Day 10

'They're all dead anyway' pulled a severe frown from Peter, but it faded fast. That was Sylar's worldview here and while Sylar had said a number of things that made it sound like he might believe Peter's version, it also seemed possible he'd said that only to improve relations. It was the same reason why Peter kept making his own slips regarding the 'reality' of the world they were in. Peter wasn't interested in arguing about it at the moment. Instead, he thought about the rest of what Sylar had said.

"Different." Peter leaned forward, intent on that, trying to work out what Sylar meant by using that particular word. 'Special' had a lot of meanings between them, but this wasn't the same thing. Different from …? 'You're the only one who really uses my name.' Different like that? Different because I respect him more than other people do? And do I? That's sort of sad. But let's run with that. So is he provoking me because he thinks I must be weak or stupid because I didn't stop Nathan, or Ma, because in my place, he would have? He thinks I should have found a way. He pondered that, leaning back in the chair. I did my best. Maybe I could have done better, but I did what I could figure out.

"I didn't let them off the hook. I tried to stop Nathan a bunch of times. Pinehearst didn't burn down on its own, you know. Ma … If I'd known what she was up to I would have tried to stop her, too. I guess you can write that off as 'stupid' if you like." He sighed, thinking about Claire from the future, who had cut into his chest with a scalpel. "What did Claire do that you think I should have … 'punished' her for?"

XXX

"It's not about trying to stop them; you did more than anyone else would have in that regard. I've never seen a Petrelli in Level Five, have you? Besides yourself, of course." The Petrellis controlled the strings, cutting up any who dared rise up against them and otherwise protecting their own sacred asses when they weren't killing off their family. Sylar noticed and would appear to ignore Peter's leaning forward as a sign of interest. He was pleased he had the man's attention so raptly, although it was weird to be taken so seriously. With anyone else Sylar would have been written off as a psychopath on the bloody trail to glory, as delusional and broken, in need of a cell block or a tranquilizer…not an answer or a listening ear.

Sylar scowled at him. "Claire hasn't done much of anything 'wrong' that I know of. She does lots of stupid things, but nothing 'wrong'. Sure she got in Nathan's way a lot…yours and Noah's, too…she crashed that plane with all of you on it. Who's to say that's wrong?" Sylar intoned dismissively. Claire was not a big player in his book. She was a scared teenager who'd had some rather terrible things done to her and her actions towards him should probably be filed under self-defense. He'd healed; it wasn't like there was permanent damage done.

He didn't want to talk about her for just those reasons, but also because he was bound to say something 'provocative' without really being aware of it. Tilting his head after a pause, he went on anyway, "Don't discount what goes on inside that perfect, precious head of hers…there's more evil thoughts in it than you'd give her credit for. It's not all sunshine and rainbows." That Sylar knew as fact. "So if you count evil thoughts as something needing punishment, well…" he smirked a bit, glancing aside knowingly at Peter, the star of many of both Sylar's and Claire's evil musings.

XXX

To Sylar's smirk, Peter gave back a forced smile that was trying very hard not to be a snarl. Peter did not appreciate the deep upwelling of anger he had to some of what Sylar had just said. Sylar had just dismissed Peter's experiences as unimportant. (I'm the only person here and I still don't count!) That was hardly new in Peter's life, but Sylar was cherry-picking events to suit his continued sullying of the Petrelli name, ignoring all evidence contrary to his aim. Nathan's life had been nearly as much a mess as Peter's, costing him his health several times over, his family, his career, his reputation and eventually his life. Peter picked up the last of his toast and used his fingers to tear it into tiny pieces before eating. He took his time before responding, trying to breathe and vent his anger as much as he could on the bread instead of on his companion.

When he'd finished the last of his food, he said in a somewhat clipped tone, "Claire didn't crash the plane. That was me. I was still drugged and out of it, couldn't control my ability. It was my fault, not hers. She was trying to save us. She was doing something really good." He wanted to correct the record - not only on his mistake, but also on Claire's heroism. She'd taken a risk to help others and put herself in danger. Peter thought a lot of that in people. She'd known the whole 'free pass for being Nathan's daughter' had been crap. She'd gotten a free pass; Peter had been betrayed by his brother. And Sylar expected him to swallow that the Petrellis never ended up on the wrong end? His envy has blinded him.

"You think my family's privileged. I get that." A rare dip into sarcasm thickened his voice. "I suppose I had it pretty good compared to the average special who only gets abducted the once and then goes back to a fairly normal life. After all, I only got stuck in level five twice; and then there were those months in that long-term facility being lied to and electro-shocked by your- Elle; and the memory wiping; draining my abilities; and the trying to screw me up enough for me to blow up New York; Nathan selling me out, neutralizing me, and then shipping me off. Nathan didn't even make it. He got chewed up and spit out! The Petrellis are such a swell bunch, what with all of that wonderful family loyalty we've got going on. To hear you talk, a person would think we hadn't been killing each other all this time."

With an upset grunt, Peter took his glass of water and his plate, levering himself up out of the chair. He stomped off towards the kitchen, disappointed in himself that he'd said so much and frustrated that it was there to be said. He wasn't even touching on the news that his mother had tried to kill his father, or his father putting her in a coma, or any of the other myriad sordid details of Petrelli family life. I know my family is fucked up! That's why I don't want to listen to you telling me about it!

XXX

Sylar turned to look at the man on hearing his tone. No sleep til Brooklyn, he thought of the sleep he would not be getting now with Peter's aggression. He glared as Peter turned facetious, but a goodly amount of what was said passed right over him. Wait, twice? What? Elle? "My what?" There was no way Peter was pinning any of that on him. "What?" Sylar finally asked in general, way behind.

His memories of Nathan were rife with possibilities and Sylar's hackles rose at the possible insinuation that he had somehow horribly wronged Nathan in killing him. The bastard had come looking for a fight, ill-prepared; actually, he hadn't been prepared at all, and had paid the price for fucking up everyone's lives. Peter would really have to elaborate which time or times, specifically that Nathan may have…done all that to his brother.

Peter marched into the kitchen, his every line reading anger. "Well, haven't you?" he said in normal tones to the other's parting shot about killing off relatives. Could've fooled me. I'm going to do him a favor and NOT count the times I've had to play sides, stick my neck out or recover from otherwise fatal injury when we thought I was one of them.

Sylar just shook his head; he was not about to yell after Peter, certainly not in his current state. I have no idea what I said this time, none. He asks me questions, so I answer them; he gets pissed and might hit me. What am I supposed to do; demure, bat my eyelashes and say, 'oh, whatever you think an understanding psychopath would think, dear'? Sylar grumbled and cuddled himself deeper into the couch.

Who gives a shit about Claire? She needs emotional help not babysitting. She needs therapy, like the rest of you. I'm the one with goddamn anger issues with you popping off at an honest answer? You know what they say: Ignorance is bliss. Gee, Peter, you must get off so light since you're related to that nest of harpies, while someone like me, with no Petrelli blood, gets my just deserts, is that it?

"My point is, if you're suffering so badly," his own light sarcasm tinged that part, "you, their own son and brother; how do you feel about them fucking up complete strangers?" again, his delivery at a normal tone. Peter could listen in or pout. Wow, way to take the fall for Claire's dumb decisions, Peter. I said I didn't consider it necessarily right or wrong and you feel the need to defend her anyway? That either says something about how you see me or your family. Sylar wanted to growl at the man to sit his ass back down so he could sleep, that or take a shower or read a book or even work on his watches, but no.

"Change the subject," he demanded crossly when Peter reentered the room, not sparing him a glance, "Better yet, don't talk at all; you need your beauty rest."

XXX

Peter stomped back in from the kitchen, bristling and fully prepared to give an answer to everything Sylar had said, but was cut off preemptively, and essentially told to sit down and shut up. He opened his mouth again to argue about that, too. Sylar doesn't get to tell me what to do. Fuck him! But the words died in his throat with nothing but the "Wh-" coming out. He blinked and really looked at the other man. Sylar looked … miserable. And sort of pitiful, actually.

Sylar took up a very small space on the end of the couch, legs drawn up as he hunkered in the corner. The posture struck Peter suddenly as cowering, huddled against an assault that could easily transgress from verbal to physical, without warning. For hadn't Peter attacked him three times already here in the middle of Sylar talking or teasing? They were all attacks that Sylar professed to not understand and not to have expected. Sylar was making no eye contact, his head drawn down a little. And yes, maybe he was tired and in pain. Maybe his head was killing him and the way he was sitting was more cause for that than Peter's presence, but the other interpretation rang too true. Peter's patient was afraid of him and while a little bit of him said, 'Good!', the greater part was horrified at how their roles had reversed. The stack of cans Peter had put in front of his own door at night came to mind. Poor guy.

Peter's face struggled for a few seconds on the path from angry and self-righteous to shamed and apologetic. He opened his mouth a third time and then shut it, once more without speaking and this time without a sound. He thought about what Sylar had said. I don't need rest; obviously he does. He's just not willing to say it, to admit he needs something, to ask me for anything. He's telling me to rest so he can. I need to pay more attention to him. I'm getting too wrapped up in myself and that's never good.

"Okay," he said simply, looking down and then off to the side briefly, chastened. His shoulders slumped as he let go of his tension and anger. "Okay." He glanced over at Sylar with a quick flick of his eyes before looking away again, this time beyond Sylar and forward into the room. Peter swallowed and walked across, past Sylar and over to the man's bed. He picked up the blanket and pillow, carrying them back and offering them to Sylar. "I'm sorry. You're trapped in here with a violent nutcase who has a history of …" Peter's throat tightened and he coughed slightly. "Here," he proffered the bedding and said contritely, "I am truly sorry. I'll sit in the chair. I'll try to rest."

XXX

There was a silence after Peter cut himself off, during which Sylar sat and waited. The man's entry had been angry, the pause and then he'd moved behind Sylar and grabbed something up but he didn't move. Sylar was not stupid enough to strike the first blow, not when he was clearly injured as badly as he was. Which was probably why he was mouthing off so. What he really needed to do was stop blurting out his thoughts – generally questions involving Peter's….strange behavior and the actions of his family. There was only so much Peter was going to withstand, that much he'd learned if not taken to heart yet.

He stiffened as much as he could, lifting his head some, all this time not looking at the man as he passed. Peter appeared in his view again, holding… his blanket and pillow? It was Sylar's turn to pause, glancing up at Peter, then staring at the objects. Slowly reaching out for them, grasping them gently but firmly to see if he would be allowed to bring them back to his space or…what, he didn't know. The empath gestured for him to take them, releasing them to his hands so he gathered them up. But on top of all that surprise, Peter was apologizing. For what?

"Why are you sorry?" while his voice was quiet, his question held some heat, accusation, stunned shock. "Don't flatter yourself – you may be a medic but you've never been diagnosed as a violent nutcase." That's my title, remember? What does that make me if you're a violent nutcase? Sylar cradled the pillow and blanket, not quite sure what to do with them yet. "You're entitled." Not to be sorry. To be angry…I expect it, I wouldn't expect less of you in that way…I…I don't know why I keep doing it. Habit, I guess. You're acting so weird…

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar hugging the pillow and blanket to himself – half insecure clutching, half as though he expected Peter to change his mind and snatch them back. Peter did want to take the pillow away, but only to put it behind Sylar's head. He wanted the man to lie down and relax instead of being curled up so defensively, a posture which made Peter feel guilty. What kind of ogre do you have to be to scare Sylar? He's just a man, though. If he wants control, Peter, then give it to him! It seemed like a better idea to let Sylar manage on his own. Being 'forced' to relax was never relaxing for anyone. Peter backed off, doing what he'd said he would and what he had interpreted that Sylar wanted him to do. He sat down and leaned as far back as the chair would go, trying to look at ease and putting himself in a position where Sylar would at least have plenty of warning if he got up. He tried to think of what he'd want Sylar to do were their positions reversed, but it was tough to work that out with the different psychology involved.

He moved on to answering Sylar's question, since taking the time to make sense of things would leave the man seemingly ignored while Peter thought. "I'm sorry that of all the people who could have come for you, it had to be someone with an ax to grind." But does Sylar have anyone else who might have come for him?, Peter wondered. If he did, wouldn't they have done something while he was impersonating Nathan? No friends, no family? Though even a total stranger might be better for him than someone like me.

"I'm not entitled to be an asshole. And it's not just to you. I broke into my friend's apartment and busted her cello." He sighed, looking up at the ceiling, remembering Emma's confusion, dismay and indignation. "I saw it in the dream - Emma was at the carnival, playing a cello. So I went to her apartment. I didn't even let her say hello. As soon as she opened the door, I pushed past her, picked up her cello and smashed it down on the floor. I thought that would stop it – stop the future from happening - but the next night I had the same dream all over again except this time you were in it. And you saved her. So here I am."

He reached up and touched his face, wanting to rub it but that hurt too much. He hadn't thought things through before going to Emma's apartment any more than he had before jumping into Sylar's mind. That was the problem – what he'd already mentioned – he'd stopped communicating with people about what was important. None of them would listen and he kept getting betrayed, so Peter had ended up with his heart as defensively curled up as Sylar's body.

"It was a beautiful instrument. Someone had given it to her as a gift. She was really happy about it, and I tore it apart without even telling her why first." It occurred to him that Sylar was listening. Peter had a grouchy, oversensitive, misunderstanding listener … but he had a listener. Realizing that, Peter immediately asked softly, "Do you want me to be quiet and let you rest?" He was unable to keep a little disappointment from his voice. He remembered his elation from a few days prior when he realized that Sylar was really paying attention to what Peter had to say. Peter had stuck his foot in his mouth almost immediately thereafter with the bit about the memories, but it had been nice while it lasted, he supposed.

XXX

Sylar was quiet even though he had thoughts he could add to the other man's words. No one else would have 'come for me'. You're the only other person with telepathy….give or take. Or you had it, according to your story. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who lacks an axe for me, Peter.

Peter then spoke of his friend, this Emma girl. Sylar watched him after he'd settled in and watched as he listened to the rather personal story. The empath wasn't ashamed, per se, or embarrassed, but regretful. He should have explained it to her. If she's your friend, why would you take away a gift she'd been given? Rather, you should have taken it away after you'd talked to her, not destroyed it. That's…so unlike you, even if you think you're doing the right thing. That's overkill.

The sad thing is he's just proving my point. He'd do that to his own friend? Why would the Petrellis fuck him up, too? Sylar didn't comment, perhaps in gratitude towards the other man or because he was still thinking it over. The story, the sharing calmed him. It must have been an effort for Peter to muster that after what Sylar had said of his family. That was nicer than he deserved at the moment or at all probably.

"I don't know," he answered, confused now, but not dangerously so. Against his will, the more human part of him desired to make Peter more comfortable in whatever way he could since he was allowed to relax. He was at a loss how to do that, however. Sylar slowly began to spread the blanket over his upraised knees, more lost in thought and stiff than anything else. Easing his butt further down into the middle of the couch he began to lay back. "I've got extra blankets under the bed," really, it was under his cot, which wasn't an actual mattress as such. Meanwhile he dug up the couch's pillows and tossed them in gentle arcs towards Peter and the chair. "Don't drool on anything," he warned. The guy refused to leave and he was letting Sylar sleep when he had little reason to.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said to the drool comment with a slight, agreeable smile. He shifted up in the chair to look at the couch pillows, not all that sure what to do with them. Apparently, Sylar wants me to sleep. Time to mime sleeping, Peter. His smile curled a bit further in amusement at the thought that this time it was Sylar's mood feeding off Peter's, not the other way around. He has some empathy after all. Peter got to his feet with a pained grunt at his hip and walked over to Sylar's bed again. Why does he sleep on a cot? He has a zillion other choices, and he chooses a cot. Of course, I stripped my apartment as bare as I could get it, so who am I to criticize?

"Do you want a second blanket? While I'm getting one for myself?" He suspected that Sylar was trying to cast them as equals rather than caretaker/patient. If Peter got him a pillow and blanket, then Sylar was going to try to reciprocate. Peter would play along with that. Another layer of psychology that Peter figured was going on was that Sylar couldn't or wouldn't relax until Peter appeared to be occupied in a non-threatening activity. Sylar couldn't kick him out, but he was going to try to bully Peter into inactivity. Again, if it helped Peter's patient, he was up to a little acting.

As he returned, Peter sent a pointed glance down at Sylar's untouched toast, trying to pick a time when Sylar was looking at him to see it. That was as much nagging as Peter was going to do for breakfast, though. He'd save the big guns for lunch. He picked up the pillows and settled back in his chair, squashing on the pillows for a while and then spreading the grey, fleecy blanket over himself. I was more comfortable without the pillows. Oh well. He'll drop off pretty soon and then it won't matter.

XXX

"No, I'm good," Sylar replied firmly, intent on seeing Peter's ass kiss the chair and stay there. He took his time settling in slowly to the couch, not rushing due to bruises and rashes and otherwise stiff-and-soreness. Once horizontal he caught Peter's gaze glancing to the toast and Sylar awarded him with a single, clear blink before ignoring it.

XXX

Peter settled back again and pretended to sleep, or at least doze. He let his thoughts drift. I have no idea what to do about my family. He worried he'd been abandoned again and it seemed so realistic and likely that it was depressing. It's been, what?, nine, ten days that I've been in here? Ma knows where I was going, but she's the one who put me in a coma in level five; she's the one who thought it was a good idea to let me find out about my abilities all by myself and then try to manipulate me into blowing up everyone and everything I'd ever known.

I talked to Sylar about who might have come for him, but honestly - who is likely to come for me? Really? Emma, maybe Hiro, Claire, maybe others would want to, but how would they find me? How would they get me out? Obviously Matt isn't any help here. Either he can't get me out, or he doesn't want to, because I'm still here! Peter was frustrated, at the world and at himself. He'd thought that by coming here, he could do something good, something worthwhile, because that was all that was left in Peter's life that motivated him - a desperate search for how to be a hero in an increasingly complicated and confusing world. Now he was trapped, felt like an idiot, and Sylar wouldn't help. He wanted to lash out. He wanted things to work right in the world. He wanted someone to care and to help him, but that wasn't the way the world worked anymore.

God, I'd love to think that Nathan would never let me down like this, if he were still alive. I'd love to think he'd move heaven and earth to make sure I wasn't … here. But he did let me down. He hugged me in my apartment, told me it was all going to be okay and then had me tasered. He sold me out for … his career, his twisted scruples. You don't sell out your own family! He crossed a line - a line Ma had already crossed. And then there was Dad's idea of a 'hello, son, I'm back from the dead,' which was another hug from hell. Sylar hugged me in the future, then gave me his ability and everything went to hell again. Maybe I should just stop hugging people!

Peter grinned at the dark humor of that, eyes shut, as he was still leaned back in the chair. He didn't think about how his expression might be seen. It faded a few moments later anyway as his thoughts moved on. That's a pretty sad joke. When was the last time I hugged someone that it didn't go bad? Caitlin? Of course … there's how that turned out. He sighed unhappily. That was someone he'd abandoned, a choice made semi-intentionally, which made it at least partly his fault. Simone? Same thing. And the same guilt, because he'd had a role in her death as well. Claire, maybe. She's never screwed me over. Yeah, I think … I think she's the only one who hasn't.

Really, what has Sylar done that my family hasn't? I'm not even immune from myself! Peter's thoughts ran through the pain the future version of him had brought into his own life - shooting Nathan, imprisoning Peter on level five for the first time and just generally jerking him around and putting him on a self-destructive, pointless path. You know, maybe I am better off stuck here.

XXX

Some time later Sylar was started out of his uncomfortable haze of rather deep sleep by the sounds of someone moving around stealthily. It was that sixth sense all sleeping persons had when things just got too purposefully quiet, the lack of silence actually triggering waking rather than any normal noise would have. Unless of course the person was a light sleeper, but that was beside the point. His heart pounding with sudden wakefulness and awareness, he kept his eyes shut until he was sure he could squint them open enough to feign sleep.

Peter's chair was empty, the couch pillows distributed on the seat, the spare blanket draped over the back. This time he knew he was retracing an old path, but mustering up the correct impulses to fire seemed to hurt his brain. Motion caught his eye as Peter stood over to Sylar's right, near his bed, but the man's head was tilted to read some of the book titles on the shelves. That raised a question or two, nothing immediate because Peter might just be bored, certainly was bored, and curious.

Sylar lost track of time, either to fugue, memory lapse, dozing or some kind of open-eyed sleep he'd heard was possible. He awoke again when Peter walked passed him on the couch, stirring up cooler air and sound on the way to the kitchen. He lazily tracked the man, but didn't feel like stirring himself, safely burrowed as he was with pillow and blanket.

At the kitchen-noises Peter was making, a rumble emerged from his stomach; again, thinking back to when he last ate was more effort than he wanted to undertake. So he amused himself by deciphering the different sounds from the kitchen, doing his best to place them to location (when he couldn't see Peter moving around) and object. He was doing pretty good so far, concussed or not.

XXX

Peter opened the cabinets one after another until he found a pan. Then he opened the drawers one after another until he found a can opener. He wasn't making any great attempt at being quiet now, unlike earlier. If he woke Sylar, all the better, because he wanted the man to wake up and eat. He opened the can of soup he'd already set out and spooned the contents into the pan, then filled the empty can with water, stirring it around with the spoon. He poured that on top and stirred a little, dissatisfied with the lack of dissolving.

He fiddled with the stove settings until he was sure it was on. He spent another restless moment stirring, then set the spoon aside as he remembered something he needed to do before he got too involved. He walked out to the couch. At least to casual observation, Sylar looked asleep. Peter bent carefully for the plate of cold, stale toast and, more importantly, the Tylenol. After he stood with the plate, he said at a normal, conversational volume, "I'll be serving lunch pretty soon." He paused for a moment to see if Sylar responded.

"Do you want to eat at the table, or out here? It's tomato soup." He wondered how dizzy Sylar was and whether he could manage sitting unsupported for an entire meal, but that uncertainty was why Peter was asking.

XXX

Sylar was awake when Peter came back and still admirably faking sleep even as the man got very close, leaning down for something. The toast. And painkillers. Neither were of consequence. Peter's voice would have woken him anyway, seemingly louder than normal. Cranking his eyes open he locked them onto his companion, pausing for a moment to see how Peter would react before answering calmly, "Table's fine." I can make the table, right? I totally won't fall over and face-plant into the soup. (What if I can't? What if I do?)

XXX

Peter took away the plate and pill box to the kitchen, trashing the toast and setting aside the pills where they were out of easy sight. He agitated the soup a little more, then got out bowls, spoons and glasses, setting them on the table for the time being. He put out a box of crackers, too, along with, eventually, the warmed soup. What he didn't set on the table were the painkillers. Peter wasn't going to give those up without Sylar actually eating something. He hoped Sylar would be cooperative about that, but the look from earlier about the toast was why Peter was engaging in subterfuge.

XXX

The other man buzzed away and Sylar began to work at sitting up which came before getting up, pushing the blanket towards his feet. The world spun as his blood pressure and heart rate adjusted themselves. Blinking to clear his vision and swallowing to try to soothe his suddenly cranky stomach, he inched towards the edge of the couch. Okay….I can do this. Just a brief walk to the table. Don't think about the smell, don't think about passing out, don't think about your leg or falling or otherwise humiliating yourself. Ignore Peter on the way in and sit down. If it's poisoned, it's poisoned.

That decided upon, he pushed himself up to stand, swaying and very dizzy as his lack of blood sugar made itself known. "Hmm," he said to himself in displeasure. Get it together. When the black tunnel vision faded, he took a few wobbling steps to the kitchen, using the wall like a prop as soon as he could. Just his luck Peter would turn around quickly and splash him in hot soup and burn his face off or something. Sylar remembered catching a near-boiling bowl of watery green beans all down the front of him as an eager, would-be helpful child. The bowl had tilted onto him from where he'd been taking it down from the counter. But he hadn't dropped the bowl, that much he remembered and he hadn't gotten burned.

He tugged out the nearest chair, feeling the pulsing vessels in his skull complain mightily and with a roar, but he sat. "I'm usually more useful in the kitchen," he murmured, his voice again low and rough from sleep, his face too stiff to bother to yawn. Sylar scratched at his scalp lightly, wincing when even that hurt, so he shifted the motion to shifting his mussed hair back in an attempt to be someone presentable and polite. I must look like crap, though. He snorted to himself although Peter might have heard. No duh he doesn't want to fuck you, and on top of your look, you smell.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's progress from couch to kitchen with an exceptionally attentive eye, but although Sylar was holding onto the wall and then the back of the chair, he seemed to be making it alright. The big deal was that Sylar did not seem to be overestimating his capabilities, whatever they were. He wasn't trying to 'tough guy' it out and act like nothing was wrong. "It's no problem," Peter murmured in reply, ladling out soup into a bowl and moving it in front of Sylar, along with a spoon. He turned and poured the rest out into his bowl. "Like I said earlier, I like helping people." He added with a smirk, "And I managed not to burn the soup."

XXX

This was all incredibly humiliating to Sylar. He felt like a child being called to dinner with all the expectations that came with it. "Thank you," he said when Peter placed the bowl before him, forcing himself to remember his politest manners. He didn't bother to fret about remembering not to put his elbows on the table; it wasn't like Peter would care. But wasn't soup one of those crazy table-manner dishes anyway? Scoop away from you and don't slurp and all? It was very strange to be fed in this way. Sure he'd eaten at restaurants and diners while on the run and been served by waiters and waitresses, but that was their job. This wasn't Peter's job. Hell, Peter could barely cook.

The aroma was calling him, though, queasy stomach or not. Indeed, Peter hadn't burned it and he gave a gentle snort in acknowledgment and praise, passing by the opportunity for a snide comment. He didn't feel one was necessary right now.

XXX

Peter slid the other bowl in front of his seat and set the pan aside for the moment. He took the two glasses to the sink and filled them with water. Again, he would have preferred milk, but he was under the impression that Sylar was being sensitive (oversensitive, probably, but Peter being Peter was reluctant to label it as that) about who ate what. It wasn't that big a deal to serve the same food, from the same dish, with the same drinks. The arsenic comment was still lodged in Peter's brain.

He set out the drinks and paused for a moment, looking at Sylar. Peter reached over with his left hand and gave the point of Sylar's shoulder a single, lingering squeeze. "I'm sorry you're all banged up. I'd rather that when we fought, it would hurt for a little bit and then go away, instead of this," he said, gesturing to indicate his right hand. He smiled wryly as he sat down and mused, "It's a funny sort of place when a dream world is more realistic than the reality we're from, huh? I wonder what that says about us."

XXX

Sylar waited for Peter to dish up and bring back the drinks he was preparing, fiddling with the spoon whose every reflection seemed too intense. He was paying attention to the last glass Peter set down, which was Peter's drink, and didn't notice his companion's pause. He didn't know what he thought the man was doing, but it didn't seem to be anything of consequence and he didn't look over to find out. Adjusting his brace maybe, but Peter hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.

Sylar started and jangled the spoon, looking at Peter as fast as he could manage – his gaze traveling from the man's face to his good hand resting on his shoulder. He wasn't aware that he'd leaned away, probably preparing to take a hit, however he saw that the hand on him was Peter's left, his good hand. Peter was not going to be doing any decking with his right for a long while, just as he said.

He gave the man a glare for startling him, angry that he'd been so caught off guard, but then modified his face and looked away as his doctor sat. That gesture was horribly familiar…to Nathan. A sign of comfort, betrayal, loyalty, love, friendship and brotherhood, trust, apology, anger, farewell and greeting. The gesture practically had a life of its own and Sylar had gone so far as to give it a name ('The Petrelli Shoulder-squeeze') for the amount it came up in Nathan's memories.

It had no place on Sylar's shoulder. "Stop apologizing," he grunted and took up his spoon, switching it to his left hand from his right, slipping it into his soup and stirring unconsciously. Its just weird. I heard you the first dozen times. I'm not gonna lie and say I forgive you and I think this fucking amuses you to see me like this for some reason, so….whatever.

XXX

Peter stirred his soup around, noting it still hadn't dissolved completely, which was because he hadn't gotten it hot enough for long enough. He might not have burned it, and it was certainly warm enough to eat, but was still a little lumpy. Well, at least he's not going to scorch himself. He turned his eyes back to his companion.

XXX

Wondering if he was losing his marbles for considering soup-aroma therapy for his sinuses, Sylar braced his right forearm on the table, he gave Peter a possessive look as if to say 'what are you gonna do about my elbows?' Taking hold of his utensil firmly, he raised it slowly and inched forward to put it in his mouth, giving it a cursory sniff before opening his mouth wider than he wanted to due to his facial bruises. It couldn't be helped though.

As soon as the soup touched his taste buds, although both taste and temperature were fine (if a little colder than he preferred), his stomach rebelled and he clamped down on making a face. Instead, he finished the mouthful and swallowed, replacing his spoon to the bowl. His guts were trying to crawl up his esophagus for more food even as it protested. Sometimes biology just bit itself in the ass. I'm hungry! And sick! He demanded of his stomach, Let me eat!

XXX

Peter considered whether he should have pulled over a trashcan or something to work as an emesis basin. Doing that now would draw attention to it and by that very attention might cause Sylar to lose it. Peter glanced at the empty soup pan still on the table. He supposed that would work, if it came to it, despite the almost instinctive urge not to soil a cooking utensil with waste. It was metal and could be easily washed and sterilized. He reached over discreetly and rotated the pan slightly so the handle was more reachable. Then he went back to watching Sylar's obvious queasiness.

Sylar had paused after the first bite to marshal himself. He didn't look like he was getting worse but instead just taking it slow. Peter took a spoonful himself and then a second. As tomato soup went, it sort of sucked, but it was bland and nourishing and warm, which were all pluses for Sylar's condition. And loaded with salt, which wouldn't hurt the man's possibly out-of-kilter electrolytes.

Sylar's posture, crouched over his dish and putting his arm up as a barrier to Peter's possible interference reminded Peter of something he'd seen on TV. It was a habit of prisoners and others who had reason to believe their food might be taken from them. He'd had one hospice patient with a similar affectation whom he had manipulated into eating more of his meals by threatening to take his food away prematurely. Like many things in health care, it seemed cruel even though the purpose was benign and the result beneficial. How much would I harm Sylar's trust doing something like that? Probably a lot. He's eating. Slowly, but he's eating. I should just leave him alone about it as long as he does the minimum.

But there was something he wanted to clear up: "I wasn't apologizing for what I did. I was showing sympathy for your condition." There's a difference! Important fucking difference! Even though he was sure he should apologize for what he'd done, and he may well have done so earlier when he was feeling guiltier, but that hadn't been his intention now. Peter blew out air slowly and changed the subject slightly to something that didn't piss him off (at his own waffling inconsistency more than at Sylar), following Sylar's suggestion from that morning. "I've never had a bad concussion. At least not one that lasted more than a few seconds, given regeneration. I've had a few mild ones, though." Mostly through fist fights, though there had been that one time when he'd fell off backwards from a dirt bike.

XXX

Oh, Sylar thought, So you're not sorry, but you're guilty? He played it cool and didn't react to the other's tense response. Peter had to have been paying a lot more attention than he'd appeared to be because he'd picked up on a lot of Sylar's signals. He hoped that was only because of the concussion, but Peter had read him well enough and backed off as Sylar had desired, when he had desired it. As he had time, and Peter didn't press the issue, Sylar actually sat and thought about what the difference was. A known, unrepentant killer, Sylar supposed he himself was aware of the difference. Is it like killing Nathan? I'm not sorry, but I'm a bit guilty feeling? Of course I'm guilty in deed; no one questions that.

After a moment, he just shrugged a shoulder, once again hefting his spoon. I jumped the gun, I guess, hearing the word 'sorry'. Of course he wasn't apologizing – he thinks I started it, he thinks he served justice. Is justice always this guilty? He's beat up and betrayed Nathan and not felt a lick of guilt before, not always, but it has happened.

Peter claimed he'd never had a severe concussion; Sylar frowned and looked up at that, his mouth opening to ask about Odessa when the man clarified. He'd pieced together in Mohinder's apartment that Peter could heal, obviously, and that had answered the mystery.

XXX

Peter didn't think Nathan knew about that one so he offered a distracting story in a calm tone of voice. "I think the worst one was when I was nineteen. I went with Justin to this dirt bike track out near Poughkeepsie. He was going to take me around the trail before I went on my own, so I climbed on behind him on his bike. No helmet, because we were just going to go real slow while he talked about the track. Never happened, though. He wasn't used to having a passenger and he gunned the engine a little hard. I didn't have a good grip and went right off the back. I hit my head on the parking lot pavement - cracked it really hard. That was the beginning and the end of motocross for me." He laughed a little. "It felt like my thoughts were wading through cotton for days after that, but I didn't have any other symptoms."

Peter wondered if Sylar would return with a story about himself, or better yet tell Peter about how he was feeling right now. So many indicators of head trauma were invisible to the eye.

XXX

Sylar wasn't thrilled to hear about Peter's injuries – it was a molecule's nudge away from shifted to 'Remember the time when you…?' But Peter seemed in good spirits about it, laughing once and that drew Sylar's gaze up to his face from where it had been on his spoon playing with his lunch…or was it dinner? Peter said lunch.

Still watching his companion, a little curiously, he nodded a few times. "You got off lucky, then. You're always supposed to wear a helmet," perhaps his inner Virginia speaking up there. It didn't hit him that his statements were obvious and Peter was a grown, smart adult who already knew that before and after the incident. He ignored wanting to tell this 'Justin' a thing or two, the idiot; nineteen was old enough to know better. Boys will be boys and what's more, Peter will be Peter.

Something that Peter said stuck out at him and it took him a minute in keeping with the phrase, "I know the….cotton feeling," he said slowly, by way of sharing. The cotton feeling wasn't just limited to concussions for him sadly, not when his Hunger entered the picture. It was the only sharpened thing in his mind, really. He had the cotton feeling now, his gray matter growing throbbing red fuzz or something that impeded his thinking. Sylar frowned again and thought some more or perhaps tried to while he stirred the soup. Was there something else he'd wanted or meant to say?

Sitting up like this wasn't comfortable with his abdomen and leg and wrist. His head was unsupported except for his neck, eyes exposed in the kitchen; he'd felt better earlier. "They're just really painful…take forever to go away," Sylar dismissed the condition with a wave of his right hand. Telling Peter any more, even when speaking to his 'doctor', was probably unwise. Turning his attention back to his food, Sylar lifted up a spoonful, wishing to inhale the odors without being weird or impolite to assure his guts, instead placing the liquid in his mouth and holding it there.

XXX

"Yeah, sucks," Peter said in response to Sylar's comment about concussions being painful. There wasn't much to say to that, anyway. He could point out that the painkillers would help and had probably worn off, but Sylar wasn't done eating yet and there was no reason to bring it up until he was. Peter intended to stay with Sylar (or at least check in on him regularly) until he thought Sylar was well enough to take care of himself. Making a point of that was also something best left unsaid so he moved on to a more neutral topic.

"I know about helmets, man. Now, of course. Then I was a teenager and yeah, I was lucky. There was this one call I went on a couple years ago, motorcycle crash right in front of a fire station. No helmet. He was probably only going 45 or so but …" Peter looked down at his soup - red, or reddish-orange actually, with lumps and flecks. He remembered the mushy way the man's face - top of skull, cheekbones, jaw, everything - was loose and sort of free-floating on the front of his face. Peter swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Well." He was silent for a moment, forcing himself to eat a spoonful of soup before continuing, "I heard they managed to save one of his eyes. I wish I'd known about that healing ability a long time ago."

XXX

Sylar gave him a blank look, his mouth currently occupied with soup he was trying to acquaint his tongue with. He just said he's never had a bad one and he thinks they suck? Oh, Empath, heal thyself, Sylar thought to himself sarcastically, yet with some affection. Just as he was working up the nerve to swallow, Peter dove into another paramedic story and even before he'd finished, Sylar's imagination had done the rest. It appeared he wasn't alone in being queasy on that one. It got so bad as the man continued he was forced to make the choice between vomiting or swallowing to keep everything down so he swallowed the mouthful of soup, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the rest of the bowl. Neat, Peter. Let's talk about this over tomato soup, shall we? What part of that is smart? This is gonna take forever if you keep this up.

XXX

He'd given up that ability - that most prized and life-giving of abilities - to take flight from 'Nathan' and keep up with him after whatever mental transfer or reversal happened between Matt and the man Peter had thought was his brother. He'd surrendered the precious healing power in a heartbeat, thinking Nathan needed him, only to find out it wasn't Nathan at all. Peter frowned. It didn't seem to be a good thing to ponder. There was nothing intentional on Sylar's part to cause Peter to lose the ability, nor, from what Peter could tell, was Sylar acting 'badly' at that time. Lost, confused, perhaps having an identity crisis? Yes. But also, the identity crisis - not Sylar's fault. At least, not directly. Peter gave a small head shake to throw off the disturbing contemplation.

What were we talking about? Oh yeah, motorcycles. "I don't even know how to drive a motorcycle. Every now and then they talk about recruiting for rescue riders around the fid-knee for downtown access but I have no interest in that at all." Peter looked at Sylar blankly for a moment, realizing that sentence was probably about as understandable to the man as Sylar relating watch functions was to Peter. "So, uh …" I need to shut up. "Crackers?"

XXX

Taking a few, subtle deep breaths, banishing both his overactive mind's eye and his own memories of open brain cases and bloody gray matter, Sylar got out, "I don't know how to either. Can't imagine it's all that difficult." He felt as though he gave some kind of a jerk, but he couldn't be sure, part of him hoped he had, given the foreign nature of the thought – Nathan recalling Peter mentioning rescue riders while the lawyer focused on his own affairs. With effort, he replied, "Really? I didn't know that." Because there is a distinction between Nathan and I, he told himself. When Peter stared at him, he went on, assuming Peter was waiting for something, "That sounds-" Sylar had been going to continue in that vein of conversation before Peter piped up, again about food.

Crackers. Of course, so this lumpy red liquid will get all chunky and have texture and be more edible, right? Sylar closed his eyes with something of a mildly pained expression, his stomach working itself into and out of knots. "Uh…I don't think so, not for me."

He realized he couldn't exactly ask Peter to stop talking about blood and guts while they ate. That would just seem odd and rather stupid, given that Sylar was the "Brain Man", given that Sylar had sliced open Nathan's throat. Given that Sylar had tried to kill Charlie the waitress and handle her brain tumor while eating. All those times, he reasoned, he hadn't had an upset stomach to throw off his appetites. On the other hand…Peter wanted him to eat.