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

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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.]

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[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.]

Actually, that's usually how powers work. Not always, but more often than not, people get the powers they need. A cop who can read minds, an empathic nurse, a healing doctor.

[ Sylar just tilts his head for a second longer, and the cappuccino and coffee are placed down on the table. The waitress smiles and hovers. Asks if there's anything else--

And Sylar drives a pen knife through her hand, pinning her flat down onto the table. His other hand snapped her mouth shut when she tried to scream, and then he reached forward to take her wrist, holding her still as he pulled the knife back out. What's most surprising is that nobody else seems to notice. ]

Oh... Oh, dear. Now would you look at that.

[He started to reply, reaching for the fresh cup of coffee, not registering the motion until Sylar was up and the waitress was being freed from the table.

Good god man, are you out of your damn mind?! [rhetorical question, he knows]

[His coffee spills, cascading off the edge of the table as he pushes himself to stand in a jerking motion. But he isn't a hero, he doesn't know what to but hold his hands up as if that alone could stall the other from doing anything hasty.]

Let her go, the service here can't be that bad. [There's panic in his voice, but it's fleeting as his expression hardens. Eyes darting from the penknife in Sylar's hand to the terrified waitress.]

I could let her go, but it wouldn't do much for her hand, now, would it?

[ He'd driven the knife in perfectly--a place which bled, but damaged neither bone nor nerves, and even if McCoy couldn't heal it, it would still heal just fine on its own. The woman, her knees shaking, moved to sit in the third seat, still with Sylar holding her wrist. She was utterly compliant, silent, even as she dripped blood onto the table. ]

Powers are about intent, and every one has its own specific way of working. Sit down, Doctor, you're drawing attention to yourself, and out of the two of us only I can vanish at will.

[Part of him wants to roll his eyes, his jaw tightening as he drops back into his chair like a child that had been scolded, turning his gaze to the waitress as she joins them. He assess the damage the best he can with out touching, where each delicate bone is, muscles and tendons, and decides Sylar is a bastard.]

I'll keep that in mind.

[He had McCoy's full attention now.]

[ He turns the woman's hand over, letting McCoy look at her palm as well, blood thick in the wound on both sides. His eyes flick upward again, and then he motions forward, directing McCoy to take over. ]

Take her hand in both of yours.

[ Sylar had never interacted with a healer before outside of Claire, and she was a self-healer, nothing more. Still, he had some experience with teaching other people to use their powers, or to bring better focus to the ones they already had. It was all intent. Thinking about what you wanted to happen, and doing it. Without the power of his mind, his intent, his hand motions would mean nothing at all, but he could use them for everything from turning lights on and off to shattering bone, it all came down to intention. ]

Think about the injury. Blood vessels severed, muscle sliced apart, tendon severed. The knife was sharp and flat--the wound so neat that you could almost line the two edges up with each other. The human body itself is capable of healing something like this; all you need to do is speed it along. Think about the wound closing, and the flesh becoming whole. Focus all of that feeling into your hands, like you're pushing the thought down, full of the determination to make it happen, because it won't unless you really want it to. Unless you try.

[He exhales, gritting his teeth as he shifted in his chair, reaching to take the woman's hand in both of his, turning it over in his palm, blood warm and oozing lazily. Part of him wondered if it was Sylar that was keeping her still, or if she was going into shock. He was probably more scared on her behalf than she was right now.]

I don't think this sort of approach is approved by the NIH.

[It's hard to focus, he's too worried about what Sylar's doing, about the people around them that are going on with their day with little notice to the trio. He tries to picture the injury under the wash of blood. Part of him just flat out doubts it; he's a practical man after all, even if he's seen proof of other people and their powers he doesn't think there's anything in him that do the same.]

This isn't...

[He stops himself, eyes narrowed as he smooths his thumb over the base of the woman's wrist, eyes flicking up to her face, then down again as he tries to picture how the injury would naturally repair it's self, sped up like watching a video in time lapse... but nothing happens and he just shakes his head.]

I need to get her to the clinic, I don't have my med-kit.

[ He lifted his eyes back up to McCoy, watching the other man as he tried to make it work. He tilted his head after a moment, knowing that nothing was happening simply because if it was, he thought McCoy would feel it, and perhaps the pain in the woman's eyes would go away. ]

It isn't working? It isn't logical? Nobody ever asked you your opinion.

[ He turned the pen knife in a circle, and on the other side of the table the salt and pepper pots span around each other as though doing the Viennese waltz. ]

I can move things with my mind; that isn't even remotely logical. It defies science, medicine, even belief. But I'm doing it.

All you need to do is stop thinking about what you can do, and start believing in it. Try again.

[His own gaze shot up, sharp, and if he could kill with that look... thankfully that wasn't his power. Not that it would have made a difference, since apparently he couldn't even manage to pull off his own power properly.]

Well it doesn't make any damn sense. Do I look like fucking Peter Pan? You don't just sprinkle some fairy dust on something, think a happy thought and it does what you want.

[Later he'd find it amusing to hear the Spock-lookalike throw logic to the wind. He grits his teeth, leaning his forearms on the table, focusing again, wondering if he's trying too hard now; like focusing on a problem with a too-easy answer and for a moment there was was a strange numbness in his fingertips that he let go of too quickly.]

It isn't supposed to make sense. And nobody believes in fairies.

[ It had been such a long time since he did that to upset the girls at school, he'd almost forgotten about it. Now it was just an aside, and he shrugged a shoulder. Even after he'd met a fairy he still didn't believe in them. What a life he was living. ]

You're trying too hard. It's supposed to be as natural as breathing.

Oh this place can be completely insane, but we don't have to worry about faeries, that's a relief. [He drawls sarcastically, settling his breathing now that he's reminded that it's supposed to be a natural thing... right.]

So what if you're wrong about what I can do?

[He changes tactics, reaching over to grab for a cloth napkin, wrapping her hand with it, he's sure as hell not going to just waste his time while the poor woman just sits there bleeding.]

If I'm wrong, it's not about what you can do but whether or not you can actually do it. And if you can't...

[ He watched the other man wrap the hand, and opened his own widely, flicking it back off sharply. ]

No. If you can't do it, Dr. McCoy, then perhaps I should take your power and do it for you? A little blood isn't going to kill her, but I might if you don't find a way to focus.

[ His backup plan was to send her to the kitchen to 'accidentally' injure herself in there. ]

So I'm reminded.

[Okay sink or swim, he should be good at this, after all his profession requires him to work under pressure, think on his feet. He takes her hand again, thinking further on what he should be worrying about besides if their waitress will get to keep the full range of motion in her hand if it's treated properly. He doesn't particularly want to die to day just because some bigger kid on the playground saw what toy he had and wanted it too.

damn bastard breathin' down my-- [Under his breath as he closes his eyes, hunching his shoulders. It takes a minute, and even then he's less aware of anything actually happening besides an annoying throb behind his eyes. It works... kind of, or rather the bleeding stops and her skin is suddenly very warm under his palms, or maybe it's his, but there's heat. Except when he moves his hand there's still the dark edges of a wound under the sticky mess of blood.]

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If this tag doesn't get an 'I'm a doctor' I don't know what will.

Don't tempt me

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