damned_institute | Day 50: Cafeteria (Brunch)

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Day 50: Cafeteria (Brunch)

Somehow, after their talk in the chapel, Elaine felt simultaneously more accepting of and more irritated by her future husband. On the one hand, seven years had clearly been good to him. He seemed more sincere and thoughtful than he had been before his disappearance, and he had a more mature (dare she say, handsome?) look to him. On the other hand, there were clearly some things that made even time throw up its hands in vain and say, "To hell with this!" Guybrush was still inexorably prone to disastrous accidents if the story about the Pox of LeChuck was anything to go by, and he was so obviously keeping something important from her that any passing dolt in the Institute would have been able to tell. In the end, that eternal underlying sweetness of his that won out, keeping her from punching him again, at least. That was only by a hairs width, though. Her snugglecakes was going to have to stay on his best behaviour if he knew what was good for him.

She left the Mighty Pirate™ alone for the time being when the announcement of the next shift went off. He would want some time to catch up with Morgan next, presumably. As much as the woman's attitude bothered her, she was a friend of Guybrush's, as she had claimed. Elaine could be strict, but she wasn't the kind of shrewish future wife/past fiancé who would keep her man from seeing his friends. Besides, she needed some more time to catch up on the goings-on of the Institute. Patients filled the building to the brim, now, it seemed; there would be a lot to investigate.

After a few quick trips back and forth to the bulletin and a few new leads to follow up on, the governor gave in to her nurse's persistent nagging and headed to the cafeteria for brunch. After the relatively light fare of the day before, Elaine took advantage of the Institute's admittedly scrumptious offerings and loaded up a full, balanced brunchfast of eggs, sausage links, waffles, and vegetable soup. As expected, the selection of drinks did not offer either root beer or grog. Grog she could live without, at least, she thought while making a face. Eugh. For now, she settled for a tall glass of water.

Elaine settled into a seat in the cafeteria and tucked into her meal. Her eyes didn't stay on her food, though, instead gazing around restlessly; she hadn't seen LeChuck so far this morning, and god forbid he wanted to invite himself to brunch with her if he chose now to show up. A certain horribly unpleasant dinner on Mêlée Island came to mind. She was prepared to either move at the first sign of the dread pirate or signal a random stranger to sit with her before he could.

[For Dean]

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The instability and nausea still fresh in his mind, Sylar wasn't sure he could stomach a cup of soup, let alone a plate piled with fatty foods. He grabbed some toast and jam, trying to stay inconspicuous as he set his tray down at an empty table. He hoped that a nurse wouldn't start bugging him to eat up if he looked like he was trying to do just that.

Of course, Sylar was sure his bandaged head was making him a pretty easy target, if Wally's immediate approach last shift had been any indication. He... still didn't want to think about that, not really, if only because he could still feel the ghost pinpricks of change racing across his skin, the tension in his muscles, the waves of pain in his abdomen and chest. He had a feeling that the effects of the doctor's torture wouldn't be gone for a while, but at least he had it under control. He hadn't gotten near to... shifting, even if he'd felt on the brink of it. He wouldn't let the bastard win.

But he wasn't about to bet his brunch on it. Scowling and rubbing the bandages at the side of his head, he picked up his glass of water and took a very, very slow sip from it, more to soothe his dry throat than anything else. He scanned the faces of the crowd, keeping an eye out for anyone he recognized and trying not to think of how the presence of each person here might mean more to him now, how he might one day borrow one of these faces as his own. He lowered his eyes again, already feeling sick, already feeling as if he didn't belong in the body he lived in. He had to get rid of whatever this was; he just didn't want to think about why it seemed so hard.

[ For Grell. ]

Talking with another death god was always such a nice way to spend a shift. He needn't pretend to have more or less power than he did or play at being human either. He could just be himself and it was ever so refreshing to do that. With how often he had the nurses on his back about this or that, or how often he was checking over his shoulder for some teen blunder and his stupid waffle knight to have called the calvary on him, he usually spent his days in one giant ball of tension. He did so hate playing along with the game, but he knew from experience that few people would find a murderer like him pleasant company. Even if that murder was decreed by God Himself. People could be so narrow-minded at times.

As soon as he could, Grell picked up his tray and his food (although that tea was simply distasteful being decaf so it was left to languish) and disappeared into the crowd. The last thing he wanted was his nurse trailing after him, fussing over how Geoffrey might trip and hurt himself. The disguise had many people fooled, but it was growing tiresome to play the part. Thankfully, Grell quickly spotted someone else with whom he had no need to keep up the act.

"Well, don't you look like a ray of sunshine." Grell slipped into the seat across from Sylar and offered him a smile. "Rough night?"

Another familiar voice and Sylar felt himself tensing, but this time in a way completely different than he had in the chapel. He let out a breath that he passed off as a huff, then raised his eyes slowly to meet Grell's, his face a mask of petty indignation.

"Where'd you get that idea?" Sylar pointedly rubbed the bandages wrapped around the side of his head, gingerly enough to emphasize the injury but rough enough to cheapen its gravity. He dropped his hand back to the table, grabbing his glass of water and raising it toward Grell in accusation. "Nice timing, by the way. I was looking for you yesterday."

And it was probably a good thing they hadn't met, Sylar mentally added. If they'd made plans for the night, Grell would have found himself alone, which would've raised the question of Sylar's absence, not to mention his implied incompetence. As things were right now, he could grumble this off, get down to business. He leaned forward slightly as he took another small sip, careful to keep his sweatshirt sleeves covering his chafed wrists.

"So, how'd you do last night?"

He'd read some... weird messages on the bulletin board this morning, though the one about 'brain surgery' had been the main attention-getter. Maybe Grell could clarify a couple of things for him – assuming that Grell wouldn't try to mess with his head first.

"Oh, did I miss a date?" Grell teased, wanting ever so much to reach out and play with those bandages. He was certain poor Sylar was bleeding beneath them and the desire to see someone in pain, someone bleeding and broken and at his mercy had only increased tenfold since last night. He kept his hands to himself though, wary of the looks others might give them if little timid "Geoffrey" decided to start playing sadist with Sylar's wounds. "I'm rubbish when it rains, darling. Spent the day indoors where I'd have the least amount of contact with anything that could ruin my makeup."

But to hear that Sylar was seeking him out was good indeed. Grell would have sought the other man out himself yesterday, but the rain had made him reluctant to do anything but curl up somewhere nice and warm and ignore the disgusting rain outdoors. He'd managed to wander about a bit, but once the rain came down? He'd abandoned all thought of exploration. "Such a shame. I'm sure we could have found something to do to entertain ourselves stuck inside all day long."

Picking up his teacup and frowning slightly when he realized it wasn't real tea but some cheap bastardization of everything tea was supposed to be, Grell shrugged languidly and took a sip. Ugh, it tasted awful. He set the cup down and pushed it to the side, preferring no tea over that. "I found a new playmate, someone you might like very much. Kazuchi was such a pretty man, too... Oriental, but he doesn't look it - all silver and white with such pretty blue eyes. If it wasn't for that bloody streak in him, I'd say he might even be mistaken for some holy creature. But sadly, he's completely mortal, if an interesting mortal." Grell gestured vaguely over his shoulder where he had seen his newest darling sitting, and then returned his attention to Sylar. Why tell him all of the story when he could tease him with bits and pieces, right? A girl never revealed all of her secrets at once if she wanted to remain in high society after all. "And you? Get caught by something unpleasant?"

Makeup. Right. Trust a guy who you looked for in a nail salon to not show up because it might ruin his makeup. Sylar didn't even have the energy to be irritated at this point; he just smirked testily at Grell's naughty insinuation, on edge and not in the mood to reciprocate on the flirting. In fact, he wasn't in the mood for any of this; normally, he'd relish the challenge even as he resented it, but right now... Dammit, he'd just have to push through this, put on the mask, pretend his confidence.

He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't felt like this when he'd been in the chapel. When he'd been Gabriel.

His throat went dry.

Then, a distraction. He frowned as his hand tensed subtly around his cup. Kazuchi? Where the hell had all this come from? Not that he'd ever figured himself the only object of Grell's bloodlust (or maybe just lust), but he wasn't about to let himself get dragged into some kind of murderous love triangle or whatever the hell this was. His eyes carefully followed Grell's gesture, settling on a guy sitting at the other table. Huh. Grell actually wasn't exaggerating too bad: this Kazuchi guy looked like he'd walked out of some book of prettyboy models, and Sylar was inclined to believe Grell about his "bloody streak," given how passionately he was describing him. Then again, Grell could've just been trying to manipulate Sylar into some kind of protective jealousy, and – shit, it was kind of working. Not that Grell had anything Sylar was keen on tapping, but their type of alliance was a rare one, and after last night, Sylar needed to keep a stranglehold on all the resources he could.

Speaking of last night. Sylar's eyes slid back toward Grell, appraising him for a second before his expression spread into a cold grin.

"You could say that." He took a slow sip of his water, keeping his eyes on Grell's; firm, resolute. "Something almost cut my head open. Blades for fingers, slime for spit – you know the deal. Held me up from... whatever it was that happened last night."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Want to clue me in, or do would you rather do more boy-talk?"

Ah, those were the types of smiles that sent chills down Grell's spine. The kind that said "Watch your step or I'll rip your throat out." It was just so sexy. He'd gotten the same look from Muraki last night and now today, too? How delicious. Someone upstairs must like him very much to provide him such lovely companions so often.

Leaning forward, Grell rested his chin on the backs of his interlaced fingers, smiling coyly at Sylar. Blades for fingers and slime for spit? Could that really do all this damage to his beloved? How frail and yet resilient people were it seemed. He's managed to survive the encounter and yet he hadn't been allowed to play at all and now he was suffering the consequences of his little date. "How unfortunate you couldn't dance about last night. It was certainly an unforgettable evening."

With a wink, Grell leaned back and crossed his legs, bouncing the upper leg aimlessly as he thought. His eyes slid back to where Kazutaka was sitting with a little boy and he frowned. He certainly hoped that was Kazuchi's tastes or they'd have to have a very stern talk later. Grell would never put one life above another, but he was rather loathe to kill children under a certain age. Maternal instincts kicked in and he always wanted to save them somehow. Usually. Ciel was a special case. That boy hadn't been a child for far too long. It almost seemed as if Grell had forgotten the conversation at hand when he finally piped up again, smirking faintly. "Boy-talk would benefit you sometimes, dear. Muraki Kazutaka isn't a normal man. He knows what I am and seems to think I'm here to reap him for his misdeeds. Misdeeds that I think we all share."

He turned his head back toward Sylar, the smirk still visible at the corners of his lips. "Are you asking me to tell you what happened last night, Sy? You should ask nicely now. I have such an interesting story to tell."

Sure enough, Grell just kept up his cryptic game, leaving Sylar feeling even more riled up and crankier than before. Grell seemed to forget – or maybe knew all too well – that while Sylar knew his "death god" identity, he still didn't know what the hell a "death god" actually did. Something to do with being Jack the Ripper and "reaping" people, apparently, though the way Grell said that last part made Sylar pause a little in his thoughts. Misdeeds, huh? So – what, was Grell some kind of divine executioner? If he was, he was about the most hypocritical one Sylar had seen (sans Noah Bennet, maybe), but that didn't make him any less dangerous. Sylar... might have to watch his back a little more closely from here on out. He'd only fall for Grell's bait as far as he could without getting caught on it.

And yet, when Grell threw out the tease about last night, Sylar couldn't help but venture a little bit further on Grell's fishing line. The less people who knew about his nighttime incapacitation, the better, and besides, maybe he'd get some more solid info on this 'Muraki' guy. Was that a Japanese name? He sure didn't look like it, but then again, that went for about half the other people here with long Asian names. Great, like Sylar needed to go toe-to-toe with another ninja wannabe.

"I am asking," he replied calmly, enunciating each word clearly as he slowly brought his glass back down to the table. He smirked, then looked back up to Grell. "Please, excuse my... rudeness. Just assumed I was talking among friends."

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. "We do want to stay friends, don't we?" He raised a hand, made a circular motion in the air. "You know, with the whole... not keeping secrets thing."

Speaking of which, he really hoped he'd put on enough of a front to fool Grell out of any speculation.

He was so cute when he was out of the loop. Grell smiled and shifted in his chair so he could rest an elbow on the back of it, resting the side of his head lightly against his crooked fingers. How much did Sylar know? How much of this all was a front and how much was the truth? He liked this sort of puzzle, the mystery and danger that Sylar brought, along with the threat of losing him oh so easily.

The fragile nature of his bonds here was what kept him interested in men like Sylar and Muraki. The two men could easily be Grell's greatest allies or his worst enemies. That dichotomy was exactly what he enjoyed and it kept his heart racing every time they met with questions like "Will he be kind to me today?" or "Will he try to cut my throat from behind?" Grell smirked and let his eyes roam over Sylar's injuries, enjoying the sight of such a beautiful man being broken in so many different ways.

"Of course we're friends, Sy-darling. I would never hold out on you so long as you never held out on me." And so long as Sylar remained interesting. If he became too predictable, too normal, too plain, then Grell would decorate him for all to see in such beautiful colors. Maybe hang him from the Sun Room railings and use his spilt blood to paint an unforgettable masterpiece on the floor. Until then, they could be friends. The best of friends. If he wanted to hear Grell talk, then the death god would talk. But that didn't mean he'd make it easy on the other man. "I met with the man when I was looking about. We tried to go through the Sun Room - so boring, I thought I might kill him if he proved to be some useless thing - but the doors...were off. They sent us all over creation and it was such a terrible inconvenience. Back and forth through all these offices, ugh. The doctors here have no taste, do you know that? None at all and it's such a crime. They have access to the best decor and not a single one of them uses it. I thought of you and wondered if things wouldn't have been more interesting with you there. Oh, I did miss you, darling, you have no idea how much." Which was little to none since he was lying through his pointed teeth. "But then a most marvelous thing happened."

Grell smiled and tilted his head back slightly, glad to have something to lord over the other patients here. "I went home. Just for a little bit and it seemed like no one was there, but I was home and I had all the powers granted to me by God. It was marvelous, darling. You would have loved it. Going back to that place was...freeing. No heartbeat, no bothersome breathing, no worries about monsters being able to eat me because God knows I'd have cut them in half before they could blink." The god sighed and dropped his head forward again. "But then we came here again. All the doors turned to portals or some such. Terribly random, but ever so exciting."

Sylar didn't really like the way Grell was eyeing him, and that was saying something, considering how much he'd gotten used to the man at this point. It almost seemed like it wasn't just Sylar's good looks that were turning Grell on this time; he seemed to be focusing specifically on Sylar's bandaged head and the bruising on his neck. Sylar knew from experience what that meant.

Sylar raised his hand, rubbing gingerly at his neck to cover up the injuries and hoping that Grell hadn't caught a look at the needlemarks within the bruises. Grell wasn't an idiot; a few clues and he'd figure out that his "ally" wasn't exactly being a straight-shooter about last night, and worse, he might prod that "ally" for more information. Not that Sylar couldn't snake his way out of giving the whole truth, but he didn't really want to give any truth at all.

Speaking of which, there was a kind of edge to Grell's words when he talked about just that thing: truth. Mutual benefit. Fine, Sylar could handle that – or, at least, he could pretend it, but the question was whether or not Grell could. As he started going on about last night's date, Sylar narrowed his eyes and tried to figure out just how much of the crap he was spewing actually made sense. The office thing seemed to fit with what little Sylar had managed to see on the bulletin board, and... home? What the hell?

"Wait," Sylar said, nearly cutting Grell off at the end of his story, too intrigued to show even false courtesy. He'd unconsciously leaned forward in his chair, peering into Grell's downturned face for acknowledgment. "You ended up home? From here?"

Sylar thought about this for a second. It could definitely have all been an illusion, the same kind he'd seen from Michelle, but even if that were the case, there was an even more important piece of info that Grell had unwittingly brought up.

Sylar smirked, leaning back again slightly. "I'm surprised. I would've expected someone so... powerful to make sure they never came back here. Or do your abilities not work that way?"

Tick, tick, tick.

Grell's gaze apparently made Sylar a little uncomfortable, causing the death god to smile a little wider. He was trying to cover up the neck injuries for some reason. Rubbing them like he was merely uncomfortable, but in such a way as to hide them away from sight. Was Sylar being a little liar, too? What had really happened to him? Why wasn't he more beaten up if something had really attacked him? Why wasn't he dead?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sylar leaning forward and asking him questions. It wasn't unexpected that he would be interested in that tidbit of information. That was why Grell had let it go in the first place. He needn't go into detail about exactly what sort of things he'd brought back with him now that he'd given enough to keep Sylar interested. As long as he thought the trip there was the big catch, he'd never ask about the nagging feeling Grell had in the back of his mind now. Grell could keep that secret until absolutely necessary.

Tipping back in his seat, Grell crossed his legs and made an exaggerated display of shrugging. "It wasn't quite home so why should I stay? No one was there, not a single soul-" Pardon the pun. "-and what fun is going home if no one is there? No fun at all, that's what. Why should I stay in an empty house when I could come here and keep playing with all of you delicious people?"

Sylar smirked in response to Grell's answer and leaned back in his seat, as if considering. He tilted his head. "I know exactly what you mean. There are so many... possibilities here. All wrapped up in a neat little package, crammed in like sardines..."

His eyes slid slowly along the length of the room at all the warm bodies seated at the tables. How many of them were ripe for the taking, he wondered? How many of them were vulnerable even though they were so powerful? He didn't need Chandra's list in a place like this, and he really didn't need some redhead little bitch to wave off questions with overconfident bluster, but that didn't mean he didn't understand the feeling. If only Sylar could get his powers back – if only. This place was like some kind of dream buffet come to life, with all the meat farm-fresh and so quick to trust that Sylar could already taste them on the tip of his tongue. Handicapped and tortured; desperate. Perfect prey for the perfect predator.

But there was a food chain here, and Sylar had come to the sobering realization that he was no longer at the top of it. Where that put him in relation to Grell was still up in the air, but Sylar knew he'd have to stay on his toes if he didn't want to become the victim of the dangerous glint in the man's eyes. He'd last seen that kind of feral look on Tyki's face – not on the doctor's, he reminded himself. Last night had been... different; it had been for business rather than pleasure and that's why Sylar had ended up the way he had. He should have been able to figure it all out. He should have known better.

He didn't like where his thoughts were going. He focused his attention back on Grell, urging away whatever it was that had grabbed ahold of him last shift. He was the same as yesterday. Nothing had changed; he'd just been given a setback. He was already hurdling right over it, and this conversation with Grell was proving it. Nothing had changed.

Sylar calmly brought the hand at his neck back down to the table. With similar steadiness, his eyes found Grell's and his smile widened.

"If playing is what we're doing, then... what's our next game?"

While Sylar's eyes went around the room, Grell's never left Sylar. What a predator he was. The way he eyed the other people here, it was like a lion surveying the African plains. Everyone here was a possible prey animal and Sylar was aiming to be the alpha male. Aiming, but not quite there. Something in the way Sylar observed the room spoke of wariness and a barely visible longing for something. Grell hoped it was bloodlust, but he wasn't certain. For however long he had been watching humans - those with innocent souls and those so drenched in sin their skin almost reeked of it - he still wasn't completely accurate in reading them. That was what he liked about them, though. Humans were so unpredictable sometimes. They could be such beautiful creatures and then turn around and become worse than the Devil himself.

The people here were proving it, too. Little Brainiac 5, pushed to his utmost limits, had turned on Geoffrey and tried to kill him. Those who would save others at home were now more concerned with saving their own necks and would leave another patient behind to the mercy of the monsters that stalked these halls. The heroes were becoming villains, the villains unintentional heroes, and those who loved chaos were forming a very quiet group in the shadows. How long before Grell had his group? How long before he had a small circle that would entertain him with their bloody antics, allowing him to sit back and soak up their beautiful work? Not soon enough for his tastes, but Grell had learned patience over the ages. He knew that all good things had to be set up slowly, allowed to age in order to gain the perfect blend, the perfect harmony.

"The game is as it always has been, darling," Grell said, leaning both elbows forward on the table to set his chin in his hands with a coy smile. "I can provide you the support you need as long as you give me the entertainment I crave. You pick the victim, I'll ensure it cannot escape." Grell's eyes dropped to Sylar's hands. "You have such lovely hands... I wonder what they looked like covered in blood."

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Day 50: Cafeteria (Brunch)

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