sirenspull_logs | If curiosity kills the cat, what happens to the mouse?

Entry tags:

If curiosity kills the cat, what happens to the mouse?

WHO: Sylar, McCoy
WHEN: March 17, noon
WHERE: The underground Mall, Cafe
WHAT: Sylar wants something McCoy doesn't even know he has. McCoy needs to learn to practice what he preaches.
WARNINGS: Language and snark. Now, with violence!

[He's still in his the top to his scrubs, jeans at least because he needs the pockets, but he borrowed them from Jim and the kid's ass is too damn skinny so they're far from comfortable. Not that McCoy can even remember what comfort feels like with the way his stomach pitches in protest with a feeling of unease, too akin to what he knows when he's forced upon a cramp shuttle and all the horrors of dying in cold space and wreckage press on his mind.

There wasn't any time to make it back to his apartment after his shift so he found his way to the cafe instead, tucking himself away in the back away from a pair of chatty teenagers and the too eager to please server who keeps insisting that their cappuccino is to die for, he just scowls and tries to think of anything but dying as he sips black coffee and tries to focus on the crossword puzzle on the back of the daily paper.

It's 12:01 and he thinks all he has to do is hold out for twenty minutes, a polite twenty because certainly he's not interesting enough to actually keep the attention of some busy-little-bee of a psychopath and Sylar had only suggested the meeting so McCoy would squirm all week.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He doesn't twitch like his body thinks it wants too, but there's a cold sort of feeling racing up his spine as his hand moves to fill in the letters, scratching in one at a time slowly because he has poor penmanship, (which he can blame both on being a doctor and being out of practice with actual handwriting.)

It means the answer to nine across is 'Purgatory' and he snorts at that.

McCoy pushes the chair out across from him with his foot, thinking better than to look up before his fight or flight instincts settle and he can manage a calm expression.]

[ Gabriel slips into the seat quietly, tilting his head up toward he cafe, looking around as though expecting to see people watching them. He'd made no secret of the meeting, not really--not when there were only a handful of people in the city who could follow him through shadows in any case, there being a useful one just under the table.

He put his hands on the edge of the table, then drummed his fingers, and after a moment raised his right to bring over a waitress. ]

I hear the cappucino here is to die for. Would you mind? Thank you.

[ It never hurt to be polite. ]

It must be getting to you by now; the curiosity?

[That makes the corner of his mouth twitch, knuckles going white as his grip tightens for a moment on his pen and finally he looks up. It's damn easy to mask unease with annoyance, and that expression is familiar to him.]

To whether or not the cappuccino is really that good?

[A defense mechanism. He picks up his own mug, sipping the cooling coffee with out really tasting it past a bitter after flavor on the back of his tongue. He is curious though, more so than he'd like to admit.]

[ Sylar flits his eyes back to McCoy now they're alone again, leaning very slightly forward over the table. ]

I prefer to let the waitresses decide for me. It makes them feel appreciated, and they take a little more care with your order. I knew a waitress once upon a time in Texas who made Hawaian pancakes that were 'to die for'. Close enough as made no difference, really.

[ Of course Charlie had survived her introduction to Sylar, even been one of the few people to come out of it better off than she'd gone in. But he was here to talk about McCoy, and McCoy's powers, and so he simply carried on, one eyebrow arched. ]

No, I'm wondering if you're curious about your powers yet. Whatever could they be--it's exciting, isn't it?

[He finally lifts his own gaze, arching a brow, wanting to lean back as Sylar leans forward but he's finally managed to firmly plant himself]

From what I hear, they're not exactly a grab-bag of excitement. The idea of becoming some sort of radioactive exploding man? Or sucking the life out of people-- seems like that wouldn't look good on my résumé.

Just having a power doesn't mean that you can't learn to control it, even turn it to doing good things. That's why I'm so interested in what you can do.

[ He's still studying the other man when the woman comes with the cappuccino. He smiles and pats her hand, as though he's utterly harmless, looking into her eyes as he thanks her.

Then he turns back. ]

Having an ability... It doesn't have to be a curse--it's a gift.

[He's not the one that Sylar is touching but somehow watching the physical contact makes his skin creep, like he expects the woman to drop dead at any moment. She doesn't though, and he just chides himself for feeling like the kid that wants to cover his eyes every time the music gets suspenseful in a horror movie. He's a doctor, he's been elbow deep in gore and entrails and this makes him squeamish? Grow up McCoy.]

New sweaters and cufflinks are gifts. This just sounds like a hassle.

[He thumbs the handle of his coffee cup, squinting.] Alright, I'll bite. How can you tell?

[ He just offers the slightest shake of his head at the response. After all he can't think of anything better than being special. Having a power. After the life he had had before, being able to move objects with his mind - even with the cost of taking it - had almost been worth it. Almost. He'd still tried to kill himself out of guilt.

Lifting up his own cup, he studied the carefully piped foam on top, the light dusting of chocolate shavings. The personal touch, it was well worth the effort. ]

I listen. That's why we're talking. If I were taking it, it wouldn't matter--like taking off the back of a watch. Everything's exposed.

[He likes the mundane, he'd been comfortable with living out the rest of his life as a simple country doctor after all. Starfleet had been an accident, falling in with James Kirk who's middle name might as well have been 'reckless adventure' had been a bigger accident. This place was just bad luck.]

Good thing we settled for just coffee then.

[Psychopath or not, Sylar, he was trusting you to keep your word. Blame it on that little part of him that still wanted to believe that there was still a tiny bit of decency in people, no matter who they were.]

I'm talking.

And I'm listening.

[ Like pressing his ear up close, listening to the mechanism. It'd come to him soon enough, but it was usually easier if he saw it demonstrated--and he already knew that he wouldn't be so lucky. McCoy could stand to be a bit more frightened, honestly. Or angry--either would do. ]

What kind of power would you like to have? Telepathy? Flight?

[Not quite frightened as disturbed, he's had too much time to anticipate their meeting and most of the terrified unease had been lost with all the sleep he hadn't been getting. Though it could be said that this place was as much to blame for that, and the fact that he couldn't shut his brain off. And anger? well, McCoy spends so much time being angry that it hardly registers any more past a mild disgruntled, it would be a small wonder if that crease in his brow could ever smooth out.]

Hell no, I hate flying enough as is. And I got enough shit going on in my head, I don't give a good god damn about what other idiots are thinking... who gives a shit if they left their damn oven on or that they think Joe Schmoe from down the hall has the hots for them?

[That crease in his brow deepens and he's thinking into his coffee, letting his lips rest against the rim] I guess...for awhile I thought going back in time would be useful. Learning from your mistakes is fine and dandy, but sometimes it would be nice to just... try again. [That's a bit of regret he wears on his sleeve before he sobers up and remembers just who the hell he's talking to and scowls.]

Not that it works if you believe H.G Wells. You can't fix everything. [Or everyone.]

Edited 2012-03-15 05:10 (UTC)

Well telepathy is a little more complex than that. It isn't just about reading thoughts.

[ He inclined his head toward the table next to them, and a moment later the blonde woman sitting across from the well dressed politician picked up her martini and threw it boldly into his face. And then she looked startled, horrified at what she'd done, and hurried around the table to dab at him with a serviette, apologising profusely. She couldn't win him back--he stood and left, leaving her weeping, and Sylar turned back toward McCoy. ]

As for time travel... If you can move through time you can change the world. The question really is whether you ought to. In my experience time travellers are just a nuisance. Some things have to happen for the world to be a better place, even terrible things.

[He watches only from the corner of his eye, even if the show is enough to draw the attention of the other tables, mostly he's watching Sylar, listening to the commotion while waiting for a smug expression. Flinching. Wondering for a moment if he can only focus on one thing at a time or is as versatile as a puppet master. The words behind McCoy's scowl is clear, murderer or not, you try that with me and I'm punching you in the mouth.]

Not interested in world changing events, my vision isn't that broad. Unlike you I don't feel the need to play either god or the devil. I only care about what I should have or would have done.

[ He heard it and waved his hand, shaking him off. ]

He's a bigamist. Two families on different sides of the city, and she's the third mistress this year. I did her a favour she wouldn't do herself.

[ But now he was simply studying McCoy, listening more intently still than before. He could just begin to hear it now, and it definitely wasn't time travel. ]

And what should you have done, if you could?

I'm more worried about the waste of a perfectly good martini. [He drawls, eyes flicking down at the forgotten puzzle below his fingers for a moment, because while he'll look, he doesn't really want to make eye contact longer than necessary. Instead he tries to seem bored, casual, maybe with an edge of annoyance.]

Make better choices. [He's sure as hell not going to indulge him past that, but he thinks about people that have died on his table, his father. Not to say he doesn't believe he's a damn good doctor, because he is. He could just always stand to be better]

[ It snaps into place just like that, and Sylar smacks the table with his palm, leaning back into his chair like he's just won a hand at poker.

There's new brightness in his eyes now, and also a hideous amount of hunger, hunger that rises and snarls in his chest, and which he has to deliberately push back down where it came from. Fortunately, it's not much different to what he has to fight down around everyone else in the city every single day, even if his focus on the other man makes his doing so particularly difficult.

Because this is what he's been looking for. Not that he intends to share what he's learned. ]

My... Isn't that special.

[The slap startles him, makes him jerk but not quite jump and his pen clatters to the table and rolls. He starts to reach for it before it crosses the threshold of the center of the table, past the point of no return, or rather, past where he's willing to reach so he just stares at it. One brow arches and his gaze lifts finally, not liking what he sees.]

...what? [The word sticks uncomfortably in his throat.]

[ Sylar doesn't watch the pen roll, but reaches out for it anyway, snapping his hand flat down on top of it, then quietly lifting it, turning it back and forth in his hand. He stopped, then placed it on the table again, and gave a little push of telekinesis to slide it back across to McCoy's side.

There was only one reason he did that, because otherwise he would have slammed it through McCoy's shoulder blade right there in the middle of the cafe, and things would have devolved very quickly from there. ]

I thought you didn't want a power. What makes you think I'm going to tell you what it is?

[He manages to stop the pen before it ends up in his lap, curling his fingers around it like someone would hold a knife, before loosening up, setting it down again.]

What, you're not going to tell me? After all the preaching you did about how these abilities are gifts and they need to be honed and used for good, like you're some god damn saint. Because I know damn well that my "gift" isn't just being able to put up with an asshole like you and your head games.

Edited 2012-03-15 20:21 (UTC)

Oh, I'm not a saint. I kill people and take their powers.

[ It's said utterly calmly, and he picks up his cup again and goes back to sipping it, even though it's getting cold, keeping his hands closed tightly around it as he warms it through. ]

But I'm not here to do you a favour, and if I were, I'd want something in return. That's not to say you don't have anything I want.

[ He takes another sip. ]

Besides, there's something to be said for learning about your ability naturally. How badly do you want to know?

Then what are ya here for? It's sure as hell isn't the company unless you just like toying with my head, not that it isn't obvious. But if you're gonna go and play bored immortal I'm sure there's plenty of other interesting people to pick apart than me... ant hills to stomp on.

[He doesn't match that picture of calm, even if he's keeping his voice down it's in a drawled growl because he was always better with impatient anger than fear, but he doesn't want to cause a scene just in case there are people watching, ready to jump into some sort of fray. He'd meant it when he said he didn't want any trouble.]

So if you are going to kill me, what's the point of playing nice? And don't tell me because you wanted to know what little parlor trick I can do, because it would be just as easy for you to pluck open my skull to find out than meeting me for coffee. [He scowls, pushing his chair back a bit with a scrape against the floor.] Which... is actually pretty damn good [He peers down into his almost empty cup.] I'll admit. [And yes, he wanted to fucking know now that Sylar was waving it in his damn face.]

Is it really that hard to believe that I might actually want to share coffee with Doctor Leonard McCoy? I realise you're the lesser of the three stooges, but given the choice, I'd pick you every time.

[ He raises his hand, making a beckoning motion and deliberately dragging McCoy's chair a foot forward again, locking him in against the table. ]

Let's order again, shall we?

[ He motioned to the waitress, circled his hand around the table to indicate the order, and smiled at her. She disappeared back into the cafe, and he turned his attention back to McCoy. ]

Besides which I'm playing nice to make a point. That I can be harmless so long as I'm treated with respect. Well. Mostly harmless.

[ That was totally an intentional mention of the Hitchhiker's Guide. ]

Admit it's driving you crazy not knowing, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know, even help you.

OH well that makes me feel better. [Almost bitterly before his hands came out to brace himself against the edge of the table with a sharp frown, gripping white knuckled for a moment as his glare shot up to Sylar, relaxing only because he knew it wouldn't do him any good otherwise.]

It's it really respect you want? or just fear? [He immediately shook his head at that.] You know what? Don't answer that.

[He flattens his palms on the table, eyes narrowed in thought.]

And I wasn't really that curious, not until you kept picking at it like damn scab-- besides, don't play coy with me, mister, you said yourself you wouldn't help me with out getting something in return, so... either you just had a change of heart [which he doubted], or now you want something.

Edited 2012-03-16 04:34 (UTC)

[ He didn't try to answer anyway, instead regarding McCoy quietly across the table. ]

I still want it, don't get me wrong. Just because I haven't ripped your head open doesn't mean I haven't considered it three dozen times in the last twenty minutes. No. To a certain extent, I get something I want just by being here with you, so it's only fair I do something in return...

[ The waitress was coming back over with their tray, and before she got to them there was a lot to do. ]

Your hands are the hands of a healer--isn't that right? You want to help people. Save lives.

So what power would be best, really?

[And that was exactly why he doesn't want to be a mind reader, because there is shit he just doesn't need to know about. The fact that Sylar indulges him in whatever dark fantasy that happens to crop up from time to time is bad enough. It makes his lip curl.]

Don't tell me this place figured out what I did for a living and just decided to give me a hand up on that. [He sounds incredulous, disturbed.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject