Day 74, February 22, Evening
Peter frowned, but left it alone. He felt despair and rejection at the refusal of his comfort, about the presumption he was going to hurt Sylar again. He knew the why of what he'd done before, trying to force the murderer out of the body he'd known only days before as his brother. That Sylar insisted it was going to recur meant he didn't understand or accept why it had happened in the first place. That was deeply depressing. Hoping it was just some lingering effect from the emotional turmoil of the nightmare, Peter shook his head and was otherwise silent.
XXX
Sylar let out a sad, rasping sigh, at himself, at everything. He curled in further against Peter's chest, desperate for the comfort in spite of his accusations. More than anything, he wanted to maintain his own body because his mind was indecisive about who it wanted to be. Though his tears reduced his olfactory senses and with his nose pressed against Peter's shirt, Sylar could still smell him between sniffling. Peter was warm, with a steady heartbeat, and solid because he made no move to leave or pull away. "How do you know?" he asked, somewhat muffled by Peter's shirt. "You can't even see me."
XXX
Peter raised a brow, softening when Sylar huddled against him anyway despite the accusation Sylar had previously uttered. Instinctively, he held more firmly at that curling in, with Peter gathering Sylar against him, even if it meant his chin was dodging Sylar's unnecessarily defensive elbow. He smiled wryly at Sylar's question. "You're the only other one here, Sylar." Peter made a little press with his palms like a tiny hug. "I'm pretty dumb, but even with my limited mental powers, if you aren't me, then you've got to be you." Peter chuckled, then listed with a reassuring smile that could hopefully be heard in his voice, "You sound like Sylar. You feel like Sylar." He made another moment of a firmer hug. "You're saying the sort of things Sylar says, like insulting me for coming over here to help you." Peter snorted. "Only Sylar would do that."
XXX
Sadly, Peter's mathematical logic didn't help. If Sylar wasn't Peter, that didn't answer who he was. Perhaps that was enough for Peter (and a good thing, too, if that satisfied the medic), but that wasn't enough for Sylar. Wait, how does he know what I feel like? The thought, and the implication, pleased him. The embrace he was in was lovely – it soothed him to his weary bones. It felt so very real. The crack about 'only Sylar would do that' shocked him and momentarily silenced him. It struck him as the sort of thing the heroes might say amongst themselves. "What do you mean, insulting?" He knew what it was he'd said that upset the other man, but he wanted to hear how it upset Peter. I think Nathan was rude to you, questioning you sometimes, too, he thought defensively.
XXX
"Fine," Peter said with another, softer snort to show he wasn't angry. "'Impugning my motives' if that works better. You implied I came over to your bed to fuck up your identity again. Or that I was going to really soon. Maybe you meant it some other way?" Peter tilted his head, letting his voice soften with the last question in case that really was the case and he'd misread Sylar's stuttered words and hurried attempt to guard himself. It was his own hurt ego at the charge that motivated his words. Maybe I'm being oversensitive. I should just ignore it and go on. (Do I have to do that with him?)
XXX
Peter made his point. Sylar knew he'd been understood yet Peter sounded…hopeful that he'd meant something else. I said I'd never trust you. I don't see why you're offended now. (He trusts me, though…And that involved an uncomfortable twist in his gut though he didn't understand how Peter could trust him – particularly when the empath had paid no attention when Sylar had actually tried to be trustworthy). Insulting was implying he was the only person who would ever say something so rude.
It embarrassed him how long it took him to calm down, several long minutes that felt much longer than they were. Towards the end, with no other motions from Peter, delayed out of paranoia (and to make a point about Peter touching his arm to get him to quit protecting himself), Sylar slid his uppermost hand from his hair to wrap it around Peter. His back hurt, either as some remnant of the dream or the reality. In a quiet mumble that broke what was left of the silence around his post-crying, he said, "I'm sorry I woke you." He simultaneously wanted to talk and didn't know what to say.
XXX
"Don't worry about it. I wasn't sleeping well anyway. That couch sucks and not in a good way." With Sylar finally loosening up a little, Peter shifted to settle himself better where he was, which mainly consisted of lifting his right shoulder and folding his forearm back so his hand was under his head. His left hand made short strokes on the bare skin of the small of Sylar's back until about three strokes in when it occurred to Peter how intimate and familiar that was. Whoa. We're not lovers. Stop that. He stopped, cleared his throat briefly and with embarrassment, and rested his now-unmoving hand at a normal pressure on Sylar's back.
XXX
Sylar had a literal, perverted flash image of the couch doing some 'good' sucking…He chuckled shortly as Peter wriggled about. Then a warm hand slid against the skin of his lower back. Peter's favorite spot – and a spot that had been a part of (or at least, was very close to) the rest of his back being whipped and torn, both in reality and the nightmare. It was a jarring moment of unreality that made him tense and fret that maybe his 'nightmare' was no nightmare at all, or that Nightmare Peter was doing this as torture, or this was some prelude to unthinkable sex…But just as quickly, Sylar dismissed the fear because his lower back was unmarred from earlier (and in the nightmare) and what's more, the contact felt good, somehow managing to be mostly platonic. Peter had done this before and done nothing threatening or sexual afterwards. It was…what it was, a simple touch, intended to comfort. It thrilled him to have some strange secret touch between them, one that they both enjoyed (but still odd because it was devoid of sex). The touch intrigued him, both his reaction to it and Peter's desire to do it.
Almost immediately Peter stopped and Sylar worried that his tension had been felt, or he hadn't relaxed quick enough, or that he hadn't…responded as he should have. He didn't know what to say, so he reached forward to take Peter's forearm and bring that hand to him again.
XXX
It took Peter a few seconds to divine what Sylar was doing, moving his (Peter's) arm up and down in short, slow motions. It inevitably moved Peter's hand as well and that was when he figured it out – Sylar wanted him to keep stroking his back. It was the second time Sylar had done this – put Peter's hand on him and moved it as he wanted – it had been on his back last time, too. Peter did it on his own after that, albeit a little slower and longer strokes than Sylar had been managing. A crooked smile spread slowly across Peter's face. He didn't know how to categorize this – the stroking. The only thing that came to mind was as lovers, because there was no way he'd touch a friend, relative, or patient like this. Not even someone he was giving a massage to, except maybe briefly. But they weren't lovers and this wasn't a massage. Sylar's skin was so unfailingly soft, which brought to mind a category that did fit, however oddly: an innocent. Babies. You could stroke their face, rub their back, or even pat their bottom without any meaning other than sharing pleasant, innocent contact. Not that Peter had much experience with babies, but it amused him to think that was probably the closest analogy. Since he was in bed to sooth and comfort after a nightmare, seeing Sylar as an innocent seemed fitting, if amusingly ironic. He dipped his cheek to press it lightly on the top of Sylar's head. Even if a bit sweaty, he smelled good, Peter noted.
What if he wasn't always Sylar? What if they made him that way, like they made him be Nathan? And so before his ability manifested he was Gabriel, but then they...changed him? It was an unsettling thought and obviously within the realm of possibility. Are his nightmares about him trying to throw off that false identity? Or has he been 'Sylar' so long that that's who he is now? Quietly, Peter said, "I tend to take people as who they present themselves as, unless I have big reasons to believe otherwise. You've told me you're Sylar, so that's who you are until you say different. You're still the same person inside no matter what – same history, same personality." His left hand pressed against the small of Sylar's back to emphasize what he was about to say. "Your identity for the entire time I've been here has been continuous and unchanging. Even when you slip up and recite things from Nathan's past, you're doing it as you, not him, if that makes any sense."
XXX
The distressing (and unfortunately tempting) admission that Peter would view him as he presented himself took a dark turn. If I told him I was Nathan, in my own body…what would he do? Why the fuck would I do that? But he knew why and refused to answer that even to himself. It terrified him. For a moment, he began to doubt Peter's assessment of his constancy. Peter had no motive to tell him this particular fact, so that lent itself to truth. "You don't know that," he blurted. "You don't know me so how could you know who I am?"
XXX
Peter shifted against him, moving forward a knee to bump against Sylar's. "I know what I've seen. That's what I'm talking about – the person you've let me see. We've eaten together, talked, fought, bled, hated each other, worked things out, slept together," he nudged Sylar's foot with his own. "You can't share that much and not show something of who you are." Peter moved his hand to Sylar's side, turning his hand to the side and stroking Sylar's flank with the edge of his pinkie and somewhat with his knuckles. It was a relaxed, easy motion.
"Do you want to talk about the dream? Or go back to sleep?" Should I go back over to the couch? Peter glanced in that direction, but made no move to get up. As long as Sylar was clinging to him, he was in no hurry to move. He liked the feeling, and maybe the reality, that he was needed, and that his presence was a help.
XXX
He felt a flush of embarrassment and perhaps shame, and strangely, some pride to have shown himself and been seen, especially by Peter Petrelli. Naturally he fretted that he'd given too much away. That was the problem of sharing – some of it came so easily. Peter didn't sound repulsed, far from it; he sounded playful and knowing. Neither option appealed to Sylar. He was enjoying being petted. "Just … talk," he answered, hoping Peter would find something inoffensive to prattle on about. Sylar only had himself to blame when Peter picked something that wasn't.
XXX
'Just talk'? Peter sighed slowly. He didn't want to air his theory about Gabriel having been mind-controlled into Sylar – Sylar might not be aware of such a switch even if it had happened, and in any case this was not the time to be bringing up traumatic phobias. Instead, he thought about the way Sylar had guarded his head when Peter had climbed in bed with him. It brought to mind one of the main differences between Sylar and his most recent forced identity of Nathan. "One thing about…him…my brother, was that he always trusted me. He knew I'd be there for him, no matter what. At Kirby. In the future. At Pinehearst. When I had a gun to his head after the plane crash. Even there at the end, when you were him. He- You knew I wouldn't let him go." Peter shifted, the hand petting Sylar slipping across his lower back, while the one that had been safely under Peter's head clasped around Sylar's shoulders. How much of that was Sylar? He remembers feeling that way, right?
XXX
Of all the topics Peter could have chosen, of course it would be something uncomfortable. Of course it would be this – about him. Note to self: be very careful with open-ended invitations. He sniffed and rolled his eyes, mostly to rebel and express some disappointment with the choice. It helped him avoid…the truth of Peter's statements. Of the two brothers, ironically Peter was the more realistic. At least the younger Petrelli learned from mistakes. His trust could be broken, his forgiveness suspended (at least temporarily until a genuine display of repentance and apology was made). Clearly Peter was not a complete doormat. When the embrace began to feel like a hug and Peter didn't sound like he would ever stop talking, in fact, he had lost track of how long Peter had been making things worse, Sylar grunted. Is he confused? Is he mistaking me for someone else? You'd better let me go, Petrelli…he thought warningly, beginning to tense up again. It wasn't just his own tension, either. It was Nathan feeling cornered and desperate for Peter to just…join in and quit fighting him and every part of the system for once.
XXX
"He knew I wouldn't betray him," Peter went on. He could feel his eyes water and throat tighten, remembering how much he had been willing to go through for his brother. "No matter what. Not even after that suicide attempt announcement he made."
XXX
/"I had no idea what you would say to-" that reporter at brunch/. Sylar caught himself, snapping shut his mouth and burying his face against Peter's chest. It had played out in front of Angela (who wouldn't have been surprised about any of the truth for several reasons) and Heidi and a fucking reporter during the election. It was something out of Nathan's imagined nightmares, like going to work without pants.
XXX
Peter leaned back a little, obviously craning his head to try to see Sylar and get a better read on the guy. Peter sighed and gave it up after a few moments. He made the assumption Sylar was dealing with some comment from Nathan's...past? Personality? Memories? Peter didn't know, but Sylar had cut himself off often enough when Peter mentioned Nathan's past to recognize the pattern. He left the matter alone and went back to lying with his right hand under his head and his left exploring the small of Sylar's back more thoroughly than before. There were some longer hairs there near the waistband of Sylar's boxers that Peter found fascinating to touch. He wondered how far down they went, but that would take this clearly into 'erotic' territory. He was enjoying what he was doing as it was and didn't want to complicate it, so he just rubbed a few between his fingers and smoothed them down where he found them.
XXX
Sylar's breath left him quickly when Peter resumed. It felt even more like an unearned gift and it felt so damn good. The petting was lower than before, more eager, though no faster. It was…questionable, hopeful. Peter provided some strange sensations before the petting resumed. By then Sylar's mouth was open, somewhat aroused despite the weird contact and definitely aware of everything. He nearly quivered. Just take it, he mentally urged Petrelli. Perhaps that would put things into sense. Sylar adjusted his uppermost arm until he could stroke into Peter's hair at the back of his neck in return. For him, it was possessive and a forbidden curiosity. The hair was soft and thick; even if he'd felt it before, he enjoyed doing it again.
XXX
Peter slowed down, nearly stopping in his caresses when Sylar reached for his head and casually buried his hand in Peter's hair. Wait, what? Peter's hand made a gradual stroke downwards, but all his attention was on what Sylar was doing to him. It was much more pressing. He'd always been more hesitant to receive anything good, or helpful, or supportive from Sylar than he was to offer it. Offering was okay. It was generosity. It was big of him to do anything for the man who had killed his brother. Receiving such, though...that was so different. It was scary. It was wrong. It was downright immoral.
Is this okay? What do I do about it? Do I stop him? I've let him do it before, but I was drunk and it was a dare. This is okay. He's not hurting me. He's just...reciprocating. I'm touching him; he's touching me. If I stop him it says I won't let him do anything kind for me, right? I don't know. This feels good. It's not sex. I don't know. It's okay. I think it's okay. Peter shifted downwards in the bed, making it easier for Sylar to reach him. Very slightly, he bowed his head.
"Anyway," Peter said after quiet minutes passed, his tone much less sentimental this time, "what I was getting at is that you're not Nathan. You don't trust me the way he did. Sylar doesn't have that relationship and never has." Nathan would have never guarded his head against Peter's touch. He wouldn't have expected or even acted to prevent an attack by Peter. That the man in his arms had moved to defend himself was the strongest indicator he wasn't Nathan.
XXX
His hyper-focus on whatever Peter was doing with his hand wavered. His eyes, swollen from his brief but intense cry of earlier, burned again and his throat was tight. Sylar couldn't determine why that might make him sad. For dead Nathan? Surely not – the bastard had had everything and repeatedly threw it away. For himself? Having tasted Nathan's life and knowing exactly, intimately, Peter's loyalty? Or for Sylar – Gabriel – whoever he'd been before, for not having that or anything like it? "I could have," he whispered roughly and so quiet as if afraid to be heard. If not for that ironic word, that mocking event: Mercy, "I could have."
XXX
Peter barely caught what Sylar said, but when it was repeated he was sure of it. When you were my brother? When he thought he was my brother. But all of that was based on a lie – my parents pretending to be his so they could use him. Hell, makes me wonder if I'm even their kid. Peter bowed his head, forehead touching the crown of Sylar's head. His left hand wrapped around Sylar's lower back and held firmly. "I think you would have made someone a really great brother." Sylar would have tried, at least, and in trying maybe it would have distracted him from his villainy, given him something else to strive for, someone to protect and work with. No telling if it would have worked out or not – at various times between Peter and Nathan it hadn't and there was no guarantee Sylar would have fared any better. But maybe it would have worked. Maybe it would have been okay.
XXX
"Ha!" Sylar blurted roughly around all the phlegm. The sentiment was amusing and his reception bitter. "Don't patronize me," he concluded, tone failing to convey a proper sense of warning as it should have. He was tired and gave Petrelli a passive squeeze like a sort of apology. After a beat, he sighed and added, "Talk about something else." He intended to drift off listening to Peter's voice, hearing the vibrations in his chest cavity produce the sounds.
XXX
Peter snorted again – both at the claim he was patronizing and the order to continue talking. He wasn't stroking anymore, just holding. "I don't know what you want. Just the sound of my voice?" He tilted his head in inquiry. "News of the day?" Sylar didn't bother answering, which was answer enough. Peter settled himself in. "You want to hear me, know you're not alone. Hm." He adjusted his right arm again, finally happy with where it was. He thought about times when he'd been lonely in his life and wanted others around. "When I was a kid, I used to get out the board games and play them all by myself. I'd imagine all the people playing with me – sometimes Nathan or Ma, sometimes I'd even force Dad to play, in my mind at least, but it was usually kids from school. I'd think about which side or character or color each person would pick, and how they'd play – if they'd be doing it just to have fun or if they were really serious about it. I'd think about which ones would cheat and why, who would gloat, who'd get distracted, who'd need help, and who'd spend half the game reading the rules or fidgeting with their pieces." Peter went on, naming names and getting into the fine points of who had played each role among his various friends at school. In retrospect, it had been self-training in understanding others, but at the time he'd just been a lonely kid in a big house. He kept talking until Sylar's breathing had evened out and stayed that way for several minutes. Then he fell silent.
Here I am with the guy who killed Nathan, lying in bed holding him after telling him a fucking bedtime story. Peter sighed. There's something wrong with me. I don't even feel guilty. I'm not even sure I should. He adjusted his pillow and went to sleep.
XXX
Day 75, February 23, Morning
Peter stretched. His left hand rode down someone's flank and over their clothed ass. His right made a fist and slowly extended to the side as he stretched. He blinked down at the dark-haired man huddled loosely against him, trying to sort out how this had come to be. The events of the previous few days and hours played out in his mind, gradually falling into place as he looked at the other man's tousled hair. Sylar's upper-most leg was between Peter's. It seemed that Peter's movement had woke the other man – his breathing had shifted slightly as Peter watched him. Satisfied that he understood how events had brought him to this point, Peter sighed, yawned, stretched again, and looked around the brightly sunlit room. His right arm settled across Sylar's shoulders because that was obviously how things were at the moment. His left hand drifted back to mind its business on his own leg, because he still had some limits, after all. What is the appropriate etiquette for this? Despite having been with many, many partners in his life, Peter had never been in a situation akin to this.
XXX
Sylar woke suddenly when Peter began to move about. He made something of a hum at a sleepy, gentle touch to his ass. He himself didn't move, though his breathing sped up to wakefulness. He didn't want to move or give up the contact they had, but he felt refreshed, like some part of his sanity had been returned. With his uppermost arm lying casually over Peter's waist, Sylar tightened it to give Peter a hint, knowing it wouldn't get the results he wanted. When Peter was done, Peter was done.
XXX
Peter pulled his leg back from where it was hooked behind Sylar's and scooted back the very few inches he had on the bed. "I'm getting up. Sleep in if you want." He extricated his right arm and paused half-bent over the bed, studying Sylar's face. He was handsome, vulnerable, and sleepy – too relaxed to be threatening. Peter smirked at the bitter irony of having a man this drop-dead sexy in his bed...whom Peter wouldn't touch that way. Or at least shouldn't touch that way. Wasn't going to this morning, for sure. He straightened and headed off to the bathroom before that was put to the test any more than it already had been.
XXX
How did he know I was awake? Sylar wondered, parts intrigued and annoyed to be found out. He hadn't thought he'd been that obvious. His eyes opened when Peter withdrew and he turned his face to the side, away from the bed to look up and see Peter's smirking face still close to him. His expression went from sleepy to surprised without his permission as he stared back at Peter in question.
Sylar's hand twitched and slid forward along the mattress a few inches as he gave into the urge and changed his mind just as quickly about reaching out to touch Peter's face. He wanted to understand the source of the smirk (as if touch would answer that); if the reason behind it was bad, then he wanted it to stop; and he'd had a curiosity of feeling Peter's lip – the left side that couldn't move – to see what it felt like. How could I sleep in without you? Wishing Peter would stay even to sit at the edge of the bed, he knew Peter was set on getting up and getting space, which he soon got.
Was he smirking because I was crying, had a nightmare…'needed' him last night? That explanation would serve but didn't seem to fit. That look hadn't appeared malicious. (I'd rather he smile at me, Sylar thought ruefully). While Peter was in the bathroom, Sylar lay there, feeling on Peter's warm spot…and smelling his pillow like a pervert.
XXX
Peter finished in the bathroom and traded with Sylar. While the other man was seeing to his morning needs, Peter stared out the big windows. It must be going on noon. We slept forever. "Hm," he grunted and shook his head, leaving the view for the kitchen where the tasks of preparing for coffee and breakfast awaited. Sylar had joined him by the time the coffee was done. Peter had laid out his own meal of yogurt, strawberry jam, and bran flakes. Sylar saw to his own food. The mood between them was certainly warmer, which Peter appreciated. He felt safe enough to broach a question he had. He had many of them, in actuality, but Sylar didn't usually want to answer them. Maybe this morning, after the previous night, Sylar would be a little more forthcoming, a little more cognizant that Peter wasn't digging for information to use against Sylar, but instead genuinely wanted to understand. Maybe they could have a real discussion.
After his third bite, he said, "Our 'justice' system is bankrupt. Even if it wasn't, there's no judge or jury who can preside over people like you, or me. You said once that you knew what you'd done was wrong. What do you think should happen to someone who's done what you've done?"
XXX
Sylar knew it was late, probably closer to lunch, without looking at a clock or his watch. He was hungry. When he entered the kitchen to begin his own search for food, he saw the easy if passable bran flakes or Cheerios and neither were what he wanted right now. That sparked the idea for cereal but there was only Cheerios and that wasn't what he wanted right now. After peanut butter toast and a glass of milk, he was just getting into it when Peter interrupted seemingly out of the blue. This is what I get for last night, huh? Quid pro quo, Clarice. No segue, nothing. It was very careless behavior in terms of Peter's will to live (or save other people) and in terms of being a good nurse. Sylar knew if he gave a short answer, it wouldn't satisfy and Peter would get testy with being dismissed. Personally, he was in no mood, when hungry, injured, recovering from several traumas either real or imagined, and finally, recently achieving some good sleep. Sylar continued with his mouthful of warm toast and melted peanut butter, "Sweetie, I'm eating," he said with some sarcasm.
XXX
Peter smiled, snorted softly at the endearment, rolled his eyes, looked away, then looked back to glance up and down Sylar appreciatively. Sylar might have intended the endearment sarcastically, but Peter took it as an acknowledgment of the night before. Even if somewhat mocking, he would take what validation he could get. Besides, it was amusing to have Sylar call him that under the circumstances. "Sure. Finish your bite. Wouldn't want you to talk with your mouth full." He waited, pointedly observing Sylar to let him know the question wasn't going anywhere.
XXX
"This really isn't the conversation I want to have, morning after," he smirked. His face showed in no uncertain terms what he'd rather be discussing.
XXX
"Right," Peter said airily, his ego stroked again by Sylar's continued, probably unintentional admission that yes, Peter had helped him the night before. "Of course. Let's talk about that nightmare then."
XXX
Sylar gave a withering look, shy of his usual glare. "Fine. Short answer. You'd let others preside over you because you insist that the collective, appointed body 'knows best.' I think that same collective body – official or not – would decide to make use of me in one or more of several ways…or find a way to kill me outright." Satisfied to put Peter down a self-righteous path that was easy to ignore and not answering the question as given, he took another large bite, intent on enjoying his breakfast despite the noise.
XXX
Peter mulled the response over, taking another spoonful of yogurt as he did. "Do you think the collective body in question would make a difference? Like who was in it? Jury of your peers or something like that?" He was trying to have a normal (or what might pass as normal) conversation, not an interrogation, but he knew it might come off like that anyway. He paused to reflect again.
"Not that the Company did a good job," Peter mused, "and they were about as much our peers as we're likely to get. Noah might not have abilities, but I think all the founders did." He ate more, still thinking. "Do you really think I get my ideas of right and wrong from other people?"
XXX
Sylar paused in the act of clearing some food from his teeth. He looked directly at Peter with something of surprise. Did I say that? A brief review of his earlier answer told him he might have implied as much. Then he thought, Do I think that? His eyes lost focus as he looked off to the side to consider that. He had hosts of memories of Peter being rebellious, of not following in anyone's footsteps, or following the given plan or easiest path. "No," he intoned slowly, still feeling his way through it. The answer, the truth, felt clearer the more he explored it. Peter's sense of right had earned Sylar's respect in the past and in recent weeks. He made eye contact with Peter once more. "But you did agree to be locked away by the Company – to prevent you from going nuclear or something like that. That shows your willingness to accept the authority and jurisdiction of others even if it might be based on some misguided hope in the system. You even had to escape like everyone else. If you thought they would help, I think you would agree to do…things that I wouldn't. Why do you care what I think anyway?"
XXX
"I agreed. Yeah. They still had to kill me to get me in there." Peter said that very quietly, because there was so much more to it. "It's complicated." He shook his head. "The point is that yeah, I needed help. I tried to get it." He paused, thinking about his wording. "What are the differences between what I did and what you might have done?" He didn't respond to Sylar's question, but that didn't mean he ignored it. Mostly it struck him that Sylar was surprised that someone cared about what he thought, which was why Peter didn't ask for Sylar's agreement, but instead asked something more open-ended, something like the questions he was trained to ask as a paramedic – the ones that couldn't be answered with a simple yes or no.
XXX
"Be specific."
XXX
Peter paused, mouth open, then shut it as he thought about what he was going to say before saying it. Or at least, thought about what he wanted Sylar to understand, which wasn't the same thing as the words that were about to come out of his mouth. A moment of considering changed what he said. His tone was calm, his words slow and cadenced. "I want to talk about justice – right and wrong. I know what I did in turning myself over to the Bishops might not have been smart – it might not have been the best course of action – but I thought it was right, given what I knew at the time. There's not just one right way to do things, though. It can be different for each person. So I'm asking what you would have done instead. What would have been right for you, if you were in that position? What course of action could you have taken there that you would have been proud of later? I'm getting the impression from you that you disapprove of what I did. I want to understand that."
XXX
His expression melted into something more thoughtful or perhaps troubled, but less confused. "I learned to control that ability. All of my abilities. I practiced with it so I wouldn't become the bomb. Nearly everyone I know would say that the right thing to do would be to give myself up. Go quietly. I sort of tried that." Though he'd already told Peter about his suicide attempt, he wasn't going to give details. He continued, to muddy the water and, in effect, change the subject so Peter wouldn't comprehend, "I called Mohinder and he immediately dialed 9-1-1." Sylar snorted contemptuously.
"They'd say the right thing to do would be to turn myself over even if – or especially if – it meant I would be tortured and repeatedly killed in the name of science. Or maybe I'd cut a deal and capture other specials or kill people who are 'dangerous' and inconvenient. Being left to rot isn't therapeutic for me, either. I know that's what they'd do because that's what they've already done and they would continue to do that so long as I was useful because I went willingly and signed my life away on their dotted line. I don't have any family name to get me out of trouble or any family who would come looking for me. I didn't think of being adopted at that time, either," he added with a wry bitterness. Then lifting his glass of juice, he murmured quickly before he drank, not wanting to speak it, but he knew it was coming anyway. "Not so much…disapproval as…" Sylar found his voice straining, "Worry? I can't see how you can trust them, but…you made it out okay, from what you've said." He grit his teeth hard and went back to his toast.
XXX
Peter listened carefully, then went back to eating when Sylar did. He let the words hang, thinking about how Sylar's speech had been composed at first, then a run-on sentence of tension, followed by even more difficulty. The emotional flow made more of an impression than the details of Sylar's part in the conversation. After his bowl was empty and Sylar's toast gone, Peter rose with his dish in hand. "Neither one of us made it out 'okay'. I don't know what effect my name had, but my family didn't come looking for me. Nathan was in the hospital. Not sure where Dad was, but everyone thought he was dead. Ma was fine, but...no one came looking for me – then, in the cargo container, or now." Peter's expression shuttered. His mother had set him up for all his major abandonments as far as he could tell. He headed to the sink to rinse his bowl.
XXX
Sylar followed suit and began to wash his plate and glass. He spared a look at Peter, who was obliviously still chatting away. What I think? (What do I think? I just have feelings: I wish I didn't have to prove myself and kill people or be someone else to be special. Then I wouldn't have to turn myself over). He was lost in thought as he finished the washing.
XXX
"It seems like the right answer, but the first thing I said was our justice system is messed up. You and I know that more than anyone. I don't trust them. Don't you see that? Who would you even turn yourself in to?" He hesitated, realizing that sounded wrong in reference to Sylar. "Over to, I meant," he said with a chastened expression and softer tone.
XXX
In the middle of drying, he tensed and straightened as the words slipped in like a knife. It was a cruel reminder that being Nathan would solve everyone's problems, except the problem of Sylar having to, in effect, kill himself to do it. It wasn't a question of 'who' he would turn himself into, because that much was obvious – so obvious that it might not even be a 'choice.' (Does he mean that I'll be tortured until I become someone else? It's definitely an option). It didn't seem fair that Peter was allowed to say that so casually. Sylar didn't answer because there was no answer. Anyone he surrendered to would not be friendly. This time it was a hurt glance he sent towards Peter as he quickly finished the drying, wanting to be done with the task and the talking (or listening).
XXX
Peter went on normally, "There's no safe place we can go. If anyone tried to put together some kind of haven, it would be so easy for it to be abused for bad purposes. There's so much power in a group of specials. Kind of like that 'off' feeling I had about the carnival. Maybe society just has to deal with people finding themselves and their place? Like...if everyone were more supportive, then these bad things wouldn't happen. Maybe specials are a catalyst to society getting their head out of their asses and finally becoming the kind of civilization everyone knows we need to be."
XXX
Fortunately for Peter, he was so wrong he needed to be corrected and he had the added bonus of bringing up something Sylar had thought to mention earlier (had he been in a more conversational mood) – the Carnival. Sylar snorted, turning to face Peter with his arms folded across his chest. "Nature versus Nurture?" That was a disturbing blend of Nathan's law experience and Sylar's psycho-social science that made him uncomfortable. "You're forgetting human nature is to be afraid of and violent towards anything it doesn't understand. I'm sure headlines of the Jews being forced from their homes and into the ghettos really brought about a positive, inclusive mindset in the Germans."
He sighed, through with shooting down Peter's misplaced optimism. "You don't understand how things work. The Carnival…can work. It's not working now. Absolute power corrupts absolutely…As you know. Someone who doesn't want power has to be in power." (Someone like you, he thought of Peter without considering Peter because of the empath's own crimes. Prior to that he'd been a good example). "You didn't stay there. Or maybe it doesn't appeal to you because of…what you're used to. You already have a family and a functioning job." Maybe you think you're too good for a place like that, people like that. (But he's a medic…and a nurse to dying old people…).
XXX
Peter snorted. "A functioning job – yeah. Which is probably why the first and only thing Samuel did in relation to me is file a lawsuit against me on medical grounds. That's the sort of thing that can get me fired and blacklisted from the medical profession altogether." Peter tilted his head tensely and pressed his lips together sourly, raising his brows to indicate how negative he felt about that course of action. "I think he knew that. I think that's exactly why he did it. He was threatening me – join him or he'd ruin me so I had nowhere else to go. Yeah, maybe I'm lucky I had more options than most. As it turned out, I never went to the Carnival, so I don't know what it was like. I just know the impression I got of it from him didn't feel right. Same for how they were dealing with Emma. Same for those dreams I had." Peter frowned.
He felt like he was actually getting somewhere, as at least there were not accusations and defensiveness making it impossible to communicate. "You were there. What was it like? You've talked about the sense of family, belonging. And about Lydia, but she was using you. Did you have the feeling anyone was there because they wanted to be? That they felt safe and like they belonged, rather than just being blackmailed? What do you mean about how it can work, but doesn't now?"
XXX
"There were plenty of people who were there because they wanted to be," Sylar answered defensively. He fondly recalled Ms. Comey and her blueberry waffles, and Amanda, who wanted to be accepted; even Lydia (prior to her manipulations), how she'd felt safe before. "Regardless of being blackmailed in some cases." Many in the Carnival had appeared to be growing wary, but Samuel still held their trust even when some of them knew what he was doing. "They can use their powers, be as normal as they want, and live in a community without…being hunted. At least, until Bennet found out about them." Sylar shrugged. "Anyone who knows what I am and still wants me to be anywhere that badly has an agenda." There were other things he could say, but he didn't want to be seen to empathize with the Carnies lest Peter turn that against him.