More Between Us, Chapter 2.2/? "No Escape To Reality"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 2.2/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 5,904
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 1
Giving his…guest a slight grin, he gestured at the kitchen. Sylar did want company. Even if the company was dying to ‘escape’. The gaping fish act was pretty amusing, the empath seemed stunned by something. “Peter….” He asked slowly as if talking to a startled animal and he was trying to transcend the barrier of speech with it, “Are you okay?”
Oh, now it was starting to sink in, he could see. Peter was starting to get panicky now. Had it been a stranger, he’d have counted his guest as lucky to have himself to fall back on; Sylar hadn’t had anyone. Three years and sane as could be or not so much. But this was Peter, champion extraordinaire (probably with good reason). Sylar had just received a new toy from….somewhere. Maybe the sewers, he’d only checked those briefly because why would anyone hide there? And for three years, too.
“I’d take a guess and say….streets and buildings, Peter. What’s there to see?” Sylar just frowned and padded unthinking behind the departing man. He began to hear something now that the ruckus and some of the ridiculous had passed; a lack of sound, like placing an ear to someone’s chest and hearing no heart beat. It was a familiar sound to him; it was Peter’s watch.
XXX
Peter found the stairs and thumped down them, looking around a lot more carefully this time around, making note of the things stacked around and wondering why Sylar would bother to think this stuff up. He stopped at the door and looked back at Sylar following him down the stairs. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. No, actually he was sure: he felt apprehensive. Suddenly he had a lot more empathy for Sylar pointing at him, threatening to kill him, and running off like a maniac down the street. It had a certain appeal at the moment, when it had occurred to Peter that everyone might be dead in Sylar’s mental version of reality because he’d killed all of them.
Peter picked a direction and set off down the middle of the street. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was a little chilly - or, he supposed, Sylar’s mind was telling him it was chilly. Fine then. My mind will put my mental hands in my pockets, but that’s only because I don’t want to argue about it. He was headed in the opposite of the direction they’d come in from, but with the number of times they’d turned on their little morning run, there was no telling where they were going. Sylar probably knew. It was his head after all. “You ever get lost here?” Do I need to worry about losing him? Would I be able to find him again?
He listened to Sylar’s answer, not caring much what he said past the yes or no part of it. He thought about that apartment, full of books and clocks; a kitchenette with food that Sylar thought he was going to eat; probably a bed that he thought he slept in. He’d imagined an entire little world for himself here. He’d said something about Peter picking out an apartment to live in. Ridiculous! Disturbing. And…he hadn’t told him to move on or get lost, which would have been the sort of reaction Peter would have expected under normal ‘real’ circumstances. It was almost like he wanted him here.
Speaking of disturbing, he glanced back over his shoulder as he walked and asked, “The inside of your door, on your apartment - why was there a bloody handprint on it? How’d that get there?” It had been one of the things that had creeped him out as he stood next to the entrance to the kitchenette, with the door right next to him, the handprint just at eye level.
XXX
It was warm to Sylar, the weather. Perhaps it was due to his feelings at having found a fr- someone else to talk to. Walking down the hall five or so feet behind the other, he caught Peter’s wary glance and raised his hands to show that they weren’t armed or rather, he supposed, pointing at his head. “Lost? No. But it may be because I have a good sense of direction. I mean….you can get disoriented, sure, turned around. That part’s easy. You’ll get used to it. Got plenty of time.” Again with the rambling. It didn’t even occur to him that’s what he was doing, but it made sense.
It was very strange for him to be in the presence of a special and not feel the Hunger tugging at his mind to fix and probe and discover, even if the watch was still begging to be fixed. So while Peter walked, and Sylar walked behind, he found himself staring at the back of the medic’s head. Of course Peter was broken, everyone was, but he was broken…differently. Ugh, if only they had their abilities they could have some real fun maybe. Then again….that was probably the worst thing that could happen. Peter would probably abuse them once ‘playtime’ was over, with just cause.
Sylar trod behind the other man as he was seemingly engrossed in his surroundings, the ones Sylar didn’t notice anymore. “You sure you don’t want lunch, ma-” he was interrupted by Peter’s completely random musing about his door and the ever present handprint it bore. Frowning, he paused as he debated even answering that.
“It’s….” to be honest, he didn’t want to think about it, but he swallowed and continued. “It’s a scar. My second kill. Bennet and….Elle gave me a test….” His voice was fairly quiet and hesitant over his words, almost deciding to stop multiple times. “If I passed….I could have had a life with just my original ability, the one you picked up. Lived out my boring life with my watches and….maybe a girlfriend.” Sighing in despair at the memory, he ended his tale, “I failed. Obviously.”
Here he was today, whatever today was. Calendars were useless and the stars told him nothing. But he was still a monster even in this waste, a sentiment Peter would doubtless jump at the chance to remind him of. "I keep it as a reminder; no one outruns their sin and pain."
XXX
Peter had been setting a hurried pace before, his strides purposeful even if he had no idea where he was going. He was “going” down this street and there was no reason to dawdle. But his steps slowed during the answer to his second question. He glanced back over his shoulder uneasily a couple times. If it had been anyone else saying something like that…such a raw opening up would…Peter felt a strong need to acknowledge that somehow, validate, tell him it was okay or something else like that. But…this was the man who killed Nathan. That thought surged up in him like a fire and he increased his pace again, hunching his shoulders like it had suddenly gotten colder outside, even though he was hotter within.
Yeah, you failed. Failed over and over. Maybe if you’d quit doing the same thing, you’d get a different result.
When Sylar spoke of the reminder, the look Peter shot over his shoulder wasn’t uneasy or conflicted. His eyes were narrowed and angry. He snorted. He knew he shouldn’t say what was on his mind, but all he could think about was this imposter touching Nathan’s forehead in that storage unit. Had he known even then? He should have suspected. Sylar wasn’t a dummy. He didn’t have a right to touch Nathan. And so he asked, “You really need a reminder of something like that? Like a post-it on your door everyday when you get ready to go out - ‘Note to self: don’t kill anyone today - it’s wrong!’” A mocking lilt filled his voice. Hearing that tone, he shut his mouth.
This, this is the person who’s supposed to save Emma? I don’t want him anywhere near her!
He shook his head rapidly, angry, and tried to see if he could possibly walk any faster without running.
XXX
Peter kept glancing back at him, probably just for that reason, too; Sylar walked behind Peter. Still, if he didn’t like it, he could slow his short-legged fast pace and keep an eye on Sylar himself. As he spoke, Sylar saw that he did decrease in speed and really, what was the hurry? The city would wait. It would still be there even if Peter decided to take a breather for five minutes. It would be there in five weeks and five years from then. He had to admit it was a little exciting to have something to be rushed about even if there was no rush at all.
The medic didn’t seem to appreciate something he’d said. What a surprise. And turned to glare at him. I know that look… Sylar stopped dead in his tracks, unsure of what was expected of him or even how he should respond. What had he said that was so wrong? He hadn’t thought there would be any big, blinking red button triggers in what he’d said. “I don’t know, Peter, why don’t you tell me how you did with your little experiment with my power, hmm?” he threw back, annoyed and strangely insulted by the remark.
He sent a matching glare at Peter’s head as he faced ahead and increased his pace again, definitely desperate to get away from this, from him. He began walking again as well. Well, he wouldn't get away from it that easy. It was such an awful long way to run. Peter of all people would have at least some understanding of what it was like. “Fuck post-its,” he muttered to himself, but he glanced at his right forearm where the tattoo lay. Talk about confusion. Hiro, Parkman, tattoo girl and Claire….now Peter. Everyone was telling him something different.
“You will die alone.”
“You’re really are insane.”
“You’re lonely. But you want love; you just don’t think you deserve it. You’re impotent.”
“You’re a psychopath. Mystery solved.”
“This is a dream.”
Die alone, you’re lonely, go to Claire, here have a fucking tattoo, that ship sailed, no one will mourn your death.
“Fuck heroes.”
XXX
Peter spun suddenly, almost causing a collision, not showing much awareness of where, exactly, the other man was. He sidestepped, which made it look like he was circling. Fine. He circled. And while he circled, he pointed angrily, teeth clenched. “You know, when I first got my ability, I had problems with it. A lot of problems. Dangerous ones. Not just, ‘I might want to murder this one person and then that one person over there and then maybe a week later this other person and two weeks after that someone else!’ I had ‘level a whole fucking city problems!’ And you know what? I looked for HELP! I ASKED for help! And I GOT help! I let a bastard throw me off a thirty story building and beat the crap out of me time after time and-” Peter shook briefly with a lot of feelings. He’d never told this to anyone - not even Nathan, though that was mostly because he’d never had a chance. Their relationship had changed so much after Kirby. Why was he telling it to Sylar?
He went on, but he switched to saying something different than he’d intended a second before. “I let myself be incarcerated for months because I thought I might be dangerous. Might!” He glared at Sylar like his eyes might burn the other man down. “I got it under control. Did you ever even try? Or did you just dive straight in like an alcoholic looking for the bottom of the bottle, as soon as you had a taste?”
He snorted and wheeled to take off down the street again, hands out and loose at his sides, heart racing. He tried to get a grip on himself. Nathan’s face, calm and accepting, danced in front of his eyes with a bloody line across his forehead, but it wasn’t Sylar who had put it there - it was Peter.
XXX
Sylar started back at the sudden motion, stepping back and away himself, widened dark eyes tracked him before they narrowed at the outburst. He stood still and let Peter blow his highly compressed air at him while his face betrayed only patience and a kind of blank, detached longevity, but he listened.
He gained some interesting information even Na- wait, what? No, he was Sylar; he hadn’t known that about Peter. Blinking and shaking his head slightly to shake off the sensation of foreign if rather pleasant memories, he stated firmly and surprisingly smoothly, “You didn’t answer the question.” Peter Petrelli was not squirming violently off his hook with anger and bluster and avoidance. He was curious now. Curiosity killed the cat. Ha.
“I suppose my most memorable attempt for help was with your own kind, Petrelli. Your mother said I was the favorite. Told me she could help me control my urges. Then she fed me a nice girl name Bridget. I sat in a cell, too. I went on a mission with Bennet.” So what if the robbery hadn’t turned out ideally and by the book, Ma- Angela had forgiven him. Right?
He wasn’t trying to sing his own praises….necessarily, but his good deeds were never taken into account. It’s not fair. Was there a time limit he had to stay clean in order to be….trusted wasn’t the right word, forgiven wasn’t either. Accepted? Taken seriously.
“I tend to get turned away from help or backstabbed on principal of being a murderer, but I asked Parkman for help. I went to-“ Uh…let’s not get into that just yet. “The carnival,” he replaced. Got a tacky tattoo of your pencil-wielding fiend of a niece. God, that one was messy. Took my whole eye with it and everything. It occurred to him that Peter hadn’t read his file, or else he would be aware of most if not all of this. His point was he had tried. On multiple occasions. He’d even stuck around long enough to drive people up the wall with his presence and his attempts.
Maybe it’s just my personality.
XXX
What was the question? Nathan’s dying face came to mind again, blood starting down from his forehead, Peter suddenly realizing what he was doing, the body falling to the floor like a sack of grain… Oh yeah, that was the question. He deflated, but he didn’t answer it even now. Fuck. He listened quietly to what Sylar said next.
He’d begun to suspect his mother told everyone they were her favorite. It didn’t bother him. He didn’t know Bridget, or what the context was around ‘fed me.’ It could mean Angela had sent Sylar to visit someone for innocent reasons and he lost control and took her power, or it could mean she brought a handcuffed, blindfolded victim-to-be to him. He didn’t know Sylar well enough to judge, so he just filed it away for now. It wasn’t like his mother was above the latter possibility, after all.
A mission with Bennet…Peter sighed and nodded sort of distantly. “The carnival’s bad news,” he muttered, walking off again, but slower this time, not even quite a normal walking pace. His voice barely carried when he added, “That’s where you save her. By saving her, you save thousands.” Hard to believe. Asshole. There was no real heat to that epithet at the moment though. Before Sylar could respond to that, Peter called over his shoulder, “You said you went to Parkman for help. He trapped you in here instead. He lied to you.” Guess that wouldn’t be the first time. The people I went to for help…they actually helped. Even Claude. Even Nathan.
Peter looked around at the buildings they were passing. He pointed idly at something. “Palm tree. Not in New York.” Not that he really cared where they were (he was very clear on their “actual” location), but he wanted to prove Sylar wrong instead of admitting he might have a point about the problems with his ability.
XXX
Peter went quiet and he could tell the man was thinking or lost in something. Reading silences was getting to be his strong point. He snorted as his curiosity would have to be put aside. He set it on the table to be brought up from a different angle at a later date. And there would be later dates, whatever Peter thought.
“That's no surprise. Of course he did. And damn straight its bad news. But Lydia’s not so bad,” he said wistfully, “Good kisser. Hands her ability out like you do, though.” Why did I let her kiss me again? Oh yeah. Ability. “Edgar’s a pain in the ass. Probably because Lydia’s a good kisser.” Sylar grimaced and growled to himself remembering the rest of the ridiculous exchange of saliva and insults.
Samuel….well, let’s just say he’d love to sink his teeth into Sam. He hadn’t believed for a moment all the hokey words the Irish buffoon had slid his way. Lydia must have picked up more than he’d thought if Sam was able to mimic his own manipulative style so easily. Maybe that’s why he didn’t like him. Then again, any self-respecting adult male past the age of puberty who wore black chipped nail polish was a screaming mime of bad news, too.
“Thou-“ Sylar began, his very mind stuttering over the idea. And that’s all it is. An idea. No way. Peter surely had to realize by ‘saving him’ and letting Sylar ‘save’ what’s-her-face he would be single-handedly be placing Sylar in a position to be….well, more redeemable. I’m a fucking coupon now? With an expiration date of course.
It flattered and annoyed, and, yes, hurt him to no end that people thought of him as dispensable as a coupon. Cheap one-time thrill ride. What did Angela say? A weapon. I’m not cheap. I just….never had a reason to be the good guy. Not with my ability.
“I’m sure he did,” Sylar remarked dryly, not overly sarcastic, more at disbelieving, “I regenerate, the effects wouldn’t last three years. Besides, Parkman’s dead and everybody lies. I used to have abilities to counter that. I remember threatening his lovely wife and kid, but it’s not like that was the first time or anything.” Should have taken those abilities while I had the chance. And banged his wife again, but hindsight is 20-20….
Sylar frowned at the sudden appearance of the strange, foreign tree. “How the hell did-” he cut himself off before he ruined his own point and left himself open to the ‘because it’s not real’ speech. He’d grasped it the first time. “So that dream you had….what happens exactly in it? I mean, I assume it was M- Angela’s ability you were using.” Fishing for credibility since Peter was quite the dreamer himself. “How exactly did you….uh, find yourself here?”
Of course he could always ask about Peter’s current flavor of the week, this Amanda person or whoever she was. //Rolling his eyes, he remembered back to the times he’d had to talk to Pete about boundaries with strangers in need, being more of the help those who help themselves type himself. Or more accurately, think of the big picture. Legislature. To this day…he still thought it went in one ear and out the other. Yeah, sure it was before his baby brother found his ability, but the kid could at least try to keep his nose to himself on important things, right?//
XXX
Peter stopped. Here in front of the palm tree was a good enough place, and it underscored his point. He could see two more further down a side street, but he didn’t see any reason to rub it in…more. Instead he turned and scowled deliberately at Sylar for some of the things he’d been blithely jabbering about without seeming to realize how horrible they were. He knew Matt had things to be angry at Sylar about.
He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief, although he believed it all too well. “The dream was one of those…” He gave Sylar another glare, but with less intensity than normal. His mother’s ability had almost been taken twice - once by himself and once by Sylar. He still wished that Nathan had somehow crushed out Sylar’s identity and taken over his body. He smiled bitterly. Then his older brother would have been as multi-powered as Peter once was - an interesting role reversal. And he wouldn’t be dead - the important part. But no. Nathan was dead and here was Sylar, whose continued existence was… Peter sighed. He didn’t know what it was, other than wrong.
What was I saying? “It was a dream that told the future, a precognitive dream. And yeah, Angela’s ability, not Matt’s.” He assumed ‘Matt’ was the name Sylar had been about to say. Peter had specified: a dream, not a painting. Why would Sylar think Matt had dreams of the future, too? Well…maybe he did. If he’d been trapped in Matt’s body for a while, then really, Sylar probably knew Matt’s ability better than Peter did. Huh.
“In the dream, you go to the carnival and…” Emma has an ability. Do I tell Sylar she has an ability? No. Peter swallowed. “…and Emma is there. She’s being forced to do something that endangers a lot of people. You…you stop her, but you save her, too. And by doing that, everyone is saved.” He frowned, not sure how to put into words the lights, confusion, screaming and voices, as well as the looming presence behind Emma, controlling her movements… Or how to express the anguish on her features or her bloody fingers or the hopeful, pleased look on Sylar’s face. “That’s…pretty much the basics.”
Peter stared off down the street. They’d come a number of blocks, enough so he wasn’t quite sure which building was the one Sylar lived in. He’d wanted to get completely out of sight of it and see if that changed anything. He turned and looked the other way. The street stretched on for a distance, then there was a T intersection and it ended, going off to either side. That was about four or five blocks away.
Why doesn’t Sylar have cars in this place? Or bicycles? Christ! He had a shopping cart. Why not a bicycle? Of course, there might be bicycles and I just haven’t seen one. He doesn’t seem all that interested in actually going anywhere - so convinced he’s alone. Was alone. Now I’m here.
He shut his eyes and made another futile attempt to get out. He rubbed his temple, wishing the strain would at least give him a headache. The utter lack of response made him wonder if he was doing anything at all. Well, obviously, since I’m still here, I’m not. Sylar seemed aware of what he was trying. Peter gave him a slightly exasperated look.
XXX
Maybe that’s what annoyed him most; that people assumed when they didn’t know him. Sylar had been about to drop the ‘Ma’ word, actually and had managed to recover in time. Ah, Angela’s ability-the bane of everyone’s existence. Supposedly Ma had had a dream about Nathan being killed so she stuck herself into the situation and instead of healing Nathan’s corpse with his daughter’s heal-anything blood, she’d pulled a fast one and Sylar was the one who caught the bullet. Big, fat, life-changing bullet. Maybe she’d wanted to be a hero, too.
To be honest, Sylar wasn’t interested in her ability. He was interested in the murder and blood aspect of it. She really did- had given him something to strive for at the time. The Queen Bitch of All Evil was Angela. Previously he wouldn’t have found his inner thoughts to be amusing enough to earn an audible reaction, but with Peter of all people there it now seemed kind of funny. ‘Remember that time I kissed your mom?’ It made him chuckle to himself and stifle it before the other noticed.
He just raised an amused brow at the latest glare; he was being honest. Why does that always seem to get me into more trouble than a lie would otherwise? I even kept it PG for goodness sake. Does he want details or something? “Eh-heh,” he replied, disbelieving. “So…where is this girl of your dreams now, Peter? Is she….hiding?” he hinted sarcastically, “No, no. Playing hard to get, right?” Just his type then, wasn’t she.
“Peter, one day your face is gonna stick like that. Then I’ll be pissed because I have to look at you.” Sylar snarked in a mild tone at the medic’s near constant glare. Juvenile, sure, but it needed to be said. “Now, Captain Grumps, what exactly are we looking for?” this was delivered in a false stage conspiratorial whisper with the intent to mock for the most part.
“Buildings…road…buildings….” He himself gave a wary look towards the palm trees he pretended didn’t exist otherwise. “You’d be better off spending your time looking for just the right apartment. I hope you brought pajamas.” Was his absent-minded musings as he moved to walk randomly over the street, just wandering really but not going far from the determined medic. Don't break your brain, Pete, he wanted to say at the other man's obvious head pains.
XXX
Disgust crossed his features. I don’t need pajamas. He watched Sylar’s wanderings and considered whether he should ask him the questions festering in his brain:
Do you know a way out of here?
Is there somewhere around here different than the rest?
Is there any direction you haven’t gone in?
Is there any area that scares you, or is confusing, or always disorients you?
Is there any significance to him wanting me to get an apartment, or eat lunch?
His brow furrowed as he considered that last one. There’d been a movie about a guy named Neo where you had to take a pill to do … something, something that took you to another world. Peter hardly remembered the details, though the movie had been a big deal when it came out. All the excitement of dealing with powers had shoved such fantasies to the back of his head. But it was an Alice in Wonderland allegory that involved eating something. Was it possible that eating something here would … do something?
Man, that seems far-fetched. It’s not the sort of thing that would be in Matt’s head, I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that would be in Sylar’s, and it’s certainly not something I’d come up with. Well, I did sort of just come up with it, but it’s stupid. I think I’d come up with a door. Or a wall. Or something like that. Something physical - and a lot more than eating lunch with Sylar.
He huffed. “This isn’t working, okay? Just go on back to your apartment. I’ll figure it out.” There was really no point in having Sylar around if he couldn’t get him out. Being around him was pretty much a roller coaster of emotions anyway and the man was annoying the hell out of him. Maybe if I just didn’t have as many distractions.
XXX
Sylar had made a large circle on the road and came back around in the street, the man’s broken sound fading and then getting stronger; coming around beside Peter, he trailed his fingers against the brick of the nearest building, eyeing it lazily. “Nah, getting some air,” he gave the other a slight smirk. Honestly he was bored unto death and looking for some kind of buzz out here. Peter was just the unlucky subject in many ways.
“I think it’s ‘working’ just fine, Peter, rolling right along as expected.” Sylar kicked idly at the base of the building. “Seriously, man….do things the easy way for once and let it go. There’s no one to save. Not even me.” Regretfully. Huh, that was an odd thought. Maybe somewhere in another universe we’re friends. I’m normal and decently happy and he’s…well, hard to picture him as anything else.
While it was a pretty fantasy, it didn’t occupy his thoughts. He was thinking on the things Peter would need when he moved in and move in he would, regardless of what the medic thought. Clothes, books, comics and food. Everything else should be in whatever apartment he chose. Oh, comics...
//Flash Gordon. George Lucas. He remembered taking Peter to see Return of the Jedi in ’83. Poor Pete, he’d been three years old, Ma had protested, but he’d been so adamant to see the sequels. Pete did really well as he remembered, the young boy having sat and stared at the screen with those amazingly wide seeing hazel eyes. Not that he noticed. He’d been busy thinking of the impossibilities of flight with something like the Millennium-// What the fuck?
Sylar made a quick motion away from the building’s scratchy surface that was unfortunately his only connection to the world, the earth as much as he hated it. Shaking his head, grimacing and blinking he found himself a little disoriented. I hope he didn’t notice that.
XXX
“Let it go? Let what go?” Peter threw his arms out to the sides in exasperation. “Do you think I’m just going to go eat lunch with you and live…here? In your head? Not even try to get out?” Well, I have tried. Am trying. Just not succeeding. Yet.
“Sylar, I have a life. I have a life out there.” He waved vaguely, since what he wanted to point at was everything that wasn’t here. “And so do other people - people I care about! Maybe your life is so fucked up that this is an improvement and…” Oh my God, that’s probably true. Peter’s mouth shut with a snap, not sure if he should be embarrassed or ashamed or just bull on through the conversation. It was Sylar, after all, and Sylar’s feelings didn’t matter all that much to him. The problem was that he felt a little smaller himself just for having said it, regardless of who it was to.
He sighed and looked off at the T-intersection, his mind shying away from contemplating what it must be like to live Sylar’s life. Instead he thought about how empty he felt without Nathan in his. It would be Christmas soon and Nathan wouldn’t be there. Not that they’d spent the last several Christmases together, but Peter had at least known that Nate was out there…somewhere.
They’d always at least called, either on the holiday or close to it, what with Peter’s birthday being two days before it. Except when Peter was locked up in the Company hospital, thinking Nathan was dead. He remembered the ham dinner Elle had brought to him. It was the only way he knew it was Christmas, as he’d lost track of the days long before. He’d been so numb that even her sadistic affections were an entertaining diversion.
Is that what Sylar thinks I am?
XXX
“Okay, Peter, go dig a tunnel to China or something. At least you tried, but we have showers here.” By then Sylar was getting annoyed despite having someone else in his limited sphere. Peter really wouldn’t see reason on this, would he? Then the other man began to rave about how fantastic his own life had been. Had been. Dark eyes narrowed at him and his brow grew tense and he pursed his lips at the other.
“For all your breeding, Petrelli, I would have thought you’d learned a civil mouth.” Was his only reply, rolling his gaze skyward. Ah, much better. After a moment or two of thought on the comment itself, he sighed. “It’s better and worse. No Hunger, no abilities, I can just be myself, but….there’s…no one here. I’m rotting away in here,” Little did he realize that left him open to further comment about how fitting it was, “But you’ll see just how fun that is soon enough.”
While he didn’t say it outright, the feeling he’d been half-heartedly trying to convey had been loneliness. The world was dead now; what could it hold for someone who’d fought so hard for greatness that depended on people. There was no one here to give him anything other than insulted conversation and a headache. Although…Peter depended on people just as much as he did, he supposed. Maybe that boded well for Sylar in the end. He’s not used to it.
He also assumed Peter was immortal and that they’d be nothing but entertaining diversions to each other for the rest of all eternity. Goddamn that fucking ability and the day I took it. Never mind that it had saved his life from random pot-shots. He didn’t think it was worth this Hell otherwise known as Life. Oh, that’s a great idea. We can sit down with cookies and milk and play a freaking board game. If we make it Monopoly, maybe it will take until the sun burns out. No such luck.
XXX
Rotting away. It brought to mind the very clear image of Sylar’s body propped up behind a brick wall in Parkman’s basement. Peter had assumed Matt would wake him up. He was one of the good guys, after all. He didn’t exactly count Matt as a friend, but at least not an enemy. They’d worked together, they’d helped each other…off and on. A lot had happened to Matt lately - a lot that Peter probably wasn’t in the know about. What sort of effects had Sylar had on him, whilst cohabitating in his body? Matt must have spent six weeks with Sylar in his head and at the end of it he’d been gunned down by a bunch of cops outside a diner in Texas.
Peter looked Sylar up and down and although most of his expression was disdain, there was an element of fear and concern there, too. What if Sylar had pushed Matt so hard that anyone who appeared to be an ally to Sylar fell into the same category? What if Matt walled Peter up right there next to Sylar and just kept piling up bricks? It had already been way too long. If Matt was going to pull Peter out, he’d have done it before now.
Well, I suppose I’ll know when I suffocate and die. But wait…if my consciousness is here, in Sylar’s head, just like Nathan’s was, just like Sylar was in Matt’s…! He jerked as he realized he might be truly trapped here forever. Forever. Metaphorically rotting away in Sylar’s head, next to his own, literally decaying body. Peter shuddered like he’d seen a ghost, stiffened and turned towards that distant T intersection.
I have got to get out of here!
He didn’t say anything as he left, because if Sylar had tipped Matt over the edge to become the sort of person who would wall Sylar up in the basement, then he might also have fallen far enough to wall Peter up. And in that case, not only had Sylar killed Nathan, but he’d killed Peter, too, and condemned him to a forever of here, in his head. Thank God he didn’t seem to have any powers. Peter figured he had at least an hour or two, but he wasn’t sure how much time had already passed. The brickwork had looked shoddy - there would be air holes, but no ventilation. He had no time to waste. Not caring what Sylar made of it, he broke into a jog.
Only later would he wonder what the hell he was running from.
XXX
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 5,904
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 1
Giving his…guest a slight grin, he gestured at the kitchen. Sylar did want company. Even if the company was dying to ‘escape’. The gaping fish act was pretty amusing, the empath seemed stunned by something. “Peter….” He asked slowly as if talking to a startled animal and he was trying to transcend the barrier of speech with it, “Are you okay?”
Oh, now it was starting to sink in, he could see. Peter was starting to get panicky now. Had it been a stranger, he’d have counted his guest as lucky to have himself to fall back on; Sylar hadn’t had anyone. Three years and sane as could be or not so much. But this was Peter, champion extraordinaire (probably with good reason). Sylar had just received a new toy from….somewhere. Maybe the sewers, he’d only checked those briefly because why would anyone hide there? And for three years, too.
“I’d take a guess and say….streets and buildings, Peter. What’s there to see?” Sylar just frowned and padded unthinking behind the departing man. He began to hear something now that the ruckus and some of the ridiculous had passed; a lack of sound, like placing an ear to someone’s chest and hearing no heart beat. It was a familiar sound to him; it was Peter’s watch.
XXX
Peter found the stairs and thumped down them, looking around a lot more carefully this time around, making note of the things stacked around and wondering why Sylar would bother to think this stuff up. He stopped at the door and looked back at Sylar following him down the stairs. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. No, actually he was sure: he felt apprehensive. Suddenly he had a lot more empathy for Sylar pointing at him, threatening to kill him, and running off like a maniac down the street. It had a certain appeal at the moment, when it had occurred to Peter that everyone might be dead in Sylar’s mental version of reality because he’d killed all of them.
Peter picked a direction and set off down the middle of the street. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was a little chilly - or, he supposed, Sylar’s mind was telling him it was chilly. Fine then. My mind will put my mental hands in my pockets, but that’s only because I don’t want to argue about it. He was headed in the opposite of the direction they’d come in from, but with the number of times they’d turned on their little morning run, there was no telling where they were going. Sylar probably knew. It was his head after all. “You ever get lost here?” Do I need to worry about losing him? Would I be able to find him again?
He listened to Sylar’s answer, not caring much what he said past the yes or no part of it. He thought about that apartment, full of books and clocks; a kitchenette with food that Sylar thought he was going to eat; probably a bed that he thought he slept in. He’d imagined an entire little world for himself here. He’d said something about Peter picking out an apartment to live in. Ridiculous! Disturbing. And…he hadn’t told him to move on or get lost, which would have been the sort of reaction Peter would have expected under normal ‘real’ circumstances. It was almost like he wanted him here.
Speaking of disturbing, he glanced back over his shoulder as he walked and asked, “The inside of your door, on your apartment - why was there a bloody handprint on it? How’d that get there?” It had been one of the things that had creeped him out as he stood next to the entrance to the kitchenette, with the door right next to him, the handprint just at eye level.
XXX
It was warm to Sylar, the weather. Perhaps it was due to his feelings at having found a fr- someone else to talk to. Walking down the hall five or so feet behind the other, he caught Peter’s wary glance and raised his hands to show that they weren’t armed or rather, he supposed, pointing at his head. “Lost? No. But it may be because I have a good sense of direction. I mean….you can get disoriented, sure, turned around. That part’s easy. You’ll get used to it. Got plenty of time.” Again with the rambling. It didn’t even occur to him that’s what he was doing, but it made sense.
It was very strange for him to be in the presence of a special and not feel the Hunger tugging at his mind to fix and probe and discover, even if the watch was still begging to be fixed. So while Peter walked, and Sylar walked behind, he found himself staring at the back of the medic’s head. Of course Peter was broken, everyone was, but he was broken…differently. Ugh, if only they had their abilities they could have some real fun maybe. Then again….that was probably the worst thing that could happen. Peter would probably abuse them once ‘playtime’ was over, with just cause.
Sylar trod behind the other man as he was seemingly engrossed in his surroundings, the ones Sylar didn’t notice anymore. “You sure you don’t want lunch, ma-” he was interrupted by Peter’s completely random musing about his door and the ever present handprint it bore. Frowning, he paused as he debated even answering that.
“It’s….” to be honest, he didn’t want to think about it, but he swallowed and continued. “It’s a scar. My second kill. Bennet and….Elle gave me a test….” His voice was fairly quiet and hesitant over his words, almost deciding to stop multiple times. “If I passed….I could have had a life with just my original ability, the one you picked up. Lived out my boring life with my watches and….maybe a girlfriend.” Sighing in despair at the memory, he ended his tale, “I failed. Obviously.”
Here he was today, whatever today was. Calendars were useless and the stars told him nothing. But he was still a monster even in this waste, a sentiment Peter would doubtless jump at the chance to remind him of. "I keep it as a reminder; no one outruns their sin and pain."
XXX
Peter had been setting a hurried pace before, his strides purposeful even if he had no idea where he was going. He was “going” down this street and there was no reason to dawdle. But his steps slowed during the answer to his second question. He glanced back over his shoulder uneasily a couple times. If it had been anyone else saying something like that…such a raw opening up would…Peter felt a strong need to acknowledge that somehow, validate, tell him it was okay or something else like that. But…this was the man who killed Nathan. That thought surged up in him like a fire and he increased his pace again, hunching his shoulders like it had suddenly gotten colder outside, even though he was hotter within.
Yeah, you failed. Failed over and over. Maybe if you’d quit doing the same thing, you’d get a different result.
When Sylar spoke of the reminder, the look Peter shot over his shoulder wasn’t uneasy or conflicted. His eyes were narrowed and angry. He snorted. He knew he shouldn’t say what was on his mind, but all he could think about was this imposter touching Nathan’s forehead in that storage unit. Had he known even then? He should have suspected. Sylar wasn’t a dummy. He didn’t have a right to touch Nathan. And so he asked, “You really need a reminder of something like that? Like a post-it on your door everyday when you get ready to go out - ‘Note to self: don’t kill anyone today - it’s wrong!’” A mocking lilt filled his voice. Hearing that tone, he shut his mouth.
This, this is the person who’s supposed to save Emma? I don’t want him anywhere near her!
He shook his head rapidly, angry, and tried to see if he could possibly walk any faster without running.
XXX
Peter kept glancing back at him, probably just for that reason, too; Sylar walked behind Peter. Still, if he didn’t like it, he could slow his short-legged fast pace and keep an eye on Sylar himself. As he spoke, Sylar saw that he did decrease in speed and really, what was the hurry? The city would wait. It would still be there even if Peter decided to take a breather for five minutes. It would be there in five weeks and five years from then. He had to admit it was a little exciting to have something to be rushed about even if there was no rush at all.
The medic didn’t seem to appreciate something he’d said. What a surprise. And turned to glare at him. I know that look… Sylar stopped dead in his tracks, unsure of what was expected of him or even how he should respond. What had he said that was so wrong? He hadn’t thought there would be any big, blinking red button triggers in what he’d said. “I don’t know, Peter, why don’t you tell me how you did with your little experiment with my power, hmm?” he threw back, annoyed and strangely insulted by the remark.
He sent a matching glare at Peter’s head as he faced ahead and increased his pace again, definitely desperate to get away from this, from him. He began walking again as well. Well, he wouldn't get away from it that easy. It was such an awful long way to run. Peter of all people would have at least some understanding of what it was like. “Fuck post-its,” he muttered to himself, but he glanced at his right forearm where the tattoo lay. Talk about confusion. Hiro, Parkman, tattoo girl and Claire….now Peter. Everyone was telling him something different.
“You will die alone.”
“You’re really are insane.”
“You’re lonely. But you want love; you just don’t think you deserve it. You’re impotent.”
“You’re a psychopath. Mystery solved.”
“This is a dream.”
Die alone, you’re lonely, go to Claire, here have a fucking tattoo, that ship sailed, no one will mourn your death.
“Fuck heroes.”
XXX
Peter spun suddenly, almost causing a collision, not showing much awareness of where, exactly, the other man was. He sidestepped, which made it look like he was circling. Fine. He circled. And while he circled, he pointed angrily, teeth clenched. “You know, when I first got my ability, I had problems with it. A lot of problems. Dangerous ones. Not just, ‘I might want to murder this one person and then that one person over there and then maybe a week later this other person and two weeks after that someone else!’ I had ‘level a whole fucking city problems!’ And you know what? I looked for HELP! I ASKED for help! And I GOT help! I let a bastard throw me off a thirty story building and beat the crap out of me time after time and-” Peter shook briefly with a lot of feelings. He’d never told this to anyone - not even Nathan, though that was mostly because he’d never had a chance. Their relationship had changed so much after Kirby. Why was he telling it to Sylar?
He went on, but he switched to saying something different than he’d intended a second before. “I let myself be incarcerated for months because I thought I might be dangerous. Might!” He glared at Sylar like his eyes might burn the other man down. “I got it under control. Did you ever even try? Or did you just dive straight in like an alcoholic looking for the bottom of the bottle, as soon as you had a taste?”
He snorted and wheeled to take off down the street again, hands out and loose at his sides, heart racing. He tried to get a grip on himself. Nathan’s face, calm and accepting, danced in front of his eyes with a bloody line across his forehead, but it wasn’t Sylar who had put it there - it was Peter.
XXX
Sylar started back at the sudden motion, stepping back and away himself, widened dark eyes tracked him before they narrowed at the outburst. He stood still and let Peter blow his highly compressed air at him while his face betrayed only patience and a kind of blank, detached longevity, but he listened.
He gained some interesting information even Na- wait, what? No, he was Sylar; he hadn’t known that about Peter. Blinking and shaking his head slightly to shake off the sensation of foreign if rather pleasant memories, he stated firmly and surprisingly smoothly, “You didn’t answer the question.” Peter Petrelli was not squirming violently off his hook with anger and bluster and avoidance. He was curious now. Curiosity killed the cat. Ha.
“I suppose my most memorable attempt for help was with your own kind, Petrelli. Your mother said I was the favorite. Told me she could help me control my urges. Then she fed me a nice girl name Bridget. I sat in a cell, too. I went on a mission with Bennet.” So what if the robbery hadn’t turned out ideally and by the book, Ma- Angela had forgiven him. Right?
He wasn’t trying to sing his own praises….necessarily, but his good deeds were never taken into account. It’s not fair. Was there a time limit he had to stay clean in order to be….trusted wasn’t the right word, forgiven wasn’t either. Accepted? Taken seriously.
“I tend to get turned away from help or backstabbed on principal of being a murderer, but I asked Parkman for help. I went to-“ Uh…let’s not get into that just yet. “The carnival,” he replaced. Got a tacky tattoo of your pencil-wielding fiend of a niece. God, that one was messy. Took my whole eye with it and everything. It occurred to him that Peter hadn’t read his file, or else he would be aware of most if not all of this. His point was he had tried. On multiple occasions. He’d even stuck around long enough to drive people up the wall with his presence and his attempts.
Maybe it’s just my personality.
XXX
What was the question? Nathan’s dying face came to mind again, blood starting down from his forehead, Peter suddenly realizing what he was doing, the body falling to the floor like a sack of grain… Oh yeah, that was the question. He deflated, but he didn’t answer it even now. Fuck. He listened quietly to what Sylar said next.
He’d begun to suspect his mother told everyone they were her favorite. It didn’t bother him. He didn’t know Bridget, or what the context was around ‘fed me.’ It could mean Angela had sent Sylar to visit someone for innocent reasons and he lost control and took her power, or it could mean she brought a handcuffed, blindfolded victim-to-be to him. He didn’t know Sylar well enough to judge, so he just filed it away for now. It wasn’t like his mother was above the latter possibility, after all.
A mission with Bennet…Peter sighed and nodded sort of distantly. “The carnival’s bad news,” he muttered, walking off again, but slower this time, not even quite a normal walking pace. His voice barely carried when he added, “That’s where you save her. By saving her, you save thousands.” Hard to believe. Asshole. There was no real heat to that epithet at the moment though. Before Sylar could respond to that, Peter called over his shoulder, “You said you went to Parkman for help. He trapped you in here instead. He lied to you.” Guess that wouldn’t be the first time. The people I went to for help…they actually helped. Even Claude. Even Nathan.
Peter looked around at the buildings they were passing. He pointed idly at something. “Palm tree. Not in New York.” Not that he really cared where they were (he was very clear on their “actual” location), but he wanted to prove Sylar wrong instead of admitting he might have a point about the problems with his ability.
XXX
Peter went quiet and he could tell the man was thinking or lost in something. Reading silences was getting to be his strong point. He snorted as his curiosity would have to be put aside. He set it on the table to be brought up from a different angle at a later date. And there would be later dates, whatever Peter thought.
“That's no surprise. Of course he did. And damn straight its bad news. But Lydia’s not so bad,” he said wistfully, “Good kisser. Hands her ability out like you do, though.” Why did I let her kiss me again? Oh yeah. Ability. “Edgar’s a pain in the ass. Probably because Lydia’s a good kisser.” Sylar grimaced and growled to himself remembering the rest of the ridiculous exchange of saliva and insults.
Samuel….well, let’s just say he’d love to sink his teeth into Sam. He hadn’t believed for a moment all the hokey words the Irish buffoon had slid his way. Lydia must have picked up more than he’d thought if Sam was able to mimic his own manipulative style so easily. Maybe that’s why he didn’t like him. Then again, any self-respecting adult male past the age of puberty who wore black chipped nail polish was a screaming mime of bad news, too.
“Thou-“ Sylar began, his very mind stuttering over the idea. And that’s all it is. An idea. No way. Peter surely had to realize by ‘saving him’ and letting Sylar ‘save’ what’s-her-face he would be single-handedly be placing Sylar in a position to be….well, more redeemable. I’m a fucking coupon now? With an expiration date of course.
It flattered and annoyed, and, yes, hurt him to no end that people thought of him as dispensable as a coupon. Cheap one-time thrill ride. What did Angela say? A weapon. I’m not cheap. I just….never had a reason to be the good guy. Not with my ability.
“I’m sure he did,” Sylar remarked dryly, not overly sarcastic, more at disbelieving, “I regenerate, the effects wouldn’t last three years. Besides, Parkman’s dead and everybody lies. I used to have abilities to counter that. I remember threatening his lovely wife and kid, but it’s not like that was the first time or anything.” Should have taken those abilities while I had the chance. And banged his wife again, but hindsight is 20-20….
Sylar frowned at the sudden appearance of the strange, foreign tree. “How the hell did-” he cut himself off before he ruined his own point and left himself open to the ‘because it’s not real’ speech. He’d grasped it the first time. “So that dream you had….what happens exactly in it? I mean, I assume it was M- Angela’s ability you were using.” Fishing for credibility since Peter was quite the dreamer himself. “How exactly did you….uh, find yourself here?”
Of course he could always ask about Peter’s current flavor of the week, this Amanda person or whoever she was. //Rolling his eyes, he remembered back to the times he’d had to talk to Pete about boundaries with strangers in need, being more of the help those who help themselves type himself. Or more accurately, think of the big picture. Legislature. To this day…he still thought it went in one ear and out the other. Yeah, sure it was before his baby brother found his ability, but the kid could at least try to keep his nose to himself on important things, right?//
XXX
Peter stopped. Here in front of the palm tree was a good enough place, and it underscored his point. He could see two more further down a side street, but he didn’t see any reason to rub it in…more. Instead he turned and scowled deliberately at Sylar for some of the things he’d been blithely jabbering about without seeming to realize how horrible they were. He knew Matt had things to be angry at Sylar about.
He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief, although he believed it all too well. “The dream was one of those…” He gave Sylar another glare, but with less intensity than normal. His mother’s ability had almost been taken twice - once by himself and once by Sylar. He still wished that Nathan had somehow crushed out Sylar’s identity and taken over his body. He smiled bitterly. Then his older brother would have been as multi-powered as Peter once was - an interesting role reversal. And he wouldn’t be dead - the important part. But no. Nathan was dead and here was Sylar, whose continued existence was… Peter sighed. He didn’t know what it was, other than wrong.
What was I saying? “It was a dream that told the future, a precognitive dream. And yeah, Angela’s ability, not Matt’s.” He assumed ‘Matt’ was the name Sylar had been about to say. Peter had specified: a dream, not a painting. Why would Sylar think Matt had dreams of the future, too? Well…maybe he did. If he’d been trapped in Matt’s body for a while, then really, Sylar probably knew Matt’s ability better than Peter did. Huh.
“In the dream, you go to the carnival and…” Emma has an ability. Do I tell Sylar she has an ability? No. Peter swallowed. “…and Emma is there. She’s being forced to do something that endangers a lot of people. You…you stop her, but you save her, too. And by doing that, everyone is saved.” He frowned, not sure how to put into words the lights, confusion, screaming and voices, as well as the looming presence behind Emma, controlling her movements… Or how to express the anguish on her features or her bloody fingers or the hopeful, pleased look on Sylar’s face. “That’s…pretty much the basics.”
Peter stared off down the street. They’d come a number of blocks, enough so he wasn’t quite sure which building was the one Sylar lived in. He’d wanted to get completely out of sight of it and see if that changed anything. He turned and looked the other way. The street stretched on for a distance, then there was a T intersection and it ended, going off to either side. That was about four or five blocks away.
Why doesn’t Sylar have cars in this place? Or bicycles? Christ! He had a shopping cart. Why not a bicycle? Of course, there might be bicycles and I just haven’t seen one. He doesn’t seem all that interested in actually going anywhere - so convinced he’s alone. Was alone. Now I’m here.
He shut his eyes and made another futile attempt to get out. He rubbed his temple, wishing the strain would at least give him a headache. The utter lack of response made him wonder if he was doing anything at all. Well, obviously, since I’m still here, I’m not. Sylar seemed aware of what he was trying. Peter gave him a slightly exasperated look.
XXX
Maybe that’s what annoyed him most; that people assumed when they didn’t know him. Sylar had been about to drop the ‘Ma’ word, actually and had managed to recover in time. Ah, Angela’s ability-the bane of everyone’s existence. Supposedly Ma had had a dream about Nathan being killed so she stuck herself into the situation and instead of healing Nathan’s corpse with his daughter’s heal-anything blood, she’d pulled a fast one and Sylar was the one who caught the bullet. Big, fat, life-changing bullet. Maybe she’d wanted to be a hero, too.
To be honest, Sylar wasn’t interested in her ability. He was interested in the murder and blood aspect of it. She really did- had given him something to strive for at the time. The Queen Bitch of All Evil was Angela. Previously he wouldn’t have found his inner thoughts to be amusing enough to earn an audible reaction, but with Peter of all people there it now seemed kind of funny. ‘Remember that time I kissed your mom?’ It made him chuckle to himself and stifle it before the other noticed.
He just raised an amused brow at the latest glare; he was being honest. Why does that always seem to get me into more trouble than a lie would otherwise? I even kept it PG for goodness sake. Does he want details or something? “Eh-heh,” he replied, disbelieving. “So…where is this girl of your dreams now, Peter? Is she….hiding?” he hinted sarcastically, “No, no. Playing hard to get, right?” Just his type then, wasn’t she.
“Peter, one day your face is gonna stick like that. Then I’ll be pissed because I have to look at you.” Sylar snarked in a mild tone at the medic’s near constant glare. Juvenile, sure, but it needed to be said. “Now, Captain Grumps, what exactly are we looking for?” this was delivered in a false stage conspiratorial whisper with the intent to mock for the most part.
“Buildings…road…buildings….” He himself gave a wary look towards the palm trees he pretended didn’t exist otherwise. “You’d be better off spending your time looking for just the right apartment. I hope you brought pajamas.” Was his absent-minded musings as he moved to walk randomly over the street, just wandering really but not going far from the determined medic. Don't break your brain, Pete, he wanted to say at the other man's obvious head pains.
XXX
Disgust crossed his features. I don’t need pajamas. He watched Sylar’s wanderings and considered whether he should ask him the questions festering in his brain:
Do you know a way out of here?
Is there somewhere around here different than the rest?
Is there any direction you haven’t gone in?
Is there any area that scares you, or is confusing, or always disorients you?
Is there any significance to him wanting me to get an apartment, or eat lunch?
His brow furrowed as he considered that last one. There’d been a movie about a guy named Neo where you had to take a pill to do … something, something that took you to another world. Peter hardly remembered the details, though the movie had been a big deal when it came out. All the excitement of dealing with powers had shoved such fantasies to the back of his head. But it was an Alice in Wonderland allegory that involved eating something. Was it possible that eating something here would … do something?
Man, that seems far-fetched. It’s not the sort of thing that would be in Matt’s head, I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that would be in Sylar’s, and it’s certainly not something I’d come up with. Well, I did sort of just come up with it, but it’s stupid. I think I’d come up with a door. Or a wall. Or something like that. Something physical - and a lot more than eating lunch with Sylar.
He huffed. “This isn’t working, okay? Just go on back to your apartment. I’ll figure it out.” There was really no point in having Sylar around if he couldn’t get him out. Being around him was pretty much a roller coaster of emotions anyway and the man was annoying the hell out of him. Maybe if I just didn’t have as many distractions.
XXX
Sylar had made a large circle on the road and came back around in the street, the man’s broken sound fading and then getting stronger; coming around beside Peter, he trailed his fingers against the brick of the nearest building, eyeing it lazily. “Nah, getting some air,” he gave the other a slight smirk. Honestly he was bored unto death and looking for some kind of buzz out here. Peter was just the unlucky subject in many ways.
“I think it’s ‘working’ just fine, Peter, rolling right along as expected.” Sylar kicked idly at the base of the building. “Seriously, man….do things the easy way for once and let it go. There’s no one to save. Not even me.” Regretfully. Huh, that was an odd thought. Maybe somewhere in another universe we’re friends. I’m normal and decently happy and he’s…well, hard to picture him as anything else.
While it was a pretty fantasy, it didn’t occupy his thoughts. He was thinking on the things Peter would need when he moved in and move in he would, regardless of what the medic thought. Clothes, books, comics and food. Everything else should be in whatever apartment he chose. Oh, comics...
//Flash Gordon. George Lucas. He remembered taking Peter to see Return of the Jedi in ’83. Poor Pete, he’d been three years old, Ma had protested, but he’d been so adamant to see the sequels. Pete did really well as he remembered, the young boy having sat and stared at the screen with those amazingly wide seeing hazel eyes. Not that he noticed. He’d been busy thinking of the impossibilities of flight with something like the Millennium-// What the fuck?
Sylar made a quick motion away from the building’s scratchy surface that was unfortunately his only connection to the world, the earth as much as he hated it. Shaking his head, grimacing and blinking he found himself a little disoriented. I hope he didn’t notice that.
XXX
“Let it go? Let what go?” Peter threw his arms out to the sides in exasperation. “Do you think I’m just going to go eat lunch with you and live…here? In your head? Not even try to get out?” Well, I have tried. Am trying. Just not succeeding. Yet.
“Sylar, I have a life. I have a life out there.” He waved vaguely, since what he wanted to point at was everything that wasn’t here. “And so do other people - people I care about! Maybe your life is so fucked up that this is an improvement and…” Oh my God, that’s probably true. Peter’s mouth shut with a snap, not sure if he should be embarrassed or ashamed or just bull on through the conversation. It was Sylar, after all, and Sylar’s feelings didn’t matter all that much to him. The problem was that he felt a little smaller himself just for having said it, regardless of who it was to.
He sighed and looked off at the T-intersection, his mind shying away from contemplating what it must be like to live Sylar’s life. Instead he thought about how empty he felt without Nathan in his. It would be Christmas soon and Nathan wouldn’t be there. Not that they’d spent the last several Christmases together, but Peter had at least known that Nate was out there…somewhere.
They’d always at least called, either on the holiday or close to it, what with Peter’s birthday being two days before it. Except when Peter was locked up in the Company hospital, thinking Nathan was dead. He remembered the ham dinner Elle had brought to him. It was the only way he knew it was Christmas, as he’d lost track of the days long before. He’d been so numb that even her sadistic affections were an entertaining diversion.
Is that what Sylar thinks I am?
XXX
“Okay, Peter, go dig a tunnel to China or something. At least you tried, but we have showers here.” By then Sylar was getting annoyed despite having someone else in his limited sphere. Peter really wouldn’t see reason on this, would he? Then the other man began to rave about how fantastic his own life had been. Had been. Dark eyes narrowed at him and his brow grew tense and he pursed his lips at the other.
“For all your breeding, Petrelli, I would have thought you’d learned a civil mouth.” Was his only reply, rolling his gaze skyward. Ah, much better. After a moment or two of thought on the comment itself, he sighed. “It’s better and worse. No Hunger, no abilities, I can just be myself, but….there’s…no one here. I’m rotting away in here,” Little did he realize that left him open to further comment about how fitting it was, “But you’ll see just how fun that is soon enough.”
While he didn’t say it outright, the feeling he’d been half-heartedly trying to convey had been loneliness. The world was dead now; what could it hold for someone who’d fought so hard for greatness that depended on people. There was no one here to give him anything other than insulted conversation and a headache. Although…Peter depended on people just as much as he did, he supposed. Maybe that boded well for Sylar in the end. He’s not used to it.
He also assumed Peter was immortal and that they’d be nothing but entertaining diversions to each other for the rest of all eternity. Goddamn that fucking ability and the day I took it. Never mind that it had saved his life from random pot-shots. He didn’t think it was worth this Hell otherwise known as Life. Oh, that’s a great idea. We can sit down with cookies and milk and play a freaking board game. If we make it Monopoly, maybe it will take until the sun burns out. No such luck.
XXX
Rotting away. It brought to mind the very clear image of Sylar’s body propped up behind a brick wall in Parkman’s basement. Peter had assumed Matt would wake him up. He was one of the good guys, after all. He didn’t exactly count Matt as a friend, but at least not an enemy. They’d worked together, they’d helped each other…off and on. A lot had happened to Matt lately - a lot that Peter probably wasn’t in the know about. What sort of effects had Sylar had on him, whilst cohabitating in his body? Matt must have spent six weeks with Sylar in his head and at the end of it he’d been gunned down by a bunch of cops outside a diner in Texas.
Peter looked Sylar up and down and although most of his expression was disdain, there was an element of fear and concern there, too. What if Sylar had pushed Matt so hard that anyone who appeared to be an ally to Sylar fell into the same category? What if Matt walled Peter up right there next to Sylar and just kept piling up bricks? It had already been way too long. If Matt was going to pull Peter out, he’d have done it before now.
Well, I suppose I’ll know when I suffocate and die. But wait…if my consciousness is here, in Sylar’s head, just like Nathan’s was, just like Sylar was in Matt’s…! He jerked as he realized he might be truly trapped here forever. Forever. Metaphorically rotting away in Sylar’s head, next to his own, literally decaying body. Peter shuddered like he’d seen a ghost, stiffened and turned towards that distant T intersection.
I have got to get out of here!
He didn’t say anything as he left, because if Sylar had tipped Matt over the edge to become the sort of person who would wall Sylar up in the basement, then he might also have fallen far enough to wall Peter up. And in that case, not only had Sylar killed Nathan, but he’d killed Peter, too, and condemned him to a forever of here, in his head. Thank God he didn’t seem to have any powers. Peter figured he had at least an hour or two, but he wasn’t sure how much time had already passed. The brickwork had looked shoddy - there would be air holes, but no ventilation. He had no time to waste. Not caring what Sylar made of it, he broke into a jog.
Only later would he wonder what the hell he was running from.
XXX