Day 33, January 11, Afternoon
Sylar finished his food some time after Peter and began to clean up. The kitchen wasn't a bomb zone but it wasn't particularly tidy either; he was a little embarrassed about that. Peter pitched in and was doing the dishes when Sylar finally blurted, "What's the worst thing that can happen to- with a concussion?"
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Peter glanced over, raising a brow and trying to get a grip on what Sylar was after with that question, at this point in time, with that degree of worry on his face. "What do you mean?"
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"How do they die? Like a headache or bumping their head on something?"
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'They.' Okay, I guess I can pretend we're talking hypothetically. And we might be – I'm not sure what he's looking for. "People don't die from concussions very often. Usually, it's whatever gave them the concussion – like a motor vehicle accident or a fall," or a fistfight with the brother of the guy you murdered, "that kills them. There can be bleeding in the brain or enough swelling to cause death, but the time period for that is minutes to hours from time of injury. If you make it past a day, you're fine. Or at least, not in danger of dying from that. I picked up a book about it while I was at the hospital, but I really haven't had a chance to read it much. I ought to go get it before we get settled in." Peter leaned against the counter. He started on drying some of the cleaned dishes, not that they really needed it, but he welcomed the opportunity to talk about something fairly neutral. "But back to your question, once a person makes it past the first twenty-four hours, the only treatment is time and rest." His brow furrowed. It seemed like it had been quite a while since the fight – weeks at least. All of the bruises had faded and Peter's broken hand was even feeling better. But Sylar's toes were still a problem, his headache was constant, he still had memory problems and even a half-day of light exertion was too much for him. And sleep disturbances – weren't those a symptom, too? Why does he still have these problems? Why isn't he healing?
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"Concussions aren't...permanent, are they?"
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"They aren't supposed to be," Peter blurted, before recovering some of his mislaid bedside manner. "I mean no – no, they aren't. You're improving, but I should do another of those exams on you." But was he really improving? Peter was now consumed with doubts. Sylar shouldn't be needing to sleep all the time. Or am I over-focusing on yesterday and today when that's just a blip caused by him not getting any or enough sleep for a long time – like three or four days? And he wasn't eating right then either, or taking his painkillers, and it's not like he's in a low stress, relaxing environment, ever.
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"Oh. I wasn't talking about me. I was just curious." Sylar ended the conversation by wandering into the guest room and finding a pair of pajamas, or clothes that would fit the purpose. In the bathroom he took out his new toothbrush and toothpaste. That done, he started in on the pajamas.
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Peter watched Sylar go. The suspicious expression on Peter's face didn't have anything to do with Sylar's motives – he didn't doubt those. But he was beginning to think he had to be overlooking something from a medical standpoint. For what wasn't the first time, he fretted that he wasn't a doctor, didn't have that level of training, and didn't have the answers he wanted. But maybe he knew where to find them. "I'm going to go down and get that book. I'll be right back," Peter called out, going to the door.
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"Wait, what?!" Sylar left the room for a few moments and Peter was slipping out? For how long? His shirt was half unbuttoned, that was as far as he'd gotten when he emerged quickly from the bathroom. Oh, God. Is this going to be another trek across town for a stupid book? I shouldn't have asked. "Wait, I'll come with you." Fortunately his shoes were still on and all he had to do was locate his coat. They left together because Peter didn't protest, but he did take the cart down. The book was in the Pegasus rec room along with a stack of other Peter books. Sylar tried to glance at the titles without being obvious but they looked like big medical journals or something equally boring (unless they were about brains or other of Sylar's various psychological disorders, in which case it would be interesting if Peter was reading up about that). That was all – he returned with the empath to the suite and he was able to finish getting into the pajamas and slide into bed like it was familiar (and more comfortable with the pajamas instead of jeans). Once again, he rolled over to be able to breathe Peter in, closer than he'd been before because it was comforting.
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Peter settled in on top of the main set of covers, the extra one he'd used the night before loosely bunched around his sock-clad feet. He'd restored his mound of pillows, as he was planning on reading. He was also planning on giving Sylar another MMSE, but thought letting him get some rest first would be better than springing it on him right away. Peter read. At first he felt Sylar's eyes on him, but at some point when Peter glanced over, he saw Sylar's lids had closed. He sighed and watched for a few minutes, admiring. Sylar looked so much younger and vulnerable when asleep – everyone did, but few of them roused the fear and defensiveness in Peter that Sylar did while he was awake, alert, and threatening. Peter shook his head a little at how Sylar could be threatening even when he was miserable, concussed, and in pain. Looking at him now in repose, Peter could shed some of the preconceptions. Sylar did not look as haggard as he had the day before. Was it possible he hadn't slept at all in Peter's absence? At least not in any meaningful way? Peter frowned and went back to his book. From what he was reading, that was entirely, and disappointingly, possible.
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Sylar woke up and knew Peter was gone before his eyes opened. There was light coming from the kitchen, the refrigerator to be exact. It was…absurdly domestic. This is the part where I say, 'come back to bed,' Sylar thought hazily, without rancor. He watched as the other man returned with a bowl, presumably filled with food and…a small knife across it. Sylar woke up a little more, eyeing it suspiciously for a moment but Peter's unconcerned approach sold it. He rolled over with a pleased noise all the same, stretching some. I should have left that clock here, the one he gave me.
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Peter set the bowl between them and picked up the book as his rump took its place on the bed. The knife slid off the bowl with the motion. "I thought about those questions you were asking earlier about head injuries. It's hard to address concussions definitively because they're all unique. It's not like a broken bone that tends to have the same mechanics." He hesitated, thinking about Sylar's rephrasing of how they could rest if that was what Peter wanted to do for the afternoon, and how Sylar wasn't asking about concussions for himself – he was just curious in general. "Most symptoms resolve in less than two weeks – dizziness, headaches, mental fatigue, sensitivity – the rule is ten days to two weeks and the patient can resume normal activities, like a full course load in school or return to work."
"But," Peter shrugged, "like I said, every case is different. Predicting what happens can get especially dicey if you- if the patient has multiple concussions, like they have one and then a few days later take another blow to head that's even worse." He remembered Sylar throwing up after their first fight, the one in the male child's bedroom that had been stopped by Peter breaking his hand and Sylar brandishing the baseball bat at him. He'd been concussed then – Sylar had, definitely. Then Peter had head-butted him only a few days later, not to mention whatever punches he might have landed. "When that happens, symptoms don't always resolve in two weeks and sometimes new ones crop up, like mood changes or sleep disturbances." That one, in particular, had jumped out at Peter. "Some people sleep a lot; some hardly at all;" and the kicker is, "others get very specific and can only sleep under certain circumstances." Like while Peter Petrelli is in the room with you. It wasn't unheard of for it to be that specific – to people, locations, or conditions. Anxiety and irritability were common as well – more extreme mood swings weren't unusual either. "It's called post-concussion syndrome. The good news is people don't die from it. It just takes a little longer to heal." He ate one of the grapes, then nudged the bowl. "The apple's for you; the knife's in case you wanted to peel it or cut it up. I don't know how you prefer to eat apples."
Peter watched Sylar for a few moments to find out how he ate the fruit, then asked, "How are you feeling today?"
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Sylar listened, attentive and quiet. It felt weird, too, having specific medical care like this, having his questions about his symptoms answered as clearly as Peter – the sometime enemy – was able. He…thinks that's a symptom? Sylar wondered immediately about his odd sleep habits. Is it a symptom? It sounded like Peter wasn't laying blame on him or thinking he was a freak; instead it was just a medical happenstance, an unremarkable one at that. That hardly ever happened, having his behavior attributed to a legitimate (and apparently acceptable) reason. He frowned thoughtfully, considering how nice a feeling that was until Peter's off-topic comments caught his attention. "What?" Why can't I eat an apple like a regular person, why would he….? The knife is for me? Peter obviously felt safe to give Sylar even a tiny blade, or it was a test, either way, it would amount to the same thing. "Oh. Um…Thank you." Now am I supposed to use the knife because he brought it? The other man was watching and waiting, so Sylar quickly snatched it up and sunk his teeth in, staring back. It was a much more satisfying mouthful to hear the skin of the apple pop and the flesh tear. As a child, he used to think the opposite – cutting, peeling and little, juicy mouthfuls - were more fun. "I'm fine. The food, the….pills help." And the rest helps, too; knowing you're around but I'll never tell you that.
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"You know, there are stronger painkillers out there, for migraines. They tend to come with side effects like nausea, though. But if you'd like to give them a try, tell me and I'll go get some. We can treat the nausea symptomatically with Zofran." That would involve another trip to the hospital since he hadn't found a pharmacy yet, but he would welcome the opportunity to get out and do something constructive. Peter didn't want to be Sylar's emotional support or medical aide, but he felt he had to be. No one else was here and Sylar needed him, genuinely. Peter liked to be needed, wanted it, craved it – but to have it coming from Sylar was hard to handle. He knew, though, that it was something he had to handle.
"Would you let me go through an MMSE with you again? I think the last time I did one was more than a week ago." The test would give him a better sense of how oriented Sylar was and how irritable. If he was too cranky to go through it at all, that told Peter something by itself.
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"I just wish they'd last longer, but they do alright." Sylar wasn't sold on more meds. If they cleared his head so he could think better, he would be interested. "You wake me up just for that?" Sylar chuckled briefly. He was still tired, of course, but the sleepiness was fading slowly and he remained…comfortable where he was.
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"No, I woke you up because I wanted a snack." Peter tossed a grape at his mouth, missing, but managing to catch it before it fell to the bedspread. He laughed at himself and placed it in his mouth to make sure it made it the second time. He was cheered by Sylar being cooperative. Had Sylar remained asleep, he would have simply gone back to reading. "But as long as you're awake, tell me what year it is."
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"It's…" Sylar paused to calculate. It was in the new year, he was quite sure. "2013."
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"What season is it?" Peter twisted and reached over to retrieve the sketchpad from the night stand, along with the pencil. Not only would Sylar need it later, Peter needed it now to record the score.
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"Winter. January. Spring doesn't start until…March or so."
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"Okay." That took care of the follow-up about the month. "What's today's date?" That was a good question. Peter had no idea. He wondered how he'd score that. The date was regular knowledge in a world that functioned off it, where most human interactions – work, play, television programs, social events, and more – ran off an agreed upon reckoning of the date. Here, though, it didn't matter. Time was meaningless. It was whatever day he and Sylar thought it was.
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"It's about two weeks…into January…"
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Peter nodded. That was about as right as he suspected he could get. They'd had his birthday, then Christmas (really crappy Christmas that he'd prefer not to think about, so he didn't), New Year's Eve, and then … it had been a while. "Do you know what day of the week it is?"
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"Um…." It was embarrassing not to know this. Did Peter even know the answer?
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"It's okay," Peter said. "I'm not sure either. We should probably just pick one. Do you know what country you're in?"
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"The United States," Sylar looked at him suspiciously. "It is, right? You think….Yeah. Yeah," he firmed his reply.
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Peter gave a single nod. "What city are we in?" he asked more slowly, like this one was maybe more of a trick question, which to a large extent, Peter thought it was. What I really ought to have done was sit down with the questions and work out some substitutions that work better here than what I memorized as a paramedic back in the real world.
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"New York, New York." That came easily and surely. He watched Peter to see if Peter still thought he was in La La Land or in California or something ridiculous.
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Peter slid his tongue along between teeth and upper lip, but he didn't argue about it. Sylar was consistent in reporting they were in New York and that was probably more important than anything else. "Okay. Do you remember the name of the building or what floor we're on?"
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"The Pegasus suite. Peter's playground," Sylar grinned a little about that. And I'm in his bed. "The top floor."
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Peter laughed lightly at the name. That's cool. He thinks this is mine? Like I actually have a place here and I don't have to defend it from him? Of course, I think this is more like 'ours', but whatever. "Yeah, that's where we are." He smiled again, noticing and responding to Sylar's warmth. Peter relaxed and sat up straighter where he was, with one leg bent in front of him and the other hanging off the side of the bed. The hanging one swung once or twice. "I'm going to tell you three words. You'll have to repeat them back to me later: apricot, pen, table. Got it?"
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"Yeah. Apricot, pen, table."
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"Spell 'world' backwards." Peter noticed they were moving through the questions quickly and easily. He glanced down and scribbled a note, 'date, day', on the pad. He couldn't think of any other questions Sylar had gotten wrong.
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"D-L-R-O-W."
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"Okay. What were the three words I asked you to remember earlier?"
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"Apricot, pen, table."
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"What's this?" Peter lifted his left arm, pointing at his watch. It still didn't work. He wasn't sure if he continued to wear it as a joke or as defiance against the place, or maybe just habit, but it was still useful as a prop for the test.
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"Wristwatch," Sylar said with an 'are you serious?' attitude. How could he ever forget that?
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Peter shrugged at Sylar's attitude. It seemed simple, but the test was designed specifically to highlight when people were having trouble with the simplest of things. He held up the pencil. "And what's this?"
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The look deepened, "Pencil."
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"Some of the questions are supposed to be easy," Peter said. "A lot of things get tricky when the brain isn't working right. Can you repeat to me, exactly, 'no ifs, ands, or buts'?"
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"No ifs, ands, or buts." I'd watch your butt, if I was you, Peter…Sylar thought lecherously.
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"That's one of the harder ones." Peter carefully tore out the sheet the sketch pad was open to, the one with the note he'd written on it and some badly-done drapery drawn towards the top of the page. He wrote, 'Close your eyes,' on the back of it and said, "Follow the directions I'm about to show you." He held up the page.
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Sylar smirked. I might like this game. He closed his eyes, busily thinking a way to be naughty but Peter instructed him to open his eyes too soon.
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"You can open your eyes." He closed the sketchbook, putting the removed page on top of it with the pencil and offering them to Sylar. "Now write a sentence – any sentence."
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'I like forbidden fruit.' Sylar handed that back, his smirk very much alive.
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Peter looked at that, blinking (that's insulting and gross; is that about me?), then half-smiling (actually, that's kind of cool; apples are the forbidden fruit, aren't they? It's not about me; it's just a play on words), then losing his smile (wait, what if it is about me and he's saying I'm the forbidden thing because I've told him to fuck off?), then smiling more warmly as he looked up at Sylar (either way, he's flirting with me because he thinks I'm hot). He looked at Sylar's smirk. Yeah, he's totally into me. Peter's eyes lingered on Sylar's lips as he tried to ignore the part of his brain that was saying this was a very bad thing to encourage in the person you were sharing a bed with and weren't interested in actually fucking. But it was hard to hear over the sound of how awesome he thought Sylar might think he was. He took in the rest of the man. Sylar was distractingly handsome, even if a little scruffy and adorably rumpled sitting there in his pajamas. Or, Peter abruptly realized, not Sylar's pajamas but those sweats Peter had worn last time he was here. He's wearing my clothes … Peter's fingers and toes flexed and released slightly as he had a funny feeling in his chest about that. He supposed the clothes were better than the too-tight, too-small stuff Sylar had worn the last time they were here and even still, the sweatpants were too short for him, riding up on his calves, but fine in the waist.
Peter cleared his throat and fidgeted with the paper, his mind shorting out on the matter of Sylar's measurements. What am I supposed to be doing? There's more questions, right? I'm supposed to be doing something else. "Um, yeah, you've got to copy a drawing. Hang on." Trying not to look at Sylar's sentence, Peter carefully drew two pentagons with an intersecting, four-sided area, struggling to be professional about this.
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Sylar took the pencil with his left hand and copied the drawing. The trickiest part even on a flat surface was getting the lengths of each line correct. It looked better than what he remembered from the other test.
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Peter took back the paper and evaluated the drawing. Good enough. "Are you left or right handed?" He assumed left because Sylar had just been drawing with that hand, but the next question was based on the answer, so he had to make sure.
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"Left." He used his right for a fair amount of things also, which was fortunate.
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"Now take this page in your right hand, fold it in half, and set it on the bed." Peter offered the page with the drawings and notes on it.
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Sylar blinked at the paper in hand. To get the edges even like he wanted, he would need the assistance of another surface, preferably his left hand, but it the directions implied he had to use only his right. Aiming as well as he could, he brought his fingers to his thumb, folding the paper between them and set it on the bed. The edges were probably uneven.
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Peter collected the sheet of paper, smoothing it out. "That's it. I'd say you're as mentally competent as I am." He cringed inside, remembering too late Sylar was especially sensitive to anything to do with being 'crazy'. He tried to cover by moving on. They'd been talking well; maybe he had enough conversation karma that Sylar would overlook it. "That means you've recovered from the concussion – the primary damage is healed. All that's left is to resolve the secondary symptoms through pain management and rest."
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Sylar soured. That's insulting. He supposed that was good to know, that Peter thought Peter was mentally incompetent. He wondered if he was mentally incompetent (if that's what it meant to be on a level with Peter Petrelli). How did I not know that until now? I'm not, though. Why does he think that? Does he think I'm retarded on a good day? Peter's recent care came at him through a different light – caring for someone who was too stupid to do it themselves, a charity case. That very much bothered Sylar, in more ways than one.
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He looked down at the sentence Sylar had written, thinking about the energy he, personally, got from defying social norms. A lot of his life choices had been driven by doing what other people thought he shouldn't. Was Sylar the same way? Of course, I ended up in nursing and he ended up killing people. That's not fair, though. Once I had my powers, I was … Peter frowned in thought. I was trying not to blow up New York. Which is kind of the same thing as killing people. It's just that I didn't and he did. Is the difference that small? Did something … tiny … happen that set me off in one direction and him in another?
Peter swallowed and readjusted himself on the bed, setting the sketchbook back on the nightstand and getting out the unnecessarily massive tome, 'Brain Injury Medicine,' again. He didn't want to think about the morality of Sylar's life choices – Peter had seen the end result (murders) and already made his mind up about it (condemning). Anything else made him uncomfortable, but it didn't quell that curious itch inside him that he wasn't seeing the whole picture. "I think I'll do some more reading."
He flipped through on his way to finish the chapter about sleep disturbances, pausing at an earlier spot he'd marked to quote it to Sylar, "It may be that the single most important cognitive function typically disrupted by TBI (that's traumatic brain injury, like a concussion) is some aspect of memory." He looked over at Sylar. "I'm not taking your memories. But if you're feeling like things aren't right … then you're feeling like things aren't right. I'm just saying … what you're feeling is real. That's what it says here."
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But you did take my memories! If I'm so fucked up you could tell me the moon was made of cheese and you think I'd probably believe you! You don't see it as a problem! And what did that mean, 'what he was feeling was real'? Like it wasn't real before? Not to Peter anyway. Was it real in any sense? Sylar was so confused, he faked a weak grin in response to the look. Um…Good? I have an excuse…right? Badly he wanted away from this topic. He was more focused on where he was and with whom, even though that didn't make much more sense than anything else about his day. "Who was the first person you ever slept with?"
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"Slept with?" Peter looked at the bed and Sylar lying on it, trying to divine which meaning he was using – sex or sleeping. The subject change was jarring, too. He looked puzzled.
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"Yes."
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"I don't remember." It was a bizarre question. Does this tie into memories somehow? "Nathan, probably, or my mother." He remembered being told that Nathan had been inseparable from him as an infant, carrying him around, feeding him, talking to him, and rocking him to sleep.
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"I know, I was there – postpartum depression and all. Someone had to change your diapers while Ma laid in bed. What I meant was the first person you slept with after fucking."
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Peter gaped at Sylar for a moment as a lot of family comments suddenly clicked together and made sense. Then there was outrage, that Sylar knew things about his family he had no right to know and that Peter hadn't even known or realized, followed by frustration – there wasn't much Peter could do about it. He bristled and glared at Sylar, closing the heavy book he was reading for Sylar's benefit, leaving it on his lap. A Nathan reference, a highly personal question, an abrupt change of topic and focus, and even a dig at his mother, all at once (not to mention the word 'fucking' wasn't one of Peter's favorite ways to refer to sex when he wasn't in the middle of having it) – oh yes, Sylar was pissed about the mental competency/'crazy' slip. Peter wasn't happy to have it brought up this way as a relentless line of verbal attacks. It looked like he was going to have to pay for the transgression by entertaining Sylar's prurient interest and enduring his obnoxious comments. Without ever taking his eyes off Sylar, Peter reached out, tore a grape off the remaining bit of the bunch, and bit it in half, teeth snicking together as juice burst. He leaned back against the pillows, finally looking away, at the twilight out the window in feigned disinterest as the other half of the grape went in his mouth.
"That's a very personal question. Why do you even care?" Peter huffed and looked back at Sylar, his expression having calmed down from aggressive to very put out. He skewered him with his annoyed gaze for a moment. The second Sylar drew in breath to answer, Peter interrupted with, "Never mind. I'll answer it." He at least had the satisfaction of cutting Sylar off – and if he had to pay, then he might as well get it over with. Even though it was ten years earlier, it wasn't hard to recall.
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"I-" he began his trusted reply, 'I was just curious' because it had worked in the past. Sylar tilted his head and didn't bother to finish it if Peter agreed to tell without the answer to his own question.
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"You remember me telling you I had a job in college Dad got me fired from? I met the first girl I seriously dated there. Her name was Jennifer." He left off the last name. It wasn't Sylar's business. Not that any of this was, anyway, but if it would get Sylar off his back, then he'd tell. "She was another freshman, same as me. I fell for her, hard. And I thought her for me. For, like, a couple weeks, I thought everything was working out like in stories – soul mates and everything, the 'One'." He pulled a grape off slowly, twisting it off the stem, trying not to think about how devastated he'd been when she dumped him and how in retrospect he was certain his father had a lot to do with that. "We slept together," he said softly. "That's what you wanted to know, right?" Peter looked up at him, something dead in his eyes. It wasn't a pleasant memory. His confusion and pain over it had driven him into a pattern of hookups and casual relationships that had lasted for years. One thing was for sure – he never brought another girl home to meet his parents, never told them he'd met someone who was special to him.
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Well…that was an interesting twist. The first girl he seriously dated. There were others before her. Sylar frowned slightly, 'soul mates' and 'the One.' Peter had been that naïve? After that, he didn't like the look Peter was giving him. He was sure he couldn't understand the emotions involved there let alone begin to judge the effects of whatever happened. Why did it end? "Was she the first girl you slept with?" In keeping with the intent of his question, he copied Peter's wording, inquiring softly.
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"No." Peter breathed out slowly and leaned back against the pillows, eating another grape. As he chewed, he considered how much he didn't want to sit and stew about how things had ended with Jennifer. He might as well talk about something else – a memory that wasn't so painful, even after all these years. He pulled off the next grape and rolled it in his fingers thoughtfully, glancing over at Sylar.
Peter ate the bit of fruit. "First sex I had with a girl, she was a woman I guess, named Shelly. It was after a swim meet. She was a year before me. I was a senior in high school, so I must have been seventeen or eighteen. Looking back on it, I know why she was coming to the high school sports events – she was cruising for exactly what she got – some … kid, man, whatever, who was in shape and interested, no strings attached sex. I saw her a few times after with a different guy every time. It hurt a little, but it wasn't like we'd had anything for me to be hurt about."
He paused, thinking it over and wondering how many salacious details Sylar wanted. He didn't mind telling them about Shelly. There was little relationship there and it hadn't affected him as much as Jennifer. He supposed it didn't matter to tell and it might keep Sylar off his back, so he went on. "It was after the meet. I was supposed to go with the guys to Ricco's for pizza. She said she'd give me a ride if I'd stay and talk to her. I was a sucker for that, especially with someone giving me the sad eyes like she was doing. I guess she had my number. As soon as they were gone, she told me what she was really after." He laughed a little and rolled his eyes. He'd been pretty naïve at the time. "We ended up doing it in the locker room on a bench, her in my lap. It was a weird position." He furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure I've ever done it that way with anyone else. Mostly, I guess, because I never had a bench handy." He shrugged. "Anyway, it was okay. Good, I guess. It was kind of hard for me to get into it with someone I hardly knew, but, you know, seventeen." He smirked.
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Sylar stared at him from beginning to end. The information was…definitely interesting. The position, how it was, what it meant (or didn't) to Peter... He said the position? He was seventeen! How could he say it was 'good, I guess?' How picky does he get to be? (He's not opposed to super casual then, he noted with evil purpose).
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Peter looked to Sylar, eyes questioning and voice low. "Can you tell me something? You don't have to – I know this is private – but … what was Elle to you?" He knew it was a quick subject change, but he felt he'd provided more than enough information to make up for Sylar getting pissy about his word choice earlier. Maybe he could get a few answers in return.
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Surprise showed on Sylar's face and he knew it did before he could blank it away. "Why?" he blurted, not comprehending. From the sound of things, Peter knew the real Elle, at least, the real Elle she was most of the time, better than Sylar or sweet Gabriel ever had.
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"I know she was … important to you. I just don't know in what way," Peter said respectfully. "I know her a little. I know you a little. I'd like to know what you are to each other." It was just a wordy version of saying, 'I just want to know', but Peter hoped his serious, thoughtful tone helped convey that he didn't want to know for idle curiosity – he wanted to understand if Sylar had loved, if Elle had returned it, what had happened, and most importantly, what it had meant to Sylar. The people Peter had loved had changed who he was, the experience of loving and losing had left wounds that had yet to heal. Was Sylar in that same situation?
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How odd – he'd never had to talk about her, especially given how much thought he'd given her ever since they met. She was still a tangled mess in his head, dead and harmless now, but still painful for all that. In the beginning, he'd wanted to take her home to meet his mother; he'd been a sap that she'd twisted with ease. A spark of lust, jealousy, hinting and tempting and she'd made him kill again. She'd been an angel and a betrayer, a lover and a mate and a friend and an enemy who wanted to use and change him, like she couldn't or didn't want to see who he was. In the end, he killed her for the last time and he wasn't sure that excused him of anything. "I don't….She's difficult to describe. She was….a lot of things." Why was his throat so tight? Bitterly, he continued, "You'd say we're a lot alike. Whatever those words you like to use – two psychopath peas in a pod, that kind of thing." He waved it off but found he couldn't continue. There were very important differences between them but Peter didn't know and couldn't care. She called him Gabriel but wanted Sylar, the killer. Sylar wanted to transition to being a person again, with a disgustingly normal life now that he thought he'd found someone who saw how special he was. He'd fallen so damn hard for her and had never been able to tell what, if anything, he meant to her (quite possibly just another assignment for the Company) because apparently neither of them understood 'forgiveness' very well. "Probably something like that Jennifer girl to you," he got out roughly; because Peter had barely ever mentioned her to the family or to Nathan, who'd never met the girl.
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Peter watched as Sylar searched for words, for how to express something (love, Peter imagined) that so rarely fit neatly into spoken language. She was a lot of things to you, was how he interpreted what Sylar was trying to get out, and the complexity that implied said as much as any lengthy monologue might have. If it had been simple, if there had been no deeper relationship there, then Sylar wouldn't be struggling to describe it.
"Were you with her for very long?"
XXX
"I knew her for a few years, off and on but I was only really with her a couple of days. She meant something, or she might have, but she's dead now. It doesn't matter any more. Leave it at that." He gave Peter a direct and penetrating stare for a moment until he was sure it was dropped.
XXX
The last he'd seen of her, she'd been on the floor of Level Five, recovering from emitting an electric burst that had opened all the cells. And Sylar had been trying to kill her then. Had he succeeded, even though he'd been driven off? Feeling guilty that perhaps she'd died because Peter had left her side when he'd given in to Jesse's overwhelming compulsion to flee, he finally asked, "Was it in Level Five? Please tell me, was that where she died, after the explosion that opened all the cells?"
XXX
"No," Sylar said simply. He looked at Peter, suspicious and searching. Did Peter know? He rolled over and off the bed, going into the bathroom. After using the toilet, washing his hands thoroughly, he watched himself in the mirror – all the flaws, any beauty of his exterior was undermined completely by the black perversion of his soul. His face, and the corrupted interior, had always been this way and neither were changeable now.
XXX
Peter nodded and went back to sitting quietly, hands tracing the edges of the hefty book still on his lap. When Sylar returned, Peter felt a pang at realizing for the first time, the man was facing away from him rather than towards. He shifted the book to the side and leaned across, putting his left hand on Sylar's shoulder. "Hey," he said softly. "Losing Jennifer … changed me. I didn't deal with it well. I want you to know you're not alone. Not in any of this."