind half-smile. "How are you dealing with it? The hunger?"
Nathan didn't have to ask what Sylar meant by that; he knew, and it was enough to make him turn back to the bathroom, face suddenly as stark white as the other man's was. In the glass, he could see Sylar smile wryly, knowing he was right and that there wasn't a damn thing either of them could do about it. In the end they would both lose themselves, and if this conversation -- and the fact that he'd already exhibited most of Sylar's abilities -- was any indication, it had already started.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1007
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