Day 71, February 19, Morning
Sylar meanwhile lazily stared at Peter's face, mostly those big hazel/brown eyes. Petrelli eyes. Petrelli face. Yet this man would always be a contradiction when Sylar's memories held him as a kind, stubborn brother and reality was…complicated, in flux. He moved with the motions, allowing any additional touching, ready for those hands to stray down to his neck or up to his forehead. "It's…" Sylar swallowed, "on the inside. A cut, I think."
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"Can I see?" Peter asked. He put the gauze down on his knee, lifting the now-empty hand halfway. His other hand moved from Sylar's chin to his cheek. It was probably unnecessary to brace him, but Peter didn't want to stop the contact. It was like a mild narcotic, soothing him with the faint, buzzing tingle between them. He liked it.
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Sylar took that literally. It amused him greatly, how erotic this could be, how easy Peter was. Peter asking to see what was doubtlessly a tiny cut, hardly remarkable. A cut inside his mouth, after the empath had already been cleaning around his lips. "It's on that side," he indicated his right cheek, clumsily plucking down his lower lip. "I can't see it…" He wanted to see if he could lure Peter in, if he could get the man's fingers in his mouth, and oh, the things he could do with that.
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Peter took the lip between thumb and forefinger, glancing at Sylar to make sure he had permission, since it hadn't been given explicitly. Sylar's expression was plenty...explicit. Peter had seen less interest on the faces of people about give blow jobs. He smiled a little, his own lips parting. He rolled the lip over and leaned forward a little. He had to shift the grip once to find the spot – a shallow incision, nothing to worry about.
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Sylar opened his mouth wider than necessary, keeping his lips slack, eyelids hooded. He considered a hypothetical situation where Peter suddenly made him suck on his fingers, humiliating and explicit, but not beyond what was on offer. For his part, Sylar imagined at least a dozen things he could do to entice, hint, or even overtly seduce Peter with just fingers applied to his mouth. He thought about doing them. What did that that mean, having Peter's fingers practically in his mouth, touching his saliva, probing into him?
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Peter could feel himself being drawn in, much more than he wanted to be. "There's nothing I can do about that. It looks like it will be okay." He moved his hand back to Sylar's chin, pulling his face down a little so as to get a good, straight-on look at him, trying to find his anger from before to create some distance between them. He met Sylar's eyes for several seconds, holding the look as he took him in. In a voice only slightly rougher than he'd been using before, he said, "You're the last person he saw, the last face my brother laid eyes on." Not a bad face, really. Peter let his hand fall away, but he didn't move back. He wasn't finding the same emotion as before. He felt empty and sad instead, like his rage was a limited commodity that he'd spent. Peter looked down at the blood-stained gauze on his knee. He picked it up to wipe at some of the blood on his knuckles before looking back at Sylar. "You said something before that made it sound like you stayed with Nathan while he died. Did you? Was there a…routine or something you had for when you…?" He was not angry, loud, or accusing. He simply wanted to know.
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Sylar tensed but didn't withdraw, not yet. His expression shuttered. It nearly stung, the jab about his face. "No," he hedged about staying with Nathan until death, giving a restricted miniature shrug. "I don't." That wasn't entirely true. At the height of his prowess in hunting, he'd had a system of stalking and cornering his targets. The get-away was…less certain. Claire had been the strangest by far, actively speaking with him, questioning him as he searched through her brain. Nathan was…so simple, quick – too easy. In his opinion, it was a pointless attempt at attacking him or even at stopping his accession to power. It was strangely offensive. He felt sure Peter was categorizing him with other mundane killers he'd read about or implying some humanity in him that simply wasn't there.
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Peter sighed, looking away, but staying where he was. He didn't want this to become an argument, much less a fight. He tried to explain. "A death watch is an important part of passing out of this world. You're witnessing and … honoring someone. No one wants to be alone, at the end." Peter looked back to Sylar, lips pursed, eyes intent. "You understand that, right?"
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Sylar grit his teeth. Peter was hitting on another sore point, a major contention he had with the Company and its heroes. And now he's treating me like I'm some stunted, stupid creature who could never understand that. Of course I fucking understand! The mere topic sent anger crashing through him where it hadn't been even during the fight. (Why did Hiro bother saying 'sorry' when he told me I would die alone?) "I understand it." His voice was tight, a confused tone of spitting the words and grating them out, not bothering to hide his anger. "Don't pretend you would have held my hand if you'd succeeded at Stanton." Hell, he kind of did, with the syringe in the President's car. Fucker. "And what about trying to roast me like a discarded marshmallow at the Coyote Sands Petrelli Family Barbeque in the middle of nowhere? What a dignified, convenient way to make me disappear. No paper trails or red tape. Hell, there wouldn't even be any clean up."
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"You can add that to the list of reasons why I don't eat meat, right after 'Ricky' and having tasted my own blood too many times." He rolled his eyes and huffed. But back to the subject, he thought, None of that was my idea. But that, Peter knew, had nothing to do with the morality of his behavior in the incident. He pursed his lips, displeased with Sylar's continuing venom. "If they had asked my opinion, then I would have said I thought it was okay to have your remains buried in a graveyard for people with abilities, especially one where you didn't have any victims." He gave Sylar a sour look, expressing his opinion of how difficult it would probably be to find a group burial ground for specials that didn't feature someone murdered by the serial killer. "It was a lot better resting place than a storage locker. From what you've said," Peter said slowly with half a question, "you didn't have any family to notify." Not that I asked at the time. I should have. I remember thinking about it. Just as he remembered leaving it to the others so he could extract himself from the whole grisly situation as quickly as possible.
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Sylar glared. The unequal treatment again. Please, remind me how I'm similar to normal people or even other specials again, he thought with biting sarcasm. His ire edged back a bit at the mention of family, or rather, his lack of family even when he'd had it. The Company didn't notify my mother when they planned to lock me away forever and torture me to death over and over. I would just…disappear.
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"Who was that guy, anyway – the one we burned? Why did they just happen to have a shape-shifter who looked like you?" Peter knew the answer as soon as the words left his lips. The shape-shifter would have had to have touched Sylar to take his shape – and Sylar had shape-shifting now. The chain of events was obvious, aside from the question of how Sylar's victim had gotten into Peter's mother's hands – or maybe Noah was to blame/credit for it, Peter didn't know, but in either case, he didn't want to fight about it. Peter put a hand on Sylar's knee and looked down for a moment, sober and disappointed that he'd even asked. He looked up again. "Who was he?"
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Sylar waited, merely staring at his companion until he comprehended. It didn't take long. He looked down at the unnecessary hand touching his knee and then at Peter's bowed head. I'm confused. Who is he really sorry for? For a moment, he longed for the forgiveness he imagined the gesture granted. It hit him so hard he couldn't react for several long seconds, frozen and breathless. The feeling that someone understood him and everything about him was so precious and rare, though Peter did manage it sometimes. It's…enough, he told himself, knowing all the same that Peter didn't mean it that way, didn't understand (and certainly didn't forgive), and was probably thinking something else entirely. Does it make any difference that Danko helped me find and kill Martin? "James Martin. When I- we found him, he was a high school geometry teacher. Or, pretending to be."
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Something struck Peter. He cocked his head, a confused expression coming over him. "If you killed him, why wasn't his skull cut into?" Peter pointed to his own forehead to illustrate how the shape-shifter had not been missing the top of his head. "Unless you didn't kill him. How did he die?"
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Sylar gave him a squinted side-eye, pleased Peter could keep up on more than just the obvious. "I needed to touch his brain, so I cut into the back of his head, got what I needed, and made it look like someone stabbed him in the back of the head to cover the incision. I'd hoped to fool Bennet, but…" He rolled his eyes to say 'c'est le vie.' "I had too much fun fucking with his head after that," a half smirk betrayed the evil he'd inflicted as long-planned vengeance. "Aren't you supposed to be taking care of me?"
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"Talking about people you've killed and fucked over doesn't do good things for my desire to help you," Peter said with a judgmental frown. He looked Sylar up and down, shifting his own weight back so he was sitting on one butt cheek rather than kneeling actively close. It was a more relaxed pose, while giving him a foot more distance between them. He felt like he was getting honesty out of Sylar, but at the same time, it was unpleasant truths. Peter uncapped the water bottle he'd been using to wet gauze and took a long pull off it. "You look okay. What you need next is ice." He wet the gauze further and finished cleaning his hand. He fussed over a small cut over one knuckle. "This is probably from your teeth." Furrowing his brow, he reached up and touched over the bite mark, another legacy of Sylar's teeth. "Mouthy bastard," Peter muttered with no anger at all, as though it were a neutral observation. Peter's only other injuries of note were the bruise on his cheek from getting socked in the face and his generally wrenched right shoulder. He could live with that. "What did you do to Bennet, anyway?"
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"You don't want to know," Sylar snorted quickly. He's so naïve; why does he want to know such awful things? He wanted to ask a few questions of his own. "How did that feel, beating me up? Was it good for you, too?"
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Peter grimaced at the non-answer for Noah, then his face blanked for Sylar's questions. He's uncomfortable about what I'm asking. This is the second time he's tried to divert the topic – first was saying I needed to be taking care of him instead of asking him this stuff. He weighed it in his head and decided to let it go – let Sylar have his way and drop the subject. He turned his thoughts to what Sylar was asking. Peter lifted his head, making a long inhale, then breathing out just as slowly. "I liked it," he admitted, watching Sylar carefully. The 'too' implied Sylar had enjoyed it as well, or that might only be sarcasm. "Did you get what you wanted out of it?"
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"Uhmm," Sylar hummed appreciatively when Peter answered the affirmative. That was the point of it all. Well, one of the points anyway. He answered calm and smug with a considerable smirk on his face, "Sure."
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"Okay then." Peter wadded up the damp gauze and collected the various scraps of wrapper. "Sounds to me like we're done talking – you've tried to change the subject a couple times now and you're giving me non-answers even when you don't." Stuff gathered, he stood and offered Sylar a hand up (the one not currently occupied with trash). "Let's go upstairs and get some ice on your face. Mine, too."
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Sylar rolled his eyes and didn't care if Peter saw it. He eyed the hand extended to him, then looked up the arm to Peter's eyes.
"I stalked him. I showed him Martin's body, watched his reactions. I played with his paranoia, had him chasing shadows. He was certain I was alive but no one believed him. Danko wanted to fuck with him, too. He helped me do it. I made Bennet, and the government, think he'd shot an innocent agent when he was so convinced it was me. And it was! I put him on the run. I was going to fuck him using his wife's body – surprisingly they were having issues," he said the last with airy sarcasm.
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Peter's hand fell away, but he remained where he was, repelled, repulsed, and still hanging on Sylar's every word. Too easily, he could imagine Noah's state of mind, being hunted and harassed over what must have been days, by a fickle yet implacable stalker. Peter had felt hunted here - the stacks of cans at his apartment door hadn't been merely for show.
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"I found something better. I sent him divorce papers and didn't bother to mimic her signature because I knew he'd catch it. I arranged it for him to point a gun at her and threaten her, thinking it was me." Sylar leaned forward a bit, working on his best self-satisfied-and-evil-yet-innocent expression, "I cut him off from other people, his family, his job, what he loved, the people he cared for and tried to protect. I made him afraid of ghosts only he could see." The slightest smile lingered on his lips as he straightened. "I think we can both be grateful that it's you here with me instead of him. Bennet and I would kill each other, when we were through fucking with each other." With a shrug, he summed up, "You wanted to know."
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His voice hollow, Peter asked, "Why would you do that to someone?" He couldn't fathom it. He felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't deny it was all of a pattern. This was the same man who had started to kill Peter's mother right in front of him, had intended to crucify Peter, had fucked Claire up in some manner so visceral and thorough that even her indestructible body didn't heal right.
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Sylar was on his feet in an instant, pointing, waving, roaring and screaming so hard his throat hurt and the room echoed, getting louder as he went on, pouring out in a rush, "Because they did the same – and worse – to me! To other specials! Bennet has probably killed more people than I have! But I forget, he's your Mommy's little assassin, always protecting the family pedigree. Bagging and tagging – one of us, one of them! When I was partnered with him when you were stuck in some inmate's body robbing banks, he tried to have a target suck me into a black hole when our mission was to bring him in. That was after I'd saved Claire from a black hole and tried to apologize! When he knew I was trying to quit! He has hunted me and threatened and hurt and killed anyone I so much as talked to! For years! He was the one who set me up to kill my second victim! I bet he failed to mention any of that!" He inhaled so deeply he found himself leaning back from where he'd hunched forward. He was staring at Peter with eyes so intense he felt he would burn through the man, waiting for the inevitable, pathetic defense of the real monsters.
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Peter backed off a step as Sylar came up, then bristled and set himself defensively when the yelling started. He dropped the guarded posture within seconds though; intent on listening once he figured out this wasn't an immediate prelude to a physical attack. It didn't mean his heart didn't speed up anyway – that was an involuntary empathetic response to Sylar's agitation. The violence of the emotional assault was as hard to weather as had been the horror of what Sylar had confessed doing to Noah. It hurt in a weird way he wasn't unfamiliar with – muscular pangs, pressure on his chest, eyes watering, nerves firing at the wrong moments. Grimacing, Peter took a few steps to the couch, where he sat in a deliberate attempt to calm things down, or at least not contribute to tensions remaining so high.
He clasped his hands, waiting in the moments of jarring silence that followed Sylar's brief tirade. The man wanted a response, an answer…validation. Peter frowned, weighing his ability to validate what had happened against the likelihood that Sylar would see that as approval of it. He didn't see a reason to placate someone who had so intentionally and systematically tortured. "I want to…hurt you for what you did to Noah. I want to walk out of here and never interact with you again. I want to yell back and argue. I want…a lot of things. I have a choice in which one I do." Peter looked up at Sylar, eyes angry. "You're not going to convince me that you didn't have one, too. You chose revenge." Peter snorted. "Funny thing to choose, given how bad off you'd be if everyone else did the same."
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Sylar pivoted to watch Peter seat himself. That Petrelli wasn't leaving meant he was probably listening and that he wasn't immediately defending his scumbag friends meant he wanted to talk more about it. Sylar wasn't sure how to feel about that. His eyes were narrowed, his frame still tense, braced for what came next. As it was, Sylar was…okay with Peter's 'choice' right now. He sensed that wasn't the end of Peter's reaction so he in turn passed over answering anything about revenge or choices.
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He cocked his head, eyes shrewd as he looked up at Sylar. "Did he start it?" Not that it made much of a moral difference, but Peter wanted to know the sequence of events. "Or the Company? You said he set you up with your second victim. Are you saying you'd already killed when they found you?" That made sense, as it explained what had happened to clue them in. Peter's working theory about Sylar was that the man had killed his own mother as his first victim – a traumatizing event that cascaded into everything else.
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Sylar inhaled raggedly, struggling with composure after losing it so thoroughly, blurting out things he hadn't intended to disclose. "Yes," he whispered emphatically to all the questions. "How else would I know about the Company? They always make the first move."
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Peter looked up, undeterred by Sylar's forbidding face. He had hope. "You...can break this cycle. This isn't like taking an ability. You're in control. Don't kill people. Don't torture them. Don't...fuck them as their wives!" He threw his arms wide in an exasperated gesture. "This isn't dominoes where you hit one and it knocks over the next. It's...different. You kill Nathan and you affect me, my mom, Claire, Heidi, two little boys who will never know their father again, whoever he was having an affair with lately, his staff, his friends – a lot of people, Sylar! A lot. Not one. A bunch," he repeated just in case Sylar was foggy on the concept. "Every time you hurt people, you create problems for yourself. It's a ripple effect. Like stepping on butterflies. You can't outrun it forever. You're going to run into things like..." He fished through what he knew of Sylar's life, getting several undesired flashes of things he was pretty sure were Sylar's memories. Peter shook his head in irritation and grabbed at something he knew was his own knowledge. "Like going to Matt to talk and having him trap you here."
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(What else was I supposed to do? Why does no one ever talk to me about that?) He felt low, insulted, and even more misunderstood after he'd just warned Peter not to make assumptions and put words in his mouth. It bothered him that Peter either knew or guessed his purpose for visiting Parkman; it was even more humiliating because Peter probably knew how that encounter ended – and he still preached tolerance for those who abused him. Matt didn't trap me here. "I'm so glad you have it all figured out. You may never have to ask me any questions ever again because it sounds like you understand it all so well. I mean, you were just the paragon of discipline and forgiveness when you had my ability." Sylar's sarcasm was well-delivered but cutting like acid.
"Don't even talk to me, Petrelli. Don't even feel curious about why I don't talk about myself or my past; you'll condemn me if I talk or if I don't. Just enjoy demonizing me. That's clearly all your tiny mind can handle." He made a pinching motion next to his temple, eyes narrowed. "And I didn't come here for a lecture." Sylar shrugged his shoulders a few times to stretch his stinging back even through the numbing spray. "If it pisses you off so much," he pointed back to the resistance band lying on the floor, "you know I'm up for Round Two."
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Peter listened. He took in the body language – Sylar was in unsurprising physical discomfort, and the suggestion to take another whipping was an indicator of how little the man appreciated being lectured. Because Yes, Peter acknowledge to himself, that was a lecture. He leaned back on the couch, arms spread to either side along the back and frowned at his still-shirtless companion. A judgy, you-know-better-so-why-did-you-do-it lecture. I knew better, too. Both when I had his ability and now – that I shouldn't talk to him that way. He'll cut me off if I do and not tell me anything. He let his eyes fall from Sylar's face to the band, the previous instrument of flogging. He only regarded it for a moment before dropping his arms and looking to Sylar. "You're right," he said, simple and tight. He rose from the couch and went to take Sylar's elbow.
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I am? Sylar couldn't prevent his initial surprised reaction, though it immediately begged the question, About what? Peter stood and approached him, reaching out to touch his arm, but he didn't get the feeling this was something leading into Round Two. At least standing still, allowing the touch, waiting for directions worked in any case.
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"Come on," he said, voice gentler. He didn't try to move Sylar by his arm, but indicated the way out with a wave of his free hand. "Upstairs. Ice. I don't want Round Two right now." He waited for Sylar to respond, not looking or feeling particularly apologetic for his monologue, but wanting to change the subject.
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It was Peter's patient tone of voice and the lack of push/pulling on his arm that sold him instantly – there would be no second go-round. Maybe that's for the best. I'm not…doing what he wants. Not answering him or…lying? (Does he want me to lie? Or deny I have an evil nature?) I bit him. He didn't like that, not the blood anyway. He thought this as he took two steps forward to the pool table for his shirt, then turned, preceding Peter into the lobby. "What am I right about?" his murmur sounded raspy to his ears.
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"You didn't come here for a lecture," Peter answered, taking a step back himself to pick up the medical bag and toss the aerosol can in it. "You've told me you've already tried a lot of stuff to…stop killing. I know it's not as easy as just not doing it." Peter chuckled. "Like an ability-related 'just say no' campaign." He smiled at Sylar, who looked blank. "I'm glad you don't have your ability here, or at least that aspect of it." He gave Sylar a guarded look as they walked into the lobby to the elevators. "Do you think you would have been able to control it if you did? For this long? Because I know you weren't killing everyone you met. You had to have some control." Peter's brow furrowed as new thoughts occurred to him. "At least towards the end. In the beginning, was that how it was – anyone you saw with an ability was an immediate target?" It would explain a lot.
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The new subject made him regret asking, starting up Peter's unending questions once again. Control. If he said he had control or could control it (as Peter had noticed), then it made his actions almost entirely ones of choice. If he said he didn't have control, then he would appear weak, addicted, and indeed, controlled by his own ability. Technically, Petrelli had asked two questions. Neither was preferable. So to avoid them, Sylar answered with what he hoped was a more provocative question, "What did it feel like for you?" He jammed his thumb into the 'up' button of the elevator.
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Peter shrugged, then regretted the motion. He grunted and rubbed at his right shoulder. He noticed the evasion, but dismissed it for the moment. "For the short time I had it, it was just a drive. Like...propelling me." His brow furrowed. "Curiosity, maybe. I wanted to know. I wanted answers." He frowned at the floor of the elevator, thinking about how good it felt to be able to talk about this with someone, finally. "Speaking of which, how did the control you had work? Do you know why you picked some people but not others?"
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Sylar sighed, staring up at the ascending numbered lights blinking too slowly, trapping him with this dialogue. "Is that how your ability works? You understand the exact reason or trait or emotion that you latch onto when you copy someone's ability?"
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Two evasions. Peter arched a brow at Sylar, considering mentioning it, but deciding it was too rude. He turned his attention to the question he'd been asked. "With my first ability, at first I didn't know when I'd get an ability. It just happened. But later on, I learned to feel it when it happened. It was sort of like..." Peter leaned to the side to illustrate his words, "when you're off-balance somehow, and I'd feel that ability click into place," he straightened, "and everything would be right." He smiled. "That was usually a good feeling. It wasn't like that until when I was with Adam." They exited the elevator on the penthouse floor. "Even then, I didn't have any way to not get an ability."
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That had his attention. He turned to look at Peter, gazing at him as if he could discern the truth (not that he suspected Peter was lying) or rather, confirm it. "Oh," was his elegant reply. It made perfect sense. Their abilities were similar – of course it would feel 'right' and good to have that connection in Peter's case. For a moment, he felt envy. Peter had that elusive human element that didn't involve murder, blood, or hunting or being on the run. Peter could feel a very similar high and maintain a relationship with the person without acting outside of society or the law.
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They went in the apartment. Peter set the medical bag on the table and glanced over at Sylar. The man didn't volunteer to answer any of the several questions Peter had asked or to elaborate on the 'oh'. So Peter spoke on. "When I first got my current ability, it was sort of the same way – I'd touch people and get their abilities without even meaning to. But I've been getting more control lately. It's not automatic unless I'm really distracted, so I can hold the same one without losing it just because I brushed up against the wrong person."
"My ability and yours aren't the same, though." He reached into the freezer for the ice packs they'd brought back from the Y. Peter's movements slowed as he considered what he'd just said. "Do you think that's true?" He crossed the room to offer an ice pack to Sylar, then looked at his empty hand after Sylar had taken the pack. "Do I touch people because I want to or because...I have to?" He was very hesitant and spooked about that thought, feeling his way through it and trying to remember his motivations for doing things so normal that he'd never given them any thought. It was like trying to pin down why he liked variety. Or people. His eyes had an unfocused look to them as he saw past his hand, trying to remember.
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Sylar had since trudged to the bed, meaning to sit down. When he got there, he remembered how filthy and possibly bloody he was. Setting his shirt aside, he stood there as if lost, waiting for something, still listening. He pursed his lips tiredly at the denial that their abilities were 'the same.' They weren't, and so far Sylar had said several things to differentiate them. But Peter was going out of his way to demean Sylar's ability and claim his own was some angelic form. He really didn't feel like talking though he had things he could say; and he couldn't tell if Peter was distracted and thinking aloud or actually asking. "What do you think?" he said, pressing the ice pack to his face – because how was he to put it on his back or anywhere else right now?
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Peter thought on that for a few moments, finally answering with the simple truth, "I do it because I like it." He reached out and touched a few fingers along the outer edge of Sylar's shoulder. "As for 'why do I like it?', I don't know. I just know I do." He let his hand drop. "And it's something I can not do, or choose not to do, at least for a while. I...picked a job where I could help people...and touch them, I guess, but that sounds wrong. I don't mean it that way." He shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, this isn't sexual. You know that, right? It's not for you – your ability."
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It's an addiction. A vice. A weakness, Sylar summed up. He braced for the touch without moving a muscle. Peter's near-constant touching quickly took a new meaning. He watched Peter intently, picking up on the other man's nervousness. That's when the answers flooded in, explaining Peter's behavior: all the unnecessary touching, the medical care, sleeping together, the questions, offers to talk...When Peter admitted to taking his ability in the past or some imagined future and now claimed he had people to save and had arrived here specifically to get Sylar to do that. Peter just wasn't willing to fuck to get what he needed, but other manipulations were apparently acceptable. Sylar felt his heart drop into his stomach. It was all for his ability, or one of them in any case. Petrelli had played the game so well. I knew something was going on. I asked him…How did I not see it? Petrelli had been honest in one thing, at least: he did not come here for me.
Clearly, Petrelli was hoping to empathize with him, rubbing shoulders just enough to get one of his abilities. That was the only reason for his continued presence here. Once Petrelli got what he wanted…he would disappear, gone as soon as he'd arrived. If for no other reason, Sylar couldn't allow that to happen, though it complicated everything. He didn't know how he was going to care for his back without Peter and the inevitable contact. It complicated things even further, now that they'd made their agreement with Peter hurting him, 'helping' him after, and Sylar forced to make a choice about whether or not he could refuse that 'help.' He was still gazing at Petrelli because he had yet to look away. "And you have to touch someone to get their ability," his voice lilted in slight question.
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Peter looked back into Sylar's eyes, trying to figure out what was going on there. The unwavering eye contact, without any indication of friendliness, was setting off warning bells. It made his answer more cagey than he'd been talking before. I've been talking about myself too much. But he wouldn't talk when I asked him…. Maybe it's just the whole topic? I still need to answer. "Well...yes. I do now. But I touch a lot of people who don't have abilities – my patients, strangers, people I've just met or the ones I've known for a while. It's not something I do to try to detect abilities, if that's what you're getting at." He waited for some confirmation or other response that would confirm where Sylar was emotionally.
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"Hmm." His tone was falsely contemplative, halfway between a grunt and a sigh. Really, he was resigned and…disappointed. In a way, it was better now that Peter's ability was limited. Sylar knew what he had to do, at least, for now.
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Peter turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. He was suspicious, but there was nothing to act on and he wasn't sure what was going on. Sylar seemed upset, but not aggressively so. Knowing the emotion did not elucidate the cause. Did I set him off somehow? Is it me talking about my ability? Or was it before that, when I asked about his? Peter exhaled sharply, nodded to Sylar, and said quietly, "I'll be right back," before going to the bathroom. I think I should just shut up. He washed his hands and face, wetting a cloth to wipe at the bite mark on his neck. Never had anything like that before. It wasn't entirely true - he'd been bitten on the arm once about as badly by an overenthusiastic lover, but this had not been a love-bite. He wasn't sure what it was, because 'battle-scar' wasn't it either. He tossed the cloth on the edge of the sink and got a fresh one damp to take out to Sylar.
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As soon as Peter was making noise in the bathroom, Sylar took his ice pack and snuck out the door and into the hall. I won't let him…try to empathize with me. As if he could. (What if I empathize with him? On accident, of course. He doesn't know about that, does he?) He felt…sad. He'd been so looking forward to consummating their deal, of being taken care of, and what's more, the added bonus of apparently sleeping together. He'd needed it and now…He had to focus on more practical matters. How am I going to clean my back by myself? Was any of this intentional? He had some things planned…Underneath the sadness was anger at himself for falling so thoroughly for such an obvious trap because he'd known Peter was up to something. I didn't push deep enough to figure it out. (I…I didn't want to know). Beneath that, was self-loathing for wanting to believe it. Sylar took the elevator, then walked quickly down to his apartment building. There, he stopped in for pajamas, his most recent mystery novel, and the clock Peter had given him. He would take up residence across the hall.
XXX
"Sylar?" Peter called out after looking around and not seeing the other man. One thing about the artsy open floor plan of the penthouse suite was that it left few places to hide, or even be casually or accidentally unseen. Surely I would have heard if he went out the door, right? But Sylar could be very, very quiet when he wanted to be. Peter stood at the end of the hall, holding the now-useless cloth, wondering what the hell. He checked the guest bedroom just to be sure – it was the only space in the apartment he couldn't see. It was empty. He didn't bother with closets. If Sylar was actively hiding, then he could hide. Maybe he just went down the hall to get something? Maybe he had to pee and went somewhere else because I was in the bathroom. That made sense, even if it would have been polite to say something. Sylar wasn't that talkative, though, so it seemed possible. Peter put away the cloth. He restocked his medical bag and used some of the numbing spray on the bite. He piddled around until enough time had passed that there was no way Sylar had merely stepped out for convenience. Then, Peter walked down the hall and punched the elevator button in an act of basic detective work. It didn't open immediately. He used it since we came up. He took the elevator and left. Why? Was I being that much of an ass? No…this isn't on me. If he didn't like what I was saying, then he should have said something and not just ditched me. Maybe he wanted some time alone after all and didn't realize until now.
The elevator dinged open. After considering his options, Peter took the stairs instead. That's his problem, not mine. The first floor was empty as well. I wonder if he bugged out because I said I had to touch people? I know he doesn't like to be touched. Did that freak him out? Peter scowled. He'd been dumped more than his share of times in his life, and in the times where he felt he'd been at fault, it always came back to him being too needy, clingy, or expressing vulnerabilities and feelings too soon or too profusely. He had consciously decided that wasn't something he was willing to change. If that's why he left, then good riddance. It still hurt. He spent the rest of the day getting his workout in, cleaning up, playing piano, fiddling with the guitar, and reading. When Sylar didn't show up after dinner, Peter retired to his apartment across the wind-blown street, setting up his defenses just in case. Mister Bear had no complaints about him, which was better than having an irascible Sylar around. He slept badly, disturbed by fitful, incomplete snatches of nightmare where Sylar was trying to break into the apartment, intent on taking something or someone from him.
XXX
Sylar moped as he showered, using only lukewarm water after he'd scalded his back on accident and after that, mostly faced the showerhead. He felt miserable without using cold water and his choice also stemmed from a thought about heat and germs. He had clean pajamas of basic soft cotton, and he lay on some ice until it successfully numbed the worst patches. His mystery novel was depressing to read alone and he felt physically, and otherwise, uncomfortable as he struggled to doze off.