More Between Us, Chapter 4.3/? "Moments of Weakness"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 4.3/?
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: 7, 714
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
Peter walked out in the hall, steamed - relieved and disappointed that he didn’t get to unleash any of the tension coiled within himself. He wiped his eyes, glad of the closed door between them now. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down them. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard. It wasn’t the duration that bothered him, although he certainly wasn’t keen on the prospect of being here for years, trapped, separated from everyone he knew and cared about. It hadn’t really sunk in yet what that would mean for him and when it did, he was going to panic. What was tough now was the idea of not hitting, not hurting, and not murdering the idiot. He walked down the stairs a bit slowly, thinking about this impulse of his own and trying to divine if it was how he truly felt - which he’d assumed, until now - or if it was some aspect of being in Sylar’s head.
Then Sylar interrupted his thoughts by opening the door, looking out as if to see where he was. Peter grimaced up at him and went back to a normal pace rather than the introspective meandering he had been doing. Hopefully all Sylar was doing was checking to see if he was really leaving - and seeing that he was, he’d go back inside to his groceries or clocks or whatever.
But the asshole started to follow him instead. Peter shot him a nasty look for it, but he went on outside of the apartment building without other comment. Maybe Sylar was just going to some other apartment or room. When he followed him all the way outside, Peter stopped with the intention of glaring at him - maybe he’d get the message - but Sylar took the opportunity of having his attention to speak.
“You think so?” he answered dryly. “There’s things you could do for me, but I’m not even bothering to ask. I don’t want your help.” He caught himself. “Well, aside from the dream. That’s it - get you out, have you do something worthwhile - and maybe it’s just an accident and I hope to God you don’t-“ He snapped his mouth shut, startled at what he’d almost said, having intended to finish that with ‘save everyone by killing Emma and taking her ability.’ The dream hadn’t felt like that was a possibility, but predictions of the future sucked. They were often contrary and unreliable. So he finished lamely with, “don’t do anything worse. After you get out.” He sneered at Sylar in case there was any doubt of how unlikely Peter found that to be.
He started walking down the street, examining the storefronts as they passed. He was looking for a mart or a general store or a pharmacy - any old corner store would probably do and he was sure there was one nearby, within a block or two, but he didn’t have the place memorized well enough to know if he needed to go right or left, two blocks or four.
“Just go back to your apartment, Sylar. I don’t want you near me.” You piss me off. You upset me. What was that song lyric - you challenge my balance? I wonder if there’s music in here? I wouldn’t mind listening to the radio. I think the title of the song was ‘Wonder’ - lyrics sounded like it was someone with an ability.
He paused at the intersection. This was the corner Sylar had come out from around, with the bags of groceries. He probably hadn’t gone far to get them and what Peter wanted was basic first aid supplies. A grocery store would have those. And he could get food while he was there, because he sure as hell wasn’t eating anything Sylar offered him. He turned down that direction.
XXX
What the hell did that mean, exactly? ‘Things he could do for Peter’. He snorted loudly enough to be rude, mostly in an attempt to get some standing with the man and get over his little scene moments ago. He was still very shaken, cranky from the headache it left pounding in his skull. Su-ure Peter didn’t need him one ounce. “What would those be, Peter?” he chirped, miming innocence and helpfulness. Seriously, he was doing anything to crack this guy open; Peter was positively annoying. “Have me do something worthwhile, huh?” The idea was laughable and he scoffed at it. He knew the game, he knew this little drill.
This was still a Petrelli he was stuck with, so the rules would be the same: Ignore the puppy dog eyes, in this case, the glares, until Peter wanted to get creative, which Sylar wasn’t necessarily looking forward to. Sylar had his good deeds, but he tended to keep them under the radar for safety reasons. If the people he knew learned of his ‘weaknesses’, hell, even his goals and desires, they would be used against him in an instant.
“If you keep this up, Peter, who knows what I’m capable of.” He just rolled his eyes at the insinuation that he would ‘get out’. Poor kid couldn’t accept a hard fact of life, could he? Sylar was tempted to begin making hand-mouth puppets as Peter spoke just to be a dick, but he didn’t. “You amuse me. You need me, Peter,” at first he was serious, then he pretended to implore of the man.
Surely Peter understood Sylar’s need for attention, even if his attempts to get it were rather crazy, admittedly bipolar (with good reason). To remind Peter that he wasn’t getting out and that Sylar did NOT like to be ignored, he lengthened his strides, walking beside and two steps behind the man about a yard away out of reach. “What are you looking for? I thought you said you didn’t need a tour?” Know your way around the city already, do you? He wanted to rub in.
Glancing at Peter once, he soon looked away and went about admiring the scenery he’d already viewed dozens of times, keeping his hands in his pockets, hunching in as he walked. He gave an inaudible sigh at the futility of everything. He won’t even let me help. I’m completely useless here. I’m not that much of a threat now, am I? He doesn’t know that.
XXX
At Sylar’s first question, Peter flipped him off silently and kept walking, unfazed. Having you do something worthwhile might be a nice change of pace. You ought to try it, psycho. He looked at the apartment buildings and reluctantly agreed, mentally at least, that he needed to pick a place out and settle there, if only for a night or two until he decided where he would be for the long haul.
What does that mean, to be living somewhere in Sylar’s head? It’s just a mental construct, but why does it manifest like this? Is it because we dream of real life, so our mental spaces would look like real life? Is this what a nightmare would really be for him? For most people there’d be…gore, and scary things. I guess when you’re the bogey-man, those don’t scare you anymore. This does.
Sylar made another stab at provoking comment from him. Peter wasn’t particularly avoiding being provoked. If he was giving the silent treatment, it was out of a lack of desire to communicate, not a desire to hack the other man off, though he knew full well it would have that affect too. He listened to Sylar’s increasingly desperate attempts to get some attention from him and Peter’s silence quickly began to fade into intentional cruelty in holding his tongue. When Sylar moved up closer to him, Peter faded to the side. He’d preferred the previous distance. Actually, he would have preferred Sylar stayed in the apartment altogether - there where Peter could find him when he needed him and staying out of his hair the rest of the time. Yet here he was.
Maybe he could make him leave? “If I need you so much, why are you tagging along after me? You think I’m going to find something out here you might want to keep hidden?” Peter didn’t think that was likely, but he said it anyway. “Or are you just so bored that baiting me is the only entertainment you’ve got?” Now that’s probably true. As biting comments to run Sylar off went, they were pretty weak. He muttered, “Enjoy the hell out of it, Sylar. You’ve already made it miserable enough for me to be here that I’d do almost anything to get out, without you. Keep it up and I’m sure I’ll find new depths of desperation to explore.”
There had to be other ways. Maybe he could use Matt’s power to reprogram Sylar. Maybe he was meant to steal shape-shifting from the bastard and that was him saving Emma. Maybe Sylar saving her was metaphorical somehow, but he couldn’t imagine how that was. He huffed and looked at the buildings. There, on the corner, was a...grocery store? His brows rose slightly, as did the corner of his mouth. Just what I was looking for. He headed for it with a couple faster steps, then scowled at Sylar as his mind played forward to having the jerk shadow him the whole time he was in the store, commenting on his selections and being rude.
Just go away! He didn’t bother saying it though. After a point, even negative attention was attention. He sighed and copied Sylar’s body language unconsciously, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.
XXX
He just sighed at that, having plenty of responses to it, but he was too tired to fling it at Peter. Classy, he thought, completely original. Sylar just clenched his jaw at the increasing silence radiating off Peter in angry waves; oh, and Peter felt the need to move away. Who hit whom here? He wondered. I’m not poisonous…per se. Opening his mouth to retort something smart and snappy, but paused to consider his words, rather the effect that they would have. You need to tread carefully; don’t lose this one.
“I’m- what? I offered you a goddamn tour, man, there’s nothing in here that’s going to surprise me. Sorry, no dead bodies…” under his voice he muttered, “conspirator.” Peter would just love that, wouldn’t he? If he found some dirt, some skeletons, whatever the hell it was he thought Sylar could possibly be hiding in this hellhole.
“Because I-” Oh, convenient that he couldn’t come out and answer that. Damnit. He had pushed too far, too fast and Peter had called him on it. Did Peter have a similar need to be recognized that he needed to hear Sylar say that he needed the medico? Of course Sylar wanted the company, the conversation, whatever it be about.
As a man who based himself, unfortunately, on the attention he received, most of it being negative which probably explained him accurately, being without people to give him any kind of reaction was torture. But in the end, he was a man who did what he wanted, what he needed to do and...dealt with the damage later.
Personality warred with genius in his head; the former fucking with the latter until his goals were diluted and tangled. Ironically, he was aware of the saying ‘Good attention, bad attention; it doesn’t matter so long as it’s attention.’ Something he found himself living and relying on more and more as the years had gone on.
“You’re not getting out, Peter. It will be easier for you to accept that, man,” he offered quietly, keeping pace to fall behind as Peter sped up, sensing the futility yet again. Sylar was obviously not impressed by Peter’s hard-nosed displays and insistence to ‘get out’, so it wasn’t taking up any of his precious brain space; he wasn’t hopeful or even worried about the prospect.
“Take care of your feet; they’ll just get worse.” Nathan? Again? You fucking pr- Sylar found his body tensing up, but he managed to control his reaction. He is not your goddamn baby brother. He knew where they were and most likely where they were headed, so he didn’t stare at the building or make a comment of any kind. Why bother?
The doors whooshed open allowing Peter to stalk in like a man on a mission (rather than like a man avoiding the hell out of something) and prowl around for whatever it was he was looking for, which Sylar imagined to be food. Dumb kid probably forgot to eat the same way Sylar had when he’d been on the road and on the run. Again, similarities everywhere. Why can no one see that? Why do I have to be the monster?
Sylar was used to reading body language and he was picking up more hostility than he would prefer to place his person around. Peter pulsed with annoyed anger and it actually grated on Sylar’s mind, seeping into his emotions. It only jacked up his headache further. He slunk a ways behind Peter out of boredom, wariness, loneliness and curiosity, mostly curious to see what Peter was here for, what he picked up, hell, even what he looked at.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a mildly nasty look for the comment about not getting out and a sullen one for the quip about his feet. He held his tongue, denying Sylar conversation because he could - and besides, talking with him hadn’t gotten him anywhere but worked up and angry. The man’s continued presence was like a stone in his shoe.
He stalked into the grocery store and drew up just past the cash registers. He gave the place a cursory scan, confirming it was indeed the sort of place he wanted to be in. To his immediate right was a candy display. He reached out and snatched off a Hershey bar with almonds, ripping the wrapper loose and letting it hang to the side. He took a big bite, not stopping to savor it, just crunched it up and swallowed. He looked back and forth at the various aisles more slowly and took a second, smaller bite at a normal pace. It tasted good, just like chocolate should, just like he remembered it. He sucked at his teeth and then nibbled off an even smaller bit, revealing an intact almond. He studied that, then gently took the nut in his teeth and worked it free, eating it by itself.
He felt better. Blood sugar rising. He looked over at Sylar, who was quietly watching his possibly-odd candy-eating habits. Peter’s expression eased a little. He looked away and the set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, like he wasn’t so completely poised to fight at any moment. He let out a deep breath, gave a last look at the signs over the aisles that revealed what lay in each, and headed off to the left.
He took two limping steps, then turned back towards the entrance, going up to one of the other check out stands and liberating a couple empty bags. He quit limping again, having caught himself. He gave Sylar another ‘checking’ glance, but there wasn’t any excess of hostility in it. He was just seeing where the man was. He wasn’t comfortable with him being there, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about him following him around. At the moment, he didn’t feel up to threatening him with anything to make him go away. Sharp comments and the like weren’t at the forefront of his mind either.
Peter headed back through the store, going down the medications aisle. It occurred to him that if there were pharmacies here, then there were probably hospitals, with fully provisioned stockrooms. It was something to think about, though he didn’t see a lot of point to drugging Sylar. Maybe myself, on the other hand…he thought with amusement. He wasn’t serious. His mouth quirked a little at the internal joke anyway. He snagged a bottle of Tylenol and dropped it in his sack. He wandered on down the aisle, taking another bite of his chocolate bar.
Peter stopped to get a bottle of alcohol and another of peroxide. He searched around for a moment, not seeing what he wanted. Ah, over there. Tubes. He walked back the way he’d come and grabbed a tube of ben-gay. He put it in his sack and glanced discreetly towards the front of the store, giving Sylar’s location another status check. Peter was hyperaware of where the other man was at, relaxing only gradually. He moved away and found another unbroken nut in his candy. He bit it off whole, sucking the chocolate from around it.
Peter picked up a box of moleskin and another of blister plasters. He finished the candy bar and wadded the wrapper, looking around, wondering where he should dispose of it. He put it in his sack and stretched. Next on the agenda: food. He meandered down a few aisles, trying to think of what he wanted to eat. He didn’t want to fix anything, as appealing as the idea of prepared food was. He went down the bread aisle and took down a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. He could happily eat that all by itself and when he was a kid, he had sometimes done just that.
I need to get something other than bread though, or I’m going to have to limp my lame ass down here again in a few hours. As he moved back to the front of the aisle, he turned and looked at Sylar, not to see where he was, but just to look at him. He hadn’t said anything annoying for a while. Peter decided not to break that good trend by inviting conversation. Instead, he headed over to the fresh fruit and vegetable section. He snagged apples, celery, carrots and a sweet potato. I wonder if there’s already food in the apartments? I suppose I could ask. He went back towards the front of the store. Or I could go find out.
In any event, his steps slowed as he reached the doors. They swept open and he ambled outside because of that only. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go from here. He stood there looking around, trying to weigh in his head how far away he should be from Sylar so as to avoid the bastard, and how close to be because…well…he wouldn’t really admit, even to himself, that he didn’t want to be off by himself.
XXX
//Almond Hershey bars….Nathan remembered Peter chowing them down by the dozen in med school. Poor strung out Pete had needed the sugar to even stay on his feet and keep his eyes open, let alone keep his brain online. Every so often, Nathan would have his assistant send Pete a box. Ma use to give him looks when she’d catch Pete with one like it was some kind of Nazi anti-appetite spoiling plot, but he’d kept doing it anyway. (“Kid’s a nurse, Ma, he knows about diabetes”) This was America and Pete was wafer thin and strung out for the energy.
Hell, they were close enough that Nathan knew how he liked to eat them; large, chunks torn off into his mouth then sucking the nuts clear before crunching on them like they were the best part of the bar, something Nathan didn’t exactly understand. Nuts were plain, chocolate was…well, chocolate. He still held a random memory of teasing Pete about said nuts; his own higher-sexed brain making a few connections about how, exactly, he liked to devour the legumes. Yeah, he’d known about Pete’s little secrets in school.
He’d mused a time or two that the kid might actually get laid more than he did himself with whatever his cute little (turn your head and cough) nurse routine was. Sometimes he surprised himself with the older brother role, but he was twelve years older than his kid brother, so he hadn’t ever really considered it a choice. He remembered being baffled by the whimpering, pink mass that resembled one of those dolls the little girls seemed to fawn over when it, his newborn brother, had been set in his arms as a kid. Dad had never given him anything, even if the unspoken ‘offer’ of sorts was present. Nathan knew it had fallen on his shoulders that day, even if he didn’t know it that moment in the hospital. Ma always did say that he took up more space….//
Sylar just stood with his head down as tears stung his eyes. He had no other reaction to give to the memory; it made his chest ache hollowly, somehow chilly inside. God…to have had a brother, a sibling…parents, really. Was it any wonder he’d become a killer? Then again…the sibling would probably have gone before Mo-Virginia. Sylar found himself leaning his butt back on one of the register’s conveyer tables, raising wet, wide, darkened eyes to track Peter’s every move. Get to know him, figure it out, he’s not rocket science, he’s….What was Pete? He met the glances the man threw back at him as he rolled the thought over in his mind, but didn’t give a sign of any emotion to the attention.
Peter….Peter was an adversary, technically an enemy of the highest rank. Deadly, ruthless, and capable. But the man had opened up a time or two. The smallest glimpses only created more questions than they answered and Sylar was oh-so curious; it was one of his weaknesses. But he was still a brother in some very fucked up way, to Sylar, not Nathan. He held memories of Nathan’s disregarding, mocking, insulting behavior, chopped, rude responses to //‘My foot hovered before it hit the ground. Hovered!’// Sylar knew that feeling. He would have understood, even if he’d never developed his own ability.
Some people couldn’t understand being special. Peter…he understood, but he didn’t seek it out, instead choosing to be selfless and helpful (to everyone but Sylar). Sylar knew he never would have ‘fit in’ as a Petrelli (reasons being Claire and Bennet; the options of being shot and stabbed on a daily basis not appealing even to his potentially masochistic sense of self); he knew he’d take Peter’s place as the blackest sheep, assuming Angela ever released him from Level 5 period. But he felt such similarity to Peter; surely the other man knew? Maybe he could sense it somehow…It was too much to hope. His empathy is broken after all…
After taking mild note of the items Peter picked or gazed lingeringly at, Sylar lifted himself up to sit on the black conveyer table. The motion seemed to earn him a longer look; he only returned it, his eyebrow inching up slightly in question. Moments later, Peter shambled from the store and Sylar could see him looking around, telegraphing ‘lost’ all over his face. Sylar plopped down to his feet, shuffling out after him, careful to keep his distance and silence. Peter seemed more receptive that way, even if Sylar was brimming with questions. He didn’t offer any comment or directional help since Peter seemed eager in the extreme to part ways.
XXX
Peter swung his bag pensively, looking up and down the street. He gave Sylar a glance and dropped his eyes before looking away at his possible destinations. He was softening even further in his stance against him - not that it really changed anything, except that Peter wasn’t angered by Sylar’s mere presence. How long did that take? A whole ten or fifteen minutes of him keeping his mouth shut? The prospect of years stretched ahead of him. He sighed.
Wasn’t there a psychological experiment like this? He started walking slowly back towards Sylar’s apartment. Not being trapped somewhere with a psycho-killer, but having to sit across from someone at a small table and make constant eye contact with them for…I dunno, two minutes. It’s longer than people think. Then you had to rate afterwards how you felt about them, whether they were a good or bad person. Just looking at someone for that long, not talking, not doing, nothing else - and people universally decide the stranger is more likable than someone picked at random.
So here I am stuck with Sylar. I hope like hell he’ll quit being a condescending ass, or at least keep his mouth shut. He glanced back at the man again, but Sylar was still silent. Peter relaxed a little more and looked around at the buildings, the trees, the empty sidewalks. It’s kind of restful in a way.
He was alone with his thoughts - not a state Peter had ever been very good at. He was prone to brooding in solitude if he wasn’t able to keep busy. He didn’t want to ‘brood’ at the moment. He wanted to find an apartment, eat, take a hot bath, and lay around with his feet up, waiting for time to pass…he supposed. It would end when it ended. He just had to wait until then.
Waiting. Alone. With his thoughts.
“So, um…what do you…do most days, here?” He had to have been doing something all this time. Peter kept moving forward steadily, not looking at Sylar, not wanting to do anything to encourage another burst of sarcasm or slur against himself.
XXX
Sylar only moved so far as to look in Peter’s direction as he emerged behind him from the store. However, he did give a startled glance at the man’s back as he headed back towards Sylar’s place. Either he was looking to settle close or he was being friendly or condescending enough to go back to Sylar’s domain. Peter seemed more at ease in the silence Sylar provided so he didn’t speak, attempting to enjoy even the illusion of companionship.
Plodding after the man, a distance behind, Sylar was more interested in the questions he had for Peter and trying to discern what his own next move should be. It all seemed to depend on Peter. So this is what going crazy (for the dozenth time) feels like. I thought I gave up on waiting on other people. He gave a miniature sigh to himself. Maybe some things never really change. Take Peter for example.
Sylar started slightly at the oddly asked question, surprised to be addressed at all. Blinking, he licked his lips, moving a hand to shuffle through his hair; a defense mechanism he’d developed suddenly now he had company since the last haircut he hadn’t bothered to observe. “Uh, whatever you want. There’s reading and shopping and cooking. You don’t strike me as the homemaker type, but there’s always arts and crafts and furniture décor and rearrangement,” he chuckled lightly to show that he was indeed joking, not snarking.
He felt compelled to leave masturbation off the list since that would be….awkward and Peter would figure that out for himself. That was literally none of his business. He supposed someone could make that a serial habit….he shook his head to clear it. It was awkward even in his head and for once his overactive mind wasn’t doing him a favor. I need a life. Badly. It’s starting to show. He also didn’t feel the need to point out that Peter could spend his time making forts and cleaning guns, sharpening his knives and perfecting his poisons. That would be pushing him in all the wrong directions.
“There’s always writing and board games, card games, too,” he provided helpfully, honestly. “There’s always learning a new language or learning to sew or something.” Shrugging, he gave a small frown at the thought, “Just…find a hobby, basically. You’ll try nearly anything to avoid boredom, but it will come for you anyway. Find something….stable.” Huh, stable. Coming from you, he’ll leap at the chance for a weekly chess game with you. Becuase clearly you qualify for 'stable'.
XXX
Are you the ‘homemaker’ type? Sylar the homemaker. A memory came to mind of Sylar…no, Gabriel, feeding Mr. Muggles a bit of waffle. The man was wearing an apron and taking care of a little boy. He’d come over and hugged Peter warmly, put his hand on his face, and acted happy and balanced, rather than the desperate, haunted man he was all the other times Peter had seen him. It was a weird scene - simultaneously proving Sylar could control his hunger and asserting that doing so was so difficult that he hadn’t achieved it for long years.
He was controlling it last year, when he thought he was my brother. How hard is it to master? He mulled over their previous conversation about post-it notes. It made him uncomfortable shortly, so he let his mind jump tracks, listening as Sylar elaborated on his answer.
Writing. I wonder if he keeps a diary? Some sort of journal of his victims? I doubt it. Doesn’t seem his speed - I doubt he thinks much about the people he killed - their lives were just speed bumps on the path to getting more power. Not much point in writing here anyway, since no one can read it but us. It’s just a mental exercise. Though I suppose that’s the point. A few hours have seemed like years to him…and I’m sure someone from the outside would have done something for me if I’d been lying around for three or four days now.
He eyed the buildings they were walking past. They'd already gone by Sylar's place a couple blocks before and Peter had simply kept walking. So where do I want to be? Same block? Two blocks away, like here? Does it mean anything to be further away? He felt a bizarre urge to go back and settle in virtually next door to Sylar, but all he needed to dispel that was to remember his several failures in conversation so far today and his track record in trying to get anywhere (in more ways than one) the first day he’d been here. He stopped walking, looking up at what were probably nice, mid-sized family apartments. It was a lot more than he needed, but he didn’t plan on staying there for more than a day or two - until he felt better and had a better feel for what was going on.
Even though he’d already decided where he wanted to spend the rest of the day, he was reluctantly to simply walk off from Sylar and leave him standing in the street. They weren’t exactly having a conversation, but they’d had an exchange that had been perfectly civil. It was a start. Maybe I should just leave it at that and take my victory where I find it. That’s what Nathan always counseled. But no, Peter had never been one for that strategy, so he asked, “What do you do, though? What are your hobbies? If you really think we’re going to be stuck in here forever…” Even by my assumptions, it’s going to be a really, really long time.
XXX
The idea of Peter keeping a journal (oh, the empathy) or writing an autobiography or worse, a self-help book or ‘Reasons Sylar Should Die’ memoir best seller would be alternately horrible and amusing. If he went with the memoir, he supposed, Sylar could always sign the first million handwritten copies. Then again, Peter sewing or decorating rooms would still be odd and amusing. It didn’t occur to him. Still he continued, more ideas coming, “If you’re interested, there’s always graffiti. But you’re only destructive w-” With a nail gun. Ted’s power. “When you…have to be,” Sylar finished lamely.
Sylar himself was frustrated at his own inability to keep his mouth shut. As a watchmaker all those years ago, he’d had ideal control of his words, even the emotions he let slip to the surface. As Sylar, himself, now, having his personality, his mind rot away over the years alone had apparently left significant amounts of anger. Anger he hadn’t realized he still possessed.
Peter seemed to be looking around….for his own place perhaps? A place to crash? Sylar was a little shocked he would consider something so close to himself, not that he was complaining if that was the case. He’d be thrilled to have someone, to….actually have something period, let alone so close for him to view almost as he pleased. Of course, he technically had the whole world for his own, but maybe because Peter wasn’t his anything, perhaps an enemy, it was appealing. A challenge, perhaps. And a challenge the medico was in spades.
Peter spoke again, posing a question that had Sylar gaping a little, unsightly as it was, at the man’s back. Did he really just…? As baffled as he was by the question, his brain was already coming up with the answers for him. “Wh- uh…I….read a lot. A lot. I don’t cook for fun, but I do cook to eat. I do puzzles on occasion, I can draw a little. I collect stuff and fix up furniture sometimes.” He did hesitate when it came to divulging a potential secret of himself, one that could set him back all the accomplishments and murders he’d bled and suffered to achieve.
Deciding to forego it at the moment; Peter may already have put two and two together about the earlier clock incident, he had a question of his own to ask that couldn’t wait. “Um….Peter?” Sylar asked quietly, “Have….have you read my file?” Random and it probably drew more attention to the question and the motivations behind it because of it. Some secrets were best left buried. He had to see what he was working with.
XXX
Peter jumped on the question, more because of the tone it was asked in than the words themselves. Truthfully he initially had no idea what Sylar was talking about, but there was an earnest, quiet tone there that wasn’t confrontational or aggressive. It caught Peter’s ear instantly. “Your file?” Medical file? IRS file? That file the FBI supposedly keeps on everyone? No, wait - the Company file. I’ll bet that’s what he means.
He looked back at Sylar, shifting his feet enough to be angled towards him, like they were talking to each other rather than Peter speaking forward at the world and Sylar addressing his back. It had seemed safer that way - less direct - and Peter suspected he was pushing too far, too fast just with that small movement, but he’d already made it. To take it back was worse. No, let Sylar recoil or rebuff instead, or adjust to tolerate it, depending on his capabilities.
In the meantime, Peter studied Sylar’s expression, seeing the caution and reticence there, along with something that wasn’t mere curiosity. The other man needed to know this, which cemented what they were talking about. “Your Company file?” Peter asked, just to make sure. The shift in Sylar’s expression affirmed it and Peter looked away, not wanting to be too intent.
“No,” he answered shortly. “Me and the Company aren’t on good terms, Sylar,” he said with a snort. They’d tried to maneuver him into blowing up New York; they’d locked him up for months; they’d developed a virus that could destroy nearly all the world’s population, and then kept it; one of their founders, his father, had stolen his abilities (which may or may not have been related to some plan to give everyone abilities, and then to lose control of the situation such that a future version of Peter thought it needed to be stopped); they’d cooperated with the mass abduction and imprisonment of specials, including Peter himself…really, at what point in all of this would Peter have had an opportunity to read Sylar’s file?!?
He chuckled at the thought, still looking away. To make it clear his humor wasn’t at Sylar’s expense, he said, “No, we’re not on good terms at all.”
Why would Sylar care? Why did Sylar think Peter was interested in his life, or multiple imprisonments, or victims, or whatever the file held? Well, I did ask about his hobbies. Maybe he thinks I’m curious about him? I guess I am, though really I just wanted something to talk about. Direct as always, Peter asked with a hint of a smile, “What’s in there that you don’t want me seeing?”
XXX
The way Peter pounced on the question, giving him that Peter look, going so far as to turn towards him and give him a glance told Sylar that he’d managed to sink himself. He had the man’s complete attention, how ironic that he didn’t want it on this particular subject. Something on his face must have shown, since he didn’t bother to answer the obvious (to him) question, only shifting his weight as an ‘answer’, but it had Peter looking away.
Having Nathan’s lovely memories, he knew Peter was not chummy with the Company, but he did know that he had almost unlimited access should he chose to exercise the right. Then again, Peter was literally a jump first, think later guy; that much he knew from experience. He was the lovable ignoramus, mentally chuckling to himself at the image.
Peter answered in very vague and hazy terms in the negative to his hesitant inquiry, so he gave an uncertain nod in response, hoping to let the subject drop. Of course Peter’s amusement made him a little wary of mockery, but the man dissuaded it quickly; leaving Sylar to tilt his head in equal measures of puzzlement and amusement at Peter’s display of good humor. Peter didn’t show it often any more (not that Sylar knew much about it).
He couldn’t really escape the returning, very fair, question. Sylar didn’t want to make Peter any more suspicious than he was already. Come on, Peter still thought he’d managed to kill someone (everyone) or hide a secret portal in his closet or something equally ridiculous. But the EMT had also admitted that he was staying for a while and that gave Sylar….mixed feelings to say the least.
Oh, somewhere in the back of his mind he did hope for the freedom Peter proclaimed to be truth and reality, but….he had no choice but to be pragmatic about the whole thing. (And, really, that was just be totally unfair if Peter only had to ‘stay’ a week with company, mind, while Sylar spent three years alone.)
The smile, however, did nothing to ease his worries. “I’m entitled to have my own demons, Petrelli,” he said, mild and firm, nicely getting him to back off. It was about the extent of his manners, but he did hold his tongue on mentioning who exactly was involved in creating said demons, i.e. Mom and Pop Petrelli. “You’ve made it clear they’re none of your business, except….the obvious one,” again, avoiding naming names, this one Nathan’s.
“It’s not like it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass, so don’t worry. I was just….curious how much you knew, that’s all.” My god, stop talking already. Thought you wanted his attention off your damn file. To back it up, he set about looking innocent and harmlessly normal. Odd how he felt the need to keep Peter away from something that could barely be classified a secret when he was the only other being alive. Pride was funny that way.
Really, did it need protecting? No. Sylar just preferred avoiding further humiliation, but….was that worth all the subterfuge? Perhaps it was merely another weakness, another opening for Peter to get inside that he somehow, for some reason sought to prevent. He’d had enough of his own personal identify crises (Thanks, Mom, Elle, Bennet, Samson, Angela, Arthur and Nathan) prior to being mind raped and manipulated. His own experiences, his actions hoping to show the specialized world what he was, who he was. And that someone was no longer a watchmaker. I restore timepieces.
How far he’d gotten with the community, he didn’t know for sure; he only ever heard the negative murmurings and whispers, the plots and grievances laid against him. He knew he’d managed to erase his birth name (to everyone but the state of New York PD) and become reborn as Sylar, the most dangerous special. Feared; respected only in regard of the levels of fear he commanded and the intensity of actions the others would commit to see him dead, worse, imprisoned; even selling their own souls to give him the same measure of pain he’d caused them, also the family some would sacrifice to use him as a weapon.
At least Peter had answered the question, a result he hadn’t been sure about; this opened the door for more of Sylar’s questions. Meanwhile he was strangely touched; Peter would be thrilled to know, that the other man had inquired about something as mundane as his hobbies. He wasn’t, however, so delusional as to believe it was concern or affection by any means. Peter was merely asking about what he was dealing with and probably trying to fill some space. He was obviously learning that Sylar was really the only thing that would fill the space.
He decided to try his luck again, “Assuming you’re from….another reality,” what a coined phrase that was. Peter used to be able to teleport after all. Fucking teleportation. “Um…what am I doing there, exactly? I doubt Parkman is going to stand by and….” And what, really? Um, try to find his (apparently still existing in Peter's La-La Land) kill spot? Incase him in carbonite or burn him to ash and hand him in a jar to Claire or Bennet, maybe Angela to gloat over? Mentally rolling his eyes at himself and the endless imagination; he was trying to figure it from the perspective of Peter's overactive one. Hey, he'd phrased it...delicately.
XXX
Peter backed off as desired at Sylar’s firm non-answer. Ones, his mind added, plural. Whatever had happened to Claire was his business too, no matter how insular Sylar wished to be in limiting who he thought Peter should be interested in. And not that blood relation was all that mattered - there had been others Peter had known about fairly directly - Jackie and Isaac came to mind immediately, then there was Claire’s biological mother, whom Peter recognized as family if only of a distant sort. He’d never even met her, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he didn’t care about all the other people Sylar had killed, or that they were somehow insignificant and beneath Peter’s concern by virtue of unfamiliarity. The implication that they were, or should be, seriously got under Peter’s skin.
Peter’s jaw worked slightly. His back tensed up again (and hurt). His eyes narrowed. He drew his head down and his posture shifted. Sylar was looking away, though, thinking through something other than the effect his words had had on his companion, unaware of how completely that had shut down Peter’s attempt to reach out.
Sylar asked his question, again mostly looking away until afterward. With difficulty, Peter listened and actually gave a moment to consider it. You’re being bricked up behind a wall in Parkman’s basement. You’ll never matter to anyone ever again. No one will find you. Your body is going to be buried and you’ll be trapped in your head forever. It might have helped Peter’s cause in getting Sylar out if he’d said any of that, as Peter knew it might motivate Sylar, playing on his sense of self-preservation if nothing else. But he didn’t feel inclined to share anymore. Pettily, he’d rather keep something like that, something Sylar would want to know, to himself. He answered honestly, though a bit less directly than he might have otherwise. “You’re unconscious, just like Ma was at Pinehearst.” Let Sylar imagine his body lying still and safe in a bed somewhere. The reality was more horrific.
Peter gave a smile that was very foreign to his face, a smile of someone who had seen a bit too much and been scarred too deeply by it. Eyes still narrowed, the smile didn’t make it past his lips, but it wasn’t fake. It was just as bitter as day old coffee. Because whatever was happening to Sylar was probably happening to Peter, too. They were linked now, one way or another. He wondered, again, what Matt would do with him. Obviously, he wasn’t going to pull him out or else he wouldn’t still be here. That meant … what?
Peter exhaled sharply and looked upward, stopping his mind from the fruitless, stupid circle that he’d run in too many times already. He was here, and that’s how it was, no matter the reason. He hurt, and he was tired and hungry and he wanted to plant his fist in Sylar’s face again for no more than a comment that Sylar didn’t understand. And that was what pissed him off so intently - Sylar didn’t understand, at all. He had to get away from him again.
He turned to the building and took a few steps towards the door. “Don’t follow me.” A moment later he glanced back, expression hard and still angry, but feeling the need to add anyway, “Please.” Partly it was politeness, and partly it was a genuine plea. He didn’t want Sylar to follow him out of contrariness, or some misplaced need to prove he could. It would start things - things Peter didn’t want started.
Peter pushed open one of the glass double doors and walked into the apartment building, getting about twenty feet before sagging against the first wall he came to, head hanging, bags dangling limply from his hands. The whole situation tried to crash down on him at once. He wasn’t beaten yet though - not by a long way. After a few seconds, he bore up under the burden, straightening again. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, going to the elevator, his stride getting increasingly steady. The doors parted immediately and he walked inside, turning. His face was chagrinned as he realized the outer doors were transparent and he’d had a moment of weakness in view of the other man.
The elevator doors blocked off his view.
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: 7, 714
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
Peter walked out in the hall, steamed - relieved and disappointed that he didn’t get to unleash any of the tension coiled within himself. He wiped his eyes, glad of the closed door between them now. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down them. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard. It wasn’t the duration that bothered him, although he certainly wasn’t keen on the prospect of being here for years, trapped, separated from everyone he knew and cared about. It hadn’t really sunk in yet what that would mean for him and when it did, he was going to panic. What was tough now was the idea of not hitting, not hurting, and not murdering the idiot. He walked down the stairs a bit slowly, thinking about this impulse of his own and trying to divine if it was how he truly felt - which he’d assumed, until now - or if it was some aspect of being in Sylar’s head.
Then Sylar interrupted his thoughts by opening the door, looking out as if to see where he was. Peter grimaced up at him and went back to a normal pace rather than the introspective meandering he had been doing. Hopefully all Sylar was doing was checking to see if he was really leaving - and seeing that he was, he’d go back inside to his groceries or clocks or whatever.
But the asshole started to follow him instead. Peter shot him a nasty look for it, but he went on outside of the apartment building without other comment. Maybe Sylar was just going to some other apartment or room. When he followed him all the way outside, Peter stopped with the intention of glaring at him - maybe he’d get the message - but Sylar took the opportunity of having his attention to speak.
“You think so?” he answered dryly. “There’s things you could do for me, but I’m not even bothering to ask. I don’t want your help.” He caught himself. “Well, aside from the dream. That’s it - get you out, have you do something worthwhile - and maybe it’s just an accident and I hope to God you don’t-“ He snapped his mouth shut, startled at what he’d almost said, having intended to finish that with ‘save everyone by killing Emma and taking her ability.’ The dream hadn’t felt like that was a possibility, but predictions of the future sucked. They were often contrary and unreliable. So he finished lamely with, “don’t do anything worse. After you get out.” He sneered at Sylar in case there was any doubt of how unlikely Peter found that to be.
He started walking down the street, examining the storefronts as they passed. He was looking for a mart or a general store or a pharmacy - any old corner store would probably do and he was sure there was one nearby, within a block or two, but he didn’t have the place memorized well enough to know if he needed to go right or left, two blocks or four.
“Just go back to your apartment, Sylar. I don’t want you near me.” You piss me off. You upset me. What was that song lyric - you challenge my balance? I wonder if there’s music in here? I wouldn’t mind listening to the radio. I think the title of the song was ‘Wonder’ - lyrics sounded like it was someone with an ability.
He paused at the intersection. This was the corner Sylar had come out from around, with the bags of groceries. He probably hadn’t gone far to get them and what Peter wanted was basic first aid supplies. A grocery store would have those. And he could get food while he was there, because he sure as hell wasn’t eating anything Sylar offered him. He turned down that direction.
XXX
What the hell did that mean, exactly? ‘Things he could do for Peter’. He snorted loudly enough to be rude, mostly in an attempt to get some standing with the man and get over his little scene moments ago. He was still very shaken, cranky from the headache it left pounding in his skull. Su-ure Peter didn’t need him one ounce. “What would those be, Peter?” he chirped, miming innocence and helpfulness. Seriously, he was doing anything to crack this guy open; Peter was positively annoying. “Have me do something worthwhile, huh?” The idea was laughable and he scoffed at it. He knew the game, he knew this little drill.
This was still a Petrelli he was stuck with, so the rules would be the same: Ignore the puppy dog eyes, in this case, the glares, until Peter wanted to get creative, which Sylar wasn’t necessarily looking forward to. Sylar had his good deeds, but he tended to keep them under the radar for safety reasons. If the people he knew learned of his ‘weaknesses’, hell, even his goals and desires, they would be used against him in an instant.
“If you keep this up, Peter, who knows what I’m capable of.” He just rolled his eyes at the insinuation that he would ‘get out’. Poor kid couldn’t accept a hard fact of life, could he? Sylar was tempted to begin making hand-mouth puppets as Peter spoke just to be a dick, but he didn’t. “You amuse me. You need me, Peter,” at first he was serious, then he pretended to implore of the man.
Surely Peter understood Sylar’s need for attention, even if his attempts to get it were rather crazy, admittedly bipolar (with good reason). To remind Peter that he wasn’t getting out and that Sylar did NOT like to be ignored, he lengthened his strides, walking beside and two steps behind the man about a yard away out of reach. “What are you looking for? I thought you said you didn’t need a tour?” Know your way around the city already, do you? He wanted to rub in.
Glancing at Peter once, he soon looked away and went about admiring the scenery he’d already viewed dozens of times, keeping his hands in his pockets, hunching in as he walked. He gave an inaudible sigh at the futility of everything. He won’t even let me help. I’m completely useless here. I’m not that much of a threat now, am I? He doesn’t know that.
XXX
At Sylar’s first question, Peter flipped him off silently and kept walking, unfazed. Having you do something worthwhile might be a nice change of pace. You ought to try it, psycho. He looked at the apartment buildings and reluctantly agreed, mentally at least, that he needed to pick a place out and settle there, if only for a night or two until he decided where he would be for the long haul.
What does that mean, to be living somewhere in Sylar’s head? It’s just a mental construct, but why does it manifest like this? Is it because we dream of real life, so our mental spaces would look like real life? Is this what a nightmare would really be for him? For most people there’d be…gore, and scary things. I guess when you’re the bogey-man, those don’t scare you anymore. This does.
Sylar made another stab at provoking comment from him. Peter wasn’t particularly avoiding being provoked. If he was giving the silent treatment, it was out of a lack of desire to communicate, not a desire to hack the other man off, though he knew full well it would have that affect too. He listened to Sylar’s increasingly desperate attempts to get some attention from him and Peter’s silence quickly began to fade into intentional cruelty in holding his tongue. When Sylar moved up closer to him, Peter faded to the side. He’d preferred the previous distance. Actually, he would have preferred Sylar stayed in the apartment altogether - there where Peter could find him when he needed him and staying out of his hair the rest of the time. Yet here he was.
Maybe he could make him leave? “If I need you so much, why are you tagging along after me? You think I’m going to find something out here you might want to keep hidden?” Peter didn’t think that was likely, but he said it anyway. “Or are you just so bored that baiting me is the only entertainment you’ve got?” Now that’s probably true. As biting comments to run Sylar off went, they were pretty weak. He muttered, “Enjoy the hell out of it, Sylar. You’ve already made it miserable enough for me to be here that I’d do almost anything to get out, without you. Keep it up and I’m sure I’ll find new depths of desperation to explore.”
There had to be other ways. Maybe he could use Matt’s power to reprogram Sylar. Maybe he was meant to steal shape-shifting from the bastard and that was him saving Emma. Maybe Sylar saving her was metaphorical somehow, but he couldn’t imagine how that was. He huffed and looked at the buildings. There, on the corner, was a...grocery store? His brows rose slightly, as did the corner of his mouth. Just what I was looking for. He headed for it with a couple faster steps, then scowled at Sylar as his mind played forward to having the jerk shadow him the whole time he was in the store, commenting on his selections and being rude.
Just go away! He didn’t bother saying it though. After a point, even negative attention was attention. He sighed and copied Sylar’s body language unconsciously, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.
XXX
He just sighed at that, having plenty of responses to it, but he was too tired to fling it at Peter. Classy, he thought, completely original. Sylar just clenched his jaw at the increasing silence radiating off Peter in angry waves; oh, and Peter felt the need to move away. Who hit whom here? He wondered. I’m not poisonous…per se. Opening his mouth to retort something smart and snappy, but paused to consider his words, rather the effect that they would have. You need to tread carefully; don’t lose this one.
“I’m- what? I offered you a goddamn tour, man, there’s nothing in here that’s going to surprise me. Sorry, no dead bodies…” under his voice he muttered, “conspirator.” Peter would just love that, wouldn’t he? If he found some dirt, some skeletons, whatever the hell it was he thought Sylar could possibly be hiding in this hellhole.
“Because I-” Oh, convenient that he couldn’t come out and answer that. Damnit. He had pushed too far, too fast and Peter had called him on it. Did Peter have a similar need to be recognized that he needed to hear Sylar say that he needed the medico? Of course Sylar wanted the company, the conversation, whatever it be about.
As a man who based himself, unfortunately, on the attention he received, most of it being negative which probably explained him accurately, being without people to give him any kind of reaction was torture. But in the end, he was a man who did what he wanted, what he needed to do and...dealt with the damage later.
Personality warred with genius in his head; the former fucking with the latter until his goals were diluted and tangled. Ironically, he was aware of the saying ‘Good attention, bad attention; it doesn’t matter so long as it’s attention.’ Something he found himself living and relying on more and more as the years had gone on.
“You’re not getting out, Peter. It will be easier for you to accept that, man,” he offered quietly, keeping pace to fall behind as Peter sped up, sensing the futility yet again. Sylar was obviously not impressed by Peter’s hard-nosed displays and insistence to ‘get out’, so it wasn’t taking up any of his precious brain space; he wasn’t hopeful or even worried about the prospect.
“Take care of your feet; they’ll just get worse.” Nathan? Again? You fucking pr- Sylar found his body tensing up, but he managed to control his reaction. He is not your goddamn baby brother. He knew where they were and most likely where they were headed, so he didn’t stare at the building or make a comment of any kind. Why bother?
The doors whooshed open allowing Peter to stalk in like a man on a mission (rather than like a man avoiding the hell out of something) and prowl around for whatever it was he was looking for, which Sylar imagined to be food. Dumb kid probably forgot to eat the same way Sylar had when he’d been on the road and on the run. Again, similarities everywhere. Why can no one see that? Why do I have to be the monster?
Sylar was used to reading body language and he was picking up more hostility than he would prefer to place his person around. Peter pulsed with annoyed anger and it actually grated on Sylar’s mind, seeping into his emotions. It only jacked up his headache further. He slunk a ways behind Peter out of boredom, wariness, loneliness and curiosity, mostly curious to see what Peter was here for, what he picked up, hell, even what he looked at.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a mildly nasty look for the comment about not getting out and a sullen one for the quip about his feet. He held his tongue, denying Sylar conversation because he could - and besides, talking with him hadn’t gotten him anywhere but worked up and angry. The man’s continued presence was like a stone in his shoe.
He stalked into the grocery store and drew up just past the cash registers. He gave the place a cursory scan, confirming it was indeed the sort of place he wanted to be in. To his immediate right was a candy display. He reached out and snatched off a Hershey bar with almonds, ripping the wrapper loose and letting it hang to the side. He took a big bite, not stopping to savor it, just crunched it up and swallowed. He looked back and forth at the various aisles more slowly and took a second, smaller bite at a normal pace. It tasted good, just like chocolate should, just like he remembered it. He sucked at his teeth and then nibbled off an even smaller bit, revealing an intact almond. He studied that, then gently took the nut in his teeth and worked it free, eating it by itself.
He felt better. Blood sugar rising. He looked over at Sylar, who was quietly watching his possibly-odd candy-eating habits. Peter’s expression eased a little. He looked away and the set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, like he wasn’t so completely poised to fight at any moment. He let out a deep breath, gave a last look at the signs over the aisles that revealed what lay in each, and headed off to the left.
He took two limping steps, then turned back towards the entrance, going up to one of the other check out stands and liberating a couple empty bags. He quit limping again, having caught himself. He gave Sylar another ‘checking’ glance, but there wasn’t any excess of hostility in it. He was just seeing where the man was. He wasn’t comfortable with him being there, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about him following him around. At the moment, he didn’t feel up to threatening him with anything to make him go away. Sharp comments and the like weren’t at the forefront of his mind either.
Peter headed back through the store, going down the medications aisle. It occurred to him that if there were pharmacies here, then there were probably hospitals, with fully provisioned stockrooms. It was something to think about, though he didn’t see a lot of point to drugging Sylar. Maybe myself, on the other hand…he thought with amusement. He wasn’t serious. His mouth quirked a little at the internal joke anyway. He snagged a bottle of Tylenol and dropped it in his sack. He wandered on down the aisle, taking another bite of his chocolate bar.
Peter stopped to get a bottle of alcohol and another of peroxide. He searched around for a moment, not seeing what he wanted. Ah, over there. Tubes. He walked back the way he’d come and grabbed a tube of ben-gay. He put it in his sack and glanced discreetly towards the front of the store, giving Sylar’s location another status check. Peter was hyperaware of where the other man was at, relaxing only gradually. He moved away and found another unbroken nut in his candy. He bit it off whole, sucking the chocolate from around it.
Peter picked up a box of moleskin and another of blister plasters. He finished the candy bar and wadded the wrapper, looking around, wondering where he should dispose of it. He put it in his sack and stretched. Next on the agenda: food. He meandered down a few aisles, trying to think of what he wanted to eat. He didn’t want to fix anything, as appealing as the idea of prepared food was. He went down the bread aisle and took down a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. He could happily eat that all by itself and when he was a kid, he had sometimes done just that.
I need to get something other than bread though, or I’m going to have to limp my lame ass down here again in a few hours. As he moved back to the front of the aisle, he turned and looked at Sylar, not to see where he was, but just to look at him. He hadn’t said anything annoying for a while. Peter decided not to break that good trend by inviting conversation. Instead, he headed over to the fresh fruit and vegetable section. He snagged apples, celery, carrots and a sweet potato. I wonder if there’s already food in the apartments? I suppose I could ask. He went back towards the front of the store. Or I could go find out.
In any event, his steps slowed as he reached the doors. They swept open and he ambled outside because of that only. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go from here. He stood there looking around, trying to weigh in his head how far away he should be from Sylar so as to avoid the bastard, and how close to be because…well…he wouldn’t really admit, even to himself, that he didn’t want to be off by himself.
XXX
//Almond Hershey bars….Nathan remembered Peter chowing them down by the dozen in med school. Poor strung out Pete had needed the sugar to even stay on his feet and keep his eyes open, let alone keep his brain online. Every so often, Nathan would have his assistant send Pete a box. Ma use to give him looks when she’d catch Pete with one like it was some kind of Nazi anti-appetite spoiling plot, but he’d kept doing it anyway. (“Kid’s a nurse, Ma, he knows about diabetes”) This was America and Pete was wafer thin and strung out for the energy.
Hell, they were close enough that Nathan knew how he liked to eat them; large, chunks torn off into his mouth then sucking the nuts clear before crunching on them like they were the best part of the bar, something Nathan didn’t exactly understand. Nuts were plain, chocolate was…well, chocolate. He still held a random memory of teasing Pete about said nuts; his own higher-sexed brain making a few connections about how, exactly, he liked to devour the legumes. Yeah, he’d known about Pete’s little secrets in school.
He’d mused a time or two that the kid might actually get laid more than he did himself with whatever his cute little (turn your head and cough) nurse routine was. Sometimes he surprised himself with the older brother role, but he was twelve years older than his kid brother, so he hadn’t ever really considered it a choice. He remembered being baffled by the whimpering, pink mass that resembled one of those dolls the little girls seemed to fawn over when it, his newborn brother, had been set in his arms as a kid. Dad had never given him anything, even if the unspoken ‘offer’ of sorts was present. Nathan knew it had fallen on his shoulders that day, even if he didn’t know it that moment in the hospital. Ma always did say that he took up more space….//
Sylar just stood with his head down as tears stung his eyes. He had no other reaction to give to the memory; it made his chest ache hollowly, somehow chilly inside. God…to have had a brother, a sibling…parents, really. Was it any wonder he’d become a killer? Then again…the sibling would probably have gone before Mo-Virginia. Sylar found himself leaning his butt back on one of the register’s conveyer tables, raising wet, wide, darkened eyes to track Peter’s every move. Get to know him, figure it out, he’s not rocket science, he’s….What was Pete? He met the glances the man threw back at him as he rolled the thought over in his mind, but didn’t give a sign of any emotion to the attention.
Peter….Peter was an adversary, technically an enemy of the highest rank. Deadly, ruthless, and capable. But the man had opened up a time or two. The smallest glimpses only created more questions than they answered and Sylar was oh-so curious; it was one of his weaknesses. But he was still a brother in some very fucked up way, to Sylar, not Nathan. He held memories of Nathan’s disregarding, mocking, insulting behavior, chopped, rude responses to //‘My foot hovered before it hit the ground. Hovered!’// Sylar knew that feeling. He would have understood, even if he’d never developed his own ability.
Some people couldn’t understand being special. Peter…he understood, but he didn’t seek it out, instead choosing to be selfless and helpful (to everyone but Sylar). Sylar knew he never would have ‘fit in’ as a Petrelli (reasons being Claire and Bennet; the options of being shot and stabbed on a daily basis not appealing even to his potentially masochistic sense of self); he knew he’d take Peter’s place as the blackest sheep, assuming Angela ever released him from Level 5 period. But he felt such similarity to Peter; surely the other man knew? Maybe he could sense it somehow…It was too much to hope. His empathy is broken after all…
After taking mild note of the items Peter picked or gazed lingeringly at, Sylar lifted himself up to sit on the black conveyer table. The motion seemed to earn him a longer look; he only returned it, his eyebrow inching up slightly in question. Moments later, Peter shambled from the store and Sylar could see him looking around, telegraphing ‘lost’ all over his face. Sylar plopped down to his feet, shuffling out after him, careful to keep his distance and silence. Peter seemed more receptive that way, even if Sylar was brimming with questions. He didn’t offer any comment or directional help since Peter seemed eager in the extreme to part ways.
XXX
Peter swung his bag pensively, looking up and down the street. He gave Sylar a glance and dropped his eyes before looking away at his possible destinations. He was softening even further in his stance against him - not that it really changed anything, except that Peter wasn’t angered by Sylar’s mere presence. How long did that take? A whole ten or fifteen minutes of him keeping his mouth shut? The prospect of years stretched ahead of him. He sighed.
Wasn’t there a psychological experiment like this? He started walking slowly back towards Sylar’s apartment. Not being trapped somewhere with a psycho-killer, but having to sit across from someone at a small table and make constant eye contact with them for…I dunno, two minutes. It’s longer than people think. Then you had to rate afterwards how you felt about them, whether they were a good or bad person. Just looking at someone for that long, not talking, not doing, nothing else - and people universally decide the stranger is more likable than someone picked at random.
So here I am stuck with Sylar. I hope like hell he’ll quit being a condescending ass, or at least keep his mouth shut. He glanced back at the man again, but Sylar was still silent. Peter relaxed a little more and looked around at the buildings, the trees, the empty sidewalks. It’s kind of restful in a way.
He was alone with his thoughts - not a state Peter had ever been very good at. He was prone to brooding in solitude if he wasn’t able to keep busy. He didn’t want to ‘brood’ at the moment. He wanted to find an apartment, eat, take a hot bath, and lay around with his feet up, waiting for time to pass…he supposed. It would end when it ended. He just had to wait until then.
Waiting. Alone. With his thoughts.
“So, um…what do you…do most days, here?” He had to have been doing something all this time. Peter kept moving forward steadily, not looking at Sylar, not wanting to do anything to encourage another burst of sarcasm or slur against himself.
XXX
Sylar only moved so far as to look in Peter’s direction as he emerged behind him from the store. However, he did give a startled glance at the man’s back as he headed back towards Sylar’s place. Either he was looking to settle close or he was being friendly or condescending enough to go back to Sylar’s domain. Peter seemed more at ease in the silence Sylar provided so he didn’t speak, attempting to enjoy even the illusion of companionship.
Plodding after the man, a distance behind, Sylar was more interested in the questions he had for Peter and trying to discern what his own next move should be. It all seemed to depend on Peter. So this is what going crazy (for the dozenth time) feels like. I thought I gave up on waiting on other people. He gave a miniature sigh to himself. Maybe some things never really change. Take Peter for example.
Sylar started slightly at the oddly asked question, surprised to be addressed at all. Blinking, he licked his lips, moving a hand to shuffle through his hair; a defense mechanism he’d developed suddenly now he had company since the last haircut he hadn’t bothered to observe. “Uh, whatever you want. There’s reading and shopping and cooking. You don’t strike me as the homemaker type, but there’s always arts and crafts and furniture décor and rearrangement,” he chuckled lightly to show that he was indeed joking, not snarking.
He felt compelled to leave masturbation off the list since that would be….awkward and Peter would figure that out for himself. That was literally none of his business. He supposed someone could make that a serial habit….he shook his head to clear it. It was awkward even in his head and for once his overactive mind wasn’t doing him a favor. I need a life. Badly. It’s starting to show. He also didn’t feel the need to point out that Peter could spend his time making forts and cleaning guns, sharpening his knives and perfecting his poisons. That would be pushing him in all the wrong directions.
“There’s always writing and board games, card games, too,” he provided helpfully, honestly. “There’s always learning a new language or learning to sew or something.” Shrugging, he gave a small frown at the thought, “Just…find a hobby, basically. You’ll try nearly anything to avoid boredom, but it will come for you anyway. Find something….stable.” Huh, stable. Coming from you, he’ll leap at the chance for a weekly chess game with you. Becuase clearly you qualify for 'stable'.
XXX
Are you the ‘homemaker’ type? Sylar the homemaker. A memory came to mind of Sylar…no, Gabriel, feeding Mr. Muggles a bit of waffle. The man was wearing an apron and taking care of a little boy. He’d come over and hugged Peter warmly, put his hand on his face, and acted happy and balanced, rather than the desperate, haunted man he was all the other times Peter had seen him. It was a weird scene - simultaneously proving Sylar could control his hunger and asserting that doing so was so difficult that he hadn’t achieved it for long years.
He was controlling it last year, when he thought he was my brother. How hard is it to master? He mulled over their previous conversation about post-it notes. It made him uncomfortable shortly, so he let his mind jump tracks, listening as Sylar elaborated on his answer.
Writing. I wonder if he keeps a diary? Some sort of journal of his victims? I doubt it. Doesn’t seem his speed - I doubt he thinks much about the people he killed - their lives were just speed bumps on the path to getting more power. Not much point in writing here anyway, since no one can read it but us. It’s just a mental exercise. Though I suppose that’s the point. A few hours have seemed like years to him…and I’m sure someone from the outside would have done something for me if I’d been lying around for three or four days now.
He eyed the buildings they were walking past. They'd already gone by Sylar's place a couple blocks before and Peter had simply kept walking. So where do I want to be? Same block? Two blocks away, like here? Does it mean anything to be further away? He felt a bizarre urge to go back and settle in virtually next door to Sylar, but all he needed to dispel that was to remember his several failures in conversation so far today and his track record in trying to get anywhere (in more ways than one) the first day he’d been here. He stopped walking, looking up at what were probably nice, mid-sized family apartments. It was a lot more than he needed, but he didn’t plan on staying there for more than a day or two - until he felt better and had a better feel for what was going on.
Even though he’d already decided where he wanted to spend the rest of the day, he was reluctantly to simply walk off from Sylar and leave him standing in the street. They weren’t exactly having a conversation, but they’d had an exchange that had been perfectly civil. It was a start. Maybe I should just leave it at that and take my victory where I find it. That’s what Nathan always counseled. But no, Peter had never been one for that strategy, so he asked, “What do you do, though? What are your hobbies? If you really think we’re going to be stuck in here forever…” Even by my assumptions, it’s going to be a really, really long time.
XXX
The idea of Peter keeping a journal (oh, the empathy) or writing an autobiography or worse, a self-help book or ‘Reasons Sylar Should Die’ memoir best seller would be alternately horrible and amusing. If he went with the memoir, he supposed, Sylar could always sign the first million handwritten copies. Then again, Peter sewing or decorating rooms would still be odd and amusing. It didn’t occur to him. Still he continued, more ideas coming, “If you’re interested, there’s always graffiti. But you’re only destructive w-” With a nail gun. Ted’s power. “When you…have to be,” Sylar finished lamely.
Sylar himself was frustrated at his own inability to keep his mouth shut. As a watchmaker all those years ago, he’d had ideal control of his words, even the emotions he let slip to the surface. As Sylar, himself, now, having his personality, his mind rot away over the years alone had apparently left significant amounts of anger. Anger he hadn’t realized he still possessed.
Peter seemed to be looking around….for his own place perhaps? A place to crash? Sylar was a little shocked he would consider something so close to himself, not that he was complaining if that was the case. He’d be thrilled to have someone, to….actually have something period, let alone so close for him to view almost as he pleased. Of course, he technically had the whole world for his own, but maybe because Peter wasn’t his anything, perhaps an enemy, it was appealing. A challenge, perhaps. And a challenge the medico was in spades.
Peter spoke again, posing a question that had Sylar gaping a little, unsightly as it was, at the man’s back. Did he really just…? As baffled as he was by the question, his brain was already coming up with the answers for him. “Wh- uh…I….read a lot. A lot. I don’t cook for fun, but I do cook to eat. I do puzzles on occasion, I can draw a little. I collect stuff and fix up furniture sometimes.” He did hesitate when it came to divulging a potential secret of himself, one that could set him back all the accomplishments and murders he’d bled and suffered to achieve.
Deciding to forego it at the moment; Peter may already have put two and two together about the earlier clock incident, he had a question of his own to ask that couldn’t wait. “Um….Peter?” Sylar asked quietly, “Have….have you read my file?” Random and it probably drew more attention to the question and the motivations behind it because of it. Some secrets were best left buried. He had to see what he was working with.
XXX
Peter jumped on the question, more because of the tone it was asked in than the words themselves. Truthfully he initially had no idea what Sylar was talking about, but there was an earnest, quiet tone there that wasn’t confrontational or aggressive. It caught Peter’s ear instantly. “Your file?” Medical file? IRS file? That file the FBI supposedly keeps on everyone? No, wait - the Company file. I’ll bet that’s what he means.
He looked back at Sylar, shifting his feet enough to be angled towards him, like they were talking to each other rather than Peter speaking forward at the world and Sylar addressing his back. It had seemed safer that way - less direct - and Peter suspected he was pushing too far, too fast just with that small movement, but he’d already made it. To take it back was worse. No, let Sylar recoil or rebuff instead, or adjust to tolerate it, depending on his capabilities.
In the meantime, Peter studied Sylar’s expression, seeing the caution and reticence there, along with something that wasn’t mere curiosity. The other man needed to know this, which cemented what they were talking about. “Your Company file?” Peter asked, just to make sure. The shift in Sylar’s expression affirmed it and Peter looked away, not wanting to be too intent.
“No,” he answered shortly. “Me and the Company aren’t on good terms, Sylar,” he said with a snort. They’d tried to maneuver him into blowing up New York; they’d locked him up for months; they’d developed a virus that could destroy nearly all the world’s population, and then kept it; one of their founders, his father, had stolen his abilities (which may or may not have been related to some plan to give everyone abilities, and then to lose control of the situation such that a future version of Peter thought it needed to be stopped); they’d cooperated with the mass abduction and imprisonment of specials, including Peter himself…really, at what point in all of this would Peter have had an opportunity to read Sylar’s file?!?
He chuckled at the thought, still looking away. To make it clear his humor wasn’t at Sylar’s expense, he said, “No, we’re not on good terms at all.”
Why would Sylar care? Why did Sylar think Peter was interested in his life, or multiple imprisonments, or victims, or whatever the file held? Well, I did ask about his hobbies. Maybe he thinks I’m curious about him? I guess I am, though really I just wanted something to talk about. Direct as always, Peter asked with a hint of a smile, “What’s in there that you don’t want me seeing?”
XXX
The way Peter pounced on the question, giving him that Peter look, going so far as to turn towards him and give him a glance told Sylar that he’d managed to sink himself. He had the man’s complete attention, how ironic that he didn’t want it on this particular subject. Something on his face must have shown, since he didn’t bother to answer the obvious (to him) question, only shifting his weight as an ‘answer’, but it had Peter looking away.
Having Nathan’s lovely memories, he knew Peter was not chummy with the Company, but he did know that he had almost unlimited access should he chose to exercise the right. Then again, Peter was literally a jump first, think later guy; that much he knew from experience. He was the lovable ignoramus, mentally chuckling to himself at the image.
Peter answered in very vague and hazy terms in the negative to his hesitant inquiry, so he gave an uncertain nod in response, hoping to let the subject drop. Of course Peter’s amusement made him a little wary of mockery, but the man dissuaded it quickly; leaving Sylar to tilt his head in equal measures of puzzlement and amusement at Peter’s display of good humor. Peter didn’t show it often any more (not that Sylar knew much about it).
He couldn’t really escape the returning, very fair, question. Sylar didn’t want to make Peter any more suspicious than he was already. Come on, Peter still thought he’d managed to kill someone (everyone) or hide a secret portal in his closet or something equally ridiculous. But the EMT had also admitted that he was staying for a while and that gave Sylar….mixed feelings to say the least.
Oh, somewhere in the back of his mind he did hope for the freedom Peter proclaimed to be truth and reality, but….he had no choice but to be pragmatic about the whole thing. (And, really, that was just be totally unfair if Peter only had to ‘stay’ a week with company, mind, while Sylar spent three years alone.)
The smile, however, did nothing to ease his worries. “I’m entitled to have my own demons, Petrelli,” he said, mild and firm, nicely getting him to back off. It was about the extent of his manners, but he did hold his tongue on mentioning who exactly was involved in creating said demons, i.e. Mom and Pop Petrelli. “You’ve made it clear they’re none of your business, except….the obvious one,” again, avoiding naming names, this one Nathan’s.
“It’s not like it’s going to come back and bite you in the ass, so don’t worry. I was just….curious how much you knew, that’s all.” My god, stop talking already. Thought you wanted his attention off your damn file. To back it up, he set about looking innocent and harmlessly normal. Odd how he felt the need to keep Peter away from something that could barely be classified a secret when he was the only other being alive. Pride was funny that way.
Really, did it need protecting? No. Sylar just preferred avoiding further humiliation, but….was that worth all the subterfuge? Perhaps it was merely another weakness, another opening for Peter to get inside that he somehow, for some reason sought to prevent. He’d had enough of his own personal identify crises (Thanks, Mom, Elle, Bennet, Samson, Angela, Arthur and Nathan) prior to being mind raped and manipulated. His own experiences, his actions hoping to show the specialized world what he was, who he was. And that someone was no longer a watchmaker. I restore timepieces.
How far he’d gotten with the community, he didn’t know for sure; he only ever heard the negative murmurings and whispers, the plots and grievances laid against him. He knew he’d managed to erase his birth name (to everyone but the state of New York PD) and become reborn as Sylar, the most dangerous special. Feared; respected only in regard of the levels of fear he commanded and the intensity of actions the others would commit to see him dead, worse, imprisoned; even selling their own souls to give him the same measure of pain he’d caused them, also the family some would sacrifice to use him as a weapon.
At least Peter had answered the question, a result he hadn’t been sure about; this opened the door for more of Sylar’s questions. Meanwhile he was strangely touched; Peter would be thrilled to know, that the other man had inquired about something as mundane as his hobbies. He wasn’t, however, so delusional as to believe it was concern or affection by any means. Peter was merely asking about what he was dealing with and probably trying to fill some space. He was obviously learning that Sylar was really the only thing that would fill the space.
He decided to try his luck again, “Assuming you’re from….another reality,” what a coined phrase that was. Peter used to be able to teleport after all. Fucking teleportation. “Um…what am I doing there, exactly? I doubt Parkman is going to stand by and….” And what, really? Um, try to find his (apparently still existing in Peter's La-La Land) kill spot? Incase him in carbonite or burn him to ash and hand him in a jar to Claire or Bennet, maybe Angela to gloat over? Mentally rolling his eyes at himself and the endless imagination; he was trying to figure it from the perspective of Peter's overactive one. Hey, he'd phrased it...delicately.
XXX
Peter backed off as desired at Sylar’s firm non-answer. Ones, his mind added, plural. Whatever had happened to Claire was his business too, no matter how insular Sylar wished to be in limiting who he thought Peter should be interested in. And not that blood relation was all that mattered - there had been others Peter had known about fairly directly - Jackie and Isaac came to mind immediately, then there was Claire’s biological mother, whom Peter recognized as family if only of a distant sort. He’d never even met her, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he didn’t care about all the other people Sylar had killed, or that they were somehow insignificant and beneath Peter’s concern by virtue of unfamiliarity. The implication that they were, or should be, seriously got under Peter’s skin.
Peter’s jaw worked slightly. His back tensed up again (and hurt). His eyes narrowed. He drew his head down and his posture shifted. Sylar was looking away, though, thinking through something other than the effect his words had had on his companion, unaware of how completely that had shut down Peter’s attempt to reach out.
Sylar asked his question, again mostly looking away until afterward. With difficulty, Peter listened and actually gave a moment to consider it. You’re being bricked up behind a wall in Parkman’s basement. You’ll never matter to anyone ever again. No one will find you. Your body is going to be buried and you’ll be trapped in your head forever. It might have helped Peter’s cause in getting Sylar out if he’d said any of that, as Peter knew it might motivate Sylar, playing on his sense of self-preservation if nothing else. But he didn’t feel inclined to share anymore. Pettily, he’d rather keep something like that, something Sylar would want to know, to himself. He answered honestly, though a bit less directly than he might have otherwise. “You’re unconscious, just like Ma was at Pinehearst.” Let Sylar imagine his body lying still and safe in a bed somewhere. The reality was more horrific.
Peter gave a smile that was very foreign to his face, a smile of someone who had seen a bit too much and been scarred too deeply by it. Eyes still narrowed, the smile didn’t make it past his lips, but it wasn’t fake. It was just as bitter as day old coffee. Because whatever was happening to Sylar was probably happening to Peter, too. They were linked now, one way or another. He wondered, again, what Matt would do with him. Obviously, he wasn’t going to pull him out or else he wouldn’t still be here. That meant … what?
Peter exhaled sharply and looked upward, stopping his mind from the fruitless, stupid circle that he’d run in too many times already. He was here, and that’s how it was, no matter the reason. He hurt, and he was tired and hungry and he wanted to plant his fist in Sylar’s face again for no more than a comment that Sylar didn’t understand. And that was what pissed him off so intently - Sylar didn’t understand, at all. He had to get away from him again.
He turned to the building and took a few steps towards the door. “Don’t follow me.” A moment later he glanced back, expression hard and still angry, but feeling the need to add anyway, “Please.” Partly it was politeness, and partly it was a genuine plea. He didn’t want Sylar to follow him out of contrariness, or some misplaced need to prove he could. It would start things - things Peter didn’t want started.
Peter pushed open one of the glass double doors and walked into the apartment building, getting about twenty feet before sagging against the first wall he came to, head hanging, bags dangling limply from his hands. The whole situation tried to crash down on him at once. He wasn’t beaten yet though - not by a long way. After a few seconds, he bore up under the burden, straightening again. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, going to the elevator, his stride getting increasingly steady. The doors parted immediately and he walked inside, turning. His face was chagrinned as he realized the outer doors were transparent and he’d had a moment of weakness in view of the other man.
The elevator doors blocked off his view.
XXX
Continued...