Day 75, February 23, Noon
Peter listened to what Sylar had to say, his arms lightly crossed and head tilted in attention as they stood in the transition area between living room and bedroom in the open plan suite. It was good to hear there was a sense of community, rather than the Carnival being some mobile imprisonment. He wasn't getting the details he wanted, but it gave him options to think about. "So it wasn't all bad." He tilted his head to the side briefly. "That's good to know. But you bring me back to what I asked to start with, which is what you think should be done with someone like yourself. Anyone who knows you is going to have an agenda. You've effected so many lives that they can't help but know." Peter pulled his arms across himself more tightly, even as his voice became softer. "What next? What happens next, Sylar?"
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"What I think?" Sylar repeated in dismay. He didn't know what to feel about it, but he had thoughts about it. What should happen and what I want aren't the same, he acknowledged bitterly with the exception that death might be welcomed by him and everyone else. It had to be a trick question to get some kind of admission. "This is what's next, Petrelli." Sylar gestured out the large windows of the penthouse and their shared lonely world. "It's not what I was expecting, but…I suppose you're going to tell me what's next. Don't leave me in suspense." He rolled his eyes at the months already past with Peter trying to figure things out by asking questions instead of taking charge. "I bet you'll tell me exactly what should be done with me. You must have so many ideas by now."
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Peter frowned, not moving from where he stood. "I want to hear what you think."
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Sylar glanced away, both impressed and annoyed at the persistence. He didn't want to side with either of the Petrelli brothers: one choosing a militant, prison-extinction course, the other blending into society, being open, and seeking to help. "Saying what I think about myself is biased. It's like saying what I want or how I feel. It's like begging. It's pathetic. Besides, it's only freak value you're trying to understand. Why would you ask questions of a killer as if I have anything sane and rational to say?"
XXX
Peter still didn't move or speak. He listened, thinking over Sylar words. He saw Sylar's point of course – exonerating himself would be self-serving, whereas condemning himself would be stupid. But Peter's mind caught on Sylar implying he wouldn't say what he wanted or how he felt, because that was wrong somehow – impolite, or weak. Doesn't that make it impossible to be authentic? Before he could really dig into that, he was left puzzling over what 'freak value' was and how Sylar meant it in this context. 'Freak value'? And then there was the next – something Peter had heard from Sylar before: the implication that Peter wouldn't or shouldn't value Sylar's thoughts or insights. Peter peered at him, trying to make sense of it all.
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"If you ever viewed me as a person, you would have tried to help me, wouldn't you? It's like a compulsion with you - even better if it involves sacrifice and danger. No wonder you enjoy sleeping with me. No one else is here. I think you get off on the lost, wounded puppies, don't you? That's easier for you to understand and accept." Sylar's eyes lost focus as he considered how Peter wanting to white-wash things would have any negative impact on him at all. It served his purposes perfectly, acting the bird with the broken wing to get into Peter's bed and his good graces. I…don't want to play pretend. Quietly, regretfully, he added, "And you wonder why I don't tell you everything."
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"And now the attacks," Peter said as quietly as Sylar had spoken at the last. Peter intended to ignore the distracting accusations completely this time around. He walked over and sat on the couch, leaning back and getting comfortable. In a normal tone, he said, "I ask questions of a killer because you have sane and rational things to say. You can tell me what the weather is outside, what you ate for breakfast, and what happened five years ago as reliably as anyone else – more, probably, if I'm asking about things my family has lied to me about for years. That's not 'freak value'." Whatever that is. "I'm trying to understand my life. I'm trying to understand yours." He crossed one leg, ankle over knee, and adjusted the fabric on the leg of his pants in a manner usually more suited to the other members of his family. "Okay. Asking about what should happen to you is a Catch-22. It's not fair to you. I get that. How about me? What should society do with someone whose powers are unpredictable as to what I might have at any point, and I don't have the best history of using them well? What do you think should happen there?" Maybe the world's better off with me stuck in here with him. Peter looked up at Sylar with a steady, serious expression.
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Sylar barely pursed his lips. (Am I attacking him?) Was it such a pattern that Peter could anticipate it? That was a bit worrisome. He trailed behind Peter, but remained standing, arms still crossed. He was watching the empath carefully. Head tilted, he considered Peter in a different light. "That depends if you've fucked anything up recently," Sylar asked that as a question. "You can hold down a job. For the most part you don't hurt or kill your family. You can justify the people you hurt or kill. No one would think to question your actions. You lack control and efficiency. Fortunately for you, those can be learned, but I doubt your personality could maintain it."
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Peter shrugged about his recent activities, since Sylar's tone indicated he wanted a response. When Sylar went on and then finished, Peter snorted. "'My personality'?"
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"The emotion, the impulses, getting one idea, jumping into it and not thinking it through. You're going after small game."
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Peter frowned and said nothing for the moment. That's completely different from what Claude said my problem was, but at least this time it sounds right. The 'small game' comment puzzled him, though. I've saved the whole planet. From myself, but still – that's not small game.
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After glancing away and shifting his weight, Sylar thought back to what had been asked. "I don't think justice will ever be served on you. Partly because the only person who could do it is me; and that's inconvenient for me right now. I suppose it's even – Nathan and what you did to me, but you'd never be satisfied to accept that. I don't know if that's admirable or stupid."
XXX
Peter pulled his head back with an offended expression. His tone hardened when he spoke. "You think it's even? Taking my brother away from me forever and me wiping out your memories for, what, fifteen minutes? Twenty? I seem to remember you saluting as you walked away from that. Is that all you think his life was worth to me? Why would I accept that?"
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Sylar narrowed his eyes. That was his only reaction when he felt like beating Peter to a pulp again for dismissing the damage that was still present today. Part of him longed to prove it if Peter was so disbelieving. It's always about him. (Okay, I'm sure that's how he feels about me, too.) That reined in his violent instinct. After a few breaths, he answered the only question he could answer, "So you can move on." That was a nicer turn of phrase than 'get over it.' He decided that as he told himself he didn't feel like fighting today and still wanted to sleep with and fuck Peter. "Stay sane. Heal. Deal with it. Whatever normal people do with that kind of thing."
Sylar felt out of his depth. He had no experience with losing someone he loved as much as Peter loved his brother. His losses had been, more or less, self-inflicted and he was to blame – always to blame. Sylar shuffled to one of the large windows beside the couch, opposite of Peter's spot. "I know it doesn't mean anything, but I didn't…kill him to hurt you." It made sense at the time, just another task to be checked off a list on his way to becoming president, like finally ascending to his rightful place. Peter of all people would understand making a decision without…thinking it through as much as he should have. Nathan wasn't small game. Now the consequences – Peter's wrath – seemed obvious. He sent a cautious glance over to his companion, not ready to voice that yet. His gaze hardened, defensive, explaining. "I have to live with him now, too. That was never something I wanted."
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"You want to know what I want, Sylar? I don't want to fucking 'move on'!" Peter put both feet on the floor, scowling at the other man, but he stayed seated because he didn't want to make this physical. He bared his teeth in a snarl and looked away, uneasily balling his hands into fists. He spoke to keep himself from acting, to keep his mind on something other than his rage. "We had class sections on this in college, nursing school. How to deal with patients and their families. How to fend them off, distract them, deflect them when they couldn't handle the diagnosis. When to send them to a specialist because they wouldn't 'move on'. You'd think they'd teach that in hospice but they don't. Not really. It's in the general curriculum instead. Because everyone has to deal with it. Not just hospice. By the time hospice is involved, most everyone knows what's happening. They might not accept it, but they … are dealing with it." He knew what he sounded like – just like one of those people who couldn't handle it. Peter glared up at Sylar. "I don't want to deal with Nathan being dead! I don't want him to be dead! I want him to come out from around a corner like he did at Primatech and all of a sudden he's okay. Maybe it was all a bad dream - I got Ma's ability and had this wicked nightmare and none of it really happened. You're still dead and Nathan's still fine, because you died at the Stanton Hotel and he lived. No memory stuff, no identity switching, just everything happened like I thought it did to start with!"
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Sylar saw the bad body language. He reacted to it by turning to face Peter and staring at his face. The face would show any violent decision before the body would and he remembered being choked out for laughing about Peter's precious brother. This is not my fault. He asked questions and kept asking, and I answered them. Nicely, too. Granted, the crack about 'whatever normal people do' was probably no more helpful for the average, stupidly emotional homo sapien than it was for extraordinary Peter Petrelli who had for so long served as a nurse and seen those very things. In a way, Peter wanting him dead hurt, but in other ways, the part of him that felt he was Nathan was comforted and…even a small part of him understood? If I'd died on that pyre and Nathan lived…how much simpler would things have been? I wouldn't be feeling any pain. (At least he's not trying to hide the fact that he wants me dead anymore). That wasn't reassuring. Neither was the untruth Peter had told before, when he'd said he hadn't wanted Sylar's body when it thought it was Nathan. Why am I listening to this? (Because he'd attack me if I did anything right now).
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Peter looked away, breathing hard. "And then I didn't talk to him anymore because everything happened like I thought it did. I didn't like it. None of it." He thought about that pyre – the nauseating smell of cooking meat, the sizzling of flesh, the flickering light, and the deep feeling of uneasiness he'd had. "What happened to you wasn't justice. It was a bunch of vigilantes, even if it had all happened exactly like I thought it did – it was still wrong. There should have been a better way."
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Sylar grimaced at that, his torso twisting away from the very memory of that hurt. Having woken up as Nathan, believing he was Nathan, and having strange powers pouring out of him unchecked and attempting to reach out to his brother who'd had the exact same problem years ago…only to be met with silence that made no sense. Nothing but empty voicemails. Peter had…forgiven him, said he loved him at Stanton and then the unexplained cold shoulder. It was in that familiar, unwritten brotherly code that they not talk about whatever was going on, even when he visited Peter at the hospital to ask him for help; no, just a reminder to check his damn voicemail. Or when he'd flown all the way home to Manhattan, to Peter's place, waking up in some trailer park in some stolen flannel and wondering what the hell had happened to his life in the past few weeks that he just couldn't remember…
Sylar swallowed hard, feeling confused and torn in his loyalties, his reactions. It was him Peter was talking about; he was there. How strange was it to be alive and watch your other self burn? /"It's not just that. I'm seein' things, Peter. Memories. Images- m-memories but they're not mine. Not exactly. It's freakin' me out!"/
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Peter looked up, listening to the cadence of Nathan's voice coming out of Sylar's mouth – the same words he'd heard before, like Sylar was a bad record, sometimes skipping back a few rotations to repeat the lyrics. It looked unintentional, like a glitchy machine, losing control. Sylar did not want to be that way – of that Peter was fairly sure. Peter suspected Sylar's grip on his identity was fraying at the edges. He stood up carefully and clearly telegraphed his intention to put his hands on Sylar's shoulders.
"Sylar? You woke up last night not sure who you were – from that nightmare you had. You're not Nathan. Okay?" Peter's voice was gentle, but insistent. "You're not." He pulled him in for a hug. "Nathan's gone," Peter said, voice muffled against Sylar's shirt. He turned his head to the side and outward, needing the feeling of another body against his, because he needed comfort in the face of this horrible topic just as Sylar did – but for different reasons. One hand went to the back of Sylar's head while the other stroked slowly up and down Sylar's back. At this point, his thoughts weren't on Sylar's injuries, but just on providing the solace of not being alone in his pain.
XXX
This wasn't Peter's apartment, or even the staff room of Mercy Hospital, but Sylar still didn't understand how he'd come to be here. Peter's words made him sad and he couldn't place why; it seemed like someone else's emotion – perhaps it was Peter's. The physical contact helped. He felt grounded and accepted, like Peter was understanding him somehow (even if Sylar didn't understand it himself).
Is he gone? (Why would I be keeping him alive?) That question terrified him. What if Peter wasn't the one who wanted him to be Nathan, but the other way around? Sylar stiffened at a combination of his thoughts and Peter's touch. The hand on the back of his head was momentarily threatening until Sylar moved the hand down to his neck – strangely a safer area even with the man who'd choked him and broken his neck before. The rubbing on his enflamed back hurt, too, but it was more welcome. Who is he hugging? Why? (Do I care?)Sylar slowly moved to return the hug, not sure about doing that either. It felt familiar though height ratio was different. He clutched Peter to him, regretting that he'd hurt Peter, needing to feel the acceptance that was offered.
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What's he…? Peter wondered about Sylar moving his hand. Then he realized. I was touching his head. The back of his head is off-limits? I thought it was just his forehead and when I was holding him down, and maybe not when I was punching him or whatever. Too many conditions. I don't know. But he seems fine, so it's okay. He readjusted his arm across Sylar's shoulders, realizing a moment later that perhaps he shouldn't be stroking the back of a guy who specifically had open wounds there. Crap.Peter dropped that hand to the lower back, which brought on other thoughts – impressions really – of a less-than-platonic type. He gave a couple more short strokes before separating, stepping back to arm's length. The embrace was creating a safe place to feel his way through losing Nathan. He didn't want to give it up, but he needed to make sure Sylar was okay. And if he were honest, his thoughts had strayed quite far from Nathan.
"You doing alright?"
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He nodded, feeling somewhat embarrassed. The continued, random loss of control was a weakness he didn't want and definitely didn't want to display. Sylar didn't know which was worse: Peter punching and strangling him or responding with hugging every time. The violence was a clear signal, while the hugging…Is he trying to make me feel guilty? He'd shoved his hands into his front pockets and was looking out the window again. Sylar wasn't sure what the correct social protocol was (there probably wasn't one, and even then, it probably wouldn't apply because Peter followed his own protocol).
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Peter nodded, although he was fully aware that Sylar's answer didn't mean he was fine – just that he was able to answer questions appropriately. That was all Peter needed from him at the moment. He wanted to hug him again, but that was selfish and he wasn't sure if Sylar was tolerating him or benefitting. "Just being around me might be triggering Nathan's memories, right? I guess maybe that was a tough line of questions, too. And complicated. We can talk about it more some other time. How's your back doing?" He petted Sylar's left shoulder a couple times. It didn't feature any injuries and so was safe.
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Peter's voice brought his attention back to the man, expression nearly pleading and resigned. I don't want to talk about it. The additional touching – and change of topic – was welcome. "I don't know. I didn't look at it. It's still sore." Should I tell him what my nightmare really was? Peter knew half of the story, didn't know his own involvement in the nightmare.
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"Did you take your antibiotic this morning?" He moved over to the medical bag, getting out the standard ointment and gauze. "Let me take a look at it. If we're lucky, it will have finally dried up and the infection will be fading." He gestured at the dining room chair. "Let me see."
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Sylar's lips thinned at the prospect of being scraped raw again in the name of health. With a glance at the items, which appeared familiar and normal, Sylar approached the chair, standing less than a foot from Peter before he began to strip off his shirt. All the while he was staring down at Petrelli with an angry kind of lust, proudly displaying himself. Look what you've done. Might as well take pride in your art. Pivoting, Sylar sat, facing the back of the chair, straddling it to present his back to Peter. He twisted a little, laying one hand atop the other and resting his chin on them to look back at his nurse.
XXX
Peter's brains fell out of his head. It was the only explanation for the complete absence of thought that went on for too many seconds as Sylar pulled off his shirt only inches away, so close the man had to be mindful of his elbows lest he knock Peter down with one of them. And Sylar's expression, which was everything Peter had ever fantasized about. And being so overt about wanting Peter's attention (which he definitely had). Followed by the coquettish pose looking over his shoulder, long hair scattering over his forehead in artless perfection. Peter stared at him. He'd been in bed with this guy, holding him in his arms for most of the night. His conscious brain (ever the moralist) understood that didn't mean anything, but his libido recognized proximity, compatibility, opportunity, and hell – invi-fucking-tation – to the point that just a few moments ago even contemplating Nathan's departure hadn't kept his thoughts pure.
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"Do you think it will scar?" he wanted to see the other man's reaction to that even as he knew Peter might not have much experience with slow, natural healing, without abilities.
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Sylar said something. Peter blinked, then struggled to figure out what those sounds meant. Yes, scarring. Right. "Um…yeah, I guess…No, I mean...No." Shit, that's embarrassing. Focus, Peter. "I don't know. I'll look." He moved behind Sylar, where he couldn't be seen nearly as well and more to the point, Peter wasn't able to see Sylar's handsome-to-the-point-of-distraction face. He fidgeted with the gauze a bit. If he looked at Sylar's back, it was unintentional. He was trying to get himself pulled back together.
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"Do you want it to?"
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The words again. Peter cleared his throat and took a closer look at what the situation really was, vis-à-vis Sylar's back. It looked better – quite a bit better. A full night of sleep with somewhere around twenty-four hours of antibiotics had done wonders. While it was almost certainly still tender (Peter touched gently around the sores), the wounds weren't welted up as much. The infection was fading. With Peter's assessment done, what Sylar had actually said finally filtered through. "Do I…want it to? To scar?" He looked at Sylar's back as a whole. It seemed like a ridiculous question on the face of it – he didn't want other people hurt, or scarred, in a general sense. But Sylar wasn't just anyone and that seemed to be what Sylar was getting at.
Quietly, he said, "Do I want you to carry some mark because of what you did to me, and to my family?" He brushed his fingertips over the reddest, and thereby most sensitive, spot. It was a lingering touch, aware of the pain he could inflict with only a sharp jab of his fingers. That had, of course, been Peter's original intent with the lashing – setting something up where Sylar was easy to hurt. "Some puckers on your back doesn't even begin to get there, Sylar. And besides – we've already gone over this – hurting you doesn't bring him back." Peter leaned in, putting one hand on the top corner of the chair as he spoke in soft threat a handful of inches from Sylar's ear. "You could be shape-shifted back into his form, pretend to be him for the rest of your life, and I still wouldn't have my brother." Peter inhaled slowly and pushed away. He opened a packet of ointment, watching Sylar more than what he was doing with his hands. Peter's eyes were fixed on Sylar's profile and face now, not his body. All hint of arousal had fled, but he was no less intent on the other man.
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Sylar went still. The scene was only slightly changed from the one he remembered. Before, he'd been tied down and nearly helpless with Mohinder Suresh mouthing off threats. Now it was Peter Petrelli, using proximity (almost intimacy) to cut deeper and deliver, if not a threat, then a pronouncement of despair. It hurt in ways Sylar thought it shouldn't or wouldn't. It was like being disowned and dumped by someone he shouldn't even want or care about. At the same time, Sylar felt like Peter was blowing smoke. With icy coolness, he bit out, "As if you could tell the difference. Your asshole, synthetic brother is suddenly begging you for help and randomly showing off a dozen familiar powers and you don't even question it." With that, he faced forward, away from Peter and whatever Peter decided to do in retaliation. Whatever happened couldn't hurt any worse.
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Peter gave him a sullen blink as he prepared the gauze. "Hold still. There's no debriding today. I'm only putting on ointment." He went about applying a thin layer of the medicine on each of Sylar's injuries. It gave him time to think about Sylar's words. There was Peter's own obliviousness (painful, and true), how Nathan was an asshole (also painfully true), someone had begged Peter for help and he had tried to brush them off (also…yeah), and the same dense stupidity that Peter had struggled with all his life (it went without saying). He would be a fool to argue. Instead, he set the used gauze on the table and pulled a second chair around to sit facing Sylar.
Peter leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Can I ask you some questions about that time, that period in your life?" His tone was serious and straightforward.
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When Peter mentioned the lack of scraping at his wounds, Sylar didn't relax even after he heard the part about ointment. He's not going to–? (It was about him, not Nathan. Is it really that different?) Then it was silent between them, only the noises of Peter shifting about and the wrinkle of the ointment packet as the empath applied it truthfully, dutifully. When he felt that, he relaxed, still wondering. When Peter finished, some of his tension returned and he warily watched out of the corner of his eye as Peter came around to sit facing him. That posture, the body language was so genuine it was threatening (and familiar). He felt so cornered – such a stupid feeling, all alone in the world like this – and…maybe…that he wanted to be cornered, but that couldn't be right. It wouldn't make sense.
For a moment, Sylar just stared at him. His first reaction was 'no.' After Peter had just grilled him; he was going to turn around and answer more questions with answers Petrelli didn't want to hear? Considering Peter being very touchy about the mention of Nathan, was it wise to decline? Was this one of those things he didn't actually have a choice about? What would he say? "I don't know," he asked, searching Peter's face to see if that was acceptable.
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He tilted his head, then decided to ask anyway. If Sylar didn't want to answer, then he wouldn't. Peter clasped his hands loosely. "You were at Nathan's job as a senator. You seemed to be doing it fine." Peter shrugged a shoulder. "At least your secretary acted like everything was normal. What were you doing with your time outside of work? Like when you weren't at the carnival. What did you…do?" There had been weeks – dozens of evenings plus weekends off. Did Sylar spend his free time the same way Nathan did? How did Nathan, stripped of his family life for the last few years, spend his free time?
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Sylar glanced away at the unintended compliment. So I'm good at impersonating your brother, doing his job because he can't? He wasn't certain how he should take that. Elizabeth had been nice. Professional, brunette, so not totally his type. She wasn't the 'fast woman with questionable morals' his mother had suggested, not that he'd thought to follow her suggestion to the letter. "I don't know. Nothing…bad," Sylar hastened. The last thing he needed was Peter thinking he used his brother's body or status to commit crime or other perversions. "I didn't drink as much. I worked out as usual. I'd go for walks. I went…" he spared a checking glance at Peter, "flying sometimes. O-other times I would work late."
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No huge red flags I should have noticed that he wasn't himself – I guess that's good. Peter's voice softened somewhat. "Did you feel okay? You seemed kind of…unsettled when I saw you. But maybe that was just the thing with the carnival and the abilities. Those were recent. What about the weeks before that? Were they…bad?" He didn't know if Sylar's free time had been racked with indecision, depression, possible blackouts and nightmares. It seemed unlikely given how he'd been acting when he finally came to Peter for help, but Peter didn't actually know. Sylar was obviously very good at pretending everything was a-okay when it patently wasn't.
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"N-no." Sylar shook his head. "It wasn't bad. I felt…okay; I felt good. A lot of…change," he said that with something of a grimace. "I…he? was trying to do better. As stupid as that sounds," he shook his head. "Like the stuff with Millie. It was a little empty – no Heidi, no kids, no you. Ma was there, no more than usual. That helped and…didn't sometimes. My abilities…freaked him out. But m- his life was good. I had people even if they weren't close at the time."
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"Trying to do better." Peter's voice and expression was a complex mix of grief, regret, dark humor, and confusion. He looked away with a pained grimace. "As you." He tried to be better, or thought Nathan would try to be better. Was he right? Did Nathan, ever in his life, try to do better or be better? Would he have if he'd still been himself after that stuff at Coyote Sands and the Stanton Hotel? I'll never know. He looked back to Sylar with dead eyes and a blank face, but his nose and the skin under his eyes was flushed like he was on the brink of crying. There were a lot of emotions roiling around under the surface. "Nathan wasn't comfortable with his own ability. Manifesting a bunch of yours? No wonder it broke his sense of who he was." He sniffed. "Do you like your abilities? I think I remember you saying you did." It was a throwaway question – Peter was pretty sure he already knew the answer.
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At that moment, Sylar desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. Talking about Nathan or himself, seeing Peter's big hazel eyes well up with tears, hearing his voice, and (possibly worst of all) wondering what Peter was thinking because, for once, Peter wasn't blasting it out. He was very aware that he was the cause of this, but it still…hurt? It was a helpless situation and he had no clue how to begin to respond. Was it me or was it him? Or some weird combination of both of us? He couldn't tell Peter that lest the other man attack him in some righteous quest to 'free Nathan.' Fortunately, Peter neither raged, cried, nor attacked. Instead, he gave Sylar an easy out. I tried to tell you that, when I was…him. You didn't think it was strange at all. You said something like, 'Wow. When did that start happening?' (How…could you not know? Peter, who was so familiar with fighting him. He wondered if he was more upset that Peter didn't see him through Nathan or Peter's failure to notice something off about Nathan).
"Yes, of course I do." He didn't expand on that, partly because he was a little offended in turn that Peter didn't remember.
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Peter nodded. "When I had my memories wiped, Adam told me I could get them back if I focused on what was most important to me. I focused on the people I loved – Nathan specifically. It sounds almost like it was the abilities that let you find out who you really were – what brought back your memories and let you, Sylar, shake off being Nathan. Do you think it worked that way for you?"
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Sylar frowned with some kind of emotion. He knows I don't have anyone important to me to…No anchor, no connections. I don't know if that's cruel or just the truth. "Yes," he answered simply, but what he felt was anything but simple. "They can't just lay dormant. I use them as easy as breathing. They're part of me," he emphasized because he couldn't feel them or access his abilities. "People have tried to…turn them off and it doesn't work." Sylar stood up from his chair. "You know, thinking about it, there was one other person who used my name and didn't make it sound like a curse. He could tell the difference between me and…other people. You'd never believe it was Emile Danko," shaking his head, Sylar walked towards the hall to retrieve a shirt. After all, what could Peter Petrelli and Emile Danko have in common? Besides me, of course.
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"The difference between you and," Peter's perfect duplication of Sylar's intonations fell off as he lilted to make the last two words into a question, "other people?" He tilted his head and leaned back in the chair, watching the way Sylar's back moved as the man walked off. Peter wasn't ogling – at least not much. His eyes lingered on the welts (minor now) and sores (at least not as bad as they had been the day before). 'Do you want it to?' bounced around in his head as he regarded the marks he'd put on Sylar's body, and wondered how he'd feel if they turned out to be permanent. It feels like an investment or something…commitment maybe?
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The mimicry stopped his forward motion. Sylar turned to give Petrelli a suspicious, searching look but all he saw was the picture of innocence. Then there was the secondary part – the question. "When I'm wearing someone else's skin – their face." With a glance over Peter's body (because he suspected the empath had been checking him out), Sylar returned to the bathroom to fetch his shirt and shoes.
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The image brought to mind by Sylar's answer was graphic. That's a gruesome way to phrase it. But it's an ability. I don't know how else he should talk about it. "How could he tell it was still you?" Peter roused himself from the chair and went to put on his shoes. It looked like they might be heading out, or at least leaving the apartment. "Why didn't he go after you, anyway? He knew who you were. You had abilities." More slowly, Peter added, "I thought he and Nathan were all about controlling anyone who might interfere with their plans." The implication, of course, was that Sylar wasn't an interference. But I was.
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"It's easy when I'm in someone else's body," he phrased that suggestively on purpose. "I don't have to change my mannerisms or habits because most people aren't paying any attention beyond…literal face value. Danko always knew, even if I was just quietly standing in the room." It was a kind of attention he'd devoured like a starving man. That kind of knowledge, maybe even understanding of him, the time involved to learn those tells. It was so important and rare.
The other inquiries would probably turn Peter off the topic and so he was hesitant to divulge. "They did go after me, but a few handfuls of highly trained, specially-outfitted agents aren't going to surprise me or catch me. They didn't do any homework and thought they could approach me like any other singular-powered special. Then Building 26 thought I was dead…and I was helping Danko." He knew that would sound hypocritical to Peter, especially after he'd been bashing Nathan so thoroughly about the senator's repeated, unrepentant, misguided choices. "I wasn't interfering and he wasn't controlling me. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. I happen to like those," he mentioned pointedly, grabbing his coat from beside the door.
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Peter stewed over that, not happy about any of it. As always, Sylar's responses raised more questions than they answered. "The whole subject is frustrating. It was...unnecessary, what Nathan did. And just…wrong." He shook his head and changed the topic for the moment. "Why do you think most people use your name like a curse? What I mean is, what do you think is motivating them to do that?" Peter had his own thoughts about why that was, but he was interested in whether Sylar perceived any personal responsibility in how people reacted to him.
XXX
Sylar opened the door as they were both ready. He had no idea where they were going, just…out. That was sufficient. And he had Peter talking and distracted, so there was a chance Peter would think it was his own idea to go out. What Peter wanted to know was painfully obvious, just as apparent as the fact that he wanted Sylar to voice it or admit to it. It was annoying because of how unsubtle it was. "Envy at my fame and headlines," he said flippant and dismissive. His answer was just as clearly avoiding whatever Peter wanted him to say and pointing out that Peter's bait had failed.
XXX
Peter snorted softly as they headed down the hall. He didn't pass up the opportunity to take a verbal jab at Sylar. "It probably has something to do with killing their loved ones or being a direct threat to them."
XXX
"That probably applies to the majority of people, especially those who know me or people who have heard of me. But that doesn't explain why you and Danko use my name to address me." He followed after Peter down the hallway towards the elevator and stairs.
XXX
Stumped by that, Peter frowned, then shot Sylar a narrow-eyed look, suspicious at being caught out. Then he looked away, his face turning thoughtful as he tried to work out what he might have in common with Emile Danko so that the two of them were similar in how they interacted with Sylar. He's right – there's something there. I wonder what was really going on with Danko? In a softer tone with sincerer curiosity this time around, Peter asked, "Okay, then…what do you think the explanation is?" He tried to make a joke, "I don't think it's because we're both stone-cold killers."
XXX
Sylar stared up at the elegant moving clock-like arms of the elevator, indicating what floor the car was on. "Danko wasn't anywhere near as…heroic as you, so I think he understood me in some ways. Similar…life experience and he knew what he wanted and saw how to work with me. You have good breeding. Maybe it's a habit; maybe you grudgingly respect me – or at least, what I'm capable of; maybe you're afraid of me still; maybe you can see people in ways others can't or don't. For all I know, it's your ability. I've learned not to question absolutely everything in life because almost always I won't like the answer." He was grateful for the momentary distraction the ding and opening of doors into the car offered.
XXX
Peter followed Sylar's gaze. He seemed to recall a digital readout downstairs, where the style was more modern in the lobby but traditional on the outside of the building. Up here the pattern was echoed with the hallway and foyer being classic; the apartments themselves modern. "We both have this veneer of being civilized," he mused, waving upwards at the indicator as they walked into the open car, "when really, we're just a product of our desperate and traumatizing times." He didn't clarify if he meant himself and Danko, himself and Sylar, or all three of them. He let the bit about his 'breeding' pass without comment, remembering the exchange he'd had with Mohinder about them being bad copies of their fathers.
He punched the button for the lobby floor and shook off the introspection. Addressing Sylar, he said, "It's not grudging. I respect the hell out of you, and not just because of what you're capable of, but because of what you've been through." The compliment was genuine and factual. Peter didn't linger over it. "But back to something you said earlier with Danko, about a 'mutually beneficial arrangement'," he said, copying Sylar's intonations again because it was a subtle teasing he thought he could get away with (he hadn't missed the irritated way Sylar had looked at him earlier when he'd done it without any underhanded intentions), "did you have those sorts of partnerships very often, or was Danko it? I know you worked with other people – some specials, some not. How did those work out? Did them having an ability matter in how much you liked it?"
He didn't have the clearest picture of what team-ups Sylar had had, but Peter knew of some, plus Sylar had said he liked 'those', the plurality of which had caught Peter's attention. What it took to work with Sylar, in a way that Sylar appreciated and found positive enough to keep coming back to, was vital information – partly for day-to-day life here and partly for his interests with the Carnival. More important than either of those motivations was Peter's genuine curiosity in how Sylar worked and what worked for him – trying to understand other people, Sylar among them, was in Peter's nature.