The Morning After
The winter sun was already weakly rising over Washington D.C. by the time he even got close to his apartment. It had been one of the most gruelling nights of his life – and considering his vast, decorated history, that was saying something. His joints were aching and his fingers heavy as he fumbled with the multiple security locks on the inside of his door, but there was still work to be done before he could even contemplate the sleep he so desperately needed.
Instead, Noah Bennet set about unearthing stashed Primatech boxes overflowing with old case files. He sifted through the folders, sorting them into piles, while his cheap coffee machine whirred and sloshed too loudly amidst the clutter of almost empty cupboards and surfaces that was supposed to be a "kitchen". He had extremely busydays, weeks, months or even (most likely) years running away ahead of him, and the company man knew that the best preparation he could possibly grant himself right now was a continuous cycle of hot caffeine. Even if it was watery and rancid and congealed at the bottom of the mug.
Ever since Claire's jump last night, Noah had been stretched in all directions constantly: he was a concerned father, a retired company agent and a government asset all at once. Primarily he worried about his daughter and what the world was going to do to her now, but once the government had picked through the ashes of the Building 26 fiasco for anyone who could help, and therefore propositioned him, there had been no time (or means) to even share one word with Claire. In fact, he hadn't even set eyes on her for hours now, except on every available screen he happened to pass. He suspected, and this man's suspicions were very rarely proven wrong, that this was mostly due to Claire purposely trying to avoid him. It stung of course, but she was a big girl now, despite his valiant attempts to suppress the natural phenomenon called ageing. She'd made her decision, and Noah would appear to give her the space she so desperately craved to deal with the repercussions of her actions on her own. At least temporarily. Until she undoubtedly needed him again.
In the meantime, Noah had more than enough information to keep him distracted from his fatherly duties. Seeing as the Building 26 disaster had crashed and burned so epically, Noah had found himself to be one of the few people left with experience in dealing with abilities and their, sometimes unstable, owners. He couldn't exactly turn down the government when they came knocking. They desperately required his advice on how best to deal with the existence of this new species of super humans, and Noah... honestly, Noah just liked to be needed. And also thought it better not to let the world fall to pieces, which it certainly would without him.
Meetings had spanned for hours, bustling with dozens of different men in suits and uniforms swapping in and out like a grotesque game of musical chairs, and Noah had lost count of the amount of hands he'd shaken and departments he'd been shipped around. It was a weak facade, loosely strung together at the edges to conceal this fact, but to a man with Noah's life experience it was blatantly obvious: to put it simply, nobody had a clue how to deal with the shitstorm Claire had rained down upon the world, and everyone was trying to pass the crisis onto someone else as quickly as possible.
Although the outward reception of abilities had been, astonishingly, positive – behind the scenes things weren't so rosy. Not that Noah expected them to be. The world had disfigured literally overnight, and things were bound to be crazy and confusing at the beginning. There had been discussions about setting up another Company as a safety precaution, or keeping everything above board and official this time... but until the dust settled nobody could come to a suitable agreement.
And that was only on the government's side.
Noah stretched his stiff back and fetched his scalding "coffee", returning to look down upon the mosaic of folders he'd strewn out across his apartment floor. There were so many, and that was by no means all of them. This was barely the tip of the iceberg. He'd been told sometime around six that morning by another rotating mob of businessmen that he was to be offered a job reasonably soon, although time was yet to tell what exactly said job would entail. Until then he was to "wait for more information" like a novice to this field or something equally as insulting while they continued to leech out of him every ounce of valuable information he could provide. Or so he had them believe, anyway.
Yes, Noah had participated and divulged the identities and abilities of many known specials. Just doing his part to help his country. But he knew better than to even think of outing Angela Petrelli or her family. He wouldn't endanger her, he wouldn't betray her, and he definitely wasn't about to admit that he'd been conversing with her on and off all night in secret.
Mrs Petrelli, as stoic and unreadable as ever, was perhaps Noah's most valuable ally at present. And her convenient ability was only a small factor in that. Within minutes of the event at the Sullivan Brothers' Carnival having transpired, Angela had been on the case and calling in regularly both to give and receive updates. Truthfully, Noah didn't know what she planned to do (he didn't even know what the world planned to do) but he had long learned to trust that woman. Or to at least keep on her good side, no matter the cost. Although she claimed her prophetic dreams had so far evaded her all night, her caution over exactly what information was suitable to leak to the government and what was too precious to share happened to coincide perfectly with Noah's own mindfulness. There was a certain... precision to this task, and one that he fully intended respect. Whichever discount sham of a unit the government eventually managed to pull together, Noah knew there were some things they would never quite be equipped, or allowed, to handle.
Which was why this particular batch of Primatech files had conveniently neglected to come up in conversation.
As the morning wore on, the piles of folders multiplied and the gunk at the bottom of Noah's mug grew with each bitter refill. In the old days this would have been a duty gifted to a lesser agent, but seeing as Noah no longer had a team or even a partner (Lauren had been quickly snatched back by the CIA hours ago and he doubted she'd even want to leave her official job to join him at this even if he had a way to ask her, and he hadn't even caught a hint of Tracy since she'd saved his life back at the carnival), he fully invested himself in the labour with the same thorough patience with which he tackled everything.
The most important factor here was working out who deserved to be surveyed, either under "official" policies or by other means, and who wasn't an immediate threat. Paper crinkled as he flipped through the pages and a stream of familiar faces flashed by (with a noticeable lack of a paper trail for a particular, blonde teenager), among which were: Eric Doyle, Adam Monroe, Eden McCain, Hiro Nakamura, Matt Parkman, Peter Petrelli, Arthur Petrelli, Angela Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli, Niki Sanders, Tracy Strauss, Mohinder Suresh, Ted Sprague... the most dangerous specials. Many of them were already deceased, he noted, mostly at the hand of the most threatening person of all. The one who had constantly evaded Noah over the years, the one who left an effortless trail of destruction in his wake, the one who grew only stronger with each passing day: Gabriel Gray. Otherwise known as Sylar.
Whereas Noah was wary of the haphazard way the government were attempting to "handle things" (he really didn't want another Danko scenario on his hands) the biggest stain on his awareness was his sighting of Sylar at the carnival last night. With Peter Petrelli.
Normally Peter's mere involvement in a scenario should dispel any ideas of an evil scheme, especially after Noah had seen him up close in action on a couple of cases, just recently. But Noah was well aware that the trusting, gullible Petrelli had been tricked at least once, almost catastrophically, in the past by someone with a dark purpose. Adam, however, had been a stranger who had garnered Peter's trust slowly over time... but Sylar. Sylar?! The very same man who Peter had wanted to murder merely weeks ago at Nathan's funeral?! Who already had a damaged, ugly and unstable relationship with Peter even before the Senator had been killed?!
It just didn't make sense. And in Noah's experience, that was never a good sign.
The coupling of those particular men (not to mention abilities) was the last thing the world needed right now. The last thing Noah needed! The pair had dropped off the radar immediately after Claire's dive, could be plotting or practising god knows what together right this second... and nobody would be able to stop them. At least not easily. All it took was one public glimpse of Sylar and his potential, and this fragile truce between them and us would shatter in a global panic! The monster in question had never been one to pass up the chance to show off in the past, and Noah doubted he'd be shy now that every camera in the world was watching for any slight slip-up. Some might call Noah paranoid, but it wasn't exactly encouraging that his many voicemail and text messages to Peter had been pointedly ignored.
The dusty sun glinted off the man's glasses, catching the reflection of the murderer from the page before him. He bared his teeth in a snarl borne from memories alone, chucked Sylar's file away, gagged on the gooey dregs of his coffee and watched the paper flutter to the ground... rather coincidentally landing atop Peter Petrelli's. It didn't take a genius to guess that the pair were likely hiding out in one of their apartments – that was if they were still together, and judging by the touchy-feely, best-buddies routine he witnessed last night, Noah didn't think it much of a stretch of the imagination to assume so. But even if he had a suitable team and weapons at his disposal, storming into a room, guns blazing, against those two particular men would never go down well.
A gut feeling alone wasn't enough to warrant an attack, but Noah was far from finished here. While the officials took their time scrambling about, he would not willingly lie down and do nothing. Any scenario that carried even a hintof Sylar was already tainted in this ex-agent's eyes, and he just knew that the son of a bitch was cooking up something... unfortunately, without proof, there wasn't much he could really do about that. Especially not if that government job (whatever it was to be when the time came around) tied his hands against the certain type of, ah... problem solving he had indulged in over his long career.
So in the interest of behaving, doing things quietly, and not at all to let his charges know he was onto them, Noah dug out his phone to call Peter for what could've been the hundredth time today, and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet.
( )( )( )
Under the soft light of the timid sun, Peter woke to the sound of bustling, raucous and very real life blaring away nearby. It was so foreign that for a moment he tensed up all over and couldn't draw breath, welded in place between itchy couch cushions and terrified to move a muscle. A few prolonged seconds dragged past while he lay there panicking, unsure where he was and choking on fear, before the events of last night slowly washed over him: the wall finally crumbling down, stepping into the real world at long last, flying to the carnival, stopping Samuel, watching Claire reveal abilities to the world and reading Sylar's soul in the safety of his apartment. Which was where he was now, Peter recalled finally.
So it had still happened. History hadn't been rewritten yet.
Still coming to, he scrubbed his eyes and allowed his pulse to even out while really taking the time to listen to the big bad world that he was once more a part of. Had it always been that loud...? Now that he was awake, he couldn't comprehend how he had ever managed to sleep through the noise (even for only a few shaky hours) and although his entire being still burned with exhaustion, he knew there was no way he'd be able to drop off again now. It was a pity that his first night back in his own mind had been so broken, for Peter didn't think he'd ever craved anything more than the sweet, sweet relief of pure, honest sleep or missed anything more than the innocence of dreams that came from nobody's involvement but his own. Apparently, he was still left wanting.
The silver, cold, morning light was shattered into geometric shapes and intricate patterns on the floor and walls, filtering through the blinds and tinting the place with an ethereal glow. The city was alive and thriving right outside the window, and Peter had never noticed before the way it resonated even in the shelter of an apartment until he'd grown to know real, true silence. The vibrations of noises coming from other living beings aside from himself and Sylar were subtle, yet unavoidable, and being back here suddenly felt more unnatural than five years ever had within another man's head.
For a second he dreaded real life terribly, and longed to lock himself away again in a peaceful dreamland where nothing could reach him. But no, he would not fall into that trap on his very first morning back! Sure, it was scary, it was always going to be scary, he'd expected that. Perhaps not quite as much as he should have, but at least he'd been a little prepared. As daunting as it was, as much as he wanted to curl up here in this cosy, familiar-smelling, safe couch for the rest of the day, Peter knew it would only prolong his suffering in the long run. The only thing worse than actually getting off this couch and walking to meet the problem head-on would be avoiding it altogether.
So, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to be brave, he wriggled free of Sylar's spare sheets and the creaky couch and ventured forth into his first full day back in reality, shivering slightly. He had a plan to set into motion! Or... well, the beginnings of a half-plan that might or might not even be possible, at the very least.
( )
Sylar had already had quite a productive morning. Upon waking a couple of hours ago he had showered, meticulously picked out his first new outfit in eight years (a mammoth task), re-arranged the entire kitchen and what little there was in the cupboards, and was now sitting at the table crunching on a bowl of cornflakes and drinking from a newly-salvaged glass – one of a matching set of four he hadn't even known he owned. All in all he was quite proud of himself and hoped it came across as effortless and impressive to Peter, who wouldn't know that arranging the kitchen had been far more strenuous than Sylar had remembered it being last time, or that he had stressed for a good half hour between wearing his usual, comfortable black or wearing a bright colour today just because he could (in the end he had settled for a neutral, soft grey hoodie).
He had just sat down at the table and set out another bowl for Peter when the man himself scuffed into sight at last: ruffled and crumpled in Sylar's borrowed, button up pyjamas. They were far too long for him and he looked ridiculous, but it was too cold in December for him to sleep in less, Sylar had insisted. It was true – it was cold enough in here for Sylar to see his breath clouding faintly from his nostrils – but most importantly, the sight of Peter Petrelli drowning inside Sylar's clothes was too hilarious to pass up.
"G'morning, sunshine. How'd you sleep?" Sylar asked casually, suppressing the stupid bubble of relief that expanded within him at finally setting eyes on his friend again. Sylar knew he cared for Peter, obviously, but it surprised him a little to realise just how much he had missed the little man on his morning's lonely endeavour. He was very pleased indeed that the empath had stayed over last night. Just knowing he was close had been a little crutch of the familiar that Sylar had needed while everything else was so drastically different.
"I didn't." Peter yawned. Although Sylar knew the guy still hadn't eaten since getting here last night and must be starved, instead of joining him at the table, Peter helped himself over to Sylar's empty bed and started to rummage around the surrounding area for something.
"You're not the only one..." The former villain chose not to cast up that it was mostly Peter's fault they'd both been up most of the night. The guy had jumped up to check his phone every time the damn thing had rang what felt like every ten minutes and pierced Sylar's eardrums with the unfamiliar, tinny jingle! He was waiting for a reply from Hiro, Sylar knew, but he wasn't willing to forgo his precious sleep for the same cause Peter was, and had eventually caved in, stormed through and snatched the fucking phone away for the night. Peter should consider himself lucky that Sylar had only turned it off and hidden it, not blasted the thing apart from the inside telekinetically, as much as his sleep-deprived, furious mind had been so inclined to do. Of course, the first thing the other man would do upon waking was locate the damn thing again.
Sylar scooped up another spoonful of cornflakes, chewing away while Peter ran a hand under Sylar's pillows and checked the bed covers. He remained silent, simply enjoying watching the other man search in all the wrong places like a child and his confiscated possession. He wondered when Peter would just ask for it back – probably not until he'd well and truly hunted himself out – but until then was happy to watch him struggle. Who needed a TV? A phone? The internet? Entertainment like this had proved to be pleasing enough for the past five years, and Sylar would still choose it over the morning news (and Claire Bennet's over-hyped face) any day.
"Y'know, I used to hate the silence..." Peter's vocal musing tapered off as he ducked behind the bed, disappearing from Sylar's line of sight momentarily. Then his voice floated over, tentative and slightly muffled. "D'you think we'll ever get used to this? Being back?"
Sylar pondered that for a second while he crunched. "I hope so." He didn't need to have inspected every layer of Peter's being last night to interpret the insecurity there. One he, too, shared. Before, he had expected Peter to just jump back into life the way he always did everything: whole heartedly. But somehow it comforted Sylar to know he wasn't alone in pretending to be adjusting here better than he really was.
When the empath stood and dusted himself off, his excavation having proved unsuccessful, Sylar took pity on him at last and chucked the phone across the room. It had been hiding in plain sight, somewhere Sylar had known the guy would never look because he'd never give up: beside Peter's awaiting bowl on the tabletop.
( )
"Thanks." Peter fumbled to catch the phone, almost tripping over the too long pyjamas in the process. "Any calls?" He asked, in order to distract from his rather embarrassing performance.
"You could say that. Daddy Bennet has been a busy bee this morning..."
"Looks like he's not the only one." Peter flashed an impressed look at his friend as he properly observed the re-arranged kitchen for the first time. His words were accepted modestly with a quiet smile.
Sylar hadn't been wrong: Peter found far too many messages waiting for him, easily double the amount since he'd last checked. And every single one was from Noah Bennet. There was still no word from Hiro Nakamura. Peter was a little disappointed to see nothing at all either from Claire (although she had been more than busy after all), nothing from Emma, or even his own mother. Even if nobody knew he had been away for five years, it would still have been nice to think that someone at least cared about his part to play in stopping the carnival last night, or if he'd gotten away safely in the aftermath of Claire's stunt.
The last thing Peter thought about when saving the world was getting a thank you or any acknowledgement for his efforts... which was probably just as well, because he'd be left waiting a long time. But it still hurt a little more after each event, once the dust settled and everyone else went off celebrating with their friends or family and Peter was left alone.
Except, this time he wasn't alone. This time he had Sylar.
That thought warmed him thoroughly from the inside out, and Peter actually turned his back so his friend wouldn't see the smile or blush tainting his features. It was a nice moment of realization, one Peter didn't want ruined by being laughed at or teased, playful or not. He re-focused his attention on his phone and the smile faded, replaced by an unpleasant weight in his stomach. He really ought to contact Noah before the device combusted, or before the unpredictable man tried other means to get the audience he so desperately wanted. Peter wouldn't even put it past him to zip-line through the window S.W.A.T. style if need be.
If only he could find Hiro... then the Noah-problem would be fixed along with everything else and Peter wouldn't even have had to listen to his reprimanding. He tried to contact the Japanese man once more to no avail, and cursed to himself.
"Hiro?" Sylar asked knowingly.
"Nothing." Peter huffed. He contemplated peeking through the window to ensure the world was still standing, but didn't want to seem too paranoid first thing in the morning. He'd give it a few minutes.
"He must be out of time for a reason, Peter. All we can do is wait and hope he comes back with good news."
"Right." Peter scoffed. "When has someone ever come back from the future with good new-" Then his heart jumped as his phone went off in his hand, and he almost dropped the thing in his eagerness to answer. "Hiro?!"
"...No."
Fuck. "Noah." Peter sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin and meeting Sylar's eyes. Great. So much for avoiding the reprimanding. "Look, before you say anything – I can explain."
Silence. "Really...? Explain what?" The man's voice was calm and controlled despite the urgency of his many previous calls, and lilted with curiosity. Already Peter felt his defences rising.
Ensuring to remain calm, his voice was gravelly but low. "Last night. We weren't doing anything wrong. We were trying to help -"
"'We'...?"
Peter chewed his tongue and reluctantly spelled it out the way he knew Noah wanted to hear it. "Sylar." He turned his back on his friend's foul expression. "He was there with me. I know what you're thinking, Noah, but you're wrong."
"Then enlighten me, Peter. What am I thinking?"
The empath bristled then, prickling under the weight of Noah's interrogation and hating the way the agent was getting him to do all the talking. He stopped and took a breath, recalling all the times he'd practised for this moment and drawing strength from Sylar's company behind him.
( )
The former killer had listened intently so far, chewing his cereal as slowly and quietly as he could so as not to miss anything. Bennet's voice was distant but audible through the phone, and Sylar had heard everything so far. His knuckles were white around his spoon, he could feel the spotlight of accusation blaring down upon him and felt for Peter and his rushed, desperate declarations. He knew the little man had been dreading this, probably almost as much as Sylar had himself, but the fact that he was sticking to his guns and standing up to Noah when the time truly came meant more to Sylar than he knew how to express. It was the same as last night with Parkman, but Bennet was different. Somehow, this hit a lot closer to the tender spot within Sylar's chest.
He watched fondly as Peter rocked back and forth on the spot, watched the too long, gathered fabric of his pyjamas pool around his socks, and tried to catch every grain of the conversation while forcing himself to remain impassive for maximum clarity.
"Sylar has changed, Noah." Peter stated quietly, powerfully, with 100% conviction. Sylar's throat tightened. "It's a long story, I don't really know how to explain it... but you have to believe me, alright? He doesn't want to hurt anyone – he saved thousands of people last night."
Sylar's lips curved into a sly smile at hearing those words being thrown at none other than Noah Bennet. Sylar saving people?! Sylar doing something for other people for once?! Sylar a hero?! He could perfectly imagine the look on the man's face as the truth gagged him. Good. He hoped Noah choked on it. While he might have turned over a new leaf, while he might genuinely want to be a better person now, the mutual hatred between those two men wasn't going to magically disappear overnight. It would take a lot more than eight years of a mental punishment to well and truly wash away those scars.
Sylar waited anxiously, straining his ears as if he could somehow hear Bennet's thought process through the ringing silence at the end of the phone. Finally, the other man sighed understandingly. "I'm sure you believe that, Peter, I'm sure he put on quite the performance. Hell, I'll even admit he can be quite convincing when he wants to be. It's all fine and dandy to see the good in people, but when it's not there... that can be extremely dangerous. Remember what happened with the Shanti Virus...? I don't for one minute think you'd go along with Sylar's sick plots willingly, and I'm not blaming you -"
Peter drew in a sharp breath at the same moment Sylar accidentally electrocuted his metal spoon and burned the skin from his palm. "But you're blaming him?" Peter accused and shot a glance at Sylar over his shoulder.
The duo locked eyes for a long moment before Peter strode to the front door, excusing himself while Sylar felt his burn heal over. Not for the first time, he wished regeneration could fix emotional pain as well as physical. He sat in silence, alone for the first time in forever and sorely missed his companion's proximity in the vacant, gaping space where he should be. The cornflakes turned soggy, abandoned in favour of catching the muffled voice coming from the hall.
( )
Furious, Peter shut Sylar's front door and paced avidly around the hall. He knew Sylar could hear Noah before, and fumed at the possible seeds of doubt having been planted when the one thing Sylar really needed right now was confidence. This time he didn't spare much effort to be polite, and ground his words out slowly and bitterly. "Listen to me: this is not a trick! Okay, this is real! He's changed, he's sorry for what he's done, and he's trying to make up for that! I know it's hard to understand, but it's the truth!" He tried to keep his voice controlled, but Noah's certainty that Sylar could be nothing but evil (coupled with the nasty reminder about the time Peter had so stupidly trusted a wolf in sheep's clothing) had stabbed him deeper than he had been prepared for. The thread of his patience was taut and trembling, and his hold on it was slipping.
"You do realise who we're talking about, don't you? I have a hard time believing he's "changed" in such a short time..." It sounded like Noah was trying to come off as sympathetic, but his voice was still laced with accusation.
"Like I said, it's a long story."
"Your mother and I are worried about you, Peter. Now, we don't blame you for falling victim to a mind trick or whatever he's sold you, but if you let us help you -"
Pulled too far, the thread snapped clean in half and Peter positively growled. "You wanna talk about mind games...?! Then go ask Matt Parkman what he did to us!" His voice rang out in the narrow hall, and he prowled back and forth past the familiar door opposite Sylar's that he had never truly stepped behind, yet had known as home for the past two and a half years in a different life.
Again, when Noah spoke his voice was amicable, silky smooth and definitely calculated. He seemed to realise he was getting nowhere with the last tactic, and Peter seriously considered cutting him off before hearing another word. "Why haven't you been answering my calls, Peter?"
"I've been pre-occupied. In case you didn't realise, the world is kinda breaking down."
"Yes it is. Which is why I need to know exactly what you've been doing since Claire jumped. We can't afford to have specials disappear at this, ah... fragile time. I'm sure you understand."
So many questions ran through Peter's over-exerted, tired mind at once. 'We'...? A new company? Had it started already? Were the specials being rounded up and locked away? And what kind of evil plan exactly did Noah think he was working on with Sylar? The fear threatened to pull him under again, but before everything else, all Peter could focus on was what he'd really done after the world had changed under that Ferris wheel. It was a spark of colour in an otherwise dark and drab landscape, and an afterglow of his and Sylar's soul-sharing escapade drained away the forefront of his anger. It had been precious, unique and wonderful... but there was no way in hell he was going to tell Noah Bennet any of that.
Instead Peter just pursed his lips, running an agitated hand through his hair. "I've been busy. Nothing that you need to worry about."
"With... Sylar?" The slow question was a dubious assessment, heavy with implications and ideas the likes of which Peter didn't care to think of. The silent judgement ate away at him, along with the unfounded blame and the fact he knew that his argument had done nothing to convince anyone so far.
"Yes. With Sylar." He stated bluntly. He was still tired after a terrible night's "rest", starving and weak from lack of food and still burning under his failure to do anything to fix the future. A lecture was the last thing on his to-do list that morning. "Look: we didn't do anything wrong, we're not gonna hurt anybody. We just want to be left alone." The lack of reply said everything Peter needed to know. "If you still need convincing, talk to Parkman. Aside from that... take care of yourself, Noah." He added bitterly, only due to a perceived obligation of his history with the man.
Peter hung up rather forcefully before giving Noah a chance to reply, took a moment to calm himself down, and turned to head back into Sylar's apartment. Only to almost bump into an elderly woman standing right behind him, holding her basket of laundry and wearing a disapproving frown on her face. Shit. Only then did Peter suddenly realise he'd been speaking rather loudly, and with total disregard for neighbours he'd completely forgotten existed.
In their dream world, there had been no fear of being overheard, as the only time Peter had ever spoken had been to Sylar, and there was nobody else around to overhear them. He had never had to watch who's doorstep he lingered around, what conversations were better held in private, or what he wore when out and about. He could only imagine what scenario this woman had concluded, and hoped she wouldn't connect the dots to powerful super humans possibly hiding out from an underground company that kidnapped people in secret.
Embarrassed, Peter sent his surveyor a small smile that wasn't returned, felt suddenly very stupid in pyjamas that were obviously too big and not his own, and slipped away inside Sylar's apartment before he could possibly make an even bigger mess of the morning. God, he badly needed to reintegrate back into the real world...
( )
Sylar allowed Peter to flounder around for a moment, lock the front door securely and scuff over to join him at the table without telling his friend that despite his valiant attempts to protect him from Noah's painful opinions, he had heard the conversation anyway. Or at least Peter's side, but that was enough to fill in the blanks and discern Noah's point of view. And enough to have had Sylar swelling with pride and affection and the thrill of hearing someone defend him so loyally, for only the second time ever. Last night in Matt's kitchen had been the first time in his entire life he'd experienced anything close to that amount of trust, but this could only be described as 'better'.
After going so long receiving nothing but curses in this world, being seen as nothing but a monster, being called nothing more than a "son of a bitch" (at best)... Sylar didn't even have words to fathom what this meant, how amazing it felt to be something more to someone else for once.
It was probably too soon to request another dose of Lydia's ability to let Peter know without having to condense it into a coherent sentence, so instead Sylar just helpfully pulled the second chair out from the table as Peter approached and subtly blinked away the water brimming his eyelashes.
( )
Peter sat and cleared his head for a good few seconds, trying to let the nasty phone call wash off him as insignificant. He knew, somehow just knew, that Sylar had heard every word he'd said. The acknowledgement flowed between them like smoke in the air, and they didn't need to say anything aloud.
Really, it didn't matter what Noah or anyone else thought! Peter believed that. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt, just a little. And as for the keeping-tabs-on-people part... that was a matter best held until after breakfast, at the very least. Finally, Peter turned his attention to the bowl set out before him, his stomach threatening to let out a very undignified rumble. But all that greeted him was a nice, tasty bowlful of thin air.
( )
"You all out?" Peter asked genuinely, gesturing to the bowl before him. Sylar tried not to laugh at his cluelessness.
"No." He said simply, catching his last spoonful of soggy cereal. Peter's head twitched a little in question, and Sylar was too touched by the guy's recently demonstrated loyalty to drag it out for fun, as he might have usually. Instead he just set it out simply for that little brain to comprehend. "Why didn't you ever tell me you don't like cornflakes?"
Again, Peter's head twitched, like a puppy unable to understand it's command. Sylar smiled at him, both to ensure him he wasn't in trouble, and to express his own amusement. He waited until the cogs finally fell into place and Peter's eyes widened. "Oh! You... last night? You... you saw that?"
Sylar's smile widened under Peter's shy look. "I guess you were right: after what we did, there's nothing about you I don't know anymore."
He now knew Peter detested the plain, non-sugary, non-kiddie breakfast Sylar had set out for him almost every morning for over two years. He knew that the man had only eaten it that first time because back then such a tiny, kind gesture had been so rare, and Peter hadn't wanted to turn it down or ruin it. He knew that after Sylar had kept serving the cornflakes, and Peter had kept eating them, he had passed the point of no return and decided it was too late to say anything, and so just never had. Solely so he wouldn't hurt Sylar's feelings.
Aside from that morning's argument with Noah, Peter suffering in silence through the breakfast ordeal every morning must just have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for Sylar. Which was pathetic, really. And also wonderful. "I'm afraid I don't have any of that stuff you like. I was thinking that we should go to the store today, you can get some then. But in the meantime, I can put some sugar cubes in milk for you...?" He teased, and Peter ducked behind his long hair to hide a guilty grin.
"At this point, I'm actually so hungry I'd eat a whole box of cornflakes if you have them."
Sylar chuckled at Peter's caught-out expression, and saved the guy from having to further dig himself out the hole he'd crafted for himself. "It's alright, I found some food while going through the cupboards this morning."
( )
Sylar stood and gathered his spoon and bowl, crossing to the sink. "I already made you an omelet. Well, half an omelet..." He nodded his head at an awaiting, perfectly-whisked egg mixture on the counter... and a bag of sugar set out mockingly beside it.
Despite the already difficult morning and what was undoubtedly still to come that day, Peter laughed. He joined Sylar at the counter, catching the other man's satisfied little snigger, and set to work finishing making his breakfast. Again, the omelet was such a tiny, kind gesture like that first bowl of cornflakes made for him so long ago... the distinction between Sylar-the-monster and Sylar-Peter's-friend was enormous, and it all came down to the little effort put in to make someone else breakfast.
Noah's call seared through him again sourly, and Peter wished he'd never answered the phone. He wished Claire had never jumped from that wheel and thrown the world into such turmoil. He wished things could be simple, that everyone could be happy and safe and that he could do right by everyone who needed him. He would fight for it, of course, but Peter Petrelli was a dreamer at heart, and so he continued to wish on the sidelines. And most of all, Peter wished that the rest of the world could see the same man standing beside him that he did.
A/N: Sorry for the delay with this update, and thanks for reading and being so patient! As always, I hope you liked this chapter :D I've almost finished the next one too - they were supposed to be one chapter but the page count got out of control, so I split it into two X) Shouldn't take too long to get finished though and I'll try my best to get it posted soon :)
