Day 55, February 3, Afternoon
"Assuming a person understands how to work for it." Peter jogged his head to one side. He was intending his comment to be directed both at his own and Sylar's first attempts. His own wasn't pretty and he expected Sylar's was worse. "I mean, for me at least, even what I happened to be thinking at the time mattered. After I lost my memories, but I was getting my abilities back in Ireland, I remember standing in the back room of the pub trying to shoot lightning out my hand." He smiled and raised his right hand to demonstrate. "I was reaching out, saying things like 'sparks' and 'lightning'." He chuckled wryly and put his hand down. "It didn't seem to help."
XXX
Sylar's brows quirked up as he pictured that. He had several thoughts about what Peter said, practicing when Peter had sort of turned his nose up at the idea before, how Peter's ability either wasn't like most other abilities in that practice didn't achieve more control (or perhaps Peter was doing it wrong), and why that might be. He snorted, amused and preoccupied.
XXX
He waited a few moments, remembering that and how he'd held Will to the wall with telekinesis. It was strange how willing he'd been to choke the guy, how he'd known exactly how to do it. With a morbid curiosity and already thinking he shouldn't ask, he said, "Have you ever tried," he lifted his right hand in a very loose pantomime of Sylar's telekinetic head-slicing gesture, pointed off to the side and so not at Sylar, "using a different … um … hand motion?" He shrugged, already trying to deflect any ill will due to the question. "Does it work? I was just wondering. There was a guy in Ireland I … choked … and it seemed to come instinctively."
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Sylar knew he was being paranoid as he thought about those questions. Neither of them had abilities. He could reasonably say that Peter didn't because the medic would have accidentally used his abilities before now, especially during an attack. It didn't stop him from being wary of the possibility that one or both of them would become special again here, somehow. Giving away key information on how to neutralize him wasn't wise. "Yes, I've tried it and it works" Sylar answered specifics and didn't mention that he didn't need the hand gesture (though perhaps Peter did) as it only served as a focus. "Why were you choking him?" He asked that with curiosity and humor. He was pretty sure Peter hadn't killed the guy, but maybe Peter did have some kind of violent kink he wouldn't admit to.
XXX
"He was trying to rob the people I was with. He'd already shot me twice in the chest. I let him go. I just … choked him some first. I don't know what came over me. For a few seconds, it was … it was weird. I wanted him dead and that was weird." He supposed most would consider attempted armed robbery and murder sufficient explanation for why he might want the guy dead in the heat of the moment, but Peter didn't. He'd felt the desire to kill wash through him, entirely divorced from any sympathetic impulse. It had shaken him and his idea of who he was, shaming him that it had taken Caitlyn's shouted pleas to bring him to his senses.
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Sylar's eyes shifted away for a moment. He didn't have my ability then. But he had telekinesis. He was a little disappointed that Peter didn't have an apparent dirty secret. Or a kink. "Instinct, huh? That's a word for it," Sylar snarked dryly with a hint of an edge. A word for an excuse; one that never works for me. "You choke other guys, too, it seems. I thought you said I was special."
XXX
"I only choke the people who kill me. That's pretty special," Peter responded with just as much of an edge. He remembered grabbing Claude by the lapels and flinging him against a building, wanting to strangle the life out of him, too, but not as much as he wanted answers. If murder is the yardstick I'm using, then you have several times still coming to you, for me alone. Peter's brows twitched in dark amusement at the various ways he might enjoy enacting it – the last time he'd been mounted on Sylar and holding his throat coming to mind. That could have ended so differently if I'd been trying to hurt him.
He pulled his mind out of the gutter and redirected with an effort. "The other time I-" Peter hesitated, trying to remember if he'd confessed to trying to cut open someone's head in the future. I'm pretty sure I did. I just didn't tell him who. "The time I used your ability, I went straight for the head." He frowned and made a decisive gesture – left hand straight, chopping downward like a knife – "I was really focused. It was sort of the same with the guy in Ireland, except I wasn't trying to kill him. Not … well … maybe I didn't care if I killed him until Caitlin talked me down. I don't know." Frowning more, Peter put his hand over his face and rubbed gently. He was getting tired again, which was annoying. All I've done is talk a little bit! Why am I tired again? He made a frustrated half-growl at himself. Oh yeah, Sylar saw me go after Ma with his ability. Yeah. He felt some relief at that. I don't have to tell him about Nathan, then. He put his hand down and faced Sylar again.
XXX
Sylar got up and went to the table, touching Peter on the shoulder and letting his hand drift away as he passed because he could. He brought back the bottle of painkillers and pressed them into Peter's hand. It was obvious he was struggling; it wasn't surprising, and it was time for the meds anyway (perhaps a little late). He went around the bed to procure the man's water for him. "You had the advantage of seeing me use my ability," Sylar remarked casually, refusing to address whether it was instinctive or not. Maybe he's not confused. Maybe he thinks telekinesis makes him do those things? He sat quietly in his chair, frowning some as he considered it. It had been his first ability, after all, and he'd gone straight for the head almost on instinct as well.
XXX
Peter flinched from the touch and wanted it at the same time. He took the ambivalence as another sign of mental fatigue and frowned to himself, glaring at the empty bed. I shouldn't need to sleep at all in this world! I haven't even been really punched out. It's all fake. Then Sylar returned with medication. Peter took it gratefully, though he wasn't sure pain was his problem. He just felt generally out of whack. He took a drink and swallowed down the pills anyway, followed by the rest of the water bottle in several long draws. Just as before, it made his stomach cramp and roil even as he wanted the liquid. "Huh?" he said in response to Sylar's comment. He grimaced and pressed at his stomach, trying unsuccessfully to convince himself that it wasn't, in reality, hurting. "What does that have to do with it? When I was in Ireland, I didn't have that memory. Like I said, I wasn't able to use the electrical … whatever," he gestured flippantly, "so why would me using your ability draw on me having seen you before?"
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"I meant about…I thought you meant my ability and seeing me use it, 'going for the head.' Samuel told me something about my body remembering what my mind couldn't – you know, muscle memory." Sylar clarified even as he began to suspect he'd misunderstood or taken it out of context. "You think that telekinesis makes people instinctively violent?"
XXX
He was quiet for a few moments. "I think abilities change a person. I know they do. They told me that it even changed my DNA. That was why Mohinder wanted to use me as a test subject – something about 'genetic malleability'." Peter shook his head and turned away. He paused with eyes shut, trying to assess if it was time to be honest about more things than his sleep habits. He looked back at Sylar. "I was almost getting off about suffocating Will. Not that it was sexual, really, but I wanted it. I wanted him ended." Peter turned it over in his head. "You're the one who said I wasn't a killer. If that's true, then where did that come from?" Feeling less queasy, his hand fell away from his stomach and he sat up.
XXX
The information took him aback. Up until now, Sylar had assumed he was one of the extremely rare few who could acquire other abilities. Bennet had, once upon a time, used the threat of warped DNA on him. It had explained the Company's insane, devoted pursuit and experimentation of him all these years. In its own way, it had made him feel special (if persecuted), even after the discovery of some synthetic abilities, like Nathan. He felt…understanding for the worry Peter probably had about feeling mutated beyond his given or naturally gained abilities and Sylar didn't know what to say. But Peter had still more interesting things to say. Sylar's prolonged look at Peter changed. He still understood exactly what Peter meant, but his understanding, of sorts, turned into a dark glee that perhaps Peter now understood him a little better. "Because you didn't have my ability yet, my telekinesis must be to blame," he said with a tone of questioning. "It means your dark streak is darker than I thought. I always said you were monsters just like me. You didn't kill him and that's what counts, right?"
XXX
Peter studied Sylar as best he could – the tone of voice and the posture told him more than the expression of smugness on the man's face. There was sadness in the voice as well as bitterness; interest and attentiveness in his body language. He wants to know more. And then there's that 'just like me' part. I think I'll let that go. Ultimately, we're talking about what we value here. Maybe having something like that in common is what's important to Sylar? "I didn't kill him, and I'm sure that counts to him, but what counts to me is that I wanted to, tried to, and almost did. I'm not trying to blame anything else. I'm trying to figure it out."
XXX
Sylar had no answers and he wasn't happy with Peter's reply, either. He stood and plucked up the empty water bottle where Peter still held it, going into the kitchen to refill it. He didn't hurry back, needing the space. He doesn't think he's being…what is that called? Aggressive something. Or maybe he tries to blame me then changes his mind. Or he changes his mind because I said something. It makes him feel better to talk about it. Lucky him. It's not like I've figured out my own problems.
XXX
Peter let Sylar take his empty bottle without thinking about it. He waved his hand vaguely and let his eyes rest while Sylar went to the kitchen. "It's like what happened to me in New York, or that virus in Odessa. I've put people in so much danger … that's," he sighed, "wrong." He shifted in his seat to face the direction where he could hear Sylar padding back. "I'm trying to work out how not to endanger people with what I am. Sometimes it seems like just by being alive, I'm dangerous." No one else is going to save me, or stop me from doing something dumb. It's just me. Maybe this is my latest test to see if I've learned my lesson – release Sylar back into the world like a virus, or stay here and make sure he never gets out?
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Sylar addressed Peter's most recent attempt to be harmless: "You think mostly burying your head in the sand is the way to do that?" As Nathan, Sylar had to physically show up at Peter's job when the younger man refused to return his phone calls. Not that it was a new tactic and he understood, given the family dynamic of late, but it still meant that Peter was significantly tuning out – especially when his beloved 'brother' had been asking for ability-related help for once. Almost any normal person could rescue another, though Sylar wouldn't deny supernatural elements would come in handy from time to time. "I don't know. That might be kind of nice." The only period he'd been able to disappear had been when…he'd been that ghost at the Carnival; and when he'd been Nathan (those trips with Mohinder and Maya didn't count). No one hunted him (just the local law enforcement with a vengeance), no one had tried to kill him and he hadn't really tried to murder anyone else. But that wasn't the same as when he had his ability gnawing at him, driving him out of solitude – Peter had no such problem. He sat the water bottle back into Peter's hand, retaking his own seat.
XXX
"At least we're not endangering anyone here but each other," Peter muttered. "It makes things simple. Sometimes simple is better."
XXX
Sylar had nothing to add to that. It didn't really address his question like he wanted, but it was true. "Do you want something to snack on?" He would risk the nausea just like Peter had for him. Peter looked worn and pale, so there was nothing to do but ask. He's definitely the better nurse, no question.
XXX
Peter took a long drag on the water and stopped himself before gulping it all down like before. He looked at the bottle and considered the strength of that impulse. "How much have I eaten and drank since the fight? It was, what, three days ago?" Or four? Was it four? "Some oatmeal and toast … is that all?" Maybe I just can't remember. I've slept a lot. "I think I need to eat more. I wouldn't be so tired if I had more calories." Bits of advice and teachings came back to him about managing bedridden hospice patients on so many medications they were constantly nauseous. And cranky, emotional, low energy, lethargic … all the same symptoms I have, just like Sylar had, and when I was more together, I was always worrying he wasn't getting enough to eat. "I need the Zofran again."
XXX
"And some soup," Sylar injected a bit defensively. You were asleep most of the time, what was I supposed to do? (Wake him up like he woke me up for food). He was relieved when Peter mentioned the medicine, and thus indicated the problem, which Sylar had initially guessed – nausea. It meant he wasn't totally wrong in his treatment thus far. Peter was drinking fine, so an IV probably wasn't necessary. "Sure," Sylar said at conversational volume as he rose to get the equipment, then quieter, mostly to himself, "You just like sharp things and me sticking sharp things into you." It was so enlightening that he actually paused in his gathering to look at the back of Peter's head where it was visible. He was sure that was some sort of psychological marker. And I bet he knows all about it, even if he attributes it to me, he thought as a way to get Peter to divulge.
XXX
Peter scowled and shifted uneasily. Already listening to track Sylar's movements, he'd heard the man's quieter words. His thoughts flashed to the broken glass in Mohinder's apartment that had levitated for a second before he turned to flee and then everything went black, then Nathan holding the lethal shard and questioning him about it, then to himself cutting his left knuckle on a stray bit while cleaning up the storefront he'd smashed up here – a cut that preceded a painful, pointless fight. I don't like that at all. Why would you say that? Is he just being cruel? Peter was silent, but his heart beat faster and his hands gripped the arms of the leather chair.
XXX
He brought back a full syringe (ten milligrams as before), an alcohol wipe, and some cheese and crackers. The food went on the bed as he crouched by Peter's right arm. "This won't collapse your veins or anything, will it? Or is that just for hard drugs?" he asked conversationally, as he collected the man's arm gently, cleaning the area that obviously hadn't been used before.
XXX
Warily, Peter got his eyes open at the touch, a little stiff but letting himself be manipulated. "That's the Zofran, right? Not the morphine?" They were both clear liquids. He couldn't tell by looking. Concerned now, he didn't wait for Sylar's answer before adding, "Bring me the bottle you used." He did not believe Sylar would intentionally medicate him incorrectly, but he already didn't feel right and that was before the man started making light of his phobias and saying things that implied he was about to give him a narcotic and not an anti-emetic.
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Sylar frowned and paused to answer, but he only got as far as opening his mouth to do so before Peter demanded more. It got his back up, as if he suddenly was incapable of caring for Peter, as if he were suddenly so untrustworthy. He had no idea where this change had come from. Not about to underestimate Peter's stubbornness and with a deepening frown, Sylar fetched the bottle of Zofran he'd used, holding it out in front of the other man. Morphine isn't going to kill him even if I did screw it up, which I didn't. He wasn't weird about getting Zofran instead of morphine before, either. It doesn't matter which one I bring back - that proves nothing, wisely he didn't voice that yet.
XXX
Peter examined the bottle, which was exactly what he'd asked for. Such double-checking was normal among medical professionals and anyone worth being called a 'professional' would not have been bothered by it. He expected Sylar's feelings to be rather different, but Peter couldn't find it in himself to apologize for his caution. Everything he could think of to say seemed unwise, so he just grunted and extended his arm for injection.
XXX
Sylar stewed. He gave the injection without the unnecessary pain he felt Peter deserved. "Cheese and crackers are on the bed there." Disposing of the syringe, etc., Sylar lingered in the kitchen, again, to cool off. A tiny voice was telling him that he'd pushed Peter's buttons as a nurse just as solidly when his own concussion had raged. But that's the whole thing with him. I can't tell if he's injured, acting up or doing it on purpose.
XXX
I'm so glad I kept looking in the storeroom until I found the injectable Zofran, and didn't give up after I found the pills. Peter felt better immediately. He sat up and spotted the plate. It seemed weird that Sylar would put his food there instead of handing it to him. Maybe he's upset that I wanted to see the bottle? He nibbled on a cracker, a frown developing. Not about the cracker – it was fine. Didn't I tell him what I needed to be eating? I asked for toast and he brought me raisin bread with butter, which was too rich for what I should be having. And I told him the other things I should be eating. Crackers, I guess, yeah, they're bland, but cheese? Calorie-dense, but maybe not good on unsettled stomachs. He couldn't remember cheeses on any of the lists of recommended foods.
I have to take care of myself. Picking up the plate, Peter stood and oriented on the kitchen, then walked slowly to the counter. No bananas. I'm not sure how to cook rice (one rice to two waters, or two rices to one water? And for how long?) Toast is okay. So is plain bread. Did we have any applesauce? His eyes were tired and sore from having to lift the weight of swollen lids most of the morning as they'd talked. Sighing, he opened the cabinet with one hand and used the other to keep one eye open as he rummaged through the cans of food, scanning labels.
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Sylar noted him and ignored him until Peter started opening cabinets, actively moving things around, obviously searching for something. He couldn't help his protesting, growing-irritated tone, "Peter, it's cheese and crackers; what could you possibly need with that?" He has water! It's salt and protein. I know it's good for anyone. Or does he think I poisoned that for no reason, too?
XXX
Peter tilted his head and gave a sideways glance towards Sylar with the one eye he had propped open. He noted the guy's defensive tone, but Peter wanted what he wanted and he wasn't interested in an unsatisfactory substitute. I am tired of being tired and feeling beat up! He continued his search. "I'm looking for a can of applesauce. I need to eat something plain."
XXX
That tipped the likelihood of probability into 'he's not doing this on purpose.' It didn't answer the reason behind it, but it was enough to go on, breaking his thunderclouds of ire. "Cheese and crackers are plain. I didn't do anything to them. It's good for you," he reasoned in a gentler, slower voice. Maybe he doesn't need me if he can get around and make his own food? No, that's what he thinks. And I think he's wrong. It was the contrary rebelliousness that got under his skin, challenged his authority and efforts.
XXX
He waited a beat before replying, processing Sylar's change of voice. "I don't think you did anything to them." There! Peter found a can of applesauce. He pulled it out, fingers feeling over the top and then the bottom of the can. It was not one of those flip-tab types that were easy to open. It required a can-opener, something that required two fully functional hands, assuming he found the device. Slowly, patiently, Peter asked, "Sylar? Can you open this for me?" Please don't flake out on me. I just need a little help.
XXX
Perhaps it was better this way. Peter with a concussion, medicated, wanting more food wasn't a bad thing, right? Sylar still stared at him, overlooking the proffered can for a moment. I don't know if that's endearing or stupid. "Say please," he insisted without malice, with amusement and a small smirk. If Peter was so adamant, he could at least be polite.
XXX
Peter bit back the instinct to do as asked. Then the following, equally instinctive urge to refuse to do as asked. His fingers checked the top and bottom of the can again, just in case he'd been wrong. He needed the help and Sylar was asking only for basic politeness. Peter recalled Sylar's 'thank you' after one of their fights. This, maybe, is the same thing? It seemed like such a struggle for him to say it. It's not that hard. "Please, Sylar." He waited with the can in hand, head slightly dipped.
XXX
Sylar took up the can and went looking into drawers for a can-opener. "What was that tool you said existed before? A cheese cutter?" He didn't see it here and Sylar still doubted its existence. He chuckled to himself as he found an electric can-opener in keeping with the expensive suite. The next minute, he handed Peter the applesauce in a bowl with a spoon because those metal cans were often sharp. "This goes with the cheese and crackers," he informed, setting those before Peter as well.
XXX
The whirring noise of the electric opener surprised Peter. There's one of those here? I could have used that myself. (Assuming I'd found it.) At a loss as to what else he should do, he took a seat at the table and waited until Sylar served him. "Thank you," he said quietly, finding the spoon and positioning the bowl. He touched the plate with the cheese and crackers to confirm where it was, catching Sylar's implication that Peter was expected to eat that as well. He didn't object and dug into the applesauce. He ate slowly. The food was boring after the fourth spoonful, but he kept eating until the bowl was empty and the crackers gone. He'd even eaten a few squares of cheese. He thought he felt better – calmer, not so cranky, his thinking clearer. For all that, though, he didn't want to do anything more than lean back in the chair and digest, and maybe doze, until it was time to eat again.
XXX
Sylar did dishes, then gathered up their clothes for laundry (as he hadn't done that days ago like he thought he had, instead he'd brought Peter new clothes). He would do that when Peter was asleep next, which probably wouldn't be long. In the meantime, he organized the kitchen. After that, he read when there was nothing else to do. He kept an eye on Peter throughout, but he appeared to sit or slump stably in the chair. When dinnertime came around, Sylar made oatmeal because it was bland.
XXX
Peter noticed the increased activities. Dinner, I guess. He finished the bottle of water in his chair and made his way to the bathroom, feeling more put-together than he had in days. He rinsed his face after relieving himself and washing his hands. A quick hand-comb through his hair confirmed it was a mess. Where's my comb? The sweats he was wearing certainly didn't have the comb that was usually in his back pocket. Where are my pants? Grumbling to himself, he decided it could wait. He raked his hair back as best he could and made his way to the kitchen. He wasn't sure if his eyelids were getting stronger, they'd recovered after the nap, or they were less swollen, but he could definitely see without so much effort. "Do you need any help?" Don't say I never offered, Peter thought with amusement. He was definitely feeling better.
XXX
Sylar heard him and glanced over him. Peter looked sleepy still. He couldn't tell how capable the man was and in any case, the dinner was simple. "No."
XXX
A dose of Zofran, also called ondansetron, tended to last eight hours. Peter ate even more heartily for dinner and this time, more confident of his ability to keep his food down, he didn't care what he actually ate. He didn't have much desire for food (and neither had he had it for lunch), but he knew he needed it. The only part of the meal he took pleasure in was the ice cream bar he had for dessert, getting to enjoy flaking off the chocolate coating with his tongue and sucking up the melted interior. That was fun. Afterwards, he showered, took care of his hair, dressed in the same clothes again, and climbed into bed on his side. Tomorrow, he told himself, I'm going to get out and around. I'm going to get some stuff done. He burrowed in under the covers, twisting a bit until he could touch Sylar's leg with his foot. That's nice, he thought muzzily, drifting off.
XXX
Dairy was good for you and Peter ate well, so Sylar got out the ice cream bars he'd procured earlier to restock the last ones. The brand wasn't the same, but that didn't matter much. Peter had one, too, and it was sufficiently…distracting. The urges to molest Peter, along with the earlier frustrations of the day, momentarily surged higher. His own ice cream melted on his tongue and the chocolate almost felt like an aphrodisiac. It was a delicious torture. Some part of him still felt that he was being teased and stonewalled, but he was doing his best here. I don't expect a thank you or a gratitude fuck. He wasn't satisfied, but things were good; he had company and that was important.
He protested the shower Peter took. The exchange boiled down to Peter allowing Sylar to hover outside the (shut) door and listen in (like a pervert), in case Peter 'fell.' He thought a bath was far more agreeable. Sylar was bothered even after Peter exited the bathroom, but he finished his own night routine and joined him. That foot against him was gratifying.
XXX
Day 56, February 4, Morning
It was an odd dream. Vaguely, Peter knew it wasn't real. He was standing at the top of the Odessa Stadium, arguing with Nathan. His brother looked like he had in the storage unit – pale, cold, stitched line at his throat. Nathan insisted he couldn't fly – neither of them could fly. Peter was trying to convince him they could and this was urgent, because any moment, Sylar would come out and see them. Nathan refused to believe, not even when Sylar left the locker room area and could be seen at the base of the steps, slowly mounting them as he came after the brothers. Peter became more desperate, trying to lift them both into the air by sheer force of will, but Nathan refused to go. He was using his power of flight just as much as Peter was, but to stick to the ground instead of taking to the air.
"Nathan! Come on!" Peter groaned. He tugged. He pulled. He tried to get his hands into the shifting, sheet-like fabric of Nathan's shirt. Sylar kept getting closer. Peter could hear the villain chuckling and rasping, low in his throat. In some sick, comical way, it was almost like a snore. "No! Nathan!" Sylar was almost to them.
His brother turned to greet the newcomer, putting out his ashen hand and cheerily saying something inane about needing Sylar's vote. Sylar reached for his hand. Peter could hear Matt Parkman yelling in his head not to let them touch. With a monumental effort of will, Peter threw himself between the two. There was a mad scramble as they fell from the stadium, a yell that might have been his own, and then he hit the ground with a crash that woke him. He'd fallen out of the bed. Peter became a flail of limbs, struggling to his feet as the blankets and sheets conspired against him. Panting, he stared at the figure on the bed. "Sylar," he said in a 'it's you' tone of voice.
XXX
The sudden heavy thud had Sylar sitting up and looking around the dark room with panicked eyes. He was ready to fight or run. For a moment, he couldn't find the source of the noise. He wondered if he was hallucinating or still having a nightmare, but it had sounded particularly…real and close. Then he saw Peter beside but apparently not in the bed with him any longer. Sylar was on edge about that. He didn't know if he should stand up because the man's behavior was just…off. "Yeah," he said, not intending to answer in so many words and intentionally sounding pissy (as he had every right to be) in hopes of avoiding whatever crap might come his way.
XXX
He shook as the adrenaline poured through his system with nothing to do. Peter slumped back against the half-wall, half-window behind him, and scrubbed at his face. "Fuck," he muttered, replaying the events of the dream in his mind. He was frustrated that Nathan in the dream had chosen to make small talk with Sylar rather than heed his little brother's advice – that was so Nathan. He was angry Sylar hadn't stayed as Nathan, preferring his own identity to being an imposter – that was so wrong, and Peter knew it. But he lashed out anyway at the man who had taken his older brother from him, irritating and imperfect as Nathan was. "Just how many of those cheerleaders in Odessa were you going to kill until you found the right one, huh? What did that one you killed do to you, anyway? How was that self-defense?"
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Sylar scowled at the initial curse so close to his name, flopping back down on his back. He wondered if Peter had stubbed his toe or something, but it was surely something stupid, whatever it was. He was being unpleasantly disturbed from an otherwise comfortable sleep. Then Peter started talking – random, personal, and nasty. Sylar knew he was the one who was sick, but it was petty and mean of Peter to bring it up. He glared, feeling his base, violent reaction building. "Wow. Timing really isn't your strong suit, is it? Rude much, Petrelli? I'm not doing this now, if ever. Go back to sleep." With that, he rolled over to put his back to Peter. "You are such a brat. I don't know how Nathan put up with you," he concluded spitefully. I don't think that's his concussion talking this time, he thought as he replayed in his mind the scene Peter described. Two girls, alone, such easy targets, and one of them had a reported ability. He recognized her from the news. She'd practically handed herself to him, gift-wrapped. With Claire so close it had seemed like the dead girl had been special but…It was an honest mistake because the girl had lied.
XXX
Peter was still shaking, but he knew it was grossly unfair to wake someone up in the middle of the night and grill them. "Fuck!" He grabbed the nearest pillow and the blanket that had come off the bed when he'd hit the floor, and headed over to the couch. He curled up, angry and upset, shuddering and fitful. His head hurt. His elbow and hip, too, from where he'd landed. But the worst was how he couldn't stop his racing thoughts.
XXX
"Yes, 'fuck'! Fuck off! Shut up and go to sleep!" Sylar snapped, only lifting his head to do it.
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Peter made indistinct growling noises in response because he felt he had to make some response, but … well, Sylar was in the right. Sort of. The questions themselves Peter thought were legitimate. But he hadn't used them as questions. He'd used them as accusations, as an attack, and that was not right for someone with whom he shared a bed. At the same time, Sylar was a multiple murderer whose actions had impacted Peter personally and repeatedly. I have a right to some answers! How can he expect me to sleep with him, share space with him, and be fine with everything? That's ridiculous! It's inhuman! He laid there alternately cataloguing Sylar's sins and practicing an apology, never able to find a comfortable position on the slick leather of the couch. When first light finally came, he rose and stared out the windows for most of an hour, until even through the clouds, the world was too bright to look at. He started coffee and wandered off to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a look at himself.
His eyes were now easy to keep open constantly, though the lids were still heavy. I look like a stoner, Peter thought with amusement. If Dad could see me now. (Hanging with Sylar, sleeping with him, making coffee for him? Yeah, Dad might think that was cool, even if he knew about what happened with Nathan. Asshole.) Peter scratched at the patchy, several-days old growth of facial hair. I suppose I could trim it up into a circle beard or a van dyke. He touched at the spots where the hair grew near his numb spot. It tingled and not in a good way when he moved them. It gave him a shiver just as it always had. He didn't like the way it felt. "Ug. Gotta get this off," he muttered, changing his mind. But not with the razors here. I should go over to my place later. I can do it then. Hearing Sylar stirring outside, Peter finished his business and cleared out of the bathroom.
XXX
Sylar heard the noises of Peter getting up, the coffeepot going. At first, he didn't think anything of it, content to lie there and enjoy the noise. Remembering the incident of last night shattered his mood. He could count on Peter not to let it go, either. Since he had no spare, clean clothes (today's chore was laundry), Sylar went directly to the bathroom to find Peter coming down the hall from it. Their passing was quiet and a little chilly, but uneventful. He showered, groomed and redressed before breakfast – and before dealing with Peter, dreading it.
XXX
Not knowing what else to do while Sylar was in the bathroom, Peter put a little yoghurt into a lot of bran cereal for himself and made some plain scrambled eggs for Sylar, putting them on the table about the time Sylar came back out. He sat and picked at his food, preferring to nurse a cup of coffee that was caramel-colored from milk and sugar. He hoped the coffee wouldn't upset his stomach. He debated the Zofran and opted to try to get by without it. He managed, but only by eating with glacial slowness.
XXX
When he emerged, Peter was still around. His eyes looked better and full vision was obviously possible. The man was even sitting at the table, had even left out (or forgotten) scrambled eggs. It's just breakfast with someone he knows is a killer, all judgments included. It felt like a black thundercloud that one of them would break. With another mug of coffee and a plate of eggs, Sylar sat across from him. "You must be feeling better," because you were a dick last night, he didn't say though he thought those things were connected; instead gesturing to the food Peter had made. He doesn't need me anymore, was his next realization with all the usual upheaval in reaction. Peter had presumably eaten his meal by himself, showered the night before, and now he could see on his own. Plucking away at his eggs, Sylar decided to get it over with, "Is that why you decided to be a dick last night?"
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Peter frowned at him and took another sip of his long-since cooled coffee. "You can't expect someone to be … not emotional about the things you've done." He shook his head. "I'm angry about the people you've killed. Back in Odessa, you killed a teenaged girl, Sylar! And 'Oh, it was the wrong one, oops' doesn't cover it, because it wasn't a fucking accident," Peter spat out with building anger. "You were there to kill a different teenaged girl, but still a teenaged girl! It wasn't self-defense, or revenge, or even one of Ma's or Hiro's half-baked, proactive 'if I kill this girl, then it changes something in the future that saves a lot of people'. You're not the savior kind. Fine. What are you then? The serial killer kind? Is that … the kind of person you are?"
XXX
At first, Sylar raised a brow at Peter's words, unimpressed. Then Peter hit on a very weak point – that Janey (and Claire) had been teenagers. And that bothered him probably as much as it upset Peter. It went against his rule or self-imposed boundary of not harming children, and any other reasons he had or had given in the past. It had…made sense at the time he did it. He'd been so consumed, so powerful, so focused on immortality that even an innocent boy like Peter, who did nothing more than barely protect Claire and get in Sylar's literal path, had been 'worth' killing at the time. He really had nothing to say for himself. It was one of a long list of things he tried to forget about at night, when he was alone.
And Peter wasn't done, no. Instead, he continued raving about how morally superior and blameless he was, mocking Sylar for every decision and insulting him with labels and names. "First, Petrelli," he sneered angrily, "don't pretend you've never done any of those half-baked proactive things. If it doesn't excuse anyone else, it doesn't excuse you." Next, he caught himself from telling Peter that 'no' meant no, and what kind of person Sylar was was irrelevant because he still wouldn't help save Emma. Of course, then Peter would whine that it mattered to him because they coexisted. He changed tactics. "I am not a serial killer!" he growled low and dangerous. He was mentally stuck on the idea that he was a person of any kind, good or bad. Something Parkman had said, rattled around in his head, something about 'being people first.' Anything he knew about what he was, he'd been told; because what he felt and what he wanted to be didn't count. Now, he didn't know how to express that with proper importance without taking away his fiery argument about not being a serial killer.
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"I'm not going to quit being upset about this until I understand it. That isn't the kind of person I am and you knowthat." Peter leaned back, his hands palm down on the table, his face serious. "I don't remember everything we talked about a couple days ago, but I remember you saying there was a price to understanding … you. I want to know what you meant. I don't want to be the guy waking up in the middle of the night wanting to slug the person I'm in bed with. That's not fair to you." Peter turned his head, hands still on the table. "And you know what? It's not fair to me, either."