More Between Us, Chapter 4.2/? "Moments of Weakness"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 4.2/?
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: 6, 455
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 4
If I’m still here in a year and a half, that would be…what? The afternoon? An hour or two? Not much, really. I’m probably going to be stuck here at least a decade. I wonder if time would pass any faster if I spent a lot of it asleep? But then I’d have Sylar’s dreams to deal with. I don’t think it will be that easy.
He listened to what Sylar had to say, frowning when it sounded like he was talking down to him. Peter didn’t think he deserved that. Did Sylar do that to everyone? No wonder he didn’t have anyone he could go to when his power manifested. No one wanted to be around the jerk.
“I’ve already told you,” Peter said in a tired tone. Maybe if I just say it differently? “I came to this place because I’ve decided the world is a manifestation of Matt Parkman’s power and that-“ even someone like you shouldn’t be stuck in here. No…on second thought, this is a good place for you to be. I just wish I wasn’t stuck in here with you. More like, it’s destiny that you save Emma, and that’s why I’m here. Fucking destiny. I hate destiny. What was I saying? “-it’s my destiny to get you out of it.” He snorted at the silliness of the whole thing.
\‘I’ve been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny. It’s my turn to be somebody now…’\
As if to himself, he continued, “You don’t have to believe in it. Most people don’t.” Without thinking, he bent down and started picking at the lacings for his shoes. He needed to get them off and have a look at his feet. He caught himself and paused. I need a pharmacy. And I don’t want to do this in front of him. It was not so much because such was rude or overly familiar, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be without his shoes. It was a tiny vulnerability, but even that was something Peter didn’t want to display.
He sat back up, changing stride back to the questions that had been percolating in the back of his head for a while now. “I’d be happy to go somewhere else; if you thought I could actually get there. What’s the furthest away from here you’ve been?”
XXX
‘Because I’ve decided…’ That failed to sound pious and helpful by a long shot. What was the saying? ‘I think therefore I am’? Of course if he chose, Sylar could easily turn the magnifying class of examination on himself, but that was no fun. He’d had years to contemplate his own sins and faults, both of which he knew were in significant amounts. Why not pick Peter apart in his head (more literally if he bought Peter’s scheme).
Sylar was forced to pause in his characteristic mental shredding of the other man at his use of the word destiny. Destiny. It meant nothing now. To think how much stock he used to put in that word, that idea, hurt his head and made his chest twinge. How many times had he used that word to people who couldn’t understand? He still believed in it, unfortunately. Destiny, rather, his destiny was just a haze of pain, betrayal, blood and loneliness. That was all ‘destiny’ held in store for him. It made him cautious on general principal.
Sylar closed his eyes, as if pained, and he was; his cranium heated up as it was torn between two sets of memories racing though him.
…
//“I’ve been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny.” Um, okay….What did he mean by that?
“Whatcha doin’ Pete?” He’d called back.
“It’s my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!”
“C’mon, Peter, quit screwin’ around.” But even as he spoke, he knew what was going to happen. My career down the goddamn drain because my idiot kid brother is too caring, kind and in love to grow a fucking pair. Please don’t do this to me.//
…
/“If the soul exists, scientifically speaking, it exists in the brain.”
He’d chuckled then, sitting down and earnestly fixing his intent gaze on the Indian doctor, “When I was a kid, I used to wish some stranger would come and tell me my family wasn’t really my family.” Staring at the desk before him in shame as he spoke, but as soon as the words left him, he kept his blackening eyes to the wood to hide his anger. “They weren’t….bad people, they were just….insignificant. And I wanted to be different.”
Smoothly he looked up again, deadly rage coiled in his frame, seeking an out, seeking acceptance, understanding. Understand me!
‘Special.’
The word that had been trained into him for as long as he could remember. “I wanted to change. A new name, a new life.” Tilting his head away, his ability silently working in his mind, he spoke in disgust, “The watchmaker’s son….became a watchmaker.” Next was pleading, “It is so futile. And I wanted to be…important.”
“You are important, Gabriel.” Yesss. Yes, I am./
…
// Dad was dropping him off at West Point with reluctance. Nathan knew Dad’s plan was that he go into politics. He’d always had the interest. But he wanted to fly high; he wanted to make a difference, be a part of a change, but little did he or his family know just how he would fly. Far higher than anyone had ever dreamed. No more being crushed under the political mill by Dad. Poor Pete, he’s gonna get eaten alive unless he can get out. That’s what I’m doing, he told himself, getting out.
“Nathan, as my eldest son, you have a certain responsibility. I can’t count on Peter; he’s not like you,” his father placed his hand on Nathan’s shoulder, large, warm with the potential to be comforting if he hadn’t led off with ‘responsibility’. Nathan avoided eye contact at first, but Dad wouldn’t relent, those dark eyes boring into him with all the strength of a die-hard lawyer.
“You have a bright future, Nathan. I need you to carry on the Petrelli legacy. It’s your destiny to carry our name to the highest places in the world. But don’t forget your roots.” Nathan nodded once, slowly, adjusting his military issue duffle on his shoulder, turning and carrying everything he needed into the future, away from his father.//
…
/“They’re out there. I can feel them. So innocent, so unaware of what’s happening to them.” He remembered turning away to smirk at using the Indian geneticist. Looking back, ignoring the frigid winter Montana air, he finished more innocently, “We’ll find them, Mohinder. All of them; together; the two of us. It’s our destiny.” Why that memory now? Mohinder looked like a deer caught in the headlights, not that it was a new look for him. Obviously you came on too strong and you lost the mole; you lost the fucking list!/
…
//Ma had come in during the election to see if he was still on track for blowing up New York to heal the world. She was involved…? In this madness?
“Yes, you don’t know everything about me, Nathan,” she paused to inhale slowly, eyeing him, “But I do know everything about you. And I know what you’re capable of.”
“You think I’m a mass-murderer?”…//
…
Stop, stop, stop! This isn’t me! This isn’t mine! I’m not him! My name is-
…
/He’d come to at the sound. Bright lights blinding him out of his drugged slumber, flinching from the sharp pain that stabbed his head and eyes. My leg…Where am I?
A voice…distant and mechanized spoke to him, “You lost a lot of blood. We sewed you up the best we could.” Groggily, he looked to the source, dimly making out a tall man in a gray suit, short cut blonde hair, holding a clipboard with piercing blue eyes behind the horned rimmed glasses he wore. Cell, I’m in…a cell. Prison…government holding cell. He sat up quickly at his next thought, throwing off the heavy, scratchy wool blanket that covered him. Experimental torture.
“Turns out you’re not so untouchable after all.” The man hummed as Sylar stared him down, eyes narrowed, pulling his mental muscles to access his ability. Cut the bastard’s lying throat. “You’ll find your abilities won’t work. Not here. You’re not going anywhere. Gabriel.” The man was unflinching under his gaze; how odd. Shit. No abilities? Damn bastard’s smug. He’s pleased at this, that’s what I hear in his voice.
“My name is Sylar,” he’d replied softly.
“Now it is.” The man took a breath before droning on with his misinformation, “It wasn’t so long ago you were Gabriel Gray…An insignificant watchmaker.”
Sylar was already moving, swinging on the platform of a bed to stand, hissing as he moved his leg too quickly. He braced his hand on the thin mattress, staring up at the man as more pieces fell into place. “I restore timepieces,” he corrected in the same soft voice, keeping the pain from it. Balancing and moving to walk around the head of the bed towards the porcelain sink at the back of the cell, he continued, “You wanna know why I was so good at it?”
“No, why don’t you tell me,” was the mocking reply.
Glancing back to give a deadlier look as the drugs began to clear from his system, limping as he took a few steps. Not good. “Because I can see how things work.” He paused in his attempts at walking to lift a scornful eyebrow in teasingly serious threat, “What makes them….tick,” his tone intimate, “Like you,” he drawled.
“We’re interested in how things work as well. Everyone else we’ve…met has had only one ability; you’ve taken on several,” the man in the horned rimmed glasses interrogated with the subtlety of a snake.
“Guess that’s what makes me special,” Sylar shrugged, proud to be able to speak of the fact, his accomplishments.
“That’s important to you, isn’t it - being special?”
He detected the sarcasm and the bait in the short sentences and he answered, purring, “It’s important to everyone,” so easily avoiding that sin.
“I think you’re insane. I think the infusion of so many alterations to your DNA as corrupted your mind; all this power is degrading you.”
Sylar stalked towards the glass and the man behind it, snarling quietly, “And yet here I am, alive and well, and once I get out, I’m gonna collect one more ability from your daughter…Sweet….innocent,” Oh, he could taste it, his voice rising to counter the agent’s reply, “Ripe… Indestructible.”
The man repeated himself, barking, “I said that’s enough, Gabriel.” And it was the final straw.
He’d snapped, lunging into the class with all the impotent fury of a caged panther. “MY NAME IS SYLAR!!”/
…
//…”Important men make impossible decisions. President Truman dropped two atomic bombs on Japan to end World War II; Killed thousands to save millions.”
“That was different, Ma; we were at war,” he felt compelled to point out. The situation was totally different. Nathan was not going to sell his soul….lightly at least. “I can’t accept this,” he shook his head, trying to get her to recant.
“That is your one weakness, Nathan; you have no faith. So how could you possibly believe this bomb could actually heal the world if you have no faith in the idea of destiny?”
Nathan rose, restless and unconsciously avoiding the issue, but she continued. Dog with a bone, my mother. Folding his arms in on himself, he made a sour, pinched face where she couldn’t see, his back to her. “Your destiny, Nathan, is to set the course of history after this unspeakable act as occurred.” Nathan just closed his eyes against it all. How can she say that? I know she’s cold, but this…
“And people will look back on what you do as the freshman congressmen from New York and they will thank you for your strength…for your conviction….for your faith.” He nearly flinched at the points she was making, distracted by the tapping of Gary’s knuckles on the window of his office. Turning, he slowly raised a finger to halt it in his universal gesture of ‘just a minute’. His mother used his motion to stand before him.
“In my day we called it being presidential.” Glancing from her to his jacket she’d removed from the hanger, he slowly turned away again, this time to accept the jacket, already….accepting this burden, he knew. Wincing before he faced her, he begged her with his eyes, knowing already that he’d lost this coin toss and won the election. Straightening his lapels, Ma gave him her signature motherly air that had him every time. “Can you believe?” she asked softly, “Can you be the one we need?”
Nathan moved behind his desk, assuming the position, shifting his shoulders back in preparation of the blame, the outrage, the decision; god, the decision. Hands on his hips, he stood tall, gazing at his mother as she slowly smiled her candy, winning smile. “That’s my boy,” she had whispered.//
…
/“Carefully set the hairspring to the balance…” Martin heaved an exasperated sigh as his demonstration was ruined when Gabriel slid from where he’d been leaning on the table, successfully and unintentionally jarring the surface the watch rested on. He’d been staring out the window at a sudden splash of red color in an otherwise Gray, gray, Gray world-a beautiful woman in an expensive red wool jacket walking past the store while talking on her cell phone. And he’d just been caught.
Martin pushed back and gave him a glare which he shrank from. What?
“Listen, you,” Dad started in on him, avoiding the use of his name like always. Gabriel meanwhile shoved his hands into his slacks pockets, hunching in to become smaller against the oncoming tirade. Was it such a crime to try to pull oneself up from the gutter he felt he lived in? His thoughts were depressed and chaotic-one parent told him to quit looking and focus, the other told him to start acting and…Well, mostly he obviously listened to Mom. It couldn’t be that much of a sin to want to be more, no matter what Martin said.
Martin wouldn’t relent, “Whatever you were staring at doesn’t matter. You aren’t out there and you never will be. This is your life and you need to buckle down and be a man and learn your trade. I take time out of my life to teach you this, you pathetic waste; you should listen! You could be out on the streets with no skills, you dumb fool.”
Gabriel’s attention wandered and his expression must have blanked as he thought about being important like the woman in the red coat seemed to be. What would Mom say if I could be that? Was something he wondered often.
Dad snapped his fingers to draw his attention back with a jump and a start. Dad always kind of liked being…aggressively aware of his own presence. “Then you do that. Don’t turn into one of those dumb kids that can’t concentrate because I’ll have no use for you. What is wrong with you? I’m not taking you to the doctor again, whatever your mother says.”
Gabriel frowned. There’s nothing wrong with me; why would you say that? I’m just not…special. Yet.
“Focus!” Martin barked and he nodded, keeping his head and eyes down, his posture and body language submissive. He was forced to smooth his face from its crumpled state and into something more acceptable; inserting interest and a generalized look towards Martin after his frowning. It didn’t fool his father who rose, grabbed his arm tight enough to bruise and shoved him to sit at the table. He was instantly locked up with anxiety and not a little fear, anticipating his father’s next move. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Take a look at that watch, punk. That is all you’ll ever see,” Martin mocked over his shoulder, pressed dangerously close. Close enough that Gabriel’s thighs started to shake from being clenched so tightly, the smell of the other man far too close to him; he could practically feel the body heat. He pointed over Gabriel’s shoulder from behind, gripping his hair and forcing him, holding him face-to-face with the wrist watch.
“I’m…” he began so softly his voice cracked over a dry mouth, still bent over, “I’m not always gonna be a watchmaker, Dad…” he managed to whisper and choke out, practically gasping. “Maybe my destiny isn’t-” The one time he’d dared speak that well-pondered word aloud.
Martin just snorted, cuffing him upside his head so hard the nose pieces of his glasses jingled. Gabriel shut his eyes, lips tense, and prayed that was the end of it.
“You’re a watchmaker, born and bred. That is all you can ever amount to. I just showed you your dead-end destiny, Gabe,” he sneered, using the diminutive of his name as an insult (doubtlessly from Virginia’s heavy usage of his full name). It was the only way he ever said it. Then he pretended he didn’t have enough room to pass behind the work station, shoving the chair Gabriel sat in into the table, digging the edge of it into his chest. Martin passed by uneventfully, heading into the back room.
Gabriel slowly raised his head, then his eyes to glance and see if he was alone before he thought, You’re wrong, Dad, he mentally spat. My destiny isn’t here because your precious Gray and Sons isn’t special. And if I get the chance to be something powerful, make no mistake, I’m taking it and leaving you in the dust in a heartbeat./
…
//“Oh my god…” Nathan breathed as he opened the door for Tracey, staring at his very alive father who replied, “Good to see you, too, Nathan. Come give you dad a hug,” Arthur then prompted. He was instantly wary of that, not being thrilled about hugs from Dad to begin with, but Peter had warned him about…the hugging now. Said his powers were gone and, so help him, Nathan believed him this time. But Dad was alive…
Nathan didn’t move, just stood there staring, trying to wrap his mind around this and figure out the ‘why’s. It was much harder than it looked. I grieved for him…(not a lot, but still. I was mostly glad we didn’t betray him in court). I went to his funeral. How the hell is he alive? Ma held his ash- Then he kicked into action, more alert for a threat now, pacing in front of what looked to be his father, looking for a glitch or… a seam, a projector, he didn’t know. He supposed it could have been a shape shifter, but one that could do what ‘Dad’ did to Peter…Arthur merely smiled back at him, highly amused, addressing Tracey, shaking her hand…without incident.
What the…? Did everyone know about this? How deep does this cover up go? Was Tracey lying to me all this time?
Dad moved away and Nathan spoke up, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to this family?” He felt the responsibility to speak for the rest of his kin, but it was a distant thought after: “What you’ve done to me?”
Dad moved in towards him, slow and steady, every inch his father, “Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I should have told you sooner what your role was in all of this,” he intoned, giving Nathan a pointed, unmistakable look. Nathan gave a confused look, waiting to be filled in, drawn closer despite himself. Dad’s alive…He’s really…alive. What the hell happened? “My role?” he still hesitated.
His father dismissed Tracey and it was just the two of them and he was forced to recall all the times he’d gotten the speeches, the lectures, the lessons…orders, commands, threats…
“Take a hard look at the last couple weeks of your life…and you will see that role coming into focus. The assassination, Linderman,” Dad knew about that!? Damnit…of course he did. Dad probably set it all up. Nathan kept frowning, waiting for the punch line he somehow couldn’t see or grasp. What do you want, Dad?
“The senate seat…” his father continued on, “All part of your destiny…” A far more penetrating look pierced him and he reeled from it, stepping back, his face shifting into disbelief; shit…
“That was all you,” Nathan realized, his world crashing down around his ears. How deep does this go? How long…this whole family…my whole life…
“You were born with a talent, Nathan, the talent-” Dad made to lay his hand on Nathan’s shoulder, but he jerked it back and away quickly. He liked his ‘talent’, thanks.
“Talent to lead a nation,” the senior Petrelli finished, bothering to give him a hurt, surprised look as his voice faded down at the gesture..
Nathan shot back,“”S the same crap that Linderman spouted, I’m not fallin’ for it again.” Dad seemed to wait for an explanation, like he fucking needed one. “Be-cause…last time it was New York that was destroyed, and this time…the world…right?” Nathan found himself pointing aimlessly his father in accusing question.
“Look around you; it’s already happening!” Arthur replied, gesturing, “I’ve got the formula to stop it!”
Someone help me, my family’s wacked…Nathan was already moving away, “You’re insane!” he laughed, edging on hysteria, shaking his head as he walked to the window. He felt and heard before he saw Arthur moving to stand beside him, staring him down, unyielding. It made him cross his arms out of defense and avoidance.
“I am not afraid to admit that you have always been my favorite son, the one most like me, the strong one. We can save the world together.” Nathan shut his eyes, tried to shut his father out, but he knew it was already over. Arthur wouldn’t quit, oh no, never that. Not again. “This can be our legacy, Nathan, for the Petrelli name.” He scrunched up his face into a pained frown. No. No. No. “I am offering you this chance…as your father…” Somehow Arthur’s hand landed softly on his shoulder and Nathan turned to it and looked up at his father.//
…
He woke up, still feeling a stabbing pain in the back of his skull, but he managed to stand and remove the blade, peering at the gory metal as Danko stood there, gaping in shock with his radio in hand. “That hurt,” Sylar said in a wounded tone before sliding into a smirk, “Shape shifting…gotta love it, right?” Emile went for his gun, but Sylar was much faster, stripping the gun and slamming the man into a wall full of trophies and plaques of honor and achievement, all belonging to the unconscious senator at their feet. The subsequent yell and crash were loud, but no one came running.
“And the changes don’t just happen on the outside either,” he informed, striding closer, his arm still extended, active, “Remember that little….off-switch at the back of my head?” he pointed, the question as rhetorical as they came because, duh, the director knew about it, hence the knifing. Within a foot of the other man’s space, he rasped, “I moved it.”
“Go ahead. Get it over with. My men will be here any second to collect Petrelli,” were the pinned agent’s brave, if hollow words. He really had no idea.
Sylar, still holding the man’s knife, pressed the bloody edge to his lips to quiet him, shushing him at the same time. “I know,” was all he needed to say, aware that he had Danko’s attention when he stilled and stared at the bloody blade, expecting Sylar to use it in horrible ways. But after lingering, it was pulled away just as quickly, snatched back, gaining a flinch, and he turned to Petrellli, lying on the floor like a dead weight. How accurate. “I got plans for them,” Sylar let on, flipping the special onto his back with a flick of fingers, dragging him into the bathroom with only mentalized efforts, “Hell, I got plans for all of us.” And he did, too.
“You gonna kill him?” Danko asked, making stupid assumptions of him, really. He didn’t just kill things.
Sylar slammed the door with his mind and a twitch of digits, his attention snapping back to Emile, “Later,” he promised. “Right after I absorb all of his memories…its a little ability Angela Petrelli fed me like a snack.” Danko gave him the crazy look, with not a small amount of fear inside. “Because Nathan…” he paused, his gaze shifting as his head swiveled in amusement betrayed by his smirk of accomplishment, “And by Nathan, I mean I, have a rendezvous with destiny tomorrow,” he affected an innocent expression. “President’s giving a speech at the Stanton Hotel and Senator Petrelli’s gonna be there to have a little meeting with him right afterwards.”
Danko didn’t follow him, in pain, he struggled, “What for?”
Sylar slowly shook his head, keeping his lips pursed and face somewhat introspectively innocent; of course they wouldn’t guess his plans. “Nothing. Just to shake his hand. And when I do, I’m gonna be the most powerful man in the world.”
…
The memories tore into him, tears leaking unbidden from his eyes as he shook, unconsciously clutching at his head. Sylar shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, groaning noisily from pain, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He wasn’t aware he’d sunk to his knees, his head clunking against his desk, raising his hands to fend off the attacks that plagued his mind. “STOP IT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” His shout ended with a dry cough and gasp for air as if he’d been screaming himself hoarse, bending at the waist towards the floor.
XXX
Peter had looked off out the window after sitting back up; thinking about what was out there, wondering how far Sylar had strayed from here. He need not have stayed ‘here’ the whole time. His mind could have dreamed up a series of places to be before this place. Maybe they were all out there, metaphorically speaking, of course. Maybe he had a string of places … No, that seemed unlikely. He’d said there was nothing else out there, which argued either he was hiding something or had never gone anywhere. Despite all of Sylar’s other flaws, he hadn’t been all that much on the concealing-things-business. Peter dismissed it and decided to go with the assumption the other man was telling him the truth as he knew it, at least until Sylar proved himself devious.
The sound of a groan caught his attention and he glanced back, then jerked in surprise when he saw Sylar was on his knees, holding his head. Peter struggled to get himself out of the couch. As he’d expected, it was soft, low and encompassing - under normal conditions no trouble to get out of, but in a hurry, with his back and legs weaker than they should be and aching, he clambered to his feet clumsily. He hesitated, trying to divine what was wrong from where he was at, despite his medical training telling him to go to the man, touch him, calm him, and check for symptoms.
He wouldn’t have any symptoms. We’re in his head. Is Matt trying to get him out? Peter tried to open his mental senses and listen, which was simple to do in the outside world, when he had Matt’s power. He did it now though and nothing happened. It was like listening for a sound that wasn’t there.
His attention was dragged back to Sylar with the man’s shout. That really argued that some outside force was influencing Sylar, doing something to him, perhaps trying to end this little bubble of ‘reality’ as Sylar saw it. Matt? Matt? Nothing. Crap. Matt, if you can hear me, get us the hell out of here! Sylar looked like he was in real pain there. As an afterthought, he tacked on, And whatever you’re doing to Sylar you should probably stop. It wouldn’t do to get out of here only to have Sylar too mentally messed up to carry out his mission.
“Sylar?” he asked in a steady, loud voice. “Sylar, stop fighting it. Is it Matt?” He took a few steps closer, wondering if he should hazard touching him and trying to get them out again.
XXX
Sylar could only grip at his skull, gasping from the overload and barely able to see. Every part of his brain was racing, feeling like it was torn apart; frontal lobe- consciousness, judgment and emotional response with memory for muscle habits, problem solving and….word association. Parietal lobe- location for visual and touch orientation and integration of different senses to allow understanding for a single concept, recognition and perception. Occipital lobes- vision. Temporal lobes- memory acquisition, categorization of objects. Cerebellum- his movements.
I know all this, I know all this. What’s that sound?...a voice? Peter. Peter!
//Pete//
DIE! YOU BETRAYED HIM! YOU BETRAYED ALL OF US! I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!
Panting and inhaling deep lungfuls of air, Sylar slowly came back to reality, beginning to see the room he knelt in again. He saw Peter standing and looking at him like he was about to have his whatever-lobotomy and get the straightjacket treatment. He was sitting a minute ago….ages, years ago. God, just go fuck yourself and die Parkman. Angela, Bennet, NATHAN. Now what had his companion been saying?
Haunted and pained dark eyes stared at Peter in confusion from the floor, “W-what?” he managed to croak, not comprehending the questions or commands, whatever was said. “Parkman’s not here, I’m not in….not in his head anymore. I went…” he frowned, trying to remember a half-dreamt dream that melted with reality. “I went to him to…take away my abilities, but….” I’m insane. You can say it. Parkman did. I’m not that damn crazy by myself.
“Why won’t he die? I killed him, you…” his gaze sharpened at the other man, zeroing in on him like Sylar was starving and Peter the steak. “You dropped him, I….” he chuckled, amused for a moment in his conquests of evil, the thrill at having won. “I made you drop him and….why is there no one here, Peter?” softly uttering the man’s name, his voice had trailed off to a whisper; one that begged an answer as if to an innocent, frightened child as his face took on a look of childlike confusion. On some level he didn’t understand why he’d been hurt. Didn’t everything make sense to them? Why couldn’t they just see?
Sylar leaned back against the desk, straightening up and taking his time doing it, his brain still throbbing with splitting shots of pain. Staring at the medic, he wondered why he stood there, looking so helpless. Oh, yeah…that’s right. You’re not his brother. Somehow not being able to hold someone in place and speak his mind, ease his conscience, his soul to someone who he wanted to care, but someone who hated him bothered him greatly. “Where did they go? Why would they….”
Here he was believing he’d gotten over needing people when one showed up and fucked up his….everything. He resented, he hated, he craved and he needed on most basic levels to feel and be understood. Caring and love he knew were too much to ask; he’d begun the slow and painful process of letting those go finally after years of clinging resilient to the idea, the theory.
Coughing, he shoved back chunks of his hair, glanced up through it at Peter who still stood and stared. He hoped clearing his throat would signal to the other that his questions needn’t necessarily be answered. Peter didn’t know anyway, right?
I’ll rise from the ashes again.
XXX
Wait…what? Peter knew he wasn’t brilliant. He’d met brilliant people, geniuses even, and he knew he wasn’t one of them. He was smart enough in his own way of course and he had gifts - just different ones. He stood silent and unmoving while Sylar rambled through his mental breakdown because he was trying very hard to figure out what the hell the man was talking about. There were common threads there…they had meaning. There was a lot of emotion and if Peter was good at anything, it was understanding how people felt - even if his ability to do that seemed a bit abridged here in Sylar’s head.
The only person Peter had ‘dropped’ lately was Nathan and from the brief expression of gloating that passed over Sylar’s face, that was exactly who he was talking about. He deserved to be beaten into the ground for even mentioning that incident, but at the moment he was on his knees babbling, so Peter just stood and listened while his face darkened, eyes narrowed and his lip curled. Things clicked into place and began to make sense.
So Sylar felt bad that no one would tolerate his bullshit. So he’d noticed that no matter how many abilities he had, none of them gained him friends or family or loved ones. (Elle the sociopath excepted). So he was lonely, and for all his intelligence, he hadn’t figured out how to be nice to people, or gain their trust in a genuine fashion or be a good friend in turn.
Peter snorted very softly after Sylar stood, an expression of deep disgust on Peter’s features. “Where did everyone go? You made them drop their loved ones off buildings, Sylar, and who knows what else. They hate you now. No one wants to be around you. On some level, even you understand that.”
He blinked. His eyes were wet - hate that he couldn’t vent about everything Sylar was, anger that Sylar might have staged that whole episode on the hospital roof merely to mock him and maneuver him into letting Nathan fall, the stupid shred of hope that had flared when Sylar asked why he (Nathan?) wouldn’t die - all strong emotions that found outlet only in his tears. Peter shook his head and headed for the door, limping a little. He drew up and looked at the bloody handprint there. He glanced back at Sylar and opened the door.
XXX
Again, Sylar knew he’d struck out. In his head, he snapped at the ghost of Nathan, You can take my misplaced desires to the grave, fucking politico. Sylar hadn't even been thinking of being attacked again at the mention of Peter's murdered brother, the one who tormented both of them. Normally he would have thought of the damage he was inflicting, but....he was too damaged at the moment to think of Peter.
The look he was given immediately informed him that Peter was not and never would be an avenue to converse with and attempt to figure things out with. That road had been swiftly blocked. His goal had never been to make friends; at least, he didn’t think so. He’d expected to meet people, definitely not as intimately and as aggressively as he had; everyone pretty much fell under this category: wronged by Sylar, having attempted/succeeded at homicide/torture many times- unforgiving.
What he hadn’t expected or….taken the time to consider was how his actions would remove him from what he now knew he (apparently) needed.
/”They told me I need a connection. A friend. I don’t wanna be alone…and somehow you’re supposed to help me.”/
Somehow in his drive to become special, powerful, fix the world somehow before it drove him insane and he broke it instead, he had so thoroughly repulsed every person that he knew that he had no chance of friendship, not even with a non-special. Sylar had never been able to comprehend human emotion, particularly his own. So ironic that he be paired with Peter the wonder-empath; someone who understood and felt what the person was feeling before they themselves felt it.
That type of connection was only fathomable to him on a clinical level if he considered empathy as a power. As a personality type, a character trait, it was beyond him. He’d only ever managed it on accident and he would have little idea of how to go about it purposefully.
Peter spoke and Sylar knew it was nothing but the truth. If he knew that already, why had he bothered to ask? …and somehow you’re supposed to help me. Sylar was beginning to understand the true depth of the pit of helplessness he’d cut himself into; no plea of his would ever be heard since he’d hurt far too many loved ones of all the people he knew to ever be given a sliver of redemption. That he did understand. Acutely. He’d felt it every day for three years.
Ducking his head down, the hair he’d pushed back falling over his cheekbone again; it tickled, but he ignored it, staring numbly at his feet. Let Peter cry; he has something to cry for. Sylar didn’t move when Peter did, allowing him his much needed escape after Sylar’s unnecessary meltdown. He would have to be more careful in future to avoid….how the hell was he supposed to control something he couldn’t? That’s an unreasonable demand he’s silently charging you with. He doesn’t want to deal with it, and why should he? It’s not his problem.
He stood for several moments, giving Peter a little lee-way before tromping quietly after him, swiping at his face. No one (other than Claire and maybe Bennet) made him feel more brutish and out of place, and, yes, deformed and monstrous than Peter. /”He was born with a silver spoon. He had everything handed to him; money, colleges… “/ Padding a good ten or so feet behind the man, not wanting to incur his wrath further, but he found himself speaking before he could close his mouth.
“You’re right. But people sure do line up when I can do something for them,” he snipped, aiming his comment at Pet- well, any of the Petrellis for that matter, those living and dead alike. Look at Peter. Probably the most honest man, the least-hypocritical man he knew (he does have his moments, Mr. I-shall-not-abuse-the-nail-gun-and murder-out-of-rage, oh, by the way, control your IA, Sylar, while I cut open dear Ma’s brainpan) yet here he was, sticking with the family business by using Sylar.
The only thing, the only shred of consciousness in Sylar’s head stayed his balled up fists from connecting with Peter’s scrawny neck was the fact that Peter was the only other person alive. And he might not be given another chance once the blow was dealt.
XXX
Continued...
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: 6, 455
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 4
If I’m still here in a year and a half, that would be…what? The afternoon? An hour or two? Not much, really. I’m probably going to be stuck here at least a decade. I wonder if time would pass any faster if I spent a lot of it asleep? But then I’d have Sylar’s dreams to deal with. I don’t think it will be that easy.
He listened to what Sylar had to say, frowning when it sounded like he was talking down to him. Peter didn’t think he deserved that. Did Sylar do that to everyone? No wonder he didn’t have anyone he could go to when his power manifested. No one wanted to be around the jerk.
“I’ve already told you,” Peter said in a tired tone. Maybe if I just say it differently? “I came to this place because I’ve decided the world is a manifestation of Matt Parkman’s power and that-“ even someone like you shouldn’t be stuck in here. No…on second thought, this is a good place for you to be. I just wish I wasn’t stuck in here with you. More like, it’s destiny that you save Emma, and that’s why I’m here. Fucking destiny. I hate destiny. What was I saying? “-it’s my destiny to get you out of it.” He snorted at the silliness of the whole thing.
\‘I’ve been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny. It’s my turn to be somebody now…’\
As if to himself, he continued, “You don’t have to believe in it. Most people don’t.” Without thinking, he bent down and started picking at the lacings for his shoes. He needed to get them off and have a look at his feet. He caught himself and paused. I need a pharmacy. And I don’t want to do this in front of him. It was not so much because such was rude or overly familiar, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be without his shoes. It was a tiny vulnerability, but even that was something Peter didn’t want to display.
He sat back up, changing stride back to the questions that had been percolating in the back of his head for a while now. “I’d be happy to go somewhere else; if you thought I could actually get there. What’s the furthest away from here you’ve been?”
XXX
‘Because I’ve decided…’ That failed to sound pious and helpful by a long shot. What was the saying? ‘I think therefore I am’? Of course if he chose, Sylar could easily turn the magnifying class of examination on himself, but that was no fun. He’d had years to contemplate his own sins and faults, both of which he knew were in significant amounts. Why not pick Peter apart in his head (more literally if he bought Peter’s scheme).
Sylar was forced to pause in his characteristic mental shredding of the other man at his use of the word destiny. Destiny. It meant nothing now. To think how much stock he used to put in that word, that idea, hurt his head and made his chest twinge. How many times had he used that word to people who couldn’t understand? He still believed in it, unfortunately. Destiny, rather, his destiny was just a haze of pain, betrayal, blood and loneliness. That was all ‘destiny’ held in store for him. It made him cautious on general principal.
Sylar closed his eyes, as if pained, and he was; his cranium heated up as it was torn between two sets of memories racing though him.
…
//“I’ve been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny.” Um, okay….What did he mean by that?
“Whatcha doin’ Pete?” He’d called back.
“It’s my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!”
“C’mon, Peter, quit screwin’ around.” But even as he spoke, he knew what was going to happen. My career down the goddamn drain because my idiot kid brother is too caring, kind and in love to grow a fucking pair. Please don’t do this to me.//
…
/“If the soul exists, scientifically speaking, it exists in the brain.”
He’d chuckled then, sitting down and earnestly fixing his intent gaze on the Indian doctor, “When I was a kid, I used to wish some stranger would come and tell me my family wasn’t really my family.” Staring at the desk before him in shame as he spoke, but as soon as the words left him, he kept his blackening eyes to the wood to hide his anger. “They weren’t….bad people, they were just….insignificant. And I wanted to be different.”
Smoothly he looked up again, deadly rage coiled in his frame, seeking an out, seeking acceptance, understanding. Understand me!
‘Special.’
The word that had been trained into him for as long as he could remember. “I wanted to change. A new name, a new life.” Tilting his head away, his ability silently working in his mind, he spoke in disgust, “The watchmaker’s son….became a watchmaker.” Next was pleading, “It is so futile. And I wanted to be…important.”
“You are important, Gabriel.” Yesss. Yes, I am./
…
// Dad was dropping him off at West Point with reluctance. Nathan knew Dad’s plan was that he go into politics. He’d always had the interest. But he wanted to fly high; he wanted to make a difference, be a part of a change, but little did he or his family know just how he would fly. Far higher than anyone had ever dreamed. No more being crushed under the political mill by Dad. Poor Pete, he’s gonna get eaten alive unless he can get out. That’s what I’m doing, he told himself, getting out.
“Nathan, as my eldest son, you have a certain responsibility. I can’t count on Peter; he’s not like you,” his father placed his hand on Nathan’s shoulder, large, warm with the potential to be comforting if he hadn’t led off with ‘responsibility’. Nathan avoided eye contact at first, but Dad wouldn’t relent, those dark eyes boring into him with all the strength of a die-hard lawyer.
“You have a bright future, Nathan. I need you to carry on the Petrelli legacy. It’s your destiny to carry our name to the highest places in the world. But don’t forget your roots.” Nathan nodded once, slowly, adjusting his military issue duffle on his shoulder, turning and carrying everything he needed into the future, away from his father.//
…
/“They’re out there. I can feel them. So innocent, so unaware of what’s happening to them.” He remembered turning away to smirk at using the Indian geneticist. Looking back, ignoring the frigid winter Montana air, he finished more innocently, “We’ll find them, Mohinder. All of them; together; the two of us. It’s our destiny.” Why that memory now? Mohinder looked like a deer caught in the headlights, not that it was a new look for him. Obviously you came on too strong and you lost the mole; you lost the fucking list!/
…
//Ma had come in during the election to see if he was still on track for blowing up New York to heal the world. She was involved…? In this madness?
“Yes, you don’t know everything about me, Nathan,” she paused to inhale slowly, eyeing him, “But I do know everything about you. And I know what you’re capable of.”
“You think I’m a mass-murderer?”…//
…
Stop, stop, stop! This isn’t me! This isn’t mine! I’m not him! My name is-
…
/He’d come to at the sound. Bright lights blinding him out of his drugged slumber, flinching from the sharp pain that stabbed his head and eyes. My leg…Where am I?
A voice…distant and mechanized spoke to him, “You lost a lot of blood. We sewed you up the best we could.” Groggily, he looked to the source, dimly making out a tall man in a gray suit, short cut blonde hair, holding a clipboard with piercing blue eyes behind the horned rimmed glasses he wore. Cell, I’m in…a cell. Prison…government holding cell. He sat up quickly at his next thought, throwing off the heavy, scratchy wool blanket that covered him. Experimental torture.
“Turns out you’re not so untouchable after all.” The man hummed as Sylar stared him down, eyes narrowed, pulling his mental muscles to access his ability. Cut the bastard’s lying throat. “You’ll find your abilities won’t work. Not here. You’re not going anywhere. Gabriel.” The man was unflinching under his gaze; how odd. Shit. No abilities? Damn bastard’s smug. He’s pleased at this, that’s what I hear in his voice.
“My name is Sylar,” he’d replied softly.
“Now it is.” The man took a breath before droning on with his misinformation, “It wasn’t so long ago you were Gabriel Gray…An insignificant watchmaker.”
Sylar was already moving, swinging on the platform of a bed to stand, hissing as he moved his leg too quickly. He braced his hand on the thin mattress, staring up at the man as more pieces fell into place. “I restore timepieces,” he corrected in the same soft voice, keeping the pain from it. Balancing and moving to walk around the head of the bed towards the porcelain sink at the back of the cell, he continued, “You wanna know why I was so good at it?”
“No, why don’t you tell me,” was the mocking reply.
Glancing back to give a deadlier look as the drugs began to clear from his system, limping as he took a few steps. Not good. “Because I can see how things work.” He paused in his attempts at walking to lift a scornful eyebrow in teasingly serious threat, “What makes them….tick,” his tone intimate, “Like you,” he drawled.
“We’re interested in how things work as well. Everyone else we’ve…met has had only one ability; you’ve taken on several,” the man in the horned rimmed glasses interrogated with the subtlety of a snake.
“Guess that’s what makes me special,” Sylar shrugged, proud to be able to speak of the fact, his accomplishments.
“That’s important to you, isn’t it - being special?”
He detected the sarcasm and the bait in the short sentences and he answered, purring, “It’s important to everyone,” so easily avoiding that sin.
“I think you’re insane. I think the infusion of so many alterations to your DNA as corrupted your mind; all this power is degrading you.”
Sylar stalked towards the glass and the man behind it, snarling quietly, “And yet here I am, alive and well, and once I get out, I’m gonna collect one more ability from your daughter…Sweet….innocent,” Oh, he could taste it, his voice rising to counter the agent’s reply, “Ripe… Indestructible.”
The man repeated himself, barking, “I said that’s enough, Gabriel.” And it was the final straw.
He’d snapped, lunging into the class with all the impotent fury of a caged panther. “MY NAME IS SYLAR!!”/
…
//…”Important men make impossible decisions. President Truman dropped two atomic bombs on Japan to end World War II; Killed thousands to save millions.”
“That was different, Ma; we were at war,” he felt compelled to point out. The situation was totally different. Nathan was not going to sell his soul….lightly at least. “I can’t accept this,” he shook his head, trying to get her to recant.
“That is your one weakness, Nathan; you have no faith. So how could you possibly believe this bomb could actually heal the world if you have no faith in the idea of destiny?”
Nathan rose, restless and unconsciously avoiding the issue, but she continued. Dog with a bone, my mother. Folding his arms in on himself, he made a sour, pinched face where she couldn’t see, his back to her. “Your destiny, Nathan, is to set the course of history after this unspeakable act as occurred.” Nathan just closed his eyes against it all. How can she say that? I know she’s cold, but this…
“And people will look back on what you do as the freshman congressmen from New York and they will thank you for your strength…for your conviction….for your faith.” He nearly flinched at the points she was making, distracted by the tapping of Gary’s knuckles on the window of his office. Turning, he slowly raised a finger to halt it in his universal gesture of ‘just a minute’. His mother used his motion to stand before him.
“In my day we called it being presidential.” Glancing from her to his jacket she’d removed from the hanger, he slowly turned away again, this time to accept the jacket, already….accepting this burden, he knew. Wincing before he faced her, he begged her with his eyes, knowing already that he’d lost this coin toss and won the election. Straightening his lapels, Ma gave him her signature motherly air that had him every time. “Can you believe?” she asked softly, “Can you be the one we need?”
Nathan moved behind his desk, assuming the position, shifting his shoulders back in preparation of the blame, the outrage, the decision; god, the decision. Hands on his hips, he stood tall, gazing at his mother as she slowly smiled her candy, winning smile. “That’s my boy,” she had whispered.//
…
/“Carefully set the hairspring to the balance…” Martin heaved an exasperated sigh as his demonstration was ruined when Gabriel slid from where he’d been leaning on the table, successfully and unintentionally jarring the surface the watch rested on. He’d been staring out the window at a sudden splash of red color in an otherwise Gray, gray, Gray world-a beautiful woman in an expensive red wool jacket walking past the store while talking on her cell phone. And he’d just been caught.
Martin pushed back and gave him a glare which he shrank from. What?
“Listen, you,” Dad started in on him, avoiding the use of his name like always. Gabriel meanwhile shoved his hands into his slacks pockets, hunching in to become smaller against the oncoming tirade. Was it such a crime to try to pull oneself up from the gutter he felt he lived in? His thoughts were depressed and chaotic-one parent told him to quit looking and focus, the other told him to start acting and…Well, mostly he obviously listened to Mom. It couldn’t be that much of a sin to want to be more, no matter what Martin said.
Martin wouldn’t relent, “Whatever you were staring at doesn’t matter. You aren’t out there and you never will be. This is your life and you need to buckle down and be a man and learn your trade. I take time out of my life to teach you this, you pathetic waste; you should listen! You could be out on the streets with no skills, you dumb fool.”
Gabriel’s attention wandered and his expression must have blanked as he thought about being important like the woman in the red coat seemed to be. What would Mom say if I could be that? Was something he wondered often.
Dad snapped his fingers to draw his attention back with a jump and a start. Dad always kind of liked being…aggressively aware of his own presence. “Then you do that. Don’t turn into one of those dumb kids that can’t concentrate because I’ll have no use for you. What is wrong with you? I’m not taking you to the doctor again, whatever your mother says.”
Gabriel frowned. There’s nothing wrong with me; why would you say that? I’m just not…special. Yet.
“Focus!” Martin barked and he nodded, keeping his head and eyes down, his posture and body language submissive. He was forced to smooth his face from its crumpled state and into something more acceptable; inserting interest and a generalized look towards Martin after his frowning. It didn’t fool his father who rose, grabbed his arm tight enough to bruise and shoved him to sit at the table. He was instantly locked up with anxiety and not a little fear, anticipating his father’s next move. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Take a look at that watch, punk. That is all you’ll ever see,” Martin mocked over his shoulder, pressed dangerously close. Close enough that Gabriel’s thighs started to shake from being clenched so tightly, the smell of the other man far too close to him; he could practically feel the body heat. He pointed over Gabriel’s shoulder from behind, gripping his hair and forcing him, holding him face-to-face with the wrist watch.
“I’m…” he began so softly his voice cracked over a dry mouth, still bent over, “I’m not always gonna be a watchmaker, Dad…” he managed to whisper and choke out, practically gasping. “Maybe my destiny isn’t-” The one time he’d dared speak that well-pondered word aloud.
Martin just snorted, cuffing him upside his head so hard the nose pieces of his glasses jingled. Gabriel shut his eyes, lips tense, and prayed that was the end of it.
“You’re a watchmaker, born and bred. That is all you can ever amount to. I just showed you your dead-end destiny, Gabe,” he sneered, using the diminutive of his name as an insult (doubtlessly from Virginia’s heavy usage of his full name). It was the only way he ever said it. Then he pretended he didn’t have enough room to pass behind the work station, shoving the chair Gabriel sat in into the table, digging the edge of it into his chest. Martin passed by uneventfully, heading into the back room.
Gabriel slowly raised his head, then his eyes to glance and see if he was alone before he thought, You’re wrong, Dad, he mentally spat. My destiny isn’t here because your precious Gray and Sons isn’t special. And if I get the chance to be something powerful, make no mistake, I’m taking it and leaving you in the dust in a heartbeat./
…
//“Oh my god…” Nathan breathed as he opened the door for Tracey, staring at his very alive father who replied, “Good to see you, too, Nathan. Come give you dad a hug,” Arthur then prompted. He was instantly wary of that, not being thrilled about hugs from Dad to begin with, but Peter had warned him about…the hugging now. Said his powers were gone and, so help him, Nathan believed him this time. But Dad was alive…
Nathan didn’t move, just stood there staring, trying to wrap his mind around this and figure out the ‘why’s. It was much harder than it looked. I grieved for him…(not a lot, but still. I was mostly glad we didn’t betray him in court). I went to his funeral. How the hell is he alive? Ma held his ash- Then he kicked into action, more alert for a threat now, pacing in front of what looked to be his father, looking for a glitch or… a seam, a projector, he didn’t know. He supposed it could have been a shape shifter, but one that could do what ‘Dad’ did to Peter…Arthur merely smiled back at him, highly amused, addressing Tracey, shaking her hand…without incident.
What the…? Did everyone know about this? How deep does this cover up go? Was Tracey lying to me all this time?
Dad moved away and Nathan spoke up, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to this family?” He felt the responsibility to speak for the rest of his kin, but it was a distant thought after: “What you’ve done to me?”
Dad moved in towards him, slow and steady, every inch his father, “Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I should have told you sooner what your role was in all of this,” he intoned, giving Nathan a pointed, unmistakable look. Nathan gave a confused look, waiting to be filled in, drawn closer despite himself. Dad’s alive…He’s really…alive. What the hell happened? “My role?” he still hesitated.
His father dismissed Tracey and it was just the two of them and he was forced to recall all the times he’d gotten the speeches, the lectures, the lessons…orders, commands, threats…
“Take a hard look at the last couple weeks of your life…and you will see that role coming into focus. The assassination, Linderman,” Dad knew about that!? Damnit…of course he did. Dad probably set it all up. Nathan kept frowning, waiting for the punch line he somehow couldn’t see or grasp. What do you want, Dad?
“The senate seat…” his father continued on, “All part of your destiny…” A far more penetrating look pierced him and he reeled from it, stepping back, his face shifting into disbelief; shit…
“That was all you,” Nathan realized, his world crashing down around his ears. How deep does this go? How long…this whole family…my whole life…
“You were born with a talent, Nathan, the talent-” Dad made to lay his hand on Nathan’s shoulder, but he jerked it back and away quickly. He liked his ‘talent’, thanks.
“Talent to lead a nation,” the senior Petrelli finished, bothering to give him a hurt, surprised look as his voice faded down at the gesture..
Nathan shot back,“”S the same crap that Linderman spouted, I’m not fallin’ for it again.” Dad seemed to wait for an explanation, like he fucking needed one. “Be-cause…last time it was New York that was destroyed, and this time…the world…right?” Nathan found himself pointing aimlessly his father in accusing question.
“Look around you; it’s already happening!” Arthur replied, gesturing, “I’ve got the formula to stop it!”
Someone help me, my family’s wacked…Nathan was already moving away, “You’re insane!” he laughed, edging on hysteria, shaking his head as he walked to the window. He felt and heard before he saw Arthur moving to stand beside him, staring him down, unyielding. It made him cross his arms out of defense and avoidance.
“I am not afraid to admit that you have always been my favorite son, the one most like me, the strong one. We can save the world together.” Nathan shut his eyes, tried to shut his father out, but he knew it was already over. Arthur wouldn’t quit, oh no, never that. Not again. “This can be our legacy, Nathan, for the Petrelli name.” He scrunched up his face into a pained frown. No. No. No. “I am offering you this chance…as your father…” Somehow Arthur’s hand landed softly on his shoulder and Nathan turned to it and looked up at his father.//
…
He woke up, still feeling a stabbing pain in the back of his skull, but he managed to stand and remove the blade, peering at the gory metal as Danko stood there, gaping in shock with his radio in hand. “That hurt,” Sylar said in a wounded tone before sliding into a smirk, “Shape shifting…gotta love it, right?” Emile went for his gun, but Sylar was much faster, stripping the gun and slamming the man into a wall full of trophies and plaques of honor and achievement, all belonging to the unconscious senator at their feet. The subsequent yell and crash were loud, but no one came running.
“And the changes don’t just happen on the outside either,” he informed, striding closer, his arm still extended, active, “Remember that little….off-switch at the back of my head?” he pointed, the question as rhetorical as they came because, duh, the director knew about it, hence the knifing. Within a foot of the other man’s space, he rasped, “I moved it.”
“Go ahead. Get it over with. My men will be here any second to collect Petrelli,” were the pinned agent’s brave, if hollow words. He really had no idea.
Sylar, still holding the man’s knife, pressed the bloody edge to his lips to quiet him, shushing him at the same time. “I know,” was all he needed to say, aware that he had Danko’s attention when he stilled and stared at the bloody blade, expecting Sylar to use it in horrible ways. But after lingering, it was pulled away just as quickly, snatched back, gaining a flinch, and he turned to Petrellli, lying on the floor like a dead weight. How accurate. “I got plans for them,” Sylar let on, flipping the special onto his back with a flick of fingers, dragging him into the bathroom with only mentalized efforts, “Hell, I got plans for all of us.” And he did, too.
“You gonna kill him?” Danko asked, making stupid assumptions of him, really. He didn’t just kill things.
Sylar slammed the door with his mind and a twitch of digits, his attention snapping back to Emile, “Later,” he promised. “Right after I absorb all of his memories…its a little ability Angela Petrelli fed me like a snack.” Danko gave him the crazy look, with not a small amount of fear inside. “Because Nathan…” he paused, his gaze shifting as his head swiveled in amusement betrayed by his smirk of accomplishment, “And by Nathan, I mean I, have a rendezvous with destiny tomorrow,” he affected an innocent expression. “President’s giving a speech at the Stanton Hotel and Senator Petrelli’s gonna be there to have a little meeting with him right afterwards.”
Danko didn’t follow him, in pain, he struggled, “What for?”
Sylar slowly shook his head, keeping his lips pursed and face somewhat introspectively innocent; of course they wouldn’t guess his plans. “Nothing. Just to shake his hand. And when I do, I’m gonna be the most powerful man in the world.”
…
The memories tore into him, tears leaking unbidden from his eyes as he shook, unconsciously clutching at his head. Sylar shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, groaning noisily from pain, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He wasn’t aware he’d sunk to his knees, his head clunking against his desk, raising his hands to fend off the attacks that plagued his mind. “STOP IT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” His shout ended with a dry cough and gasp for air as if he’d been screaming himself hoarse, bending at the waist towards the floor.
XXX
Peter had looked off out the window after sitting back up; thinking about what was out there, wondering how far Sylar had strayed from here. He need not have stayed ‘here’ the whole time. His mind could have dreamed up a series of places to be before this place. Maybe they were all out there, metaphorically speaking, of course. Maybe he had a string of places … No, that seemed unlikely. He’d said there was nothing else out there, which argued either he was hiding something or had never gone anywhere. Despite all of Sylar’s other flaws, he hadn’t been all that much on the concealing-things-business. Peter dismissed it and decided to go with the assumption the other man was telling him the truth as he knew it, at least until Sylar proved himself devious.
The sound of a groan caught his attention and he glanced back, then jerked in surprise when he saw Sylar was on his knees, holding his head. Peter struggled to get himself out of the couch. As he’d expected, it was soft, low and encompassing - under normal conditions no trouble to get out of, but in a hurry, with his back and legs weaker than they should be and aching, he clambered to his feet clumsily. He hesitated, trying to divine what was wrong from where he was at, despite his medical training telling him to go to the man, touch him, calm him, and check for symptoms.
He wouldn’t have any symptoms. We’re in his head. Is Matt trying to get him out? Peter tried to open his mental senses and listen, which was simple to do in the outside world, when he had Matt’s power. He did it now though and nothing happened. It was like listening for a sound that wasn’t there.
His attention was dragged back to Sylar with the man’s shout. That really argued that some outside force was influencing Sylar, doing something to him, perhaps trying to end this little bubble of ‘reality’ as Sylar saw it. Matt? Matt? Nothing. Crap. Matt, if you can hear me, get us the hell out of here! Sylar looked like he was in real pain there. As an afterthought, he tacked on, And whatever you’re doing to Sylar you should probably stop. It wouldn’t do to get out of here only to have Sylar too mentally messed up to carry out his mission.
“Sylar?” he asked in a steady, loud voice. “Sylar, stop fighting it. Is it Matt?” He took a few steps closer, wondering if he should hazard touching him and trying to get them out again.
XXX
Sylar could only grip at his skull, gasping from the overload and barely able to see. Every part of his brain was racing, feeling like it was torn apart; frontal lobe- consciousness, judgment and emotional response with memory for muscle habits, problem solving and….word association. Parietal lobe- location for visual and touch orientation and integration of different senses to allow understanding for a single concept, recognition and perception. Occipital lobes- vision. Temporal lobes- memory acquisition, categorization of objects. Cerebellum- his movements.
I know all this, I know all this. What’s that sound?...a voice? Peter. Peter!
//Pete//
DIE! YOU BETRAYED HIM! YOU BETRAYED ALL OF US! I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!
Panting and inhaling deep lungfuls of air, Sylar slowly came back to reality, beginning to see the room he knelt in again. He saw Peter standing and looking at him like he was about to have his whatever-lobotomy and get the straightjacket treatment. He was sitting a minute ago….ages, years ago. God, just go fuck yourself and die Parkman. Angela, Bennet, NATHAN. Now what had his companion been saying?
Haunted and pained dark eyes stared at Peter in confusion from the floor, “W-what?” he managed to croak, not comprehending the questions or commands, whatever was said. “Parkman’s not here, I’m not in….not in his head anymore. I went…” he frowned, trying to remember a half-dreamt dream that melted with reality. “I went to him to…take away my abilities, but….” I’m insane. You can say it. Parkman did. I’m not that damn crazy by myself.
“Why won’t he die? I killed him, you…” his gaze sharpened at the other man, zeroing in on him like Sylar was starving and Peter the steak. “You dropped him, I….” he chuckled, amused for a moment in his conquests of evil, the thrill at having won. “I made you drop him and….why is there no one here, Peter?” softly uttering the man’s name, his voice had trailed off to a whisper; one that begged an answer as if to an innocent, frightened child as his face took on a look of childlike confusion. On some level he didn’t understand why he’d been hurt. Didn’t everything make sense to them? Why couldn’t they just see?
Sylar leaned back against the desk, straightening up and taking his time doing it, his brain still throbbing with splitting shots of pain. Staring at the medic, he wondered why he stood there, looking so helpless. Oh, yeah…that’s right. You’re not his brother. Somehow not being able to hold someone in place and speak his mind, ease his conscience, his soul to someone who he wanted to care, but someone who hated him bothered him greatly. “Where did they go? Why would they….”
Here he was believing he’d gotten over needing people when one showed up and fucked up his….everything. He resented, he hated, he craved and he needed on most basic levels to feel and be understood. Caring and love he knew were too much to ask; he’d begun the slow and painful process of letting those go finally after years of clinging resilient to the idea, the theory.
Coughing, he shoved back chunks of his hair, glanced up through it at Peter who still stood and stared. He hoped clearing his throat would signal to the other that his questions needn’t necessarily be answered. Peter didn’t know anyway, right?
I’ll rise from the ashes again.
XXX
Wait…what? Peter knew he wasn’t brilliant. He’d met brilliant people, geniuses even, and he knew he wasn’t one of them. He was smart enough in his own way of course and he had gifts - just different ones. He stood silent and unmoving while Sylar rambled through his mental breakdown because he was trying very hard to figure out what the hell the man was talking about. There were common threads there…they had meaning. There was a lot of emotion and if Peter was good at anything, it was understanding how people felt - even if his ability to do that seemed a bit abridged here in Sylar’s head.
The only person Peter had ‘dropped’ lately was Nathan and from the brief expression of gloating that passed over Sylar’s face, that was exactly who he was talking about. He deserved to be beaten into the ground for even mentioning that incident, but at the moment he was on his knees babbling, so Peter just stood and listened while his face darkened, eyes narrowed and his lip curled. Things clicked into place and began to make sense.
So Sylar felt bad that no one would tolerate his bullshit. So he’d noticed that no matter how many abilities he had, none of them gained him friends or family or loved ones. (Elle the sociopath excepted). So he was lonely, and for all his intelligence, he hadn’t figured out how to be nice to people, or gain their trust in a genuine fashion or be a good friend in turn.
Peter snorted very softly after Sylar stood, an expression of deep disgust on Peter’s features. “Where did everyone go? You made them drop their loved ones off buildings, Sylar, and who knows what else. They hate you now. No one wants to be around you. On some level, even you understand that.”
He blinked. His eyes were wet - hate that he couldn’t vent about everything Sylar was, anger that Sylar might have staged that whole episode on the hospital roof merely to mock him and maneuver him into letting Nathan fall, the stupid shred of hope that had flared when Sylar asked why he (Nathan?) wouldn’t die - all strong emotions that found outlet only in his tears. Peter shook his head and headed for the door, limping a little. He drew up and looked at the bloody handprint there. He glanced back at Sylar and opened the door.
XXX
Again, Sylar knew he’d struck out. In his head, he snapped at the ghost of Nathan, You can take my misplaced desires to the grave, fucking politico. Sylar hadn't even been thinking of being attacked again at the mention of Peter's murdered brother, the one who tormented both of them. Normally he would have thought of the damage he was inflicting, but....he was too damaged at the moment to think of Peter.
The look he was given immediately informed him that Peter was not and never would be an avenue to converse with and attempt to figure things out with. That road had been swiftly blocked. His goal had never been to make friends; at least, he didn’t think so. He’d expected to meet people, definitely not as intimately and as aggressively as he had; everyone pretty much fell under this category: wronged by Sylar, having attempted/succeeded at homicide/torture many times- unforgiving.
What he hadn’t expected or….taken the time to consider was how his actions would remove him from what he now knew he (apparently) needed.
/”They told me I need a connection. A friend. I don’t wanna be alone…and somehow you’re supposed to help me.”/
Somehow in his drive to become special, powerful, fix the world somehow before it drove him insane and he broke it instead, he had so thoroughly repulsed every person that he knew that he had no chance of friendship, not even with a non-special. Sylar had never been able to comprehend human emotion, particularly his own. So ironic that he be paired with Peter the wonder-empath; someone who understood and felt what the person was feeling before they themselves felt it.
That type of connection was only fathomable to him on a clinical level if he considered empathy as a power. As a personality type, a character trait, it was beyond him. He’d only ever managed it on accident and he would have little idea of how to go about it purposefully.
Peter spoke and Sylar knew it was nothing but the truth. If he knew that already, why had he bothered to ask? …and somehow you’re supposed to help me. Sylar was beginning to understand the true depth of the pit of helplessness he’d cut himself into; no plea of his would ever be heard since he’d hurt far too many loved ones of all the people he knew to ever be given a sliver of redemption. That he did understand. Acutely. He’d felt it every day for three years.
Ducking his head down, the hair he’d pushed back falling over his cheekbone again; it tickled, but he ignored it, staring numbly at his feet. Let Peter cry; he has something to cry for. Sylar didn’t move when Peter did, allowing him his much needed escape after Sylar’s unnecessary meltdown. He would have to be more careful in future to avoid….how the hell was he supposed to control something he couldn’t? That’s an unreasonable demand he’s silently charging you with. He doesn’t want to deal with it, and why should he? It’s not his problem.
He stood for several moments, giving Peter a little lee-way before tromping quietly after him, swiping at his face. No one (other than Claire and maybe Bennet) made him feel more brutish and out of place, and, yes, deformed and monstrous than Peter. /”He was born with a silver spoon. He had everything handed to him; money, colleges… “/ Padding a good ten or so feet behind the man, not wanting to incur his wrath further, but he found himself speaking before he could close his mouth.
“You’re right. But people sure do line up when I can do something for them,” he snipped, aiming his comment at Pet- well, any of the Petrellis for that matter, those living and dead alike. Look at Peter. Probably the most honest man, the least-hypocritical man he knew (he does have his moments, Mr. I-shall-not-abuse-the-nail-gun-and murder-out-of-rage, oh, by the way, control your IA, Sylar, while I cut open dear Ma’s brainpan) yet here he was, sticking with the family business by using Sylar.
The only thing, the only shred of consciousness in Sylar’s head stayed his balled up fists from connecting with Peter’s scrawny neck was the fact that Peter was the only other person alive. And he might not be given another chance once the blow was dealt.
XXX
Continued...