action!

[makes_you_tick]

This is a general action post for Gabriel Sylar. Feel free to set up any reasonable scenario- probably the best is to meet him at his shop, Sylar Timepiece Restoration and Repair. He's there Monday through Friday, 9am to 5pm. If you'd like to set up anything unusual, feel free to PM me.

Comments

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

To say nothing is going right would not be true, but to say things are going 'right' feels like a lie as well. Peter has felt this way for too long about most of the happenings in his life for quite some time, and it is only poetic irony that the window of his life opened when he became somebody--or so he thought. It has not been so very long since first threatening to make a splatter of bone and blood on the pavement below a New York skyscraper, not so long since his brother told him he loved him and flew away to God only knew what, not so long since everything he knew disappeared and came tearing back with the grace of a homicide. It has not been so long since the loss of his abilities and the return of a father he never really knew...not so long since the brother who told him he loved him betrayed every single one of them, donned the suit, tie, and smile with a secret the shape and temperature of a gun inside a man's mouth. No, it has not been so long.

And yet it has been forever.

Sometimes Peter thinks it must be the most tiring nightmare he's ever endured, but then he remembers he isn't sleeping--can't sleep--and he remembers then that as ugly as this reality has become it is still his--still theirs. Claire. Matt Parkman. Hiro Nakamura. Mohinder.

Mom.

This is not just one person's problem, but it has the same feeling of a crime scene where the blood is on everyone--even the prosecutors--and no one is certain anymore where it came from originally.

It is with this lack of knowing he approaches the timepiece shop, recently reopened--though he wasn't here for the original opening--not that he cares. A while ago Claire came to him, fearful of a dream--something he is all too familiar with being. In one way or another, dreams are just less cohesive versions of the things we already know, and that is what is most frightening about them. It really could happen.

The question remaining, however obvious, is how?

Bringing a hand tentatively to the side of his face, pausing outside the door, he swallows a sigh.

He was wearing your face.

How, indeed.

He isn't sure what he expects to know, expects to learn and it makes him a little nauseous to confront this man who has scarred his niece beyond a certain degree of repair, who has killed so many for extension of his own power...and who, most terrifying of all, most unsettling, became a good man in one version of a future now gone. It is in Peter's nature to want to believe the best of even the worst, but it makes him feel a traitor of sorts to wonder if this Sylar--this Gabriel Gray-- could not also become that sort of man. Should he even be given the chance? And whose place is it to decide that? Is it anyone's? Probably not.

One more deep breath and he holds it, telling himself he came here for something, not nothing, and nothing is what he will leave with if he does not actually go in. So he does just that--goes in, door swinging too silently shut behind him.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Gabriel Sylar is looking very un-Sylar-like in his polished grey suit, so many lenses attached to his glasses that one wonders how he might see at all through them. He staring intently at a watch, pointing a finger towards it. Telekinesis is a lot more accurate, a lot smoother than even his steady hands.

There's a bell on the door, and he says, "Welcome to my shop- hold on just a second, and I'll be right with you." As one more gear is snapped into place, he smiles. It's not like any of the smiles Peter has seen in the past, the ones tainted with the joy of destruction. It's just a happy smile.

He looks up then, and immediately takes his glasses off. He blinks, surprised, then stands. He wasn't expecting this. "Peter," he says, nearly at a loss for words. "Hello again. What-" His brow knits, and a little caution appears on his face. "What can I do for you?"

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

Odd how that voice stirs so many things, so many immediate reactions, impulses from one person, odd and yet completely expected, and Peter keeps his face a careful form of neutrality--or he tries. The truth is his eyes will almost always give him away, but he might be fortunate in that there are so many feelings involved that the look gets convoluted, the way weather masses together to make it rain and the sun shine and wind stir and stillness ache all at the same time.

Above all other things, it is the smile that throws him off the most, the worst and he swallows something empty and sharp down the length of his throat before replying.

"I need to talk to you," obviously, he almost rolls his own eyes at himself, and hurries on, "Do you have," he stops short of 'time' and says instead, "...are you available right now?" It is perhaps unexpected to offer such courtesy and yet it is not so much courtesy as strategy, diplomacy. In this place the rules are not the same, and neither is the game, so they all must make adjustments here and there. This might be neither here nor there, but that's out of their hands, collectively speaking.

And can anyone really help who he or she is? It's a question that will probably plague humans until the day they die out as a whole...supposing that day ever comes. They are a tenacious sort--troublesomely so.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

He blinks again, almost as if trying to clear the image, make sure it's actually real. And then he nods. "Of course," he says quietly, and then he holds up two fingers, wiggling them. A sign on the door turns around, and a wave of his fingers locks the door.

He takes a step towards Peter, trying to figure out the acceptable personal space. He waves towards the chair he was just sitting in. "Have a seat. Would you like any tea?" he asks, looking back towards the instant hot water kettle that sits towards the back. He looks amazingly attentive.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

It is only natural to have a wave of unease sweep over him when the door locks, but it's not like he can't leave if he doesn't want to--even if they did come to blows, and it's not likely they will, not this time, and he can already sense that. Again, the game keeps changing, and as different or similar as they might be, the fact remains that there are things in this place, this world between worlds, that are not in his power, but they are not any more in Sylar's realm of control than his. He takes a little relief in that, if only a little.

"No thanks," he says and he doesn't sit but he does walk around, eying everything, trying to stifle his own curiosity. He remembers being shown more than a watch, more than a timepiece that needs fixing, remembers being shown how things work, but it is a somewhat clouded memory, all misshapen like a bad dream. Sometimes he wishes it was--that part of it, and the end. Waiting for the other man to return with his tea or whatever, he doesn't say anything else, hands resting eventually on the counter he peers down at, eyes resting on the watch that was being fixed, presumably, when he first came in.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar decides to not have tea himself, turning the kettle off with a flick of his finger. Instead, he watches Peter move around, look at the watch he's working on. It's an odd-looking thing, and Sylar speaks up. "That particular movement is from a world that usually uses magic to keep the time- advanced sundials. This kind of watch is a little unique for that world. The escapement is really very interesting."

By this point, Sylar's walked up towards Peter, also staring at the movement. "What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Peter?" he asks, remarkably gently. He looks up from the watch to Peter's face.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

Almost, Peter reaches to pick it up--curiosity and all of that--but even as his hands lift off of the counter he turns away, digging them deep into his pockets, as if to make sure it doesn't look as if he was interested at all. Then he runs a hand through his hair, able to feel eyes on his back in a way he is sure could be patented as some tool of seemingly unintentional intimidation. He doesn't really get the outward, direct feeling of antagonism that he so often associates with this man from him right now, and he knows he is capable of many other looks and types of demeanor, so he tries to feel less on pins and needles.

"There was a curse recently, involving dreams," he pauses, letting that hang between them for a moment, still not turning to look at a man with too many parts to him. "Do you remember what you dreamt?" It is the same as asking, or saying, this will determine what I ask you next.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Gabriel picks up the the curiosity before Peter buries it, and in that moment his hopes rise like a rocket. He remembers how difficult it was to deal with Peter when he had Gabriel's intuitive aptitude. But it was then that he'd really felt he had a brother, someone to share this with. If Peter got it again, accidentally, it would another thing Gabriel could help with.

But Sylar puts that hope away as soon as Peter puts his hands in his pockets. The reality was that Peter would never really understand, nor did he want to.

The question is not a surprise. He clears his throat and looks to the side for a moment, staring at perfectly working clocks before addressing Peter again. "The dreams. Yes, I remember all of them, in fact. I had quite a few visitors that day, I was almost surprised that you weren't one of them." It's almost as if he were working towards a chuckle but didn't quite make it. "I assume you're concerned about the one I had with Claire?"

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

Spring makes for a decent time as far as weather goes, and Peter wears only a simple t-shirt and jeans, a watch on his left wrist and sneakers on his feet, but it feels constricting in the room somehow. He can't lie, can't pretend that every moment he spends with this person reminds him of how alike they have been at times, though some might as well have never happened, the point is that they did and as such cannot be written off like bad ideas never followed through on.

"What do you think it meant?" he asks, not bothering to confirm that it's about Claire, because he thinks Sylar shouldn't have to ask.

You know, Peter thinks a little defensively, but just as silently.

If he clenches his jaw a little, well, it's an effort well spent.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

"Dreams don't have to mean anything," Sylar automatically answers, although he knows Peter won't accept such a dodge. As he says it, he's swiping up some tool, some small screwdriver, to place it back into the box it came from. Tidying up, as if he wasn't paying full attention to his guest.

He looks back up to the other man. "What is it you want to hear, Peter?" he asks, cautiously. He breaks the gaze and rounds the table, walking with another size screwdriver to put it in its place. "I don't have a precognitive bone in my body, not anymore. But I have this tendency to think things through to their conclusions, even when I'm asleep. My dream with Claire might have been one of those conclusions."

He's almost ten feet away now, and he looks back up at Peter, almost challenging. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you wouldn't let that happen, that you wouldn't lose Claire's power like that, he thinks. He's unaware that Peter's restricted to one power now. As such, he assumes Peter can hear his thoughts, but he's not really trying to project or hide them. They're probably clear enough on his face.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

His laugh tinges with bitterness and wanting to believe all at the same time. Once, dreams were just different manifestations of hope. Of late they have become something out of bad Hollywood movies, overly theatrical portents of what is to come and it hasn't looked like something good in a long, long time. Facing Sylar--facing Gabriel or...whoever he might want to be--he somehow focuses on everything around him rather than on the man himself. It might be precautionary against the remnant anger that has quieted in this place, but it never goes away, never threatens to fade or be forgotten. The thing is, if it had just been Peter, it might have been forgivable in some twisted way, but it has actually never been about one person, always about the many strings, invisible threads tying them all together and snapping apart--sometimes with fire, and sometimes with nothing but a look set to kill. Peter isn't just angry though, because it never is as simple as a single feeling. Part of him, a big part of him--though he prefers not to admit this to anyone--regrets. The list of what about is too long at this point--another skeleton shoved under the bed because the closet got too full.

Weighing the pros and cons has never been his strongest area, but he has improved through sheer repetition, through necessity, through aging more in a year than a lifetime, and he thinks he doesn't have as much to lose by being honest right now. He has a feeling, however irritating, that Sylar will know vaguely where he is coming from whether he gives word to his thoughts or not.

"What do you think it meant? I'm not sure," and it's not a lie, but he doesn't need to go into great detail how he only knows the bare bones of Claire's dream, and how in the center of the cage it was Sylar's supposed heart, but Peter's own face. Unsettling? Part of him shivers, but it's an inward reaction, as private as anything can be when in a locked room with the man who has, in their time, become less of the main problem than he began as.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

The way he asks lets Sylar paint the conversation between Claire and Peter in his mind. It's not hard to guess- Claire was upset and only mentioned it, Peter did his best to comfort without asking more. Not until he found someone he didn't have to worry about hurting.

It didn't really hurt to go into it. Claire's lack of detail means he can say it however he wants. "It was likely a hypothesis- a possibility of what could happen years down the road, when the immortality finally starts to sink in."

He's speaking quietly now, the hard edge that's nearly ever-present in his voice missing. Instead he speaks as if he's not entirely sure of himself, like he's trying to work out what he's saying as he says it. "I've already realized how lonely my life was, and Claire hasn't ever had to deal with that kind of loneliness before. The dream was me trying to fix something that couldn't be fixed." He looks from Peter down to the watches, giving them a wry smile. "That seems to be a habit of mine."

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

Brow furrowing, his eyes narrow, ever mixed with what rests between suspicion and a few other things that are too distorted to be clearly named.

"What would you fix by trying to be someone you're not?" he asks, but it is only a half-curious question, because he knows his own set of answers is so long that it might very well encompass any of Sylar's. They are not different in as many ways as he would prefer, and though they set themselves apart in enough ways to be clear, the presence of logic and a care for what one considers to be the greater purpose is like a heartbeat, there every second a person decides to keep on living. His own tone is low, and as a result quiet, but it lacks any softness, defined by the same sort of cold metal that grates in the street present, or tin roofs under a hard rain. He doesn't like being here, not just because of everything this other man has done, but because facing him reminds Peter of everything that probably will never happen.

But who is to say when it's too late to become a good man, or when you stop deserving it? God maybe, but Peter feels as if God hasn't been listening for a lot longer than he realized--having only noticed when Nathan sent him and so many others--people they depended on before, trusted, people who trusted him--packing on a one-way trip to containment.

A polite word for a little death.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar laughs, just a short chuckle of disbelief. Of course Peter doesn't understand. "Haven't you ever thought that maybe if you could just wipe out everything and start over...you might be able to do it right? Prevent your mistakes, make sure everyone gets what they want?"

He stares down at the table. "Because I haven't. I've always known there's something wrong with me, and no matter how many chances I got, at some point somewhere, I'd wreck everything. There's something in me that will always, always push too far and too hard. So why not try to be someone else, someone who might have a better chance? Someone that Claire would rather see, after everyone else has grown old or otherwise died."

He realizes he might have been speaking a little too seriously and shrugs, hoping to offset it somewhat. "It's not something I've seriously considered. After all, you've got the regeneration as well. And there's no reason Claire would ever let me get close enough for that scenario, either. It was a 'what if' buried in my mind, Claire's appearance in my dreams must have gravitated my thoughts that way. That's all it was." He shakes his head and hopes Peter will accept that.

He feels like he's already said too much- it was easy to forget that Peter didn't remember their previous conversations, when Sylar still thought he was a Petrelli and Peter was trying to give him a chance as a brother. But it didn't really matter. The more truth here, the better, as far as Sylar's concerned.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

No, he doesn't understand, doesn't understand how pretending to be another person could ever lead somewhere good, somewhere decent, not in the long run. Methodically speaking, he'll admit it has its advantages; it's why people have aliases to begin with, isn't it, and disguises? That would be no different, used in that way, but the way Sylar speaks of it is another thing entirely. He makes it sounds like it was supposed to last, like one slip up here or there always prevented him in this dream from achieving a certain breed of forever that remains otherwise elusive to the rest of mankind.

Even Peter, though he isn't sharing that any time soon.

But it makes him uncomfortable--to say the least--to think about this man wearing his face, to Claire, to his mother, to Nathan even--to anyone, and worse, what if they believed? Shaking his head like an afterthought best not had at all, he turns, his profile bared but nothing as telling as the direct looks he's been giving so far.

He wishes something made more sense, anything. Nothing is so hard to work with.

And for no readily apparent reason, the younger Petrelli thinks back to Pinehearst, thinks back to being thrown out of a window that could have killed him at the time, thinks...and as is always the danger of thinking, he wonders. By all rights, he should not have survived that fall, not with such minimal damage, but he did. Can he discount these things, these small or large acts of something not tainted and hedged by a murderous and selfish intent? No, but can he make new judgment from them? Also no. So where does that lead them in the end?

An impossible thing to answer--they are no closer to the end of anything than they were at the beginning.

Not sure he is likely to get anything else out of this subject, he veers off the so far beaten path.

"...when did you say you came from...in...our world?" he asks with the abruptness of a train crashing without sound.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar's glad to be off the subject, but the sudden change of subject should tell him something, he thinks. Something in what he said has changed in Peter's time, as far ahead as he might be. So Sylar stares into Peter's eyes for a moment before answering.

"Angela was in a coma. We were fighting over whether to head to Pinehearst. You thought we should barge in, I thought we should wait until we were strong enough to handle the people who had hurt her. You won that fight, I'm sure you remember. I blacked out and woke up here." He blinks and smiles at Peter, half hopeful. "Don't suppose you'll tell me what happened when you got over there. Obviously you made it out in one piece, so I guess I was wrong."

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

There are just so many things he could say to that, but in the end what comes out is as noncommittal as nothing at all.

"I remember," and he turns fully away this time, but his shoulders seem a little more sloped than usual, not the look of defeat, but a definitive note or tone of something less than successful, less than what he had hoped for. But what he hoped for in coming here even he isn't sure, so maybe it's not fair of him to have hope at all in some cases, to expect so much without providing the means to make it so. Swallowing a sigh and a million words that won't do anything for either of them, Peter shifts his feet as one ready to leave, but he doesn't move from where he stands, a contradiction at its best--or its worst.

"As for what happened," he finally adds, "You'll find out for yourself," and now would be the ideal moment to teleport away--his latest switch--but he doesn't he waits, and he doesn't even know what for. Hasn't he spent too much time waiting already? But this place changes the way strategies fall and well laid or badly laid plans might go, so he tries to adjust with them, because he knows without hanging on to some semblance of what people constitute as his bleeding heart and his love of what is good and right--if anything is--is the one thing keeping him from losing all his faith altogether. He wishes he was stronger some days.

This is undoubtedly one of them.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Even now, no one will tell him what happens. The only person even somewhat willing to discuss it with him is Mohinder- or Eden, who knows about as much as he does. From an outside perspective, he can understand why. He's dangerous and who knows what he might do with the information.

However, inside this shop, facing this man, he finds it insulting. He'd been friends with Peter here once, and even though he hadn't understood it when it happened, Gabriel had been hoping it could be repeated. But Peter seems ready to leave now, and he almost looks disappointed.

Sylar hates that.

"What were you expecting, Pete?" he says defensively, standing a little taller. "What was it you were looking for here? An apology?" He raises an eyebrow.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

He shakes his head again, glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and lips pressed thin.

"Nothing," he says but that's a lie and in a way he would rather not if he can help it so what follows is, "I don't know," and a shift of his feet again. His posture is rigid again with the mild shift in tone, fully aware of and able to recognize that defensiveness because he has worn it himself many a time. "Not an apology," he half mutters half scoffs. "I don't know what," he repeats himself.

But I couldn't do 'nothing' is the feeble reply in his mind, but that is what this amounts to isn't it, despite being ventured? How pathetic. Again he clenches his jaw as he looks away.

Telling Sylar more, at least in Peter's case, has little to do with what he would do with the knowledge and more to do with understanding the extreme sensitivity of time. Having jumped through it more than his fair share of times, he would rather not risk being another reason for things to fall to pieces.

But then again, maybe he already is. It's hard to say.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

The uncertainty in Peter's voice disarms Sylar, and he relaxes again. At least they're both sort of confused about it. His features soften, and his voice becomes an approximation of gentle again. "Well, if you ever figure it out, let me know? I'll help if I can."

Sylar waves his hand at the door, and the sign turns itself back over. The door unlocks again. He turns towards the back, moving towards his workstation again. "Hey, Peter? When you found out we were brothers- did you ever really believe that?" he asks, still facing away.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

What a question. For a long time Peter can only manage the sharp edged silence, cut out like it has been made of pieces of glass glued together with the hands of toddlers who have no shape and given idea of order to restrict them. If it threatens to press him down like a more tangible weight, he tries not to look like it does.

Everyone lied, he thinks.

Not everyone, an amendment.

But the people closest?

A hand bridges over his eyes, covering.

What he should say is simple no, but that's not the truth and if there is one thing left that he could sympathize with--could, but might not either way--it is the reality of being raised and moved through untruths and half truths until one simply doesn't know who to trust anymore, or if anyone is worth trusting. Peter, in the end, has to believe someone is worth it of course, that on the whole, people have goodness on their side, but he is not as bright eyed as he began, and it shows at times like these, even if times like these are the very last ones he should be so vulnerably honest in.

"I don't know what I believed," he says at last. "At the time, nothing seemed like the truth anymore," and he holds his breath before turning to face Sylar again, even if the man's back is turned to him now too. He thinks of Nathan, who is his brother. He thinks of what he's done. He thinks of how he has so nearly betrayed every ounce of trust he thought they had, thought had changed after Kirby Plaza, only to be left stranded so many months later.

It leaves him cold and he can tell this man surrounded by timepieces one more thing, even if he doesn't have to.

"But I don't think it would have made a difference," is what he says, voice low, a little too hoarse for his liking even though it doesn't quite break.

Nathan.

No. It probably wouldn't make a difference.

At this point, his actual brother seems to be proof of that.

With one last glance at Sylar's back, Peter doesn't bother to use the door. One moment he is there, and the next, he isn't, gone without a sound. He does not have more than one ability anymore, but for as long as he can keep that mostly to himself, he plans on it. It is so nearly the only card he has to play, in the eventuality that he has to come back to the table.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

He'd been expecting a straight No, so when Peter says he doesn't know, Sylar raises his head. It was funny- for Peter, nothing seemed like the truth, but Sylar had felt he was finally getting the truth he needed, what would finally make his life make sense. He supposes it was only fair that one of them would get robbed of their certainty in that time.

But that small door that was opening in his mind, that gave him hope that things here could maybe, maybe be like before- Peter slams it shut with his next words. I don't think it would have made a difference.

Sylar knows it's not true, but the words themselves make his head heavy. He lowers it, staring at the table again. "But it did," he protests, knowing he sounds like a child. "It did make a difference here. You just don't re-" He turns to face Peter, expression vulnerable and pleading, but he finds that Peter isn't there anymore. Who knows how long ago he left.

Sylar's frozen in mid-protest for a few moments. He's not sure how he feels, really, but he'd probably describe it as 'overwound'. It rolls off the tongue much more easily than 'vaguely humiliated'.

But he already knew he wasn't going to really change anything here, didn't he? He was playing good as an act now, right? No, he really never had a chance at being a good person. Hell, he couldn't even make the good people understand what he was attempting to get past. That discussion was just proof he'd made the right decision.

Something on a back-wall shelf crunches. It's a satisfying sound, the metal scraping on metal. Sylar looks up and opens a palm towards it- the twisted hunk of metal that used to be a Nixon automatic flies to his hand. He holds it in his palm and stares at it as it curls further in on itself.

Then he shoves it in a drawer and goes back to work.

your train of thought will be altered so if you must falter be wise;

[stacked]

Faith takes a bite of her chicken, then shakes her head. For all Angel and Wes have dire predictions about her... being with Gabe, they're disgustingly domestic. He made chicken. And for fuck's sake, Faith is eating her freaking vegetables for him. She's sitting at the goddamn table, eating dinner he cooked for her. Yeah, the guy's no good, all right. Wes and Angel can shove it.

"The kid's sleeping it off some more. Probably gonna go party it up later, even if it's just to keep her ass outta trouble." Faith washes down a bite of something... green, whatever it is, with a huge sip of Coke. "Whatever shit's going down, not like she's gonna spill to me. Best I can do is play along, scare off anyone who tries to pull shit."

Another bite of chicken. "You gonna come with?"

your train of thought will be altered so if you must falter be wise;

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar's been frowning faintly since near the end of his cooking, when he went to check the Network. Sometime it just ruins your day. He's eating heartily, though- he always cooks for six when it's him and Faith eating. They never seem to have trouble packing it down.

He'd been wondering about Blair, and he nods at the invitation. Partying isn't usually his thing, but he might as well try something new, especially with the latest development. It's probably a good thing he can't get drunk, not really.

"I'll come with you. Don't think I'll be too much of a bad influence?" he asks, smirking at her. Here, with the nerdy glasses and the hoodie, he doesn't figure he looks too scary. He shovels some broccoli in his mouth.

your train of thought will be altered so if you must falter be wise;

[stacked]

Faith noticed the frown, but if Sylar wants to talk he'll talk. She's not very good at pushing in a way that doesn't seem confrontational; it's easier to invite him out, provide distractions. And she's eating, shoveling down half of the massive quantities Gabe never has to be reminded to make.

"Good deal. She's got a wicked tailspin going. Second pair of eyes could help." She grins, a little wickedly. "And I'm gonna make you dance."

The subtext that dancing equals having sex with clothes on in this situation should be painfully obvious.

She waves off his last remark, taking in his clothes and laughing. "Oh, hell yeah. Next thing you know, she'll be talking in the library. Real badass vibe you got going here."

Not that Faith's much tougher looking, herself; baggy sweats and the Sox sweater she bought with her first payout from Brooks. God only fucking knows how the hell that showed up in the City, but Faith's not looking too hard.