Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 37: Bedding Down
Title: Bedding Down
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 1,400
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter can't sleep because he can hear Sylar quietly crying over something he really has no right to.
Notes: This was originally written as a possible future for More Between Us Than A Wall, Chapter 58 (chapter 58 not yet published at date of publication).
Peter settled into bed. Christmas Day. What a weird one. It had been strange enough to mostly keep his mind off the underlying perversity of where, how, and who he was spending it with. His mind wasn't racing nervously, but it was still firing along at a waking pace, refusing to stop thinking about things, even while he knew he ought to sleep.
He turned his attention to a game he liked to play with himself, where he thought about what he'd do with a particular ability. Not that he constrained himself to realistic endeavors - it was just daydreaming and mind-play without any of the stodgy strategic planning his father would have approved of. No, this was 'staring out the window', 'head lost in the clouds', 'rose-colored glasses' dreaming that hooked up with Peter's love of heroes and the heroic. What would I do if I could fly? What if I had super-strength? What if I could turn invisible? He paused on that one, thinking it over. I think I'd go stop terrorists from making dirty bombs and blowing up New York City. Because it would be terrorists and not people like me who'd be blowing the place up. I'd eavesdrop on their plans and follow them back to their secret lair in some closed-off subway tunnel, then I'd race back to tell the cops and even lead them there. Everyone would cheer because I'd been the one to- Wait, what was that?
He listened. Is Sylar choking out there? Peter threw off the blankets and levered himself out of bed to check on his flatmate. He padded to the door, cracking it quietly. Outside, in the main part of the apartment, it was silent. But, you know, if he's really choking, he wouldn't necessarily be making any noise. He's probably just having another bad dream. He slowly swept open the door and snuck over to Sylar's, which stood ajar.
There was enough light filtering dimly through the windows from the starry sky outside that he could make out where Sylar lay and some of the details of his hunched posture. Must have been a dream. But do I wake him if it's over now? Just then, Sylar's shoulders shook and a choked-off sob escaped him - the same sound Peter had heard earlier. That the guy was trying to keep himself from making any noise tore at Peter's heart, not to mention the crying itself.
He knew what it was about. Yeah, it could have been because of a dream, but Peter knew it wasn't. He knew with perfect certainty that the quiet grieving was because he'd refused to sleep in the same room with Sylar. It was such a stupid thing for a sane, mature adult to be fixated on. Peter had trouble even figuring out why Sylar was so desirous of the proximity. Yeah, he'd been lonely and being alone was his biggest fear, but sleeping in different rooms was pretty normal behavior for people who could barely stand each other. It was amazing enough that Sylar had managed to maneuver Peter into sharing an apartment when he had the whole rest of the world to be in. Yet when Peter had resolutely stalked off to the other bedroom earlier that evening, he'd caught a little of Sylar's expression. That was why he was sure of why the man was crying now.
Peter didn't feel guilty about it; he didn't see that he'd done anything wrong in asserting his own boundaries. Sylar did not have a right to his presence, attention, or snores. Even if granting that last was harmless and free, it was still something of Peter's to grant or not. A lack of guilt didn't mean, though, that he was unmoved by the man's stifled weeping. Peter understood disappointment and the bitterness of having something you treasured and wanted and hoped for taken away. He understood the aching need in Sylar's heart for some proof the world had not abandoned him, especially during sleep - the most vulnerable and defenseless period a person inevitably had. Peter had slept in a chair next to Sylar's bed the night before, giving him something of what he wanted, but it had been too cramped for Peter to do it again.
He straightened from his stealthy skulking and walked to the bed, hearing the sudden hitching gasp when Sylar heard his approach. Utter silence reigned after that as Sylar held his breath. Peter sat on the edge of the bed, extending his right hand to touch the man on the left shoulder. “Hey,” Peter said very softly, almost tenderly. Asking if he was okay was asinine. Asking why he was crying seemed similarly pointless - the reason was glaringly obvious. Peter sighed and rubbed gently, offering, “Do you want a hug?”
He suspected his tone of voice had a lot to do with Sylar's reaction. It was quiet and low, the same inflection a mother might use to tell a bedtime story to a beloved child. Sylar didn't answer, but he did start breathing again, then turned to look at Peter warily, his features lost in faint shadow from the windows. “Come here,” Peter soothed. “It's okay.”
Sylar swallowed noisily, shifted and sat up. He gave Peter an incredibly awkward, shallow hug, as if afraid of imposing too much. Peter snaked his arms around the man in a slow, steady fashion, feeling along for any sign that what he was doing was unwelcome. Sylar shuddered, but it was a strangled sob of relief and not rejection. Peter wrapped himself around him and hugged him tight, not letting go as seconds and then minutes floated by, measured out by the ticking clock on the night stand - something Peter had gotten him, the only gift that had been given. Maybe it was a house-warming present; maybe it was just a formality. Peter wasn't able yet to do more; Sylar was still too damaged to even recognize the small gesture. But they were getting there. Slowly, gradually, as the sniffling breaths returned to normal, Sylar let his hands inch around Peter's back until they crossed the spine heading in different directions, letting his long limbs settle into a mirror image of Peter's. Peter thought about how Sylar wasn't even sure how to hug.
Peter stroked up and down Sylar's back, gently comforting the man who had taken his brother such a short time before. Sylar's humanity and fragility showed itself in a multitude of ways. Peter couldn't ignore them, murderer or not. At long last, Sylar quietly and meekly laid his head on Peter's shoulder, letting the tension flow out of him. He was very warm, hot from getting worked up, and had that aroma of sleep and restfulness that Peter adored on people. “It's going to be okay, Sylar,” he murmured. “It's going to be okay.” Sylar sniffed again, giving him a squeeze and the slightest shake of his head. But he didn't actually disagree.
“You want me to sleep with you?” Peter offered spontaneously because it was his to offer. Sylar wasn't expecting or demanding that Peter be with him; he was just sad that he wasn't. And that - that, made Peter want to help.
Another noisy swallow, a shallow breath, and Sylar whispered, “Yes,” like he couldn't believe it might happen.
“Kay,” Peter said, ego immensely stroked by Sylar's astonishment. “I'll be right back,” Peter murmured, getting to his feet and going for the pillows off the guest room bed. When he returned, Sylar had scooted over. Even in the darkness, Peter could see the man's eyes were wide. Another wave of gratification passed over him - Sylar's appreciation was profound and that was everything Peter wanted. He was being heroic, in such a small way, being cheered and applauded by a grateful audience.
He put the pillows between them, because yeah, he was going to sleep with Sylar, but he wasn't going to 'sleep with Sylar'. (Although he had to admit to himself that if the guy would be this thankful if Peter made love with him then … it would be a lot harder to resist than Peter had thought.) He bypassed the chair, slid under the covers, smiled gently in Sylar's direction, and said, “Good night.”
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 1,400
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter can't sleep because he can hear Sylar quietly crying over something he really has no right to.
Notes: This was originally written as a possible future for More Between Us Than A Wall, Chapter 58 (chapter 58 not yet published at date of publication).
Peter settled into bed. Christmas Day. What a weird one. It had been strange enough to mostly keep his mind off the underlying perversity of where, how, and who he was spending it with. His mind wasn't racing nervously, but it was still firing along at a waking pace, refusing to stop thinking about things, even while he knew he ought to sleep.
He turned his attention to a game he liked to play with himself, where he thought about what he'd do with a particular ability. Not that he constrained himself to realistic endeavors - it was just daydreaming and mind-play without any of the stodgy strategic planning his father would have approved of. No, this was 'staring out the window', 'head lost in the clouds', 'rose-colored glasses' dreaming that hooked up with Peter's love of heroes and the heroic. What would I do if I could fly? What if I had super-strength? What if I could turn invisible? He paused on that one, thinking it over. I think I'd go stop terrorists from making dirty bombs and blowing up New York City. Because it would be terrorists and not people like me who'd be blowing the place up. I'd eavesdrop on their plans and follow them back to their secret lair in some closed-off subway tunnel, then I'd race back to tell the cops and even lead them there. Everyone would cheer because I'd been the one to- Wait, what was that?
He listened. Is Sylar choking out there? Peter threw off the blankets and levered himself out of bed to check on his flatmate. He padded to the door, cracking it quietly. Outside, in the main part of the apartment, it was silent. But, you know, if he's really choking, he wouldn't necessarily be making any noise. He's probably just having another bad dream. He slowly swept open the door and snuck over to Sylar's, which stood ajar.
There was enough light filtering dimly through the windows from the starry sky outside that he could make out where Sylar lay and some of the details of his hunched posture. Must have been a dream. But do I wake him if it's over now? Just then, Sylar's shoulders shook and a choked-off sob escaped him - the same sound Peter had heard earlier. That the guy was trying to keep himself from making any noise tore at Peter's heart, not to mention the crying itself.
He knew what it was about. Yeah, it could have been because of a dream, but Peter knew it wasn't. He knew with perfect certainty that the quiet grieving was because he'd refused to sleep in the same room with Sylar. It was such a stupid thing for a sane, mature adult to be fixated on. Peter had trouble even figuring out why Sylar was so desirous of the proximity. Yeah, he'd been lonely and being alone was his biggest fear, but sleeping in different rooms was pretty normal behavior for people who could barely stand each other. It was amazing enough that Sylar had managed to maneuver Peter into sharing an apartment when he had the whole rest of the world to be in. Yet when Peter had resolutely stalked off to the other bedroom earlier that evening, he'd caught a little of Sylar's expression. That was why he was sure of why the man was crying now.
Peter didn't feel guilty about it; he didn't see that he'd done anything wrong in asserting his own boundaries. Sylar did not have a right to his presence, attention, or snores. Even if granting that last was harmless and free, it was still something of Peter's to grant or not. A lack of guilt didn't mean, though, that he was unmoved by the man's stifled weeping. Peter understood disappointment and the bitterness of having something you treasured and wanted and hoped for taken away. He understood the aching need in Sylar's heart for some proof the world had not abandoned him, especially during sleep - the most vulnerable and defenseless period a person inevitably had. Peter had slept in a chair next to Sylar's bed the night before, giving him something of what he wanted, but it had been too cramped for Peter to do it again.
He straightened from his stealthy skulking and walked to the bed, hearing the sudden hitching gasp when Sylar heard his approach. Utter silence reigned after that as Sylar held his breath. Peter sat on the edge of the bed, extending his right hand to touch the man on the left shoulder. “Hey,” Peter said very softly, almost tenderly. Asking if he was okay was asinine. Asking why he was crying seemed similarly pointless - the reason was glaringly obvious. Peter sighed and rubbed gently, offering, “Do you want a hug?”
He suspected his tone of voice had a lot to do with Sylar's reaction. It was quiet and low, the same inflection a mother might use to tell a bedtime story to a beloved child. Sylar didn't answer, but he did start breathing again, then turned to look at Peter warily, his features lost in faint shadow from the windows. “Come here,” Peter soothed. “It's okay.”
Sylar swallowed noisily, shifted and sat up. He gave Peter an incredibly awkward, shallow hug, as if afraid of imposing too much. Peter snaked his arms around the man in a slow, steady fashion, feeling along for any sign that what he was doing was unwelcome. Sylar shuddered, but it was a strangled sob of relief and not rejection. Peter wrapped himself around him and hugged him tight, not letting go as seconds and then minutes floated by, measured out by the ticking clock on the night stand - something Peter had gotten him, the only gift that had been given. Maybe it was a house-warming present; maybe it was just a formality. Peter wasn't able yet to do more; Sylar was still too damaged to even recognize the small gesture. But they were getting there. Slowly, gradually, as the sniffling breaths returned to normal, Sylar let his hands inch around Peter's back until they crossed the spine heading in different directions, letting his long limbs settle into a mirror image of Peter's. Peter thought about how Sylar wasn't even sure how to hug.
Peter stroked up and down Sylar's back, gently comforting the man who had taken his brother such a short time before. Sylar's humanity and fragility showed itself in a multitude of ways. Peter couldn't ignore them, murderer or not. At long last, Sylar quietly and meekly laid his head on Peter's shoulder, letting the tension flow out of him. He was very warm, hot from getting worked up, and had that aroma of sleep and restfulness that Peter adored on people. “It's going to be okay, Sylar,” he murmured. “It's going to be okay.” Sylar sniffed again, giving him a squeeze and the slightest shake of his head. But he didn't actually disagree.
“You want me to sleep with you?” Peter offered spontaneously because it was his to offer. Sylar wasn't expecting or demanding that Peter be with him; he was just sad that he wasn't. And that - that, made Peter want to help.
Another noisy swallow, a shallow breath, and Sylar whispered, “Yes,” like he couldn't believe it might happen.
“Kay,” Peter said, ego immensely stroked by Sylar's astonishment. “I'll be right back,” Peter murmured, getting to his feet and going for the pillows off the guest room bed. When he returned, Sylar had scooted over. Even in the darkness, Peter could see the man's eyes were wide. Another wave of gratification passed over him - Sylar's appreciation was profound and that was everything Peter wanted. He was being heroic, in such a small way, being cheered and applauded by a grateful audience.
He put the pillows between them, because yeah, he was going to sleep with Sylar, but he wasn't going to 'sleep with Sylar'. (Although he had to admit to himself that if the guy would be this thankful if Peter made love with him then … it would be a lot harder to resist than Peter had thought.) He bypassed the chair, slid under the covers, smiled gently in Sylar's direction, and said, “Good night.”