for mad_muses: photo prompt (blood)
Mar. 31st, 2010 09:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayerHe had no idea where the thought had come from or why he was even entertaining the notion after all the close calls he had had over the last few years, but now, standing out on the balcony that overlooked the slow thaw of the Rockies, Nathan couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to die. Not that he would stay dead, not with Sylar's power working for him, and he supposed maybe that was part of the appeal.
He could satisfy the morbid curiosity that had taken the place of horror when he'd finally come to terms with the death of his physical body and be no worse for the wear. He could just throw himself out the window, hope to break something vital, and get up a few minutes later. He held no illusions that it wouldn't hurt like a bitch -- it had every time before, though he couldn't remember what it had felt like to truly die -- but the pain would be temporary. It wouldn't be like after the explosion with Peter after Kirby Plaza. It wouldn't be like being shot.
He shuffled closer to the edge of the balcony, pressed against the railing, and looked down into the courtyard below. A dozen stories wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Sylar, who had been sitting motionless behind him for the better part of an hour, seemed to disagree. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
He'd almost forgotten the killer had been there for how quiet he had been, and he was sure for half a second that he wouldn't have to worry about flinging himself over the railing, how high he was sure he jumped more than enough to pitch him over and to his death. Somehow, however, he managed to keep from accidentally taking a swan dive into the courtyard, and he took a deep breath to steady himself before turning to face Sylar. "Do you have to do that?"
"Yep." He flashed him a small, manic grin. "But like I said, I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why?" he asked, leaning against the metal at his back tentatively. When he was certain it would hold his weight, he shifted back into it in full, folding his arms over his chest. "I mean, it's not like that kinda fall would kill either of us, right? And there's no one out there. They're all out on the slopes, enjoying the last few days of the season."
"It'd still be messy," he pointed out, getting up from his chair to join Nathan on the balcony. Nathan pushed away from the railing and away from him, uncomfortable -- willingly cohabitating with a psychopath or not, he still wasn't too keen on having him in his personal space -- and Sylar ignored him, moving to consider the view. And just when he thought the killer wasn't going to press his argument further, Sylar went on finally. "That's if you even hit the ground in the first place."
Nathan frowned. "What do you mean?"
He barely chanced him a glance over his shoulder before he went back to looking out over the slopes. "If I pushed you off the balcony right now, you think you could stop yourself from flying?"
"Hell no."
"So what makes you think doing it on your own terms would change anything?" Now he did look back at him, eyebrows raised knowingly. "It's survival instinct. Self-preservation. Whatever you want to call it. You'd stop yourself long before they ever needed a spatula to scrape you off the sidewalk."
"Great. Thanks." He made a face, shaking his head, and considered going back inside and just forgetting he'd ever even considered the idea of dying. Something kept him from moving back into the room, however, and against his better judgment, he asked, "Okay, smart guy, how would you do it?"
Turning, he propped one arm up on the railing and drug a single finger across his throat. At least he spared him the ridiculous sound effects. "Same way I did it last time."
Considerably chilled and not by the mountain air, he retreated back into the room and sunk down on the bed, his head in his hands. Sylar had a point -- jumping out the window probably wouldn't cut it and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk even the off-chance of being caught -- but dying like that? Having his throat slit again? He could only imagine the state he'd be in afterward, particularly if he somehow recalled how it had happened the first time.
And still, after a few moments of something near terror over the idea, he couldn't help but consider seriously. He wondered if that sick, self-destructive streak had come from him or Sylar; he honestly couldn't remember anymore.
"Okay," he said finally, his voice small as he looked up. "Okay, so ... "
Sylar moved back into the room, though he did not pause by the bed, instead moving towards the bathroom. He looked back at Nathan, silent though his face suggested he follow, and then he disappeared inside. Nathan got up to join him a few seconds later, heart hammering in his chest, and found him surveying the bathtub critically. He said nothing, not sure what to say, and they fell into silence for what felt to him to be hours.
"Take off your shirt," he suggested, and time righted itself.
It seemed such a departure from what they were doing that he almost laughed. "Excuse me?"
"Take off your shirt." He gestured to the tub as if that clarified everything. "Unless you want Mohinder to ask about all the blood when he gets back."
He made a soft, affirmative noise, dread and anticipation both winding back around his heart where it had almost evaporated a second before, and he reached up, unbuttoning his shirt with unsteady fingers. He made a half-hearted attempt at folding it up in an effort to keep his thoughts elsewhere if only for a moment, and then he was turning back to Sylar. "Okay, what now?"
Another gesture to the bathtub. "Kneel down."
Nathan did as he was told and Sylar moved to kneel behind him, knees pressing against his, one hand falling flat against his bare stomach, pulling him back to him. His other hand pressed to his throat, just a single finger held under the curve of his jaw, and he took a deep breath in an effort to keep his skin from crawling. Figuratively or literally.
"Ready?"
Hysterically, he tried to remind himself that he could end this right now. That he didn't have to go through with this. That Sylar wasn't really there, just a hallucination, and if someone walked in right now, all they would find was one sad politician kneeling in front of a bathtub, completely alone, his own hand at his throat.
For all that that was the right perception, however, he could not back out -- he didn't want to -- and so, letting the breath he'd drawn in out as a heavy sigh, he nodded minutely. "Do it."
He didn't have a chance to draw another breath. With a sudden, sharp sweep of his hand, Sylar had opened his throat.
Dimly, he was aware of two things. The first, the sudden start-stop of warmth as he bled out onto his chest for an instant before Sylar forced his head down over the bathtub. And the second, that the killer must have been holding the hole in his throat open for it to bleed like it was. He had to be -- he wouldn't have bled like that otherwise. He would have healed otherwise, right? But what if he was wrong.
Panic finally winning out over unhealthy desire to know, he tried crying out and fell into a pit a copper soured choking. He shifted weakly, trying to bat Sylar away only to find that the killer's phantom had lost its substance, the feel of him at his back fading, his hands finding only thin air. A moment later, he was certain that Sylar had disappeared entirely and a moment after that, he was slumping forward, half in the bathtub and half out.
He came to only God knew how long later with a start and a gasp, jerking away from the swathe of red his blood had painted on the porcelain, his throat tingling but no worse for the wear. He'd barely managed to get his presence of mind back -- dear God, he'd been dead; really truly dead -- before he could sense Sylar again. He looked to the door uncertainly, looking away again when he found the killer there, the front of his shirt stained with blood. Thank God Mohinder wouldn't see him like that; thank God he had survived.
He sank back into the bathtub, at a loss for words.
"Take a shower before Mohinder gets back," Sylar said simply. Then he was disappearing back out into the bedroom and as he left, Nathan would have sworn that the other man was just as unnerved as he was.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1519
Note: Based on this picture.
He could satisfy the morbid curiosity that had taken the place of horror when he'd finally come to terms with the death of his physical body and be no worse for the wear. He could just throw himself out the window, hope to break something vital, and get up a few minutes later. He held no illusions that it wouldn't hurt like a bitch -- it had every time before, though he couldn't remember what it had felt like to truly die -- but the pain would be temporary. It wouldn't be like after the explosion with Peter after Kirby Plaza. It wouldn't be like being shot.
He shuffled closer to the edge of the balcony, pressed against the railing, and looked down into the courtyard below. A dozen stories wouldn't be so bad, would it?
Sylar, who had been sitting motionless behind him for the better part of an hour, seemed to disagree. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
He'd almost forgotten the killer had been there for how quiet he had been, and he was sure for half a second that he wouldn't have to worry about flinging himself over the railing, how high he was sure he jumped more than enough to pitch him over and to his death. Somehow, however, he managed to keep from accidentally taking a swan dive into the courtyard, and he took a deep breath to steady himself before turning to face Sylar. "Do you have to do that?"
"Yep." He flashed him a small, manic grin. "But like I said, I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why?" he asked, leaning against the metal at his back tentatively. When he was certain it would hold his weight, he shifted back into it in full, folding his arms over his chest. "I mean, it's not like that kinda fall would kill either of us, right? And there's no one out there. They're all out on the slopes, enjoying the last few days of the season."
"It'd still be messy," he pointed out, getting up from his chair to join Nathan on the balcony. Nathan pushed away from the railing and away from him, uncomfortable -- willingly cohabitating with a psychopath or not, he still wasn't too keen on having him in his personal space -- and Sylar ignored him, moving to consider the view. And just when he thought the killer wasn't going to press his argument further, Sylar went on finally. "That's if you even hit the ground in the first place."
Nathan frowned. "What do you mean?"
He barely chanced him a glance over his shoulder before he went back to looking out over the slopes. "If I pushed you off the balcony right now, you think you could stop yourself from flying?"
"Hell no."
"So what makes you think doing it on your own terms would change anything?" Now he did look back at him, eyebrows raised knowingly. "It's survival instinct. Self-preservation. Whatever you want to call it. You'd stop yourself long before they ever needed a spatula to scrape you off the sidewalk."
"Great. Thanks." He made a face, shaking his head, and considered going back inside and just forgetting he'd ever even considered the idea of dying. Something kept him from moving back into the room, however, and against his better judgment, he asked, "Okay, smart guy, how would you do it?"
Turning, he propped one arm up on the railing and drug a single finger across his throat. At least he spared him the ridiculous sound effects. "Same way I did it last time."
Considerably chilled and not by the mountain air, he retreated back into the room and sunk down on the bed, his head in his hands. Sylar had a point -- jumping out the window probably wouldn't cut it and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk even the off-chance of being caught -- but dying like that? Having his throat slit again? He could only imagine the state he'd be in afterward, particularly if he somehow recalled how it had happened the first time.
And still, after a few moments of something near terror over the idea, he couldn't help but consider seriously. He wondered if that sick, self-destructive streak had come from him or Sylar; he honestly couldn't remember anymore.
"Okay," he said finally, his voice small as he looked up. "Okay, so ... "
Sylar moved back into the room, though he did not pause by the bed, instead moving towards the bathroom. He looked back at Nathan, silent though his face suggested he follow, and then he disappeared inside. Nathan got up to join him a few seconds later, heart hammering in his chest, and found him surveying the bathtub critically. He said nothing, not sure what to say, and they fell into silence for what felt to him to be hours.
"Take off your shirt," he suggested, and time righted itself.
It seemed such a departure from what they were doing that he almost laughed. "Excuse me?"
"Take off your shirt." He gestured to the tub as if that clarified everything. "Unless you want Mohinder to ask about all the blood when he gets back."
He made a soft, affirmative noise, dread and anticipation both winding back around his heart where it had almost evaporated a second before, and he reached up, unbuttoning his shirt with unsteady fingers. He made a half-hearted attempt at folding it up in an effort to keep his thoughts elsewhere if only for a moment, and then he was turning back to Sylar. "Okay, what now?"
Another gesture to the bathtub. "Kneel down."
Nathan did as he was told and Sylar moved to kneel behind him, knees pressing against his, one hand falling flat against his bare stomach, pulling him back to him. His other hand pressed to his throat, just a single finger held under the curve of his jaw, and he took a deep breath in an effort to keep his skin from crawling. Figuratively or literally.
"Ready?"
Hysterically, he tried to remind himself that he could end this right now. That he didn't have to go through with this. That Sylar wasn't really there, just a hallucination, and if someone walked in right now, all they would find was one sad politician kneeling in front of a bathtub, completely alone, his own hand at his throat.
For all that that was the right perception, however, he could not back out -- he didn't want to -- and so, letting the breath he'd drawn in out as a heavy sigh, he nodded minutely. "Do it."
He didn't have a chance to draw another breath. With a sudden, sharp sweep of his hand, Sylar had opened his throat.
Dimly, he was aware of two things. The first, the sudden start-stop of warmth as he bled out onto his chest for an instant before Sylar forced his head down over the bathtub. And the second, that the killer must have been holding the hole in his throat open for it to bleed like it was. He had to be -- he wouldn't have bled like that otherwise. He would have healed otherwise, right? But what if he was wrong.
Panic finally winning out over unhealthy desire to know, he tried crying out and fell into a pit a copper soured choking. He shifted weakly, trying to bat Sylar away only to find that the killer's phantom had lost its substance, the feel of him at his back fading, his hands finding only thin air. A moment later, he was certain that Sylar had disappeared entirely and a moment after that, he was slumping forward, half in the bathtub and half out.
He came to only God knew how long later with a start and a gasp, jerking away from the swathe of red his blood had painted on the porcelain, his throat tingling but no worse for the wear. He'd barely managed to get his presence of mind back -- dear God, he'd been dead; really truly dead -- before he could sense Sylar again. He looked to the door uncertainly, looking away again when he found the killer there, the front of his shirt stained with blood. Thank God Mohinder wouldn't see him like that; thank God he had survived.
He sank back into the bathtub, at a loss for words.
"Take a shower before Mohinder gets back," Sylar said simply. Then he was disappearing back out into the bedroom and as he left, Nathan would have sworn that the other man was just as unnerved as he was.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1519
Note: Based on this picture.
