For years, there was a very peculiar, unmistakable silence to the doctor’s home—a quiet that, in contrast, was deafening. Or more specifically, a loneliness that clung to not only his house, but Oliver as well like chewing gum beneath his dress shoe. Yesterday, that silence was broken permanently, but thanks to the almost excessive consumption of whiskey the prior night, he’d practically forgotten that his brother was now staying with him. The sounds of someone fumbling around in his kitchen exceptionally early this morning jolted Oliver upright in bed, his brows furrowing with not only confusion, but the onset of a minor hangover.
Dragging his fingers through the unruly, ebony strands atop his head, Oliver stole a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand. 7:30a.m. The aroma of breakfast caught his nose, filling him with a bit of discomfort at the inevitability that in just a few short minutes, he may find kitchen burnt to a crisp. Despite the eating habits Oliver had witnessed yesterday at the diner, Sylar didn’t give off the impression that he knew his way around a kitchen since he gave off a rolling stone vibe. Without a second thought, he pulled himself from bed and made a hasty effort to clean up and make himself presentable in a fresh button down and slacks.
By the time he entered the kitchen to find his brother with fingers coated with sticky, crimson strawberry remnants, Oliver quirked a tiny smirk. “Yes, well, what can I say? I prefer knives that get the job done the first time, every time.” he told him, his hands already busy reaching for the hot coffee pot and a mug from the cabinet in anticipation of stifling his headache.
This was the first night that a living soul was not restrained to the dark confines of his basement and actually lingered about freely in his home. The feeling was still… foreign. Pouring himself a cup, he glanced over the meal. “I take it you slept comfortably last night if you’re here making breakfast this early? As I’m sure you’re aware, that room you’re in has never been used, but from now on, it’s yours. This wooded area is fairly inconspicuous…” he paused the lip of the mug at his mouth and offered a knowing smirk, “Once you’ve finished ‘business’, there is no safer place to lay low than here.”
He brought his thumb to his lips and sucked the strawberry juice from it before pushing the sliced fruit from the chopping board into a glass serving bowl. Sylar smiled at Oliver while he talked about giving him a place to live. Warmth filled his tarnished soul, and he never thought in his life that he’d be offered a home—a real home.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he turned to rinse off the knife and wash the plastic board with hot water and soap. The knife was dried right away and put where Sylar found it while the chopping board was left to dry in the drainer next to the sink.
“I don’t remember the last time I was safe. With all I can do, I’ve never been safe.” He ladled batter into the waffle iron, swirled it to make sure it was level before closing the lid, so it could cook. Luckily Oliver had a wide waffle maker, or Sylar’d be there all morning making enough for them to share. “I was studied. I was feared. I was powerful, but I was always alone—even when I supposedly had a family. Neither one of us will be alone again, Oliver. I will never let anyone hurt you. Ever.”
I don’t like how in the end they made Sylar the good guy. I think if the series had continued he would’ve snapped back anyways because nobody would want to forgive him.
This is Chad:
Chad likes wine, bright colors, and pretty boys. He’s a gay interior decorator and party planner. He has never killed anyone.
This is Oliver:
Oliver likes to smoke like a chimney, wear boring suits, wears glasses, ladies underwear, and is a serial killer who skins his female victims and makes lampshades out of their skin. He’s a doctor—like a real one. He also died before Chad was born.
This is Sylar:
Sylar is also a serial killer. He likes to wear black when he’s evil, and he’ll wear grey when he’s trying to be sort of good. He kills people because he likes to play in their blood and brains. He collects superpowers the way Chad collects Martha Stewart Living back issues and Oliver collects skins.
He only wears glasses in flashbacks when he’s still Gabriel Gray.
It was hard to remember the end game as Sylar kept going on and on. Peter knew he was doing it to throw him off but it was hard not to react. ”I’m not being nice to you, not really. This is as much for me as it is for you. Maybe I didn’t want to eat alone, maybe I’m sick of sitting in that apartment and trying to find a way through that damned wall.” He didn’t move as Sylar leaned into him, knowing that he was trying to intimidate him.
"We did, that’s where I learned how to cook what I can." He winced at mention of Thanksgiving. That had been a nightmare and he didn’t want to remember the pain that night had caused. That wasn’t what this was about and he curled his hand into a fist before forcing himself to relax it. "I would’ve brought you pie but there wasn’t any to make. Unless you can make something good out of the shit on the shelves."
Pushing past Sylar, he checked the sauce and added a few more dried herbs. They weren’t great but they’d do, he just wished that there was some garlic bread to have with it all. ”If you don’t want to eat, just say the word and I’ll go.” He looked Sylar in the eye. ”I’ll even leave the food if that’s what you want but it’d be nicer to share it with someone and since I’m the only someone here…” he shrugged his shoulders before turning off the stove and grabbing plates.
"You can set the table and pour the wine then." He shoved them into Sylar’s hand and waited to see what the other man would do.
He wanted to send him away. Tell him to go back to the fucking wall, to his apartment, far, far, away where Sylar didn’t hear him breathing or smell his scent. Peter was getting under his skin, which wasn’t a surprise since he’d have done anything to matter to him before—when they were supposed to be brothers.
“Fine,” was all he said as he got the plates and silverware. His table was small, like the rest of his place. He moved a few piles of books from it, making room for Peter to sit there too. Normally he ate while reading, so the table looked more like it belonged in a library than an apartment.
“I don’t have a corkscrew. Did you bring one?” Sylar asked as he picked up the bottle of wine. He tilted the bottle, reading the label, noting the year and vintage—none of it meant anything to him—but there was a lingering flash of one of Nathan’s memories that he decided not to share. For once he wasn’t in the mood to rub salt into one of Peter’s wounds.
The heady scent of the pretzels made him question whether or not he could eat. Normally, cases didn’t affect his ability to take in noodles or other salty snacks. But there had been something particularly brutal and gruesome that left him unsettled by this case. The monster involved was digging into brains like it was nothing, and there was no empathy. No compassion.
And while John really had neither at his disposal, he wanted to believe that people were still inherently capable of displaying some form of compassion for their fellow man. Unbidden, the image of the annoying blonde Maya Vaughn crept across his thoughts.
He was pulled out of his musings by Gray’s voice and focused on the man, rather than the pretzels between them. ”So you need to show me…”
And that was as far as he got.
He couldn’t help but stare like a rank amateur. Which he was, to be honest. He had no real basis of expertise with these so-called specials. And now.. well now things were in a whole new level of weird.
"You.. you’re a special. And that…" He gestured to the burst of energy hovering over Gray’s hand, marveling at just how freaking awesome something like that was. "That’s an interesting skill." Understatement. John couldn’t afford to lose his cool. Not now. ”Can you, I don’t know, detect other Specials?”
Considering Gray hadn’t been in town (that John knew of) for the initial murders, he didn’t even consider Gray a suspect. Fed. Call it code of honor or whathaveyou, but John would stand by the fellow officer’s side. And if Gray could detect something that John couldn’t, even with his enhancements…
Enhancements. Could Gray detect his abilities? John tensed a little, hoping he hadn’t given anything away.
Be careful, a rough voice warned in his head, give him too much information, and he’ll put two and two together. Kennex isn’t stupid. He’ll figure you out.
He didn’t want to listen to the voice. He’d hoped that, that part of his life was long over. He was in control of his hunger. It no longer controlled him. Sylar closed his eyes and his hand at the same time, shutting down the electrical power and finding his center at the same time.
“I can feel them sometimes,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at Kennex. “I know you’re not a special, but you are different. I could tell when I first met you. I didn’t ask, because if I had, I’d have to tell you how I knew.” He leaned back and slumped in the bench, picked up another piece of the pretzel and chewed it slowly.
“So you, going to tell me why you’re different? I mean besides the leg that’s not calibrated right. You need to take care of that. It sets my teeth on edge.” He decided to take a chance, besides if they caught up with Peter, he’d tell Kennex the truth. So it was time for damage control before the damage could be done. “I’m like Peter. I can learn other peoples’ powers.” Not a lie. He had learned to take without killing. “Figuring out how things work is how I do it. I can feel your leg not working.”
- Don’t reply to any thread because you feel obligated to do it.
- Reply when you have muse.
- Reply when you want to tell a story.
- Don’t reply because you think your partner is tired of waiting.
- Do move the story along when you reply.
- Do give your partner something to work from.
- Do talk to your partner OOC if you’re having a problem with a thread or muse.
- Never be afraid to talk to your partner.
- It’s OK to admit to being burned out and to take a break.
I play well with others. It’s not my fault they’re fragile, and I tend to break my toys.
I’d say take better care of your toys, but we both know you wouldn’t. They are fragile… but you’re still a non-social soul, like I am.
I can be social if I want to be if I like someone. I just don’t happen to like many people. [without ketchup]
I play well with others. It’s not my fault they’re fragile, and I tend to break my toys.