Day 73, February 21, noon
Sylar raised an eyebrow at the theatricality and then the description of himself. Yeah, it would probably have to be a dream where I say something like that again. Imagine, someone relieved to see me. His face shifted momentarily to give Peter a wary look. Is he…keeping me here, like he thinks he is, because of her? (I don't want to go back, he thought just as quickly). "Why would you tell me? Why now?" he said of Emma's big secret.
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"About the dream?"
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"About Emma and what her ability really does."
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Peter shrugged. He set his plate and fork aside, turning the fork upside down on the plate. He drew his lukewarm latte over and cupped his hands around it as though it was hot. He spun the cup slowly, looking down at the liquid. "It seemed like the right time to do it. Most people have less sympathy for someone doing something dangerous and it turning out badly. Or even doing something that shouldn't be dangerous, but as long as they made the decision. These people didn't. I wanted you to understand that they weren't there because they wanted to be, necessarily. Her ability drew them." He looked up at Sylar. "Which also means that someone wanted them there, so they could kill them for some purpose. They were controlling Emma to achieve it. I don't know enough about the carnival to guess at why they would do that." He took the napkin from his lap and set it on his plate.
"I'm also finding out if I can trust you, at least to be polite about people having abilities you might want." Peter shrugged again, this time with only one shoulder. "And maybe if I can be, too. We haven't talked much about people with abilities." He watched Sylar carefully, wondering if the man would overlook or capitalize on the opportunity to point fingers, because Peter knew he was the reason why the subject had been off the table for so long.
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Sylar sat chewing on the last of his sandwich, schooling his face to not appear as interested as he really was. It might mean more to him than Peter thought. He had a quick rush of questions, most of which he wanted answers to. He swallowed and brushed crumbs off his hands, wiping them on a napkin. Sylar narrowed his eyes at the end. Polite, huh? Well, that's rude. His gaze sharpened into a mild glare. I really don't think you want to hear about any of that, Petrelli. "She's not here, Petrelli. No one is. And I don't have my abilities or the urges for that." Now, ask me about killing your mother and I might salivate.
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Peter gave a tilt of his head, like a very abbreviated shrug, and let Sylar's comment pass without a verbal response.
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"To the point, how do you know Emma doesn't intend to kill people? You said you don't know her that well. How do you know anyone is going to die?" Maybe I show up and kill her and that saves the day. I'm sure he's thought of that since he's kept secrets. "Nothing happens in your dream and you said your mother," Sylar didn't hide his cutting emphasis, "told you about people dying. And she also told you not to come here." He didn't have any solid answers, though he had some good theories, like Emma getting to the Carnival and deciding to do something stupid; Samuel had been not-to-subtly planning something and his motives were as questionable as Angela's; and any of her involvement left the remaining waters murky at best; and there was the issue of their isolation and lack of powers here which meant that Peter was stuck on a pipe-dream.
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Peter's face went through a series of expressions as Sylar spoke – frowning dissent followed by a scowl, then a furrowing of brows and narrowed eyes at Sylar's emphasis on the subject of his mother. He pressed his lips together and looked away in a reluctant admission of agreement. When he got over his five second sulk about Sylar saying true but negative things about people Peter would prefer Sylar not mention at all, he looked back. "Maybe she saw people die and I didn't. Maybe when she had the dream, she wasn't going to do anything about it, so her future for it was everyone dying. But when I had the dream, I was going to do something about it, so in my future, they're in danger, but they don't die." He rolled his eyes. "It's her ability, not mine. I don't know how it works. I just know how it felt. And it felt like everyone was in danger."
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Sylar lofted his eyebrows and tilted his head briefly in a sort of wordless 'Touché' response even as he listened.
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Peter dismissed Sylar's questions about Emma with a hand wave. "Emma's not going to kill anyone on purpose. That's not her. She was training to be a doctor and it wasn't for the money." He turned to picking at a tiny scratch in the beige Formica surface of the booth table. "Besides, in the dream she was scared. Her fingers were bleeding. It wasn't her idea."
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In his mind, Sylar wasn't ruling Emma out of anything, not based on Peter's excuses. It wasn't unheard of for Peter to speak well of people who later showed their true colors, Adam being the most notable. I thought he said he barely knew her. Lots of people become doctors, not for money, but for other unpleasant reasons. He had first-hand experience with that kind. Her fingers bleeding doesn't mean anything, Peter. But he kept his mouth shut, for now at least.
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He slid the short ridge of his thumbnail up and down the scratch, studying it as he did so. "Ma saw you in her dream, too, saving people. She said as much. She told me that I couldn't save them." Peter looked up at Sylar. "There was something about the way she said it – I listen for that stuff with her anymore – that made me ask her if there was someone else who could. She wouldn't tell, so I took her ability. After I'd seen the dream for myself, I talked to her later. She knew it was you all along. She knew I was going to find you. She told me not to, but that quit working after she tried to get me to blow up New York." It was a depressing subject. He went back to picking at the scratch. She knows I'm here, but clearly I'm on my own.
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That had Sylar frowning. It was so pointless to even ask himself 'Why?' in relation to Angela Petrelli. He could see how much more irritating that could be for her only son, especially given the history. There were a host of valid reasons why Angela Petrelli would want her baby boy as far away from Sylar as possible. Maybe she didn't want her sweet boy to fuck me, said nasty voice in his head. She doesn't want me out in the world, even as Nathan most likely. That was…almost a bitter idea to swallow, leaving him to feel unwanted by a woman who refused to claim him in any form. She doesn't want me to save anyone and be a hero. I'm a weapon. Maybe…maybe I cause the disaster? Maybe she thinks Peter needs a time-out; she's done that before when he was locked away with Adam. I still think she's behind it – but what does she stand to gain? Maybe Peter does die in the process. He sobered further, feeling a hint of sadness before he moved on, reminding himself that he should feel victorious about that. Maybe…Peter is going to die here? Not because of me, but because of…where he thinks he is? It was more worrying than almost anything else (any situation masterminded by Angela was always frightening), meaning he would be abandoned and alone again. Sylar wanted out of the circular string of questions that couldn't be answered, so he nudged Peter's leg with his foot, "Good news is, she isn't here, right? It's just you and me," he tried to grin as he continued to rub that same foot against Peter's ankle.
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Peter gave an ambivalent head-wobble and something of a smile in return as Sylar touched his leg. Inadvertent, Peter assumed. Or maybe just getting his attention. When the touch continued as rubbing, the smile fell off his face. He was completely uninterested in having his difficult situation with his mother used as grounds for flirting. There was no way that was intended as a comforting, sympathetic touch between them. His mind flashed back to Sylar's desire to fuck Peter as revenge against Peter's family. He jerked his leg away from the contact, giving Sylar a few seconds of his most baleful glare. Peter gathered up his plate and coffee cup. He slid out of the booth with a quick glance down to make sure Sylar wasn't continuing to tangle up his legs.
Peter stalked stiffly to the sink behind the counter, depositing his dishes before heading back. He planted his balled fists on the table, leaning towards Sylar. "If she were here, instead of you, I'm sure I could get something worked out with her. Unlike some of my relatives, whom I will never have that chance with, because of you." With that, he scooped up Sylar's plate in an aggressive gesture. He headed back to wash up and hopefully get some distance from the asshole.
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Surprisingly, Sylar didn't feel very threatened despite Peter's very meaning posture. It felt like an attempt at a guilt trip. What's he going to do – smack my face into the table? Perhaps the roast beef had gone bad, but his back felt worse than Peter's glaring and his words. He met Peter's look with an unimpressed one of his own. So that's how you want to play, is it? Fine. He called sarcastically after the man's retreating back, "Right. All you need is time with her. I thought you did kiss-and-makeup with him?" He further baited Petrelli with, "What else was left to hash out?"
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Peter ignored Sylar's words – he certainly didn't respond to them. He slammed the dishes around as much as seemed safe and scrubbed off what little food residue was on them. He's right. I probably wouldn't really be able to work anything out with her. Ever. He thought back to the last time he'd seen her, on the surface troubled by what to put on Nathan's tombstone, but in truth worried about the son she still had. Peter had felt that worry, much as it frustrated him. He knew the depth of her feelings and he didn't doubt them, but she did wrong anyway, or at least things that looked wrong from Peter's point of view. What Sylar's done looks wrong to me, too. But obviously he thought it was okay. Or did he? He said he knew it was wrong. Then why did he do it? Peter huffed with continued frustration, setting aside the cleaned dishes to dry. I just need to get away from it all for a while.
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That's what I thought – there was nothing left to hash out with him. And no one would get anywhere with her. After the silence became deafening in a few short minutes, Sylar sighed. This was one of those times where Peter facing reality wasn't always the smoothest ride and Sylar could choose to stick to his guns (and what they both knew was the truth) or he could back down and possibly scavenge what was left of Peter's company. "Never mind. Did you enjoy your eggs?" he called after Peter as he sidled up to the bar area.
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Peter toweled off his hands. "They were fine," he replied coolly. He considered making the standard inquiry in return, but his desire to discourage conversation won out. He went to the door, pausing there to slip into his jacket and put on his headband and gloves.
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"Hey, whoa! Where are we going? There's no hurry." Sylar had nothing to tinker with and nothing he needed to carry with him, so he was ready when Peter rather hastily slipped out the door and didn't hold it open or wait for him to exit. "So…where are we headed?" It didn't look like Peter needed directions, which wasn't completely worrisome yet, though Peter might be attempting to get space Sylar didn't want to grant if his quick escape said anything.
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Peter rolled his eyes at the pestering. Clearly he needed to give an answer whether he wanted to or not, else Sylar would simply follow him to find out. Which meant, also, that Peter needed to decide where he was going. He thought of a place basically at random. "I was thinking I'd go to that hotel we passed through a couple months ago. It's along the river, south of here. Going alone," he clarified in case that wasn't crystal clear. "They had a pool. I might explore out from there for a day or two." The destination and plan came together in his head, becoming more appealing the more he thought about it. It was convenient that he'd automatically turned back in the direction of his apartment when he'd left the diner. I'll need to stop off and pack a bag. There won't be any clothes in a hotel. The trip sounded empty, lonely, and a little scary, but that was probably better than hanging around here, being dogged by an unrepentant killer who thought Peter was hot at the most inappropriate moments.
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"Oh," Sylar replied in a small voice. He's moving away. Sylar felt his body clench as anxiety fired through his nerves, making the pain in his back all the more acute. It must have been something I said. Just now or…yesterday? (How will I sleep? It's been days already…He said he wouldn't leave…I have nothing to offer him, nothing he wants). He noticed they were walking north, back towards Peter's building, though it made no sense for Peter to walk him home. Perhaps it was a mistake. That was worrisome and confusing but hardly the biggest concern. "What…what should I do about my back?" he asked, still not imposing with his volume. He hasn't checked it this time. (He lied – he's not going to take care of me. What if he never comes back? He'll just keep exploring 'out' and away).
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Peter shrugged. "It should get better on its own. Everything else here does." He made a wave at the empty world they were walking through. "Cuts, scrapes, black eyes, broken bones, concussions – none of which need my help." I suppose that sounds bitter. I wonder how he'd feel if all his watches and clocks would just fix themselves? "The biggest contribution I can make to your health is not being here to endanger it." He looked over at Sylar, reading the increased tension the guy was radiating. It's not his back he's upset about. It's me leaving. But it was Sylar's back he'd mentioned, so Peter explored that line a little further. "How does your back feel?"
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Sylar pursed his lips. He was desperately thinking of excuses, or better yet, reasons to keep Peter somewhere known, somewhere close. If he couldn't convince Peter using medical issues, he had no qualms about throwing down, calling Peter names in order to remind him of his so-called 'promises.' "Tight, hot, itchy, maybe burning…" That much was true and he could always exaggerate. He glanced over at his nurse to see how that was received.
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Peter regarded Sylar for a steady moment, then looked away to open the door to his apartment building. He wants me to stay. That's the best he's got: 'I've got a boo-boo'? That's a weird description, though. It should only be sore. "I'll take a look at it after I go up and get some stuff. I won't be long." Leaving Sylar in the lobby, Peter took the elevator. It was faster. He tossed a couple pair of underwear and a change of clothes in the backpack, topping it off with the electric razor and his toothbrush. He added a couple carrots and pieces of fruit from the kitchen, then returned to the lobby.
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"Okay," he croaked, intent on waiting impatiently by the elevator and stairs, which he did, slumped against the far wall, arms crossed, trying not to fidget. He's even packing his things. (What about his guitar? The rec room? The piano? The diner? He might come back for those so I can see him, maybe, even if he doesn't come back for me).It wasn't long before Peter returned with only a backpack. Is that good or is that all he really cares about, all he needs?Sylar straightened up and stuck close to Peter.
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Peter went to the glass doors out, dropping his backpack next to them. It was still gloomy out, but the south-facing doors featured the best lighting he was likely to get. He gave the weather a second look. Four to six inches of fresh snow, frigid air, and a cloudy sky that threatened to dump even more white stuff weren't good conditions to go marching off alone in. He frowned. I'm not even entirely sure where the hotel is. It can't be that hard to get to – find the river and go south, right? He turned to Sylar, half-hoping the man would give him a good reason not to go. "Let's see it." He waited for Sylar to strip down.
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Sylar smirked despite himself at the man's frown and the convenient, Godsend weather. I wonder how he would handle it if I had to…restrain him.He began to unbutton his coat, which was easy enough, but the motions of getting his shirt up scraped even the basic fabric of his shirt across his back and he hissed. He shuffled to present his back to Peter, leaving some of his shirt in the way, trusting Peter to handle it even as he felt his hope slipping away. He won't see anything because there's nothing there. He won't stay.
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Peter noted the sound of pain and that Sylar didn't get the shirt clear of his back. He's really hurting. Good? Well, it was the point. Peter carefully lifted the tail of the shirt, bunching it and raising it so he had a good view. What he saw made his brows furrow. "Step back a little here," he murmured, giving the shirt a light tug to indicate that he wanted Sylar to stand as close to the light from the windows as possible. With his free hand, Peter touched the welted skin. Every place where he'd broken the skin, it was hot and red. The tissue below was inflamed and obviously going through the standard first stage of infection. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. "Did you…What did you do to treat this?" He touched around the injuries enough to make sure this wasn't make-up or some other ruse.
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Sylar huffed a sigh over the comment he wanted to make about Peter's intentional lack of care until this point. Go figure his own personal care in the meantime would be questioned. "I showered, iced, took some Tylenol, and wore clean shirts. It's not like I can reach my own back to do anything more."
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Peter looked at his bare hand on Sylar's back. Should I be wearing gloves? "You have an infection. This place isn't sterile after all." The implications of that were mind-boggling.
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Sylar frowned and waited a few seconds in case Peter was joking. "What?" Really? "Does that mean you're not leaving?" He knew he probably sounded too excited about that but he was so relieved he felt the tension release from his muscles. Then another thought invaded, Is he going to be upset that he might have to stay with me now? I'm too needy.
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Peter saw and nearly felt the tension shed from Sylar's body. Then there was the tone of voice – he sounded almost gleeful that Peter's trip might be postponed. Peter gently draped the shirt over Sylar's back again. "I wasn't going to be gone for very long, anyway," Peter said in a soft, grumpy tone. "I told you where I was going and when I'd be back. That's not 'leaving'." He handed Sylar his coat. Peter glanced down at his backpack and picked it up anyway rather than abandon it here. "We're going across the street so I can see what I have in the trauma bag. I didn't exactly load up on antibiotics. I thought it didn't matter. I suppose we're still the only two disease vectors here." Which means those spots are where I infected you. Maybe my hate had something to do with it? It certainly made me sick. Once Sylar was outfitted, they trekked across the street to the Pegasus.
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Sylar was working on a slow boil. This was all Peter's fault with his stupid ideas and commitment issues. He took his coat and buttoned it up without complaint, instead waiting for that until they were on the sidewalk. "Right. You packed a bag, Peter." He said that with all the importance and emphasis it warranted. "There would be nothing to stop you from continuing to explore away from me without telling me. And you were going to leave without looking at my back at all." He took the actual infection in stride seeing how it was likely minor but Peter's behavior…
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"It was an overnight stay," Peter said levelly, the softness having left his tone at the various accusations.
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"You know, you keep telling me it's 'your fault' about whipping me, but you're treating me like I did something wrong. I think I deserve an answer, Petrelli, before or after you kill me with neglect so you don't have to bother fixing me up like you pr- said you would." He didn't promise. We both know that. I knew his promises weren't good, but now agreements aren't either?
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Peter stopped in front of the doors to the Pegasus, still outside. Everything Sylar said was an offense. "You did do something wrong and you know it! You're a murderer! What 'answer' is this that you think you deserve?"
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"Whatever it was I did wrong yesterday! Giving me the distant silent treatment isn't helpful." Sylar stopped as well, waving his hands out once before he huffed and went quiet.
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Peter drew his head back, shifting his stance so his whole body leaned slightly away from Sylar. His face was stony. "You asked me to hurt you. You told me you wanted me to take out how I felt on you. You said you wanted my passion. You wanted me to engage, to make you feel sorry." Peter glared at Sylar, teeth clenching as his jaw worked tensely. "I gave it my best shot. I didn't want to do any of that." His voice rose as he continued, "That's why I wasn't doing it before! It is pointless to hurt people. The only thing it satisfies is yourself and it isn't worth it!"
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Sylar crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. Peter's selfish satisfaction was the intended purpose and they both were well aware of it. It was stupid to throw away such an opportunity over…over what? Sylar suspected it was the 'torture' comment he'd made about that Building 26 agent, somehow comparing Peter with a killer who would (had) done worse before.
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He tilted his head, his posture more normal now. He gestured with energy to punctuate his words. "I don't know what it is with you! I feel like shit around you, or like I'm a shitty person – a 'Petrelli', like I'm gum you keep trying to scrape off your shoe, or like I'm some worthless, annoying kid you enjoy talking down to. I would rather be by myself and lonely than be around you. I'm not going to blame myself for that and I'm not letting you blame me for it, either. Clean up your fucking act, Sylar! Because there's no way in hell that me going off to a hotel for a couple days to get the fuck away from you is on me! I wasn't leaving this world or this place without you. You've got my word on that and you know my track record. If those aren't good enough for you, then go fuck yourself, because it's all I've got!"
With that, he yanked open the door to the apartment building and stalked inside, still intent on performing the duties required for Sylar's health.
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That was more than enough to shut him up. He shuffled in behind Peter after several seconds delay, feeling frustrated, inept, angry at himself and Peter, accomplished and proud, and strangely a little shamed and regretful for either insulting or hurting Peter's feelings. His feelings of all things. I asked him how to treat him... I treat him…like I feel. And how I think he'll treat me – or how he should treat me. And half the time I want him to feel just like this. He's not my friend but he doesn't want to be my enemy. And his 'word' is still questionable. (But he's offering all he's got? At least I have an answer. It's my fault. I just…don't know how to fix it). Peter's track record was pretty good and perhaps medical care was better late than never. As for the immediate situation, they both (or at least, Peter) had to go up to the suite for the emergency bag. Actually, it's probably sad how much use we've gotten out of that damn bag. Sylar didn't know if he was supposed to tag along but it would be better not to force Peter to make more trips than necessary – and, by Petrelli's logic, he was unlikely to be injured further. If he's gum on the bottom of my shoe, what does that make me to him? So he slid into the elevator with Peter, focused on anything but Peter. After the first few floors dinged by, he said quietly, "You're probably right."
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Peter eyed Sylar's somewhat shame-faced demeanor, wondering if he'd actually gotten through to the guy. "About what?"
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"About how I treat you and cleaning up my act." He shifted his weight, still not really making eye contact and hands now firmly embedded in his jeans pockets. "And...you wanting to be alone instead."
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Well...yeah. But the admission defused Peter a great deal. Does he understand how the one leads to the other? Peter huffed and looked up at the numbers flashing by steadily until they reached their floor. He left the matter alone though, saying nothing to Sylar and focusing on calming down. He let his thoughts roam over the previous few days, letting the memories pass by without stirring him up again. When the doors opened, Peter made a slight 'come on' wave with his hand as he walked out without other communication.
Inside the penthouse suite, he dropped his backpack inside the door and rummaged through the trauma kit. "Take off your coat." His voice was distracted and tired. As he'd expected, there wasn't much of use in the kit. "The best I've got here is some disinfecting wipes and antibiotic ointment. That might be enough. The other option is getting a systemic antibiotic. That would mean we'd have to go to the hospital." He shot a look out the expansive windows that took up nearly an entire wall of the suite. "I think we have enough time to get to there and back…but there's a lot of snow on the ground." He looked to Sylar. He doubted Sylar would let him leave without accompaniment and even if he did, Peter was uneasy about leaving a possibly ill patient unattended for what might end up being an overnight stay. "Do you think we should go?"
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Sylar obeyed, wondering why he'd compulsively buttoned his coat up completely when Peter had said he'd just be taking it off again in moments. He watched the kit with lingering suspicion though he'd checked it out several times now. His head snapped up at the mention of the hospital. 'We'? He wants…? At the hospital…? Was this all his plan?! "Um, no," he replied like it was perfectly obvious. There was no way he was going to the hospital with Peter Petrelli, not if there was even the slightest chance of getting stuck there together, nor was he letting Peter go the hospital alone.
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Peter looked at him blankly for a moment, trying to work out if Sylar's tone meant he felt his injuries were obviously too minor to require the trip, or if the trip itself was too risky regardless of his condition. When I went before, it was through worse weather than this, when I was still beat up and I was less sure of where the place was. I can go again. It's not that dangerous. He pursed his lips. He said no, though. I asked and that's the answer. I have to live with it. He walked over to Sylar. "Let me have your hand?" He reached for it a moment after the request.
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Oh, now you care. I should not do it, just to…I don't know, be difficult and see what he'd do. But he proffered a hand, palm down, noting that Peter was already grabbing for him anyway.
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Peter cupped his hands around Sylar's, thinking about the temperature. It seemed normal, but they'd just been outside in the cold. "Another thing the kit didn't have is a thermometer. Do you feel like you have a fever?" He did not attempt to reach for Sylar's forehead, although he did at least look at it.
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Are you trying to piss me off today? Sylar thought of the attention towards his cranium, narrowing his eyes warily about it. "No…I don't think so."
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Peter nodded. No fever meant less reason to brave the winter weather and no reason to argue with Sylar over it. "Take your shirt off again. I'll treat you with what I've got here." Peter departed for the kitchen, where he rolled up his sleeves, soaped, lathered, and rinsed. He studied the soap dispenser as he scrubbed. It was a standard antibacterial hand soap, which was just what he wanted. He cut his cleaning efforts short when he could see over his shoulder that Sylar was struggling with his shirt. Peter walked over and tugged the garment up and off.
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Sylar complied after getting stuck with getting his shirt up again and receiving help with it again. He felt the colder air attacking his exposed skin, making him break out with gooseflesh before Peter even touched him.
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"Do you want me to wear gloves?" Peter asked, tossing the shirt on the end of the bed.
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"Does it matter?" I didn't think you could catch infection from skin-to-skin contact, but Peter would know, I guess.
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"I don't think so. I can feel you better without them – good for telling skin temperature and that sort of thing. And despite me looking right at evidence that there are pathogens here, we're still the only two sources of contamination around. I'm healthy. You're healthy. We both think we're clean. We could be wrong. Gloves protect against that, but I think the chance is so low it's more a preference thing. Do you have a preference?"
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You're healthy, my ass. How could you be after fucking half a city? And your job. And dying several times. He wanted to tell Peter not to use gloves, partly as a sexual metaphor and mostly to feel Peter's skin against him. The rational part of his brain told him that infecting Peter would only end badly. "…No."
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Peter shrugged and continued, sans gloves. He went back to the bag for the wipes, ointment, and most of the gauze in the kit. "Numbing spray is downstairs," he said absently to himself. The main trauma kit was here in their room, sitting on the wheelchair near the door. What he'd taken downstairs for the various floggings had been a smaller bag with fewer supplies, but as usual, something he'd taken out was now wanted here again. Murphy's Law of EMT Supplies: regardless of what equipment you bring, you'll always need something you left behind. He carried the supplies he had over to the kitchen table, arranging them to his needs. "Have a seat. Sit...backwards on the chair with your back towards me. I'm going to debride the infected areas. It's going to hurt." He didn't try to sugarcoat it in the least – Sylar wouldn't buy it and Peter wasn't feeling sympathetic.
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Great, Sylar thought of the multiple bags he now had to keep track of. He followed the instructions, but half-turned to look back and indicate his unreadiness. "You're going to what?"
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Peter holds up a piece of gauze. "I'm going to scrub out the infected tissue." He let Sylar work out how that would feel.
Peter set about his task with ruthless efficiency, scrubbing away infected tissue until each of the five open welts was clean and bleeding. He pressed fresh gauze over each, applying light pressure to the worst spot. He hooked a nearby chair with his toe and pulled it over, taking a seat while he took turns dabbing at the other spots until the blood stopped.
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Sylar bit his lip to keep quiet doing nearly a near-perfect job of it, not counting holding his breath and heavy exhales. He did that in part because of Peter's statement that he was the toughest man the empath knew. Though he barely restrained his squirms of pain. It felt like Petrelli was rubbing steel wool or needles over an open, bruised wound on an already sensitive area, making it all the more raw. Fuck! That's the idea: making me raw. This had better be worth it! Is this necessary or just salt on my wounds?
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In a quiet tone, Peter said, "Maybe you were right. I needed to know that all this 'confronting the killer' stuff is hollow. It doesn't do any good. No matter how much I hurt you, he's still dead. And it hurts me to think I'm the kind of person who would keep hitting you just to make you suffer with me. Maybe you didn't misread me after all, but that's not how I want to be anymore." He stacked the bloody gauze in a heap, thinking he should have had the foresight to bring a bowl or plate or even the trashcan over for them. He sighed and looked at the side of Sylar's face, turned towards him enough to watch. Peter explained of his simply sitting there now, "It's best to let those spots air dry for a few minutes."
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At the end of it (at least, the less painful part of Peter holding gauze to him instead of scratching him to death with it), he noticed Peter wasn't and hadn't touched him…like he had in the past. Any excuse to lift his shirt and touch his skin usually resulted in Peter fondling and petting him somehow. Maybe he's still upset…Sylar hoped that's all it was. He almost wanted to slip off the chair or say he had a fever (if that wouldn't cause Peter to make contact his forehead) or bump into Peter in an obvious hint just to get the contact back. What changed? Why did he change? It's something I did, he says…Sylar was pulled out of his slump by Peter's words, taking some things out of context (That wasn't what I meant about confronting me…) and giving him credit where it probably wasn't due. He still didn't appreciate being referred to as 'the killer' and pursed his lips though Peter couldn't really see. Fortunately, Sylar saw what Peter was getting at and what best served both their interests far better than him pointing out Petrelli's logic and listening flaws, "What do you want to be, Peter?"
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"I want to be better – a better person, someone who helps people instead of hurting them." Peter looked down at where his hands rested on his knees. "People aren't all the same inside. I know a lot of people, like my family, seem to think I think they are. But I know some people are different. You and me...we aren't different. We've done...way different things with our lives, but...what you have inside of you, and what I have inside of me," Peter pointed at his own head, "I think it's more alike than not."
XXX
Sylar had since pivoted and angled himself to face Peter without getting a kink in his neck. That was very interesting because Peter spent so much time contrasting them and telling Sylar everything that was and wasn't in no uncertain terms. He wants to be friendly now, so he wants to see me as…human. A hero. (I'd like to be inside you). His eyes probably betrayed that thought briefly. It was still the perfect solution that Peter continued to ignore, and with Peter not touching him, well…"That's my line, Peter," he said mischievously, flirting but serious. "You're supposed to say things like why killing is wrong and how far from your 'type' I am."
XXX
"Well, it is wrong," Peter said with a brief smile at the flirtiness. "I'm pretty sure my type isn't people who have killed my brother, helped kill my dad, tried with my mom, assaulted my niece, if you did anything with my nephews or sister-in-law I don't want to hear about it right now, and did me in at least once. That's," Peter wobbled his head back and forth in emphasis, "all pretty wrong stuff." He picked up the foil ointment package, checking out which end had the notch to open it, but not using it yet. "Except my dad. What I did was terrible, but I still think it was the right thing. I don't hold that one against you."
XXX
Sylar sighed. "I guess that clears up one thing: I thought it was all about him. And you. When you put it that way…" He leaned his head to the side in an in-between, doubtful gesture. "I didn't do anything to Heidi or her kids. Why would I?" He shook his head briefly, disgusted at the idea although he had a few about furthering his ends to torture Angela. I fucked around with Matt's head using his son. But no one got hurt. I bet Peter wouldn't believe a word of it. "Never mind." Of course Peter would think that, even though it would be Peter's own fault if something had befallen Heidi or the boys – since the medic had been so purposefully out of touch with everyone, even ignoring his own brother after supposedly making up with him. "Take comfort in the fact that all of Arthur's grandkids would have grown up to kill me just like Nona Angela and Uncle Pete. And we could all be glad that Heidi still wouldn't have a clue what's going on." Unless Peter gets his way and gets his brother back. He gave Petrelli a narrowed side-eye, fully expecting another kidney punch at the mention of The Family. "No rest for the wicked."