"Peter," Sylar acknowledged, "as stubborn as I remember. Seen the light, I take it." To appear nonchalant, he approached the other man. Obviously Sylar wasn't armed or dangerous (anymore, goddamnit. Good thing Peter thinks I'm more dangerous than I am) with each hand holding a plastic grocery bag. The same couldn't necessarily be said of Peter….He noted the man's face was drawn and rather pale, but that was to be expected. He'd been AWOL or MIA rather for four days, probably not eating; his body seemed to be intact so he hadn't been trying anything too dangerous.
Sylar would have to intervene if he did try anything extraordinarily stupid (which would have to be really, really stupid for it to qualify in this case). He had absolutely no desire to go back to being alone and lonely, not if he could help it. Peter also seemed to have gained some dark under-eye circles and he looked haggard, all the factors leading to the medic's discovery of reality. Honestly the signs Peter was displaying couldn't help but go unnoticed by Sylar because Peter was the only real scenery.
"I've got food. You should probably eat if you haven't; and knowing you, you haven't. You look pretty rough, man," Sylar commented as he passed by the other on his way back to his apartment. Peter would most likely follow behind if he'd come all this way and it wasn't like he had pressing engagements elsewhere no matter what he believed.
Over his shoulder he said mildly, "You'll get used to it; the quiet, the solitude. I'm-" All you've got was what he wanted to say, but he substituted, "the only one left." Did that sound as bad as I think it did? The point he was trying to make was that Peter should give up on the day dreaming. /Comas and nuclear explosions, worldwide viruses and all that cheerleader business to gain a long-lost, thought to be dead daughter….Maybe it was a good thing Heidi left you./
The thought threw off Sylar's equilibrium and he stumbled enough to be obvious; the bags pulled him off balance further and he shook his head with a deep-seated frown. Fuck you, Petrellis. Just….fuck you. Yeah, Pete, I am sorry to be here. Know why? I didn't get the chance to fuck with your mother! I'm not married, I don't have kids or family, I'm not the type for life-long community service, I'm…not that, whatever the fuck it is. I'm Sylar….Hope he didn't notice that. Don't ask, don't ask.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar's greeting a sneering smile. He gave ground and stepped out of the other man's way, not that interested in getting too close, but the cast of his features didn't put this as a retreat - merely an inevitable avoidance. Now that Sylar mentioned it, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten yet today, though he'd drank from one of the drinking fountains in the building he'd slept in. Even that had been a couple hours before. Or so he assumed. Time was strange here.
He followed along quietly, debating whether he should share a meal, with all the symbolism of breaking bread and putting aside differences the act entailed, or go find something to eat on his own. His trailing footsteps indicated that he'd made up his mind on that even if he was still consciously undecided. It wasn't the eating with him that bothered him, but the idea of accepting food from the other man, or anything that seemed to be of a helpful or beneficial nature. It made it harder to see Sylar as an enemy.
Peter noticed, but ignored the opportunity to fight with his foe over being the only one left. First, obviously even in Sylar's delusions, Peter was here, so there were two of them. Second, obviously even in Sylar's delusions, the world wasn't real, so it didn't matter. He just made a small sigh to himself and tried to figure out how to look like he was walking comfortably when his feet hurt like a bitch. I wonder if my feet hurt because Sylar thinks they should? No matter where I was, he had to be aware of me…subconsciously, maybe.
Peter also noticed, but ignored Sylar's stumble. He felt the slightest pang that he ought to help, ought to support, ought to at least take one of the bags. That pang of humanity didn't stand a chance against how inhuman Sylar was to him. So the psychopathic killer got lonely and went shopping. It didn't make him a nice guy. Peter's eyes narrowed, then further when he caught a glimpse of Sylar's angry face as the man righted himself.
What does he have to be angry about? Peter was here, which was a concession of defeat by itself. Even if Peter's sojourn had only confirmed the mental construct of the world, he had been sure the other man would take this as proof he was right. And predictably, Sylar had gotten to give an 'I told you so' and would no doubt get to give more. As they started up the stairs, Peter's legs and lower back reminded him of all the flights he'd climbed the evening before. He went up with a resolute tread though, lifting his eyes before him. He didn't think he'd ever looked at Sylar's ass before. He immediately diverted his thoughts elsewhere, taking refuge in a sort of defeated anger and heavy resentment. "Do you want me to leave? Let you be the only one here again?"
He stopped on the stairs, frowning up at the other man. Because if that's how it was - Sylar was angry he'd come back, then Peter could damn well go back to that furniture store and pick himself out a nice bed to sleep on. The diner was right down the block and the breakfast he'd cooked there had been pretty tasty. There was no real point to being right here with Sylar. Yeah, they were sharing headspace, but they could obviously get along apart. A stubborn expression settled over Peter's features, even as he thought to himself, No more do I get here than I want to leave. He huffed and waited for Sylar's answer.
XXX
Oh, that clever bastard. Peter cut to the chase that somehow managed to catch Sylar off guard. Ever the direct one, he'd felt the need to say it aloud. Hasn't he ever heard of the unspoken rules of men? Sylar was quiet for a moment or two, long enough to reach the landing as he heard the other man's footsteps halt. Slowly turning back to Peter, he dug up whatever asshole attitude he could muster to say, "You need me, Peter, remember? And the answer is no; you'll always substitute a punching bag if I ever I need one." There, problem neatly avoided.
"Speaking of, you should take care of yourself more. There's no healing here, even if you are a nurse," Sylar knew all too well Peter's body was screaming from aching pains, that he tended to run himself to the ground to save someone, that Peter was a EMT and that Nathan used to mock him with the word 'nurse'. "No more special," he muttered to himself, the noise of his motion back up the stairs ideal to cover his comment.
"I'm guessing you went everywhere and ended up nowhere, so your back is killing you and your neck is crackling, your legs…." Stupid hero punk. Why him? Why me, for that matter? Why couldn't it be a random, sexy, horny blonde or something? Gee, because life has it out for you? You knew you'd get into this when you killed Davis and that Trevor kid. You didn't sign on for heaven. Eternal retribution. His steps grew quicker as he took the stairs faster. Purgatory.
"Your legs are busted up, am I right?" /Like after that time Howie Kaplan had beaten Pete in the fifty-yard-dash and they'd-/
"Stop it!"
It took him a few moments to figure out he'd protested aloud, the echoes of his outburst and the swishing of the bag he'd swung fading in the stairwell. His back hadn't been against the wall before, had it? Way to make a scene. Well aware that Peter was probably staring at him, he shuffled the bags into one hand and delayed anything by fussing with his dark mess of hair that had found its way in his face.
Sylar licked his lips and swallowed, trudging back up the stairs as quickly and as casually as he could, hoping to sink into the floor while Peter didn't ask him why he seemed to have developed another personality, voices in his head (probably the devil or Mom, if Peter's read my file), or had really taken a swan dive into the deep end. Thank god that sounded so mature and put together, not like a little preschooler squawking at the bullies. God. No wonder people drop dead to take you seriously.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly; he'll totally eat with you now. Just chat your ear off about who's in your head.
XXX
"I'll be up later," Peter said mildly, and sat down on the step right where he was at. He was tired. He hurt. He was miserable and depressed. And his only companion was a serial killer who had gone starkers mad. He smiled a little, recalling Claude using that turn of phrase once. It had taken Pete a little while to understand that, in the context Claude was using it at the time, he meant he'd spent a period of his life roaming around naked, but invisible. Obviously it hadn't lasted. Either the weather in New York or brushing up against a rose bush or the like had persuaded him that there was a purpose to clothing other than hiding one's body.
Peter glanced back to see if Sylar had gone the fuck on yet. It seemed he had. Peter leaned back against the steps and stretched. Something popped in his back, which was nice. He rolled one shoulder and then the other. And here I'd thought I was in shape. Damn. He glanced up again. At least if Sylar was crazy, he was still clothed. The thought of the alternative - Sylar, naked, running around gibbering in the street - made him chuckle. The humor faded to sadness.
His stomach growled restlessly.
\Anything else is just crazy talk./ Peter thought about his brother talking to him in the hospital room so many years ago, after he'd jumped off that building. He reached up and scratched at his cheek. There was a heavy growth of bristles following his jaw line. He supposed he did look pretty rough. The furniture store wouldn't have a shower, or a tub. He wouldn't mind a bath. To get one, he probably would need to move into an apartment. His stomach growled again.
Alright, alright. Christ. He drew himself back up and got to his feet. He trudged up the stairs slowly. He found himself outside Sylar's door, where he paused, hand on the door frame. His mind still hadn't settled on what he wanted here - food and human conversation, perhaps to interrogate Sylar about the world here, or to get some form of satisfaction from him, hurt him maybe, and then leave.
He felt compelled to make some sort of greeting though, so he called out, "Hey. You in there, man?"
XXX
The other man obviously wasn't following him (not after that little display; he's probably fearing for his life), so much he stated. Sylar was beginning to wonder if things could get any worse, even if things were 'looking up' with Peter here. The medic seemed only to exacerbate every facet of his life to the fullest. So Peter didn't comment, but he was surely thinking something. Sylar just sighed and raised his eyes to look morosely at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, stumbling yet again from inattention, this time fully aware of the lapse. This one pushed his final button and he really did want to make something into his punching bag; he wanted to take a swing at something, cause some damage. That's because you are damaged, that's what he's thinking right now.
Growling, he shoved open the door and tossed the bags onto the kitchen counter; resting his elbows on the surface, resisting the urge he seemed to always have to scream, he raked his fingers roughly through his hair. Somehow the part about busting up his hands wasn't at the forefront of his brain. You can't win this one; you won't get anywhere with him. Slumping, he was busy ignoring the thawing chicken and other groceries he'd gotten when the sound of Peter's voice carried into his apartment.
He straightened up quickly and began digging into the bags, making plenty of noise to cover the previous silence. What could he want? Clearing his throat, he called back, "Yeah…?" with a slight inflection of question at the end. Sylar went about putting away his findings, hoping to prepare somehow for whatever the unpredictable man wanted (hide the power tools); pretending that he could avoid whatever it was if he just put the items away as quickly as he could appear to, yet take up the maximum amount of time in doing so.
"Do you want a….tour or something?" he suggested hesitantly. It sure wasn't for the sake of showing Peter whatever 'exit' or 'way out' he thought Sylar was hiding from him. "Draw you a map," he muttered, realizing that his apparent hot-and-cold routine wasn't going to win him any friends about the time he ran out of things to put away in the kitchen. Sylar bit his lip. That meant he had to face Peter's carefully (or not to carefully) constructed features so he wouldn't give away his contempt, obvious hatred and anger at being stuck here with Sylar.
XXX
"Not really. Had one," Peter said brusquely, walking inside a few steps, seeing that Sylar was in the kitchen, putting things away. Don't really want to go anywhere with him. Plus I need to see what's the matter with my feet. But…on the other hand, it's a better conversational topic than anything else we've talked about, since it probably won't include mention of people he's killed. "Well…maybe later. I'm sure there's places you know about that I haven't seen." It's his head after all. Speaking of which…
He walked over to the nearest clock, which was all of about three feet away on a table. He bent to look at it, but his lower back protested. He started to squat, but his thighs protested. Peter winced and stood up, putting a hand to the small of his back and straightening. Frowning heavily, scowling even, he grasped the side of the device with his other hand so as to bring it up to eye level where he could examine it more closely. It was running - that was obvious. He wanted to look at that.
As he lifted, he tilted the clock without thinking. The internals of it made a clattering sound and an off-key chiming sounded. Startled, he nearly dropped it. It chimed again with an odd warble and another clatter, like there was something loose inside it rolling around. Peter put it back on the table hastily, turning back to see if Sylar had noticed that. How could he not?
XXX
Sylar couldn't resist rolling his eyes. Of all the people, it had to be one that probably annoyed him the most. No, I take that back…it could have been Maya or Mohinder. Parkman would bore. Angela or Bennet would have been interesting; at least I'd know where I stand with him. Passing by Peter, he didn't look at him as he went to put the toilet paper, toothpaste and other non-kitchen items where they belonged. But he did manage to smirk a little at Peter's obvious inflexible pain. The kid's back was really killing him, too. Ooh, sex-y, was his mental mockery of the sight and he almost rolled his eyes again at himself.
What he didn't see was Peter grabbing for the precious regulator. If he had he would have snapped and smacked at Peter's grabby hands, but unfortunately the imprecise, careless and broken medic was able to lay hands on his circa 1915 treasure. The sound of small parts clattering out of place raced up his spine and he stiffened, turning slowly to glare death and destruction at the other man. He knew he would really complete the whole hermit or cat lady image by shrieking 'my babies!', so he stalked to Peter and gently and firmly snatched the clock from him.
He knew there was no damage (the pieces merely being shaken out of place), but there could easily have been, it was an antique after all, something Peter knew nothing about appreciating. "New rule, don't touch my stuff," he commanded angrily and it showed on his face. Practically cradling the device, he set it gently on his watch table to be repaired. Again. "I can see why you didn't make doctor," he scathed, "God forbid a pediatrician."
Now his hands were clear, his agitation, annoyance and near-malice were all the more clear to shine through as his hands fisted and he shoved them into his armpits, crossing them over his chest to prevent any homicidal damage to his companion. Sylar felt a prick of embarrassment at having to defend his former trade and current hobby to someone who knew him only as a Sylar, the world's most special killer.
Having Peter around was obviously upsetting Sylar's balance significantly enough that it was probably fucking with his long-since-dormant hormones; specifically the dopamine, serotonin and testosterone, the kind that made fights. He assumed it was because he wanted to know or find out where he stood with Peter. The subject of Nathan hadn't been broached since the medic first arrived, and the continued silence on the matter was surprising. Peter meanwhile reminded him of a child in a china shop. No wonder I hate kids. Sylar merely clenched and unclenched his fists where the other couldn't see exactly, eyes black and narrowed at him.
XXX
"I'll touch whatever I want." He looked down at the clock, but it was innocent and besides, he was really worried he might have damaged it. That is, until he recalled it didn't matter - nothing here was real, no one other than Sylar would even know what had happened here. Anything might transpire and there would be no witnesses other than himself and a deranged serial killer who couldn't tell reality from fantasy.
Peter snorted, feeling a sudden very specific urge to set the tone for their relationship, or rather 're-set' it. He didn't like being pushed around, yammered at, talked down to or smarted off to. It was really starting to irritate him. He'd tried to be patient and he'd tried to be polite. The guy was clueless, socially inept and completely immoral, far past the rather loose standards of the Petrelli family (actually, the idea of 'Gabriel' as a brother hadn't been so bizarre, on that front, but the whole time of dealing with him all Peter could think of was how his mother had lied about his father's death - Peter hadn't believed Sylar was his brother for a second, but what he had believed was that Sylar believed it…and for a little while, that was enough). Right now, Sylar didn't seem to understand what it was he'd done wrong, or even that he had done wrong, most of the time. He'd been more sane before, but then again, this whole mind trap seemed to have driven him right over the edge.
Peter looked past Sylar, at the kitchen. Maybe he'd find something to eat in there. He had no special desire to do that a few moments ago and really not an overpowering one to do it now, but what he did have was a desire to assert himself here. He took a stride forward, setting himself, knowing what he was about to do.
"Get out of my way," he growled, leading with his left shoulder, his right hand free, moving like he fully expected and intended to move Sylar himself if he needed to. Maybe what Sylar needed was someone to put him in his place and keep him there.
XXX
Sylar was left to blink in surprise; he hadn't expected…that. Did Peter think he could seriously barge in and starting upsetting and poking at his belongings? That was not going to happen. Of course there was no wrong in his mind (at least for the actions of the past three years; he'd been a saint); Sylar was minding his own business quite well, thank you.
He glanced around the apartment, noting that his apartment seemed to have been entered and rearranged, and not by himself. "What… Did you bust in here while I was gone, too?" Sylar turned accusing eyes toward the apparent intruder, "Looking for murder weapons, Pete?" the use of Nathan's old reference towards Peter was intentional.
The would-be younger brother approached him and while he felt the need to back down as Peter would surely demand, but it was his place, damnit. Sylar just squared his body at the other man's tone, the proximity anything but friendly, "No, you won't. It's my place." While he didn't see why Peter felt threatened by his demand not to touch his stuff, he was sure that he wasn't in the wrong to demand what he did; however, the surging dynamics between the two left Sylar unsure of where he stood or if this battle was even able to be won.
The debate of showing good faith and keeping his arms locked to his chest crossed his mind, but Peter crossed a line first. "Should I be concerned about you walking in whenever I make a move, Pete?" he sneered, dropping his arms to his sides, his fists still balled up. His jibe clearly biting since he was slurring Peter as something of a pervert, snooping around his place the way he had.
XXX
'Pete' - so that was intentional, was it? Peter had been biting his tongue and ignoring it as nothing but an irritating diminutive, but he really should have thought. With Sylar, it wasn't just a diminutive; it wasn't just an unearned familiarity. No, that was saying something about Nathan, and Sylar shouldn't get to say things about Nathan.
Sylar had every (or at least many, Peter didn't know the details and he wasn't sure he wanted to) memory Nathan had had. He had something of Nathan's so intimate and so personal that no one else had ever had it; no one else would ever have it. He'd taken not only his ability, which was obscene by itself because of the murder it typically involved, but it was almost like he had stolen a piece of Nathan's soul along with it. Nathan's murderer had that precious thing, held it, and was throwing the fact in Peter's face.
Peter took two quick steps towards the other man, his chin tucked and the beginning of a snarl on his face. He was actually pleased that Sylar didn't get out of his way and that he limbered his arms. Shitty as Peter felt, it would all be wiped clean if he could beat the crap out of this guy. He'd taken him before, only a few weeks ago really, although a two-by-four to the back of the head would slow down anyone's fighting ability. Rene's power created a level playing field - not too different from what they had here, if Sylar was telling the truth about having no abilities.
Peter led with his left shoulder, which obscured his right arm to some extent. You ought to be concerned, all right, Peter thought, but the time for speaking was gone. He swung his right with an explosive strength, putting everything into it. Sylar seemed surprised, having stood there arrogantly busying himself with mouthing off and being superior rather than noticing he had pushed it too far. It was just another item on a long list of not-right behaviors Sylar had been showing, constantly hitting the wrong note. Peter had begun to think the man was doing it on purpose, trying to goad him. Well, with the 'Pete', he was sure.
He smacked him solidly on the cheek, managing to tag him hard even though Sylar had been jerking back and getting his hands up. It was too late for the hands to do much good, but the backward motion took out a little of the force of the blow. Sylar backpedaled and Peter hesitated, teeth bared. He wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a paste. He knew he would lose his advantage if he didn't press immediately, but he had to see if something had finally engendered a recognizably normal reaction in the other man, or if he really was as crazy as he seemed.
XXX
Peter didn't answer or make any form of non-verbal communication other than the snarl that Sylar caught way too late. Before he knew it and before he could react, Peter was on him, and his jaw hurt and he tasted blood from the swift punch to his face; the impact jarring his head around to the side. Moving back, getting quickly away, Sylar raised his hands out of surprise and to protect himself. "Uuhn," was all he could groan from the pulsing pain in his cheek.
Stunned and angry, hurt eyes rose to stare at Peter. Probably had that coming. Should have seen it coming, too. He always was a little unhinged when it came to people. He didn't move other than to rub at his cheek; not wanting to set the other man off again and with the idea Peter would ignore him if he remained still. He was dying to snap 'Fuck you' at Peter, but he managed to busy his tongue with exploring the split inside of his cheek.
Slowly his hand dragged through the hair that fell over the side of his face opposite the injury. You should be fighting back, since when do you let people hit you and get away with it? "Die Alone". /"I love you, Peter. "I love you, too."/ Oh my god! Get out of my head! Sylar barely avoided slinking back to the couch with a book to pretend that hadn't happened.
Contrary to popular belief, the current population being Peter, Sylar did possess survival instincts; the same ones he'd been using for six years, if only three of them were active. Besides, if he felt any desire to do so, his patience had grown (beyond what it had been) over the years to become a force to be reckoned with; he would easily wait in a dark alley to give Peter his due. Too bad that would leave him alone in all likelihood. There wasn't really anything to say; he'd provoked the other man with his dead older brother's nickname for him, even if Peter had started it.
XXX
Peter's urge to continue was so strong that he swayed forward unconsciously, coiled tensely like a spring, a subtle motion that only became obvious as he pulled back. He breathed hard, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes evaluating Sylar over and over for a possible threat – or an excuse to hit him again. When Sylar stopped moving back and reached up to rub at his face, Peter met his stare evenly, watching for the slightest twitch of aggression to react to. Sylar didn't look happy (and there was that 'normal reaction' Peter had been looking for), but there was no sign he was going to fight back.
Peter put his lips together and stopped baring his teeth, but his jaw remained tight. His gaze tracked that slow movement through Sylar's hair before he finally relaxed a fraction and looked away for a second. Regret chased across his face, quickly swallowed up by another surge of anger – but it had been there for a moment.
He looked back at Sylar with a glare. "You don't get to call me 'Pete,'" he bit out.
Peter turned suddenly and stalked on into the kitchen, muttering, "Murder weapons," to himself, but it was loud enough to be overheard. He looked around the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a wooden block with knives. He raised his hand towards them, then caught himself for the nth time and let it drop. He kept wanting to kill Sylar and he suspected he was going to keep wanting to kill him until he… he didn't know. He couldn't imagine what would make him stop wanting to avenge Nathan's death. What was it he'd told his mother? 'No one wants him dead more than me.' He looked back over his shoulder in Sylar's direction, wondering if he'd seen that motion, wondering what the other man made of it. He didn't ask, though. Peter just shook his head and huffed.
What the hell am I doing in here? His flimsy reasons for barging into the kitchen came back to him, which was mainly a pretense to hit his companion. Oh…yeah. He looked around at the reasonably tidy countertops and opened the refrigerator, again glancing back to check status on Sylar. Peter remained wary and edgy, clearly willing to continue the fight at the drop of a hat or a single false move. He struggled to calm himself down, looking back at the contents of the fridge, swallowing and trying to master his breathing. He reached in and pulled out a half gallon carton of milk, then went to searching the cabinets for a glass.
XXX
Sylar caught the forward motion and stiffened, his head coming up (potentially making himself larger and taller to intimidate, but also out of reaction), but he avoided moving back mostly to be stubborn. Talk about taking things out of proportion, he was left to believe Peter was having some repressed issues and was likely to lash out at the slightest provocation.
While he didn't stare back at Peter; he wasn't that stupid, Sylar looked away and kept close track of the other man's movements, completely prepared to duck back if he made another move. He felt Peter's eyes boring into him and that instantly made him uncomfortable; that kind of attention was never good attention (not that he expected any less). Careful, I might attack you with my hair, Pete, he mentally snapped.
He took to staring at the wall behind and beside Peter that led to the kitchen. Peter wanted to play dirty did he? That was more than unfair but what was there to do? The man was within reason and Sylar knew it. Catch-22. Sneering at the name comment, Sylar just sniffed and shook his head in a display of teenage rebellion he hadn't shown even as a teenager.
Eyes narrowing in latent danger as he caught the obvious jab that was humiliating if more harmless than the words themselves. Sylar was powerless, but so was Peter and that leveled the field just as it had weeks before at Mercy Heights. Yeah, totally leveled, fucking bastard. Play his game; you can always drug his damn food. Suddenly the worry he'd convinced himself he needn't have about his life statics by homicide came back as Peter entered the kitchen with those parting words.
Plenty of weapons in there. He's got motive, he's shown he's not hesitant to take a crack at you. But he thinks he needs you… He stood there debating whether to arm himself to prevent some kind of undocumented Survivor episode when Peter answered his inner dialogue for him, reaching for the knives he had. Shit, shit, shit. Die Alone. Die Alone, his mind was busy screaming at the motion. Thanks a lot, Claire, stupid bitch, Lydia. Going to your grave cursing them? Is that really worth your time? Should be praying to whatever god there is because you're as mortal as you were the day you were spawned.
Sylar's eyes had widened, but he stood frozen, waiting to see he if needed to bolt. Should he even run? We all know Elle shouldn't have saved your miserable neck from the noose, maybe this is what Hiro the hero meant…. Peter aborted the idea, but that did nothing to ease Sylar's desire for survival and his suddenly boosted paranoia. He saw the medic moving about his kitchen toward the fridge and he made a show of making eye contact before looking away; the high school theatre classes and years of faking anything with Virginia with less, but more intense time spent as a psychopathic killer going far towards making the action casual and natural. Meanwhile his mind was buzzing to think if he'd left any cutlery or sharp objects in the refrigerator. He knew all too well just how dangerous vengeance was in anyone's hands, let alone someone as capable and as wronged as Pete. He won't need any damn weapon when he decides the time is right.
His hands fiddled at his sides and he gave thought to blocking up the door to his room with him inside. Signals, signals, what's he looking for? Milk? What the hell does he want here? Despite the desire to set boundaries, childish as it was, and kick Peter out after he'd made it clear that he couldn't come traipsing in whenever he so damn chose to beat Sylar's face in while he slept, Sylar did nothing. He told himself it was Catch-22. Who buys that? He has to trust you, no weapons, he told himself firmly, squashing his crazed mind's attempt at heightened survival tactics.
"Choke and die," he muttered, barely aloud and completely lacking in real conviction for obvious reasons. It was times like this he really cursed his parents, biological and adopted, for his lack of social skills. Yes, he could talk his way out of a jail cell (minus Bennet, the fucking little...). Granted, it was easier with stupid women like Maya and Candice-Michelle whatever the fuck, because he lacked enough conviction in sex to be able to use it as the casual weapon it was. But his true talents came in getting his way; the super-powered neural pathways and synapses in his brain would find the shortest, more direct route to 'his way' after considering the consequences and every potential outcome. When in doubt, bitch about it.
XXX
Peter heard Sylar say something, but didn't catch what it was. He looked back out of the corner of his eye, then returned to searching the cabinets. Spices…plates…glasses. He got one down, one of a matching set of nice crystal. He paused to look at that. He was sure it meant something – the trappings of affluence in a small, cluttered apartment. He poured slowly and put the carton away, once more doing a status check on his companion. He took his glass and turned backwards against the counter, looking out at where Sylar was still standing and managing to look restless and fidgety without even moving.
Peter took a drink and God, did that taste good. He felt the cold liquid all the way down. Medically, he thought, milk is classed as a solid. It would calm his hunger for the moment. He tried to relax. He made a sharp exhalation – an attempt at a sigh, but he was still too wound up for that. "So. Three years alone, huh?" He looked at the milk, chewing his lip a little before taking another drink. "That's gotta be rough." He looked around the room blankly. He sounded insincere even to his ears. He was struggling to make small talk, but everything else he thought to say got vetoed by his brain before it made it to his tongue.
I had all those questions earlier – now I can't think of them! Can he sense me? Can he read my mind? Did he know I was out there? Why is he here? Why this apartment? Why all this stuff around here? Does he still believe this is real? How can I convince him it's not? Is that what I have to do? Does he get my dreams when I sleep? Why is he such an asshole? Does he understand this is a punishment? Does he think he needs to be punished? Is that why he acts so weird with me all the time – because he thinks I'm part of it? Is there a way to get past that so I can actually ask him this stuff?
He took another drink and reached up to rub his forehead. He looked at his right hand. The knuckles hurt. He'd been lucky, he supposed, in that he hadn't broken the skin, or his hand. He turned his hand and rested them against the cool glass. He raised his eyes to Sylar, whose face was probably hurting him worse. He was pretty sure he ought to feel sorry about that. What he felt sorry about was that he didn't.
He walked out of the kitchen slowly. His feet still hurt and reminded him of this fact now that he wasn't riding high on adrenaline. He went immediately left, getting no closer than absolutely necessary to Sylar. He looked at the sofa. He'd intended to sit on it, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get up fast enough if he needed to. "We've got to get along with each other." He glanced over at Sylar, then at the clock he'd manhandled earlier. He looked back at the other man. "Okay?"
XXX
Sylar's expression ranged from narrowed eyes to a blank look at Peter's sarcastic attempts at conversation, the lack of emotion on his face as it smoothed out conveying his singular thought very clearly; seriously? Peter was probably biting his lip to hold back his laughter at baiting him because Sylar found nothing about it funny. He made no answer to such a lame attempt at humiliation, instead leaning back against the wall in disinterest.
Peter was quiet for a while and Sylar noticed him pressing his fingers to the cold glass and he looked away in disgust. The whole thing was making him feel incredibly used, but that was not a new experience when dealing with Petrellis. Peter had broken into his house after he'd busted the door, snooped around, then come back and upset more things then punched him and raided his kitchen to ease the pain in his knuckles from the (in his mind) unwarranted blow. Peter moved and he stood straight again, but stayed still as the medic passed by, clearly and thankfully avoiding his person.
Keeping a close eye on Peter, he moved slowly to follow him into the living room, standing nowhere near the other, but he saw the aborted thought to sit at the couch pass through Peter's head and he glared at his back. Now his couch was sub-standard? Was this Claire in shape-shifted form? Because his 'guest' was starting to remind him of the cheerleader, what with the hitting and the pickiness not to mention the brainless conversation, or lack thereof.
Crossing his arms again, he shifted his weight. He knew that was the closest to an apology he Peter was ever going to cough up, so he took what he could get. "Yeah, okay, Peter," he conceded quietly, "You…" he started then stopped, deliberating whether to speak his mind, again, making direct eye contact looking up at Peter to show him how dead serious he was, "You're stuck here, man. Get a place, get some hobbies that don't include saving people. Settle down and find a sex toy because we're going to rot here." Words of wisdom however unspoken Peter might prefer them to be.
XXX
"Fine." He eyed Sylar again and finally decided there was no counter attack coming. He sank down on the couch, but not without a wary glance yet again at his companion. That was the last though. He leaned back and put the heel of his palm to his forehead and shut his eyes. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck. "I might be stuck here for a while," he admitted reluctantly. He put his hand down and took a drink.
"But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop looking for a way out. Regardless of whether you believe it or not, or whether I can convince you or not, can you just accept that I don't think this place is real?" He looked over at Sylar quite earnestly.
He started to put his glass down, then noticed there was literally no clear space on the desk next to it that was large enough to set a glass on. Everything was books and clocks in bell jars next to other jars of little metal parts, sitting on top of yet more books. "Why do you have all this stuff? Did you bring this here or was it here to start with?"
Once upon a time, Peter had had the normal allotment of 'stuff' that most people his age had - university textbooks, old clothes, CDs, a television, a trendy laptop that fit nicely in his equally trendy messenger bag, dishes that supported a place setting of six (like he'd ever have that many in his apartment!), along with furniture - a bed frame, dresser, table, end tables, sofa and a comfortable chair, among other things.
He'd come back after being locked up in Company jail to find his place had been cleaned out and had some Jewish couple from Indiana living in it. It was reasonable - he hadn't been paying rent while locked up. After that, he'd lived a very sparse lifestyle. He hadn't missed it much, actually, though he was unhappy about his mother telling him his place looked like he had a mental illness. Noah's snide comments about it had not gone unnoticed either.
Hobbies that don't include saving people…yeah. My whole purpose here is saving people. Noah kind of implied I was a little obsessive about that too. He finished off his milk so he wouldn't have to worry so much about where to set it and rested the empty vessel on his knee for the moment. He frowned over at Sylar, but it wasn't a personal judgment. He was angry at the world; Sylar just happened to be the closest part worth looking at.
XXX
He exhaled a breath, sensing that Peter's violent streak had passed, so he relaxed enough to slide his hands into his dark jeans. "I don't expect you to stop," he said with some amusement, "I give you about a year and a half, maybe two." Sylar's gaze grew distant as he examined the wall again; a little lost in his own thoughts of the years he'd had alone.
"You'll find it doesn't matter what either of us believes, Peter," Sylar replied in the same tone of earnestness, but his voice and eyes were sad, his mouth downturned. He shrugged and shook his head at the medic. "The stuff?" Giving the man a strange look as if to ask why it mattered to him, he replied slowly as it addressing a child, "Three years is a long time alone."
Closing his eyes briefly, he went on to answer the rest of the question, "I brought most of it. I…haven't…I've been busy; I haven't been here in….a long time." He shrugged again to avoid the answer he had to give, felt compelled to give, "And now I've been here a long time and its worse. It was….how I left it six years ago."
Clenching his jaw, he turned slightly away and leaned his hip against the desk his watches rested on. "And what brings you to New York, Peter Petrelli? I thought you were…." He waved a hand vaguely, "elsewhere with /Ma-/Angela or Parkman or something. And don't give me that bit about coming here to save me to save your girlfriend." Sylar's tone changed to be firm and still be socially acceptable.
The impact of Peter's fist was a possible reason for Peter to be here from Sylar's way of thinking. Peter was a Petrelli, however (normally) decent and well-meaning he was, he still had Angela's blood in his veins. Now that Angela had set Sylar's bar that much higher by turning him into her beloved eldest, Sylar was willing to believe the woman was capable of anything; this could be the most elaborate mind-fuck to date in his short but memorable career.
XXX
If I'm still here in a year and a half, that would be…what? The afternoon? An hour or two? Not much, really. I'm probably going to be stuck here at least a decade. I wonder if time would pass any faster if I spent a lot of it asleep? But then I'd have Sylar's dreams to deal with. I don't think it will be that easy.
He listened to what Sylar had to say, frowning when it sounded like he was talking down to him. Peter didn't think he deserved that. Did Sylar do that to everyone? No wonder he didn't have anyone he could go to when his power manifested. No one wanted to be around the jerk.
"I've already told you," Peter said in a tired tone. Maybe if I just say it differently? "I came to this place because I've decided the world is a manifestation of Matt Parkman's power and that-" even someone like you shouldn't be stuck in here. No…on second thought, this is a good place for you to be. I just wish I wasn't stuck in here with you. More like, it's destiny that you save Emma, and that's why I'm here. Fucking destiny. I hate destiny. What was I saying? "-it's my destiny to get you out of it." He snorted at the silliness of the whole thing.
'I've been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny. It's my turn to be somebody now…'
As if to himself, he continued, "You don't have to believe in it. Most people don't." Without thinking, he bent down and started picking at the lacings for his shoes. He needed to get them off and have a look at his feet. He caught himself and paused. I need a pharmacy. And I don't want to do this in front of him. It was not so much because such was rude or overly familiar, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be without his shoes. It was a tiny vulnerability, but even that was something Peter didn't want to display.
He sat back up, changing stride back to the questions that had been percolating in the back of his head for a while now. "I'd be happy to go somewhere else, if you thought I could actually get there. What's the furthest away from here you've been?"
XXX
'Because I've decided…' That failed to sound pious and helpful by a long shot. What was the saying? 'I think therefore I am'? Of course if he chose, Sylar could easily turn the magnifying class of examination on himself, but that was no fun. He'd had years to contemplate his own sins and faults, both of which he knew were in significant amounts. Why not pick Peter apart in his head (more literally if he bought Peter's scheme).
Sylar was forced to pause in his characteristic mental shredding of the other man at his use of the word destiny. Destiny. It meant nothing now. To think how much stock he used to put in that word, that idea, hurt his head and made his chest twinge. How many times had he used that word to people who couldn't understand? He closed his eyes, as if pained, and he was; his cranium heated up as it was torn between two sets of memories racing though him.
…
/"I've been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny." Um, okay….What did he mean by that?
"Whatcha doin' Pete?" He'd called back.
"It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!"
"C'mon, Peter, quit screwin' around." But even as he spoke, he knew what was going to happen. My career down the goddamn drain because my idiot kid brother is too caring, kind and in love to grow a fucking pair. Please don't do this to me./
…
"If the soul exists, scientifically speaking, it exists in the brain."
He'd chuckled then, sitting down and earnestly fixing his intent gaze on the Indian doctor, "When I was a kid, I used to wish some stranger would come and tell me my family wasn't really my family." Staring at the desk before him in shame as he spoke, but as soon as the words left him, he kept his blackening eyes to the wood to hide his anger. "They weren't….bad people, they were just….insignificant. And I wanted to be different."
Smoothly he looked up again, deadly rage coiled in his frame, seeking an out, seeking acceptance, understanding. Understand me! 'Special,' The word that had been trained into him for as long as he could remember. "I wanted to change. A new name, a new life." Tilting his head away, his ability silently at work in his mind, he spoke in disgust, "The watchmaker's son….became a watchmaker." Next pleading, "It is so futile. And I wanted to be…important."
"You are important, Gabriel." Yesss. Yes, I am.
…
/ Dad was dropping him off at West Point with reluctance. Nathan knew Dad's plan was that he go into politics. He'd always had the interest. But he wanted to fly; he wanted to make a difference, be a part of a change, but little did he or his family know just how he would fly. Far higher than anyone had ever dreamed. No more being crushed under the political mill by Dad. Poor Pete, he's gonna get eaten alive unless he can get out. That's what I'm doing, he told himself, getting out.
"Nathan, as the oldest in this family, you have a certain responsibility. I can't count on Peter; he's not like you," his father placed his hand on Nathan's shoulder, large, warm with the potential to be comforting if he hadn't led off with 'responsibility'. Nathan avoided eye contact at first, but Dad wouldn't relent, those dark eyes boring into him with all the strength of a die-hard lawyer.
"You have a bright future, Nathan. I need you to carry on the Petrelli legacy. It's your destiny to carry our name to the highest places in the world. But don't forget your roots." Nathan nodded once, slowly, adjusting his military issue duffle on his shoulder, turning and carrying everything he needed into the future, away from his father./
…
"They're out there. I can feel them. So innocent, so unaware of what's happening to them." He remembered turning away to smirk at using the Indian geneticist. Looking back, ignoring the frigid winter Montana air, he finished more innocently, "We'll find them, Mohinder. All of them; together; the two of us. It's our destiny." Why that memory now? Mohinder looked like a deer caught in the headlights, not that it was a new look for him. Obviously you came on too strong and you lost the mole, you lost the fucking list!
…
/Ma had come in during the election to see if he was still on track for blowing up New York to heal the world. She was involved…? In this madness?
"Yes, you don't know everything about me, Nathan," she paused to inhale slowly, eyeing him, "But I do know everything about you. And I know what you're capable of."
"You think I'm a mass-murderer?"…/
…
Stop, stop, stop! This isn't me! This isn't mine! I'm not him! My name is-
…
He'd come to at the sound. Bright lights blinding him out of his drugged slumber, flinching from the sharp pain that stabbed his head and eyes. My leg…Where am I?
A voice…distant and mechanized spoke to him, "You lost a lot of blood. We sewed you up the best we could." Groggily, he looked to the source, dimly making out a tall man in a gray suit, short cut blonde hair, holding a clipboard with piercing blue eyes behind the horned rimmed glasses he wore. Cell, I'm in…a cell. Prison…government holding cell. He sat up quickly at his next thought, throwing off the heavy, scratchy wool blanket that covered him. Experimental torture.
"Turns out you're not so untouchable after all." The man hummed as Sylar stared him down, pulling his mental muscles to access his ability. Cut the bastard's lying throat. "You'll find your abilities won't work. Not here. You're not going anywhere. Gabriel." The man was unflinching under his gaze, how odd. Damn bastard's smug. He's pleased at this, that's what I hear in his voice.
"My name is Sylar," he'd replied softly.
"Now it is." The man took a breath before droning on with his misinformation, "It wasn't so long ago you were Gabriel Gray…An insignificant watchmaker."
Sylar was already moving, swinging on the platform of a bed to stand, hissing as he moved his leg too quickly. He braced his hand on the thin mattress, staring up at the man as more pieces fell into place. "I restore timepieces," he corrected in the same soft voice, keeping the pain from it. Balancing and moving to walk around the head of the bed towards the porcelain sink at the back of the cell, he continued, "You wanna know why I was so good at it?"
"No, why don't you tell me," was the mocking reply.
Glancing back to give a deadlier look as the drugs began to clear from his system, limping as he took a few steps. Not good. "Because I can see how things work." He paused in his attempts at walking to lift a scornful eyebrow in teasingly serious threat, "What makes them….tick," his tone intimate, "Like you," he drawled.
"We're interested in how things work as well. Everyone else we've…met has had only one ability; you've taken on several," the man in the horned rimmed glasses interrogated with the subtlety of a snake.
"Guess that's what makes me special," Sylar shrugged, proud to be able to speak of the fact, his accomplishments.
"That's important to you, isn't it - being special?"
He detected the sarcasm and the bait in the short sentences and he answered, purring, "It's important to everyone," so easily avoiding that sin.
"I think you're insane. I think the infusion of so many alterations to your DNA as corrupted your mind; all this power is degrading you."
Sylar stalked towards the glass and the man behind it, snarling quietly, "And yet here I am, alive and well, and once I get out, I'm gonna collect one more ability from your daughter…Sweet….innocent," Oh, he could taste it, his voice rising to counter the agent's reply, "Ripe. Indestructible."
The man repeated himself, barking, "I said that's enough, Gabriel." And it was the final straw.
He'd snapped, lunging into the class with all the impotent fury of a caged panther. "MY NAME IS SYLAR!"
…
/…"Important men make impossible decisions. President Truman dropped two atomic bombs on Japan to end World War II; Killed thousands to save millions."
"That was different, Ma; we were at war," he felt compelled to point out. The situation was totally different. Nathan was not going to sell his soul….lightly at least. "I can't accept this," he shook his head, trying to get her to recant.
"That is your one weakness, Nathan; you have no faith. So how could you possibly believe this bomb could actually heal the world if you have no faith in the idea of destiny?"
Nathan rose, restless and unconsciously avoiding the issue, but she continued. Dog with a bone, my mother. Folding his arms in on himself, he made a sour, pinched face where she couldn't see, his back to her. "Your destiny, Nathan, is to set the course of history after this unspeakable act as occurred." Nathan just closed his eyes against it all. How can she say that? I know she's cold, but this…
"And people will look back on what you do as the freshman congressmen from New York and they will thank you for your strength…for your conviction….for your faith." He nearly flinched at the points she was making, distracted by the tapping of Gary's knuckles on the window of his office. Turning, he slowly raised a finger to halt it in his universal gesture of 'just a minute'. His mother used his motion to stand before him.
"In my day we called it being presidential." Glancing from her to his jacket she'd removed from the hanger, he slowly turned away again, this time to accept the jacket, already….accepting this burden, he knew. Wincing before he faced her, he begged her with his eyes, knowing already that he'd lost this coin toss and won the election.Straightening his lapels, Ma gave him her signature motherly air that had him every time. "Can you believe?" she asked softly, "Can you be the one we need?"
Nathan moved behind his desk, assuming the position, shifting his shoulders back in preparation of the blame, the outrage, the decision, god, the decision. Hands on his hips, he stood tall, gazing at his mother as she slowly smiled her candy, winning smile. "That's my boy," she had whispered./
…
Stalking silently behind Bennet and Petrelli, tapping the man's shoulder to get his attention, he flicked his fingers, sending the agent flying back into a pillar, keeping him out of the fight. The younger man turned to him with those wide hazel eyes, backing away and preparing for battle. "What took you so long?" he purred, then inquired, "Haven't I killed you before?"
"Didn't take," Peter had replied with bite in his expression, unmoving. Sylar chuckled, reaching out his arm to capture the man's throat in a telekinetic grip, prowling in a large circle around his catch. "You think I'm gonna let you ruin it all? Take all the glory?"
Hearing the second heartbeat approach and the hammer of a gun being squeezed, he turned in time to see a large man firing bullets at him. Sylar unconcernedly raised his other hand, halting the bullets in mid-air, curling his fingers he turned them and sent them back at the shooter, penetrating into his torso and gut. He then called a parking meter up from the concrete, snapping it into his palm, failing to notice the tall blonde that approached him.
Full of righteous fury at everyone in his life that had tried to hold him back, hatred for those that succeeded, he snarled, "Did you really think you could stop ME?" He made to swing the clubbed end at Peter, but was halted by the woman he hadn't seen coming. Turning as she grabbed the meter from him, she swung and connected the metal head into his stomach, dropping him to the smooth sidewalk. I am NOT the bomb. I am in control. I'm better than this. Mom…. I-I'm better than this.
The distraction, surprise and pain freed Peter, who stood and spoke to the woman, "Go back to your family. I got this." Sylar sneered into the ground before he rose to his knees and he was grabbed by the back of his collar, turning his face into Peter's fist. Bracing on hands and knees after he was punched again, his mouth bleeding copiously, he began to chuckle madly.
The chuckle turned into manic laughter. I win. I did it. He thought he could beat ME! He looked up to see the glow of a mutual power lighting up Peter's hands, the man gasping in horror at his own limbs. "Wait, NO, NO!" he shouted, walking past Sylar toward the statue of Kirby. Sylar took the opportunity to stand, taunting him further, "Turns out you're the villain, Peter." He smirked triumphantly as the man glanced terrified at him, never mind that his look of fear wasn't for Sylar himself. "I'm the hero."
…
The memories tore into him, tears leaking unbidden from his eyes as he shook, unconsciously clutching at his head. Sylar shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, groaning loudly from pain, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He wasn't aware he'd sunk to his knees, his head clunking against his desk, raising his hands to fend off the attacks that plagued his mind. "Stop it! Leave me alone!" His shout ended with a dry cough and gasp for air as if he'd been screaming himself hoarse, bending at the waist towards the floor.
XXX
Peter had looked off out the window after sitting back up, thinking about what was out there, wondering how far Sylar had strayed from here. He need not have stayed 'here' the whole time. His mind could have dreamed up a series of places to be before this place. Maybe they were all out there, metaphorically speaking, of course. Maybe he had a string of places … No, that seemed unlikely. He'd said there was nothing else out there, which argued either he was hiding something or had never gone anywhere. Despite all of Sylar's other flaws, he hadn't been all that much on the concealing-things-business. Peter dismissed it and decided to go with the assumption the other man was telling him the truth as he knew it, at least until Sylar proved himself devious.
The sound of a groan caught his attention and he glanced back, then jerked in surprise when he saw Sylar was on his knees, holding his head. Peter struggled to get himself out of the couch. As he'd expected, it was soft, low and encompassing – under normal conditions no trouble to get out of, but in a hurry, with his back and legs weaker than they should be and aching, he clambered to his feet clumsily. He hesitated, trying to divine what was wrong from where he was at, despite his medical training telling him to go to the man, touch him, calm him, and check for symptoms.
He wouldn't have any symptoms. We're in his head. Is Matt trying to get him out? Peter tried to open his mental senses and listen, which was simple to do in the outside world, when he had Matt's power. He did it now though and nothing happened. It was like listening for a sound that wasn't there.
His attention was dragged back to Sylar with the man's shout. That really argued that some outside force was influencing Sylar, doing something to him, perhaps trying to end this little bubble of 'reality' as Sylar saw it. Matt? Matt? Nothing. Crap. Matt, if you can hear me, get us the hell out of here! Sylar looked like he was in real pain there. As an afterthought, he tacked on, And whatever you're doing to Sylar you should probably stop. It wouldn't do to get out of here only to have Sylar too mentally messed up to carry out his mission.
"Sylar?" he asked in a steady, loud voice. "Sylar, stop fighting it. Is it Matt?" He took a few steps closer, wondering if he should hazard touching him and trying to get them out again.
XXX
Sylar could only grip at his skull, gasping from the overload and barely able to see. Every part of his brain was racing, feeling like it was torn apart; frontal lobe- consciousness, judgment and emotional response with memory for muscle habits, problem solving and….word association. Parietal lobe- location for visual and touch orientation and integration of different senses to allow understanding for a single concept, recognition and perception. Occipital lobes- vision. Temporal lobes- memory acquisition, categorization of objects. Cerebellum- his movements.
I know all this, I know all this. What's that sound?...a voice? Peter. Peter! /Pete/ DIE! YOU BETRAYED HIM! YOU BETRAYED ALL OF US! I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS!
Panting and inhaling deep lungfuls of air, Sylar slowly came back to reality, beginning to see the room he knelt in again. He saw Peter standing and looking at him like he was about to have his whatever-lobotomy and get the straightjacket treatment. He was sitting a minute ago….ages, years ago. God, just go fuck yourself and die Parkman. Angela, Bennet, NATHAN. Now what had his companion been saying?
Haunted and pained dark eyes stared at Peter in confusion from the floor, "W-what?" he managed to croak, not comprehending the questions or commands, whatever was said. "Parkman's not here, I'm not in….not in his head anymore. I went…" he frowned, trying to remember a half-dreamt dream that melted with reality. "I went to him to…take away my abilities, but…." I'm insane. You can say it. Parkman did. I'm not that damn crazy by myself.
"Why won't he die? I killed him, you…" his gaze sharpened at the other man, zeroing in on him like Sylar was starving and Peter the steak. "You dropped him, I…." he chuckled, amused for a moment in his conquests of evil, the thrill at having won. "I made you drop him and….why is there no one here, Peter?" softly uttering the man's name, his voice had trailed off to a whisper; one that begged an answer as if to an innocent, frightened child as his face took on a look of childlike confusion. On some level he didn't understand why he'd been hurt. Didn't everything make sense to them? Why couldn't they just see?
Sylar leaned back against the desk, straightening up and taking his time doing it, his brain still throbbing with splitting shots of pain. Staring at the medic, he wondered why he stood there, looking so helpless. Oh, yeah…that's right. You're not his brother. Somehow not being able to hold someone in place and speak his mind, ease his conscience, his soul to someone who he wanted to care, but hated him bothered him greatly. "Where did they go? Why would they…."
Here he was believing he'd gotten over needing people when one showed up and fucked up his….everything. He resented, he hated, he craved and he needed on most basic levels to feel and be understood. Caring and love he knew were too much to ask; he'd begun the slow and painful process of letting those go finally after years of clinging resilient to the idea, the theory.
Coughing, he shoved back chunks of his hair, glanced up through it at Peter who still stood and stared. He hoped clearing his throat would signal to the other that his questions needn't necessarily be answered. Peter didn't know anyway, right?
I will rise from the ashes again.
XXX
Wait…what? Peter knew he wasn't brilliant. He'd met brilliant people, geniuses even, and he knew he wasn't one of them. He was smart enough in his own way of course and he had gifts - just different ones. He stood silent and unmoving while Sylar rambled through his mental breakdown because he was trying very hard to figure out what the hell the man was talking about. There were common threads there…they had meaning. There was a lot of emotion and if Peter was good at anything, it was understanding how people felt - even if his ability to do that seemed a bit abridged here in Sylar's head.
The only person Peter had 'dropped' lately was Nathan and from the brief expression of gloating that passed over Sylar's face, that was exactly who he was talking about. He deserved to be beaten into the ground for even mentioning that incident, but at the moment he was on his knees babbling, so Peter just stood and listened while his face darkened, eyes narrowed and his lip curled. Things clicked into place and began to make sense.
So Sylar felt bad that no one would tolerate his bullshit. So he'd noticed that no matter how many abilities he had, none of them gained him friends or family or loved ones. (Elle the sociopath excepted.) So he was lonely, and for all his intelligence, he hadn't figured out how to be nice to people, or gain their trust in a genuine fashion or be a good friend in turn.
Peter snorted very softly after Sylar stood, an expression of deep disgust on Peter's features. "Where did everyone go? You made them drop their loved ones off buildings, Sylar, and who knows what else. They hate you now. No one wants to be around you. On some level, even you understand that."
He blinked. His eyes were wet - hate that he couldn't vent about everything Sylar was, anger that Sylar might have staged that whole episode on the hospital roof merely to mock him and maneuver him into letting Nathan fall, the stupid shred of hope that had flared when Sylar asked why he (Nathan?) wouldn't die - all strong emotions that found outlet only in his tears. Peter shook his head and headed for the door, limping a little. He drew up and looked at the bloody handprint there. He glanced back at Sylar and opened the door.
XXX
Again, Sylar knew he'd struck out. In his head, he snapped at the ghost of Nathan, You can take my misplaced desires to the grave, fucking politico. Sylar hadn't even been thinking of being attacked again at the mention of Peter's murdered brother, the one who tormented both of them. Normally he would have thought of the damage he was inflicting, but...he was too damaged at the moment to think of Peter.
The look he was given immediately informed him that Peter was not and never would be an avenue to converse with and attempt to figure things out with. That road had been swiftly blocked. His goal had never been to make friends; at least, he didn't think so. He'd expected to meet people, definitely not as intimately and as aggressively as he had; everyone pretty much fell under this category: wronged by Sylar, having attempted/succeeded at homicide/torture many times, unforgiving.
What he hadn't expected or….taken the time to consider was how his actions would remove him from what he now knew he (apparently) needed.
'They told me I need a connection. A friend. I don't wanna be alone…and somehow you're supposed to help me.'
Somehow in his drive to become special, powerful, fix the world somehow before it drove him insane and he broke it instead, he had so thoroughly repulsed every person that he knew that he had no chance of friendship, not even with a normal. Sylar had never been able to comprehend human emotion, particularly his own. So ironic that he be paired with Peter the wonder-empath; someone who understood and felt what the person was feeling before they themselves felt it.
That type of connection was only fathomable to him on a clinical level if he considered empathy as a power. As a personality type, a character trait, it was beyond him. He'd only ever managed it on accident and he would have little idea of how to go about it purposefully.
Peter spoke and Sylar knew it was nothing but the truth. If he knew that already, why had he bothered to ask? …and somehow you're supposed to help me. Sylar was beginning to understand the true depth of the pit of helplessness he'd cut himself into; no plea of his would ever be heard since he'd hurt far too many loved ones of all the people he knew to ever be given a sliver of redemption. That he did understand. Acutely. He'd felt it every day for three years.
Ducking his head down, the hair he'd pushed back falling over his cheekbone again; it tickled, but he ignored it, staring numbly at his feet. Let Peter cry, he has something to cry for. Sylar didn't move when Peter did, allowing him his much needed escape after Sylar's unnecessary meltdown. He would have to be more careful in future to avoid….how the hell was he supposed to control something he couldn't? That's an unreasonable demand he's silently charging you with. He doesn't want to deal with it, and why should he? It's not his problem.
He stood for several moments, giving Peter a little lee-way before tromping quietly after him. No one (other than Claire and maybe Bennet) made him feel more brutish and out of place, and, yes, deformed and monstrous than Peter. /He was born with a silver spoon. He had everything handed to him; money, colleges… / Padding a good ten or so feet behind the man, not wanting to incur his wrath further, but he found himself speaking before he could close his mouth.
"You're right. But people sure do line up when I can do something for them," he snipped, aiming his comment at Pet- well, any of the Petrellis for that matter, those living and dead alike. Look at Peter. Probably the most honest man, the least-hypocritical man he knew (he did have his moments, Mr. I-shall-not-abuse-the-nail-gun-and murder-out-of-rage, oh, by the way, control your IA, Sylar, while I cut open dear Ma's brainpan) yet here he was, sticking with the family business by using Sylar.
The only thing, the only shred of consciousness in Sylar's head stayed his balled up fists from connecting with Peter's scrawny neck was the fact that Peter was the only other person alive. And he might not be given another chance once the blow was dealt.
XXX
Peter walked out in the hall, steamed – relieved and disappointed that he didn't get to unleash any of the tension coiled within himself. He wiped his eyes, glad of the closed door between them now. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down them. He hadn't thought it would be this hard. It wasn't the duration that bothered him, although he certainly wasn't keen on the prospect of being here for years, trapped, separated from everyone he knew and cared about. It hadn't really sunk in yet what that would mean for him and when it did, he was going to panic. What was tough now was the idea of not hitting, not hurting, and not murdering the idiot. He walked down the stairs a bit slowly, thinking about this impulse of his own and trying to divine if it was how he truly felt – which he'd assumed, until now – or if it was some aspect of being in Sylar's head.
Then Sylar interrupted his thoughts by opening the door, looking out as if to see where he was. Peter grimaced up at him and went back to a normal pace rather than the introspective meandering he had been doing. Hopefully all Sylar was doing was checking to see if he was really leaving – and seeing that he was, he'd go back inside to his groceries or clocks or whatever.
But the asshole started to follow him instead. Peter shot him a nasty look for it, but he went on outside of the apartment building without other comment. Maybe Sylar was just going to some other apartment or room. When he followed him all the way outside, Peter stopped with the intention of glaring at him – maybe he'd get the message – but Sylar took the opportunity of having his attention to speak.
"You think so?" he answered dryly. "There's things you could do for me, but I'm not even bothering to ask. I don't want your help." He caught himself. "Well, aside from the dream. That's it – get you out, have you do something worthwhile – and maybe it's just an accident and I hope to God you don't-" He snapped his mouth shut, startled at what he'd almost said, having intended to finish that with 'save everyone by killing Emma and taking her ability.' The dream hadn't felt like that was a possibility, but predictions of the future sucked. They were often contrary and unreliable. So he finished lamely with, "don't do anything worse. After you get out." He sneered at Sylar in case there was any doubt of how unlikely Peter found that to be.
He started walking down the street, examining the storefronts as they passed. He was looking for a mart or a general store or a pharmacy – any old corner store would probably do and he was sure there was one nearby, within a block or two, but he didn't have the place memorized well enough to know if he needed to go right or left, two blocks or four.
"Just go back to your apartment, Sylar. I don't want you near me." You piss me off. You upset me. What was that song lyric – you challenge my balance? I wonder if there's music in here? I wouldn't mind listening to the radio. I think the title of the song was 'Wonder' – lyrics sounded like it was someone with an ability.
He paused at the intersection. This was the corner Sylar had come out from around, with the bags of groceries. He probably hadn't gone far to get them and what Peter wanted was basic first aid supplies. A grocery store would have those. And he could get food while he was there, because he sure as hell wasn't eating anything Sylar offered him. He turned down that direction.
XXX
What the hell did that mean, exactly? 'Things he could do for Peter'. He snorted loudly enough to be rude, mostly in an attempt to get some standing with the man and get over his little scene moments ago. He was still very shaken, cranky from the headache it left pounding in his skull. Su-ure Peter didn't need him one ounce. "What would those be, Peter?" he chirped, miming innocence and helpfulness. Seriously, he was doing anything to crack this guy open; Peter was positively annoying. "Have me do something worthwhile, huh?" The idea was laughable and he scoffed at it. He knew the game, he knew this little drill.
This was still a Petrelli he was stuck with, so the rules would be the same: Ignore the puppy dog eyes, in this case, the glares, until Peter wanted to get creative, which Sylar wasn't necessarily looking forward to. Sylar had his good deeds, but he tended to keep them under the radar for safety reasons. If the people he knew learned of his 'weaknesses', hell, even his goals and desires, they would be used against him in an instant.
"If you keep this up, Peter, who knows what I'm capable of." He just rolled his eyes at the insinuation that he would 'get out'. Poor kid couldn't accept a hard fact of life, could he? Sylar was tempted to begin making hand-mouth puppets as Peter spoke just to be a dick, but he didn't. "You amuse me. You need me, Peter," at first he was serious, then he pretended to implore of the man.
Surely Peter understood Sylar's need for attention, even if his attempts to get it were rather crazy, admittedly bipolar (with good reason). To remind Peter that he wasn't getting out and that Sylar did NOT like to be ignored, he lengthened his strides, walking beside and two steps behind the man about a yard away (out of reach). "What are you looking for? I thought you said you didn't need a tour?" Know your way around the city already, do you? He wanted to rub in.
Glancing at Peter once, he soon looked away and went about admiring the scenery he'd already viewed, keeping his hands in his pockets, hunching in as he walked. He gave an inaudible sigh at the futility of everything. He won't even let me help. I'm completely useless here. I'm not that much of a threat now, am I? He doesn't know that.
XXX
At Sylar's first question, Peter flipped him off silently and kept walking, unfazed. Having you do something worthwhile might be a nice change of pace. You ought to try it, psycho. He looked at the apartment buildings and reluctantly agreed, mentally at least, that he needed to pick a place out and settle there, if only for a night or two until he decided where he would be for the long haul.
What does that mean, to be living somewhere in Sylar's head? It's just a mental construct, but why does it manifest like this? Is it because we dream of real life, so our mental spaces would look like real life? Is this what a nightmare would really be for him? For most people there'd be…gore, and scary things. I guess when you're the bogey-man, those don't scare you anymore. This does.
Sylar made another stab at provoking comment from him. Peter wasn't particularly avoiding being provoked. If he was giving the silent treatment, it was out of a lack of desire to communicate, not a desire to hack the other man off, though he knew full well it would have that affect too. He listened to Sylar's increasingly desperate attempts to get some attention from him and Peter's silence quickly began to fade into intentional cruelty in holding his tongue. When Sylar moved up closer to him, Peter faded to the side. He'd preferred the previous distance. Actually, he would have preferred Sylar stayed in the apartment altogether – there where Peter could find him when he needed him and staying out of his hair the rest of the time. Yet here he was.
Maybe he could make him leave? "If I need you so much, why are you tagging along after me? You think I'm going to find something out here you might want to keep hidden?" Peter didn't think that was likely, but he said it anyway. "Or are you just so bored that baiting me is the only entertainment you've got?" Now that's probably true. As biting comments to run Sylar off went, they were pretty weak. He muttered, "Enjoy the hell out of it, Sylar. You've already made it miserable enough for me to be here that I'd do almost anything to get out, without you. Keep it up and I'm sure I'll find new depths of desperation to explore."
There had to be other ways. Maybe he could use Matt's power to reprogram Sylar. Maybe he was meant to steal shape-shifting from the bastard and that was him saving Emma. Maybe Sylar saving her was metaphorical somehow, but he couldn't imagine how that was. He huffed and looked at the buildings. There, on the corner, was a...grocery store? His brows rose slightly, as did the corner of his mouth. Just what I was looking for. He headed for it with a couple faster steps, then scowled at Sylar as his mind played forward to having the jerk shadow him the whole time he was in the store, commenting on his selections and being rude.
Just go away! He didn't bother saying it though. After a point, even negative attention was attention. He sighed and copied Sylar's body language unconsciously, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.
XXX
He just sighed at that, having plenty of responses to it, but he was too tired to fling it at Peter. Classy, he thought, completely original. Sylar just clenched his jaw at the increasing silence radiating off Peter in angry waves; oh, and Peter felt the need to move away. Who hit whom here? He wondered. I'm not poisonous…per se. Opening his mouth to retort something smart and snappy, but paused to consider his words, rather the effect that they would have. You need to tread carefully; don't lose this one.
"I'm- what? I offered you a goddamn tour, man, there's nothing in here that's going to surprise me. Sorry, no dead bodies…" under his voice he muttered, "conspirator." Peter would just love that, wouldn't he? If he found some dirt, some skeletons, whatever the hell it was he thought Sylar could possibly be hiding in this hellhole.
"Because I-" Oh, convenient that he couldn't come out and answer that. Damnit. He had pushed too far, too fast and Peter had called him on it. Did Peter have a similar need to be recognized that he needed to hear Sylar say that he needed the medico? Of course Sylar wanted the company, the conversation, whatever it be about.
As a man who based himself, unfortunately, on the attention he received, most of it being negative which probably explained him accurately, being without people to give him any kind of reaction was torture. But in the end, he was a man who did what he wanted, what he needed to do and...dealt with the damage later.
Personality warred with genius in his head; the former fucking with the latter until his goals were diluted and tangled. Ironically, he was aware of the saying 'Good attention, bad attention; it doesn't matter so long as it's attention.' Something he found himself living and relying on more and more as the years had gone on.
"You're not getting out, Peter. It will be easier for you to accept that, man," he offered quietly, keeping pace to fall behind as Peter sped up, sensing the futility yet again. Sylar was obviously not impressed by Peter's hard-nosed displays and insistence to 'get out', so it wasn't taking up any of his precious brain space; he wasn't hopeful or even worried about the prospect.
"Take care of your feet; they'll just get worse." Nathan? Again? You fucking pr- Sylar found his body tensing up, but he managed to control his reaction. He is not your goddamn baby brother. He knew where they were and most likely where they were headed, so he didn't stare at the building or make a comment of any kind. Why bother?
The doors whooshed open allowing Peter to stalk in like a man on a mission (rather than like a man avoiding the hell out of something) and prowl around for whatever it was he was looking for, which Sylar imagined to be food. Dumb kid probably forgot to eat the same way Sylar had when he'd been on the road and on the run. Again, similarities everywhere. Why can no one see that? Why do I have to be the monster?
Sylar was used to reading body language and he was picking up more hostility than he would prefer to place his person around. Peter pulsed with annoyed anger and it actually grated on Sylar's mind, seeping into his emotions. It only jacked up his headache further. He slunk a ways behind Peter out of boredom, wariness, loneliness and curiosity, mostly curious to see what Peter was here for, what he picked up, hell, even what he looked at.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a mildly nasty look for the comment about not getting out and a sullen one for the quip about his feet. He held his tongue, denying Sylar conversation because he could - and besides, talking with him hadn't gotten him anywhere but worked up and angry. The man's continued presence was like a stone in his shoe.
He stalked into the grocery store and drew up just past the cash registers. He gave the place a cursory scan, confirming it was indeed the sort of place he wanted to be in. To his immediate right was a candy display. He reached out and snatched off a Hershey bar with almonds, ripping the wrapper loose and letting it hang to the side. He took a big bite, not stopping to savor it, just crunched it up and swallowed. He looked back and forth at the various aisles more slowly and took a second, smaller bite at a normal pace. It tasted good, just like chocolate should, just like he remembered it. He sucked at his teeth and then nibbled off an even smaller bit, revealing an intact almond. He studied that, then gently took the nut in his teeth and worked it free, eating it by itself.
He felt better. Blood sugar rising. He looked over at Sylar, who was quietly watching his possibly-odd candy-eating habits. Peter's expression eased a little. He looked away and the set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, like he wasn't so completely poised to fight at any moment. He let out a deep breath, gave a last look at the signs over the aisles that revealed what lay in each, and headed off to the left.
He took two limping steps, then turned back towards the entrance, going up to one of the other check out stands and liberating a couple empty bags. He quit limping again, having caught himself. He gave Sylar another 'checking' glance, but there wasn't any excess of hostility in it. He was just seeing where the man was. He wasn't comfortable with him being there, but there wasn't a lot he could do about him following him around. At the moment, he didn't feel up to threatening him with anything to make him go away. Sharp comments and the like weren't at the forefront of his mind either.
Peter headed back through the store, going down the medications aisle. It occurred to him that if there were pharmacies here, then there were probably hospitals, with fully provisioned stockrooms. It was something to think about, though he didn't see a lot of point to drugging Sylar. Maybe myself, on the other hand…he thought with amusement. He wasn't serious. His mouth quirked a little at the internal joke anyway. He snagged a bottle of Tylenol and dropped it in his sack. He wandered on down the aisle, taking another bite of his chocolate bar.
Peter stopped to get a bottle of alcohol and another of peroxide. He searched around for a moment, not seeing what he wanted. Ah, over there. Tubes. He walked back the way he'd come and grabbed a tube of ben-gay. He put it in his sack and glanced discreetly towards the front of the store, giving Sylar's location another status check. Peter was hyperaware of where the other man was at, relaxing only gradually. He moved away and found another unbroken nut in his candy. He bit it off whole, sucking the chocolate from around it.
Peter picked up a box of moleskin and another of blister plasters. He finished the candy bar and wadded the wrapper, looking around, wondering where he should dispose of it. He put it in his sack and stretched. Next on the agenda: food. He meandered down a few aisles, trying to think of what he wanted to eat. He didn't want to fix anything, as appealing as the idea of prepared food was. He went down the bread aisle and took down a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. He could happily eat that all by itself and when he was a kid, he had sometimes done just that.
I need to get something other than bread though, or I'm going to have to limp my lame ass down here again in a few hours. As he moved back to the front of the aisle, he turned and looked at Sylar, not to see where he was, but just to look at him. He hadn't said anything annoying for a while. Peter decided not to break that good trend by inviting conversation. Instead, he headed over to the fresh fruit and vegetable section. He snagged apples, celery, carrots and a sweet potato. I wonder if there's already food in the apartments? I suppose I could ask. He went back towards the front of the store. Or I could go find out.
In any event, his steps slowed as he reached the doors. They swept open and he ambled outside because of that only. He wasn't sure where he wanted to go from here. He stood there looking around, trying to weigh in his head how far away he should be from Sylar so as to avoid the bastard, and how close to be because…well…he wouldn't really admit, even to himself, that he didn't want to be off by himself.
XXX
/Almond Hershey bars….He remembered Peter chowing them down by the dozen in med school. Poor strung out Pete had needed the sugar to even stay on his feet and keep his eyes open, let alone keep his brain online. Every so often, Nathan would have his assistant send Pete a box. Ma use to give him looks when she'd catch Pete with one like it was some kind of Nazi anti-appetite spoiling plot, but he'd kept doing it anyway. ("Kid's a nurse, Ma, he knows about diabetes") This was America and Pete was wafer thin and strung out for the energy. Hell, they were close enough that Nathan knew how he liked to eat them; large, chunks torn off into his mouth then sucking the nuts clear before crunching on them like they were the best part of the bar, something Nathan didn't exactly understand. Nuts were plain, chocolate was…well, chocolate. He still held a random memory of teasing Pete about said nuts; his own higher-sexed brain making a few connections about how, exactly, he liked to devour the legumes. Yeah, he'd known about Pete's little secrets in school. He'd mused a time or two that the kid might actually get laid more than he did himself with whatever his cute little (turn your head and cough) nurse routine was. Sometimes he surprised himself with the older brother role, but he was twelve years older than his kid brother, so he hadn't ever really considered it a choice. He remembered being baffled by the whimpering, pink mass that resembled one of those dolls the little girls seemed to fawn over when it, his newborn brother, had been set in his arms as a kid. Dad had never given him anything, even if the unspoken 'offer' was present. Nathan knew it had fallen on his shoulders that day, even if he didn't know it that moment in the hospital. Ma always did say that he took up more space…./
Sylar just stood with his head down as tears stung his eyes. He had no other reaction to give to the memory; it made his chest ache hollowly, somehow chilly inside. God…to have had a brother, a sibling…parents, really. Was it any wonder he'd become a killer? Then again…the sibling would probably have gone before Mo-Virginia. Sylar found himself leaning his butt back on one of the register's conveyer tables, raising wet, wide, darkened eyes to track Peter's every move. Get to know him, figure it out, he's not rocket science, he's….What was Pete? He met the glances the man threw back at him as he rolled the thought over in his mind, but didn't give a sign of any emotion to the attention.
Peter….Peter was an adversary, technically an enemy of the highest rank. Deadly, ruthless, and capable. But the man had opened up a time or two. The smallest glimpses only created more questions than they answered and Sylar was oh-so curious (one of his weaknesses). But he was still a brother in some very fucked up way, to Sylar, not Nathan. He held memories of Nathan's disregarding, mocking, insulting behavior, chopped, rude responses to 'My foot hovered before it hit the ground. Hovered!' Sylar knew that feeling. He would have understood, even if he'd never developed his own ability.
Some people couldn't understand being special. Peter…he understood, but he didn't seek it out, instead choosing to be selfless and helpful (to everyone but Sylar). Sylar knew he never would have 'fit in' as a Petrelli (reasons being Claire and Bennet; the options of being shot and stabbed on a daily basis not appealing even to his potentially masochistic sense of self); he knew he'd take Peter's place as the blackest sheep, assuming Angela ever released him from Level 5 period. But he felt such similarity to Peter; surely the other man knew? Maybe he could sense it somehow…It was too much to hope. His empathy is broken after all…
After taking mild note of the items Peter picked or gazed lingeringly at, Sylar lifted himself up to sit on the black conveyer table. The motion seemed to earn him a longer look, he only returned it, his eyebrow inching up slightly in question. Moments later, Peter shambled from the store and Sylar could see him looking around, telegraphing 'lost' all over his face. Sylar plopped down to his feet, shuffling out after him, careful to keep his distance and silence. Peter seemed more receptive that way, even if Sylar was brimming with questions. He didn't offer any comment or directional help since Peter seemed eager in the extreme to part ways.
XXX
Peter swung his bag pensively, looking up and down the street. He gave Sylar a glance and dropped his eyes before looking away at his possible destinations. He was softening even further in his stance against him – not that it really changed anything, except that Peter wasn't angered by Sylar's mere presence. How long did that take? A whole ten or fifteen minutes of him keeping his mouth shut? The prospect of years stretched ahead of him. He sighed.
Wasn't there a psychological experiment like this? He started walking slowly back towards Sylar's apartment. Not being trapped somewhere with a psycho-killer, but having to sit across from someone at a small table and make constant eye contact with them for…I dunno, two minutes. It's longer than people think. Then you had to rate afterwards how you felt about them, whether they were a good or bad person. Just looking at someone for that long, not talking, not doing, nothing else – and people universally decide the stranger is more likable than someone picked at random.
So here I am stuck with Sylar. I hope like hell he'll quit being a condescending ass, or at least keep his mouth shut. He glanced back at the man again, but Sylar was still silent. Peter relaxed a little more and looked around at the buildings, the trees, the empty sidewalks. It's kind of restful in a way.
He was alone with his thoughts – not a state Peter had ever been very good at. He was prone to brooding in solitude if he wasn't able to keep busy. He didn't want to 'brood' at the moment. He wanted to find an apartment, eat, take a hot bath, and lay around with his feet up, waiting for time to pass…he supposed. It would end when it ended. He just had to wait until then.
Waiting. Alone. With his thoughts.
"So, um…what do you…do most days, here?" He had to have been doing something all this time. Peter kept moving forward steadily, not looking at Sylar, not wanting to do anything to encourage another burst of sarcasm or slur against himself.
XXX
Sylar only moved so far as to look in Peter's direction as he emerged behind him from the store. However, he did give a startled glance at the man's back as he headed back towards Sylar's place. Either he was looking to settle close or he was being friendly or condescending enough to go back to Sylar's domain. Peter seemed more at ease in the silence Sylar provided so he didn't speak, attempting to enjoy even the illusion of companionship.
Plodding after the man, a distance behind, Sylar was more interested in the questions he had for Peter and trying to discern what his own next move should be. It all seemed to depend on Peter. So this is what going crazy (for the dozenth time) feels like. I thought I gave up on waiting on other people. He gave a miniature sigh to himself. Maybe some things never really change. Take Peter for example.
Sylar started slightly at the oddly asked question, surprised to be addressed at all. Blinking, he licked his lips, moving a hand to shuffle through his hair; a defense mechanism he'd developed suddenly now he had company since the last haircut he hadn't bothered to observe. "Uh, whatever you want. There's reading and shopping and cooking. You don't strike me as the homemaker type, but there's always arts and crafts and furniture décor and rearrangement," he chuckled lightly to show that he was indeed joking, not snarking.
He felt compelled to leave masturbation off the list since that would be….awkward and Peter would figure that out for himself. That was literally none of his business. He supposed someone could make that a serial habit….he shook his head to clear it. It was awkward even in his head and for once his overactive mind wasn't doing him a favor. I need a life. Badly. It's starting to show. He also didn't feel the need to point out that Peter could spend his time making forts and cleaning guns, sharpening his knives and perfecting his poisons. That would be pushing him in all the wrong directions.
"There's always writing and board games, card games, too," he provided helpfully, honestly. "There's always learning a new language or learning to sew or something." Shrugging, he gave a small frown at the thought, "Just…find a hobby, basically. You'll try nearly anything to avoid boredom, but it will come for you anyway. Find something….stable." Huh, stable. Coming from you, he'll leap at the chance for a weekly chess game with you.
XXX
Are you the 'homemaker' type? Sylar the homemaker. A memory came to mind of Sylar…no, Gabriel, feeding Mr. Muggles a bit of waffle. The man was wearing an apron and taking care of a little boy. He'd come over and hugged Peter warmly, put his hand on his face, and acted happy and balanced, rather than the desperate, haunted man he was all the other times Peter had seen him. It was a weird scene - simultaneously proving Sylar could control his hunger and asserting that doing so was so difficult that he hadn't achieved it for long years.
He was controlling it last year, when he thought he was my brother. How hard is it to master? He mulled over their previous conversation about post-it notes. It made him uncomfortable shortly, so he let his mind jump tracks, listening as Sylar elaborated on his answer.
Writing. I wonder if he keeps a diary? Some sort of journal of his victims? I doubt it. Doesn't seem his speed - I doubt he thinks much about the people he killed - their lives were just speed bumps on the path to getting more power. Not much point in writing here anyway, since no one can read it but us. It's just a mental exercise. Though I suppose that's the point. A few hours have seemed like years to him…and I'm sure someone from the outside would have done something for me if I'd been lying around for three or four days now.
He eyed the buildings they were walking past. So where do I want to be? Same block? Two blocks away, like here? Does it mean anything to be further away? He felt a bizarre urge to settle in virtually next door to Sylar, but all he needed to dispel that was to remember his several failures in conversation so far today and his track record in trying to get anywhere (in more ways than one) the first day he'd been here. He stopped walking, looking up at what were probably nice, mid-sized family apartments. It was a lot more than he needed, but he didn't plan on staying there for more than a day or two - until he felt better and had a better feel for what was going on.
Even though he'd already decided where he wanted to spend the rest of the day, he was reluctantly to simply walk off from Sylar and leave him standing in the street. They weren't exactly having a conversation, but they'd had an exchange that had been perfectly civil. It was a start. Maybe I should just leave it at that and take my victory where I find it. That's what Nathan always counseled. But no, Peter had never been one for that strategy, so he asked, "What do you do, though? What are your hobbies? If you really think we're going to be stuck in here forever…" Even by my assumptions, it's going to be a really, really long time.
XXX
The idea of Peter keeping a journal (oh, the empathy) or writing an autobiography or worse, a self-help book or 'Reasons Sylar Should Die' memoir best seller was alternately horrible and amusing. If he went with the memoir, he supposed, Sylar could always sign the first million handwritten copies. Still he continued, more ideas coming, "If you're interested, there's always graffiti. But you're only destructive w-" With a nail gun. Ted's power. "When you…have to be," Sylar finished lamely.
Sylar himself was frustrated at his own inability to keep his mouth shut. As a watchmaker all those years ago, he'd had ideal control of his words, even the emotions he let slip to the surface. As Sylar, himself, now, having his personality, his mind rot away over the years alone had apparently left significant amounts of anger. Anger he hadn't realized he still possessed.
Peter seemed to be looking around….for his own place? Sylar was a little shocked he would consider something so close to himself, not that he was complaining if that was the case. He'd be thrilled to have someone, to….actually have something period, let alone so close for him to view almost as he pleased. Of course, he technically had the whole world for his own, but maybe because Peter wasn't his anything, perhaps an enemy, it was appealing. A challenge, perhaps. And a challenge the medico was in spades.
Peter spoke again, posing a question that had Sylar gaping a little, unsightly as it was, at the man's back. Did he really just…? As baffled as he was by the question, his brain was already coming up with the answers for him. "Wh- uh…I….read a lot. A lot. I don't cook for fun, but I do cook to eat. I do puzzles on occasion, I can draw a little. I collect stuff and fix up furniture sometimes." He did hesitate when it came to divulging a potential secret of himself, one that could set him back all the accomplishments and murders he'd bled and suffered to achieve.
Deciding to forego it at the moment; Peter may already have put two and two together about the earlier clock incident, he had a question of his own to ask that couldn't wait. "Um….Peter?" Sylar asked quietly, "Have….have you read my file?" Random and it probably drew more attention to the question and the motivations behind it because of it. Some secrets were best left buried. He had to see what he was working with.
XXX
Peter jumped on the question, more because of the tone it was asked in than the words themselves. Truthfully he initially had no idea what Sylar was talking about, but there was an earnest, quiet tone there that wasn't confrontational or aggressive. It caught Peter's ear instantly. "Your file?" Medical file? IRS file? That file the FBI supposedly keeps on everyone? No, wait - the Company file. I'll bet that's what he means.
He looked back at Sylar, shifting his feet enough to be angled towards him, like they were talking to each other rather than Peter speaking forward at the world and Sylar addressing his back. It had seemed safer that way - less direct - and Peter suspected he was pushing too far, too fast just with that small movement, but he'd already made it. To take it back was worse. No, let Sylar recoil or rebuff instead, or adjust to tolerate it, depending on his capabilities.
In the meantime, Peter studied Sylar's expression, seeing the caution and reticence there, along with something that wasn't mere curiosity. The other man needed to know this, which cemented what they were talking about. "Your Company file?" Peter asked, just to make sure. The shift in Sylar's expression affirmed it and Peter looked away, not wanting to be too intent.
"No," he answered shortly. "Me and the Company aren't on good terms, Sylar," he said with a snort. They'd tried to maneuver him into blowing up New York; they'd locked him up for months; they'd developed a virus that could destroy nearly all the world's population, and then kept it; one of their founders, his father, had stolen his abilities (which may or may not have been related to some plan to give everyone abilities, and then to lose control of the situation such that a future version of Peter thought it needed to be stopped); they'd cooperated with the mass abduction and imprisonment of specials, including Peter himself…really, at what point in all of this would Peter have had an opportunity to read Sylar's file?
He chuckled at the thought, still looking away. To make it clear his humor wasn't at Sylar's expense, he said, "No, we're not on good terms at all."
Why would Sylar care? Why did Sylar think Peter was interested in his life, or multiple imprisonments, or victims, or whatever the file held? Well, I did ask about his hobbies. Maybe he thinks I'm curious about him? I guess I am, though really I just wanted something to talk about. Direct as always, Peter asked with a hint of a smile, "What's in there that you don't want me seeing?"
XXX
The way Peter pounced on the question, giving him that Peter look, going so far as to turn towards him and give him a glance told Sylar that he'd managed to sink himself. He had the man's complete attention, how ironic that he didn't want it on this particular subject. Something on his face must have shown, since he didn't bother to answer the obvious (to him) question, only shifting his weight as an 'answer', but it had Peter looking away.
Having Nathan's lovely memories, he knew Peter was not chummy with the Company, but he did know that he had almost unlimited access should he chose to exercise the right. Then again, Peter was literally a jump first, think later guy; that much he knew from experience. He was the lovable ignoramus, mentally chuckling to himself at the image.
Peter answered in very vague and hazy terms in the negative to his hesitant inquiry, so he gave an uncertain nod in response, hoping to let the subject drop. Of course Peter's amusement made him a little wary of mockery, but the man dissuaded it quickly; leaving Sylar to tilt his head in equal measures of puzzlement and amusement at Peter's display of good humor. Peter didn't show it often any more (not that Sylar knew much about it).
He couldn't really escape the returning, very fair, question. Sylar didn't want to make Peter any more suspicious than he was already. Come on, Peter still thought he'd managed to kill someone (everyone) or hide a secret portal in his closet or something equally ridiculous. But the EMT had also admitted that he was staying for a while and that gave Sylar….mixed feelings to say the least.
Oh, somewhere in the back of his mind he did hope for the freedom Peter proclaimed to be truth and reality, but….he had no choice but to be pragmatic about the whole thing. (And, really, that was just be totally unfair if Peter only had to 'stay' a week with company, mind, while Sylar spent three years alone.)
The smile, however, did nothing to ease his worries. "I'm entitled to have my own demons, Petrelli," he said, mild and firm, nicely getting him to back off. It was about the extent of his manners, but he did hold his tongue on mentioning who exactly was involved in creating said demons, i.e. Mom and Pop Petrelli. "You've made it clear they're none of your business, except….the obvious one," again, avoiding naming names, this one Nathan's.
"It's not like it's going to come back and bite you in the ass, so don't worry. I was just….curious how much you knew, that's all." My god, stop talking already. Thought you wanted his attention off your damn file. To back it up, he set about looking innocent and harmlessly normal. Odd how he felt the need to keep Peter away from something that could barely be classified a secret when he was the only other being alive. Pride was funny that way.
Really, did it need protecting? No. Sylar just preferred avoiding further humiliation, but….was that worth all the subterfuge? Perhaps it was merely another weakness, another opening for Peter to get inside that he somehow, for some reason sought to prevent. He'd had enough of his own personal identify crises (Thanks, Mom, Elle, Bennet, Samson, Angela, Arthur and Nathan) prior to being mind raped and manipulated. His own experiences, his actions hoping to show the specialized world what he was, who he was. And that someone was no longer a watchmaker. I restore timepieces.
How far he'd gotten with the community, he didn't know for sure; he only ever heard the negative murmurings and whispers, the plots and grievances laid against him. He knew he'd managed to erase his birth name (to everyone but the state of New York PD) and become reborn as Sylar, the most dangerous special. Feared; respected only in regard of the levels of fear he commanded and the intensity of actions the others would commit to see him dead, worse, imprisoned; even selling their own souls to give him the same measure of pain he'd caused them, also the family some would sacrifice to use him as a weapon.
At least Peter had answered the question, a result he hadn't been sure about; this opened the door for more of Sylar's questions. Meanwhile he was strangely touched; Peter would be thrilled to know, that the other man had inquired about something as mundane as his hobbies. He wasn't, however, so delusional as to believe it was concern or affection by any means. Peter was merely asking about what he was dealing with and probably trying to fill some space. He was obviously learning that Sylar was really the only thing that would fill the space.
He decided to try his luck again, "Assuming you're from….another reality," what a coined phrase that was. Peter used to be able to teleport after all. Fucking teleportation. "Um…what am I doing there, exactly? I doubt Parkman is going to stand by and…." And what, really? Um, try to find his (apparently still existing in Peter's La-La Land) kill spot? Incase him in carbonite or burn him to ash and hand him in a jar to Claire or Bennet, maybe Angela to gloat over? Mentally rolling his eyes at himself and the endless imagination; he was trying to figure it from the perspective of Peter's overactive one. Hey, he'd phrased it...delicately.
XXX
Peter backed off as desired at Sylar's firm non-answer. Ones, his mind added, plural. Whatever had happened to Claire was his business too, no matter how insular Sylar wished to be in limiting who he thought Peter should be interested in. And not that blood relation was all that mattered - there had been others Peter had known about fairly directly - Jackie and Isaac came to mind immediately, then there was Claire's biological mother, whom Peter recognized as family if only of a distant sort. He'd never even met her, but that didn't matter. It wasn't like he didn't care about all the other people Sylar had killed, or that they were somehow insignificant and beneath Peter's concern by virtue of unfamiliarity. The implication that they were, or should be, seriously got under Peter's skin.
Peter's jaw worked slightly. His back tensed up again (and hurt). His eyes narrowed. He drew his head down and his posture shifted. Sylar was looking away, though, thinking through something other than the effect his words had had on his companion, unaware of how completely that had shut down Peter's attempt to reach out.
Sylar asked his question, again mostly looking away until afterward. With difficulty, Peter listened and actually gave a moment to consider it. You're being bricked up behind a wall in Parkman's basement. You'll never matter to anyone ever again. No one will find you. Your body is going to be buried and you'll be trapped in your head forever. It might have helped Peter's cause in getting Sylar out if he'd said any of that, as Peter knew it might motivate Sylar, playing on his sense of self-preservation if nothing else. But he didn't feel inclined to share anymore. Pettily, he'd rather keep something like that, something Sylar would want to know, to himself. He answered honestly, though a bit less directly than he might have otherwise. "You're unconscious, just like Ma was at Pinehearst." Let Sylar imagine his body lying still and safe in a bed somewhere. The reality was more horrific.
Peter gave a smile that was very foreign to his face, a smile of someone who had seen a bit too much and been scarred too deeply by it. Eyes still narrowed, the smile didn't make it past his lips, but it wasn't fake. It was just as bitter as day old coffee. Because whatever was happening to Sylar was probably happening to Peter too. They were linked now, one way or another. He wondered, again, what Matt would do with him. Obviously, he wasn't going to pull him out or else he wouldn't still be here. That meant … what?
Peter exhaled sharply and looked upward, stopping his mind from the fruitless, stupid circle that he'd run in too many times already. He was here, and that's how it was, no matter the reason. He hurt, and he was tired and hungry and he wanted to plant his fist in Sylar's face again for no more than a comment that Sylar didn't understand. And that was what pissed him off so intently - Sylar didn't understand, at all. He had to get away from him again.
He turned to the building and took a few steps towards the door. "Don't follow me." A moment later he glanced back, expression hard and still angry, but feeling the need to add anyway, "Please." Partly it was politeness, and partly it was a genuine plea. He didn't want Sylar to follow him out of contrariness, or some misplaced need to prove he could. It would start things - things Peter didn't want started.
Peter pushed open one of the glass double doors and walked into the apartment building, getting about twenty feet before sagging against the first wall he came to, head hanging, bags dangling limply from his hands. The whole situation tried to crash down on him at once. He wasn't beaten yet though - not by a long way. After a few seconds, he bore up under the burden, straightening again. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, going to the elevator, his stride getting increasingly steady. The doors parted immediately and he walked inside, turning. His face was chagrinned as he realized the outer doors were transparent and he'd had a moment of weakness in view of the other man.
The elevator doors blocked off his view.