Grey Cells and Waffles


odessa_icon.gif sylar_icon.gif

Scene Title Grey Cells and Waffles
Synopsis Sylar and Odessa bond over a common interest.
Date November 15, 2008

Dorchester Towers - Ethan's Apartment

Dorchester Towers is home to many upper class, or more wealthier inhabitants. This apartment seems to be no exception. First impressions of this place, give a homey, and well furnished feel. Lamps are put in the right place, decorations here and there. The living room consists of a large green sofa facing the wall of windows, which has a large flat screen TV in front of it. Speakers are installed all around for the Surround Sound feel. Next to the TV is a cabinet full of DVDs. Most of these movies include a gun of some sort in each of them. A small coffee table sits in front of the couch, a few magazines spread out on it.

The kitchen is well stocked, with a microwave, coffeemaker, and of course a toaster. There is an overhead pan rack hanging over the stove which has many pots, pans, and other utensils hanging from it for easy access. Three doors lead away from the kitchen and living room. Two are large, comfortable bedrooms, complete with posters on the walls, and one is a room that is furnished with a stand up punching bag, dumb bells, a treadmill, and other types of work out equipment.

For the -extremely- well trained eye, or for someone who knows what they're looking for it would be apparent that there are little things off about this apartment. Reinstalled panels, etc, that would suggest whoever lives here has done some renovation work. (Note:Ethan has 'toys' hidden throughout his apartment, in case of 'emergencies'.) Overall though, this spacious living area has been well taken care of, and kept very tidy.

Even serial killers have to shower. Odessa has taken the opportunity to take the ice cream bucket she had stowed away in the freezer out and carefully place its contents into a strainer in the sink, where she's run enough warm water on it to clean off any excess residue and freezer burn. Newspaper is spread out over the kitchen table, several layers thick to ensure nothing leaks.

Doctor Knutson has settled herself down in a chair on one end of the table with her latest project in front of her. Gently, she pokes and prods at the brain she stole from the thug in Chinatown. "What makes you tick?" she mutters under her breath, as though that might suddenly yield an answer she did not have before.

What makes what tick? Even over (or beneath) the immediate sounds of water pattering against porcelain, Sylar hears that little mutter, having been listening for voices already. Before long, the running water from the bathroom is shut off, and a few minutes later, Sylar emerges, damp hair combed back at least with his fingers, wear his jeans and an undershirt. Under an arm, he's bundled the rest of his clothes, a now crumpled dress shirt and blazer, shoes dangling by the laces in his other hand as he wanders curiously back into the main room - and stops short at the sight in front of him. And blinks twice in rapid succession at the sight in front of him.

The blonde tips her head to one side when she registers that the shower's no longer running, but even when Sylar enters the room, she doesn't lift her head to look at him. No, Odessa is far too engrossed in her work to look away. She might accidentally gloss over something important! "There's got to be a way to figure it out," she tells him without any sort of preamble. "I made you waffles." She tilts her head back toward the counter where a plate of breakfast food awaits butter and syrup.

Waffles? Waffles. Sylar spares the barest of glances towards the breakfast food, before moving closer towards where Odessa is studying the brain. He's watching her, rather than the dense mass in front of her, fear of the unknown making him take precautions. "What're you trying to figure out?" he hears himself say, but he already knows, and he's not sure he likes it. Rather defensively, he adds, "You're looking in the wrong place." So there. He moves to collect himself some food after dumping his things onto a chair, shoes placed next to the door.

Were he anybody else, she might snap a defensive 'well then you do it if you're so smart!' But he will do it and he is so smart. Odessa lifts her head and blinks. "I am?" She lifts the brain from the table and turns it over in her hands. "I just thought for sure that it would be…" She lets out a frustrated groan as she prods further. "If you can learn to do it, I can learn to do it," she insists, lips pursed furiously. It isn't him she's mad at, though. It's her own incapability. "I'm every bit as smart as you are. There's no reason—"

The brain hits the table with a dull thud, and Odessa sends her chair skittering backward until it smacks into one of the cupboards in her hurry to get to her feet and pace, positively livid with herself. Tears fueld by her vexation fall from her eyes and slide down her cheeks, and she makes no attempt to hide them. Importuning, "I'm special, too!" The blonde runs her fingers through her hair, grabbing fistfuls of it at the roots in order to keep from punching something in her fury.

There's the scrape of cutlery against a plate as Sylar sets about separating some of the breakfast food for himself, but he does pause, listening to her tantrum, before pouring a healthy (or less than healthy) helping of syrup over the waffles, letting it seep into the crevices and dips. When he's certain she's listening, he says, "It's my ability. You can be the best neurologist in the world and won't be able to see what I see when I look at the human brain." Or at least, that's what he hopes. With plate in hand, he makes his way back towards the room, other hand picking up the chair, putting it back into place before the table. Unavoidably, his eyes fix on the brain left discarded on the newspaper, and he says, "What did you find?" He knows better than to just start digging. Somewhat.

"Nothing," Odessa laments. "It's just a brain." He's right and she knows it. "I don't know what he was able to do. He was fast. Very fast. So I know he can do something. Wu-Long dispatched him before I was able to study further." She pauses and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Which is probably for the best. I never saw him coming. He almost took my head off." That draws another moment of silence before she fixes her eyes on Sylar, smirking in spite of herself and letting that hint of amusement pepper her tone. "Don't get any ideas."

"Very fast," Sylar repeats, lost in his own curiosity, and in one swift movement, he takes Odessa's seat, setting the plate aside. Very fast - that sounds safe enough for him. It's not precognition or— a number of other abilities Sylar chooses to avoid. Despite the fact that he's had a shower, he readily picks the brain up and turns it in the direction he needs it, uncaring (he'd want to be) of the gore and the slickness of the matter. What ensues is silence, fingers unashamedly digging in, back hunched as he studies. And studies.

Equally as unashamed, Odessa crosses behind the chair she once occupied, leaning nearly over Sylar's shoulder to get a better look at his work. She remains silent, save for the sound of her breath washing over his ear as she leans probably closer than she has any right to. Voraciously, she studies the way the man's fingers poke and prod, knowing the way to go as swiftly as if they had had a map. As swiftly as she was able to find the coffee cups in Ethan's kitchen. Everyone has to have their talents.

He doesn't seem to notice the closeness, engrossed in what he's doing. Even his hearing lapses into that of a normal man's, not wanting the sounds of the apartment to distract him. Then, without preamble, he removes his hands from the thing entirely, eyes sliding shut. More silence, before he uses the edge of the newspaper to wipe his fingers. "You should— probably get rid of this before Ethan gets back."

"That's it? Done? Finito? Finished?" Odessa straightens back up, lifting the brain off the table to rather unceremoniously drop it back into the ice cream bucket she procured it from, snapping the lid back in place. "You make it look so easy. That was amazing." It was amazing when she saw it the first time, but it was dark then and as loathe as she is to admit it, there was the niggling fear that he might turn around and do the same thing to her, despite the bargain they had struck.

Sylar draws the newspaper off the table, further cleaning his hands on it as he crunches it up into a ball of both damp and dry paper. "It's what I was born to do," he says with quiet conviction, moving to dispose of the Business section (who reads that section, anyway) as needed. "But it's not easy. Even if you found the answer, you have to know the question." Vague much, Mr. Gray. But there it is. He moves to pull his dress shirt back on, reaching for his blazer next.

Odessa considers his words for a long moment, washing her own hands vigorously in the sink, clear up to her elbows. Some habits die hard. "Sit down and eat your waffles." An order delivered gently is still an order. "We'll go together to test it out after you've eaten." She glances over her shoulders as she rinses the suds from her arms. "You promised to show me everything," she reminds him.

Sylar looks over his shoulder back towards the kitchen, then looking down at the plate of breakfast food as if he'd forgotten it, blazer hanging from his hand. He lets the garment drop back down on the chair, sitting to eat. Even as he does so, he says, "I have somewhere I need to go, I haven't been home since I left for Vegas." His fork stabs the sweet breakfast food, the knife slice through it with surgical precision. "I will show you everything, I want you to see it, what I can do - but not today."

"But—" The girl cuts her protest short, disappointment written all over her face. "I understand." She doesn't, but it doesn't matter so long as she lets him go, does it? "What have you got at home that you can't get here?" Odessa comes to sit on the table, watching the killer do something as mundane as eat his brinner.

The fork is used to pin down morsels, the knife used to scrape syrup up against the spongey food, over it, taking some enjoyment out of the meal - perhaps he's just hungry. "I have a roommate," Sylar states, with hidden irony. "It's important I'm not completely suspicious. I said I'd be back." Why in the world would Sylar even need a roommate? Use the process of elimination and maybe you'll reach a conclusion.

"A roommate," Odessa repeats flatly. "Got someone chained up to the radiator? What've they got that you can't share with the rest of us?" Her eyes narrow just faintly. She's jealous, but she doesn't realize it, convincing herself she's merely curious. Or even cautious on the man's behalf. Skeptical.

"If I share her, she'll know, and she won't want to be shared," Sylar answers. Then, he looks across at Odessa, raising an eyebrow as he fixes his gaze on her eyes. "Why? What do you have that you won't share with the rest of us?" he says, tone sharp.

"Something you'd like very much," Odessa confesses, "and I don't want to die." Her smile is sad. She wants to trust him and she wants to believe he wouldn't just crack her skull open like anybody else and take what she's worked so hard and so long to protect, but trusting someone blindly is just another way to die. "I promise I'll show you when the time is right. Some time when you can see how much use I can be if you let me live."

"Then we all have our secrets, don't we," Sylar concludes, and with a clatter, he drops the cutlery back onto the plate, where there's still a bite or more left of waffle. "For better or for worse." And he's back on his feet, pulling on his blazer, slipping feet back into shoes. "Thanks for the— " He glances back towards the table, where'd she'd been careful to not let the brain leak onto the dining table, "…waffles, they were really good."

That chases away some of the apprehension and the gloom, drawing a bright smile from Doctor Knutson. "Oh, I'm glad you liked them." She scurries over to the couch where she picks up her jacket, reversing it to the side that isn't stained with blood before pulling it on. Then, she plucks up the handle of the ice cream bucket, a solid white plastic so as not to let on to their contents. "I'll walk with you part of the way," she says quietly. "So I can drop this in a dumpster somewhere along the line." She shrugs one shoulder as she undoes the locks to Ethan's door. "Don't shit where you sleep, right?"

Sylar pauses, thinking on that, then the corner of his mouth turns up minutely. "That's how the saying goes," he agrees. "And I'm sure Ethan would appreciate it." A glance around, nothing left behind save for a broken microwave he is totally going to replace, before moving to the door, picking up his coat as he goes.

Odessa pauses with her hand on the knob. Rather than open it, she turns her back to it to lean against it. "Thank you for… last night. I'm going to try really hard to toughen up so that that doesn't happen again. And I'm sorry I spoke out of turn. I didn't mean to make you angry." A glance is sent in the direction of the microwave. "I promise you won't have to find me like that again…" Pale lips press together as she lets out a breath of a self-deprecating chuckle. "Curled up in a fetal position, crying." Like that.

"Better me than them," Sylar says, simply. He studies her for a moment, then just nods. Lesson learned - next time, don't make him angry. You won't like him when he's angry. Something inside him, some sort of tension, untwists. Perhaps it should be his turn to apologise, but it doesn't occur to him - he just pulls his coat back over his clothing.

Odessa knows better than to wait for that apology, like she knew better than to expect his forgiveness for what she'd done. "We should… go out sometime and talk." Whatever 'out' entails. Perhaps it simply means 'not at Ethan's.' "Sometime." She smiles and then opens up the door to let them into the hallway. As they make their way down the stairs, her voice echoes quietly in the well, "Can I borrow some money for ice cream?"

November 15th: On the Parting of Ways

Previously in this storyline…

Next in this storyline…

November 15th: In Need of Help
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