Participants:
| Scene Title | Trusting The Untrustable |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two men in a room with more in common than they realise. |
| Date | December 19, 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 flatscreen 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, coffemaker, 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 rennovation 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.
Before Sylar can even contemplate how very very useful teleportation would be, Elias is only gone again. To Dina and her saviour, if one can make a guess of logic. Guesswork is handy. Either way, Sylar reaches out a hand to steady himself on furniture when he appears in Ethan's apartment, snow falling from an expensive fur coat. His shape is still that of the woman named Steve's, something to fix once he's out of these clothes. Something to fix soon. He strips away the black coat with its furred collar, letting it fall, and looks down at himself. Low-heeled shoes, a sensible if elegant A-line skirt, a white silk blouse now tainted with blood. Forgiveably, the bullet didn't enter him anywhere critical, it feels and looks worse than it is, but still counts towards a total of four in the past few months.
He supposes that if he gets six more, he might get a free shot in his latte, or something. A bitter laugh in Steve's voice fills the immediate area.
Sometime later, Sylar, back in his true form, stuffs the feminine garments into a duffle bag within his room. He's dressed, hair damp from a quick shower, whatever wounds he obtained from the clusterfuck having been seen to by himself and hidden by clothes. Picking up the duffle bag, he slings it over his good shoulder - his left arm is free of the sling, out of defiance rather than healthiness, and he exits his— well, the bedroom, and only now does he cast out his net of Hearing. There's a conspicuous absence of a heartbeat.
Ethan isn't out of his clothes as well.. It's been a little while. But he's still in the body armor and the combat gear. He hasn't even tended to the wound on his forearm. The man is seated on the ground. He pays no attention to Sylar's entrance. Allowing the man who looks very much like a man to do whatever he wishes.
He'll address him if he needs. Until then, Ethan stays seated, a knife dancing over his fingers. His eyes follow the blade as he plays with it deftly. A exercise he used to practice all the time in his years when he was less sure of himself. Less cold. But now, he's reverting back to it.
Sylar's pace comes to a slow, and after a moment, he lets the duffle bag drop. There's a pause, as if waiting for Ethan's acknowledgment, or even more so - instruction. Perhaps even berating, because while Ethan didn't fulfill his job today, neither did Sylar. He waits, and his gaze goes down towards where the knife is being toyed with, the reflective surface catching light and reflecting back up to the man who plays with it. And Sylar realises he's waiting. Like a soldier. Or a dog.
Sylar's right hand suddenly moves, and the knife goes whipping out of Ethan's grip. It's a petulant move, perhaps, but by far the least dangerous thing Sylar could have done, but certainly, it's rare that he lashes out towards Ethan in even subtle ways. It's a delicate and unstable balance they keep. His voice is quiet, rough, and accusing. "What happened?"
Ethan's brows arch as the knife springs out of his hand. He watches his hand for a moment as if there was something wrong with it. He is mostly non-responsive. His eyes slowly slide across the ground to the man standing there… Accusing him?
Ethan's head tilts back for a moment. His hand going to his knee, pushing up on it he goes to stand. He goes to sit on the couch, putting his feet up on the table. No words for now…
Sylar moves, almost pacing around the perimeter of the room, a look of sullen anger on his face, only bristling when he doesn't immediately get a response. Today is a bad day for things not to go the way he wants them to go. "They knew," he says, voice still carrying that same gentle tone of misplaced accusation. "They had to know something. We've been careful, how could they know?"
Ethan brings up one leg, setting his boot on the opposite knee. He still doesn't speak, he'll allow Sylar to work it out for himself until he adresses him again. Ethan leans back in the couch, staring straight ahead at the blank screen of the tv.
Does Sylar have to destroy everything that gains Ethan's attention over him? His hand twitches in a way that suggests he's sorely tempted to do to the television as he did to the knife, but he doesn't want to act like a brat. And so he stops and considers the deliberate silence, jaw clenching to rein in his own anger.
Slowly does it, he moves towards the armchair, lowering himself down onto it using his right hand against the arm, wincing as fresh injury pulls with the movement. "The President-Elect is Evolved," he says, almost talking to himself, seeing as Ethan is opting for silence. "That was an unexpected twist. I could have taken him down anyway but of course, Homeland Security wasn't having any of that and they expect it anyway." Matt Parkman doesn't fuck around, a future incarnation of Peter had told him. Sylar sneers. "But there was more. Phoenix was there." And the inevitable conclusion, looking at Ethan. "She wouldn't have told them." Maybe he's not the best reader of people, and there is question in his voice.
"You lied to me."
The man doesn't look away from the television. His fingers tap his leg idly. His head tilts to the side. "I thought I started to figure you out, Sylar. We got along. I even thought for just a moment you liked me. Why are you here?" The man asks, going to stand slowly and face the other man.
"She did tell them." He didn't receive a verbal confirmation. As far as he's concerned, he doesn't need one. "What else have you been keeping from me, Sylar?"
His eyes narrow at the words flung his way, tensing almost visibly. He doesn't rise from his own seat when Ethan does, not right away, watching him, head tilted up. "I was protecting her," Sylar says, the words sound fairly foreign coming from him. Strange, not so long ago it was evening and they were in this very room, discussing these plans that lie in shambles now. It's even approaching that hour of darkness too.
He stands up, now, as Ethan does, not inclined to make himself comfortable in this place. "It's not about what I'm keeping from you, Ethan," Sylar says with a sneer. "Other than protecting secrets that aren't mine. What do you think I'm doing here?"
"Protect her from me." Ethan repeats tonelessly. Is that what people think of him? Is that what he has become? So heartless, a serial killer needs to protect her from him. Ethan stares at Sylar for a moment, tilting his head up a moment. "You came for the promise of a gold mine. You stay for something completely different." Ethan asserts.
"Do you trust me, Sylar?" It's not an accusing question. It's a question asked out of curiosity.
Sylar seems to sense the honesty of the question, gaze shifting to the side as he attempts to figure out the best answer for it. It's rather simple, at the end of the day.
"No."
Looking back at Ethan, he shakes his head a little. "But that's only because I don't think you can trust me. We're smart to be on guard. We're both too capable." His raises an eyebrow. "It's nothing personal. I'm also a psychopath." That's said sardonically, with a twitch of a smirk, using the label the Company had (not so incorrectly) bestowed upon him. The smirk fades as quickly as it begun. "What does it matter."
"That's the problem with power.." Ethan starts, his gaze leaving the other man. "You always have to be watching out to make sure someone else doesn't take it. You have to be careful." Ethan murmurs. Going to sit down on the couch once again. "It's hard to trust anyone when you do what we do." The man who has become the Wolf, looks up at the ceiling. "She left. She's not coming back."
Sylar nods a little in agreement with Ethan, eyes hooded— only to look back up at Ethan at his announcement. He remains stoic, if silent, but silence is telling. "Oh," he says, in a mild tone of voice. Well now what? Do we get a new Munin? That seems unlikely. A few things fall into place and Sylar tilts his head, studying the Wolf. "You're right," he says, after a moment. "I lied to you. I helped her. But I didn't know what she was going to do."
A little shrug is given. For some reason, the loss of Munin is more severe a blow to this cause than any failure could be. His convictions shaken, his fire redirected…
"I've always 'ad a plan in my life." He explains slowly. "Always 'ad a plan." He goes to stand up once again. "For the first time in a long time, I don't know what to do."
A frown tugs at Sylar's mouth, looking at Ethan in an almost critical way. After an exchange of I don't trust you's, this is almost a flip, but then… when you don't trust someone, what have you got to lose. "If you don't know what to do," Sylar says, slowly, holding out a hand— away from Ethan, "then I guess I'm done here." The duffle bag he'd dropped is summoned when he turns his head to look at it, and he snatches the handle out of the air. "Until you figure it out."
"I'm sure Kazimir 'as something for you to do." Ethan says lightly, testingly. He doesn't look at the man. He continues to just wait in the silence that follows his words. Though now he will go to retrieve the knife that Sylar so rudely ripped away from him.
Sylar was taking a step away, but he pauses now at those words with fleeting doubt as well as misdirected anger, looking back at Ethan though he doesn't earn the man's gaze in return. He slings the duffle bag over his uninjured shoulder, momentarily caught in indecision. As if there's more he wants to say or find out.
Maybe some other time.
"He probably does," is all Sylar can summon up in return, before he's moving for the door again, pace too brisk to be casual.
Ethan turns his gaze to Sylar as the man departs, looking after him thoughtfully. He has flaws, for certain, but perhaps he does deserve a bit of trust. Part of the Wolf balks at the notion of trusting the untrustable. But broccoli doesn't look that bad when your other option is dog feces. And Kazimir Volken just might become Ethan's dog poop.
The man makes his way to the bedroom to finally get undressed from his combat gear. Though, in the midst of it, a picture is taken out from his dresser. An old picture. But not old enough.. He holds it for a long moment. A very long moment…
 December 19th: The Devil's Due, Part IV |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 December 19th: The Rear Window |