Trust Is Like Ice Cream


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Scene Title Trust Is Like Ice Cream
Synopsis Gabriel comes home with ice cream and other groceries and a newspaper with a certain article in it. And Sylar knows certain things most people do not: The best way to use someone is to make them think every idea is theirs, and that they're using you.
Date November 8, 2007

Siann Hall: Gabriel's Apartment

After a long night of pretend attempted murder, DIY wound stitching and finally a lack of sleep because you're not sure who would slit your throat if they had the chance… Sylar is considerate enough to pick up some groceries. He's changed into different clothes than when Gillian saw him last - the previous night, whereas now it's past noon - which involved a light grey long sleeved shirt and jeans, which doesn't do much to protect against the cold outside, but he didn't have the money on him for a proper jacket. In his hands, grocery bags - one of which has a roll of newspaper sticking out of it. With a tired glance at the door he's about to walk through, the lock is telekinetically altered with more clumsiness than usual, as if he were shoving the wrong key in there. Which makes it tempting to just wrench the entire door out of its frame, but Sylar manages to just sigh, and then knock the door with the toe of his boot. "Gillian, it's me," he calls.

The groceries are certainly a welcome sight. While he'd been away, a few things got set up throughout the apartment. A couple candles sit on the table, a computer lays open, plugged in and turned on. Very possible that Gillian's piggy backing on someone's unsecured wireless system too, though it's not a definite. Once again, she's reading ebooks on her computer, this time Jurassic Park, though he has no way of knowing she's currently reading about tiny dinosaurs and giant dinosaurs and people getting ate by them. When the door opens, she looks up. Her make up is light, fitting in with the lighter brown hair color she's adopted. "Welcome back," she says, closing the laptop and leaving the man to get eaten without her reading about it. "I was wondering where you ran off to. You didn't run into trouble, did you?"

The door is gently kicked shut behind him, moving towards the kitchen in fluid, unhindered footsteps despite his injuries, and the bags are put up onto the counter. Milk, bread, boxes of both tea and coffee - it's a small but good haul, mostly necessities, although a circular tub of icecream is also extracted, which he holds up for her to see. "You like strawberry, right?" Sylar asks. Everyone likes strawberry. And that's not quite enough to distract from the question, so he just shakes his head. "No, not this time. I just needed to take care of some things."

Icecream? That makes Gillian blink in surprise, but she moves to stand up, moving after him and looking at the circular tub. "Who doesn't?" is her answer, but there's definitely something soft and pleased in the sound of her heartbeat, the way she draws in air. "Though I'm also a fan of pistachio," she says, for a reference. There's probably others that she likes, but strawberry will never earn a negative, from the sound of things. "I won't ask, but I think I'm ready for another lesson. I've kept everything pretty easy the last few days."

He offers the icecream to her for her inspection and indulgment, or to put it away - either or - and quirks a smile at her. "Pistachio's not bad. I prefer the classics," Sylar says, tone pleasant, moving to put bread away, a small container of caramel-sugar, some miscellanious canned substances, into the pantry, back to her. "If you're sure," he says with a quickly glance, tone light but words a little quick. "I wouldn't want you to exert yourself or anything. You crashed pretty hard after the last time."

"We need to work on focusing only at one person— or I won't be able to help you when you go to fight both of them," Gillian says, grabbing a spoon as she opts partake in said icecream as soon as possible, though she fails to grab a bowl. The round top is pulled off, and she sticks the spoon in already, getting herself a decent sized mouthful, that she taste tests. Yes, she's certainly indulging. Right out of the tub. Once she's finished the spoonful and has her mouth empty, she adds, "I want to help you. Maybe if I learn to control it better I can give only a certain amount so it doesn't knock me out, but still gives you an edge."

Good thing he's meticulously stacking cans or else Gillian might raise an eyebrow at the smile that brings. Sylar has had a rough night and good news is a blessing. "That sounds like a good idea. Control should be valued over brute strength," he says, turning back to her now and extracting the rolled up daily news paper from the plastic bags, which is balled up and discarded into a trash can beneath the sink. "I just don't want to be seen but I think I know a few places where it won't be a problem."

Another spoonful of icecream is placed in her mouth as Gillian nods and smiles. She seems to be in a pleasant enough mood today— open and trusting. That might end as she takes her icecream tub over to the counter where the newspaper was set and starts to unfold it, spoon hanging out of her mouth. While she's opening up the pages, she pulls the spoon out to respond, "Doesn't matter where for me, but I don't want to be seen either— I don't want those suits finding me. Though we'll have to be a little more careful. I saw that we killed a squater last time. Probably some loser— shouldn't have been there anyway, but…" She shrugs, a little flippant about someone being killed. It'd been an accident, though. Pulling out the front section, she unfolds it and starts to turn pages. And sticks the spoon (plus icecream) back into her mouth.

Things put away, Sylar takes out a spoon as well and comes to stand beside Gillian, stealing back the icecream tub to curl a lick of icecream onto the spoon. "There's a nightclub, called Rapture. You probably know it," he says. "It's not exactly the most wholesome of scenes so we might just get away with it, and there's bound to be some Evolved you can try not focus on while boosting me." And he's watching the pages being turned too, even as he tucks the spoonful of icecream into his mouth.

With tub requisitioned, Gillian finishes off her current spoonful and pulls it out to respond, "That sounds like a good idea. There seem to be Evolved everywhere these days, honestly. I don't think a day didn't go by where there wasn't at least one who came into the library." There's a shake of her head. "Oh great, more Registered attacks. See, this is exactly why I don't want to get— " That's as far as she gets. Suddenly the spoon drops out of her hand and tumbles off the counter and onto the floor. She must have gotten to the description of the person who's missing, the name, the card found at the scene—

Sylar doesn't startle when Gillian's reaction occurs, but it doesn't matter. The woman's not even looking at him anyway. He licks off a layer of icecream from his spoon and tosses it towards the sink where it lands with a clatter, putting the cap back onto the tub of icecream. "You dropped— what's wrong?" he asks, in a carefully designed tone of bewilderment, bending to pick up the fallen utensil and tossing that aside towards the sink as well, the metallic clatter punctuating the question.

"My sister," Gillian says quietly. The shock isn't as strong as when her own personal freedom had been in jepordy, but there's definite signs of stress in her heartbeat, and in her breathing. "It— she was attacked. Kidnapped. In our old apartment building." There's a shake of her head. She doesn't even bother to pick up her spoon when she leaves the newspaper sitting open and walks away from the counter. "Do you think they were looking for me and found her instead? Or this— " She cuts off, voice descending toward a soft sound. Not a sob at all, though. It's actually an angry sound, a growl almost.

Sylar picks up the newspaper when it's left behind, following Gillian. He's a little quiet, pretending to read it, but he's already read it and has it memorised, whether he likes it or not. "No, I don't think they were after you," he says, his face studious as he regards the article. "They got some witnesses that saw her attacked by two men in suits, unidentified as of yet. Drove off in a van. No, this sounds like the Company and they take in the people they target. You said your sister's a Registered Evolved, right?"

"But Michael said that they only went after dangerous ones," Gillian counters angerly, giving off much the same vibe as she had when she had to throw her keys at the painted image of Assface x2. "And Jenny's not dangerous. She's a walking wet t-shirt contest." Sounds like there's a reason somewhere down the line for that nickname. "And she's already registered. Why would they need to take her? These people— this Company? They're idiots. They have someone who's a loose cannon working for them— so loose that a second version of himself fell right out of his body. If they think Jenny's a threat when— what would they even want her for?"

"I don't know," Sylar says, now moving to set the newspaper down, and reaching out to touch Gillian's arm. No spark of powers, he's better than to let himself go out of control when they make contact, but that deeper, more preternatural connection is there along with the mundane gesture. "Sometimes they go after people who're useful to them in some way, not just the dangerous ones. You can't trust these people, Gillian, they don't work off a public agenda like HomeSec, or even the terrorists." Pause. "What else did… this Michael say to you?"

The touch on her arm keeps her from walking over to one of her candles and tossing it at a wall or something, but Gillian doesn't even look down at it. She turns around and looks up instead. He's taller than her, rather imposing of a figure, but she's not scared or worried about him. "I don't trust them. I don't even trust the ones who would work for HomeSec. Hard to trust someone who wants to steal my freedom away." She leans into his hold a bit, stepping closer. "That they take people who they think are dangerous— or useful to them. These people are never seen or heard from again, or if they are they might be brainwashed and turned into instruments for them." None of which are good options.

"Except for the ones who make it out," Sylar suggests, lightly. "I did. But then again… I'm a little more than a wet T-shirt contest." His other hand comes to grip her other arm in a distanced but still reassuring hold, keeping his eyes trained on her's. "We can't trust them to not keep her for as long as they want. It's been a few days now and there's no sign of her," and he tilts his head to indicate the newspaper. "I…" His grip loosens on her arms, his voice a careful measure of regret, irritation. "I wish I could say that I could go rescue her for you, but…"

There's a nod in response to him being much more than a wet t-shirt contest. That's not a doubt at all. Gillian's seen what he can do, and while she doubts he could rip down a building without her help, she's still seen him do quite a bit on his own. "I wouldn't ask you to do that. You escaped, but you might not escape a second time." Not that she doubts his power so much as… well… it could happen, and then she'd lose her protector. But can she really just shrug and let them keep her sister? "This is what Michael was trying to warn me about. Do you think they could try to help her?" There's a hint in her voice that shows less concern if they get caught trying.

Sylar's eyebrows raise a little, a show of indication that that did not occur to him. But it's just that, a show. "Well… it's not as though those people don't have the means to at least try," he says, hands now coming off her arms, folding his own as he leans a little against the table. "I mean… if he offered his help… I don't think we have anything to lose. Better than us playing with fire. Michael seems to be better informed than both of us, too."

"He told me a way to contact him," Gillian says, allowing him to move away from her, even if— well— she hadn't minded his physical closeness. It'd had a calming effect from the way her heartbeat settled, and her breathing slowed down. "I might as well take him up on it. It's her own fault for offering herself up to be registered when she could have hidden it right up until she flooded my apartment, but I have to try to get her out of there…" Though she's being flippant about it, she does seem to be bothered, genuinely angry, and she probably is doing her best to cover up any quiver in her voice. Only he's a little better than most at catching people pretending to not care.

"Contact him," Sylar urges, although without pressure - just a gentle nudge in his tone, although it firms up when he adds, "And let me come with you if you go to meet him." He pauses, as if shy, and looks towards the carpet. "Sorry, you can take care of yourself, I just want to make sure— I mean, you know, I don't trust a lot of people anymore."

"Even if he saved me once, I don't trust him either," Gillian says, though his 'as if' shyness seems to have settled her nerves a little. There's a lot more trust toward him. She even reaches up and touches his arm. There's no glow to her hand, but the connection locks into place anyway— it always does. "You're about the only one I do trust right now. I wouldn't go there without you."

Sylar looks up again when her palm rests against his arm, and nods once, almost solemnly. "Good." His hand covers hers when he adds, "I hate to think of what your poor sister must be going through right now. You're helping me stop Peter - both of them - and so that's the least I could do, right? Besides, you're about the one person I think I can trust too." Which actually, for once, has a grain of truth - she doesn't know enough about him for him to worry about a knife in his back.

A grain of truth is truth enough, because from her smile, Gillian believes him. There's a reluctance to her as she pulls her hand away, a hint of a sigh. "I'll go out and drop that message off— it's pretty complicated." Like a stupid terrorist organization probably should be. "Don't eat all the icecream before I get back," she adds, gesturing toward the kitchen. There's a tub in there, and while it's making a way toward melting, it's still edible, and she wants there to be some when she gets back. The fact that she's heading toward her helmet before the door shows she intends to take her motorcycle.

"Why don't you pick some up some more on your way back?" Sylar suggests, content to watch her get organised to leave. "You could even get pistachio. Then you won't have to worry." Beat. "Gillian? Be careful." He doesn't know the nature of how she'd contact "Michael", but it seems like something he should say. "We'll head to Rapture around sundown."

"Sure, I can pick up a few tubs," Gillian says, actually smiling a little at the idea. There might even be sprinkles on the shopping list. "I'll be careful— and back well before sundown." If she's not, though, that's when there's worries. Pulling a coat on, and carrying the helmet to the door, she checks to make sure she has keys before she heads out.

It's tempting to follow, to make sure, and also just to see where she's going, but Sylar only gives a warm chuckle at her promise to bring back more icecream, and inclines his head to her. He watches the door shut, before delicately TKing the icecream back into the freezer from where he's leaning. A rustle of paper follows as he picks up the newspaper once more, observing the smiling portrait of Jennifer in black and white, and tracing along the edge of it with a fingertip.

November 8th: The Reason for the Name
November 8th: If You're Happy and You Know It
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