Day 66, February 14, Late afternoon
There were several times during Sylar's speech that Peter wanted to break in and reply, but the conversational pause wasn't there. Peter wasn't so agitated that he felt the need to rudely interrupt. And anyway, as Sylar went on, the desire to rebut him immediately faded. There was a lot to think about there. They walked together silently for nearly half the remaining distance while Peter went over Sylar's words in his head. They left him feeling tired, depressed, and profoundly anti-social toward Sylar. He doesn't see other people as people. At all. "You're the lion and other people aren't anything more than things for you to kill, play with, or ignore as you see fit?" Other people, including me. I wonder if he thinks I should be flattered that I fall into the category of 'play with', like him being someone's overfed house cat with me as an injured mouse that it's still going to torture to death even if it isn't hungry enough to eat me. He moved so his strides took him a few feet further away from Sylar as they walked.
Muttering, he said, "So glad I put a stop to that back there." To Sylar, he went on, "I think I'm starting to understand it," and his face eloquently expressed how repugnant he found that understanding to be even as his voice remained calm, "but you're trying to cloak the murders by implying your ability made you do it. You didn't do that brain thing to Nathan and yet you still killed him. You've killed a lot of people who didn't have anything to do with abilities." He was guessing at that, but it was a very educated guess. Sylar had as much as confirmed it in previous conversations when he'd said the other deaths were inflicted in self-defense or out of necessity – a fabricated necessity, Peter suspected, but it confirmed that there had been 'other deaths'. Peter personally knew about a half dozen, slaughtered because they stood between Sylar and Ted. It was so casually done that it couldn't possibly have been the first time, and since it was so early in Sylar's career, Peter didn't imagine it was the last, either.
With a discontented sigh, he moved on to another question rather than unhelpful verbal lashing. "You said it was all a game. What does that mean to you?" That how people live or die doesn't matter? Or that someone who doesn't live life like you think they should is a loser? That sounds like Nathan. Or my dad. He didn't ask those last questions, though, preferring to leave it to Sylar to define the direction of the open-ended question than to make him defensive by Peter drawing out what he thought Sylar was thinking. He'd probably be defensive enough due to the noticeable tone of irritation and stifled outrage in Peter's voice.
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Sylar rolled his eyes; glad he'd wasted his breath to explain himself to a hippy to have it rephrased that way. It was no surprise that Peter wasn't asking questions per se, just nitpicking and judging. It wasn't an argument, not one where he could mount a defense because he did at least have a response. As it was, he had to let the comments pass for now. "The game…is that a bunch of fucked up people create rules that don't make sense. The values are screwed up. Nothing means what it should; it's wrong. What I think matters probably doesn't matter, and depending where you rank in some fucked up social structure of usefulness, your feelings might not matter, either. The lion is stronger; more prepared then the gazelle so the lion makes the rules and status quos. No one misses the gazelles, no one cries for them or seeks justice because their suffering and death is just part of life."
XXX
That's fucked up. I miss Nathan, you prick. But he knows that. It's not what he's getting at. There's more going on here. "If it's all a game and we're just playing, then why are you making life so awful for other people? If you make it suck for people to play with you, then they won't play with you. Me included. Remember what I said about not talking to you because you were acting like an asshole? That's it in action."
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"You're assuming I can be a good, nice person. I wouldn't confuse me with some future dream you saw." The man's line of questioning was hitting too close to home, genuinely adding anxiety and deep-seated stress at the mere thought of having to answer why Sylar was (or had been) a pathetic nothing, why people had apparently been allowed to hurt him. It would be all too easy to use the confession to abuse him further. "Nearly everyone I've ever met has made my life awful without a thought. I'm no different than anyone else in that regard – that is my entire point. We're all monsters. I get so sick of your kind trying to single me out." The tension continued rising inside him, making him snappish.
His frustration burst out again as he tried to make sense of things. "So I'll ask you, Petrelli. Why should I explain anything when what I say won't change you or your opinion if you 'need to understand me'? If I cried and told you a sob story or tried to be the hero, would that change anything? Why would you think your opinion matters more than mine?"
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"My opinion of you has changed," Peter said grouchily. "If nothing else, I'm able to have a conversation like this with you without punching you in the nose." He added bitchily, "So far." He opened the glass door to the Pegasus, offering Sylar entry into the vestibule, then followed him in. As they moved on to the lobby, Peter said, "Our opinions matter to each of us more than anyone else's. That's how opinions work – we both think we're right. The trick is not to get hung up on it. So, tell me what matters to you. You mentioned that before – what you think matters." He stopped at the doorway to the rec room, where the Monopoly game was still strewn across the floor. Peter glanced at it, but mainly looked at Sylar.
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That's fair enough, Sylar determined glumly, choosing to ignore any subtext with allowing the door to be opened for him. Either I think his opinion matters more than it does, more than mine, or…he thinks his opinion matters more than mine. He pondered that with seriousness, honestly considering that he might be psyching himself out more than necessary. There was no way to prove it one way or other. It's one of those ironic, anecdotal jokes people laugh about later. Similarly, Sylar paused when Peter did, meeting the man's eyes after the pointed notice of the mess he was blamed for (and commanded to clean up). In my family, those looks would mean more. With Peter…I don't think he means anything more by it. He let it rest to take note of further reactions but there seemed to be none.
He still had Peter's attention, though the last parts of the conversation threw him off-balance. His mouth opened and shut as he blinked. Surprised or not, even after a minor self pep talk about not being paranoid, he was very wary of the opening so soon after talking about life being a game. That's usually part of the game. Is this part of the game? he worried. Frowning at Peter for a moment, head tilted, he said slowly, with some sadness, "I…hardly know anymore. /I don't know who I am without you./ Whether I like it or not, you seem to matter." He added truthfully, if somewhat begrudgingly. A few seconds of further thought led him to talk, no matter how pointless it was to speak any kind of genuine thought, "Cause and effect. Justice, equal punishment, whatever you want to call it. It doesn't exist – at least, it's not equal. It should be. So many people get away with…horrible things and there should be equal consequences. Abilities…make some people special. That should…matter. We should have the power to change things, really change things." He concluded in a hopeless tone, angered on the inside.
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Peter winced at Sylar blithely stealing Nathan's words and using them for his own purpose. The man didn't even seem to notice what he'd done this time. For Peter, he flashed to the memory so strongly he would have thought he was unearthing something he'd taken from Sylar if he hadn't been certain it was his own memory. They were words meant solely for him, said by his brother in a moment of vulnerability and uncertainty when Nathan was asking for help – Peter's help. Now, Peter pressed his lips together. He would have said something, might have, but Sylar's next line disarmed him. The admission that he mattered to Sylar left him standing there befuddled as the man went on to list the concepts he valued. Peter blinked and listened. They get away with things like you have? He opened his mouth to point out how adopting Sylar's 'values' would go very badly for Sylar, then shut it. Sylar's tone was too raw. This wasn't something open to debate. He'd asked a question; Sylar had answered it. The use of Nathan's words seemed entirely unintentional. He took a step closer to Sylar and stretched out his hand to pat the man on the shoulder. "We both want to make a difference. I get that."
With a sober nod, he went on to get his book about Ali, picking his way around the game pieces. I wonder if he'll clean this up or if I will? There wasn't much of his ego invested in trying to force Sylar to do it. If I have to pick it up, it only proves my point, anyway. Coming back, he said, "Let's go upstairs. I'm hungry and tired. I don't want to be in here with this." He waved at the mess on the floor and headed to the elevator.
XXX
His brows pinched for a moment in a frown he quickly covered. We're not talking about the same thing at all, Sylar knew instantly. There was no way Peter would approach him in a congratulatory, conciliatory manner on the topic of any of Sylar's true motives and goals, not if the empath understood them. It came and went before he could plan if he should correct the misunderstanding or make use of it. In addition, he was confused about Peter going into the mess of the rec room. So he watched from the hall, awaiting some kind of lecture or reminder about 'his' mess, which never came – Peter only retrieved his book, meaning Sylar's were still there (not that he expected Peter to bring it). He looked after his books for a second as he followed Peter to the elevator.
Sylar accepted the sentiment for what it was worth. Peter didn't understand (how could he with so little to go on?) Sylar himself didn't know what he meant, only what he was trying to get across. It wasn't like he'd ever given much thought on how to communicate what he thought or felt, even if he had thought (and felt) on it often, alone, about how or where he'd gone wrong. It came out...blurry, as if his ability was retroactively affecting his thinking. Does he think I'm something of a hero? That's impossible. I know he's trying to get me to act like one. But that's not what I am and his goals aren't...real. Worn out himself after so much mood swinging, he sighed in agreement.
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"I heard what you said earlier about most people having made your life awful. That sucks." He waited a moment as the elevator ascended. "Is that where the consequences thing comes in? Do you think," he said slowly, "that you were given abilities so you could set things straight?" It doesn't match up with how many people he killed whom he didn't know. Claire hadn't done anything to him, for example. But maybe he'd justify all that by saying he had to collect the powers so he would be able to make the difference in the world that he wanted to see. Peter's face was sour. It's still revenge-thinking. And wrong. It tells me where he's coming from, though.
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It only sucks for me,Sylar thought, Otherwise he thinks the things done to me were the 'right things to do.'But he accepted that as much as he could. It did help in a small, quiet way, deep on the inside. Sylar himself didn't know what he meant, only what he was trying to get across. It wasn't like he'd ever given much thought on how to communicate what he thought or felt, even if he had thought (and felt) on it often, alone, about how or where he'd gone wrong. It came out...blurry, as if his ability was retroactively affecting his thinking. Does he think I'm something of a hero? That's impossible. I know he's trying to get me to act like one. But that's not what I am and his goals aren't...real.
"I'd like to say yes." He met Peter's eyes briefly. "I only have my original ability, the rest were...acquired." Sylar gave another cautious glance. Peter didn't appear pleased or angry either way. He didn't mention the abilities that could be described as 'given.' "To say I was 'given' abilities implies a plan or greater force at work. I don't think any God or universe would allow someone like me the power to avenge myself in any way." Sylar shrugged. "Maybe it was an accident. A lot of things...seem that way. Just a horrible, ironic accident. It's all a game, or maybe like a test in this case. All the same, I made an impact, like you said before, but if it did come from something bigger maybe..." His voice quit ahead so it didn't tremble. "Maybe that's why I developed abilities. I was just supposed to be the demon to everyone else's angels."
Warily, but curious, he opened the floor, in general, to the topic as the elevator rose, "What do you think?" He had some confirmed information and others just theories about Peter Petrelli's opinions on this, Sylar, or himself.
XXX
"About what?"
XXX
"Any of it, whatever."
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Peter huffed a single laugh as the doors dinged and opened. Well, that's definitely broad. "I believe in God, but not one who wants any of His people to be evil. I try to believe that people can't be evil – just their actions." And then there's Mom. He shook his head at the thought as they entered the apartment. After taking off his coat and gear, he tossed his book on the counter on his way into the kitchen. "I'm going to make tomato soup. Want some?" He got out the can and a pan, trying to remember where that electric can opener was that Sylar had used before. "Wasn't there a can opener around here somewhere?" He didn't want to dip his head to look under the cabinets because his neck had stiffened up again on the walk back.
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Sylar quirked an eyebrow unseen, tilting his head. I suppose that's a fair assessment, assuming there is a God. "Hmm," he hummed an affirmative, entering the kitchen himself with the idea of being helpful (or just close – he was loath to be separated or distanced after the…proximity of earlier). Fights and getting off gives me the munchies. "Yeah, third drawer there," he pointed, coming up nearly alongside Peter to do it.
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"Thanks." Peter opened the indicated drawer, removing and plugging in the device. Once the can was open, he continued talking. "If you're asking what matters to me – people matter. Lives. Quality of life. Dignity. Freedom, I guess, maybe?" He shrugged, pouring the soup into the pan and scraping the can clean with a tablespoon. "That last is pretty important, but if you have all the ones before it, I don't think it matters as much. Oh, wait! A better way to say what I mean is 'free will'. You have to be able to make your own decisions. Or at least, a person does. Or maybe..." He gestured ambivalently, "that's what matters to me."
He gave Sylar a single, lofted brow. "As far as justice goes, I've never seen it." If he sounded bitter, it was because he was. "People don't get what they 'deserve'. Nothing's 'right'." With the pan heating on the stove, Peter turned to lean against the counter, facing Sylar. "I try, but..." He glanced away and continued in a low voice that wasn't harsh anymore, "It gets confusing. I don't know what's right or wrong sometimes. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. The only thing that makes sense is when I focus on people. When I was making their lives better, that's when I felt like I was doing the right thing. That's when it felt like...I was okay."
He looked back at Sylar, thinking over the lion and gazelle analogies. I wonder if he's ever genuinely helped someone. Saved their life, sure. But there's something different to helping and having it recognized. That sort of thing filled a void inside for Peter. It gave him strength and made him feel right with the world and with himself. It's like he doesn't have that. Is that why I'm cleaning things up and he's complaining about them? He wants things fixed, but he doesn't fix them. Is it that he doesn't feel appreciated? Peter turned back to stir the soup. "I think this is about done. Could you get out some bread or crackers?"
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Sylar gave something of an extremely tight grin bordering on a grimace, seeing the folly of his general question – Peter could go anywhere he liked with 'deserved' and 'justice.' For a moment, he was sure that's where it was headed but…Peter kept it personal. In a way, it embittered Sylar further that Peter, an almost all-around good guy, didn't see or receive justice either, despite both their efforts. His own affairs were one thing, Peter's were different and considerably more worthy, but there was literally no justice in that, no fairness, no hope.. He noticed a new tone, since he'd somewhat accidentally given Peter the idea that he was some kind of freedom fighter. It was like Peter had accepted him as one of his own and while Sylar enjoyed it greatly, reveling in it, he wondered if he should set the record straight before it was probably found out to the detriment of, well, getting laid, or if he could really fool Peter about his most mysterious, darkest motives. Bread? He thought, back in the now, Just bread? They'd both had crackers before, with cheese and soup, so he fetched saltines for himself and Ritz for Peter, bringing over bowls and spoons.
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Peter crunched up a few of the round crackers in his soup, then topped it with several unbroken ones. He licked the crumbs off his fingers – salty, buttery goodness – and then felt around his teeth. In the fight, Sylar had popped him just a little to the side of his mouth. Everything was where it should be and his lip wasn't even split, but his canine and lateral incisor were sore and the slightest bit loose. He sucked gently at them after removing his fingers. Rude as it was to do (both the finger-licking and the self-examination), he figured if it bothered Sylar, then the man could simply stop hitting him. That didn't seem likely. Peter was starting to understand that Sylar picked fights, if not deliberately, then at least semi-predictably as some kind of emotional outlet.
"Thank you for telling me what you think about things. I appreciate that. It's good to hear."
XXX
Sylar muttered something dissentious but didn't push his disbelief. He couldn't imagine what kind of worth Peter placed on his opinion. It's a joke, right? Because I said it's a game, so that makes this a joke. Pushing at his soup to cool it, he said, "It's not what you think, Petrelli. Don't get me confused with what you want; I don't save people. I'm not a hero. I just…have big goals that aren't entirely self-centered." He shrugged. He didn't want Peter looking at him like some pathetic, misunderstood puppy. Or, hell, probably not even as a human being, which Peter suspiciously seemed to think he – they – were at times. "At least, my goals would have plurisignificance. You haven't approved of any of them in the past, so don't plan to start now."
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He puzzled over Sylar's word choice, but before asking about it, he had to scoff at the more comprehensible things Sylar had said. Raising his first over-warm spoonful and letting it cool, Peter said, "You do too save people. You told me you'd died for some of them." Making a slight gesture with his spoon, he added, "And I know you got me out of Mohinder's lab when that was not what my dad wanted. Your dad, you thought at the time. You were willing to go against him for me." He shrugged and ate his soup. "That's heroic." To head off Sylar's expected denial, he asked, "What's 'plurisignificant' mean?"
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Indeed, Sylar began to make a face to correct his supposed 'heroism.' Not that he didn't think it was a good deed at the least, perhaps even worth remarking on because the rest of his actions usually…weren't so good. So that's why everyone goes back to trying to kill me right after I save someone, he thought with biting sarcasm, but the inquiry came first. "It means 'to have more than one meaning'," and he took up the saltine packet and a breath to revert the topic.
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Before Sylar could go back to being defensive about Peter saying he'd been heroic, Peter went off on an intentional tangent. "'Pluri' – that's a root word for other stuff, like 'plurality' – a bunch of things. 'E pluribus unum' means 'we all stand together', right? Or was it 'the people are many'? Maybe 'the people united'?"
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Sylar paused, stuck between reactions for a moment. "Unum is 'one'." He was sure of that much. His eyes gained a far-away look as he mentally attacked the presented question. He knew he knew more than he could recall between himself and the well-educated Senator Petrelli. "One from…many, isn't it? On the Seal of the United States…Yeah." He saw it in his mind's eye, confirming his answer to his delight. His focus returned to Peter, who'd only asked about the most complicated language. The plastic of the crackers was ripped open with gusto as he felt better for having remembered/solved something Peter needed help with and now he could apply the crackers to his soup. Win-win.
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"Cool. What were your goals – the ones you said would be…pluri-signif-icant?" He said the word carefully, like he was repeating an unfamiliar, foreign name and wanted to get it right. That's probably not something he wants to tell me. With a polite, respectful tone, he added, "If I may ask?"
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Sylar grit his teeth and this time did make a knowing face. That was smooth. Very clever, Petrelli, he granted because he'd fallen for every bit of the lead-in. But it wasn't as bad as he initially thought – Peter limited the response to only plurisignificant goals, which was more tolerable and not so directly personal. "Becoming president was one of them," his expression darkened as he added for clarity, "not a senator. President." Then, proud of the idea (as if it were his own) and his qualifications, he preened, "No one can fix things like I can. I obviously don't like corrupt entities, so I don't think I'd suck at the job. Or abuse it. Too badly," Sylar conceded with sideways bob of his head and something of a smirk.
XXX
"So you intended to kill the president after all." Not that it was much in question. Peter's certainty that was Sylar's endgame had been some of his fuel in confronting him at the Stanton – saving the president's life being one part of it, along with fear of what someone as unscrupulous and murderous as Sylar would do with such power once he had it, and then there was no small part (probably the majority, if truth be told) of Peter's motivation had been to protect his brother's reputation and the implied threat to his life that Sylar taking his form constituted. Ironic, then, that the attack had caused Nathan's death, but self-defense was only undertaken in the face of danger.
"A lot of people have tried that over the years – getting rid of corruption, being part of the solution instead of the problem. Why do you think you'd have been better at it than everyone else? Do you think abilities would have helped that much?" Or is it that you just haven't thought about it? That seemed likeliest. Peter had grown up with power and seen the easy abuses of it. "My dad had a lot of abilities. He was pretty good at control – I'd say if your thing is 'fixing', then his was 'controlling'. It didn't work out too well for him. What makes you different?"
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Sylar gave something of a shrug about the first part. He wasn't going to go into the fine details that went into the decision to kill someone, even the president. Sipping his soup, he listened to the rest. It was a fair point. "It's not just the abilities. My ability is knowing how things work, and, yes, I need shapeshifting for some of it, to maintain the illusion," he waved a hand at the outside. That was an unsavory necessity, pretending to be someone else. Sylar licked his lips, "I guess I'm different – or my brain is. Control is wanting to take over the world and have everything your way. Fixing is…making something run properly, the way it was meant to run, just so it isn't broken. I don't want to take over the world even though I'd enjoy the challenge and I might do it one day if I get bored. I control things, too. I don't deny there would be a few underhanded things I'd like to do here and here." A brief smirk preceded smashing his crackers up in the soup, focusing on that for a moment. "If I don't fix things, then I'm just a killer and everything I've done selfish and wasteful. There's a process. I see the pieces and how they fit together, so I should fix what everyone else can't. Fixing things is…my purpose. Just…work smarter, not harder, you know?" Sylar narrowed his eyes as he looked to Peter, pleased that he'd explained himself in a way that made sense this time.
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Peter tilted his head. Ordinarily, he would have assumed Sylar was being self-serving or perhaps just lying to himself about his intentions and the fine distinction between controlling and fixing. But Peter had had that ability and there was...something to what Sylar was saying. Peter also had his own ability to reflect on and the subtle ways he suspected it influenced and was influenced by his feelings and goals. Abilities did not do ordinary things. "Okay," he said slowly, giving Sylar's answer due credit as he thought it over. What if he's right? What if I got the message to 'Save the cheerleader,' while he got one to 'kill the president'? Hm, what was it Claire said about not wanting to shoot me? 'The universe cannot be that lame.'
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"Were you implying that I'm like /Da-/ him, Arthur? You don't think I could- should do it? Because I'm 'dangerous'," Sylar suggested with some disbelieving sarcasm. He didn't understand the reference to Arthur – why bring him up? Maybe he's Peter's idea of 'what not to do.'
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His musing was interrupted by Sylar's questions. Peter snorted. "Claude told me, some years ago, that 'Everyone's like the rest. That's why they're the rest.' He was wrong. No one is like anyone else if you really get to know them. Like you. You had a lot of abilities; my dad had a lot of abilities. But it's what you do with them that makes the difference." Peter tilted his head again, regarding Sylar contemplatively over his soup. "I don't think you're going down the same road as he did." He pursed his lips and took a few spoonfuls of his meal. "I was thinking about what you said, and what it meant if you were right." Peter frowned at the thought. Slowly, he asked, "Are you saying that killing people who haven't done anything to you is required to make things right in the world?"
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Strangely enough, he agreed with that. In many ways, what one did with one's abilities made all the difference. Hell, that was practically Sylar's entire argument for depriving specials of life and powers. He was more amused that Peter thought he was different than Arthur – not necessarily better or worse, merely ambiguously 'different.' I bet he's waiting to see how I turn out. It certainly explained plenty about Peter's views and behaviors. He couldn't pacify Arthur with peaceful protests, so he'll try that again with me. Yet part of him wished Petrelli wouldn't be so peaceful with him. Sylar simplified it in his head, Does might makes right? Do the ends justify the means? "There's…a lot to it. I think…that's the way it turned out," he frowned, sounding too unsure to his own ears. "If Chandra or anyone else had treated me differently, maybe abilities wouldn't have been such a big deal in the first place, but that's just playing the 'what-if' game. I think sometimes there are goals that are bigger than us otherwise everything is just chaos. And I don't think anyone will deny that I'm useful specifically because I've killed people for their abilities. I really don't hear that hypocrisy mentioned…ever. Not to mention the part where you," he extended a finger from his spoon to point at Peter, "imbibe in the 'killing someone for the greater good' routine. For all I know, that concept is tempting to every human, and with greater power comes greater temptation."
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Peter shifted in his seat and glared reproachfully at the pointed finger. His dislike of it was clear on his face until Sylar ended the gesture in order to continue eating. Then his brows knit with concentration as he made a study of what Sylar had to tell him. "When did I kill someone for the greater good? Do you mean when I was going to have Claire shoot me?" I don't think he meant things that involved my own death. He probably means his. Peter straightened a little. "Or when Nathan and I tried to stop you at the Stanton Hotel?" Or Arthur. Oh, yeah. That counts.
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A simple stare, watching the other man was his only reply. He should know why he killed or even why he attacked other people. He's not so holy that he only has the one motive that covers everything he does. I'll let you figure it out, Petrelli. Sylar didn't even entertain the idea that Peter did violence only for the greater good (or whatever bullshit he used as an excuse).
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He looked away guiltily, muttering although it was still intelligible, "I don't think killing my dad was strictly about the 'greater good'. I mean, yeah, it sort of was, but that probably wasn't…my only reason." He kept his head down. Killing (or attempting to kill) one's parents was in no way noble or right, even if one's father was someone like Arthur Petrelli. Sometimes he felt he'd done the only thing he could have done. Other times he felt he hadn't looked hard enough for other solutions, and that when presented with the option of murder he should have simply walked away. That would have been the right thing to do. But angry about…everything, Peter had taken the gun. He went back to eating his soup, scraping at the bottom of the bowl noisily enough that he stopped after one spoonful and carried his dishes to the sink for rinsing.
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Sylar hadn't been looking for bullet points, explanations, or even a breakdown of the events. Although, Peter's guilty conscience was offering, so…He scoffed and sneered. (We've both killed a parent). And he thinks he's some hardened murderer because he killed a guy who probably had it coming. Oh, the horror. "I'll pretend to be shocked: Peter Petrelli has other motives for murder. We're not so different after all," he added ruefully, intending it in a cutting way. "You heroes just make my points for me." A tilt of his head signaled a new, even less pleasant thought. "So that means you had other motives for wanting me dead all those years, especially after…him, after trying to turn me into him, not just the 'save the world' bit."
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Peter's spine stiffened. Again, some concession that he'd screwed up in his life was being met by sarcasm and dismissal, not meeting Sylar's dubious standards. The rejection from a few days prior was still smarting way too much for him to let this pass. From where he stood at the sink, Peter reached over and drew the soup pan to him. With a slow and tense delivery, he ordered, "Get it straight - I never wanted you dead until him." Still not looking back at Sylar, he continued, "You weren't that important. I wasn't gunning for you until you came after my family. You want my other motives for murder?" He looked back now, face and voice hard. Sylar had pivoted in his chair to watch him and was sipping his remaining soup with an obnoxiously innocent expression. "That will work – every time." Like I've ever cared about what he was doing? For years? Asshole. He wasn't even on my fucking radar! Self-absorbed. He's jumping on the chance to say we have common ground. Over murder! I haven't killed people because it was convenient! Or for power or whatever. Hunger. He shook his head, taking his wrath out on the bits of soup that had scorched to the bottom of the pan.
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Sylar refused to believe that, at least the part about not being important. He always came after me and fucked up my plans. (Probably because I did go for his family). The relevance of his (lack of) knowledge of his targets being related or even that they were behind his imprisonment and torture at Primatech was a rather feeble excuse. Then there was the whole murky issue of Claire at Odessa being family and who knew that at that point in time. Of course, that's my fault. I just messed with the wrong fucked up mafia house? Peter was being insulting but Sylar didn't necessarily want to open that can of worms (especially if he was likely to lose). He prowled into the kitchen with the excuse of dropping off his dishes, but intending to do get in Peter's space because he wanted to and he could do it.
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Peter heard and almost felt Sylar walk up next to him. He knew he'd just thrown insults and an implied threat at the man. Retaliation seemed imminent, so he tensed further and stood his ground. His hand tightened around the handle of the pan. His hairs prickled at the warmth of Sylar's body and his already roused emotions surged. Without moving an inch from the shoulders down, he turned his head enough to meet Sylar's eyes. One lip curled slightly.
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Wearing another guiltless look, he brushed Peter in the process of setting his bowl in the sink. He could practically smell the other man's tension. Sylar gave a tight grin, "You see my point, though. Killing people is…complicated." With that, he moved back a half step, aiming to defuse Peter.
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Peter snorted disdainfully as Sylar moved away. "It's not complicated – it's wrong! No matter who, or why!" A host of exceptions and circumstances wanted to war with his morals. He ignored it. Staying focused on Sylar was more important.
XXX
Sylar's face showed something, briefly, like a grimace. Even that assertion, such a simple comment, was complicated. Killing some people is just…less wrong than others. I think he might even agree with that, on the inside maybe. At least he's consistent. He holds himself to the same standards. Mostly. Poor Peter lived inside his precious comic books where everything was black and white. Now I have to live the way he thinks life is. (He'll never understand anything). He tactically reorganized in the face of despair. Walking toward the hall and bathroom, he said over his shoulder, "It's time for bed." That was before he slipped his shirt off over his head just for show.
XXX
Peter sighed angrily and looked at the wall in front of him instead of at his infuriating companion. Does he do that on purpose – get me angry and then pretend everything's cool? (Yes, of course he does. The 'picking fights' thing? Duh.) Should I stop falling for it? He was unsure on that. It meant, or it felt like it meant, giving up on some things Peter thought he should always defend. I could make it too expensive for him to poke at me like that. But I'm not sure I want to do that, either. Finished with the dishes (including Sylar's), he turned back. It felt too early in the day for bed, but he was tired, and while sleeping, Sylar was unlikely to keep annoying him. Tomorrow will be another day. He'll be rested. He might not have had any decent sleep for days. Maybe that's why he's trying to start something. (That, and I totally kicked his ass earlier.) A ghost of a smile went over Peter's face and he left the kitchen. "Sure. It's bedtime," he said tensely.
XXX
They both readied for sleep and regrouped in pajamas in bed. Peter faced away from him without a word or touch. Sylar huffed and sighed but lay down to sleep, facing Peter.