Fic: The Painted Wall (Heroes/BSG Crossover)
Sylar watches the news story, eyes fixed on the television, hand flat on the bar in front of him.
A patron, beside him, lets out a burp. “What is this?” he slurs, drunkenly. “Some kinda science fiction movie? Hey! Can someone put on the Red Sox, please?”
“Shut up,” says the bartender, snapping her rag at him. “It’s the news, dumbass.”
“There’s a spaceship on the news?” asks the drunk.
The bartender rolls her eyes. “Yeah. There’s a spaceship on the news.”
The drunk considers this, for a moment. “Well, where’d it come from?” he asks.
“Isn’t that the question of the year.”
On the television screen, three distant specks start descending towards Earth; the noise from the crowd surrounding the Washington Monument swells, such that the crowd is no longer scores of individual voices but one, alone, low and deafening.
Sylar shifts forward.
“So, so, so,” says the drunk, “like, little green men are gonna come out of that thing?” He starts sniggering, at his own hilarity.
“Naw,” says another customer, “they’re human, like us.”
“Bull crap,” says the drunk.
“No way, dude, I read it in the newspaper. They’re like from the signs of the Zodiac or something.”
Sylar drains the last of his drink, watches as the first person steps out of the plane.
He stands.
“Hey,” says the manager, “you gonna pay your bill, buddy?”
Sylar looks up.
“Oh,” says the manager, “well, we’ll put it on credit, shall we?”
Sylar flicks an eyebrow and he turns away, leaving the bar behind.
- - - -
He picks his target carefully.
They develop personalities slowly, in the media, and Sylar remembers everything he hears. President Laura Roslin, the leader of the fleet. Admiral William Adama. And the others, the pilots, the politicians, the Quorum of Twelve.
Former President Gaius Baltar - and Sylar considers him, for a long time. The man is jumpy, weak, without the fighting spirit the others show. But they hate him; it’s clear, in how they turn away, ignore his opinion, avoid his presence. He’s important, but reviled.
No, that won’t suit Sylar’s purposes.
He waits, for a long time, lingering in Washington, DC, traveling across the ocean, ghosting just along the edge of each otherworldly appearance. The solution, when he finds it, is obvious.
- - - -
They have hotel rooms, in a Hyatt Regency. The building is hollow in the center, honeycombed up twenty-five stories. The Colonials are on the fifteenth floor, “Closed For Repairs”, by the look of the signs.
Their presence is well-hidden, but Sylar can find them.
He rips through the seals, on the stairwell, and makes his way along the hallway, following the echo of voices.
He stops, by the door of a room, and listens.
“Ha, right, Starbuck, cause I’m a complete idiot.”
“That’s right, Helo, cut your losses and run…”
“Running means I live to fight another day.”
“Shouldn’t we be using dollars?”
“Dollars?”
“It’s their currency.”
“Have they even figured out an exchange rate?”
Six - no, seven heartbeats. Sylar waits, for a long time, but the voice he’s anticipating never shows. He must be somewhere else.
Along the row of hallways, he finds a few solitary heartbeats, but they’re wrong. A woman’s breathing, as she switches through television channels.
The next door is the jackpot. He can hear a man’s breathing, solitary and alone. Sylar raps on the door, and just catches the startled intake of breath, the jump in his heartbeat.
“Who is it?”
-it’s him.
“Room service,” calls Sylar.
The door comes open, in front of him, and Sylar darts inside.
Lieutenant Felix Gaeta reacts, quicker than Sylar is expecting, but it doesn’t matter - Sylar already has him pinned against the wall - physically and telekinetically, hand over his mouth. “Don’t scream,” says Sylar, “or I will kill you.”
Gaeta is trembling, but he has a set in his eyes that Sylar didn’t anticipate. Sure, he may not have the fighting spirit of the other military Sylar has seen, but there’s depth here, a strength buried under the surface.
This is going to be dangerous.
A thrill chases up Sylar’s spine at the thought.
“Who are you?” Gaeta hisses, as Sylar pulls his hand away.
Sylar fits his hand, loosely, to the curve of Gaeta’s throat. “Relax,” he says, with an ironic tilt to his head.
Gaeta struggles, nearly twists out of his grip, but Sylar’s telekinesis can’t just be shrugged away. He falls, unconscious, in Sylar’s arms.
Oh, this will be fun.
- - - -
Consciousness hits Felix like a mudslide - the first few slips, a thought tumbling here and there, sensory perceptions trickling through the muddle of his subconscious. Then it’s pure momentum, until he snaps his head up, eyes open, heart pounding.
His hands are fixed behind him with a kind of sticky material - a tape - at an uncomfortable angle, and his neck has a cramp in it. He’s been here for a while.
“Hello?” Felix calls, twisting to try and see behind him. There’s not much he can tell about the room - it’s small, with a sofa, chairs. Cloth is drawn over the windows, the floor is carpeted.
It could be anywhere. He has no context, in this world. He could be in an apartment in the middle of a city; in a house in the middle of the plains. They don’t have transportation as fast as the Galactica, but Felix doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious. They might be anywhere on the globe by now.
“Is anyone there?” Felix’s throat is dry; he’s thirsty.
He hears the soft pad of feet on the carpet, and turns.
It’s the man, the one who kidnapped him from the hotel room. Reflexively, Felix tugs at the tape holding his wrists together, holding his ankles to the legs of the chair, but it doesn’t come loose.
The look the man gives him is calculating, almost idle.
“Who are you?” asks Felix, swallowing the tremor in his voice.
“My name is Sylar,” says the man, stepping closer.
“Sylar?” A wave of dizziness washes over Felix; he tries to concentrate. “What kind of name is that?”
“Mine,” says Sylar.
“What do you want?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it.” Sylar moves around him, behind him. Examining.
Felix stiffens his jaw. “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble for this,” he warns. “You’ll have your government after you, plus a force from mine.”
Sylar has moved into his vision again, by this time. He surprises Felix with a half-laugh. “You think you’re going to be rescued,” says Sylar.
“I think you’re going to be caught,” says Felix.
“I’m going to ask you questions,” states Sylar, ignoring him. “And you’re going to answer me, honestly.”
“Or what?” Felix looks up. “I won’t tell you anything.”
“Tell me,” says Sylar, “in your colonies. Are there individuals with special abilities?”
“Special abilities?” Felix echoes, in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
Sylar extends a hand, and makes a gesture.
For a moment, Felix doesn’t understand what he’s doing, but then - the chair, underneath him, crumples, the tape ripping away, and Felix impacts into the wall, the air knocked out of him. He gasps in a breath, twists against the invisible bonds holding him to the wall.
- - - -
Sylar can hear his heart fluttering, a butterfly in a cage. He smiles at it, at the new terror in Gaeta’s body. The defiance - he guessed there would be defiance. But there wasn’t fear, not nearly as much as he was expecting. This one has faced down terrors before, and he didn’t expect Sylar would be any different.
But now, Sylar is confronting him with the impossible, the unknown, or, at least, the unquantifiable.
“Special abilities,” repeats Sylar, slowly. “Anything,” and he drops Gaeta on the floor, in a heap of crumpled limbs, “out of the ordinary.”
Gaeta scrambles upright, standing shakily against the wall. “What was that?” he asks, his eyes darting back and forth, as though the apartment holds the answer.
“Tell me,” says Sylar. “Is it common? An accepted phenomenon? Are there rumors?”
“No, there’s nothing-”
“The truth.”
There’s a hesitation in Gaeta’s voice, his manner. It may be nothing, but Sylar doesn’t think so.
Gaeta shakes his head. “I swear, there’s nothing, I have no idea what you’re talking about -”
Enough is enough.
Sylar opens the empty closet, with a flick of his fingers, and throws Gaeta inside.
“Think about it,” says Sylar, and he shuts the door.
- - - -
Felix sits back, in the corner of the closet. They were warned, of course, that this might happen. There was a complete briefing, of the different religious groups, extremist cells, that might try and harm any of the Galactica’s crewmembers. They were trained on how to avoid possible confrontations, how to keep security risks to a minimum - but nothing had told Felix about this.
Telekinesis. It’s just a legend, the stuff of cheap novels and fantasy. Except - except this man displayed it. Flaunted it.
And cruelty, casual, lethal, but withheld - he didn’t actually hurt Felix, just intimidated him. He wanted information, not damage, though Felix gets the feeling that he’s very capable of damage, if provoked.
Special abilities. Felix sits back, and tries not to think.
- - - -
The reasons for choosing Felix Gaeta are many, and varied.
It took Sylar days to notice him, in the background on the news broadcasts. It seems Gaeta is there, if not always, then more often than not. But, even so, he’s never mentioned. The pilots are named, the politicians named, but Felix Gaeta? The only time Sylar ever caught his name when they mentioned that he was a navigator, one who helped Gaius Baltar make the faster than light jumps to the Earth solar system.
Not just a navigator, though, as Sylar notices. He sees the strange affinity between Baltar and Gaeta, the low emotion between them that they can’t quite control or suppress. He sees the way Gaeta watches the world, a quiet intelligence in his eyes. Gaeta is a scientist, and Sylar knows how to deal with scientists.
And he sees the gap between Gaeta and the others, the loneliness so out-of-joint in the perfect clockwork of the Galactica’s crew.
Yes; Gaeta is the one he wants.
- - - -
Sylar wakes up in the early hours of the morning, alert without knowing why.
He listens, for almost a minute, before he realizes what he’s hearing.
Felix Gaeta is breathing too quickly, in ragged gasps, too regular, too controlled. In the darkness, you can’t hide - Sylar knows this.
He opens the door of the closet, and steps inside. Felix is in the corner, huddled, arms around his chest, trying not to think, trying not to feel. Sylar crouches down, and Felix flinches - if they weren’t enclosed, in this tiny space, Felix would have moved away. But here, he can’t.
Sylar shifts forward, between Felix and the wall, pulling Felix into his arms. He can justify this, of course - it’s a move of power. He gives Felix comfort; he can give Felix pain. It’s mastery, that’s all.
But he doesn’t expect - again, he has to stop this, he has to regain control of the future - that Felix will fit into his arms, that Felix’s fingers will curl around his back, that Felix will bury his face in Sylar’s neck. He takes the comfort, that and more than Sylar is willing to offer. It’s too much, too much to handle.
But slowly, gradually, Felix relaxes, and his breathing evens. Sylar slips away, then, closing the closet door behind him.
- - - -
“Are you planning on killing me?” asks Felix, through a tightened jaw.
“Are you afraid that I will?” Sylar counters.
Felix isn’t tied up, this time, but sitting back, against the wall. Sylar paces, nearby; Felix wonders what he’s thinking. “I’ve faced death before,” says Felix, raising his chin.
Sylar regards him, for a long moment, then shakes his head. “What would your death,” he says, “possibly gain me?”
“Maybe you’re afraid of getting caught.”
Sylar half-laughs.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about special people?”
Sylar turns back to him. “Are you going to tell me?”
Felix crosses his arms. So it’s going to be that kind of game. Silence, until Felix breaks it. Sylar isn’t a very experienced interrogator.
“What was that about, last night?” asks Felix.
“Why don’t you tell me.”
Felix winces. He walked into that one. But here, he can only find Sylar’s weakness if he exposes his own. “We all have a past.”
Sylar tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, Felix thinks that Sylar is about to respond. But no - his eyes are intent but unfocused - he’s listening -
The door to the apartment explodes inwards, and Felix is on his feet, immediately. Rescue, it has to be rescue, the law enforcement of this nation has found him.
“Peter,” spits Sylar.
Felix focuses on the figure in the doorway - a man, in a longer coat, for the winter season. Dark hair, angry eyes.
Eyes that fix straight on Felix.
“Who the hell are you?” demands ‘Peter’.
“I, uh,” says Felix.
“Get behind me,” orders Sylar, eyes on Peter.
“Are you working with him?” asks Peter.
One companion, two, thee appear behind Peter - a young woman, tough, pretty, with long blond hair; an Asian man with glasses; an elegant, stunning woman with a gun in her hand.
“Get behind me,” Sylar repeats, in a hiss.
Felix wavers, sensing the chance to escape - but Sylar has already said he doesn’t plan to kill Felix, and what does Felix know about these four?”
“Peter, just get him,” snarls the youngest of the three companions.
“Hey,” says Peter, watching Felix, “if you’re not with him, y’know, we can help you.”
I doubt it, thinks Felix, and he makes his decision.
Sylar takes his hand. “Hold on,” says Sylar, and the floor drops out from under them.
Felix grabs Sylar, in pure reflex, and realizes, abruptly, that they’re falling through the floor below. Then the floor below that. Then the floor below that…
Felix closes his eyes, swallows the rush of nausea, and holds on.
- - - -
“Why were they after you?” asks Felix, breaking the silence.
Sylar glances over to him. “I’m a murderer.”
Felix swallows.
“Are you afraid now?”
“I don’t know,” says Felix, “can you tell me what it’s like not to be?”
Sylar considers that. “No,” he says. “I can’t.”
- - - -
“Do you kill people with special abilities?”
Sylar considers the question, for a moment. “Yes.”
“Why?” asks Felix.
“Because they don’t deserve what they have.”
“If they don’t, then who does?”
Sylar’s jaw sets. “I do.”
Felix raises his eyebrows. “You, what, you take the powers?”
“Yes.”
“So,” and Felix’s eyes are straight ahead, fixed at the horizon, “if I told you that there were special people in the fleet, you would go up there, find them, and murder them.”
Sylar doesn’t respond.
“I won’t tell you anything,” Felix vows. “Nothing.”
- - - -
“You have cars on your world?”
Felix stirs, from his half-awakened state. “What?”
“Cars,” repeats Sylar. “Do you have anything like that?”
After a pause, Felix nods. “They’re exactly the same,” he says. “Roads too. They’re asphalt.”
“They’re the same,” echoes Sylar, flatly.
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound likely.”
Felix shakes his head. “It’s enough to make you believe in the gods.”
Sylar makes a soft, scoffing kind of noise.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“And where’s that?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
- - - -
And he does - to Felix’s surprise, they pull over, into a city - Felix has no idea where - and they drive along, through streets that look shadier and shadier, darker and darker.
“Where is this place?” -and Sylar stops the car.
Before Felix has a chance to react, Sylar is out of the car, on Felix’s side, tugging him away. “Come on,” says Sylar, and they vanish into the shadow of a building. Sylar takes him through a wall, inside a ratty, dingy apartment. The floors are bare, the furniture sparing. Felix can tell, at a glance, that it’s not inhabited. There are no lamps, no decorations - it’s empty, except for a stack of paint cans in the corner.
“We should be safe here,” says Sylar.
“How can you possibly know that?” asks Felix.
“I know.”
Felix bites his lip, and nods. “I guess I have to trust you, don’t I?”
Sylar doesn’t answer, just holds Felix’s eyes, until Felix looks away.
“Where do we sleep?” asks Felix.
“Anywhere,” says Sylar. “Don’t leave any evidence.”
As Felix turns to go, Sylar takes a breath.
“Why do they ignore you?”
“Excuse me?” asks Felix, turning back.
“It’s why I chose you,” Sylar tells him. “Because you weren’t tied so closely to your friends.”
“I was tied just fine with my friends.”
“Is it because of your connection with Baltar?”
Felix’s mouth opens, closes, soundlessly. “How many powers do you have?” he asks, finally.
“Eighteen,” says Sylar, pulling off his jacket, draping it over the chair.
“What are they?”
An amused look crosses Sylar’s face. “I asked you first,” he says.
Felix laughs, suddenly, and he presses his mouth into a line. “They tried to kill me,” he says.
“Why would they do that?” Sylar is curious, paying attention. Genuinely interested.
Felix sits, cross-legged, against the wall. “They thought I was a criminal.”
“And you weren’t.”
“No,” says Felix. “I wasn’t.” He shakes his head. “But that doesn’t really matter, does it? It matters that they believed I was, that they didn’t know me well enough to trust-” And he stops, the words choked in his throat. It’s too much; he shouldn’t have said that much.
“So that’s why.”
“Why what?”
Sylar shifts, on the couch, leaning forward. “You’re more than I expected,” he tries to explain, “but you didn’t fight. Even when we were in the car, you didn’t, and I didn’t understand why. You don’t have a place to go back to, though, do you?”
“Sure I do,” says Felix, his stomach clenching, nervously. “I have a job, I have people who know me -”
“If they hate you,” says Sylar, “then why do you stay?”
“They don’t hate me,” denies Felix.
“You do know something, don’t you?”
Felix’s heart rate jumps. “What do you mean?” he asks, carefully.
“Someone with abilities.” Sylar stands. “You know someone. Tell me.”
“No,” says Felix, getting to his feet.
“What do these people mean to you?” asks Sylar. “What have they done to earn your respect?”
“Stop it,” snaps Felix.
“Tell me!”
“No!”
- - - -
Felix is flushed - it might not be easy to tell, with the in-between darkness of his complexion, but Sylar can feel it, can hear the blood rushing in his veins. Angry, on his feet, ready to defend, ready to hurt Sylar -
He’s beautiful.
The thought is striking, devastating in its truth. No. He can’t afford this. He can’t afford a distraction like this.
“Get some sleep,” says Sylar, abruptly, ending the conversation. “If you try to leave, I’ll hear you.”
Felix stiffens. “Fine,” he spits.
- - - -
Late at night, and sleep still won’t come. Felix turns onto his back, knees awkwardly curled underneath him, braced on the slightly-too-small couch. He still expects it’s more comfortable than the bare carpet, in the empty bedroom.
One footstep, then another - Felix twists upright, and he spots Sylar in the doorway.
“Come here,” says Sylar.
Felix automatically moves to his feet, follows Sylar into the carpeted bedroom. Maybe it’s his exhaustion, how late it is at night, but something prompts immediate obedience.
“Lie down,” Sylar tells him.
Felix does, and, to his surprise, Sylar shifts next to him. His hand traces the line of Felix’s jaw. “Go to sleep now,” he says, softly, and Felix closes his eyes, snug to Sylar’s warmth.
- - - -
Sylar wakes up first, with a dream so clear he can almost taste it, drifting on the back of his tongue. Even so, the details bleed away, as he blinks, sits up, no matter how he tries to hold onto them.
Felix is asleep next to him, peacefully, and it tugs at something inside Sylar. He wants to stay here.
He stands, moving out to the main room of the apartment. He doesn’t know what to do next - he honestly has no idea. He doesn’t have any planned hideouts this part of the country, and he can hardly afford a hotel every night. And he shouldn’t depend on his intuition to get him through.
There’s a prickle on the back of Sylar’s neck, and he turns -
…and his eyes fall on the stack of paint cans, in the corner.
He reaches for one - it’s half-full of a deep maroon paint. Why it’s here, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, now.
With a blink, Sylar’s eyes turn milky, and he sees.
- - - -
Sylar examines the completed painting for a long time.
It lacks concrete detail, done only in two colors as it is - the white of the wall, the maroon of the paint. But, enough of the scene is decipherable, and enough of the people recognizable.
A deep thrill runs through him - he loves powers, he loves using them this way - and Sylar is back in the bedroom in an instant. He settles over Felix, spreading Felix’s legs apart, shifting up to kiss him, his tongue pressing into Felix’s mouth.
It takes him long seconds to realize that Felix is kissing back, that Felix’s legs are wrapping around his waist. Felix moans, delicious and low, and Sylar catches it in his own throat, his own lungs. He tears Felix’s tank tops over his head, scrambling with telekinesis to get the rest of his clothing out of the way. Felix is hard already, in his palm, and in barely a stroke, two, Felix is gasping in pure disbelief, hips twisting to the movement of Sylar’s hands, neck arched back, the most amazing noises pouring from his mouth.
Before long, there’s semen spilled on Sylar’s hand, and Felix is panting, pliant and stunned under Sylar.
“Lick,” commands Sylar, his fingers at Felix’s mouth.
Felix does, mindlessly, sucking each digit into his mouth with an incredibly erotic concentration. He must know what Sylar has in mind, the movement of his body doesn’t suggest inexperience - but, like this, he’s nothing like Mohinder. Mohinder was passive, afraid, always afraid, even when Sylar was Zane. Then, not because of the physical danger, but because of the very near, very real risk of heartache.
Here, Felix isn’t afraid but wary, guarded, and still - still, he shifts his hips up, whines in need as Sylar slips fingers inside clenching warmth.
Mohinder captured Sylar, entranced him; Felix meets him halfway in something more equal, more balanced.
Felix is half-hard again, gasping, when Sylar pulls his legs up. “Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” groans Felix, and he cries out as Sylar pushes inside.
The way is rough, but Felix is experienced; he knows the right angle, by instinct, knows how to relax and how to move into the thrust. Sylar can feel Felix’s consent in every line of his body, every twist, every muscle clenching under the skin.
“Ohgodsohgods,” he hears Felix breathe, “please,” nearly a whimper, and he doesn’t hold back.
- - - -
Felix rests his head on Sylar’s shoulder, feels Sylar’s arm curl around the back of his neck. He’s still breathing hard, still a little disoriented, but gods. A deep, satisfied ache is spreading from Felix’s middle; he hasn’t had sex like that in so long.
“I’m going to show you something,” says Sylar.
“Show me what?”
- - - -
Sylar pulls his hand away from Felix’s eyes, revealing the painted wall.
“What is this?” asks Felix, stepping closer. He can see a Viper, a pilot, her head burst open, and blood - “Is that Starbuck?”
“She died,” murmurs Sylar. “Died in fire, and came back, to lead you to Earth.” He looks from the mural, to Felix. “Tell me one thing,” he says. “Was she one of the ones who tried to hurt you?”
Felix spins, and the look in his eyes is answer enough.
“What are you going to do?” asks Felix, his eyes wide.
“Sssh.” Sylar wraps an arm around Felix, touches Felix’s neck. “Sssh,” and Sylar thinks maybe it’s telling that Felix doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to pull away.
- - - -
Felix awakens in a hospital bed, Lee Adama nearby.
“Hey,” calls Lee, “hey, he’s waking up!”
Felix blinks, tries to sit up, looks, bewildered, at the array of machines hooked to him.
“Gaeta, it’s all right,” says Lee, “we found you on the street, near the White House. What the frak happened to you?”
“Starbuck,” says Felix.
“What?” Lee smiles, tentatively. “Starbuck was with us, there was no way -”
“No, Starbuck.” Felix rips away the IV. “He’s going to kill her, you have to find her.”
“Who’s going to kill her?”
“Sylar,” whispers Felix.
Lee shakes his head. “Listen, Starbuck’s under the best protection this country can provide. Everyone is, since you got kidnapped.”
“Warn them,” insists Felix. “Warn them.”
“Okay,” says Lee, “okay, fine.”
- - - -
Deep inside her brain, Sylar finds what he’s looking for.
This - this isn’t just a power. It’s a masterpiece. It’s a work of art. It’s a - a destiny.
“This is for him,” Sylar murmurs, and he takes it.
- - - -
They find Starbuck dead, only a few hours after Felix wakes up.
The pilots are in shock - once, Starbuck died once, and it devastated everyone. But here, there doesn’t seem any way she could cheat death. Any way she could come back.
“Murdered,” they whisper - “her head, cut open, her brain…”
Felix’s throat chokes. He’s disgusted, shocked, nausea rising in his throat, his palms sweaty. But - somehow, inside, he’s relieved.
He’ll never have to remember how cruel she was to him, in the launch tube. He’ll never have to remember again -
Felix drops his head in his hands, and all he can see, all he can remember, is a man named Sylar.
A patron, beside him, lets out a burp. “What is this?” he slurs, drunkenly. “Some kinda science fiction movie? Hey! Can someone put on the Red Sox, please?”
“Shut up,” says the bartender, snapping her rag at him. “It’s the news, dumbass.”
“There’s a spaceship on the news?” asks the drunk.
The bartender rolls her eyes. “Yeah. There’s a spaceship on the news.”
The drunk considers this, for a moment. “Well, where’d it come from?” he asks.
“Isn’t that the question of the year.”
On the television screen, three distant specks start descending towards Earth; the noise from the crowd surrounding the Washington Monument swells, such that the crowd is no longer scores of individual voices but one, alone, low and deafening.
Sylar shifts forward.
“So, so, so,” says the drunk, “like, little green men are gonna come out of that thing?” He starts sniggering, at his own hilarity.
“Naw,” says another customer, “they’re human, like us.”
“Bull crap,” says the drunk.
“No way, dude, I read it in the newspaper. They’re like from the signs of the Zodiac or something.”
Sylar drains the last of his drink, watches as the first person steps out of the plane.
He stands.
“Hey,” says the manager, “you gonna pay your bill, buddy?”
Sylar looks up.
“Oh,” says the manager, “well, we’ll put it on credit, shall we?”
Sylar flicks an eyebrow and he turns away, leaving the bar behind.
- - - -
He picks his target carefully.
They develop personalities slowly, in the media, and Sylar remembers everything he hears. President Laura Roslin, the leader of the fleet. Admiral William Adama. And the others, the pilots, the politicians, the Quorum of Twelve.
Former President Gaius Baltar - and Sylar considers him, for a long time. The man is jumpy, weak, without the fighting spirit the others show. But they hate him; it’s clear, in how they turn away, ignore his opinion, avoid his presence. He’s important, but reviled.
No, that won’t suit Sylar’s purposes.
He waits, for a long time, lingering in Washington, DC, traveling across the ocean, ghosting just along the edge of each otherworldly appearance. The solution, when he finds it, is obvious.
- - - -
They have hotel rooms, in a Hyatt Regency. The building is hollow in the center, honeycombed up twenty-five stories. The Colonials are on the fifteenth floor, “Closed For Repairs”, by the look of the signs.
Their presence is well-hidden, but Sylar can find them.
He rips through the seals, on the stairwell, and makes his way along the hallway, following the echo of voices.
He stops, by the door of a room, and listens.
“Ha, right, Starbuck, cause I’m a complete idiot.”
“That’s right, Helo, cut your losses and run…”
“Running means I live to fight another day.”
“Shouldn’t we be using dollars?”
“Dollars?”
“It’s their currency.”
“Have they even figured out an exchange rate?”
Six - no, seven heartbeats. Sylar waits, for a long time, but the voice he’s anticipating never shows. He must be somewhere else.
Along the row of hallways, he finds a few solitary heartbeats, but they’re wrong. A woman’s breathing, as she switches through television channels.
The next door is the jackpot. He can hear a man’s breathing, solitary and alone. Sylar raps on the door, and just catches the startled intake of breath, the jump in his heartbeat.
“Who is it?”
-it’s him.
“Room service,” calls Sylar.
The door comes open, in front of him, and Sylar darts inside.
Lieutenant Felix Gaeta reacts, quicker than Sylar is expecting, but it doesn’t matter - Sylar already has him pinned against the wall - physically and telekinetically, hand over his mouth. “Don’t scream,” says Sylar, “or I will kill you.”
Gaeta is trembling, but he has a set in his eyes that Sylar didn’t anticipate. Sure, he may not have the fighting spirit of the other military Sylar has seen, but there’s depth here, a strength buried under the surface.
This is going to be dangerous.
A thrill chases up Sylar’s spine at the thought.
“Who are you?” Gaeta hisses, as Sylar pulls his hand away.
Sylar fits his hand, loosely, to the curve of Gaeta’s throat. “Relax,” he says, with an ironic tilt to his head.
Gaeta struggles, nearly twists out of his grip, but Sylar’s telekinesis can’t just be shrugged away. He falls, unconscious, in Sylar’s arms.
Oh, this will be fun.
- - - -
Consciousness hits Felix like a mudslide - the first few slips, a thought tumbling here and there, sensory perceptions trickling through the muddle of his subconscious. Then it’s pure momentum, until he snaps his head up, eyes open, heart pounding.
His hands are fixed behind him with a kind of sticky material - a tape - at an uncomfortable angle, and his neck has a cramp in it. He’s been here for a while.
“Hello?” Felix calls, twisting to try and see behind him. There’s not much he can tell about the room - it’s small, with a sofa, chairs. Cloth is drawn over the windows, the floor is carpeted.
It could be anywhere. He has no context, in this world. He could be in an apartment in the middle of a city; in a house in the middle of the plains. They don’t have transportation as fast as the Galactica, but Felix doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious. They might be anywhere on the globe by now.
“Is anyone there?” Felix’s throat is dry; he’s thirsty.
He hears the soft pad of feet on the carpet, and turns.
It’s the man, the one who kidnapped him from the hotel room. Reflexively, Felix tugs at the tape holding his wrists together, holding his ankles to the legs of the chair, but it doesn’t come loose.
The look the man gives him is calculating, almost idle.
“Who are you?” asks Felix, swallowing the tremor in his voice.
“My name is Sylar,” says the man, stepping closer.
“Sylar?” A wave of dizziness washes over Felix; he tries to concentrate. “What kind of name is that?”
“Mine,” says Sylar.
“What do you want?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it.” Sylar moves around him, behind him. Examining.
Felix stiffens his jaw. “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble for this,” he warns. “You’ll have your government after you, plus a force from mine.”
Sylar has moved into his vision again, by this time. He surprises Felix with a half-laugh. “You think you’re going to be rescued,” says Sylar.
“I think you’re going to be caught,” says Felix.
“I’m going to ask you questions,” states Sylar, ignoring him. “And you’re going to answer me, honestly.”
“Or what?” Felix looks up. “I won’t tell you anything.”
“Tell me,” says Sylar, “in your colonies. Are there individuals with special abilities?”
“Special abilities?” Felix echoes, in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
Sylar extends a hand, and makes a gesture.
For a moment, Felix doesn’t understand what he’s doing, but then - the chair, underneath him, crumples, the tape ripping away, and Felix impacts into the wall, the air knocked out of him. He gasps in a breath, twists against the invisible bonds holding him to the wall.
- - - -
Sylar can hear his heart fluttering, a butterfly in a cage. He smiles at it, at the new terror in Gaeta’s body. The defiance - he guessed there would be defiance. But there wasn’t fear, not nearly as much as he was expecting. This one has faced down terrors before, and he didn’t expect Sylar would be any different.
But now, Sylar is confronting him with the impossible, the unknown, or, at least, the unquantifiable.
“Special abilities,” repeats Sylar, slowly. “Anything,” and he drops Gaeta on the floor, in a heap of crumpled limbs, “out of the ordinary.”
Gaeta scrambles upright, standing shakily against the wall. “What was that?” he asks, his eyes darting back and forth, as though the apartment holds the answer.
“Tell me,” says Sylar. “Is it common? An accepted phenomenon? Are there rumors?”
“No, there’s nothing-”
“The truth.”
There’s a hesitation in Gaeta’s voice, his manner. It may be nothing, but Sylar doesn’t think so.
Gaeta shakes his head. “I swear, there’s nothing, I have no idea what you’re talking about -”
Enough is enough.
Sylar opens the empty closet, with a flick of his fingers, and throws Gaeta inside.
“Think about it,” says Sylar, and he shuts the door.
- - - -
Felix sits back, in the corner of the closet. They were warned, of course, that this might happen. There was a complete briefing, of the different religious groups, extremist cells, that might try and harm any of the Galactica’s crewmembers. They were trained on how to avoid possible confrontations, how to keep security risks to a minimum - but nothing had told Felix about this.
Telekinesis. It’s just a legend, the stuff of cheap novels and fantasy. Except - except this man displayed it. Flaunted it.
And cruelty, casual, lethal, but withheld - he didn’t actually hurt Felix, just intimidated him. He wanted information, not damage, though Felix gets the feeling that he’s very capable of damage, if provoked.
Special abilities. Felix sits back, and tries not to think.
- - - -
The reasons for choosing Felix Gaeta are many, and varied.
It took Sylar days to notice him, in the background on the news broadcasts. It seems Gaeta is there, if not always, then more often than not. But, even so, he’s never mentioned. The pilots are named, the politicians named, but Felix Gaeta? The only time Sylar ever caught his name when they mentioned that he was a navigator, one who helped Gaius Baltar make the faster than light jumps to the Earth solar system.
Not just a navigator, though, as Sylar notices. He sees the strange affinity between Baltar and Gaeta, the low emotion between them that they can’t quite control or suppress. He sees the way Gaeta watches the world, a quiet intelligence in his eyes. Gaeta is a scientist, and Sylar knows how to deal with scientists.
And he sees the gap between Gaeta and the others, the loneliness so out-of-joint in the perfect clockwork of the Galactica’s crew.
Yes; Gaeta is the one he wants.
- - - -
Sylar wakes up in the early hours of the morning, alert without knowing why.
He listens, for almost a minute, before he realizes what he’s hearing.
Felix Gaeta is breathing too quickly, in ragged gasps, too regular, too controlled. In the darkness, you can’t hide - Sylar knows this.
He opens the door of the closet, and steps inside. Felix is in the corner, huddled, arms around his chest, trying not to think, trying not to feel. Sylar crouches down, and Felix flinches - if they weren’t enclosed, in this tiny space, Felix would have moved away. But here, he can’t.
Sylar shifts forward, between Felix and the wall, pulling Felix into his arms. He can justify this, of course - it’s a move of power. He gives Felix comfort; he can give Felix pain. It’s mastery, that’s all.
But he doesn’t expect - again, he has to stop this, he has to regain control of the future - that Felix will fit into his arms, that Felix’s fingers will curl around his back, that Felix will bury his face in Sylar’s neck. He takes the comfort, that and more than Sylar is willing to offer. It’s too much, too much to handle.
But slowly, gradually, Felix relaxes, and his breathing evens. Sylar slips away, then, closing the closet door behind him.
- - - -
“Are you planning on killing me?” asks Felix, through a tightened jaw.
“Are you afraid that I will?” Sylar counters.
Felix isn’t tied up, this time, but sitting back, against the wall. Sylar paces, nearby; Felix wonders what he’s thinking. “I’ve faced death before,” says Felix, raising his chin.
Sylar regards him, for a long moment, then shakes his head. “What would your death,” he says, “possibly gain me?”
“Maybe you’re afraid of getting caught.”
Sylar half-laughs.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about special people?”
Sylar turns back to him. “Are you going to tell me?”
Felix crosses his arms. So it’s going to be that kind of game. Silence, until Felix breaks it. Sylar isn’t a very experienced interrogator.
“What was that about, last night?” asks Felix.
“Why don’t you tell me.”
Felix winces. He walked into that one. But here, he can only find Sylar’s weakness if he exposes his own. “We all have a past.”
Sylar tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, Felix thinks that Sylar is about to respond. But no - his eyes are intent but unfocused - he’s listening -
The door to the apartment explodes inwards, and Felix is on his feet, immediately. Rescue, it has to be rescue, the law enforcement of this nation has found him.
“Peter,” spits Sylar.
Felix focuses on the figure in the doorway - a man, in a longer coat, for the winter season. Dark hair, angry eyes.
Eyes that fix straight on Felix.
“Who the hell are you?” demands ‘Peter’.
“I, uh,” says Felix.
“Get behind me,” orders Sylar, eyes on Peter.
“Are you working with him?” asks Peter.
One companion, two, thee appear behind Peter - a young woman, tough, pretty, with long blond hair; an Asian man with glasses; an elegant, stunning woman with a gun in her hand.
“Get behind me,” Sylar repeats, in a hiss.
Felix wavers, sensing the chance to escape - but Sylar has already said he doesn’t plan to kill Felix, and what does Felix know about these four?”
“Peter, just get him,” snarls the youngest of the three companions.
“Hey,” says Peter, watching Felix, “if you’re not with him, y’know, we can help you.”
I doubt it, thinks Felix, and he makes his decision.
Sylar takes his hand. “Hold on,” says Sylar, and the floor drops out from under them.
Felix grabs Sylar, in pure reflex, and realizes, abruptly, that they’re falling through the floor below. Then the floor below that. Then the floor below that…
Felix closes his eyes, swallows the rush of nausea, and holds on.
- - - -
“Why were they after you?” asks Felix, breaking the silence.
Sylar glances over to him. “I’m a murderer.”
Felix swallows.
“Are you afraid now?”
“I don’t know,” says Felix, “can you tell me what it’s like not to be?”
Sylar considers that. “No,” he says. “I can’t.”
- - - -
“Do you kill people with special abilities?”
Sylar considers the question, for a moment. “Yes.”
“Why?” asks Felix.
“Because they don’t deserve what they have.”
“If they don’t, then who does?”
Sylar’s jaw sets. “I do.”
Felix raises his eyebrows. “You, what, you take the powers?”
“Yes.”
“So,” and Felix’s eyes are straight ahead, fixed at the horizon, “if I told you that there were special people in the fleet, you would go up there, find them, and murder them.”
Sylar doesn’t respond.
“I won’t tell you anything,” Felix vows. “Nothing.”
- - - -
“You have cars on your world?”
Felix stirs, from his half-awakened state. “What?”
“Cars,” repeats Sylar. “Do you have anything like that?”
After a pause, Felix nods. “They’re exactly the same,” he says. “Roads too. They’re asphalt.”
“They’re the same,” echoes Sylar, flatly.
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound likely.”
Felix shakes his head. “It’s enough to make you believe in the gods.”
Sylar makes a soft, scoffing kind of noise.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“And where’s that?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
- - - -
And he does - to Felix’s surprise, they pull over, into a city - Felix has no idea where - and they drive along, through streets that look shadier and shadier, darker and darker.
“Where is this place?” -and Sylar stops the car.
Before Felix has a chance to react, Sylar is out of the car, on Felix’s side, tugging him away. “Come on,” says Sylar, and they vanish into the shadow of a building. Sylar takes him through a wall, inside a ratty, dingy apartment. The floors are bare, the furniture sparing. Felix can tell, at a glance, that it’s not inhabited. There are no lamps, no decorations - it’s empty, except for a stack of paint cans in the corner.
“We should be safe here,” says Sylar.
“How can you possibly know that?” asks Felix.
“I know.”
Felix bites his lip, and nods. “I guess I have to trust you, don’t I?”
Sylar doesn’t answer, just holds Felix’s eyes, until Felix looks away.
“Where do we sleep?” asks Felix.
“Anywhere,” says Sylar. “Don’t leave any evidence.”
As Felix turns to go, Sylar takes a breath.
“Why do they ignore you?”
“Excuse me?” asks Felix, turning back.
“It’s why I chose you,” Sylar tells him. “Because you weren’t tied so closely to your friends.”
“I was tied just fine with my friends.”
“Is it because of your connection with Baltar?”
Felix’s mouth opens, closes, soundlessly. “How many powers do you have?” he asks, finally.
“Eighteen,” says Sylar, pulling off his jacket, draping it over the chair.
“What are they?”
An amused look crosses Sylar’s face. “I asked you first,” he says.
Felix laughs, suddenly, and he presses his mouth into a line. “They tried to kill me,” he says.
“Why would they do that?” Sylar is curious, paying attention. Genuinely interested.
Felix sits, cross-legged, against the wall. “They thought I was a criminal.”
“And you weren’t.”
“No,” says Felix. “I wasn’t.” He shakes his head. “But that doesn’t really matter, does it? It matters that they believed I was, that they didn’t know me well enough to trust-” And he stops, the words choked in his throat. It’s too much; he shouldn’t have said that much.
“So that’s why.”
“Why what?”
Sylar shifts, on the couch, leaning forward. “You’re more than I expected,” he tries to explain, “but you didn’t fight. Even when we were in the car, you didn’t, and I didn’t understand why. You don’t have a place to go back to, though, do you?”
“Sure I do,” says Felix, his stomach clenching, nervously. “I have a job, I have people who know me -”
“If they hate you,” says Sylar, “then why do you stay?”
“They don’t hate me,” denies Felix.
“You do know something, don’t you?”
Felix’s heart rate jumps. “What do you mean?” he asks, carefully.
“Someone with abilities.” Sylar stands. “You know someone. Tell me.”
“No,” says Felix, getting to his feet.
“What do these people mean to you?” asks Sylar. “What have they done to earn your respect?”
“Stop it,” snaps Felix.
“Tell me!”
“No!”
- - - -
Felix is flushed - it might not be easy to tell, with the in-between darkness of his complexion, but Sylar can feel it, can hear the blood rushing in his veins. Angry, on his feet, ready to defend, ready to hurt Sylar -
He’s beautiful.
The thought is striking, devastating in its truth. No. He can’t afford this. He can’t afford a distraction like this.
“Get some sleep,” says Sylar, abruptly, ending the conversation. “If you try to leave, I’ll hear you.”
Felix stiffens. “Fine,” he spits.
- - - -
Late at night, and sleep still won’t come. Felix turns onto his back, knees awkwardly curled underneath him, braced on the slightly-too-small couch. He still expects it’s more comfortable than the bare carpet, in the empty bedroom.
One footstep, then another - Felix twists upright, and he spots Sylar in the doorway.
“Come here,” says Sylar.
Felix automatically moves to his feet, follows Sylar into the carpeted bedroom. Maybe it’s his exhaustion, how late it is at night, but something prompts immediate obedience.
“Lie down,” Sylar tells him.
Felix does, and, to his surprise, Sylar shifts next to him. His hand traces the line of Felix’s jaw. “Go to sleep now,” he says, softly, and Felix closes his eyes, snug to Sylar’s warmth.
- - - -
Sylar wakes up first, with a dream so clear he can almost taste it, drifting on the back of his tongue. Even so, the details bleed away, as he blinks, sits up, no matter how he tries to hold onto them.
Felix is asleep next to him, peacefully, and it tugs at something inside Sylar. He wants to stay here.
He stands, moving out to the main room of the apartment. He doesn’t know what to do next - he honestly has no idea. He doesn’t have any planned hideouts this part of the country, and he can hardly afford a hotel every night. And he shouldn’t depend on his intuition to get him through.
There’s a prickle on the back of Sylar’s neck, and he turns -
…and his eyes fall on the stack of paint cans, in the corner.
He reaches for one - it’s half-full of a deep maroon paint. Why it’s here, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, now.
With a blink, Sylar’s eyes turn milky, and he sees.
- - - -
Sylar examines the completed painting for a long time.
It lacks concrete detail, done only in two colors as it is - the white of the wall, the maroon of the paint. But, enough of the scene is decipherable, and enough of the people recognizable.
A deep thrill runs through him - he loves powers, he loves using them this way - and Sylar is back in the bedroom in an instant. He settles over Felix, spreading Felix’s legs apart, shifting up to kiss him, his tongue pressing into Felix’s mouth.
It takes him long seconds to realize that Felix is kissing back, that Felix’s legs are wrapping around his waist. Felix moans, delicious and low, and Sylar catches it in his own throat, his own lungs. He tears Felix’s tank tops over his head, scrambling with telekinesis to get the rest of his clothing out of the way. Felix is hard already, in his palm, and in barely a stroke, two, Felix is gasping in pure disbelief, hips twisting to the movement of Sylar’s hands, neck arched back, the most amazing noises pouring from his mouth.
Before long, there’s semen spilled on Sylar’s hand, and Felix is panting, pliant and stunned under Sylar.
“Lick,” commands Sylar, his fingers at Felix’s mouth.
Felix does, mindlessly, sucking each digit into his mouth with an incredibly erotic concentration. He must know what Sylar has in mind, the movement of his body doesn’t suggest inexperience - but, like this, he’s nothing like Mohinder. Mohinder was passive, afraid, always afraid, even when Sylar was Zane. Then, not because of the physical danger, but because of the very near, very real risk of heartache.
Here, Felix isn’t afraid but wary, guarded, and still - still, he shifts his hips up, whines in need as Sylar slips fingers inside clenching warmth.
Mohinder captured Sylar, entranced him; Felix meets him halfway in something more equal, more balanced.
Felix is half-hard again, gasping, when Sylar pulls his legs up. “Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” groans Felix, and he cries out as Sylar pushes inside.
The way is rough, but Felix is experienced; he knows the right angle, by instinct, knows how to relax and how to move into the thrust. Sylar can feel Felix’s consent in every line of his body, every twist, every muscle clenching under the skin.
“Ohgodsohgods,” he hears Felix breathe, “please,” nearly a whimper, and he doesn’t hold back.
- - - -
Felix rests his head on Sylar’s shoulder, feels Sylar’s arm curl around the back of his neck. He’s still breathing hard, still a little disoriented, but gods. A deep, satisfied ache is spreading from Felix’s middle; he hasn’t had sex like that in so long.
“I’m going to show you something,” says Sylar.
“Show me what?”
- - - -
Sylar pulls his hand away from Felix’s eyes, revealing the painted wall.
“What is this?” asks Felix, stepping closer. He can see a Viper, a pilot, her head burst open, and blood - “Is that Starbuck?”
“She died,” murmurs Sylar. “Died in fire, and came back, to lead you to Earth.” He looks from the mural, to Felix. “Tell me one thing,” he says. “Was she one of the ones who tried to hurt you?”
Felix spins, and the look in his eyes is answer enough.
“What are you going to do?” asks Felix, his eyes wide.
“Sssh.” Sylar wraps an arm around Felix, touches Felix’s neck. “Sssh,” and Sylar thinks maybe it’s telling that Felix doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to pull away.
- - - -
Felix awakens in a hospital bed, Lee Adama nearby.
“Hey,” calls Lee, “hey, he’s waking up!”
Felix blinks, tries to sit up, looks, bewildered, at the array of machines hooked to him.
“Gaeta, it’s all right,” says Lee, “we found you on the street, near the White House. What the frak happened to you?”
“Starbuck,” says Felix.
“What?” Lee smiles, tentatively. “Starbuck was with us, there was no way -”
“No, Starbuck.” Felix rips away the IV. “He’s going to kill her, you have to find her.”
“Who’s going to kill her?”
“Sylar,” whispers Felix.
Lee shakes his head. “Listen, Starbuck’s under the best protection this country can provide. Everyone is, since you got kidnapped.”
“Warn them,” insists Felix. “Warn them.”
“Okay,” says Lee, “okay, fine.”
- - - -
Deep inside her brain, Sylar finds what he’s looking for.
This - this isn’t just a power. It’s a masterpiece. It’s a work of art. It’s a - a destiny.
“This is for him,” Sylar murmurs, and he takes it.
- - - -
They find Starbuck dead, only a few hours after Felix wakes up.
The pilots are in shock - once, Starbuck died once, and it devastated everyone. But here, there doesn’t seem any way she could cheat death. Any way she could come back.
“Murdered,” they whisper - “her head, cut open, her brain…”
Felix’s throat chokes. He’s disgusted, shocked, nausea rising in his throat, his palms sweaty. But - somehow, inside, he’s relieved.
He’ll never have to remember how cruel she was to him, in the launch tube. He’ll never have to remember again -
Felix drops his head in his hands, and all he can see, all he can remember, is a man named Sylar.