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Sylar is grumpy.

And alone.

And grumpy.

And sitting out in a field. There are wildflowers. He has graciously refrained from setting them on fire, which is the extent of his goodwill towards anything at the moment.

Botherable, if you feel like being yelled at and/or mauled.

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"I don't think you really could." Mildly.

"Willing to risk it?"

He grins.

"Well, it'd be a change from the norm, why not?"

"You," Sylar says wryly, "are very strange."

He's still not letting go.

"Look who's talking."

"And you call me immature."

Lightly.

"Well you are."

Sylar snorts.

And tugs lightly at Sam's sleeve with telekinesis.

If it's a threat, it's at least a playful one.

"Dork."

"Annoying bastard."

...is that a note of affection in his voice?

"Violent bastard."

"I can't really argue that one, can I."

"Not even a little bit."

Snort. "Fair enough."

He's laughing now. How did that happen?

Sam lapses into relatively comfortable silence.

Eventually, with absolutely no show of reluctance whatsoever, Sylar lets go of his wrist.

"Thank you." Dryly.

"And here I thought you liked it when I got rough with you."

...it's amazing how Sylar can say this in total innocence.

Smirk. "If that's your idea of rough, your standards must be falling."

"If you'd prefer I were more violent, you only have to say."

"Sounds interesting. Go on, then."

"...are you really soliciting violence from me?"

"I'm soliciting a change from the normal from you. Which, given that it's you, pretty much means violence."

"But you'd accept any kind of change?"

Sylar grins.

"Within reason."