Day 33, January 11, Late afternoon
"How am I not?" Sylar said over his shoulder, going still at the contact. There is no 'we'. "What are you going to do, Peter?" He turned over enough to make eye contact or close to it. "I deal with it. I don't have any other choice. She didn't…change me, not any more than I already was." After a few seconds pause, he continued, the words falling out more than he intended himself to speak. "She didn't make me a killer, she…led me to kill my…second special. I…" he couldn't finish. (I didn't want to, but I did, and I did do it. I didn't have to, but I wanted to). Peter wouldn't believe that, no one would. Sylar didn't know if he believed it but the fact of the matter was that he hadn't orchestrated the circumstances that led to Trevor's death. He'd been played, with intent. "She said I should be around people like me. The Company wanted to see if I could transfer abilities and take them to use for myself and that involved killing someone." That was after Chandra saw something in me, briefly, and after she told me I was special. "My apartment was a mess after that," he mused, rueful tone partially hiding his upset about his home being defiled and abandoned as a result.
XXX
Peter listened, metaphorical ears standing at attention as he absorbed what Sylar had to say. He didn't know what to do about his hand as Sylar spoke – pull it away and appear unsupportive, or stay leaning over tensely and seem … weird with the continuing contact. When Sylar finished, Peter said softly, "That sounds like Elle, all right." He patted Sylar's shoulder and withdrew. Thinking they were sharing, he swallowed and offered in return, "She told me she'd never been on a date, never been on a roller coaster, never been swimming. She said she'd grown up at the Company, after she'd burned down … her house? Maybe her grandmother's house." Peter tried to remember the specifics. "That would have been right after Kirby Plaza, when they locked me up, when she told me that." In the light of how limited her life had been and how frustrated she'd been by that, Peter was glad she'd been laid. From what he'd seen of Sylar's memory, as sex went, it was wonderful.
XXX
"She-?" Sylar began in surprise before the timeline was mentioned. She didn't think it was a date. How could she? Someone was killed and she had to leave or be killed herself, hardly a great time. It's not a date. (It was me, and her; how could it have ever been a date?) Peter ignored the slip about being led to kill someone. It was just as well. At the same time, he wondered what Elle had been like with Peter, in her natural habitat. "Well…good night," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.
XXX
Peter let Sylar sleep through the light dinner he had later. It was probably for the best, being 'rabbit food' anyway. He felt very wound up about having been cooped up all afternoon and now all evening, but he didn't leave the apartment. He made a mental note to get some beer, or something to calm himself down. He had a glass of warm milk instead, but sleep was still difficult to achieve.
Day 34, January 12th, Morning
Peter was up early and raring to go. He vented some of his energy on making breakfast, doing a fine dice on swiss cheese and mushrooms, then folding them into scrambled eggs, served with toasted raisin bread and orange juice and coffee. He might be clueless about lunch and dinner, but breakfast was something Peter was decent at, especially when he was feeling good. As they sat and dug in to the meal, he said, "After I work out and get cleaned up, I was going to head out to the hardware store again for some measuring tapes, then maybe to the storefront to see what the dimensions are. Assuming the weather's good. Did you want to come with me?"
XXX
I'd like to come with you, and see what your dimensions are while you get cleaned up. Sylar was filled with arousal and self-loathing upon waking with an erection once again after sleeping with Peter. The empath was still very much the focus of Sylar's hatred for thinking to change him into Nathan at Mercy without a second thought, and even now, the man acknowledged the original wrong but not his equally damned actions to further and repeat it. The fact that Peter thought he was better than Sylar didn't help anything either. They were enemies. The empath was also the object of several fascinations; he was a sweet toy, entertainment, a challenge, forbidden fruit. His lack of control over….anything in his life angered him, that Peter was both a danger and an interest was confusing, annoying, and it only fueled his anger. Over his plate, Sylar looked up at his companion underneath his brows, "What happens if the weather's bad?" he murmured, thinking filthy indoor things. Say something about using up all the lotion. The idea of a slick grip on his dick sounded like heaven. If only he could get Peter pinned down…
XXX
That's a weird look, he thought of the way Sylar was eying him. But he ignored it and addressed the question. "Then we'll stay in and do something else. Maybe I'll go across and get the guitar. Did you have anything in mind?"
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar grunted, disappointed. "I was thinking more along the lines of testing out the lotion. You're overdue for it. I'd give you a hand, Peter," he said bluntly, staring the man down.
XXX
"Jesus, Sylar!" Peter jolted, his chair actually skidding back an inch in his surprise. Sylar looked dead serious – so serious, so focused, that Peter felt turned on just from the invitation, unexpected though it was. "Uh … no. No thanks." He kept his eyes fixed on Sylar, taking quite a while to calm down from … that. Is this just one of the dangers of dealing with him? Occasional, unsolicited solicitations? As long as he takes no for an answer, I guess it's okay. Sort of. Complimentary in a way. Peter swallowed and scooted back to the table, trying to get back to his meal.
XXX
"Hmph," he said and took another bite of mushroom-cheesy eggs. He was almost finished with them, Peter waiting patiently but obviously ready to move around based on the subject matter. Poking at his next bite, he asked, "What do you know about connections? Is it a people thing or…do abilities get in the way of that for everyone? I'm just curious," he added to clarify, hoping the whole thing was disgustingly casual as he intended.
XXX
"What kind of connections?" Peter asked warily. Like Craigslist missed connections?
XXX
"With people. Like…people you know or…friendships. I guess." It sounded lame even to his own ears, but it wasn't like he knew what it meant either.
XXX
"So you're not talking about my ability and … some kind of connection with it, right? Like what I need to borrow another ability?"
XXX
"Right."
XXX
Peter relaxed. Okay. We're going to talk about things. Things other than him lotioning me up. He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, trying to banish the disturbing, too-attractive thought. He exhaled heavily and tried to refocus on what Sylar was asking, while simultaneously trying to make sense of why he was asking this now. Is it just a dodge and a subject change since I turned him down? Or is he asking because it has something to do with the offer? "Friends don't usually offer to give me hand jobs over breakfast," Peter blurted. "Even really good friends." He picked up the remaining crust of his mostly-eaten raisin bread, twiddling it.
XXX
We're not friends anyway. Your 'friends' don't sound like fun either. There's a first time for everything.
XXX
"If you're talking about if abilities get in the way of connecting with other people?" He watched Sylar's expression. "Yeah, I'd have to say so. Drove me and my brother apart. Me and my family. I can't … there's a lot of stuff I can't talk about with the people I work with, or … well, anyone. All of the really important things in my life lately have involved abilities and there's no one I can talk with about it. Nathan wouldn't." Peter's resentment shown through with the way he pronounced 'wouldn't'. "I didn't feel right calling anyone else up and trying to talk to them about it – about what was going on in my life, problems ..." He trailed off, lips pressing together as tension knotted his shoulders. I shouldn't be telling him, either. He looked away from the table, feeling himself losing his appetite a lot faster at this than he had at the come-on. Voice softer, he said, "It's not right to burden people like that, so I just … don't."
Peter squeezed on the crust of bread, watching it crumble under his fingers. "And yeah, that gets in the way of really being friends with anyone – real friends. Having that special connection. Is that what you're talking about?" He ate the bit of smushed bread. "I've told you a lot more than anyone else. Let me know if I need to shut up sometime."
XXX
Sylar winced. /It had been worst around the election, when it was a new discovery for Peter. Nathan had been freaking out about his own suspected abilities, knee-deep in denial and avoidance and secrecy of all sorts and along came Peter, digging it up, desperate to talk and share…Nathan had been juggling a dozen different people, remembering who knew what and who had to be kept in the dark, and Peter had to be kept quiet or everything would fall apart. The very fabric of things would unravel and still Peter kept yanking on the dangling strings without a care while Nathan was ground down from the pressures of carrying everyone on his shoulders. After all that, it still wasn't something he needed to share or advertise./
Thank God he was occupied and his mouth full…Sylar forcibly kept chewing, fairly certain that Peter was too caught up in his own voice to notice that Sylar looked ready to spit his food out to speak or vomit from the effort of keeping quiet. The rest of his thoughts were of his own, real life. It's not right to burden people with my problems? It occurred to him that he'd been trying to do just that in all his attempts to connect with people. How am I supposed to get help, then? If I can't talk, I can't….Oh. The realization that there never was any help to be had made him feel hollow. It was all a trick. Just 'get help', code for 'submit to their tortures' because that was his only use, his only fate. He gripped his fork tightly. "No, that answers a lot," he managed stiffly, focused on his plate. There's no help or hope for him, so I'm screwed. No connections. And no talking. Peter had helpfully illuminated his little plot, the reason for all the personal questions. He feels he can 'burden' me, though. Does that make it right, or wrong?
He wasn't going ask to but his non-existent moral sense insisted. "How is it right for you to ask me questions about my 'burdens'?"
XXX
"I ask because I want to know, Sylar. Most people have other things going on in their lives that are more important to them than … than listening to someone. I don't." He shrugged. "Well, I don't usually. If the fate of the world hangs in the balance, then yeah, but normally it's just another day and the people in my life are the most important things in it. You are in my life. You don't have to answer me and sometimes you don't. But I want to know where you're coming from. I want to know why you just got tense and why you're phrasing your question the way you are. I want to know you. That's what I do."
Peter leaned back in his chair as much as he could without tilting it. "Why do you want to know what I think about connections and friends? Does this have to do with Elle telling you that you should be around people like me – other people who have abilities? Are you … thinking we could be friends?"
XXX
I'm important to him? What? How did-? Peter was a people-person. Perhaps he understood people and paid attention to them because it was easy for him, and, like he said, he was curious and interested in people (as strange as that sounded for its own sake). So the empath noticed his tension, was…looking at him, and was curious for no other reason than…just to know, not to use his knowledge for evil ends? Needless to say, Sylar gradually adjusted his posture and grip on the fork. "What do you mean, 'how I'm phrasing my questions'? I ask the question I want an answer to, and I got it."
XXX
Peter cocked his head, not in the mood to let Sylar off that easily. "That's not what I asked." He waited patiently to see if Sylar would go back to Peter's actual questions, rather than acting like he hadn't asked anything at all.
XXX
Sylar waited out the eye contact for a few solid moments, at first with a normal expression, then with narrowed eyes as it was obvious Peter was waiting as well, on purpose. "Fine," he snipped. "I was bored. Not really – obviously I shouldn't be and can't be around people like you." He paused to consider his companion. "And no, I don't think we can be friends. I'm a psychopath, remember? You're the hero." He was oversimplifying, of course: Peter wouldn't let go of Nathan and Peter had heartlessly raped Sylar's mind and couldn't see why that was a problem. It precluded any real connection, but working relationship, such as Sylar was familiar with, which is what they had now, was possible obviously, because no one had died yet. Funny how he has the same problem but it's my ability that will always get in the way. Just because Sylar desired a friendship (with Peter as strange as that sounded) it didn't mean his desire and willingness to work would overcome or be taken into account by the other stubborn person who had feelings that made no sense to Sylar. He tapped the tines of his fork against the plate twice in an anxious gesture, not wanting to leave his words on such a negative note but not knowing what else to say to make it better.
XXX
Peter leaned forward. He caught the hopeful tone of the part about friends, but chose to leave that one alone and focus on the other, which was an actual barrier to being friendly. "What do you think it means to be a psychopath?" He was genuinely curious, seeing an opening to something he'd wondered about for a while. Sylar was so touchy about slurs (or imagined slurs) against his mental state, yet he seemed to regard himself as crazy. He was as sane as Peter was able to judge.
XXX
Sylar shot back, "What does it matter what I think it means?"
XXX
"What about your behavior is psychopathic?" Peter said dubiously. "Killing people isn't enough. Nathan and my father both served in the military. I don't know Nathan killed anyone directly, but I'm as sure as I can be my father did. He was a lot of bad things, but a psychopath wasn't one of them. What makes you different?" There was something about that hand job comment that had Peter not giving up on this. He was trying to corner Sylar and put him on the defensive in turn. If Sylar wanted to make intimate, intrusive comments, then Peter had some questions he wanted answers to.
XXX
Now Sylar leaned in, putting his elbows on the table, mimicking Peter but with an eyebrow arched upwards. "Cutting into people's heads and touching their brains doesn't qualify?" His (and Samson's) methodology was certainly unique.
XXX
"No." Peter stared back at Sylar, certain of himself. Not all neurosurgeons were psychopaths. Though he had to admit there was something different about the people who routinely cut into other human beings – but it wasn't necessarily pathological. In some cases, it was live-saving.
XXX
"Ah," Sylar smiled with fake amusement and spread his hands out. "Then I don't know why they call me that. Something to do with my home life, my love life probably; but I always wondered how people like Bennet and your mother could kill so many and still be the 'good guys.' I assumed it had something to do with being afraid for your lives; being jealous of my understanding of the powers I gain; or it's personal; or wanting to stand in the way of progress. It's like you expect someone to take being blacklisted and exterminated with a smile."
XXX
"My mother isn't one of the good guys," Peter hissed with far more acid in his voice than he expected. He blinked at his own vehemence and looked away, thinking the moment of rage that had just flooded through him was completely misplaced. Peter's feelings about his mother were none of Sylar's business. He breathed a heavy sigh and brought his head around to regard Sylar. "People don't come in 'good' or 'bad' types," Peter said, contradicting his own knee-jerk statement about Angela. "It's more complicated than that by far. I'm not a 'hero' who can do no wrong." Peter gave a patronizing roll of his eyes. "You know that."
He made a quick, jabbing point of his finger at Sylar. "I think you're letting yourself off on everything, telling yourself you're a bad person, that you're crazy, like that somehow absolves you of responsibility." Peter leaned forward. "That's not how it works, Sylar."
XXX
Sylar's eyebrows went up and stayed there. The bit about Mama Petrelli was most interesting. "I'll have you know I wasn't the one to start calling me crazy. I thought it was your job to cash in the punishment. You don't know anything about my responsibility – I seem to recall you getting in the way of my attempts." Just as smoothly, he slid the topic sideways, where he wanted it, "If your mom and Bennet kill more people than I did and they aren't 'good guys', doesn't that make them the same as me?"
XXX
"Your attempts?" Peter frowned, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing. But he went on to the rest of what Sylar had said. "I don't care what you call them. Good or bad – they're people."
XXX
"So why do I get treated differently?" Sylar tilted his head seriously. "And don't say Nathan. If you can answer that, you'll have the answer to your psychopath question."
XXX
"Differently? Why do you think you're treated differently?"
XXX
"I'm different – special," he hissed. "People don't like me, they never have. I'm 'unfit for human contact.'"
XXX
"It isn't about you, Sylar. It's about what you've done, where you were, and who you were useful to. I came here to get you because I thought you were supposed to save people. It wasn't because I liked you or because I didn't like you. You're not treated any differently than someone else would be who had done the same things." Peter gestured widely to the side. "Of all the people for you to compare yourself to – Noah Bennet? My mom? There are people terrified of both of them. Either of them. Whatever. They are isolated, Sylar. Their lives are falling apart. Their relationships with their families are strained. Friends might be non-existent. You started this conversation asking if abilities got in the way of connections for everyone. Yeah, they do. You're special, but as far as abilities ruining your life goes, we're all in the same boat."
He stood, picking up his plate, silverware, and juice glass. They weren't going to eat anymore if they were talking like this, but at least it seemed to have changed tone from an argument to a discussion. He kicked himself inside for screwing up yet another of Sylar's meals, but he didn't feel too bad - the guy had eaten most of it before the verbal darts had started flying. "Who was the one who started calling you crazy?" Peter asked. He took his dishes to the sink after speaking, trying to act like this was just another heated, yet casual, conversation.
XXX
I'm special? Sylar focused on that to the exclusion of all else. Then he noticed more: I'm useful. Probably not in a good way. After a moment, he absent-mindedly and dismissively replied: "Probably my parents when they got me." As he was turning to address the more important question, eyes bright with interest, Peter put him off balance with his continuation.
XXX
"Yeah? What were they upset about?" 'When they got me' – what does that mean? Like when he was born? Or, well, he said he didn't grow up with his biological father. Huh. Peter didn't ask about it, but he filed the odd word choice away.
XXX
"I…" Sylar blinked and shut up immediately. I don't want to talk about it. I thought- I know I'm not supposed to, either. He said he likes to know…probably so he can use it later; it's not like he wants to be friends. (I missed my real mom and I cried too much). It had come as a surprise, not necessarily a welcome one, when he'd remembered his real mother in that diner with Luke. There had been a time of heart-breaking upset but he'd lacked a reason until the memories came back and explained everything. His transition with his new family, aunt and uncle not mother and father, had been…difficult and incomplete. Sylar mumbled whilst picking at the immaculate tabletop, "I don't remember. I had….behavior…problems and I told you I don't remember things correctly."
Peter returned and began to meddle with the table, so Sylar stood up and took his dishes to the sink as well. Having taken painkillers at the beginning of the meal, Sylar was barely surprised to feel his headache rise up again along with his heart rate. Busily, he clumsily started washing the dishes, ignoring whatever Peter was doing. Halfway through, he cleared his throat and tentatively voiced his interest in something that mattered more than the bitter past, "What did you mean, I'm special?" Peter could have meant it several ways and he needed to know which it was, daring to hope it was an unexpected and worthwhile answer.
XXX
Peter had fallen silent, respectful that he'd wandered into something very personal for Sylar and not something Sylar felt comfortable sharing. The other man looked anxious, agitated maybe, by the turn of the conversation. As a result, Peter moved more slowly, lingering at the table and taking on tasks that kept him from crowding Sylar at the sink. He put jelly and butter back in the fridge. He was in the process of putting the raisin bread back in the breadbox when Sylar asked his question.
"I mean you're special. You have abilities – a lot of them. You and I both used to have that. It's … power. It's a lot of power. I think what I have now with being able to trade back and forth is better than always having the same thing, but," he leaned against the counter where he chuckled briefly and without jealousy, "it was better to have everything at once, like you do."
XXX
Naturally, he wasn't special; the abilities were. He thinks I was powerful. Sylar liked the idea of Peter envying him. Despite some neutral or uncertain phrases, it sounded like Peter thought well of Sylar's powers…if only he had them. It was mostly complimentary and possibly respectful. He did say fixing things was cool and important. Maybe he does see some good in my ability. He'd be the first.
XXX
Peter straightened. "I'm going to go change and work out. You going to be okay?"
XXX
"I'm fine," Sylar answered quickly, a little insulted that Peter thought he should be upset by anything that had been said. Thank God Peter didn't care enough to press it.
XXX
Peter nodded and took a step closer, reaching out slowly to telegraph as he patted Sylar a couple times on the side of the shoulder. You're not unfit for human contact. "Okay. I'll come up later when I'm done."
XXX
Sylar straightened at the proximity but didn't move or react to the contact. Why does he keep doing that? I guess he and Nathan used to do that? Mentally he made a frustrated growl because that categorization, whatever it might be, wasn't what he wanted. I just said I was fine! "I'll come with you." Apparently, unfortunately, Peter had picked up on his introspective moment, so he needed to appear like everything was normal and get the message across. That and he wasn't sure being alone with those recently surfaced thoughts was a good idea. He needed to watch his own moods; for some reason, most likely boredom, Peter was beginning to notice them, accurately, too.
XXX
Peter glanced off to the side, briefly imagining Sylar either working out or creepily watching him work out. Hadn't he been offered a hand job less than fifteen minutes ago? "Uh, yeah, that's okay. You could read or something. I'll just be in the exercise room," he said, trying to subtly steer Sylar into hanging out in the rec room where he wouldn't cause any problems. He waited for Sylar to finish with the dishes and dry his hands before making for the door.
XXX
Sylar's eyes narrowed at the dishes. I don't need your permission. He noticed he was being put in the adult equivalent of a 'play room' so Peter wouldn't be too disturbed by his presence. Peter actively dissuaded him from working out, at least on Peter's turf. Fine. I didn't want to anyway. When Peter moved for the door, Sylar hesitated, trying to check himself for anything out of place or missing. Shoes and jacket, as usual. A visual sweep of the apartment supplied only his jacket on the bed – the bed they'd shared, no less. He found his shoes on the other side of it and put everything on, assuming that Peter waited for him, but if not, he would find his own way.
XXX
Peter put his shoes on, not bothering to tighten the laces too much. He'd be taking them off soon enough anyway. He glanced over Sylar, who was still in Peter's sweat pants and a t-shirt that was too small for him. Peter ducked his head to hide a smile. I don't know, maybe I shouldn't do anything about the clothes. At least for him. For himself, Peter felt he had some important needs. He was still in yesterday's jeans, for example, as he was sleeping clothed while sharing a bed. The night before had gone remarkably unremarkable as far as Peter could tell. Sylar hadn't mentioned anything, at least. He would have mentioned it, right, if I did anything? He worried quietly over that.
XXX
Sylar took his baseball book and joined Peter. Through the hall, elevator and lobby they went until it came time to separate. Sylar moved into the rec room and settled into the couch, alone with his and Peter's books. I'll see him if he tries to leave. I think. If I'm awake, I'll hear it. Wait, are we meeting up afterwards or…? He said he'd feed me, so he'll come back at some point.
XXX
Peter prowled the exercise room uneasily for a few minutes, letting himself experience the nervousness he felt over Sylar being in the other room. He thought it was a dumb thing to be nervous about, but it only subsided when he decided he wasn't going to be interrupted. That's when he stood a little straighter and relaxed, realizing what his anxiety was about – he didn't want Sylar coming in on him while he was tired, off-center, and focused elsewhere. He wandered over to the door and checked it, trying to be casual in case Sylar could see him through the window in it. It could be locked, but only with a key he didn't have. He figured there was one in the building office just across the hall, but Sylar might notice and ask questions and Peter didn't want to admit what he was doing. Instead, he blocked the door from opening easily with a bar bell weight, just like he had originally put a stack of soup cans in front of his apartment door.
Yeah, and now I'm sleeping with the guy, but I'm still not comfortable letting my guard down around him. Peter shook his head and retreated to the corner of the room, where he couldn't be seen through the window in the door, and changed clothes. He had a pair of shorts here and a white t-shirt. He left his other clothes with his shoes. Going barefoot was only unsanitary if he was sharing the space with others. Apparently that was not going to be the case. That settled, Peter finally got on with his workout, managing to get through it undisturbed.
He finished most of an hour later, as well as he could tell. Peter felt much better – calmer, more centered, his mind less cluttered with fears and concerns and what-ifs. Having swapped back to jeans, shoes, and his previous day's shirt, he stowed the door-blocking bar bell and ambled over to the entrance to the rec room. "Hey. I'm going across the street to clean up in my apartment. I'll drop back by." He scanned over Sylar's clothes. "If you're going to go with me later to the hardware store, then you should go down to your apartment and change." With that, he headed off without waiting for Sylar's reaction to the suggestion/order.
XXX
Since inviting himself along for the work out had gone so well, Sylar decided to try it again and sate a curiosity of his: "I'll just clean up at your place," he intoned casually.
XXX
Peter said firmly, "No. You've got your own apartment," and gestured down the street in the direction of Sylar's place. He continued towards his own without a glance in Sylar's direction, because this was not open for debate.
XXX
Smarter than he looks. And he looks…refreshed for someone so sweaty. I'll have to watch next time. Sylar was amused, for now, at being rejected. It's really not fair. Maybe he knows more than I think he does. I still have his shirt…Does he think I'm some kind of kleptomaniac? He definitely thinks I'm a pervert and he's not wrong, Sylar thought miserably, trudging back to his apartment, alone. A shower, shave, oral hygiene, fresh jeans and a fitting shirt helped his mood and his ego. He would get to Peter, under his skin, if it killed him…and it very well might come to that. For now, he knew he looked good; he'd paid attention to Peter's reactions to that sort of thing.
XXX
Peter showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, tried to jerk off and didn't get anywhere with it, and dressed in clean clothes. He considered the contents of the dresser in the apartment, wishing he had something better to sleep in than his jeans, something where he'd be comfortable, but not worried that he might do something undesired while asleep. Like most of the stuff in this particular building, it was unimaginative – long-sleeved, dark t-shirts and equally dark jeans, with black boxer briefs and matching black socks – nothing else. No sweaters or sweat shirts or long johns or ties or shorts or pajamas or any of a variety of other garments he might need. The sweat pants he'd found at the Pegasus, but now they were most likely littering the floor of Sylar's apartment – totally unreachable.
I suppose I could always sleep naked tonight, he thought to himself in amusement. It was just a joke, but that didn't stop his mind from supplying him with the impression of the blanket, cool and scratchy against his skin, Sylar's warm body shifting under it, rolling to face him with a welcoming look, the smile on Peter's face as he inched the blanket down between them, biting his lip as the dim light revealed that Sylar, too, was at least shirtless. And what about lower? "Euff!" Peter shook his head. "No!" What the fuck is wrong with me? Guh! Well, if his privates were any indication, he'd probably be able to finish a jerk off session now. Peter slammed shut the dresser drawers and stomped out of the apartment, grouchy and irritable all over again.
XXX
Sylar was rolling from heels to the balls of his feet to keep some motion and warmth going as he waited outside Peter's building. This is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. Next time, I'm going inside. The sadistic consideration of waiting inside the stairwell just to give Peter jolt flitted evilly through his head.
XXX
"Come on," Peter said tersely, trying to remind himself that Sylar was not (directly) responsible for Peter feeling itchy and unsatisfied. He had that caveat on there because he figured his subconscious was loitering in the gutter solely because of Sylar's offer to help him 'try out the lotion'. Even if Sylar had dropped it, Peter was having a hard time purging his idle thoughts. Once on the road towards the hardware store, Peter had to intentionally slow himself down. He wanted to walk fast even for him. Needing to find something else to occupy his mind, he blurted out, "So, tell me what it's like being a watchmaker."
XXX
Despite Peter's short-temper, for once not directly caused by Sylar, he answered anyway, "I don't make the watches, I repair and restore timepieces." There was a difference. Unfortunately, the common term was 'watchmaker' and it seemed a blanket title.
XXX
It struck Peter as another of Sylar's dodges, but Peter wasn't in the mood to allow it. After all, letting it slide would leave Peter to his thoughts, which he didn't want. With a long look to his companion, he repeated his question with the Sylar-approved alternate wording. "What do you do as a restorer of timepieces?"
XXX
What he'd said before wasn't cutting it for Peter. Usually that much was enough to make people's eyes glaze over. "I clean and reshape them or get them working. New parts, adjustments, I tune them until they run on time." He didn't mention retooling the insides of a body, like he'd done with his Sylar.
XXX
"What kind of hours do you keep? Is it like a nine-to-five job? Is it easy, or difficult?" Peter watched Sylar with frequent, lengthy glances as they walked along.
XXX
"More like eight-to-six. Mostly it wasn't difficult."
XXX
"Did you like it? Was it engaging?" Peter felt the tense, pent-up energy of earlier dispersing as he listened. "When you were off work, was it still something you thought about?"
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"Yes, I like it. It's very engaging, it's…complicated work." The hours were long but it was safe being alone. It wasn't like he had a life to rush off to, just taking care of Mom. Sylar tilted his head, catching the end of one of Peter's glances. "I thought about it a lot." It was strange, for all the trauma and stress surrounding his family, the shop and the business itself, it became a surprisingly comforting place. He knew that made him weird and it had bothered Mom no end, all his fantasizing and worrying about something only semi-important.
XXX
"Is it the sort of job where you have a steady stream of customers, or just a few spaced out through the day?"
XXX
"Spaced out, early on, lunch hour and quitting time. Whenever people remember to get their watches and clocks checked. It was a quiet neighborhood."
XXX
"When you're working on a timepiece, are you … I mean, are you really focused on what you're doing, or was it the sort of work you could go on autopilot and your mind might wander?"
XXX
"Um…both? I was good at it so I could do it on autopilot but I like the focus. If that makes sense. It doesn't get boring to me; it's peaceful." Fixing things, knowing all about them and hearing the satisfying noises, how could that not be peaceful to everyone?
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"Did you have a boss who was there all the time, or coworkers? Or did you work alone?" Peter thought it was probably the latter. He was fairly sure Sylar had said something about it in their various previous conversations.
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"I worked with…my dad for a few years. I took over after that, so it was just me."
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"Do you think you were paid enough? Was it worth it?" Paramedics and EMTs weren't paid enough – everyone knew that, but most of them also knew it was totally worth it.
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"No," Sylar chuckled or tried to. Mom was the one concerned with money, wanting the bragging rights that came with saying 'my son is an investment banker.' "It was worth it. You only need money if you're going to do something with it." Like dating; another one of Mom's concerns. He didn't know what else to make of himself without abandoning his mother; and he wanted…different things out of life. Money might have helped but he'd ever tried that route, except as Nathan, who already had everything and didn't need the money.
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"You ever think about doing it anymore? I mean, going back to work, maybe your own shop? Would you, if you could?" Peter hadn't been blind to all the clock and watch paraphernalia in Sylar's apartment. Bereft of abilities, it was something he'd turned to in order to pass the time. That meant something.
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That question finally annoyed him. "It doesn't matter here. There's no people – you won't let me fix your watch. And if there were people here, the hunger would come back and it wouldn't be an option. So, no. I don't entertain the idea. I do it for fun; that's all it ever was – a hobby," Sylar emphasized. "I have better things to do, Peter."
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"Like what?" And don't you dare say, 'you'. Though I suppose that would be complimentary – I would be one of those 'better things'.
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"Like…" trying to be special. Gradually, with building fervor, he said, "Like getting abilities and…possibly staying alive and…giving you heroes hell as a natural order of things. Like not being a pathetic shut-in. I killed people in all those places. There is no going back." He exhaled in a huff, riled up again now. "I'd ask you about your job, but I know most of it. I know your hours are too long, you don't get paid properly and you obviously think it's worth doing /to make Dad angry/-" Sylar quickly rephrased, hoping to hide his nervousness, "I mean…to defy the family plans. So…do you, um, like your co-workers? Your supervisors?"
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Ah, Peter thought. You mean if we got out. You'd … He felt a sinking, depressed feeling. … still kill people. You killed people in your shop, too? I know he mentioned his apartment last night. But then Sylar went on to Peter's work and Peter let himself be drawn into the new subject. "You know, there are reasons why I went to nursing school that don't have anything to do with my father. If I'd just wanted to hack him off, I could've become a hair stylist or maybe an artist. He didn't have any respect for those, either." He sighed. "I like my co-workers, yeah. Hesam …" Peter paused, wondering what danger he might bring to those people by describing them to Sylar. Given Sylar had already literally been Nurse Hammer, it didn't seem likely that Peter could endanger them more than they already were. Maybe knowing something about them would make them harder to kill out of hand? "Hesam Malik was my partner most recently. He's a good guy, sharp. His family's from Iran, but they came over here when he was five or six, so you really can't tell from his English."
"My supervisor is a guy everyone calls by his last name - Jackson. His first name took me forever to find out." Peter smiled. "It's 'Carnelius.'. He's a good guy. Big, black, busy, older man who really knows his stuff. He doesn't put up with much, either. If he has a flaw, it's that he's a little quick to yell at people, but otherwise, his priorities are always on getting the patients the best service we can manage. I like him."
"I precepted – that is, I had my field training – with a woman named Karen O'Neill. She's been with the service a long time and knows all the ins and outs. She's a good teacher, too. She's steady. She asked me a lot of questions about why I was doing things and she asked them when I was right and when I was wrong both. I had the feeling there was a lot she could teach me, but I ended up assigned with someone else for a while and rotated through a few different partners until I ended up with Hesam."
"It's okay … working as a paramedic. But I don't know if I'll be able to do it long term. There's got to be a way and a place where we can fit in." Peter dragged a foot along the pavement as he walked, scuffing his toe. He was thinking more about Sylar than himself with this. "It's kind of contradictory – being extraordinary, yet fitting in. Claire wanted to be normal; I always wanted to make a difference. What do you mean by giving the heroes hell as a part of the natural order?"
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"I never had that 'fitting in' problem." After that he bit his lip to prevent himself from mouthing off about Claire, his would-be brat of a daughter. The next question, while redundant, was a welcome distraction. "I already told you. Someone has to make you pay for all the lives you've ruined."