More Between Us Chapter 45/? "Not Alone"
Chapter 45/? "Not Alone"
Day 13, Morning
“Have you noticed, Sylar, that I want to know things about you? Yeah, I’m kind of shooting in the dark here because you don’t share much. I know you have a lot of focus, and I would guess a lot of ambition.” Peter shifted to lean forward, putting both forearms on the table as he disclosed, “Abilities ate me alive. Tore me up, turned my life inside out. I didn’t want to lose them, but I didn’t get a say in that. I got them back, one at a time, and that was enough of a breather for me to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my life, day to day. I wanted to prove my b- … the government wrong. I wasn’t a threat. People with abilities weren’t necessarily a threat. I know a lot of people who have abilities, or at least an ability, who aren’t hurting anyone.” He pulled back a little. “If we were such a huge, world-ending terrorist threat, then how come there’ve been people with abilities running around for decades, maybe longer, and it was never a big deal?”
XXX
Hatred at the side effects of his concussion arose again. Peter was clearly much sharper at the moment and taking advantage of that. You’re bored. You want something to play with. Why not fuck with my life, right? (Why does everyone think they can do that?) Despite his worry (alleviated slightly hearing he kept his mouth shut and didn’t share much), his ego was salved a bit at being called focused and ambitious. Sylar felt he knew he should know what Peter was doing with all the sharing, but he couldn’t think of what it was called. Something with therapists and empathy or…Stockholmes Syndrome…? He followed the words fine, individually, missing a lot of Peter’s point, tuning in for the end, which made perfect sense - it was something he’d wondered about Samson and Arthur.
XXX
There were disorders and diseases more rare and subtle than the sort of powers Peter knew, and those were plastered across specialty medical textbooks for anyone curious to peruse. If abilities were the problem the government asserted, then they couldn’t have stayed secret. But that was general and he was dealing with Sylar here. He turned his comments back to the individual, Peter’s words coming crisp and decisive.
“What are the problems you have? Are there any ways to manage it?” You’re not happy with the life you lead - you’ve said as much. “You know so much more about this than I do. You said you went to Matt for help … what did you think he could do for you?” Peter thought about what he’d seen in Matt’s mind, in that few seconds of scanning. Matt was gloating with malicious joy at the irony of having trapped Sylar in an eternal torment the man would never escape from. Peter hadn’t focused on the details (and oh how he wished he had!) but he knew the emotion. Matt’s feelings would have been very different if Sylar had shown up to kill him.
XXX
Sylar had another one of those long, single blink moments where he tried to figure if that really just happened, if Peter had truly asked him those questions. “This is all…uh…uh…hypothetical,” he struck on the word. “No people to kill, no jobs to rush to.” Avoidance? Hell yes. It was way to weird to have this conversation with almighty Peter, made even worse that Peter was probably looking for ammunition and the conversation was a fraud. I can’t tell you that, Peter. His mind felt deeply depressed, a slow-burning anger, but mostly sadness and misery, self-loathing, embarrassment, frustration and confusion, though he couldn’t separate the feelings. Asking for help is admitting you have a problem. I can’t afford to have problems. I don’t have time to fix things, I need them gone now! I…don’t think I have much time left…Realizing where he was, alone, with Peter, his thoughts reoriented, I have no time. I still…have problems, no help, no future, no abilities…Just ‘die alone.’ Sylar wondered, as he often did, how he’d screwed it all up so badly, even his efforts at change, at getting assistance. He couldn’t grasp how the good guys told him to get help, yet when he asked, they denied him, laughed him offstage and abused him further. Practical jokes? Never was good at picking those up. ‘Die alone’ and go out in a blaze of glory, enjoy my life while I have one.
XXX
“Yeah,” Peter said with a general wave of his left hand. “It’s hypothetical. You’re not trying to cut my head open and, uh, I hope you don’t.” He could see the emotions on Sylar’s face. Peter knew this was a heavy subject, right up there with Sylar’s childhood on the ‘list of things Sylar doesn’t want to talk about’. Sylar’s motivations and reasons for what he’d done - Peter really, really wanted to know those. But this wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about what Sylar was willing to share and so yes, Peter accepted that they weren’t really talking about Sylar here, if that was what made Sylar more comfortable.
Peter looked at the puzzle, putting aside the piece he held and getting a better candidate as he thought. It’s your ability that causes … maybe not the killing, but at least warped perceptions. You said you met your dad and he had your ability. How did he manage it? Should I ask that? He’s real touchy about his parents. Maybe I shouldn’t ask. Matt couldn’t … get rid of your ability, could he? Well … Nath- er, you didn’t have your abilities for like a month or so. Except shape-shifting, I guess. And probably flight. Until they just started breaking free. Was there something that happened to cause that? That carnival thing. Did they do something to him?
Peter’s eyes rose to Sylar briefly, then dropped down and to the side, looking at his own forearm, the one the tattoo had stained. Did he … oh my God, what if he went to Matt to be turned back into Nathan?! Peter shifted uncomfortably, the question of what, exactly, Sylar had intended for Matt to do itching at the tip of his tongue, but it was one of those questions Sylar wouldn’t, couldn’t answer if it was what Peter suspected. After all, how could Sylar admit to that in front of Nathan’s brother? Maybe it wasn’t Nathan. Maybe someone else. Give up his life; start new; change. Change … oh shit. Is that suicide? Peter reached up and scratched at his scalp uneasily, his mind shying away from contemplating how he’d interact with a Nathan who was the product of Sylar knowingly and intentionally giving up his identity.
Peter knew he had to say something, but he had a strong feeling that pressing Sylar directly wasn’t going to help. Yet Peter also didn’t want to show disinterest in the subject and abandon it. “So, uh, other than your dad, and for a little while me, did you ever run into anyone else who had an ability like yours? How did they live with it?”
XXX
Sylar sighed. “No, no one else.” He shrugged, toying with a puzzle piece now, idly looking over the puzzle with little intent. “My father was into taxidermy when I found him so my future’s hopeful.” He planted his fist against his temple, elbow on the desk for support. Only living thing here is Peter and I’m not skinning him. I like his skin where it is…Oh, how the mighty have fallen. My future’s suicidal or homicidal or…being the homicide. I wonder if that’s what Hiro meant. Not living long enough to die a natural death, especially here…
“Do you think anyone will mourn you, Peter? When you die?”
XXX
For a couple seconds, Peter didn’t take that as anything other than the questions the words indicated. Nothing about Sylar’s manner implied anything more. A second later, though, it occurred to him that Sylar’s words were pretty damn threatening. Wait, what’s he saying? Peter stiffened a little, giving the man a quick sweep to double-check his initial impression of safety. “What?”
XXX
At Peter’s sudden look, Sylar backpedaled swiftly, lifting his head away from his fist a little, blurting, “Whenever that is; I don’t have plans.” I’m betting people will mourn you. People like your girlfriend. Because he wasn’t at all convinced there was ‘nothing going on’ between them. ‘Die alone’ had tickled the tip of his tongue several times now and this was his roundabout way of…getting Peter’s opinion on that. But I’ve tried that before, killing myself. Why would this time be any different? Less…people around for the ‘alone’ part?
XXX
“Kay,” Peter said in a low tone, loosening back up and trying not to stare at Sylar warily. He directed his eyes to the puzzle with difficulty and let a few moments pass. I … think my mother will get me out of here eventually. Claire would ask questions if she didn’t. Emma would miss me, Hesam, maybe a few others. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, they would.” He found himself looking up at Sylar, Peter’s eyes sorrowful as he realized how likely it was that had he not interfered, Matt would have ended Sylar. While Peter himself had wanted that many times between Thanksgiving and going to Matt’s, he was seeing it from Sylar’s point of view at the moment. It seemed like such a pointless death, especially with the idea that it might have been a technical suicide, something Sylar had asked for and sought out because he knew how fucked up his life had become.
XXX
“Huh,” Sylar remarked absently, unfocused on Peter, deep in his own thoughts. Of course he’d been right about that - people would miss Peter. Mostly he wondered what that felt like.
XXX
Very quietly and with as much respect as he could muster, Peter asked, “Did you go to Matt to have him change who you were? So that,” Peter tilted his head a little and made a small, empty gesture with his left hand, “you weren’t Sylar anymore?”
XXX
Slowly, Sylar came back from his mental fog. “What?” he said in a quiet, shocked voice that quavered on borderline hurt, before Peter finished. The tornado of irony, pride, anger and pain began to spiral up in him again but he couldn’t feel much more than that. It was like tunnel vision. He pointed an angry finger at Peter, glaring as best he could, his throat vibrating from attempting to growl and express hurt simultaneously, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?! Easier to handle. And you wouldn’t be stuck here with me!” Sylar snatched up a small handful of puzzle pieces (they were difficult to get a hold of on a flat surface) and threw them at Peter’s face and chest, bouncing off harmlessly. “Best of all, I’m out of the picture and you can live happily ever after, right? Brilliant idea: solves everyone’s problems. I wish I’d have thought of it!” Because, yes, that idea worked better than the one he’d really gone to Matt for. He did his best to make that last part sound sarcastic, but he was pretty sure that failed.
XXX
Peter pulled back when Sylar pointed at him, eyes flicking briefly to the finger. He registered an internal jolt at the gesture, reminding him of being on the receiving end of that. Sylar’s tone of voice kept Peter well distracted from focusing on the past, though, and his eyes returned to Sylar’s. He’d hit deep, not that he’d intended to, but given the subject he’d expected a reaction. There was an accusation in there and a feeling of betrayal. Sylar, betrayed. Aware that everything he’s done has been wrong. Keeps acting entitled to friendship, help, and freedom from manipulation. … He expected to be saved. That’s why Matt was gloating. Sylar went there for help, just like he came to me when he was Nathan. But why Matt? Matt wouldn’t … Hell, Sylar doesn’t even know Matt. Maybe he was just desperate and made a mistake! It’s not like he’d admit to it.
Peter flinched from the puzzle pieces, raising his hands a little. Peter was trying to signal in his own way that he was purely defensive here. His expression was neither angry nor afraid, but open and listening aside from dodging things thrown at him. Saved … from being Sylar? From … going back to that life?
XXX
Sylar lurched to his feet, grabbing at the seat back and wobbled his way (mostly blind) to the kitchen with the idea of getting a drink of water…and space. That was so jarringly painful - the mere suggestion of swapping bodies or minds with someone…like it happened everyday. Like it was a normal thing. That felt so callous and calculated; Sylar immediately felt his worth. Peter didn’t like him, wanted him dead or gone. He knew it was no more than he deserved, being told he deserved that even in conversation, but if given the preference, he’d rather not hear about it at all, ever. That he heard it from his near-sort-of brother, the man whose respect he wanted, whose approval he sought made it that much worse. It was hard to say it hurt when he’d known it was coming, though.
XXX
Peter watched as Sylar left, opening his mouth briefly only to shut it again. He waited a beat, then began to pick the puzzle pieces out of the folds of his shirt and his lap, dumping them back on the table. He wanted to get up and go to the doorway of the kitchen, but that would trap Sylar same as Peter had felt confined the other day. Sylar had left the table because he wanted away. Best to let him have that ‘away’.
He let a number of breaths pass, watching the entry to the kitchen and thinking about the psychic wounds that Sylar’s word choice had illuminated. Someone was in pain; Peter had the capacity to help, but it would require him to offer something of himself. “Sylar?” he called out tentatively, voice much firmer as he went on, “I am not leaving without you. I came here to get you out. I’m not going to leave you here. Not alone.”
Peter blinked and looked aside. He was committing himself to something important here, walling off a path of exploration and one that Peter had already favored. Looking for a way out was all he had left - that and waiting. It might not seem like he was promising much because he’d already tried and failed, but he was promising not to even look anymore.
XXX
“Not alone,” Sylar muttered to himself, feeling the fringe of crazy invading his vision and perception. He leaned both palms against the counter; supporting himself, head hanging where it would. That concept was a difficult one. Why wouldn’t I be alone? Doesn’t he know there’s no other way to be? Why would he be serious? Petrelli’s word choice sunk in against his will, speaking against Hiro’s prophecy. It made him feel hope he hadn’t accepted yet. He didn’t want to get his hopes up because this looked way too good to be true. He’ll stay? I don’t…know where else he’d be going, but…Sylar was relieved and disappointed that Peter kept his distance, though it made it easier to…listen and (try to) accept Peter’s promise of sorts. He knew he needed the comfort regardless if it was true or not.
XXX
“I’m not trying to change you into Nathan.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “I accept that he’s … gone.” Peter’s voice tightened on that last word. He cleared his throat and went on with a much easier admission. “He’s not you. You’re not him. "I don't get to choose who you are." Peter reached up and rubbed at the corner of his jaw. Much more quietly he said, "That's up to you."
XXX
Why don’t I believe you? Why?! Being pinned like a damn butterfly, crucified like the Christ in a dusty hospital construction basement came to mind. Life was one big test; after all, seeing how many different flavors of violation he could withstand and walk away from. Really, demanding more sanity from him wasn’t possible. I’m not ever going to be safe so long as you have the will and ability to change me…whether I like it or not. I suppose it’s in my best interest to just…let him do it. He usually wins crap like this. Good versus evil and all that. I mean, he pointed out the better plan - letting Parkman turn me into someone else entirely. Petrellis have decided who I am and who I’m not for years now…Why would this be any different? Everyone thinks they’re my better so that makes it okay to change me. “We’ll see about that, Peter,” Sylar called back though it hurt his head. He could feel his voice wanting to shake, but he pushed through it to inject control, rationality.
He turned, got out a glass and filled it at the sink, choosing to be mesmerized by the water flow. It was easier than considering his life and his problems. He took a few sedate sips, thinking anyway about Peter’s meaning. Everything I’ve ever chosen has been wrong. Why would he offer that? Must be a test. That decided, Sylar turned and made his way back into the room, still hurt and edgy, but less angry. Do I really believe he’s accepted Nathan’s gone? Walking back, he looked Peter over a little sadly, a little warily as he sat opposite the man again.
XXX
Peter watched Sylar return with an attentive, receptive expression, which stayed when the other man sat down. He’d rarely seen someone who radiated ‘I need a hug’ quite so strongly, but getting up and providing one was the wrong note for things. Sylar would probably freak. Initially, there was a lot of force to Sylar’s gaze as he wordlessly regarded Peter, probably fearing and waiting for Peter to poke at him. A weak spot had been shown, after all. When Peter didn’t rise to the bait, Sylar’s expression faded to a more relaxed curiosity. Peter returned it, the hint of a smile turning his lips.
This is the guy I’m going to be stuck here with. Walled up in Matt’s basement. Like that idea that your whole life flashes before your eyes at the end, but this is the opposite. Our whole future. Mine. His. Years. Maybe longer than I’ve been alive. Or at least it will seem that way. Here with Sylar. Peter looked down at where Sylar’s hands cupped the glass of water he’d brought with him from the kitchen, thinking about how much apparent time had already passed. I’ve known him longer here than I ever did outside. Outside, I was with him what? an hour or two? Here it’s been morning to night for days now.
Peter reached up and touched over his left eye. Most of the swelling was gone although the discoloration and soreness would persist for days more. His other injuries were also getting better steadily. In another few days, barring them getting into another fight, the only serious thing would be his broken hand. Peter tucked his hair back behind his ear, letting his eyes fall to the handful of puzzle pieces on the table near him. He looked down at his own lap, then around the chair. He scooted it back and slipped off without comment, going to his knees to retrieve the two stray pieces on the floor. He saw no others, pulling himself back to his feet and dropping the two with the rest.
Standing, he said, “I think I’ll get a drink, too,” and walked around the desk. Instead of going on by, he paused next to Sylar, turning to put his left hand on Sylar’s shoulder, getting that physical contact Peter had been thinking he needed since Sylar came back in the room. He let it rest there for a couple seconds before saying, “We’re going to be okay, man. Both of us.” He gave a squeeze and a pat.
XXX
Sylar half expected Peter to come around and ‘make him pay’ for bringing about the situation they were both in, for playing a part in whatever grand scheme Fate created; for forcing Peter’s cooperation to some extent. His head shifted away no more than a few inches on seeing the incoming hand. It was the squeeze that got him. He’s never done that before. It left him in an empty room of surprised blinking. That felt horribly…comforting and he struggled desperately not to want that normality and the warm-fuzzy feelings he so rarely felt. It wasn’t a technical need, after all, contact - just a ‘want’. ‘We’re’ going to be okay? ‘We’? I think he means ‘he will be okay’. Everyone knows I’m not okay.
XXX
Peter walked on to the kitchen, getting a drink and momentarily reflecting on how glad he was the tap water tasted fine here. It had been kind of nasty in his apartment. He felt cheered. Sylar was being friendly (pointing, yelling, and thrown puzzle pieces aside), he was opening up, and he was engaging, and all that warmed Peter immensely. Plus, Peter could be useful just by being here. It wasn’t very active, but neither was being a hospice nurse and this wasn’t a patient who was going to die on him. No, Sylar was very full of life.
Feeling perked up about things, Peter returned to his seat at the worktable and began sorting out the pieces. “Hey, do you think you’d be up to getting out for lunch later? We could go slow; go somewhere close by?” Peter was getting stir crazy cooped up in Sylar’s apartment and he wanted a change of scene. His renewed feeling of energy underscored that. “Or … wait, I have an idea. We could take some sandwiches and go tune that piano.” Or more likely Sylar would listen and gripe while Peter tuned it, but that was fine.
XXX
Sylar looked to him, a little wide eyed, trying to do his own piecing-together of the leaps in logic or design Peter had obviously made. He’s…bored now? He felt some disappointment, having barely worked on the puzzle or relaxed much. He just couldn’t hold onto a balance with this guy. Or…does he think I’m going to get fat or sleep too much? Does…Sylar tried to extend his thought process to fit what he knew of Peter (with limited results)..Does he think I’m bored? Peter clearly wanted to be doing something. Perhaps Peter just wanted to point and laugh while watching Sylar attempt walking. The important thing was that he would be with Peter (or so Sylar assumed). The reason for the outing was unimportant, the company wasn’t. “Um…okay,” he hedged, tilting his chin down and to the left in a sort of nod, still watching the nurse. I have no idea how I’ll manage that.
If he stopped and thought about it: piano (noise, loud) and headache (concussion, painful) with the addition of the off-key sound were not a pleasant mix. Already his blood pressure was on the rise, cranium throbbing. For the dozenth time he wondered, Why isn’t he leaving me to starve? “I…don’t think I’ll be much help,” he used a quiet mumble in hopes that Peter might almost-not hear him. Still, the friendliness seemed loud and clear even to the socially-dense killer - Peter made it seem like his presence was being sought. Sylar shifted in his seat, preparing to get up and move now. I’m not really hungry, though. Oh, was that maybe the point? Huh… I dunno…I give up. He didn’t stand, but kept his body somewhat primed and upright to leave, his attention keyed as he tried to focus it through his fog of medical conditions.
XXX
Peter lifted his left hand about halfway up, palm facing down, and moved it down towards the table in a ‘stand down’ gesture. “Not right now. Later, around lunch time. That’s a couple hours from now.”
Now he’s so eager to please. Weird. It was hard to adjust to: a callous, practiced killer so alone, vulnerable, and raw that he jumped at the chance to do what Peter wanted … but only sometimes. Sometimes Sylar was obstinate, angry, and insulting, like he was trying to drive Peter off any way he could. Other times Peter saw these flashes of desperation for attention and companionship, or even just acceptance as a person, like the simple acknowledgement of his name. It was two sides of the same coin, Peter knew now. When he’d first come here, he hadn’t realized that and instead taken Sylar’s turns of viciousness at face value.
It was a minefield to navigate blindly without knowing the guy better. A temptation to delve into Sylar’s memories tickled at the back of Peter’s mind, but he ignored it. He could learn the normal way - and he was learning. He felt like Sylar was starting to open up, at least a little. If he went the memory route, then Peter might know Sylar’s secrets, but Sylar would still be a stranger to him.
“You don’t have to do much,” Peter said, tackling the small pile of puzzle pieces in front of him. He sorted them to color-side up and put them back on Sylar’s side where they’d come from. “Just have to be there and keep me company. Like with the guitar - tell me when I hit the right note. If that doesn’t work,” Peter pointed at his own head, at his ear or temple, “like your ear is off or something, then that’s fine. We’ll just eat and talk and then come back.”
Peter eyed the puzzle. They had two large, unfinished blocks - the sky on Sylar’s side and the road on Peter’s. Both were basically grey with blue, white, and yellow patches. The road tended to be darker than the sky, but it was a flimsy enough differentiation that Peter wasn’t sure if they’d been sorted right. “There’s got to be a piece around here with part of this guy’s foot on it,” he muttered as he looked through his options.
XXX
Sylar slowly backed away from being at attention; still eyeing Peter to be sure it wasn’t a test or a joke. Peter’s reassurances sounded like another kind of test - for when they got there and all: ‘just be there and keep me company’. That’s…what I’m doing now…Well, no, that’s not true. I’m…sick, injured, whatever and he’s…guilty (God knows why) and…bored. Yeah, he’s bored. I’m the only person he can…do things to, do things with. Trapped, that’s the word. His happier feelings about being sought after withered in that light and his face fell. I knew that. Sylar ducked his head, studying his glass through the hair that slid into his vision.
He listened more and looked up. My ear…? Confused and not understanding, Sylar reached up to touch his own ear, the analogous one that Peter had indicated on himself. No, it’s still there…It feels fine. Maybe it looks…funny. I don’t know; he’s the medic here. Did he hit my ear during the fight? After struggling (and failing) to remember, he gave up.
Blissfully, Peter became busy - quietly busy - with the puzzle, finally allowing Sylar to mentally fuzz out. He sipped while Peter fiddled with the pieces; then he tried to think how he’d gotten to this state, emotionally, because whatever had happened before was important. That brought him down some more so he rubbed at his eyes wearily with the back of his hand. “’S a good idea,” he mumbled softly, honestly, once again propping his elbow on the desk, his fist to his temple, the glass of water resting on the chair between his legs as he poked a finger around the maze of pieces. Sniffing an inhale, he asked what randomly came to mind, “Did you know Matt uses his ability at work, too? He got to be a real cop,” Sylar intoned with bitter, facetious mockery, not devoid of jealousy. He’s so out of his league and yet he’s probably one of the most…’normally’ successful specials I know…I bet it’s his ability - cheating as usual. “Not always the reading minds bit, either…”
XXX
Nothing wrong with that. I used abilities every chance I got at work. Telepathy’s really powerful, especially for a cop. I wonder if he could know about crimes before they were even committed? Does Sylar know about that painting-the-future thing Matt developed? Just how much does Sylar know about Matt anyway, and how does he know it? Peter looked up at Sylar’s casual but sneering delivery. He clearly meant something more worthy of disdain than a little eavesdropping to determine the guilty party. “You mean pushing thoughts?”
XXX
"Hmm," Sylar hummed a clear affirmative, raising his brows to indicate a bull's-eye. Yeah, because reading people's minds was so fucking invasive, even on Peter's scale.
XXX
Peter grunted - a distinct, unhappy sound. He considered some of the ways that a person could abuse that ability. Reading people’s thoughts is mostly harmless, but what about making them do things? What about commanding them not to commit crimes ever again? Is that right? Wait - Sylar! Peter’s eyes fixed briefly on the other man and his lips started to move before he stifled himself, looking down and pretending to examine the puzzle piece in his hand. It was a transparent dodge, but it bought him a moment to think and self-censor. Is that what Sylar wanted Matt to do? Keep him from ever killing again? Distorted snippets of conversation flashed through Peter’s mind - Peter saying, ‘you should have done something … you should have stopped it … what you did was wrong’, and Sylar agreeing, ‘I’ve always known’.
Sadness, understanding, and sympathy flashed through Peter all at once. You went to Matt to have him stop you. You did know. You did try to stop it. A little late, but … He looked up at Sylar with compassion. That would explain Matt gloating. You asked him for help and this is what he did to you instead. Why did you kill so many first? Why did you wait so long to come to this point? What happened to you, Sylar, to make you the sort of person you ended up being?
“Do you think it’s right to use an ability to stop someone from doing something wrong?” Peter tapped on the desk a couple times in excitement as he thought of a good example. “There was a guy holding some people hostage in a building. I tried to talk him down. It didn’t work and he shot me. Now if I’d had Matt’s ability, I could have made him put the gun down. Would that have been right? Or wrong?” Peter tilted his head, honestly interested in Sylar’s answer. He hoped it was distant enough that Sylar wouldn’t see the parallel to himself and think they were just discussing the morality of Matt’s ability. He also, aside from Sylar, wondered about it himself. “Is it all that different to use super-speed to yank the gun out of his hand? Don’t all abilities make things unfair, if you use them against people?”
XXX
Sylar looked up, taking his time doing it as the man spoke. “You are asking me that?” He blinked. What would I have to say about it? He already thinks I think it’s okay to…do stuff like that. Come to think of it, Sylar had thoroughly avoided pinning his conscience down on this subject so he didn’t actually have much of a prepared answer. He didn’t know quite what to think of it, but he knew what he felt about it and that was the problem. Sylar hated so much being morally, socially, verbally hog-tied into silence: no one knew his pain or his struggles and he couldn’t tell anyone for fear of exploitation or judgment or punishment. Besides, no one would believe a word he said, such was the sinner suddenly claiming innocence or that he’d been wronged. It’s fine to do it to me, any way you can and then some. But I do it and everyone grabs their pitchfork…and torches. The ‘good guys’ were always right, so… “It’s had some success for you so far, so yeah.” He couldn’t help his body tensing, his lips tightening and his eyes flashing before blanking out in reaction to the vast host of memories. If it’s…okay when they do it, that makes it okay when I do it, too. Because they can’t have it both ways.
XXX
Peter gave a very soft snort at Sylar’s obvious disbelief at being polled for his opinion. Sylar’s eyes widened slowly as a host of emotions flickered over his face. It was the emotions that sold it as authentic, at least as far as Peter was concerned, and damped down the irritated response he might have made otherwise. Instead, Peter was silent and let the quiet speak for him. Sylar’s typical avoidance of giving him a real answer was disappointing. Peter frowned at the man’s anger and looked down at the puzzle, picking up a likely piece and trying it as he refused to respond to the threat in Sylar’s shifting body language.
XXX
Sylar blinked again, adjusting to the concept. Wait, when did that happen to him? Or… did he mention something about that before? Huh…Eventually he hedged, “Suppose it depends on how invested you are in free will or doing…uh…” his face scrunched briefly as he thought mid-sentence, “doing what’s best for the other person. Which isn’t…” Sylar’s eyes darted aside and shook his head, “It doesn’t matter much. Going by what you and your family and…friends do, it must be okay.” Yes, I did just say that to you, Petrelli.
XXX
Peter tilted his head, looking up at him. There were at least two levels to the conversation here and very distinct ones. He didn’t like that. There was the overt - Sylar answering Peter’s question; and the covert - Sylar angry about the morals, or lack thereof, shown by Peter’s family (and Peter himself - he didn’t miss the ‘you’ in there). He shifted his position in the chair a little, not sure what he wanted to do about that - confront it, ignore it, respond on both levels? That last was tricky and Peter didn’t like that style of conversation. It reminded him of his parents talking over dinner when he was a kid, always having at least two conversations with one set of words.
XXX
Straightening his shoulders and his spine, Sylar shrugged it off, “Self-defense is not an airtight excuse,” he plastered on a pained grimace of a grin, grim as could be, thinking to add a pointed, “Right?” Curving an eyebrow at Peter for a moment, he paused and elaborated, “Use abilities or die, really. It’s kind of that simple.”
XXX
“Sometimes it is, yeah,” Peter answered, fully realizing that Sylar couldn’t pin his words down as anything - not that he was answering about self-defense or the comment about using abilities, or both, or neither. See? I can talk like an asshole, too. I took lessons for this, jerk-face. Stupid lessons - waste of time. Knowing that, Peter elaborated to be clear what he meant. “You’re right that self-defense isn’t an airtight excuse.” He glanced away and then back. “I dunno about you, but I give a lot more leeway for ‘in the heat of the moment’ things than stuff that’s premeditated.”
XXX
Sylar watched Peter’s face intently, the beginnings of…some kind of expression was being prepared on his face, whether a pout or a sneer or a snarl, another sarcastic smile perhaps. He was poised and Peter’s reaction was so non-specific at first, it failed to trigger much of anything except a host of questions. He gave a sort of nod and looked away, sickeningly validated in hearing that particular agreement - he wasn’t proud of what it said, but he was proud that he’d…well, gotten Peter to say it. Of course he would agree - he has to. He’s the resident judge so any thought I have on morality has to be passed by this…this…Petrelli. The right to defend yourself is hereby stripped away. Take your punishment like a man. Is that what he’s telling me? Like I don’t know that already?
The next part had Sylar’s eyes right back on Peter, where before, he’d been about to let the subject drop now his universe had received the Petrelli Stamp of Disapproval. All was, had been, right with the world. He does…what? That Peter would even think Sylar was capable of ‘heat of the moment’ or anything to the effect of trying to prove that he was somehow human and flawed and not every move he made or action he took was a sign of soul-deep corruption…? Sylar immediately tried to kick start his brain into reviewing all the sins Peter might have seen, desperate and curious to see if there had ever been the slightest hope that he’d not premeditated…everything. Sylar collided with Nathan and everything overlapped, like seeing something different with each eye, his personality a jarring, agonized, unfamiliar, fluid mess.
XXX
Peter tried his puzzle piece in a couple likely spots, finding a fit on the third try. “My family,” he said in a low, slow, and careful tone, hoping like hell Sylar wouldn’t decide this was an opening to discuss them at length, “is not a pillar of moral virtue.” He looked up at Sylar without raising his head; unintentionally giving Sylar the same glower that Sylar gave to so many. “You know that. And you have to have an idea that I don’t always agree with what they’ve done.” After a long look, Peter glanced back down, deliberately selecting a new piece. He was leaving himself wide open here and he knew it. He left it to Sylar to set the tone for what came next.
XXX
When Sylar could drag his headspace from the tsunami-like depths of his own brain, recovering or uncovering very little to advocate his own fucking case because he couldn’t remember the incidents (or even which person he was, which side he was on), he thought; What does it matter? He won’t listen, I can’t think or talk and I’m a monster - it was all premeditated. Something about his face fell then, considering how hopeless he was. But I really didn’t plan…I didn’t mean for…Even his mental voice sounded strange to him; it sounded young and pained, like a kid. It was probably his mind playing more tricks on him - it did that with disturbing frequency now. He swallowed a bit hard and went back to the puzzle with slow resignation. It didn’t help any when Peter laid in a piece and Sylar couldn’t even remember how many or even if he’d gotten any pieces himself. He seriously wanted to cry. Or pout. It just wasn’t fair. I can’t even keep up!
Peter glared at him next and Sylar adjusted his face (from the weepy pout he was working on) to a confused/menacing frown right back. Predatory body language, his mind supplied, so he matched it yet didn’t escalate it because doing so would be suicide and stupid. The words ‘you know that’ was sticking with him, annoyingly so. Did he just admit that...they did something wrong? But Peter’s tone was so dismissive, or at least threatening him into silence (trying to). Sylar opened his mouth in an exhale of disbelief and rude display, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, completely juvenile. “I know that, huh?” He snipped.
XXX
Peter studied Sylar’s expressions, not seeing what he wanted. Was I too subtle? Crap. Sylar had declined to take the bait, not pouncing on the half-taunt of ‘It was all my family’s fault, not mine; I’ve never done anything wrong.’ Peter had expected to get a face full of reasons why he was to blame, specifically, which would give him something to work with. Now, Sylar probably thought Peter really believed the BS he’d just said. He face-palmed, concealing it somewhat by rubbing over his forehead. He was still sore near the hairline where he’d cracked his head into Sylar’s and of course his left brow and eye were still tender. He probed at it anyway, wincing as he took his hand away.
His choices now boiled down to trying again and being more explicit about it (‘Oh yeah. You know it wasn’t me. What did I ever do?’) or just dropping it. He blew out air, not able to stomach any more. It was too close to a lie and it wasn’t something Peter wanted coming out of his mouth even if it wasn’t. I’m probably going to have to pay for what I’ve already implied anyway. He spent a moment loathing manipulation before taking the latter option and dropping it.
Continued...