Day 55, February 3, Late Morning
Sylar hummed assent, smirking a little at Peter's glutton-for-punishment attitude. It was like a competition – harmless and fun. He read from the page, "Which individual player managed to steal 130 bases in a single season?"
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Peter lifted his right hand, waving it in a 'wait' motion. He bit his bottom lip and turned his face upward. "That was in the 80s. It was in the 80s, wasn't it, like '82 or '83?"
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"Good, yes. '82," Sylar encouraged. It was additionally amusing that Peter continued to gesture when he spoke, despite most of his blindness. Just because he can't see me, doesn't mean anything. His limbs aren't injured to prevent it. Still, it's like he's doing it for my benefit.
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"Oh, I know this one!" he exclaimed in frustration. "I should know it - we talked about him so much! Hang on …" Peter put his hand down and turned his head slightly. Then it came to him, even through the concussion. "Rickey Henderson!"
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"Yes," Sylar said through raised eyebrows.
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"I've always had a great memory for names. It's the stats that throw me. I remember when Nathan was ..." He stopped for a moment, tilting his head slightly. It still hurt to talk about him, but after a beat, he went on anyway. Nathan was always going to be part of his life and Sylar's company didn't change that. It certainly wasn't going to stop Peter from talking about his brother when he wanted to. "He was stationed overseas where there was nothing to do, and for a few nights we had these marathon phone calls. We talked a lot of ball. We'd gone to some of Henderson's games when he was playing for the Yankees and we'd talk about those, sometimes play-by-play." He smiled at the fond memory. Sylar has it, too, just from the other side. That's weird. "Tell me another one," he asked softly.
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Ah! He did play for the Yankees, that makes sense. It brought more of a spark of recall. He – Nathan – /remembered those nights, with less detail than Peter seemed to: just his little brother's voice over the phone and excited recollection in some crappy military office, those conversations bringing back everything about home./ Sylar was quiet a moment. He still thinks so well of him. "Who had the most home runs in a month?"
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"Uhh … crap." Peter racked his brain. "Sammy Sosa? It can't be him, though! I remember them talking about how there was another guy who had more, but I can't remember who that guy was!" His face scrunched until it hurt (which didn't take much), then Peter shook his head. "No, I don't remember who the other one was."
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Sylar made a dubious noise, neither yes or no, and waited patiently. "Rudy York, August, 1937. But Sammy Sosa is number two in June, 1998."
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"Cool. I suppose you know the difference between a dentist and a Yankee fan, right?" It was corny, but facts (even sports facts) were harder to remember than jokes and Peter wanted to contribute rather than just answer.
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Sylar frowned and looked up. "No…I really don't." I only pursue nurses who like the Yankees (or the Mets, more accurately), he mentally snarked.
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"One roots for the Yanks and the other yanks for the roots." Peter smiled, going so far as to tilt his head and open his eyes to see Sylar's reaction.
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Sylar snorted in amusement, eventually chuckling the more he thought about it. "I don't know which is worse." He was relieved Peter was well enough for trivia and jokes.
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Encouraged, Peter continued, "Here's another one. I heard it in hospice. A man was dying of old age and his friend came to his bedside. They made a pact that if he really died, he'd find out if there was baseball in heaven and come back to tell the friend, because they were both big fans of the game. That was the deal. So he died, but nothing happened and the friend went on. A year or two later, he woke up to tell his wife that he'd had a dream and he didn't know what to make of it. His friend had appeared in the dream and reminded him of the pact. Then told him, 'I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, there's baseball in heaven!' And they celebrated for a while. Then the wife asked, 'And what was the bad news?' The man said, 'Well, then he told me I was going to be pitching next Wednesday.'" Peter chuckled at the black humor.
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Sylar's eyebrow arched at that. He didn't know what it was poking fun at, probably something beyond his social, human grasp it would seem. He gave a few, more forced chuckles. Since he didn't believe in God or Heaven, and wasn't a fan of baseball, he could think of better things to fill a paradise with. The idea of the dead returning to give messages to the living was…well. Clearing his throat, he changed the subject, "Who is that Uluru guy you mentioned?"
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"Uluru?" Peter repeated. "Uluru the Invincible. You don't know about him?" He waited a beat, but heard nothing. He assumed Sylar shook his head. "He's like Godzilla. He's a comic book character. He's a spirit of vengeance. He takes the form of this enormous," Peter gestured widely, hitting the lampshade to his right with his hand, "Ow! Well, anyway, he's enormous. He's a monster made out of rock and earth. He appears when he's called by people who are suffering and tormented, people who would rather die than go on. Sometimes he breaks free from a mountain, or he comes out of a swamp, or rises out of the ocean. Then he goes to wherever the misery is the worst, and he kills everyone there – the people, the buildings, just smashes it all. He's huge. He stomps it into oblivion, and then he sinks down into the ground and disappears. It's … it's not really a happy story – it never is if you're reading about Uluru – but you know the bad guys are going to pay and … the people who were pushed past breaking … they get what they want. They don't feel any more pain."
"He's a 9th Wonders character, kind of a side-series to the main one. It was never one of my favorites, but it was really popular. The writers started with Uluru coming to different war camps in the Pacific theatre after WWII. After the war (in the story, at least), a bunch of Allied POWs weren't released and instead they were tortured to make up for the lost honor of Japan. And eventually Uluru showed up and took out the camps. Then there were a few with the same pattern set in China and Vietnam, then the U.S. South for a plantation where the owner was doing awful things to his slaves and a hurricane came up, and Uluru, and after the storm left, the place was obliterated. They're always one-shot stories, anywhere in history. Maybe you read to see who will survive, because there's usually a few who get away, but not always. Or maybe you read to see the tragedy stopped. It's not … He's not heroic. He's more like a force of nature."
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For a while, Sylar didn't know what to say to that. At first, he fretted that Peter liked this 'death wish' monster for his own personal reasons about his life. He understands the concept of…tormented people who would rather die than carry on and he might even think that's acceptable, to be put out of pain. (I don't think he can understand anything in terms of Nathan). "Force of Nature. I like that," he intoned thoughtfully. After a shift to get comfortable, he went on, "That's what evolution is like – nature. No different than a natural disaster. The odds of being hit with it are so high, or, maybe it's that the odds of avoiding it are low, but here we are. It affects everyone differently, some survive and some don't based on how they adapt."
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He felt the mattress move with Sylar's slight change of position. Peter turned on his side and curled his body a little by pulling his knees up. He was facing Sylar's direction, in a listening pose. "Hm," he said, trying to work out what Sylar was saying about evolution. It seemed to be clashing with Peter's understanding of morality, but he couldn't put it into words.
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Since Peter said nothing either negative or positive and he wasn't lying down to sleep, Sylar continued, "It reminds me of something. I said as much to Luke and his mother, that my being there, breaking in with some agent - or Luke and his mother living next door to my father - was really no different than a natural disaster."
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"Well," Peter said, still lying sedately on the piled up pillows, "from their point of view, then yes, you showing up was like a natural disaster – sort of random and not their fault. But from your point of view, there was a choice involved. That's different." 'Breaking in with some agent' – who? Luke was that friend of his. Luke's mother? Living next door to Sylar's father? Huh. He couldn't string the information together well enough for it to make sense, so he didn't try. The mental relaxation from letting it go allowed him see what he wanted to say about Sylar's earlier comment. "Don't we have a responsibility to help as many survive as possible? That's the gift we've been given – to do something good with our powers. You aren't a natural disaster; you're a guy who intentionally fucks up people's lives. There's nothing noble or cool or natural about that." Peter shut up there, realizing with a chill that saying these sorts of things was both rude and dangerous, highly so given his limited ability to protect himself.
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Sylar scoffed. "Oh, please. That doesn't leave any room for destiny and/or God for the guy who believes in that. Don't be jealous. It's very cool to understand abilities and have so many of them. Who says that isn't my evolutionary imperative? You can't argue it isn't useful, even to you. Besides, I didn't see many people with abilities or otherwise trying to help me survive, hypocrite." He threw out the last with some bite.
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Peter was silent for a long moment, more than a minute, weighing Sylar's tone and trying to get a read on how severely he might have fucked up. 'Hypocrite' stung and set off warning bells, but the rest sounded joking, maybe even teasing. Or was it defense through mockery? He couldn't tell, but there was one way to know for certain how Sylar felt about him. He reached out his right hand and laid two fingers lightly on the arm he found.
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Sylar glanced at the contact, a pair of fingers on his forearm near the elbow. Just the two fingers. It was strangely endearing. He waited, quite curious now, to hear Peter's response.
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Peter breathed out deeply and made a short, downward stroke of Sylar's skin, following the direction of hair growth. He made a wincing, awkward smile and pulled his hand back. "I can't see you," he tried to explain. "I don't always know … Just … it helps me." He gestured between them. "Touch." He swallowed and moved on, concerned that his need for reassuring contact might seem pathological or weird even though Peter didn't think it was. Sylar might not share that view and was being damn tolerant of being touched for someone who had previously made it clear he didn't like it. Peter didn't want to push it too far.
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Sylar sighed, reached out and grabbed Peter's hand back, replacing it on his arm. And then realized he had to explain the sudden movement and reason behind it. "I…know. You can't see." That must making talking to me more hell than it usually is. "I've seen you trying to touch me. It's fine," he decided, since Peter couldn't get up to any unwanted, intentional touching without sight. It was…nice, actually. Really, really, really beyond-nice. The petting had been wonderful, so he verbally invited more of it. "I was wondering…Are you going to turn into one of those blind people who has to touch a person's face to 'see' their expression?" Sylar's voice was amused, a little teasing and doubtful at the same time. He didn't know if he'd like that or not.
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Peter tensed all over to have his hand seized and got his eyes open as much as he could. But nothing bad happened. Sylar patted him a few times, making clear he hadn't taken Peter's right hand as a threat to control as he had done in the past. He was just … making something else clear: that it was okay for Peter to touch him. Even to keep doing it, rather than making brief, practical taction as he had before. Peter smiled and made a single chuckle at Sylar's question, but then his focus went to what he was feeling. He rotated his hand to touch the one that had put his hand on Sylar's arm. He touched it with short, fluttery motions, working out where it was and giving nonverbal appreciation for the permission. Then he rested his hand back on Sylar's arm.
"No, I'll probably be able to see tomorrow. And besides, I wouldn't know what I was feeling for. I imagine that must take a lot of practice, like reading lips for people who can't hear." He's asking me to do that, isn't he? Peter wasn't sure how he felt about that, given his current condition. No, he's not asking me to do anything. He's just saying … maybe he's just saying he wouldn't mind, if I wanted to. It's not like I haven't been all over him. Maybe he's misreading that. Or maybe he's not. He stroked Sylar's forearm a couple times and went back to the (marginally) safer conversation about abilities. "Okay, I'll grant that free will doesn't leave any room for … predestination. But isn't that what you're saying with the 'force of nature' thing? Or the evolutionary imperative? Aren't those just other ways of saying it's out of your control?"
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"Or is it just my evolutionary imperative and I'm still in control?" Sylar raised a pointless eyebrow. He had to defend himself, though it was now a split question about control, choice, and destiny. "A force of nature is…a force of nature. No one controls it; it just happens. Even if you believe in God or Mother Earth, it still won't spare you or change anything – it's just a belief that makes you feel better about things you can't control. Until I get the power to control the weather," he smirked, feeling clever about angling the subject.
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Peter tried to put Sylar's words into a context he better understood. "Are you saying that you have a mission, but you get to decide how to fill it? Or that you're given a mission, but you get to decide whether or not you accept it? Is that what you mean by 'evolutionary imperative'?"
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"I guess…deciding how to fulfill the mission," Sylar said after thinking about it a solid minute. His voice was a little hesitant all the same. "The…choice only extends so far sometimes." Murder, was a given because it truly fulfilled the mission, but the 'how' was usually his choice. Usually. He got the feeling most of his life, even his 'mission', wasn't really choice. Despite every effort to gain control, it always slipped away, or failed, if he got close at all. Sylar wasn't comfortable with either explanation (he was responsible or in control or he wasn't) and he hated every result except his stolen abilities.
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Peter heard the doubt in Sylar's voice, but couldn't see it. He wondered if it was even there to see, as Sylar often guarded his expression closely. The words were as intriguing as the tone. He has to kill, then? Sometimes? He doesn't say he gets to refuse the mission ... Peter mulled it over and decided not to push for the moment. He didn't want details of Sylar's murders and he didn't think Sylar wanted to give them. "About the rest," he sighed, "it's a belief that makes me feel better about things I can't control, yes, but you've got it backwards. It's more like there are things I can't control, and those things are God, or in God's hands. Or they're in the hands of other people, who are as much carrying out God's will as I am." He frowned. "You know, I wonder if abilities are just people realizing that there isn't so much beyond our control as we used to believe?"
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"I'll give you other people having free will – too much, if you ask me." He'd been screwed over by far too many independently minded people to dismiss it. Sylar pursed his lips in consideration. Manifestations, mutations were a kind of awakening realization. "Why do you care about people who are wasting their abilities, like the people I hunt? They're not saving others; they're usually causing harm for whatever reason," he justified. "They waste their lives and their talent, hoping to be 'normal.' I think I know what you're going to say: 'then we should help them', right? They've made their choice to not be productive."
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Peter had a brief moment of wanting to get angry, but it seemed easy to push aside in the disconnected way he was feeling. He shrugged. "Who knows what I would have done with my ability if I hadn't had to deal with you – the cheerleader, the bomb? You should have been hunting me, not her. You could have saved New York and maybe more. Instead, it was Nathan who got to do that – save them all from me. I wasn't doing anything useful with my ability until I saw you in Isaac's paintings. Even then, I got there too late – to Odessa." He rubbed Sylar's arm fretfully a few times. He wasn't sure of that – maybe Claire had been the cheerleader future-Hiro meant, but Peter couldn't be sure – and he never would be. "You'd think I would have learned my lesson. Maybe that's why I came here to find you – I didn't think I'd get out of it alive. At least, I-" He shrugged again and rolled over to his back, breaking contact. He didn't want to think about his expectation that Sylar would kill him once they got out of here.
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So it's my fault again? Thank God for Nathan, He thought sarcastically. So this is officially an intentional suicide mission. What about my problems? We'll make a suicide pact. Sylar rolled his eyes. This was all some elaborate Petrelli plot, or Peter being dramatic. Right? All he wants is a promise that I'll help. I can't give him any more than that anyway. Nathan lied to him a lot, told him things he wanted to hear. It's not like he'll ever know I was lying, but what happens when he can't get out or can't find Emma? It's not a permanent solution. It was a frustrating situation, but he knew there was an answer or a fix if only he could find it. When Peter rolled away from him, he felt bereft but didn't have anything to say yet.
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Peter rubbed at his face carefully and changed the subject. "But, you know, Emma." He turned his face towards Sylar even though he couldn't see him. "I've told you about her. When she first discovered her ability, she wanted it gone. She wanted it … turned off. She was afraid of it, even though … it was beautiful." Peter smiled softly in memory. "I had it for a while. It made the world … bright. I tried to show her it was a part of her and she could accept it. That maybe she could do good with it – at least make kids laugh. She brought people to tears when they heard her play. It was incredible, the power she could put into music … and how it could pull on your heartstrings when you couldn't even hear it. It was like ..." He waved his hand vaguely in the air, trying to think of how to express the way she'd called to him from across the city. Then he remembered something else. I need to shut up. He's going to figure out her ability is something other than just seeing sounds as colored lights, or whatever it was I told him. "It's hard to explain," he concluded in a smooth Petrelli lie.
Things were slipping out that Peter hadn't really meant to talk about. He was getting tired – mentally tired, and he could feel it. It came with a surge of irritation that twisted his lips into a brief frown. "My point is she was learning to use her ability and do something other than 'waste' it. She was going to be productive. Maybe she wasn't that way right after getting it, but she was getting there. Sometimes it takes some people longer than others." He turned his face back in Sylar's direction, waiting for a response.
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Sylar was all ears at the mention of Emma. 'Maybe she could do good with it' stuck out at him, as did the emphasis on the beauty of her music. He mentioned breaking her cello. It's hers, and why would she have one if she didn't play? An odd instrument to play for fun – I thought she worked with him? So she's not in some kind of orchestra – maybe a band? It was clear Peter knew her well enough or wanted to know her better. 'And she did all that without getting laid with our hero' he wanted to snark; wasn't that Peter's routine? Statistically speaking, looking at results, Peter hadn't helped…a lot of specials he'd come into contact to become productive, his whole family for starters, but to be fair they were beyond help of any kind. So the empath wasn't a miracle cure and he was only one man, devoting himself to aiding whatever cause he thought worthy.
Rather than say something uncouth about Emma, or help (lack thereof), Sylar revisited something from earlier. "You were never one of those pathetic, wasteful specials, you know. I'd argue probably every one of your methods as being inefficient, but that's not the point. You do a lot…Too much, sometimes," his voice grew croaky at the end, thinking as both himself as a victim and as a brother having lost his brother too many times.
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Peter turned his face towards Sylar and even his upper body, listening intently and carefully.
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"It's impressive what you've managed with only one ability. Not many people would be stupidly convicted enough to approach me alone with only one ability," he verbalized his honest opinion, trying to focus on the more decent things Peter had accomplished with that handicap rather than the horrible and hurtful ones.
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He waited, but that seemed to be all Sylar had to say. It was enough – it was more than enough. Sylar had cast Peter's desperation as bravery and seen past his paltry successes to the effort that had gone into them. That's … that's such a compliment. Wow. Does he really believe that about me? But he didn't doubt the sincerity he heard in Sylar's voice. It was just hard to believe that anyone, especially Sylar who knew most of Peter's fuck-ups, would say something so approving. Peter smiled, one-sided and relaxed as he reached out and found Sylar's arm again. "Thank you." He pressed his unbroken fingers firmly against Sylar to emphasize how much he meant it. "Thank you," he said again, enunciating clearly. His eyes stung briefly. Wanting to avoid some embarrassing, concussion-inspired show of emotion, he pulled back and rolled on his side again, facing Sylar once more as he curled himself as though to sleep. He wasn't sleepy, though. After a few minutes, though, he had a different problem. "I don't feel good. Has it been long enough that my painkillers have worn off?" He felt queasy and weak, which weren't the usual, primary symptoms of pain. Maybe I need to drink something. "Didn't you bring me a bottle of water earlier?" He sat up and searched around for it.
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Sylar mentally shrugged as Peter moved. Guess he's done talking now. Sylar went back to his book, strangely desirous of the attention and dialogue now that it was gone. He wanted to push for more of everything, but Peter wouldn't play along, couldn't with his eyes swelled shut, the sickbed or beds in general seemed off-limits. It's not morning or evening, he remembered of the 'agreement.' So close and I can't do anything. His expression loosened. Not while he's asleep, anyway. He would be encouraging Peter to touch him more like this, convenient since Peter seemed to want or even need to do it.
Peter spoke and Sylar turned to him. "It's probably the concussion. Probably not…" Should I offer the morphine? "Can you see it?" he asked of the water. It amused him to imagine choosing to lean over Peter to grab the bottle for him, instead of walking around the bed to get it. Shit. Wasn't I supposed to make him drink a lot? It's probably dehydration. Idiot!
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He felt around, finally finding it on the bedside and not in bed with him like he'd thought it was. Peter drank half the bottle, which was probably unwise, but it tasted so good. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. He lay down with his hand across his stomach. His gut cramped unhappily, but he managed to keep everything down. He still wasn't sleepy. He kept stirring and twitching as he would have a panicked thought or two about how there was something he needed to do or be doing, that he shouldn't rest or stop or give up. It would take long minutes for him to convince himself there was nowhere else to be and nothing else to do – no mission, no world in peril, no one else to live for. Just himself. And, he supposed, Sylar. He reached over and touched him with his foot, glad someone was here with him.
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I thought he said concussions made you sleepy. Sylar noticed the restlessness. That must be improving. Dehydration is uncomfortable. And he's been sleeping a lot already. At the touch of the other man's foot, he nudged back with his leg, briefly teasing, testing.
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Peter rubbed his foot against the side of Sylar's calf twice in response to the pressure. It was a conversation of sorts and he was glad Sylar was willing to speak the language. It made him smile for a few minutes as he went back to trying to get settled.
After an hour or so of being uneasy had passed, he said quietly, "I got to where I was lying in bed, listening to the police scanner most nights, or at least, most times that I slept. The hours I was working were a little crazy. I'd listen to the chatter even while I was asleep. There's always something going on. I knew the codes - what was a big deal and what wasn't. Most of the time it was just minor stuff. And even when they were called to a shooting, it was too late for me to do anything and so I'd just roll over and go back to sleep. It was the stuff in progress I'd get up for, and if it was close. No point in spending an hour fighting traffic to get to something that had been settled forty-five minutes earlier." He was quiet for a few moments, vaguely aware of how much his mental health had deteriorated in the months before he came here. "Could you read to me a little? I can't seem to get calm."
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Sylar listened and blinked as he processed that. He pondered why Peter felt compelled to work himself so hard. And why he would bother to 'fight traffic' when he- Right, only one ability at a time. There was something important there, just like everything Peter had been saying lately. It was up to Sylar to figure it out, which he would. Time was on his side. Apparently now wasn't the time to press it. "Hmm," he agreed and began to read aloud of the short stories.
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Peter sighed and listened, although he would have been hard-pressed to recount the stories Sylar was reading. He took in the sound of the voice and the knowledge that it was speaking for him – that was what mattered. Too many memories of people waiting by his bedside, or him waiting by theirs, filled with worry, filtered through his consciousness as his tension eased. Waiting for a sign of life … holding onto hope. Does Sylar have hope for me? he wondered drowsily, drifting off. Is that why he's reading to me? I have hope for him, after all … Faith … It's that thing you can't prove. He slept.
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It was lunchtime. He had since stopped reading aloud and now he ceased altogether. Peter had settled and seemingly fallen asleep. Sylar watched him, with that crooked, relaxed mouth and uncombed mop of hair. He gave a gentle touch and shake to wake his patient for food.
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"Huh?" Peter tensed, not sure where he was or how long he'd been there. A snippet of crouching next to the piano flitted through his mind, but there was nothing to give it context. It left him bewildered.
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"Hey, it's me," he identified when Peter stirred. "It's time for lunch. What do you feel like eating?"
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"Oh." The world started to make sense again. Peter sat up, getting his eyes open a little and raking the hair out of his face. He oriented slower than normal, but well for his condition. Sylar. Penthouse. We had a fight. He read to me and I fell asleep. "Yeah, food. I should probably eat something bland. The oatmeal was good. The classic choices are rice, applesauce, bananas, and …" He thought for a moment. "It starts with T. Oh! Bread."
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Sylar gave him a suspicious look. I thought he was healing better. "Ah. Bread. Because that starts with T."
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"If you're in England it does," Peter said defiantly, trying to cover for his mistake even as he tried to figure out why he had made it and if it really was a mistake. It's bread, isn't it? But then why is it the BRAT diet? The T stands for something.
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What? "No, it doesn't. People in England speak English."
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"I thought every meal in England started with tea." That makes sense, right? He tilted his head to regard Sylar, to see if the other was amused like Peter thought he should be.
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Sylar was standing beside the bed now and he frowned more, irritated by this nonsensical argument. He thought about it, though, until understanding dawned on him. "And I knew that one, too. I must be…distracted or something," he mused, admitting it aloud, looking over the guilty party. "So toast, then?" In the kitchen, he prepped butter and jam as the raisin bread toasted. "How are you feeling? You must be improving if you're telling jokes."
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"Toast!" Peter said abruptly in response. Yes, that's it! Bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast. Toning down his inappropriate enthusiasm, he said, "Yeah, I'd like some." He probably thinks I'm an idiot. (Or concussed.) Peter moved to dangle his legs over the side of the bed. "Better. I don't understand why I'm sleeping all the time," he mused, standing and looking out the window. The world was terribly bright out there, all reflected sun and sparkling, virgin snow. It hurt even through slitted eyes. His headache came back full force and quickly. Peter grunted and turned away, sitting on the bed again and trying to self-evaluate.
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Sylar brought him the toast. He'd made enough for the two of them. "Or maybe you just like the idea of breakfast in bed," he teased with some seriousness, unashamed of the innuendo therein. It wasn't caring for Peter that required patience and self-control, but being so close to a vulnerable person. Peter couldn't react to him as desired, either. Sylar itched to do something to or with Peter.
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Peter chuckled at the teasing and took the offered plate with a little more awkward head-tilting to see it. "You're being very nice to me, thank you," he murmured, noticing it was raisin bread – one of his favorites. It was far from 'bland', but he didn't care. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful – sharply sweet raisins, slick and rich butter, tangy and tart jam, with golden-brown, toothsome bread under it all, with that toasted, slightly salty crunch. "Mm," he made an appreciative noise. I could get used to this. "I guess the sleeping so much really doesn't matter. How it is, is how it is," he shrugged.
He ran through a mental list of what he might do for the afternoon, running into one barrier after another. Drawing was out – he couldn't see well. Guitar was out – he shouldn't aggravate his right hand. Piano was out for the same reason, plus the idea of trying to plink stuff out one-handed gave him a headache just to contemplate. Playing games, or offering to play them, with Sylar didn't sound useful. Peter knew he seemed mentally fine most of the time, but he also knew he would tire quickly if he had to concentrate. The same went for anything physically complex. Of all the times when I wish there was television to stare at. A puzzle might be nice, though I'd have trouble seeing it. He had an odd sense of déjà vu. Haven't I already thought about what I could and couldn't do?
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Sylar was finished with his meal before Peter was, no surprise. He watched and saw that Peter could see enough to navigate toast to his mouth. He listened to Peter's crunching for a while, not wanting to distract him. "Why did you listen to the scanner and go on calls when you were off-duty?"
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The last of Peter's toast had cooled while he'd been lost in thought. The butter and jam had congealed unpleasantly. He only had a quarter of a slice left. Peter toyed with it, nibbling out of duty instead of relish. "I wanted to help people. I was looking for opportunities." It wasn't the real answer and he knew it. He thought about that wall of news stories he'd put up in his apartment. "It's complicated." He ate a larger bite of toast, getting another raisin in it. He recalled Rene asking him what he was there for, in Haiti. "I wanted to give back. Being normal wasn't enough." Emma had confronted him about that once. "Not for me," he said softly.
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That's my line: 'it's complicated.' Unless it has something to do with his family, then complicated is a tame word. Sylar thought on it. Give back for being special? For his mistakes? For being a Petrelli? Any of those theories would fit, and they were good motives, if a little idealistic. Such was Peter. Sylar definitely resonated with normality just not being enough. "Yeah," he said quietly in response, nodding once. Louder, he redirected, "Did you ever think that saving everyone isn't possible? Or that you're no good to anyone when you haven't had any sleep?"
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Peter ate the dry, crunchy corner of toast and examined his plate for more. No, finished it. Good. He chuckled at Sylar's questions. "I don't have to save everyone, Sylar. I just have to save everyone I can." It was never-ending, he knew, but it gave him a goal. "I was having a lot of trouble sleeping. The scanner gave me something to listen to instead of myself, going over all the things I could have done better that day." He got up from the bed, taking the empty plate with him as he navigated towards the kitchen.
XXX
Sylar kept a close eye on Peter as he stood and walked about. Peter thought he could do whatever it was he was doing, but Sylar's concussion hadn't necessarily worked that way. His mistakes, then. It was a little surprising that Peter overthought it so much when usually it seemed that the empath moved on to the next mission. It was a definite weak spot of Peter's.
XXX
He dropped off the plate on the counter and returned, settling into the black leather swivel chair near the foot of the bed. Peter tugged the seat over a few feet towards Sylar's side of the bed before sitting, then propped his feet up on the bed so they were close to Sylar's. It leaned him back in the chair, letting him see Sylar fairly well through barely-open eyes. "You have trouble sleeping, too. We have that in common. I guess I've kind of … misconstrued my sleeping pattern. I didn't mean to lie about it. It just wasn't your business before." Carefully, he mentally felt around how this was Sylar's business now and more importantly that Peter didn't mind. He kind of liked it, in fact – someone was interested in more than the shallow 'no, I'm fine' answers that he'd given most of his life. That was really nice. "What about you? What was your process for falling asleep, back when you didn't have 'Peter's Patented Sleepy Sounds' to help you out?"
XXX
Sylar was unaccountably amused at Peter's new choice of seat. Breakfast in bed with me is too much for you, huh? (Even when he can't see me. Hell, waking up with me is traumatizing enough). "They're 'patented'?" he queried with a raised eyebrow. "You really must have screwed half a city to be 'patented.'" Or was he fucking people so he could sleep with them? That would be before his ability, I think. About himself, he sighed, "I didn't really have one. People either worry about what happened or what's going to happen, or tell themselves things they know aren't true just so they can hear it. I get to sleep just fine; there's nothing to be done about it."
XXX
Peter hesitated, trying to gage how insultingly Sylar meant 'screwed half a city'. He knows nothing about me and my reasons. Or my life. He'd had plenty of experience with people looking down on his choices. Sylar moved on conversationally, and so did Peter. So no trouble getting to sleep – just in sleeping peacefully. I think I have the opposite problem most of the time. "Did it start after you got your ability? I mean, did you have trouble sleeping before that, even?"
XXX
"It's been that way as long as I can remember. I suppose it got worse after my abilities." Sylar shrugged and shifted; only now wondering if this was some elaborate interrogation.
XXX
Peter nodded. Nightmares, disturbed sleep, even as a kid? "That sucks." If he was especially impressionable, easily affected by things that happened around him, that he saw, maybe he dwelled on them subconsciously … an ability that drove you to mur- (But does it? Or is it just knowing that you need? Doesn't matter. He had to kill.) –der would really fuck a person like that up. More maybe than it would someone who is surer of themselves. (Which, of course, explains that panic attack I had a few weeks ago about having killed Nathan), he thought to himself sarcastically.
XXX
"Like you say, how it is, is how it is. But you sleeping with me; you admit you lied to me? What makes it my business now, the fact that you need to use me to sleep?" his smirk bled into his voice. Hint, hint.
XXX
"I don't need to use you to sleep," Peter bristled, defensive both at the accusation of lying and the implication he needed Sylar. "We're sleeping together. It's your business." I didn't mean to lie.
XXX
"You don't need to use me to sleep. But you do. I guess you already answered what you get out of it. I'll just pretend that's all you get out of it." He smirked suggestively.
XXX
Peter managed a pretty ferocious, narrow-eyed glare, snarled, and pointedly moved his feet further away from Sylar. "Pretend all you want. I can do perfectly fine without you." And I will, if you keep pushing it, was his unspoken message.
XXX
"When did your sleep troubles start?" Sylar asked as both reciprocation, to not rile Peter up too much, and to see if there was some other unknown event in Peter's past that had fucked him up.
XXX
Peter waited sullenly for a while, unwilling to give Sylar the satisfaction of a prompt answer. The tension was wearing, though, and Sylar was waiting, so Peter calmed down. I can answer his question, or I can snap at him some more. I don't want to argue, so … He began, "Weird sleep was the first sign I had of abilities. I kept having these amazing dreams – flying, shooting fire out of my hands, knowing things there was no way I could know and solving problems because of it. I had this feeling, no, a certainty, that that was me, that was what I was meant to do, or it was what I was going to do. You know, if you don't know anything about abilities, that sounds pretty crazy, doesn't it?" He gave Sylar a brief, wincing smile. "Every time I'd try to sleep, I'd have these visions and when I'd wake up, I'd feel so … wrong. Like I wasn't … being the person I was supposed to be, the person I was in those dreams. So when I started figuring out the flying, it was part of why I got so determined about it. It seemed real. It was something I could show people, or at least I thought I could." He frowned and waved a hand vaguely. "Didn't really work out. Not at first."
XXX
"Hmph," Sylar snorted in a kind of bemused, understanding mockery. "That's almost easier, knowing you're special. All you have to do is work for it." You don't have to kill anyone to prove it.