More Between Us, Chapter 21/? "People You Might Know"
Chapter 21/? "People You Might Know"
A/N: Violence (fist-fight) and blood.
Day 9
‘I’d know some of them’? I’d know some of the people you’ve killed? Ya think, Sylar? Why the hell do you think I’m so pissed off at you?!? “Anger issues? I’ll give you some anger issues - ’They had it coming?’ Are you serious? That would be funny if we weren’t talking about PEOPLE’S LIVES!” Peter ranted towards the end, gesturing threateningly with the broom. He wanted to hit Sylar with it, but it wasn’t stout enough to do more than annoy the man. “You might be able to talk me into self defense. In certain circumstances maybe,” like that scientist you threw against the wall at Pinehearst and he happened to hit things and died. You threw Mohinder, too - he didn’t hit anything. Then he got up and bashed your brains out. I can see how that would be a deterrent to not finishing people off in future. “But ‘they had it coming’?”
Peter gave a harsh, ringing laugh, turning to sweep energetically and this time doing a better job of it, left-handed and awkward though it was. Whether or not people ‘deserved’ certain treatment had always stuck in his craw - that a prostitute ‘deserved’ to be beaten by her pimp, that a criminal ‘deserved’ to be raped in prison, that a terrorist ‘deserved’ to be tortured for information … Whatever evil was visited on them might be expected, maybe they should have predicted it and known it would happen, but it didn’t mean they deserved it. People who said others deserved it or had it coming were just excusing their own failure to do the right thing.
“That is so fucking entitled. Do you really think that way? Is that …” Oh my God, it might be. Is it? “Is that another effect of your ability?” Peter asked, his voice turning from shaming to … actually a bit curious. “Does your ability make you feel entitled to kill anyone you think ‘has it coming’?” No, it can’t be. Lots of people are that evil without abilities goading them on. Peter’s voice shifted back to accusing and angry. “Or were you always this kind of self-righteous prick and just didn’t have the power to act on it?”
XXX
Sylar’s eyebrows lifted just slightly as he watched Peter put on a show. To someone who didn’t know him, Peter’s emotion might have read ‘anger’ - Sylar knew he wasn’t in any real danger….yet. Peter was just venting and Sylar suspected the awareness of safety came from Nathan. Sylar didn’t give any other sign that he was even effected by the hot air blowing past him.
What does he mean, do I really think that way? Why….I don’t….Sylar was struggling inside to make sense why it, apparently, didn’t make sense to Peter. He’d have me believe….all the shit I grew up with I don’t deserve now I’m a murderer? I deserve it now; it was just a down payment all that time. He frowned and blinked at Peter, strangely hurt at the idea that he didn’t deserve what he’d gotten, but he couldn’t place that. Then how does it work? He decided to ask.
“What other way can it work, Peter?” He snorted to hold off a more vulnerable expression, “Yeah, I think that way.” Unlike you, Peter, my parents felt I deserved shit and I wasn’t anyone’s golden boy to prove them wrong. Sylar’s expression took on genuine confusion, probably telegraphing just how far he was out of his depth in all matters moral (Of course, the perfect person to be in said argument with - Peter Petrelli). What does my ability have to do with that? I have….what is he talking about?
“Don’t display your ignorance, Peter. I was always this self-righteous, as you put it,” another powerfully useless and telling bit of honesty, way to go! Sylar mocked himself internally. “Powers manifest from….somewhere inside you, your greatest desire in a sense. You, you want to help people and heal the world. Save the goddamn cheerleader and all that. Nathan wanted to fly high and avoid his problems, avoid his family. Claire doesn’t want to be hurt. Look what abilities you’ve all manifested from that. It’s not just a random draw, even if your genes are,” Sylar finished off his impassioned speech, pulling away a little since he was sure to get bashed for that and the people he’d used as examples. Maybe throwing them out for examination would help him avoid the spotlight on his own manifestations.
XXX
Peter kept sweeping, working his way across the sidewalk, getting closer to his companion as he did. He glanced up at Sylar’s first words, taking in his expression, and didn’t answer right away. That was okay, because Sylar went on. Peter’s expression turned from mostly contemptuous but a little contemplative, to merely annoyed and somewhat patronizing as Sylar confessed to being self-righteous and began to lecture about powers. Then Sylar mentioned Nathan’s name and Peter almost stopped moving, looking up, eyes narrowed, poised like he was going to attack. Sylar’s words passed through him without pushing any buttons. Peter reviewed them internally again, and then a second time, glancing away as he looked for the barb. Huh. He was kind of surprised there wasn’t an insult there. Just an observation. Not the most complimentary one, maybe, but Nathan had his flaws. Who better to know them than the guy with his memories?
“Yeah, yeah, I suppose that’s true about Nathan,” he conceded, muttering almost too quietly to be heard. He went back to sweeping, giving himself a little shake. He thought, really thought hard, about what Sylar had said. ‘I was always this self-righteous’. Ha. Self-righteousness as a power. I’d think that would be my dad, and that ability he had to issue commands.
When Sylar finished, Peter sighed and stopped sweeping, pretending to lean on the broom a little but not actually putting any weight on it. “Okay, I’ll agree there’s some link between personality traits and abilities, but that’s sort of like saying there’s a link between a person’s job and who they really are, inside. Not everyone ends up with a job that plays to their strengths. Lots of people have really strong emotions and never manifest abilities.
“There’s nothing special about the way we - people with abilities - feel, or who we are. We aren’t privileged or have moral superiority over others or have some divine right to kill or let live. We happen to have abilities,” Peter pointed briefly at Sylar in emphasis, although for the most part he'd calmed down, “just like you happen to be healthy, intelligent and mobile.” Peter shook his head briefly. “Those aren’t traits everyone gets, any more than they get abilities. Some people are sick all their lives, are mentally handicapped, or crippled. That doesn’t mean that someone like yourself is a better person than they are. They don’t ‘have it coming’ just because you decide they do.”
XXX
Sylar knew speaking about the brother-that-shall-not-be-mentioned was a bad idea, but he was a good example. “Well, if you want to be simple minded about it. I know how you feel about abilities, Peter; ‘meant for something bigger’, ‘why were we given these unless they have a purpose?’ We are privileged, like it or not. Let me know if you get any divine intervention for our grand purpose on this stupid rock.” Not that it mattered. I sure haven’t had any luck figuring it out and fate seems to favor him so if anyone’s getting a damn answer, it would be Wonder Breath. God, that’s so unfair. The one person with debatably the least amount of brains always seems to be stumbling one step ahead of his betters. Then he wonders why he annoys the hell out of people?
XXX
Those aren’t your memories! Peter wanted to snap at Sylar repeating lines Peter had spoken to Nathan. Instead he just moved restlessly, going so far as to shift his grip on the broom before shaking his head at himself and going back to sweeping. It’s not his fault. He didn’t put those memories in his own head. He’s just talking. He huffed. “We have abilities. That’s ...” he struggled to find a difference between ‘privileged’ and ‘different’. “That’s not the same thing as having a right to dictate other’s lives.” I seem to be arguing as much with dad here as him. I wonder how much they talked?
XXX
Lots of memories of saving Peter’s ass from walking off rooftops and getting mixed up with //Dad// and Pinehearst rushed over him. All those times Peter tried to prove something to something unseen, try and find his purpose or whatever and he, Nathan, was always left to clean up the mess.
As if to back up his main point, something from inside him bubbled up and out: //“Ma said she and Dad gave me my ability, Pete.”// Oh, holy fuck, that did not just….Sylar’s eyes flew wide. If what Angela said was true, Nathan was a synthetic special, probably one of the few that succeeded, both in surviving without defects and succeeding in the world. (If Nathan’s synthetic ability molded to his desire, his personality, then Peter should have no argument, but that wasn’t really on his mind at the moment). Sylar cleared this throat, blinking, looking away and stepping back because Peter was getting closer and he still held the broom, one-handed or not.
XXX
‘Pete’ again! God-dammit, I thought that was over! Wait … ‘me’? ‘Dad gave … me’? Peter started in anger and then blinked in confusion, brows drawing together as he momentarily and unintentionally gave Sylar his best ‘What the fuck?’ face. His heart caught in his throat as he thought, Is Nathan still in there? “You said Nathan was dead!” he exclaimed in sudden agitation and intensity, closing on Sylar immediately and getting in his face. The broom trailed behind him, still held in his left, but mostly forgotten. Desperation fueled him, like a man reaching for a dying loved one … Has he been suppressing him all this time? That doesn’t make sense! He couldn’t! Why would Nathan let that happen? Why would he let that bastard win? He said good-bye …
The impossibility of Nathan’s continued existence in Sylar’s mind hit him like a blow. It can’t be. Just a slip of the tongue, right? A roiling mess of anger, rage and grief came flooding to the surface all at once, but it was Sylar’s face looking back at him, not Nathan’s. It wasn’t even particularly Nathan’s expression on Sylar’s face, if such a thing were possible and Peter’s frantically scanning eyes would have spotted that if it were there at all, to be seen or even imagined. He examined Sylar's countenance with a hyper-vigilance that left him nearly shaking with adrenaline. His lack of success left Peter snarling, “Who do you think you are?!” The words came out with the primary intent to challenge Sylar for his presumptuousness in speaking as Nathan, but somewhere lurking in the shadows of Peter’s mind it was a literal question.
XXX
Sylar lowered his eyelids quickly as Peter turned. Hopefully his companion hadn’t seen that he knew he’d slipped up as that was Sylar’s only cover at the moment.
He caught the hope in the younger man’s face but he didn’t have time and wouldn’t let himself feel for it.
Peter was in his face; Sylar could feel the heat from his body and he straightened, his head coming up, both from the proximity and the broom that Peter still held, but had yet to shift into position. He had to wait a moment before he could respond at all, let alone respond the way he needed to. It could save him a beating, after all. The puff of Peter’s rapid breathing was distracting him and distantly he noted that it was a shame the medic wasn’t interested in a more intimate hobby. Trying not to blink or start at the sudden outburst, he felt his face shifting against his will, brows trying to frown, mouth trying not to grimace. Most of all he was desperate to stay in place - not show weakness or back away. Or worse, apologize.
/“I went to see my real father. He was so alone…so pathetic! I didn’t wanna become him, so I took this power and now I can be anyone I wanna be, anyone in the world!...So tell me, Mom… Why do I feel so lost?”/
//”Change of voice, change of face, still him underneath.”//
/“Why does this keep happening?”/
//“Whoever Nathan Petrelli was, he’s gone now. Just some random thoughts in a mass-murderer’s head.”//
/“Last night I went to sleep as myself…I woke up as Agent Taub. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to change, I just did. I’m losing myself!”/
//“Do you really think Matt could purge every sick thought from that head?”//
/“Who are you?”/
//“To the rest of the world, I’m Nathan Petrelli, but every time you look at me. The way you’re lookin’ at me right now. You’re gonna see Sylar. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m wrong, Pete.”//
/“You know…one of my eyes…stayed blue. For over an hour, yesterday.”/
Peter’s piercing gaze was roving over his face and while Sylar felt that every imperfection was being sought out, at least on the surface, he knew, distantly, that he should have been enjoying the attention. All types of proximity were sending warning bells up his spine and it made his face feel warm without coloring while the other man’s smell was familiar. Surprisingly he was only partly intimidated by the other man’s behavior and even more surprising - Sylar had yet to be hit, broom or otherwise.
Why is he asking me this? Sylar thought, very lost in his own head. Strange that he was used to being lost in life, but his solace, his sanity, his drive had all been in his mind and with that gone…
Peter only wants to know who you are so he knows which person to abuse - Nathan for leaving him and giving up or Sylar for taking him away and killing him. Sylar couldn’t cope with the question and it probably showed. That’s a good question, Pete. If only I knew.
In the wake of his confusion and loss, anger roared into him to fill the gaps. How dare you ask me that? And how dare you ask that now? Don’t pretend to give a crap. YOU of all people, you DRUGGED ME UP AFTER I KILLED HIM SO I COULD HAVE HIS FUCKING, SLIMY CONSCIOUSNESS IN MY FUCKING HEAD!!
“He is dead, Peter. I made sure of that.” Keep your mouth shut!
XXX
Like I needed a reminder. And maybe he did, because the moment Nathan’s death was thrown in Peter’s face by the very man who had done it, it was like a switch inside of him flipped. Anger, violence, grief, hate, revenge, all things he’d been trying to rise above, things he’d tried to shove aside and ignore and be better, all rose to the fore. His right hand ached with a sudden spasm. If he’d been paying attention, he’d have noticed he’d just tried to ball it into a fist. Instead all he registered was the dull reminder that his primary hand wasn’t a good option. So he went with his left.
Murdering bastard! He let fall the broom. It wasn’t a good weapon and he didn’t really want a weapon anyway. He wanted to see Sylar’s face smashed under his fists. He wanted blood and pain and fear. He wanted to feel the other man’s flesh bruise and lacerate under his hands. He wanted what he’d seen on that pyre, that had turned his stomach when it happened, but he’d done nothing to stop it. Later, after the fiasco at Mercy Heights, when Peter had given up all hope that Nathan could be saved, he’d fantasized about making that slow death by fire a reality for Sylar.
If only it was that easy. He backed up a half-step and swung with his left to deliver an uppercut, snarling in wrath. ‘I made sure of that’ rang in his ears like a call to battle. “You sure did, you son of a bitch!” He swung repeatedly and fast, crowding Sylar and trying to push him back and overwhelm him with the sheer fury of his assault.
XXX
Sylar had a flash of a second to register the decision in Peter’s face before his teeth were clacked together. Thank god that wasn’t my tongue…I need that. The uppercut had him stumbling back and a little to the side, nothing but pavement and the road behind him. For some reason, it seemed incredibly funny to him; he laughed, thoroughly amused. He straightened, mouth opening to tell Peter just what he thought about all this, just in time to see a blur coming at his face again.
A grunt and a chuckle escaped him from that blow and he lifted a hand to feel at the side of his mouth that had been struck, but his hand never made it. Another hit landed and he stepped back as he detected, but couldn’t really see, Peter moving in. He tasted blood and he grinned so Peter could see his bloody fangs.
XXX
You think this is funny, you sick bastard? Peter didn’t know what to think of someone he hit and hurt who laughed about it, but this was hardly the first time Sylar had had that reaction to Peter’s assaults. It broke his momentum though as his barely-thinking mind tried to come up with a better way to put the suffering he felt inside of himself onto Sylar’s face.
XXX
At that point, Sylar reached out to grab Peter’s shirt, possibly stiff-arm him to keep him away. Peter would be at a disadvantage there with shorter, if more powerful arms. “And this is my thank-you?” he sneered, voice raspy, tossing his aching head to clear his over-long hair from his face. The blows only shook his brain up further - headaches and concussions, unhealed bruises were firing pain up his nerves.
XXX
A thank-you? For killing my brother? Peter thought, disconcerted and offended by the whole idea. How insane is this asshole?
XXX
With that Sylar yanked Peter in close and slammed his fist into Peter’s face; where it landed, he didn’t care - it would be inflicting pain. Sylar held him generally in place, railing on him, not as fast as Peter had on him, but he got some velocity behind his swings. “Oh, I think you can do better than that!” He snarled, giving Peter a shake with his words.
XXX
Sylar’s first blow caught Peter squarely in the left eye and knocked him silly. The whole side of his face bloomed in pain and for a moment, he was blinded. He jerked and swayed more automatically than intentionally, staggering in the other man’s grip. He felt himself get clipped on the jaw on the right side and there was a numbness and a click. The next instant he could see out of his right eye, though he had no idea if these two events were connected. He got hit a third time, or so he suspected, because his head jogged back violently and he felt it in his neck, even if he didn’t perceive the blow itself. He still couldn’t see out of his left eye and his awareness was foggy.
Peter was getting hurt and hurt bad enough that he wasn’t sure what was going on. Gotta get a breather, get back, get away. He flailed a little, jerking backwards against Sylar’s grip on his shirt and getting his right arm up to deflect Sylar’s next shot at him. The half second respite that gained him as his opponent had to shift his grip and balance let Peter’s head clear a bit more. The next time he yanked backwards it was intentional. He heard his shirt tear, but it didn’t quite give and for a moment Peter hung there, leaned back so far he was held upright only by Sylar’s fist in his clothes. Just in case that wasn’t enough, Peter lifted up his right foot and drove it forward, aiming to kick out Sylar’s leg and hopefully kneecap him.
XXX
Peter looked like he was going to go down for the count and Sylar mentally applauded himself. It was not very often (ever, if he was honest) that he won a fist-fight with Peter Petrelli, the world’s brattiest, most suicidal, heroic brawler. And somehow he always forgot the part where Peter surprised him.
The smaller man took his beating, making all his typical funny noises, before his brain apparently came back online. Peter leaned back; Sylar heard or felt some of the man’s shirt ripping as Peter stuck his arm out, just enough to get in the flight-path of Sylar’s fist. Dimly Sylar noted it was his right hand, the broken one and that if he wanted to, he could crunch Peter’s fingers again just for the hell of it. Sylar settled for grabbing the hand and throwing it aside, cocking his fist back once again. He had little interest in fighting Peter when he was maimed - Sylar wanted him healed and at full capacity to test his mettle.
At first he had enough weight and balance to hold Peter up. Sylar lurched forward as Peter did something with his feet; suddenly the balance was all on Sylar’s left side. He risked a quick glance down and saw Peter’s foot zipping towards his weighted knee. Sylar’s eyes widened and he had to make an instant decision, choosing to suddenly bend the knee and change Peter’s target area.
Did he just try to jack my knee? That little- Sylar had time to remember the groin-shot at Mercy and being kicked while literally down on the floor. Those were hits that lingered in his memory. By then the kick connected, and Sylar grunted, feeling something of an instant cramp go up the side of his thigh where Peter had basically stamp-kicked with the full use of the sole of his foot. He still felt a twist in his knee and sadly it was his left limb - the same that had bruised toes.
Now completely off balance and angry at the low-blow (literally), Sylar added a shove as he fell forward, snarling, intending to bash Peter into the concrete and use him as a pillow, gripping that much harder onto Peter’s shirt.
XXX
Peter had expected to fall, whether because Sylar released him or fell as well he hadn’t known or cared, as long as it got him away from fists to his face. Hate him! He registered satisfaction that his kick struck home solidly, even if it wasn’t quite the crippling blow he’d intended.
He went down harder than he had anticipated. He had a split second to see that Sylar was going to come down on top of him. It was enough time to try to jerk his knees up. Maybe he’d catch the other man in the groin or hip, but at the very least it would keep Sylar’s bulk from landing directly on his torso and driving all his air out. Peter tried to catch himself, but the hands he’d thrown back weren’t quite fast enough, plus he hadn’t remembered that one hand was in a brace.
His weight came crashing down on those two hands and his right hurt with a sudden, white-hot surge that took all thought away from him. He buckled immediately. His cry of pain was cut short by Sylar smashing into him, a heavy weight slamming him the rest of the way into the pavement. Peter flailed weakly, struggling to get his hands back in front of him while lost in a world of hurt. He wanted to get the other man off him, to fight through the lancing pain from his right hand, and to suck in enough air to keep going. What he wanted didn’t seem to be what was happening.
If he’d had enough attention to pay to it, he’d have noticed he could see a little now out of his left eye, even if it was tinged with red and everything was blobby. He was too punch drunk to do it though, even if his life might depend on it. Real fear began to creep in and threatened to push out wrath as the predominant emotion he was feeling at the moment.
XXX
Sylar all but heard Peter smack into the concrete. But then he had to figure out how he was supposed to land on someone with minimal damage and awkwardness. He heard Peter’s cry and by then he was mere inches from slamming him again with his body. At the last second he saw Peter’s legs jerk and his bony hip came down hard into Peter’s knee. Again, he grunted as the skin scraped over his bone, his body trying to curl to protect his groin even as gravity fought the motion as he was going down, not moving up and away. The knee slid off his hip, not fast enough to suit him, and continued its gouge into his abdomen, forcing the air up and out from him.
Ow, was his first muddled though, resuming the fight seemed beyond him for a few seconds that he probably couldn’t spare. His leg was burning with pain as the tensed muscles struggled around the kick site and now he had no air with a badly bruised hip. Little bitch tried to rack me. Again. Achingly, Sylar dragged himself up to hands and knees over Peter who lay there looking dirty from lacerations and contusions and extremely out of it - it was a cute look for him, Sylar decided.
Sudden shifts in atmosphere triggered his headache and it hurt to see and move, his spine feeling stiff if he had to make a motion. He sat up, struggling to breathe, straddling Peter, holding himself up with a hand, preparing the other in a fist as he shook his head slowly again to clear it of fog and hair in his face. “I’m not opposed to Hallmark cards of gratitude, Pete,” He whispered, panting, eyeing the man’s labored face with interest. Of course, there’s lots of ways you, O Talented One, could thank me… or hate me. Sylar gestured with his fist to try to gauge just how out Peter was. Something or someone in him was seriously twisting, roiling around in his already abused stomach at the sight of Peter this hurt and it wasn’t exactly a new feeling.
XXX
At first, Peter lay there like a fish out of water, gasping for air and without the capacity to do much other than flop. Fortunately, Sylar wasn’t doing anything to him anyway. The other man lifted himself up and Peter finally managed to suck in breaths. He instinctively tried to shrink back against the pavement, away from the recent source of his hurt, but that wasn’t going to work. Vaguely he was aware of Sylar saying something about Hallmark cards and although a small, idiotically belligerent part of him wanted him to react to what was probably a taunt, the rest of Peter was more concerned with keeping himself in one as-functional-as-possible piece.
There was motion; Sylar drew back his right fist. Peter flinched his head to one side and got his hands up, open and with palms facing his opponent, intent on catching or deflecting the blow that didn’t come. With an effort, Peter’s eyes focused on Sylar’s fist. It swayed slightly with the other man’s breathing, but it wasn’t crashing down on Peter’s face. Peter’s eyes darted past that fist to Sylar’s expression, which was intent and attentive, but not … I think I’ve got a moment. He’s just looking at me. Why the hell did he stop?
XXX
Peter squirmed once as Sylar settled in, the other man lying there groaning and turning his head back and forth and Sylar noticed that his eyes looked really out of it. Blood was in the medic’s left eye and Peter kept reflexively blinking it. Sylar didn’t move other than to get his wind back, watching Peter react to the fist, flinching when he brought it to bear. The other man’s hands came up as if that would help him avoid the violence. It was amusing, actually. But inspiring fear was getting old - it only protected Sylar for so long and it had never gotten him what he wanted. So he stared Peter down, not getting much eye contact in return, but he didn’t expect it and vigilantly watched Peter’s gaze.
XXX
Peter made use of the time by swiping at his left eye. His fingers came away with blood and he had a flash of automatic fear that anyone would, as his hindbrain cringed from the possibility that his eye - such an important part of his body - was bloody and might be permanently messed up. The more rational, experienced part of him immediately figured that his brow had torn when Sylar had hit him earlier. If I can see at all through it, then I’m probably fine. Peter glanced between his fingers and Sylar’s face and fist, trying to gauge how much time he was going to be allowed. He wiped more thoroughly, clearing his vision.
XXX
Sylar saw Peter check him twice, obviously waiting for the primed hit. Sylar didn’t hit people when they were down, no. People like that were ignored for weakness…or slain for their power. Otherwise they obviously weren’t worth the trouble. He had no interest in incapacitating Peter - it would be permanent here and if that happened, Peter would be no fun. However, it was important that Peter know the reason for the surcease. Peter looked preoccupied with his bloody eye and Sylar was interested in the blood. How many times have I seen that?
He ignored his injuries, pushing above the throbbing pain of his chin and rattled teeth and took time to feel the body heat under him. That’s…that’s been a while. Peter looked helpless and all Sylar wanted to do was get him interested, remind him who was boss. Kinky sex? He found his eyes roaming over Peter, taking in details. I have him right where I want him. What’s he going to allow? Peter’s throat was looking very tempting, more so than usual that is, and he found his eyes lingering there.
XXX
Sylar was looking him over and Peter wasn’t so shaken up he didn’t notice the shift in desire from inflicting pain to … something else - an interest that he recognized, but this sure as hell wasn’t the situation for it. Er … Peter’s mind hiccupped around that one, not sure how to react any more than if Sylar had begun discussing the baking of cakes with him.
“Get off of me,” he tried to say commandingly, but it came out more as a croak as his jaw didn’t flex or move as it should have. The statement was at least intelligible as the words he’d intended. He bared his teeth, but he didn’t do anything else. His head was ringing and throbbing, one leg and hip felt wrenched (he supposed something had happened when Sylar had fell on him - Peter hadn’t registered it at the time but he felt it now), and he could see that the brace on his right hand had shifted position. Peter still had fight in him - he would as long as he could draw breath - but he sure wasn’t inviting more at the moment. What was that I thought before? That at this rate I’d be dead in a week?
XXX
Peter tried to order him, tried to back it up with a mean expression. Sylar just snorted, opening his hand and delivering a slap to Peter’s already abused face, reveling in getting away with it and enjoying the sound it made - it wasn’t even that hard of a slap. “Don’t mouth off to me; you’re in no position. You can always try asking nicely, big boy.”
XXX
Peter’s words brought Sylar’s eyes back to his own, and a shift in expression to momentarily more focused on Peter as a person rather than Peter as a body. Sylar feinted with his fist and Peter blocked it, but then, Sylar’s hand too close to have much momentum, the other man switched and darted his hand in to deliver an open-handed slap. It landed on the most damaged part of Peter’s face, the left cheek.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, snapping his head to the side as far more pain than normal for such a blow radiated through his injured face. Breathing hard, he looked up at the other man as Sylar followed up his apparently-disciplinary strike with condescension. What am I willing to do to get out of being hurt worse? Peter’s mind was blank for a moment of anything but jumbled emotions: fear, anger, the constant perception of pain, dread, resentment. Despite polling his feelings, the answer was basically rational. He wouldn’t be able to handle having Sylar push him around any more than he had taken it well from anyone else in his life. I’d rather be dead. He knew that; he knew it about himself. His defensiveness kicked over to offense and the first thing he needed to do was deal with this inappropriately sexual interest.
“Not this time.”
Peter brought up the leg that wasn’t wrenched, driving it into Sylar from behind. If he was lucky, he’d hit him in the crotch, depending on angle and position - factors Peter didn’t bother to check because the ass would suffice. All he really wanted to do was shift Sylar’s attention, for just a moment, off Peter’s face and hands. That achieved, Peter’s left hand shot forward for the taller man’s shirt, to yank him forward as Peter curled upward, tucking his chin and bringing his forehead up for as solid a head butt as he could manage. His last thought before impact was, I haven’t hurt my forehead yet, have I? I’m running low on body parts that don’t hurt …
XXX
Sylar sniggered, or tried to. It came out something of a muffled snort. His sinuses were shot to hell. The concussion and recent pounding was doing his cranial cavities no help. Then again, if Peter just played ball… The other man’s yelp of exaggerated pain (or so Sylar saw it) was funny this time, not just amusing. Wuss, he thought.
He wasn’t given any time to react to Peter’s little declaration of rebellious intent. One of Peter’s knees came up and jarred his butt, digging firmly enough into his spine to tip him forward. More forward of what he already was, both hands in Peter’s shirt as they were left him with only his knees for balance; he was probably invading Peter’s space now (then again, he wasn’t a great judge of these things). His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a kind of grunted gasp of almost-reply and surprise.
The forward lurch was assisted as he was yanked down into Peter’s forehead and all he had time to think was Damnit, not my head again! Before the world flashed and he saw little and felt nothing but pain. His head felt like a helium balloon again, maybe one filled with some type of burning acid-y lead for blood. Sylar groaned, slumping forward, barely conscious enough to curl to the side. Saddest part was, he knew Petrelli hadn’t laid that hard of a hit. He only hoped his brain hadn’t bruised a second time because if so…Peter probably meant business, probably meant to finish him off. His brain giggled without permission, death by concussion.
XXX
Peter’s forehead crashed into Sylar’s with a solid ‘conk!’ that probably meant a good jarring, but nothing broken. Sylar’s collapse was the best thing that could have happened as a result, but Peter found himself suddenly confused and disoriented from the additional head impact on top of all the others. He thumped back flat on the ground with Sylar partly atop him. Ow. Ow. Ow. What is he doing? Did he pass out? Get off of me! He shoved at the other man’s weight once and then a second time when the first was ineffectual. Peter disentangled himself and struggled upright, reaching with his right hand to fumble at his face. What’s this thing on my hand? Oh, yeah, brace. Fuck. Broken hand. He switched to his left, touching at his left brow gingerly. It was numb.
He gave a slow groan, then wiped at his left eye again. Fresh blood was in it, or maybe just more blood, and it was beginning to swell shut. Sylar made a similar noise of pain and Peter looked at him. I need to … I need to … do something. He’s going to … what’s he going to do? Shit. He looked around, spotting the broom on the ground nearby. He’d nearly landed on it when he’d fallen earlier. Now he leaned over painfully to snag it. In his mind was a fuzzy vision of holding it over Sylar’s throat, pressing it in and choking the bastard to death. He panted, staring from Sylar to the broom handle. Choke him with the broom? Wasn’t there something about gouging his eyes out? He won’t be a threat if he can’t see. Gouge his eyes out with the broom handle then? Crap. I shouldn’t do that. Why am I doing this at all?
Nathan. ‘He is dead, Peter. I made sure of that.’ ‘And this is my thank-you?’ ‘Hallmark cards of gratitude.’ ‘Nathan’s dead!’ It was nightmare fuel, all of it. A vision of Nathan’s face, hanging off the hospital, swam in Peter’s mind, and the split second in freefall of when he’d transformed into a grinning Sylar. Son of a bitch. Peter threw the broom aside again and turned back to Sylar, getting up on his knees, one of which did not appreciate the position. I don’t want to kill him; I just want to hurt him. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed Sylar’s shirt, jerking him closer while Peter’s right pulled back and ached like a mother-fucker as he tried to ball it into a fist. He released Sylar, wincing and cringing as he looked at his right hand. Still broken. Yeah, okay, focus, Pete. You are completely fucked up. What’s a person supposed to do when they’re completely fucked up? Um … I don’t remember, but there’s a rule.
He let go of Sylar’s shirt and drew back his left hand, able to make a fist with it at least. I should really … I think I should just stop. This … all of this … this is not helping. I feel like shit. He paused for a moment, staring at Sylar and hoping to see an excuse to stop fighting.
XXX
Sylar distantly felt someone trying to move him and he responded sluggishly, rolling onto his back and trying to look up at the sky, tree line, buildings, whatever. He felt the other person moving away completely and somehow he knew that was a bad sign. Slowly he turned, hearing noises that sounded like they were coming at him through a filter, bulletproof glass, distance, something; the sounds weren’t fully realized to his ears. The other man was picking up a stick - broom - and kneeling above him.
Well, its curtains finally. All he wrangled up was a grimace, turning his head away a little and raising up an arm to block his eyes because the light was starting to burn. After what felt like a year, he found his lungs were still drawing air and that meant he was still alive. A clatter and the other man returned to his field of vision, hauling him up and causing a rush of vertigo as his head left the ground. He reached out to grip the man’s hand in his…shirt, yeah, shirt, for support. Sylar turned his eyes to Peter in time to see his fist appear, then disappear as he was dropped and he grunted, his neck barely able to cushion him from smacking into the concrete again. At least he had a reprieve before…
He was supremely unhappy; he was defenseless, seriously injured (moreso than he thought he should be, mind) and Peter wasn’t playing by the rules Sylar envisioned were in place - it was all for fun. That nasty, serious, almost uncalled for hit (well, Peter started the whole damn thing) made him furious.
Sylar was honest-to-god considering taking a shot at Peter’s groin in response and that was against the rules. He rolled and pushed himself up to hands and knees so he, too, could kneel.
“If you were smart, you’d stop dicking around and finish me off, Petrelli. Quit being such a tease!” Sylar lunged forward, hoping his aim was better than it felt, snagging Peter around the throat and throwing him down to pin him by that pale, scrawny column. Easy enough. Peter’s limbs would be at odd angles again for striking back, so Sylar moved in to straddle him a second time, leaning over to apply the right amount of pressure to keep Peter down, immobile and thinking he was being strangled without causing a horrible amount of damage. “This is the part where I make you apologize for unnecessary violence, Mister I’m-Not-Like-You.”
XXX
Peter watched Sylar get to his knees and he let his fist falter, convincing himself they weren’t going to fight anymore because that’s what he wanted to believe. Maybe we’ll just go back to arguing? He didn’t have time to think of what to say in response to Sylar’s first line before the man was on him. Peter was shoved down by the throat, choking and flailing, but at least this time he managed to take the fall better.
“Uf!” he grunted as he hit the pavement, flexing his back. He immediately tried to get up only to be pushed down matter-of-factly as Sylar straddled him. I should have rolled. Not thinking good here. Apparently Sylar was thinking better, because this time he sat directly on Peter, his body shifted forward significantly and his center of gravity lower. It would be much harder to dislodge him this time. Sylar’s hand came down on Peter’s throat and Peter panicked, flailing for a moment and finding out that yeah, Sylar was not going to be as easily removed as before.
Peter clamped onto Sylar’s wrist with his left hand, fingers digging into it. Somewhere there was a spot he could pinch that would cause Sylar to release his grip - not that this would do a lot of good, given that Sylar had two hands to Peter’s one, and he didn’t need to grip, but only to exert pressure. Peter twisted his head as Sylar spoke to him again and tightened his stranglehold instead of releasing. Peter hesitated … no, wait … he wasn’t being strangled, not even now. He was breathing and there was no particular reason why that was except that Sylar was letting him. His clasp on Sylar’s wrist lightened to merely a firm hold and he tried to replay what Sylar had just said to him.
Unnecessary violence? You started it! Sort of. What the hell was I supposed to do? Let ‘I raped Claire’ and ‘I killed Nathan, you should thank me’ pass? Why are you saying that crap to me if you aren’t trying to start a fight? Peter panted, baring his teeth at the killer and twisting his head again in a futile attempt to get away from the hand at his throat. He felt light-headed. “An apology? You want,” he tried to clear his throat, which hurt his whole face. He winced. “You want an apology … for me trying to kick your ass after you told me I should thank you for killing my brother?” He felt a pang go through him that was as bad as any injury he’d yet taken. It showed on his face. “I loved him.”
XXX
Sylar grimaced and frowned. Sitting on Peter was nice and all, feeling on top of the world or something, but his head was killing him. His usual snappy reply seemed just out of reach in his recently clouded brain. In an instant, he’d relived every time Nathan had ever said, thought, felt or heard those words in relation to his brother, causing a buzzing vibration for a moment.
Emotionally, it was very painful to have to endure or hear. Nope, still no guilt, Pete; try again. Sylar couldn’t fathom or comprehend that level of feeling devoted to another human being, at least, something that wasn’t hatred or disgust. Love. Wasn’t that what every person strived for? Sweat, blood, tears, stress, pain, all for that one illusive, possibly non-existent little word; a silly, nauseous feeling? ‘Love’ was an excuse, a reason, a drive or goal; a religion to some, a disease to others. Then again, years of hearing that he couldn’t feel, that he couldn’t understand ‘Love’ would wear a person down.
Nathan knew love that bordered on a sense of duty, even if his personality was…a little slippery and self-serving when it came to abandoning and betraying family members. //I love you, Pete.// Ooh, hell no! “Strangely enough, that bastard loved you, too.” He inwardly snorted; And people say I can’t love, it’s a wonder he knew how, either. They all say I’m a monster for killing people; well at least I was quick with it. Nathan goes off the fucking grid, snatching people from their homes to imprison them for what? I worked in Building 26 twice. Peter went in once and barely got to look around. He has no idea what Nathan did or planned to do - he was going to give everyone abilities one minute, then kill every special the next. At least I’m consistent.
“It’s really not my job to teach you manners, Peter, but I see we might need a crash course. As fun as this is, your suicidal urges are going to. get. annoying,” Sylar hissed, bloody teeth leaning down into Peter’s face, similar to what the other man had done at the start. “You’re not winning a prize or saving someone’s life so you can ease off the damn ‘death’ throttle unless you really wanna die - I can make that happen.”
“Impressive and heroic your stamina may be, but you’re defending a dead guy. Do you really want to do this,” Sylar inched to shift his weight, located over Peter’s pelvis, just barely, “all day?” He managed to narrow his eyes a bit for effect. “You’re so much more of a…” he pretended to search for the word, “lover, than a fighter.” God knows you almost suck at that part; all those morals getting in your way.
XXX
Peter’s grip tightened on Sylar’s wrist as the other man leaned in. It didn’t escape Peter’s awareness that Sylar’s face was now in an easy range to punch, even if he couldn’t get much of a swing on him while flat on the pavement. Still, the fight was leaking out of him steadily as the adrenaline faded and the pain rose. Peter turned his face away a quarter, but keeping his eyes on Sylar. It was a mixed signal, but half of it was ‘I give up’. It was a cautious, defensive surrender said through body language.
“You wanna talk about manners?” Peter still had his face turned to the left - he could barely see out of that eye anyway and the whole left side of his face was throbbing. “Here’s one for you to work on: Show some respect!” he spat out. Peter swallowed roughly and made a tug at Sylar’s wrist. It didn’t have much force behind it and wasn’t a yank, just a tug to encourage him to get his hand off of Peter’s neck. Peter didn’t like it there. It was a constant threat, like trying to have a conversation with someone who had a gun pointed at you.
“I care about my family and I’m not going to apologize for that.” He thought about making the low blow of mentioning his belief that Sylar had no family worth mentioning, but that wasn’t the sort of thing Peter thought he should be using as a weapon. Even if other Petrellis wouldn’t have overlooked the opportunity to impugn Sylar's relations or lack thereof. Peter’s gaze left Sylar’s face and wandered to the ruined storefront beyond.
XXX
Sylar’s lip curled a little. I need manners? I was raised with as much manners, if not more, than any Petrelli - I just choose not to use them. ‘Respect’. Such a horrible word. Everyone wanted it, some deserved it, few got it. Sylar only understood respecting something bigger and better than he was. It was hard to respect a bunch of nitwit wannabe’s who got lucky and could never make their power stick, try as they might. Clearly they all failed at gaining his respect, ‘A for effort and some creativity, maybe drive’. Their cruelty to humanity by treating it as a legal right to use people like animals and serious abuses of power and wealth left him no respect for them at all, except a wariness as to the threat they presented. Parkman, Angela and Bennet in that order. Claire and Peter (formerly Nathan) on the physical front.
Nathan understood respect as playing along, playing the political game - the family game. Some respect, in his profession, was needed or at the least the illusion of respect. It was a way of buying time, to think, to plan, to throw off one’s opponent. ‘Respect’ was a smile, nod, and a wave of a champagne glass. Maybe Nathan didn’t take it so damn personal or something.
Sylar couldn’t respect some stupid, self-serving, abusive, lying asshole even in death. The same idiot who’d pissed away his life. He respected and understood (probably way more than Peter knew) Peter’s devotion and undying love for the bastard senator more than Sylar wanted to admit. That kind of love for a fucked up system was nothing if not down his alley. Still, Peter wasn’t stupid (just slow sometimes) and he knew that Nathan had it coming a few times over; the same way Sylar had it coming. Sylar was just smarter, planned better, ruthlessly murdered competition or threat to avoid it in ways Nathan couldn’t or chose not to. That’s what made him top of the food chain (or so he tried to tell himself now).
Peter quit paying attention and that bugged him, so he glared even though his intended target missed it. His retinal muscles strained to accomplish it. The implication therein was that Sylar didn’t care for his own family. By the letter of his own law, he shouldn’t care for dead family either, regardless of the fucked up system.
XXX
He contemplated his own recent sins, not by cataloguing them intellectually or remembering specifics, but by recalling the hate and rage he’d felt that he couldn’t find Sylar when he wanted him. He’d given himself permission to rampage because Sylar’s integrity didn’t matter to him. He had not done right and he felt that, even if he was still having difficulty according Sylar the same respect he was demanding. Peter’s mind toyed with that realization of hypocrisy, turning it different ways, feeling around the edges. He wasn’t sure what to do with it.
There was at least one concession he was willing to make. “You wanted me to ask nicely?” His nose wrinkled briefly in disgust but he forced his way on, “Fine, I will.” He looked back at Sylar, turning to face him directly and softening his voice as much as he could. It still sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth - because he was, his jaw wasn’t working right - but his tone was less aggressive and close to pleading. “Will you please stop provoking me?” Peter shook his head a little, twisting his neck against Sylar’s hand with a grimace. “I know you know what you’re doing.” Or else you wouldn’t be doing it. This is twice in a week and at this rate we’re not going to make it.
XXX
If Sylar could have, he would have raised at least one eyebrow. Given the pain in his head, moving facial muscles, particularly any above his nose, wasn’t worth it. He thinks I’m…? “You think I’m provoking you?” Sylar asked, surprised. Of course he’d see if that way, wouldn’t he? The pleading in combination with the squirming was working and Sylar didn’t appreciate that. I know what I’m- what? He thinks I planned this? If I wanted something I could have, I’d fucking take it, not beat around the bush! His expression turned a little puzzled.
Sylar had to think back to the exchanges before the blows, both times. Claire being raped was it? Seriously? That’s just insulting on every level - his niece is not that hot. Maybe she would be if she could keep her mouth shut and her nose out of trouble; seems to be a Petrelli trait. Then this time…Sylar’s thumb moved from the right side of Peter’s throat, leaving the rest of his fingers, his hand in place against the other man’s throat. To him it didn’t feel out of place. His grip released, Peter was free to move around, wiggle around, whatever. Sylar wanted to defend that he wasn’t provoking - Peter was just sensitive. What he said instead was, “Since you asked nicely,” his voice equally soft as Peter’s.
XXX
Peter eyed Sylar, dubious about the surprised tone, but the man seemed serious, if confused. Peter opened his mouth to say something incredulous anyway, but then Sylar was moving his hand, or at least part of it and Peter shut his mouth without speaking. Sylar was no longer on the verge of throttling him, but he was still touching Peter’s throat for some reason. Not in the right spot to be taking my pulse, so what’s he doing? Peter tucked his chin and looked down, not that this helped much. He could see his own bloody hand on Sylar’s wrist. He moved it away uncertainly, leaving behind smeary red imprints of his grip.
XXX
Peter gave him that ‘What are you?’ look and Sylar held back his instinctive urge to sigh and move away. The other man began to speak, then decided against it and that gave him an odd surge of hope for some reason. Peter glanced at his, their hands (or as near as he could), releasing Sylar’s wrist. What’s this? What’s going on here? He’s letting me? (This beats breaking his hand. Literally. If I survive this, I’ll be thrilled). Again, another desire to thumb away, gently, of course, at Peter’s surprisingly soft neck.
XXX
Peter reached up and touched his left eye. He could feel warm blood trickling over his temple into his hair. He supposed it was an improvement over getting it in his eye. His breathing was slowing down to normal. His fingers went under his left ear, to the curve of his jaw, an inch from Sylar’s hand. Peter probed at the joint. Hopefully this would be something he could pop back into place.
“Yeah, I thi- thought you were trying to provoke me. What the hell else was that stunt with the bear, or talking like you’re Nathan and calling me ‘Pete’? Those were intentional. Why did you do that?” Peter had a lot of experience with being lied to. He studied Sylar’s face.
XXX
This was all…quite strange. Peter was carrying on almost like he wasn’t there; checking his own medical status while Sylar still, basically, sat on him. Although he had since put some distance between their faces because too close was just too close. Getting close only served a purpose if it was effective and…Peter seemed to shrug it off, the average disgust and sense of defilement at his proximity seemingly not present with the empath. He was almost afraid his eyes were too wide. What is this?
Peter’s hand moved to check his….jaw and Sylar’s eyes zeroed in on that area. Now he heard multiple clicks - the ones that should come from the man’s wristwatch, the ability (abilities) in the man’s head, his heartbeat (not really a click, but a sound, since he was so close) and now the sound of a misplaced joint. The other man said something, but he’d almost tuned him out, “Shh,” he said, bringing his other hand up to gently, gently grasp the opposite side of Peter’s face, jaw and chin specifically; his right hand currently sliding up to hold onto Peter’s skull. There was no aggression in the touch, but his eyes never moved from the joint of the man’s jaw.
XXX
Peter’s breathing rate shot up again and probably his heartbeat, too, as he tensed all over at that touch. ‘You’re in no position’ came back to him, along with a memory of Sylar looking at him like this in the past. The expression on Sylar’s face had shifted to an intensity and concentration that took Peter back to that night in Mohinder’s apartment, himself fixed against the wall and Sylar cutting into his head. Peter had died that night. Now he twitched, trying to suppress the fear as he brought both hands up to hover a half dozen inches from Sylar’s arms. His emotions were in a jumble. He wasn’t sure how to react to what was clearly a cautious, careful touch. Peter bared his teeth, blinking rapidly, his eyes darting over Sylar’s face and trying to read his motives.
XXX
“Stop….moving…this shouldn’t hurt,” was his ‘I’m working here’ delivery, maneuvering Peter’s jaw around - back and forth, open and closed. “Didn’t know…” his face jerked into a quick frown and he shut himself up. He hadn’t been aware Peter’s jaw had been damaged; seemed like the least he could do unless Peter threw him off or didn’t relax enough to fix it.
XXX
Peter moved his feet and then brought them up so they were flat on the ground, bending his knees. He could flex his whole body and buck Sylar upwards, perhaps enough to twist to the side and start the process of getting away from him. It was an option. Hold on. Calm down. He’s trying to pop my jaw back in. I think. I think that’s what he’s doing. He could do worse. I don’t think he’s trying to hurt me. He helped with my hand, before, getting the brace on. He was okay then. He didn’t make things worse. He wasn’t even a jerk about it. Sylar manipulated his jaw and Peter tensed against it anyway.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Peter hissed. “Gimme a second. I gotta relax.” Or else it will hurt. He shut his eyes with an effort and tried to take a couple deep breaths. His nerves were more jangled by the sudden shift in Sylar’s conduct than if the man had kept threatening him. He opened his eyes, as relaxed as he was likely to get with Sylar bent over him, examining him like he was trying to find the right puzzle piece to complete the picture.
XXX
Continued...