"Men do not sham Convulsion"
Title: Synthesis
Author: wouldbeashame
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sylar, Chuck
Summary: Sylar finds something unexpected but not entirely unpleasant at a Buy More when he's passing through Los Angeles.
A/N: Crossover between Heroes and Chuck, mostly because Heroes won't leave me alone about wanting to be crossed over with just about every other fandom I know, but this one in particular just screamed for it.
Sylar had just wanted to get into the Buy More, purchase an atomic clock and get out. It was simpler than purchasing the parts he need for his repair separately, and without the trial and tether of an online purchase. He was just passing through Los Angeles on his way to his next hunt, but that was no reason not to pick up materials when the opportunity presented itself.
He hadn't meant to take notice the man stocking the shelves next to him, not beyond an automatic cursory danger assessment that yielded no immediate cause for alarm.
The salesman, however, completely ignored the 'do not notice, do not disturb' vibes Sylar was trying to emanate, prompting Sylar to mentally bemoan once again that telepathy was not listed among his talents.
"Hello, how may I-" the man whose nametag proclaimed him 'Chuck' said, before getting cut off. Sylar slid into his 'charming but absent-minded' persona and opened with an easy smile.
"Thanks, but I've got what I came for right here." Sylar said, lifting the clock from the shelf and hefting it jauntily with one hand.
Chuck echoed his smile reflexively and was turning away with more scripted platitudes on his lips when his breath gasped out of him with an almost physical intensity while something passed behind his eyes for several moments that Sylar couldn't quite make out. Something that wasn't milky-opaque, but held all the same tones and connotations as the artist-fugue.
When he came back to himself with a rather poorly stifled gulp, his heart rate took a sudden and intriguing spike. One hasty step of retreat betrayed his nervousness before a much more fake than previously salesman-type calm came over him.
"Excuse me Ga- sir, I really need to-" Chuck began, turning away.
Sylar's eyes flared wide at the almost-mention of his name, before he instinctually rooted Chuck in place and silenced him with telekinesis. The yet again redoubled heartbeat and cloying tone of fear pervading the air only confirmed Sylar's suspicion.
He knew. Somehow this lowly stock-clerk hundreds of miles from New York knew what he was, what he had done, what he could do. Hadn't known at first, but had laid eyes on him and somehow divined it.
He would have to die, of course. Aside from a potential useful power, Sylar could tell from Chuck's darting eyes and lack of outright panic that there was backup somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Getting apprehended here was not on Sylar's itinerary today.
Sylar debated the pros and cons of killing him here and hiding him in one of the fridge or washer displays versus marching him outside and disposing of him in the dumpster. He didn't really want to be seen using his power to march Chuck outside, but how long could a body go undiscovered in the appliance section of a bustling store?
A part of his mind broke off to contemplate the man frozen before him. His current expression labeled him no stranger to fear, danger, and death, not to mention all manner of strange occurrences, but nothing in his manner or makeup that bespoke a killer. An observer, perhaps. Enough that he was comfortable with death and blood and threat without perpetrating it.
Sylar decided for the in-store kill, quick and efficient and unsatisfying. He put the clock back on the shelf regretfully. There was no way he'd make it through the checkout line and still be out of the store long before anyone discovered the body.
Sylar turned to Chuck, stepping right up close into his space, and tried, honestly he did, to kill him. To pry open his head and pull all the lovely information and able-to he can see lurking just behind bold eyes out and into himself.
Which is why he's rather surprised to find himself earnestly kissing Chuck instead.
Chuck tastes of cogs and gear-teeth and numerical progressions backed by a rhythmical grind threaded through with hearty, heady sinew-throbs of emotion. He tastes like things that don't even have a taste and things that shouldn't be possible.
A man and a machine at the same time, balanced and harmonious. A synthesis that should be grotesque, but instead leaves magnificent gathering dust in a corner while it rises to higher summits of glory. The mechanics and the man are entirely inseparable, complexly interwoven in a way that makes him the pinnacle of both rather than a half of either.
Sylar can feel it in the twitch of unconditioned reflex in the muscle that wants to move beneath his hands that have slid up to grab Chuck's arms. Can taste it in the kiss that first shock then pleasure opens for him and lets him glut on. Can see it inside, in his knowing-place that his original ability keeps for appreciating other abilities.
He wants more, so he takes it, submerging himself in the entire sensational experience for as long as he's allowed. His hands are moving now, attempting to calm the tense muscles.
He almost has Chuck buying into the fantasy of gentleness and understanding he wants more than he should to provide, accepting and calm without coercion, when the jump of a neck muscle his fingers are resting against signal Chuck sighting the cavalry somewhere behind him.
An annoyed heartbeat and an attentive stringing of muscles three aisles down and approaching do not pass Sylar's assessment without setting off myriads of danger klaxons in his head. Sylar turns briefly to look and the face of the man he catches glimpses of through shelves says control while his body whispers death in a way only another agent of death would hear. Sylar estimates he has about forty seconds before the man is here, twenty before the man can see him, as he turns back to Chuck.
"Him, he's one. One of the blood-drenched killers that you spend so much time with," Sylar murmurs into Chuck's mouth from scant millimeters away, "You have good taste."
Chuck stands there, stunned. He finds himself suddenly able to move and stumbles a step towards Casey, unsure of what to say.
By the time he turns back, Sylar is gone as if he never were.
Author: wouldbeashame
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sylar, Chuck
Summary: Sylar finds something unexpected but not entirely unpleasant at a Buy More when he's passing through Los Angeles.
A/N: Crossover between Heroes and Chuck, mostly because Heroes won't leave me alone about wanting to be crossed over with just about every other fandom I know, but this one in particular just screamed for it.
Sylar had just wanted to get into the Buy More, purchase an atomic clock and get out. It was simpler than purchasing the parts he need for his repair separately, and without the trial and tether of an online purchase. He was just passing through Los Angeles on his way to his next hunt, but that was no reason not to pick up materials when the opportunity presented itself.
He hadn't meant to take notice the man stocking the shelves next to him, not beyond an automatic cursory danger assessment that yielded no immediate cause for alarm.
The salesman, however, completely ignored the 'do not notice, do not disturb' vibes Sylar was trying to emanate, prompting Sylar to mentally bemoan once again that telepathy was not listed among his talents.
"Hello, how may I-" the man whose nametag proclaimed him 'Chuck' said, before getting cut off. Sylar slid into his 'charming but absent-minded' persona and opened with an easy smile.
"Thanks, but I've got what I came for right here." Sylar said, lifting the clock from the shelf and hefting it jauntily with one hand.
Chuck echoed his smile reflexively and was turning away with more scripted platitudes on his lips when his breath gasped out of him with an almost physical intensity while something passed behind his eyes for several moments that Sylar couldn't quite make out. Something that wasn't milky-opaque, but held all the same tones and connotations as the artist-fugue.
When he came back to himself with a rather poorly stifled gulp, his heart rate took a sudden and intriguing spike. One hasty step of retreat betrayed his nervousness before a much more fake than previously salesman-type calm came over him.
"Excuse me Ga- sir, I really need to-" Chuck began, turning away.
Sylar's eyes flared wide at the almost-mention of his name, before he instinctually rooted Chuck in place and silenced him with telekinesis. The yet again redoubled heartbeat and cloying tone of fear pervading the air only confirmed Sylar's suspicion.
He knew. Somehow this lowly stock-clerk hundreds of miles from New York knew what he was, what he had done, what he could do. Hadn't known at first, but had laid eyes on him and somehow divined it.
He would have to die, of course. Aside from a potential useful power, Sylar could tell from Chuck's darting eyes and lack of outright panic that there was backup somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Getting apprehended here was not on Sylar's itinerary today.
Sylar debated the pros and cons of killing him here and hiding him in one of the fridge or washer displays versus marching him outside and disposing of him in the dumpster. He didn't really want to be seen using his power to march Chuck outside, but how long could a body go undiscovered in the appliance section of a bustling store?
A part of his mind broke off to contemplate the man frozen before him. His current expression labeled him no stranger to fear, danger, and death, not to mention all manner of strange occurrences, but nothing in his manner or makeup that bespoke a killer. An observer, perhaps. Enough that he was comfortable with death and blood and threat without perpetrating it.
Sylar decided for the in-store kill, quick and efficient and unsatisfying. He put the clock back on the shelf regretfully. There was no way he'd make it through the checkout line and still be out of the store long before anyone discovered the body.
Sylar turned to Chuck, stepping right up close into his space, and tried, honestly he did, to kill him. To pry open his head and pull all the lovely information and able-to he can see lurking just behind bold eyes out and into himself.
Which is why he's rather surprised to find himself earnestly kissing Chuck instead.
Chuck tastes of cogs and gear-teeth and numerical progressions backed by a rhythmical grind threaded through with hearty, heady sinew-throbs of emotion. He tastes like things that don't even have a taste and things that shouldn't be possible.
A man and a machine at the same time, balanced and harmonious. A synthesis that should be grotesque, but instead leaves magnificent gathering dust in a corner while it rises to higher summits of glory. The mechanics and the man are entirely inseparable, complexly interwoven in a way that makes him the pinnacle of both rather than a half of either.
Sylar can feel it in the twitch of unconditioned reflex in the muscle that wants to move beneath his hands that have slid up to grab Chuck's arms. Can taste it in the kiss that first shock then pleasure opens for him and lets him glut on. Can see it inside, in his knowing-place that his original ability keeps for appreciating other abilities.
He wants more, so he takes it, submerging himself in the entire sensational experience for as long as he's allowed. His hands are moving now, attempting to calm the tense muscles.
He almost has Chuck buying into the fantasy of gentleness and understanding he wants more than he should to provide, accepting and calm without coercion, when the jump of a neck muscle his fingers are resting against signal Chuck sighting the cavalry somewhere behind him.
An annoyed heartbeat and an attentive stringing of muscles three aisles down and approaching do not pass Sylar's assessment without setting off myriads of danger klaxons in his head. Sylar turns briefly to look and the face of the man he catches glimpses of through shelves says control while his body whispers death in a way only another agent of death would hear. Sylar estimates he has about forty seconds before the man is here, twenty before the man can see him, as he turns back to Chuck.
"Him, he's one. One of the blood-drenched killers that you spend so much time with," Sylar murmurs into Chuck's mouth from scant millimeters away, "You have good taste."
Chuck stands there, stunned. He finds himself suddenly able to move and stumbles a step towards Casey, unsure of what to say.
By the time he turns back, Sylar is gone as if he never were.