He eyed him a little, "You new? Or fairly new? Hard to tell these days." He was still adjusting back to the door working to the bar again after a few years.
"No, I've had my fair share of visits." Inclining his head toward the front door, "As time passes out there, I'd be new. As it does in here...I think it's been nine or ten months."
It takes effort for Sylar's attention to change over to her, and when it does, it's abrupt, like the tick of a clock hand. After another moment, he returns the smile. His is a bit lopsided.
"No, I've been here before," he says. "I know it's harmless." And he tilts his head. "'More or less?'"
On a couple of tables over sits a fox- a little white ball of fluff with its tail swishing back and forth behind her- watching the same window. Her head is tilted to the right watching each explosion and reacting as any animal would to such flashes of light. It's only after a good moment or two does the fluffy tail actually thump against the tabletop.
Turning her head every so slightly towards the man in the booth, eyes that are to blue to be for any living animal in a normal world reguard him quietly. Almost thoughtfully if you wanted to say a fox could do that.
Is that a little grin she has as well? Maybe the fox is saying hello..
It isn't the animal itself, at first, that catches Sylar's attention. It's the thump of its tail; magnified, and timed with the burst of one of the stars, it almost seems as if the sound came from the Window.
When he realizes an instant later that it hadn't, he turns his head just enough to find the source.
Which is when his gaze catches on the animal, sharpens, and holds.
The little fox arches her eye a little where there would be a brow if she were human. It's a questioning sort of look with a foxish sly smile upon her muzzle as she watches the human. He, by far, is not the sort she would go to chasing his shoe laces...unless they were very tempting and tasty shoe laces. Inari is not picky when it comes to the preciouses.
For now she will play the normal you-know-you-want-to-pet-me sort of animal saving the talking for later. If it's the chance for free food or the like- she isn't one to pass it up. So her tail thumps expectedly again as if debating hoping over to Sylar's booth or not.
He's learned to be even less fond, though, of what usually accompanies that peculiar rhythm. No two are ever alike, but the commonality they do share is key: complex, inhuman, and glancing off of something powerful.
He doesn't speak, and certainly doesn't make any movement to pet the fox -- but his attention's more guarded the longer he looks, more wary.
And Angela Petrelli, by the bar, is watching Sylar.
At the house in New York, outside the front door, Peter is somewhere upstairs. The house is quiet, elsewise, while the city out that front door goes about its business, on the West Side...
...and rebuilds, on the East Side, and Brooklyn, and Queens, while even now someone could be calling the police, calling Homeland Security, alerting them to the presence of at least one person in the Petrelli house.
Yes, Angela Petrelli is watching Sylar, and she is not looking upon him with kindness.
"It's good to see," she says, mouth twisted, "that you've done something with your hair."
His focus doesn't lessen. The static's too familiar to what it was like before Blodwen's assistance, and he's grown accustomed to being able to see, if not perfectly clearly, than with much more clarity than this.
Sylar's half-convinced that it's only a matter of focus: watch long enough, listen hard enough, and it will click.
So there's another delay before one side of his mouth tips into a smirk. "I'd remember you, if we'd met."
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And there is a blond man sitting nearby, casually observing in the old tradition of people watching.
He glanced toward the hunched over man.
"You all right there?" John casually asked.
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Calmly, and a little distant, "Yes. I'm fine."
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He eyed him a little, "You new? Or fairly new? Hard to tell these days." He was still adjusting back to the door working to the bar again after a few years.
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"Hey there. New? Because the exploding universe can be totally weird till you get used to it, but it's harmless. More or less."
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"No, I've been here before," he says. "I know it's harmless." And he tilts his head. "'More or less?'"
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"I wouldn't want a closer look. And while we're really pretty safe here, it's not like it's perfectly safe because nowhere is, you know?"
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He takes a sip from his mug, shifting his other hand to the right as he does.
After he's swallowed: "Why not observe it when we're given the chance?"
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Turning her head every so slightly towards the man in the booth, eyes that are to blue to be for any living animal in a normal world reguard him quietly. Almost thoughtfully if you wanted to say a fox could do that.
Is that a little grin she has as well? Maybe the fox is saying hello..
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When he realizes an instant later that it hadn't, he turns his head just enough to find the source.
Which is when his gaze catches on the animal, sharpens, and holds.
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For now she will play the normal you-know-you-want-to-pet-me sort of animal saving the talking for later. If it's the chance for free food or the like- she isn't one to pass it up. So her tail thumps expectedly again as if debating hoping over to Sylar's booth or not.
Reply
He's learned to be even less fond, though, of what usually accompanies that peculiar rhythm. No two are ever alike, but the commonality they do share is key: complex, inhuman, and glancing off of something powerful.
He doesn't speak, and certainly doesn't make any movement to pet the fox -- but his attention's more guarded the longer he looks, more wary.
Reply
And Angela Petrelli, by the bar, is watching Sylar.
At the house in New York, outside the front door, Peter is somewhere upstairs. The house is quiet, elsewise, while the city out that front door goes about its business, on the West Side...
...and rebuilds, on the East Side, and Brooklyn, and Queens, while even now someone could be calling the police, calling Homeland Security, alerting them to the presence of at least one person in the Petrelli house.
Yes, Angela Petrelli is watching Sylar, and she is not looking upon him with kindness.
"It's good to see," she says, mouth twisted, "that you've done something with your hair."
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She doesn't look familiar. And there is -- static, almost, hissing through her. Interference.
He cocks his head. "You're referring to me?" he asks, curious.
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And at Sylar, finally, eyebrows raised.
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Sylar's half-convinced that it's only a matter of focus: watch long enough, listen hard enough, and it will click.
So there's another delay before one side of his mouth tips into a smirk. "I'd remember you, if we'd met."
Even without Charlie's ability, most likely.
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"Do you want children to raise together in a lovely gay way in a suburb somewhere? Because I have some."
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"You understand subbing, right?"
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