ic contact 2 mask or menace

[infomodder]

"Gone fishing."

[ so don't leave messages to ruin the after fishing glow !!!

your one stop shop for not leaving him alone, previous contact post can be found here ]

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[bosewicht]

[ While Will murders himself with laughter, Sylar finishes his current beer, and lists sideways just enough to toss it into the waste basket (considerate) before resettling. He is about as comfortable and relaxed as he's been in a long time, perhaps since he cuddled a poodle in the woods and slipped into semi-conscious powernapping, which is unexpected. Potentially dangerous. He cannot bring himself to give a fuck.

So he opens a second beer and smiles just slightly to himself as Will recovers, a smile that flattens out and disappears at news of his misery-company having fancy good friends.

Plot twist.

He raises an eyebrow, not breaking from his contemplative stare of the opposite wall. It's time for him to laugh, now, with the same kind of disuse. Rusty, baritone in his chest, understated and quiet. Then-- ]

Yeah.

[ He brings beer up to drink from. He isn't being that ironic when he says; ]

Let's be friends.

[infomodder]

[The pact is sealed. Goodness gracious, what does this mean?

First, it means Will smiles, then that vanishes, and he finishes off his beer in one go. Sylar's new biggest fan has fallen asleep beneath his strong murder hand with her jaws half-open. She looks drugged. Will looks like he's getting there. Relaxed, silent, though his eyes are glossed over in that Thinking Too Damn Much way.]

Getting close shouldn't be an issue. [Quieter:] I'm already dead.

[Definitely how it works. Well, worth a try, anyway. Time for another beer.]

[bosewicht]

[ They're friends, now, so Sylar ought not to roll his eyes at proclamations about being dead already. It's mostly hidden by virtue of the fact they aren't facing one another, and he sips his beer.

He asks, looking down at the dog; ]

What's your dog's name?

[ And then, looking at Will Graham; ]

And your friend's?

[infomodder]

[He doesn't mean it in an emo way, excuse you very much, new bestie. Where's the fun killing an already dead guy? Who's died again? Oh - well, that woman had spoken to the Network and...might not matter. Some friends were like that, but hey. Worth a try.]

Her original owner called her Little Fluffy Shithead. I've, uh, been calling her Princess. She answers to both. [Indeed, an ear has twitched at both names. She recognizes that she is a topic. As it should be, really, what a grand doggie she is. A good distraction from the eventual admission, eyes stuck on Princess Shithead...] Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Can't really miss him. He stands out.

[he ain't got no eyebrows lt dan]

[bosewicht]

[ Sylar's brow winches into an offended crinkle at the dog's behalf, but smooths again at 'Princess'. Stupid, but better. His fingers scratch beneath the fold of the little dog's arms, ears pricked for the next part.

Name tucked away into memory, like a business card. ]

Like, personally, or is it the corpse sculptures that tend to attract attention?

[ skrtch skrtch pat dog ]

I just left them there, you know. I didn't even try to hide what I did.

[infomodder]

[He laughs, short, more of a snort than anything else. How rude.]

Both.

[Dog is so happy. And Will, stretching out a bit further, seems ready to follow suit and fall asleep, too. Sylar does not need to rub his tummy, though. Unless he really wants to.

Jeez, there's quite a few reactions that filter through his mind. Some more serious than others, all of them running down different paths. Some he is curious about. Some he wants to avoid. Some he just doesn't think would do either of them any good. Eventually, he settles on...]

Honesty's a rare quality. Usually considered one of the good ones.

[except for if it applies to murder, probably, but who keeps track any more]