Day 56, February 4, Morning
Obviously, Sylar had stopped eating in order to be grilled for Peter's pleasure. This wasn't the kind of fun torture he envisioned receiving. "It's not my fault that you sleepwalk. And this is a crappy way to have an argument, with you using any excuse about anything I've done to leapfrog to other things I've done." He snorted at the rest of it. If Peter hadn't had obvious (and possibly worse) nightmares, it really occurred to Sylar that he could easily fuck with Peter's sleep now, not unlike Peter's threats to do the same. He didn't know about 'fairness,' he didn't know about sleeping with someone who wanted to sleep with him.
He remembered Luke being gratified, even through his heavy hero-worship, by Sylar admitting to the technicality of being a serial killer. Claire had been happy to copy Noah in calling him a psychopath. Peter, knowing that, still asked him what he was, as if he didn't know even as he contrarily labeled Sylar a serial killer. Even if Sylar did ape that behavior, it was a lie and an unhelpful one. Sylar did not want to think about what he'd said about a 'price.' He could not more understand what he wanted Peter to do than he could explain it to him and it wasn't possible to ask of a man who had to ask what he was. "/Emotions make you sloppy. Know your endgame before you lift a hand,/" he said as if imparting wisdom but his irritation at the chaotic questioning leaked through. His attention returned to his fortunately-still-warm breakfast, filling his mouth with eggs again.
XXX
Peter exhaled heavily and leaned back in his chair, not quite tipping it. His mouth was a tight line. A throbbing pain was making itself known behind his eyes. He watched Sylar eat for the next bite before he retrieved his cold coffee and sipped on it. Peter's thoughts were a mess. He let them be without trying to sort them out. He looked off to the side, sullen and angry, and rubbed as much as he could without hurting himself worse at the bridge of his nose. When Sylar was done eating, Peter said, "I wasn't sleepwalking. I fell out of bed. I thought I was stopping you from …." He shook his head, seeing no easy way to sum it up. "It was a dream – not a good one. How about we not leapfrog and you tell me why you killed Jackie Wilcox." He leaned forward to set his now-empty coffee cup on the table. "This matters to me for more than just the obvious reason that you killed someone. I died to protect the cheerleader, then I found out later you had killed one anyway. Tell me about that. Why her?" For now, Peter kept a lid on his anger about the killing. He wanted Sylar to talk more than Peter wanted to vent.
XXX
Sylar rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to get any peace from this and he couldn't complain that it was too early in the morning for this because he'd already been woken up for it at an ungodly hour. Gre-eat. Let's not leapfrog. He did not want to talk about this and didn't feel the need to examine the reasons why. "Do you think I owe you answers to everything?" he retorted with half a smokescreen.
XXX
"Owe me? No. But I'm going to keep asking."
XXX
It was Sylar's turn to heave a sigh. It would be so much easier if he only had to answer one or a few questions, never to speak of it again, but that wasn't Peter's habit. "Because she was stupid enough to get her 'special achievements' in the news," Sylar stressed that. Jackie had been stupid enough to broadcast herself with literal false advertising, opening herself up to predators like him. It was a perfect set-up to protect Claire; a perfect set-up to thwart his rise to power and it practically demanded a mistake on his part because he was working with false information. He'd always suspected Bennet's hand behind it, even though he heard some of the cheerleaders' argument in the locker room. "I knew there was a girl in Odessa who had a power – and thanks to Jackie, I knew she was a cheerleader. Essentially, she was immortal. She was standing right next to Claire." He shrugged. "My ability doesn't…work like a metal detector; it's not always exact."
XXX
"Okay." Peter listened, arms crossed. Finding out the meaning behind Jackie's death had been important to him for a long time – had he failed in his quest? He didn't think so, seeing as how New York hadn't blown up, but maybe he'd failed in Odessa and succeeded later on? Which would mean he'd still failed and someone had died because of it. And then there was the issue of Jackie herself and the value of her life, stolen from her. "I assume you knew, when you went there, that she was fifteen, maybe sixteen years old, right?" Peter's arms slipped down a little, his posture loosening. He couldn't imagine Sylar (or any human being for that matter) not caring about something like that. Had he just not cared enough? Was he different now? "It's not like I expect you to have given any of these people a fighting chance, but …." He left it hanging there. Killing defenseless girls at their Homecoming games seemed even more wrong than the usual unprovoked murder. He needed to know if Sylar recognized that.
XXX
Petrelli's argument was solid, hitting on everything that Sylar didn't want to think about and didn't want to be. He was not a coward, ephebophile, serial killer, or some other kind of maniac who killed without reason. It did not make him less of a man for hunting Claire, even if killing the wrong girl was an unintended consequence. I could have killed the president of the United States! I did kill a senator and practically no one found out about it, or cared! Samson hunted small game, not me! Sylar glared steadily at his tablemate. "What are you trying to get at? What do you expect me to say? I killed her; she's dead. I didn't profit from her death and I didn't intend her death." It wasn't sounding right and Peter wasn't going to let it go, he knew. That boiled under his skin, the shame and disgust of his own deeds, the elementary mistake. He stood up and menacingly leaned over the table, pointing a finger in the other man's face, "It was only supposed to be one girl and it was going to change everything!" he burst out loudly, his voice filled with tension.
XXX
Peter leaned back from the tirade, raising his hands briefly in surrender before putting them down on the table. He was quiet while Sylar re-composed himself. "I'm looking for some emotional response that isn't all about you," he said. But maybe that's not possible. He glanced away, then back, trying another tack. "How much planning did you do before that night? I mean, how many days, or weeks even, did you know what you were going to do?"
XXX
Sylar frowned, but considered that. Even if I apologize it's still about me…What on Earth could I possibly say to that affect? It troubled him; he felt like it should be obvious. The next question wasn't difficult and it didn't appear to be a trap of any kind. He was able to relax some, still feeling edgy. "I'd known for a while, weeks, maybe months. I didn't need to do a whole lot of planning back then. I was…I was just getting started. I did more surveillance."
XXX
"You knew you were going to kill someone. What do you think about what you did?" Peter shrugged. "It's just the two of us here. There's no one to impress or to throw you in jail or whatever. Do you think that was … cool?" He said the last word dubiously, not trying to conceal his own feelings on the matter, but still wanting to hear what Sylar had to say. He had weeks to decide not to kill someone. Did it never even cross his mind not to do it?
XXX
He felt himself swing right back into upset and defensive, "What do I think?" and his laughter was tinged with some hysteria. "I'm not afraid of going to prison!" Prison was a joke because not one existed that could hold him. A cell on the other hand…was a serious concern. He'd obviously been in customized cells little better than cages where he could rot. "It has always mattered what you and yours think! You'll still punish the bad guy as you see fit, because you're right: it's just the two of us here."
XXX
Peter raised his brows. Is he thinking I'm here to- "I'm not here to punish you. There is no punishment I can think of suitable for what you did. An eternity alone?" Peter looked around the place, his gaze lingering out the windows where enough sunlight was stabbing through the clouds to show him the weather was changing outside. He looked back to Sylar, meeting his eyes to say, "There's something poetic to that, sure, but it's just another torture." Peter dropped his eyes with a soft sigh. "It doesn't do anyone any good."
XXX
Another glare leveled at Peter, "Oh, so the whole maiming and turning me back into your brother bullshit is just your idea of foreplay. I think I would be alone for eternity if you didn't need me."
XXX
"You weren't exactly on my Christmas card list," Peter muttered. He let the rest of it pass, but he noted Sylar's anger. It had come up before – apparently he held Peter personally responsible for the identity loss. That, too, he intended to revisit, but some other time. For now, Peter stood to pick up as many plates and cups as he could manage in a trip to the nearby sink. "How many other people did you kill that day?" he asked conversationally. "Was that normal for you?"
XXX
Thinking back, Sylar tallied the corpses – not all of them had been final. "Two…sort of. It's a long story. No, that wasn't really normal." Looking away even though Peter was otherwise occupied, he aimed to keep his embarrassment hidden. "I used to…take care of witnesses. But I'd also have days of taking out a whole squad of agents so…it depends…what you mean."
XXX
He raised a brow about the 'squad of agents' comment, but let it go rather than change the topic from the night at Odessa. It almost distracted him from wondering who the other person was. There was me and Jackie, but I asked how many others, so there was someone else. I'll have to come back to that. Peter rinsed his coffee cup and refilled it with water, returning to the table with it. "How did you survive the fall? How did you get away?"
XXX
This was easiest to respond to. It was Peter's stupidity that had nearly killed them both. It wasn't loaded or painful to speak of. "I landed on you. I limped away because you fucking stabbed me with one of your bones. I bled all over the place." That was annoying because the FBI had been able to take DNA, not that it did them any good to have it. He'd turned around in his chair to watch Peter in the kitchen.
XXX
Peter snorted half a laugh, amused by the idea that his death throes had managed to wound his killer. "Good," he interjected.
XXX
Sylar couldn't deny the sometimes-humorous irony that was typical of Peter Petrelli's interference. A stupid plan that paid off was Peter's style. What came after that wasn't so easy and painless; it was downright traumatic. "And I didn't get away. The Haitian got me. So you know I ended up in a fucking cell with Bennet taunting me about how I didn't get his daughter. With the fucking Company wanting to probe my brain. You can imagine how that went."
XXX
Peter sobered again, fast. He remembered Sylar's comments about being the one screaming down the hall while Peter had it nice and cushy in a cell next to Adam. He sipped his water and let the silence stretch out as he thought about it. Noah. I know how Noah feels about his family; at least I can guess from what I've seen. Sylar tried to kill Claire. Then he had Sylar. It didn't take much imagination to think about how badly things might have gone. Any man who was already comfortable with killing and morally grey, presented with the person who had attempted to murder his daughter – yeah. Sylar had mentioned the Haitian. "They let you remember what they did to you?" Peter asked it softly and respectfully.
XXX
Sylar met Peter's eyes dead-on with some confusion. "Of course. I wasn't supposed to escape. I don't think I was supposed to live. Besides, who would I tell?" Sylar then considered if Peter could understand how helpless most non-Petrelli specials were against the Company's fucked-up whims.
XXX
Peter met his gaze, eyes wide. That sucked. All of it. It made too much sense – why erase memories if they were never going to let him go? "I'm sorry," was all he could think to say. It wasn't his place to say much more. To make commentary about someone else's torture or use it to advance some point in discussion would be abominably self-centered. After a few moments of silence, where he dropped his eyes to the table, he asked, "You said there were two people you killed that day other than Jackie. I assume I was one. Who was the other?" His voice was still soft. This was just an inquiry – simple curiosity, really.
XXX
Sylar waved a hand, brushing it off. "Hiro's girlfriend." Then the illusive answer from earlier came to him, about not being selfish or whatever response Peter wanted. That's what he wants. "He said he'd tell me my future if I saved her from a brain tumor that was killing her. Instead of me taking her ability, too. She could remember anything she'd ever read. I guess I'd killed her in the past and he…changed it." He shrugged, easily avoiding and omitting the pain he'd felt at seeing Charlie and Hiro obviously in love, two specials in a working relationship so soon after Elle had…And then the awareness of his horrible fate in the future – dying alone, being hunted; hopeless. Even Hiro's seemingly genuine 'I'm sorry' couldn't begin to help. Now he knew it was true, even if he'd been optimistic or foolish enough to think otherwise.
XXX
How did he …? Peter wondered about that. Did he have a healing ability and just never used it? The possibility brought his anger back to the surface. "Have you ever considered doing anything for the people you've affected, the ones who died? Jackie probably had parents, people who cared about her. Just knowing one of your classmates was gruesomely murdered in the locker room has to be a trauma by itself." Quietly, Peter continued, "Paramedics were called. Then a funeral home. They had to move the body. Someone would have to clean up all the blood. They probably couldn't have an open casket service. Everyone would wonder why – what you'd done to her that made that impossible. In class, there would be an empty seat where she used to be. Grades never finished. No graduation. Just … an empty spot in people's lives where she used to be." He fell silent, his gaze on Sylar enough to track his responses, but not enough to be interpreted as staring at him.
XXX
He refused to look at Peter as the man spoke, horrible sentence after sentence. Each one felt like a heavy hammer of condemnation. It brought him back to the beginning of his bloody career, the first few people that he'd killed. Gabriel had been the one to clean up after Brian Davis, in his own shop. His mother had been the first time he'd been forced to think about arrangements and even years later; it – she – featured in his routine nightmares. Peter didn't know that. At the same time, Sylar had no reason for empathy because no one cared when he died, not even his own mother. Peter's demand for empathy from him was hypocritical, as the empath would gladly obliterate him in some way. "The people I've affected," Sylar began slowly and deliberately, "want nothing to do with me. There is nothing I can do for them." Elle, Mohinder, Molly, Peter, to name a few. There was always money he could give them but that was all. An apology should only be given to manipulate 'those affected by him,' which he didn't need to do and what's more, he wouldn't be genuine. Making others understand his reasons, his struggles, was always an exercise in futility. "And I'm assuming that you're being literal and not speaking metaphorically about yourself," he concluded stiffly.
XXX
Peter tilted his head, thinking over Sylar's comment. They might want to kill him, hurt him. But he's right. They don't want him in their life. They want the person he took from them. That's … insightful of him. Or maybe it's just a cop-out. He gave a short sigh. "Yeah. Literal. Mostly. The same pattern probably played out for most of them, depending on relatives, family, jobs, that sort of thing." He stood up, taking his coffee cup and the last of the dishes to the sink. "I don't want to talk about Nathan right now. Or how you've affected me. These other people are … less personal to me."
He turned, leaning against the counter, and circled back to the latest in a growing list of things he wanted to know more about, since Sylar was sharing. "If … you had killed Hiro's girlfriend in the past – in the original past – and saved her this time," Peter said, marveling that Hiro had been able to convince Sylar to save someone at all, much less an intended victim, "then that would change her future and yours, too. How would Hiro know what that future was? All he'd know was the future you would have had if you'd gone ahead and took her ability, right?"
XXX
"Yeah, in theory. It still happened the way he said it would." Most of it, anyway. "It's not important." Sylar sensed an end to the conversation and hastened it. So what if they could 'talk' about things without having a brawl. It didn't mean he wanted to talk about anything. It was invasive.
XXX
So much for Sylar sharing. Peter assumed he could keep pushing, but there was no reason to. He'd been told a lot. If Sylar wanted to cut it off here, he could respect that. Peter reached up and rubbed at his sore eyes again. They were itchy on top of the headache. "I'm going to go over to my place and take care of all this," he said, gesturing at his nascent beard. "Get my brace. Then … I don't know. Maybe try to read a little more. And keep myself under control this time." He made a dry chuckle. Peter hesitated a long moment, then offered, "Do you want to read up here or in the rec room? If you're out of books, you could run down and grab something while I shave and stuff."
XXX
Sylar frowned at nearly all those ideas. Grooming, the brace, leaving the suite or even the building, were not priorities. He was in charge of taking care of Peter; letting him out of his sight for a prolonged period of time was irresponsible. Without medical training, he had no way of knowing (and no way of trusting if Peter relayed supposed perfect health) Peter's actual condition and capabilities on his own. "No," he said simply, ignoring for now the more agreeable parts of the idea. "You have a concussion and your eyes are probably still weak. I'm coming with you." That wasn't a request.
XXX
That got Peter's attention. He didn't want Sylar in his space, in his apartment, especially if he was feeling off and unable to adequately defend himself. "You can come with me over to the lobby," he said with an edge. "That's all."
XXX
Is he sticking to the original agreement because he remembers or is he being contrary because of something else? "That's not going to work," he tried to summarize. And this was the other problem: how to convey to Peter the problem without completely insulting him and getting his stubborn back up. 'I can't let you do that' or worse, 'you can't do that' would certainly have that affect.
XXX
'Why not?' Peter wanted to ask, but doing so would concede that Sylar was an authority on what would and would not work, which he wasn't, Peter was certain. It'll work fine. Is this his separation anxiety flaring up, or something else? Either way, having some alone time wasn't what Peter was after at the moment (he'd been enjoying the company), so he offered a concession: "Tell you what, all I'll do is run up and get stuff – my razor, the brace, that sort of thing. I'll come right back down and we'll come back here for me to use everything. How's that?"
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar acceded, glad he didn't have to explain. I've done enough of that already. "I was going to do laundry at some point," he added for Peter's benefit. If Peter was feeling cooped up a change of scenery would help (because it wasn't like Sylar could leave him alone when he was awake for the same stubborn-inducing reasons). It's like babysitting. Or parenting. It's only because he's injured. I'll do the dishes when we get back. It doesn't really matter where he wants to read; I don't think he can read very well or for very long.
XXX
"Okay." Is he agreeing? I think he is. "I'll grab any dirty laundry I have lying around while I'm up there." Did we just disagree about something, discuss it, compromise, and not punch each other out? Cool. He smiled a little, looking around for his shoes. When he found them, he had to remind himself that he needed socks first.
XXX
Thinking through the steps, he realized and warned, "Your coat is by the door." Sylar fetched his own outerwear and kept an eye on Peter.
XXX
The only socks available had been worn, but Peter told himself they weren't really dirty. I'll get more when I'm at my place. He dressed and took up his coat, threading his right hand through it very carefully. "My eyes are not 'weak'," he said argumentatively as they went out the door, stopping himself from tacking on an equally grouchy and totally untrue, 'I feel fine.'
XXX
He ignored the complaint because that's all it was. Time would tell if his limited hunch was correct. If it was true, and a fact, Peter might as well argue about being called 'short.' Or perhaps, it was all a matter of perspective. Sylar hadn't said it with any inflection or intent; Peter was just defensive about it. He hung back and allowed Peter to lead, since he could see so well.
XXX
Peter had cause to regret his words as soon as they got to the doors outside. If he'd thought just looking out the windows upstairs was painful, this was agonizing. The bright light stabbed into his eyes like knives. I could walk across with my eyes shut, right? Or hanging onto him. Fuck that, I'm not going to hang on him. I'm not going to hang on anybody. With that surge of machismo, Peter scrunched up his eyes and braved the brilliant sunlight. It was only a few steps before he was shielding his eyes with his hands. By the time he got to the other side, his eyes were a dull ache, his head throbbed, and everything was washed out and dim. He let Sylar get the door and made no comment about his obviously 'weak' eyes. Everything inside seemed dark as a cave, but Peter was familiar enough with the layout to make it to the elevator controls anyway.
XXX
He saw the change in Peter's body language and knew that he'd been right in some capacity. To be fair, the sunlight was blinding on the snow and they'd both been indoors for some days now. Then came the question of whether Peter could see inside the building after the brief moment in the outdoors. "Want me to come with you?" he asked casually, knowing the answer was 'no' even if it was affirmative.
XXX
"No, m'fine." Peter quietly waved Sylar off, hoping that was the end of the guy's offer and that he wouldn't be forced into a confrontation in his current state.
XXX
Sylar watched even after Peter left in the elevator. This time he saw that Peter was on the eighth floor. Or, at least, that's where he chose to exit. It was a significant weight off his shoulders to have an idea of where in the building Peter lived – in case of emergency and to know in trade because Peter knew right where Sylar lived as well. It was only fair. Today, he honored the lobby agreement.
XXX
Peter got his shaving supplies, his shampoo and conditioner, a reusable canvas grocery sack to put it all in, and tossed some dirty clothes on top. He tried to remember what else he wanted. His eyes lingered on Mister Bear, but he'd really hear it from Sylar if he brought that with him. He'd think I'd gone weak in the head and not just the eyes. What else was I supposed to get up here? Um, socks. He got some and a full set of clean clothes to change into before Sylar did laundry. I'm sure there was something else. This is like some of those concussion tests – 'Now remember these three words for me and repeat them back' Three things. Didn't I come up here for three things? He looked in the sack. I've got three things – clothes, hair supplies, and shaving stuff. I can't stand here all day trying to think of whatever else I wanted. I need to get back to the lobby before Sylar organizes a search party to find me.
XXX
His companion returned with an overflowing canvas bag. The Peter Petrelli beauty kit, no doubt, Sylar thought with amusement because he'd often wondered how Peter could appear so put-together even in the worst situations, apparently with little or no effort. He isn't very hairy. That helps. He's packing up to have a sleepover with me and I didn't tell him to do that, hell, I didn't even mention it. Sylar grinned gleefully, enjoying that feeling.
XXX
"Where to now?"
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He quit grinning in case Peter noticed. "Back to the Pegasus?" To him, it was the obvious destination. Peter had said they would return so he could groom. The laundry was there, as were the dishes. He was running out of reading material but he wasn't about to put Peter in the wheelchair and haul him thirteen blocks or more in the snow. He had books at home, of course, so it was a matter of when he could safely leave Peter to get them.
XXX
Peter gave a single grunt and gave the outdoors a brief resentful glare for not being cloudy. But he marshaled his defenses, hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and managed to cross the street without incident, even though he had only one hand to ward off the light. "Are we going out anymore today?" he asked upon their return.
XXX
Sylar was quiet for a suspicious second. He doesn't know what I'm thinking, about the books. "I wasn't planning to," he hedged. 'We' aren't going out anymore. What if Peter has big, stupid plans? Did he learn nothing from this trip?
XXX
"Good," Peter said. He wanted to be done with being outside and having to deal with how wrong he'd been. It was a relief that Sylar had said nothing of it. They returned to the suite where Peter shaved carefully, showered, changed into his fresh clothing, and then came out to stir restlessly around the apartment.
XXX
Sylar had time to finish what few dirty dishes there were. He didn't have to wait long for Peter. It was time to get Peter invested in some activity. "Let's get the laundry." He went to get the basket of their combined clothing.
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"They must have had a laundry service for the top floor," Peter said as they left, guessing at why such a nice apartment didn't come with a utility room. He'd seen places that nice, but never lived in one. He brought his sack of clothes in one hand, his other arm wrapped around a small bundle of towels and garments. "I didn't see a laundry chute, though. Maybe it was all pick-up." I'm speculating about laundry service for an empty apartment in Sylar's head. It's kind of weird that things get dirty at all here. He didn't worry about it further. The laundry room was a floor down, along with a variety of other pieces of equipment necessary for the running of a large apartment building and maintaining the luxury residents of the top floor. Or at least that was Peter's assumption. He didn't go poking around. Sylar was sticking close to him, so he stuck close right back. Especially after the problem with his eyes, he decided that maybe Sylar's judgment should be given some respect.
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Sylar agreed with that. The floor just below the suite revealed a minor hub of almost hotel-style building upkeep. Now, if only they had room service. They found the laundry room and Sylar got right into setting several washing machines to dark and light settings, then sorting those darks and lights.
XXX
After helping Sylar sort and load clothes (where Peter tried to follow Sylar's lead on what he wanted in which load), he took a seat on an orange, fabric-covered couch that looked like it dated from the 1960's. He watched as Sylar did the last fiddling with the washing machines, semi-absently noting how slender the guy was. And a little less-absently noticing that was a really nice ass moving around under those jeans. Peter rubbed at his eyes and found something else to look at, even if it was just the bank of empty dryers off to the side.
XXX
As the first load began to run, Sylar felt the need to put Peter in the hot seat. For something, anything that came to mind, as payback for earlier. If Peter wasn't mentally capable right now, well, then perhaps that would be another lesson the Petrelli should learn. "What was your nightmare about?"
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Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it, then gripping at it a few times. It was not comforting to think about, but the passage of time and discussion had dulled his emotions from it. "Nathan and I were at the Odessa stadium, up top. You know the spot," he said. "I knew you were coming. I was trying to get Nathan to fly off with me, but he wouldn't go. I don't know if he thought he'd be seen or what. I kept trying to persuade him. He wouldn't listen to me. He never did. He was dead, too, but," Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes, "it was a dream. He was still moving around and talking, so whatever that means."
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One eyebrow twitched. He'd had a dead family member-as-a-zombie nightmare. Recently. He'd better not blame that on all this being 'in my head.'
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"Then you came out, at that entrance at the bottom of the stadium, and I really got concerned. I tried to get hold of Nathan, but it was tough. His clothes were...thin or something. I couldn't get a grip. And I don't know how I knew this - dream, again - but he was using his power of flight to cancel mine out somehow, like flying down when I was trying to move him up. All the time, you were getting closer, climbing the steps one after another, and I was struggling with Nathan, trying to get him to go. That went on for a while. Then you were there. And Nathan was all politician smiles and putting his hand out to you, asking if you'd vote for him in the election. You looked at him for a moment, then you had this...predatory smile and you reached out. I don't think you said anything. I had Matt Parkman's voice in my head yelling that I couldn't let the two of you touch or else something really bad was going to happen, like Nathan would die for real. I knew I had to stop it, but since I couldn't lift Nathan, I threw myself between the two of you. I grabbed his shoulders like I'd grabbed yours back when it was me and you there. Nathan and I...we went over backwards. We fell. A lot of my nightmares involve falling. A lot of the better dreams - flying. What really happened was I managed to throw myself out of bed. I woke up when I hit the floor. I had this feeling you'd made me kill Nathan somehow, or that you were still after us." Peter rubbed at his eyes again and shook his head. "It doesn't have to make sense. That's when I said things to you. You know the rest." He looked off to the side guiltily.
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It was strange to hear the story of an event he'd been present at, but from the other person's point of view. Sylar knew he was terrifying in a very primitive way; now he got to hear exactly how terrifying he was from firsthand experience. Peter had been protecting the then-stranger Claire, now it was a figurative Nathan, so the feelings were similar. If it wasn't for that, he couldn't help but wonder just how frightened Peter had been of him, or was afraid of him still. Then there was the fact that Peter was concussed and his dreams were weird as hell. Foretelling or…warped beyond belief, but nightmares nonetheless. It didn't have to make sense, but it did, a little.
"You know, when I was waiting for you in the lobby," and when I kept my hands to myself all these nights, and didn't mention your family, "I was thinking. All these agreements you're making with me, I think that means you're getting comfortable here." He painted it in an opinionated, positive light because he wanted Peter to think 'staying' was a good idea, as was being comfortable around Sylar.
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Peter grunted. He turned it over in his mind. "I think it means I think you'll hold up your end of a bargain." He was quiet for a moment, idly rubbing his thumbnail on the rough texture of the arm of the couch. "There's no point in trying to make an agreement with someone you think's going to turn on you. That's... comfortable, I guess. Yeah, it is." He chuckled drily. "It's different," he said, thinking about his family and how he'd grown up with the constant expectation of being shoved aside as convenient for others, "from, like, other people I've had in my life. I trust you. You're trustworthy. That's not what I was expecting." He looked away. But is Sylar trustworthy just because it's convenient for him, or would he be that way if he had other options? Being trustworthy doesn't mean he's a good person – I could always trust him to kill and torture if the opportunity came up, but at least the fact that he'll keep a deal is a step in the right direction. Now I just need to work the right deals. Peter shrugged to himself and looked back at Sylar. "What about you? You comfortable here, with me? You seem to want me around a lot."
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Sylar leaned against the dryer, arms folded across his chest. He'd had plenty of time to think about things these past few days on his breaks from reading about baseball. He'd thought a lot about 'Peter's way' of doing things, what that might entail, if it was going to be safe or satisfying; and about what he knew of the man himself, what he responded to. Sylar knew he needed to befriend and seduce his companion because it would be well-received. It wouldn't involve lying per se, more of the usual…acting in character. A character of Peter's choosing suited to fit his needs.
"It helps that you were blind and completely vulnerable," Sylar reminded. "Yes, I'm comfortable," he…lied. He was more comfortable than he'd ever anticipated; more than was probably safe, too. "I didn't think it was possible." I don't know that anyone's ever called me trustworthy. I'm…farther along with him than I thought. If I'm trustworthy, then what does that make him? He's still a Petrelli. "What I meant was, you being comfortable implies that you're not…going anywhere." That was utterly manipulative of him. He said he wouldn't leave; he can't leave even if he wants to, and it makes it sound like I want…need?...need him around.
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Peter shrugged. "I'm not leaving without you, that's for sure. At least not alive." He hurried to elaborate lest that be taken as a threat, "Me, that is." He shut his eyes briefly. That still sounds bad. Sort of. "What I mean is that as long as I'm alive, I'm not leaving here without you." He wondered over the 'blind and completely vulnerable' comment. Does he mean I'm easier to be around if I'm helpless? Or that he's staying close to me because I needed it? The first was a scary threat. The second was reassuring.
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"What you said…doesn't that make me more reliable, more trustworthy now than he was?" Sylar canted his head, voice full of curious concern and interest. He was intent on usurping Nathan's place and more. In a lower, conspiratorial yet still conversational tone, he murmured, "More available, too, in every sense of the word."
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He stared at Sylar for a long moment. "Really?" Peter finally said with sarcastic amusement. "Is that the route you're taking? You're going to try to talk me into how much my brother sucked and how much better you are than him?" Peter waved a hand, finger extended like he was rapidly tracing a path on a map. "Does this lead to a place where you convince me you were doing me a favor to kill him? Maybe, like, clearing things up so we could get together?" He cocked his head in exaggerated inquiry. "Cuz I don't think any of that's going to fly. You have a lot to answer for before you get to talk shit about my family, Sylar."
"What I said was that you're a lot more reliable and trustworthy than I thought a guy with your background would be. Jury's still out as to whether that's because we're all alone here…but even at that…you've been okay, when you're not beating my face in." Peter tried to get his eyes open a bit wider, studying Sylar's face with a serious expression. "What do you mean by 'available'?" He told himself he just wanted to know what Sylar meant, even though the meaning(s) were obvious. He wanted to hear it out loud and not just implied.
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Oh, that's funny. I thought that, because your family started this war, I got to state a few facts. I can state facts regardless. Not to mention that I used to be your fucking family! I still am in some ways. But Sylar didn't voice his rather obvious argument. He also ignored the tricky question of his actions being influenced by the solitude before Peter and near solitude with Peter. He should probably give it some thought, but the situation was unlikely to change, so why bother? You started that fight, Petrelli – what was I supposed to do, let you do whatever to me? Sylar moved on to a far more appealing topic. "I'm so glad you asked," he murmured gleefully, flashing his most roguish and charming smile just for Peter. "I'm not married, no kids, unattached. I'm not related to you in any way," that we know of. (Honestly, he didn't think they were). Those qualities eliminated Nathan and then some, as did many other factors. "I know you like your family does and what I don't know I'm learning. I'm special and I understand abilities – I'm nothing if not adaptable. I'm trustworthy now. I live for a challenge. And, of course, you… are my only plan for the foreseeable future." Sylar emphasized that last, with a lingering look. Then he gave a playful shrug, "I'm all yours."
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Peter looked at Sylar, really took him in. His brows rose slightly. It was a good approach, he had to admit. Even if the first qualities listed described a vast number of people, the later ones didn't. He smiled and expelled air in a chuckle in response to the shrug.
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In a teasing yet a little serious tone, Sylar added, "Be flattered, Peter. Not many people catch my attention."
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Peter laughed out loud, but it was amused, not mocking. He waved at their location. "In this place, it's not like I have much competition." He settled back in the couch, crossing his legs and resting one hand on his knee. His ego was tickled. "You've got a," he paused for a second, "pretty big challenge ahead of you, buddy. How are you planning on dealing with that?"
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Sylar controlled his expression as he thought about that more than he wanted to. I don't know that I've ever had any competition like that, the way he means it. It didn't surprise him. Competition would imply that he was desirable and he would have remembered that. I wonder if he's had people compete for him. Probably. That raised another question he hasn't considered before. Nathan was a serial adulterer. Had Peter ever cheated on anyone? He smirked, "A guy's gotta have some secrets," he said loftily. I have no idea. I just…kill and destroy things. I used to fix things...
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Peter made a small roll of his eyes, but let it pass. He considered what he knew, and as he did, Sylar's reasons for being interested in Peter came back to him – lashing out against Peter's family being one of the main ones. Vengeance tended to be something a person only needed once. Even aside from his drive to protect his family, Peter didn't want to be used and dumped. He shrugged one shoulder. "Let's imagine you succeed. You get me. The novelty is gone. The forbidden isn't anymore. You've had your revenge. You going to leave a couple hundred on the nightstand and go looking for your next victim?"
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He listened to yet another shrewd question. Towards the end of it, his eyebrows had risen and stayed that way as if to say, 'I didn't know paying you was an option….' mostly because he wasn't sure if Peter was implying Sylar had to pay for anyone, or if Peter was accepting payment (very unlikely). It was a valid concern. His…persona, of course, was another issue as well. Peter didn't think Sylar could be anything monogamous, relational…trustworthy. Not a connection. Sylar pretended to examine something downward, his shoes or the floor, which he scuffed in discomfort. "I've never had any novelty wear off. The longest thing I ever had, the other…party was…satisfied." He'd gotten that much out, omitting some things, but still defending himself. That's what it's going to be like, isn't it? Leaving won't be much of an option. There are no other 'victims' to chase.
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"Yeah?" Peter said as a leading question. He wanted to know more about that, on general principle if nothing else.
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"Just change the subject."