Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 17: Mad Libs
Title: Mad Libs
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Words: 1000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Early on, Sylar and Peter share a day at the library, but Peter wants something a little more interactive.
Sylar glanced up when Peter finally joined him at one of the reading tables in the library. He looked over at Peter's book choice, wondering what Peter had chosen after such a lengthy search. His expression turned to disgust as he saw that Peter had in his hands a children's activity book. Brows rising in disbelief, Sylar said, "I see you found something appropriate to your reading level."
"Oh yeah," Peter snarked back, "I think what took me so long to find it was the long words in the title." He grinned then and opened the book.
To Sylar's dismay, he'd already dog-eared a place-marker. He growled, putting his gaze back on his own book and for once, saying nothing about the mistreatment of literature. What was there to say? But then again, despite his rather negative opinion of Peter's reading habits, children's books weren't normal for him.
Peter studied a page of text, then said, "Okay. This is interactive."
Sylar raised his head. What?
"I need a name," Peter asked brightly.
"Sylar." He craned his head to see what Peter was doing, but Peter pulled the book back.
"No cheating! And I need a second name. It's not my fault my book's more interesting that yours!"
"Peter." What the hell is he doing?
Peter now pulled out a pencil and began writing in the book. Sylar started to object, but it was an activity book and writing in it was part of its purpose. That's not a library book. Where the hell did he find that?
"Okay, adjective."
Sylar glared at him. "Stupid."
"Okay, awesome." Peter scribbled that in, chortling.
"A verb ending with -ing."
Mad libs. He placed it now, vaguely remembering the game from grammar exercises. More pointedly, he remembered the other kids howling in glee over unlikely and wacky stories they produced during rainy recesses spent indoors. He'd never been part of those games. He wants to play with me? Or is he making fun of me? His imagination began to run riot with the possible combinations of their names. "Killing."
"Oo!" Peter's brows flashed upward like he was impressed. "Another name?"
"Bob." Bishop, but he didn't add that.
"And a noun."
Knife? Gun? Telekinesis? "Brick." He recalled newspapers in Spanish held down by a brick.
"Yeah." Peter shrugged. "Okay, that works." Scribble. "Another adjective."
"Heavy." As all bricks should be. Unless they're Legos.
"And a name of a celebrity."
He said the first thing that came to mind, which he regretted as soon as the words left his mouth. "Bob Marley."
"Really?" Peter chuckled. "I would never have guessed."
Sylar shut his book and pushed it to the side, fingers itching to snatch Peter's workbook away from him and see what the story was.
"Um, an article of clothing."
Should I go exotic or mundane? A propeller hat or a shirt? Or a thong? What does this have to do with Bob Marley? He decided to play it safe. "A shirt."
"Good choice. Now a liquid."
Blood. But that's too obvious. Sperm's too gross. Unlike Peter, I do not have the mind of a juvenile. He ignored that it had been the second thing to come to mind. "Milk," he said defiantly.
"Huh," Peter grunted as he wrote that in. Apparently that one didn't fit too well. "Ah, almost done. Need another adjective."
Sylar let his eyes roam over Peter's crowning glory and said, "Long-haired."
"Ha." He wasn't looking. "And a number."
"Five." With a decimal point? Something outlandish?
"Okay. That's great!" Peter reviewed the product, grin widening. "Oh, wait, one more name. First and last."
He was caught between being pleased to be included in a game, and insecure that he was the butt of a joke. "Nathan Petrelli," he growled, glad of the opportunity to say the name with impunity.
Peter glanced up at him, smile fading for a moment, but dutifully wrote it in. "That's kind of weirdly deep," he said after a moment of reflection.
He seemed done, and he wasn't offering to share, so Sylar reached across the table and grabbed the book away from Peter. "Give that to me!" Peter didn't try to take it back. Sylar's eyes ran quickly across the text:
Dear Sister Mary,
I am writing you to ask if you would consider letting my son Sylar come back to school at St. Peter. I know that he behaved in a way that was stupid, but if you are willing to speak to him, he would like to sincerely apologize for the following.
1) killing his teacher.
2) Calling his classmate Bob a 'brick'.
3) Bringing heavy magazines with naked photos of Bob Marley to school.
4) Lifting up Sister Mary Katherine's shirt and taking a peek.
5) Writing his name in milk on the side of the school.
Please forgive him, and consider letting him back. He really is a long-haired child, and has since been put on medication that he is taking five times a day. He misses everyone very much.
Sincerely,
Nathan Petrelli
He snorted. "Deep?"
"Yeah," Peter said. "It's like your conscience writing a letter to God."
He looked at it again. 'St. Peter'. That was a bit creepy, given he'd mentally applied that moniker to Peter more than once. No, it's just random word choice. "Are you suggesting that my conscience is named Nathan Petrelli?"
"Well … it would probably be an improvement."
He shot Peter a look of death.
Peter met it briefly, then broke eye contact, smiling the whole while. Then he shoved the pencil over towards Sylar. "Your turn," Peter said.
Sylar picked up the pencil slowly. I get to play, too?
"Go on. Next one's called 'A Letter to my Bride.' Ought to be a blast."
I get to play, too. Sylar smiled a little, lightening up and glancing from Peter to the book, which he centered in front of himself. He let his eyes roam over the words and blanks. "Okay, but I get to pick the first one." He filled in the blank: 'To my dearest _', with his own name, letting Peter fabricate a love letter to him. That will be funny. "Now an emotion."