The Gifts of Peter Petrelli
Title: The Gifts of Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG (Fluff alert! Some language, m/m implications and illusions towards canon violence and death. Nothing explicit)
Setting: Post-BNW
A/N: Written for the 2011 Sylar_Peter Advent Calendar. Unbeta’d (sorry!)
A/N #2: Shamelessly inspired or stolen from yo-mawari's "50 Sentences"
Prompt/inspiration/steal/summary: Gift - Peter had a special gift for making Sylar smile.
The one question Sylar hated nearly above all others came around. It was that time.
So what do you want to do? How are you? What’s your problem? Why did you do it? Cat got your tongue? What took you so long? Why don’t you like asparagus? What (the hell) is wrong with you? Where have you been? Or why are you here?
No. It was “What do you want for Christmas?”
God forefend he not have an answer. He had a place to stay, books, powers (that part of his brain still itched for more, but he didn’t need them), options for things to keep him out of trouble, a few friends, those that cared and would worry for him and those that respected him. Sylar had everything that he needed now. But what did he want?
He’d struggled since Thanksgiving, that now-awkward holiday amongst the Petrellis were he’d declined Peter’s (and it had only been Peter’s) invitation to spend T-Day with them. “Pumpkin pie isn’t my thing," he’d reasoned. ‘Give the family a break, you’ve done enough’, was what he’d really felt. Or maybe it was ‘give me a break, you’ve done enough’. He suspected Peter, in all his kindness, would ask. He knew he would have no answer.
Hell, he had Peter; a lover, a best friend, a brother if he dared use that word so blasphemously. Also a fellow lonely, uniquely special human being of a man. They had enough in common for Sylar to see that before he even knew the guy’s name and yet Peter was the shining North Pole to his South. That ironically Carnaval analogy was not, he assured himself, reflective of their positions in bed. Or the couch. Or the wall. Any wall for that matter. It was a wonder bricks, hammer and nails and glass weren’t all instant aphrodisiacs now. But Peter would never go for a reenactment, more was the pity.
That was okay. Peter provided many other acts that were probably more fulfilling, new and strange and terrifyingly wonderful and those were much dearer to both their hearts. Peter just oozed love and sheer, gentle giving on everything he passed. It was like he was watering plants with a watering can that got hit by a shotgun.
Peter gave him a funny look the second time he delayed answering. “You always know what you want, sometimes you just don’t say it,” Peter had said knowingly with a one of those darling grins he’d perfected specifically designed to make people weak at the knees. Damn him, it worked every time.
To his awareness, Peter had not used Lydia’s ability on him, but it wasn’t like he kept tabs and he had to sleep sometime. It didn’t seem like Peter was prophesizing anything or knew something Sylar didn’t. Finding answers was always tricky on his own. It would be a harmless answer in any case. It meant he needed to hunker down and think. What mattered most? That was easy…
A week before Christmas, Peter asked again. Sylar knew it was important to Peter that he give something and the intuitive had already purchased a handy, personalized gift for Peter. So Sylar replied, “You’ll know when I ask you on the day,” rubbing Peter’s shoulder with the barest hint of mischievousness. The empath gave him a quizzical look but agreed.
There seemed to be one thing Peter and only Peter could do for him. It wasn’t a sex act or something to do with powers or money. It was unique to Peter Petrelli alone and there was no price to be placed on either that illusive facet or on the man himself.
Christmas Day…
Peter opened the green-and-gold wrapping to reveal a new messenger bag, larger than his old one and more suited to his needs from what Sylar could tell on a brief snoop through its predecessor. “Aw, a bigger bag,” Peter noticed immediately. Never let it be said the obvious escaped this one. Sylar grinned and nodded. “Thanks, man; its perfect.”
“You’re welcome.” Of course Sylar had other not-so-material things to give to Peter, but the giving was very rewarding and living the ‘better to give than to receive’ saying turned true.
Peter crumpled up the wrappings and set the bag aside, turning to face Sylar. “So what is it you want?” The man’s face was quirking like he probably thought he knew the answer. Silly Peter.
Sylar glanced down a moment, considering, “I thought about it and I didn’t want something store-bought.”
Peter just nodded, encouraging him along patiently. He was not offended by the store-bought part.
“I decided what I want most is for you to…do whatever magic it is you do that makes me smile,” Sylar presented looking up from under his brows a bit. “I think that’s special gift enough.”
And all Peter had to do was smile. He did. And so did Sylar.
The end
Rating: PG (Fluff alert! Some language, m/m implications and illusions towards canon violence and death. Nothing explicit)
Setting: Post-BNW
A/N: Written for the 2011 Sylar_Peter Advent Calendar. Unbeta’d (sorry!)
A/N #2: Shamelessly inspired or stolen from yo-mawari's "50 Sentences"
Prompt/inspiration/steal/summary: Gift - Peter had a special gift for making Sylar smile.
The one question Sylar hated nearly above all others came around. It was that time.
So what do you want to do? How are you? What’s your problem? Why did you do it? Cat got your tongue? What took you so long? Why don’t you like asparagus? What (the hell) is wrong with you? Where have you been? Or why are you here?
No. It was “What do you want for Christmas?”
God forefend he not have an answer. He had a place to stay, books, powers (that part of his brain still itched for more, but he didn’t need them), options for things to keep him out of trouble, a few friends, those that cared and would worry for him and those that respected him. Sylar had everything that he needed now. But what did he want?
He’d struggled since Thanksgiving, that now-awkward holiday amongst the Petrellis were he’d declined Peter’s (and it had only been Peter’s) invitation to spend T-Day with them. “Pumpkin pie isn’t my thing," he’d reasoned. ‘Give the family a break, you’ve done enough’, was what he’d really felt. Or maybe it was ‘give me a break, you’ve done enough’. He suspected Peter, in all his kindness, would ask. He knew he would have no answer.
Hell, he had Peter; a lover, a best friend, a brother if he dared use that word so blasphemously. Also a fellow lonely, uniquely special human being of a man. They had enough in common for Sylar to see that before he even knew the guy’s name and yet Peter was the shining North Pole to his South. That ironically Carnaval analogy was not, he assured himself, reflective of their positions in bed. Or the couch. Or the wall. Any wall for that matter. It was a wonder bricks, hammer and nails and glass weren’t all instant aphrodisiacs now. But Peter would never go for a reenactment, more was the pity.
That was okay. Peter provided many other acts that were probably more fulfilling, new and strange and terrifyingly wonderful and those were much dearer to both their hearts. Peter just oozed love and sheer, gentle giving on everything he passed. It was like he was watering plants with a watering can that got hit by a shotgun.
Peter gave him a funny look the second time he delayed answering. “You always know what you want, sometimes you just don’t say it,” Peter had said knowingly with a one of those darling grins he’d perfected specifically designed to make people weak at the knees. Damn him, it worked every time.
To his awareness, Peter had not used Lydia’s ability on him, but it wasn’t like he kept tabs and he had to sleep sometime. It didn’t seem like Peter was prophesizing anything or knew something Sylar didn’t. Finding answers was always tricky on his own. It would be a harmless answer in any case. It meant he needed to hunker down and think. What mattered most? That was easy…
A week before Christmas, Peter asked again. Sylar knew it was important to Peter that he give something and the intuitive had already purchased a handy, personalized gift for Peter. So Sylar replied, “You’ll know when I ask you on the day,” rubbing Peter’s shoulder with the barest hint of mischievousness. The empath gave him a quizzical look but agreed.
There seemed to be one thing Peter and only Peter could do for him. It wasn’t a sex act or something to do with powers or money. It was unique to Peter Petrelli alone and there was no price to be placed on either that illusive facet or on the man himself.
Christmas Day…
Peter opened the green-and-gold wrapping to reveal a new messenger bag, larger than his old one and more suited to his needs from what Sylar could tell on a brief snoop through its predecessor. “Aw, a bigger bag,” Peter noticed immediately. Never let it be said the obvious escaped this one. Sylar grinned and nodded. “Thanks, man; its perfect.”
“You’re welcome.” Of course Sylar had other not-so-material things to give to Peter, but the giving was very rewarding and living the ‘better to give than to receive’ saying turned true.
Peter crumpled up the wrappings and set the bag aside, turning to face Sylar. “So what is it you want?” The man’s face was quirking like he probably thought he knew the answer. Silly Peter.
Sylar glanced down a moment, considering, “I thought about it and I didn’t want something store-bought.”
Peter just nodded, encouraging him along patiently. He was not offended by the store-bought part.
“I decided what I want most is for you to…do whatever magic it is you do that makes me smile,” Sylar presented looking up from under his brows a bit. “I think that’s special gift enough.”
And all Peter had to do was smile. He did. And so did Sylar.
The end