"If I Never See Your Face Again", Heroes, Future!Peter/Peter
Title: If I Never See Your Face Again
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Future!Peter/Peter
Rating: PG-15 (to be on the safe side)
Word Count: 2630
Genre: Slash
Copyright: Title is a song by Maroon 5.
Spoilers: Up to 3x04. This is how I actually wanted 3x04 to go!
Summary: “I don’t think that I was ever you,” he murmurs, voice a slide of disdain.
Author’s Notes: Written for karaokegal’s Fanfic Halloween Party, because slashing a character with themselves does kind of squick me, and I’ve damn well never done it before. But Milo is so damn pretty I just kind of needed him to go fuck himself. ;) But even though the idea is cracky I came out really liking this after all. Hmmm.
I’m lost; I can’t tell where you end and I begin.
- Maroon 5
I.
His fingertips are rough against your wrists, fingers too strong and you try to work out which pieces are already you and which pieces you’ll get in four years’ time. His eyes narrow, assessing you sharply; you refused to be judged. Not by him.
He lets you go, taking a step back. “I don’t think that I was ever you,” he murmurs, voice a slide of disdain.
You feel your jaw tense, but his anger runs deeper than yours.
“I don’t want to become you,” you retort.
He shrugs, mouth tight, and you realise that you can’t read your own facial expressions; you’re used to making them, not analysing them.
“That’s kind of the point,” he mutters at last.
Your voice mangled between his teeth. Stranger things have happened but you don’t really remember when. Maybe he does; you won’t ask.
II.
It’s in the line of his shoulders - maybe, you think, you’re starting to figure this out - the way his fingers curl at his sides.
“You don’t like me,” you observe.
The corner of his mouth flicks. “Lots of people don’t like themselves,” he points out.
It stings, though you think it shouldn’t. “I like myself,” you say carefully.
He glances back over his shoulder at you; he’s pressing just a little like this is some desperate competition though the prize is anybody’s guess.
“You won’t,” he mutters.
III.
The scar re-establishes your face, makes him almost a stranger. You recall another life, a subway carriage, Hiro’s flat observation. You look different without your scar. But Hiro wasn’t from this future, and you wonder if you’re staring at the inevitable shape of your features.
“Where’s Hiro?” you ask at last. Adam may have nearly forced you two to kill each other but the world didn’t end and you’ll believe in Hiro’s lasting purity more than you’ll believe in your own, particularly with the evidence in front of you.
His expression doesn’t break. “He’s dead.”
You nod, silent. The sky is thicker here, the light filtered dimly. And Hiro Nakamura isn’t here with his intentions and you worry if fate is left to balance precariously on your shoulders.
You think you might understand him a little better now, but he won’t look at you.
IV.
“I don’t have to be you but you were me.”
You test it out, words rolled like candies in your mouth. Stringing out near impossible theories to see how they work.
He considers this, boots ringing on metal stairs. The word hideout has been used but you’re more interested in the shift of muscle beneath his skin; is that how you move? It feels different in your flesh.
“I was never you right now,” he offers at last. “We’re both flying a little blind.”
“Is this where we deviate?” you ask.
He doesn’t reply, and you follow him down a narrow dark corridor without doors. It would be nice to think of him as someone who isn’t quite you, who doesn’t know every thought in your head before you think them.
“We’re almost different people,” you suggest, ever the optimist.
His only response is to grab your wrist and pull you through an apparently random stretch of brick wall, fingers gratuitously tight.
V.
The walls, every inch of them, are painted. Messy smears of colour, though there’s an image in what looks like biro near the ceiling. All death and explosions and red; too much red. And the image of the world splitting over and over again. He sits in a corner; there are no chairs, just bare splintered boards, and a single dimming lightbulb. Between his teeth he holds a cigarette, which he lights with an easy snap of his fingers.
You continue to stare around; this is the cell of a madman, someone ripping themselves apart. That, at least, you can empathise with.
There’s canvas rolled against the wall and you pick it up and open it out. Laughter sticks like bile in your throat and you ignore his eyes on you, smoke drifting to a small vent. He’s got the painting of your flight/fall, the one Isaac did of you silhouetted against an amber sky. The reminiscence is almost a physical shock; and you understand him a little more. You can’t remember yourself as that dreamy nurse who stared at Isaac spread out in black paint on his floor, and your flight propped up like the beacon you thought it was.
You turn to look at him, and there’s the bite of recollection on his face. He’s still enough of you and he knows the things you won’t tell anyone, can’t tell yourself. The feelings of guilt when you recall Isaac; and the feelings that aren’t guilt at all.
“Simone,” you stutter, the immediate defence shield and it’s been a while since you through of her.
He laughs, cracked and dry. “Nice to know I can still lie to myself.”
VI.
“Too curious,” he decides.
You can’t take your eyes off the scar, so raw and angry and vulnerable. It looks like it still hurts and maybe that’s the point because you’ve always thought you had the makings of a masochist.
“You brought me here to show me things,” you remind him, “Aren’t I meant to be curious?”
He glares at you; he doesn’t need to say smartass aloud. And even you can tell you’re fixating on the wrong things, you’re more interested in him than in the state of the world. It’s embarrassing, and you feel yourself flushing.
“Much too curious,” he says, the scar an open crack in his face.
VII.
The room is suffocating and the walls feel like they’re closing in. It would make anyone paranoid. You sit beside him on the floor, a metre between the two of you because there’s weird distrust on both sides. The phrase you’re your own worst enemy is beginning to make more sense.
“And you live here?” Your voice is tinged with disbelief.
His mouth curls. “I exist here,” he corrects you.
You stare at him for a moment, and you see an expression in his eyes that you’ve never seen in the mirror.
“You’re insane, aren’t you?”
His head tips to one side. “Took you long enough to notice.”
You find yourself laughing in spite of yourself, the sound pressing out of your mouth unintentionally. He scowls at you and then reluctantly joins in.
“I hate you,” he manages, at last.
“You scare me,” you reply.
You’ve achieved something few people manage in their lifetimes; somehow you’ve managed to be completely honest with yourself.
VIII.
“Stop it,” he growls. But you won’t.
“How did you get it?” you ask, fingers continuing their slow explanation of the scar that splits the otherwise entirely familiar face in two. His voice croaks, low and angry, and you wonder if it’s the cigarettes or the grief or just the plain need not to sound naïve any more.
He shakes his head, skin shifting against your fingertips. “It doesn’t matter.”
You think the answer might be the key to something; probably not the solution to this mess, but definitely the key to your sanity. To how you go from hope to pure flat anger. Perhaps not the most important thing you’ve come to the future to learn, but you want to know. You want to know.
Your fingers slide across his nose, down the crevice on his cheek. You think he’d pull away and incinerate anyone else who did this, but he can’t bring himself to do it to you and you think maybe there are shreds of you left inside him.
“Stop it.” Spat out between his teeth; it’s becoming a threat. And you don’t.
IX.
Part of you can’t help wondering what this looks like from the outside; but mostly you’re distracted by the way his mouth covers yours; sharp and angry and determined. His teeth are the same as yours against your tongue; he tastes like you. Of course he does. He is you.
“Talk about narcissism,” he mutters in a rush of air against your lips, and you respond by digging your fingers into the back of his hair. He mirrors the moment and it’s strange, touching and feeling and all of it varying degrees of the same.
“I will not become you,” you hiss, and you’re tangled together and it really is impossible to tell whose limbs are whose, “And then this will not have happened.”
He snickers. “Denial, Pete,” he murmurs, “It’s a beautiful thing.”
For a second he sounds like Nathan. You want to hit him. You settle for dragging his mouth against yours again. It seems a greater punishment; though of course he’s out of his mind and you? You’re slipping.
Oh God.
X.
Your teeth dig into a hipbone; viciously certain and his fingers drag in your hair like some kind of retaliation. There’s the flat, faded appendix scar on his stomach. You were seven and cried all night and in the end it was Nathan who called the ambulance; your parents just murmured childish and closed the doors.
You realise that he has forgotten what it feels like to be you. All of it is sharp edges and jagged nails and his anger feels infectious; maybe you’ll leave here a little too much like him (if you leave here at all). But you don’t want to slip; you like yourself more than you like him and you will not let you make him into him.
His palms graze on your skin, hands too rough and fingers strong. He still bites his nails and you think, well, at least some things won’t change.
“You’re still me,” you mutter, low, to goad him. “You’re still me.”
He laughs in response, rough and strange and not at all anything to do with you.
“You’re not even you any more,” he replies, snagging fingers in your hair and tugging your chin up.
Oh, identity crisis won’t even begin to cover it.
XI.
Physically you remain about the same; he’s a little skinnier, joints sharper and muscles wiry knots beneath his skin. With the exception of his split face, he obviously can’t scar, and the body pressed against yours is a weird mirror image. Splinters bite into your shoulders, ease into your spine. He opens his mouth against your jaw, your throat, your collar bones. You want to close your eyes; it’s all too vivid and real, harsh rasps of his breathing skidding warmly across your skin.
He smells of nothing; you smell the same and so it cancels itself out, rendering this whole thing curiously detached, making him separate and wrong. He knows where to touch you and when and you know what he wants because, well, it’s obvious. His laugh, crushed this close, is starting to sound familiar. Starting to regress a little; perhaps you’re affecting him as badly as he’s affecting you. The two of you mingling to make someone new and even less like Peter Petrelli than before.
You should never have met. That much is becoming obvious.
XII.
Your minds are trying to connect, and it isn’t like you and Matt Parkman. With him, it’s like two magnets with the wrong poles, repelling each other with a screech to show you can’t both get inside.
Now, the scream of static feedback is almost deafening, your hips rocking against his, and you’re getting a migraine because you can’t stop your mind from reaching for his, from trying to form an instinctive connection. His nose is bleeding, a thin streak of red that smudges against your lips when he kisses you, fierce and angry.
Something breaks on a groan through his teeth; suddenly there are thoughts in your head that feel and taste and sound like yours, but something about them tells you that they’re not, they’re his. You have too much in your head and his eyes screw closed; you can tell he’s overwhelmed too.
“Do you ever stop?” he demands roughly.
You laugh. “You tell me.”
You reflect that your nose might be bleeding too; both of one mind and the thoughts slip uneasily, side-by-side.
XIII.
Later, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and refuses to look at you, fingers sharp and narrow against your hips.
Conversation has stopped; either he’s run out of things to say to you or maybe your minds are still connected and so words are unnecessary. He isn’t bleeding any longer, though there’s a thin dark crust on his upper lip. You shiver inadvertently as splinters work their way out of your skin, turning your back and shoulders into a mess that writhes without you needing to move.
You’re a mirror image, the two of you pressed skin to skin, ripe and thick with guilt and confusion. His mannerisms aren’t yours, his voice a low scrape, face twisted into a mockery; he pulls away from you, leaving you slick and tired on his floor. He lights a cigarette, smearing drying blood away with his palm, and you know that you cannot tell anyone about this. He doesn’t look at you, eyes skipping over the smudged and ugly walls.
“You still internalise,” you observe, almost pleased. Your smile curls in a way that it never has before; sadism you think, and for a moment you’re not sure if the thought is even yours.
“Don’t.” He bites it off, smoke surrounding the word.
You wonder if he’s afraid of you. You almost want him to be afraid of you (you suspect you might be terrified of him).
XIV.
“We should leave,” he says. “Before it’s too late.”
You shrug, healed. He is completely and utterly insane, and seems to have lost you. You want to know what he’s done with you, where he’s shuttered you away; what killed you off one afternoon and made him stand up, cold and smooth. When the transition comes, you wonder if you’ll even know.
“Fine,” you mumble.
He glances at you, eyes narrowed. “This was a bad idea,” he mutters.
You almost want to ask what exactly he means by this; he seems to have come up with kind of a lot of inadvisable ideas lately. The two of you slip back through the brick wall, heading for daylight once more. He still has things to tell you, things to show you.
“We’ve changed each other,” he explains. And you already know; think you’ve known since the first moment you bit back. Powers as dangerous as yours, and you know things have altered, swift and awkward.
You nod. “And now we’re the same person,” you mutter, wondering absently if maybe you deserve a scar.
The two of you stranded halfway between each other, left with a new Peter Petrelli. A Peter Petrelli with the worst opposites of personality bubbling inside. He might stay a little angrier than you, but on the whole, you’ve amalgamated. Two bodies, one personality.
You sigh. “Fuck.”
He just laughs. You’re temped to join in.
XV.
Head tipped, a ticking going on behind your left ear, twelve hours later strapped to a table you kind of wonder if he planned this. If he set you up.
Your mouth still tastes like him, in spite of the explosion, and already it’s becoming strange, unfamiliar.
You could wonder desperately what you’ve done, but the Sylar watch snapped back together before your eyes and you know exactly what you’ve done. What he did. You even know who Peter Petrelli is now, though no one else does and you won’t mention it.
He’s been locked away by your collective niece, who seems unphased by the two-different-same-uncles thing. But that’s perfectly all right.
Your neck clicks as you turn your head a little, the ticking getting ever louder. You don’t need him any more anyway.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Future!Peter/Peter
Rating: PG-15 (to be on the safe side)
Word Count: 2630
Genre: Slash
Copyright: Title is a song by Maroon 5.
Spoilers: Up to 3x04. This is how I actually wanted 3x04 to go!
Summary: “I don’t think that I was ever you,” he murmurs, voice a slide of disdain.
Author’s Notes: Written for karaokegal’s Fanfic Halloween Party, because slashing a character with themselves does kind of squick me, and I’ve damn well never done it before. But Milo is so damn pretty I just kind of needed him to go fuck himself. ;) But even though the idea is cracky I came out really liking this after all. Hmmm.
I’m lost; I can’t tell where you end and I begin.
- Maroon 5
I.
His fingertips are rough against your wrists, fingers too strong and you try to work out which pieces are already you and which pieces you’ll get in four years’ time. His eyes narrow, assessing you sharply; you refused to be judged. Not by him.
He lets you go, taking a step back. “I don’t think that I was ever you,” he murmurs, voice a slide of disdain.
You feel your jaw tense, but his anger runs deeper than yours.
“I don’t want to become you,” you retort.
He shrugs, mouth tight, and you realise that you can’t read your own facial expressions; you’re used to making them, not analysing them.
“That’s kind of the point,” he mutters at last.
Your voice mangled between his teeth. Stranger things have happened but you don’t really remember when. Maybe he does; you won’t ask.
II.
It’s in the line of his shoulders - maybe, you think, you’re starting to figure this out - the way his fingers curl at his sides.
“You don’t like me,” you observe.
The corner of his mouth flicks. “Lots of people don’t like themselves,” he points out.
It stings, though you think it shouldn’t. “I like myself,” you say carefully.
He glances back over his shoulder at you; he’s pressing just a little like this is some desperate competition though the prize is anybody’s guess.
“You won’t,” he mutters.
III.
The scar re-establishes your face, makes him almost a stranger. You recall another life, a subway carriage, Hiro’s flat observation. You look different without your scar. But Hiro wasn’t from this future, and you wonder if you’re staring at the inevitable shape of your features.
“Where’s Hiro?” you ask at last. Adam may have nearly forced you two to kill each other but the world didn’t end and you’ll believe in Hiro’s lasting purity more than you’ll believe in your own, particularly with the evidence in front of you.
His expression doesn’t break. “He’s dead.”
You nod, silent. The sky is thicker here, the light filtered dimly. And Hiro Nakamura isn’t here with his intentions and you worry if fate is left to balance precariously on your shoulders.
You think you might understand him a little better now, but he won’t look at you.
IV.
“I don’t have to be you but you were me.”
You test it out, words rolled like candies in your mouth. Stringing out near impossible theories to see how they work.
He considers this, boots ringing on metal stairs. The word hideout has been used but you’re more interested in the shift of muscle beneath his skin; is that how you move? It feels different in your flesh.
“I was never you right now,” he offers at last. “We’re both flying a little blind.”
“Is this where we deviate?” you ask.
He doesn’t reply, and you follow him down a narrow dark corridor without doors. It would be nice to think of him as someone who isn’t quite you, who doesn’t know every thought in your head before you think them.
“We’re almost different people,” you suggest, ever the optimist.
His only response is to grab your wrist and pull you through an apparently random stretch of brick wall, fingers gratuitously tight.
V.
The walls, every inch of them, are painted. Messy smears of colour, though there’s an image in what looks like biro near the ceiling. All death and explosions and red; too much red. And the image of the world splitting over and over again. He sits in a corner; there are no chairs, just bare splintered boards, and a single dimming lightbulb. Between his teeth he holds a cigarette, which he lights with an easy snap of his fingers.
You continue to stare around; this is the cell of a madman, someone ripping themselves apart. That, at least, you can empathise with.
There’s canvas rolled against the wall and you pick it up and open it out. Laughter sticks like bile in your throat and you ignore his eyes on you, smoke drifting to a small vent. He’s got the painting of your flight/fall, the one Isaac did of you silhouetted against an amber sky. The reminiscence is almost a physical shock; and you understand him a little more. You can’t remember yourself as that dreamy nurse who stared at Isaac spread out in black paint on his floor, and your flight propped up like the beacon you thought it was.
You turn to look at him, and there’s the bite of recollection on his face. He’s still enough of you and he knows the things you won’t tell anyone, can’t tell yourself. The feelings of guilt when you recall Isaac; and the feelings that aren’t guilt at all.
“Simone,” you stutter, the immediate defence shield and it’s been a while since you through of her.
He laughs, cracked and dry. “Nice to know I can still lie to myself.”
VI.
“Too curious,” he decides.
You can’t take your eyes off the scar, so raw and angry and vulnerable. It looks like it still hurts and maybe that’s the point because you’ve always thought you had the makings of a masochist.
“You brought me here to show me things,” you remind him, “Aren’t I meant to be curious?”
He glares at you; he doesn’t need to say smartass aloud. And even you can tell you’re fixating on the wrong things, you’re more interested in him than in the state of the world. It’s embarrassing, and you feel yourself flushing.
“Much too curious,” he says, the scar an open crack in his face.
VII.
The room is suffocating and the walls feel like they’re closing in. It would make anyone paranoid. You sit beside him on the floor, a metre between the two of you because there’s weird distrust on both sides. The phrase you’re your own worst enemy is beginning to make more sense.
“And you live here?” Your voice is tinged with disbelief.
His mouth curls. “I exist here,” he corrects you.
You stare at him for a moment, and you see an expression in his eyes that you’ve never seen in the mirror.
“You’re insane, aren’t you?”
His head tips to one side. “Took you long enough to notice.”
You find yourself laughing in spite of yourself, the sound pressing out of your mouth unintentionally. He scowls at you and then reluctantly joins in.
“I hate you,” he manages, at last.
“You scare me,” you reply.
You’ve achieved something few people manage in their lifetimes; somehow you’ve managed to be completely honest with yourself.
VIII.
“Stop it,” he growls. But you won’t.
“How did you get it?” you ask, fingers continuing their slow explanation of the scar that splits the otherwise entirely familiar face in two. His voice croaks, low and angry, and you wonder if it’s the cigarettes or the grief or just the plain need not to sound naïve any more.
He shakes his head, skin shifting against your fingertips. “It doesn’t matter.”
You think the answer might be the key to something; probably not the solution to this mess, but definitely the key to your sanity. To how you go from hope to pure flat anger. Perhaps not the most important thing you’ve come to the future to learn, but you want to know. You want to know.
Your fingers slide across his nose, down the crevice on his cheek. You think he’d pull away and incinerate anyone else who did this, but he can’t bring himself to do it to you and you think maybe there are shreds of you left inside him.
“Stop it.” Spat out between his teeth; it’s becoming a threat. And you don’t.
IX.
Part of you can’t help wondering what this looks like from the outside; but mostly you’re distracted by the way his mouth covers yours; sharp and angry and determined. His teeth are the same as yours against your tongue; he tastes like you. Of course he does. He is you.
“Talk about narcissism,” he mutters in a rush of air against your lips, and you respond by digging your fingers into the back of his hair. He mirrors the moment and it’s strange, touching and feeling and all of it varying degrees of the same.
“I will not become you,” you hiss, and you’re tangled together and it really is impossible to tell whose limbs are whose, “And then this will not have happened.”
He snickers. “Denial, Pete,” he murmurs, “It’s a beautiful thing.”
For a second he sounds like Nathan. You want to hit him. You settle for dragging his mouth against yours again. It seems a greater punishment; though of course he’s out of his mind and you? You’re slipping.
Oh God.
X.
Your teeth dig into a hipbone; viciously certain and his fingers drag in your hair like some kind of retaliation. There’s the flat, faded appendix scar on his stomach. You were seven and cried all night and in the end it was Nathan who called the ambulance; your parents just murmured childish and closed the doors.
You realise that he has forgotten what it feels like to be you. All of it is sharp edges and jagged nails and his anger feels infectious; maybe you’ll leave here a little too much like him (if you leave here at all). But you don’t want to slip; you like yourself more than you like him and you will not let you make him into him.
His palms graze on your skin, hands too rough and fingers strong. He still bites his nails and you think, well, at least some things won’t change.
“You’re still me,” you mutter, low, to goad him. “You’re still me.”
He laughs in response, rough and strange and not at all anything to do with you.
“You’re not even you any more,” he replies, snagging fingers in your hair and tugging your chin up.
Oh, identity crisis won’t even begin to cover it.
XI.
Physically you remain about the same; he’s a little skinnier, joints sharper and muscles wiry knots beneath his skin. With the exception of his split face, he obviously can’t scar, and the body pressed against yours is a weird mirror image. Splinters bite into your shoulders, ease into your spine. He opens his mouth against your jaw, your throat, your collar bones. You want to close your eyes; it’s all too vivid and real, harsh rasps of his breathing skidding warmly across your skin.
He smells of nothing; you smell the same and so it cancels itself out, rendering this whole thing curiously detached, making him separate and wrong. He knows where to touch you and when and you know what he wants because, well, it’s obvious. His laugh, crushed this close, is starting to sound familiar. Starting to regress a little; perhaps you’re affecting him as badly as he’s affecting you. The two of you mingling to make someone new and even less like Peter Petrelli than before.
You should never have met. That much is becoming obvious.
XII.
Your minds are trying to connect, and it isn’t like you and Matt Parkman. With him, it’s like two magnets with the wrong poles, repelling each other with a screech to show you can’t both get inside.
Now, the scream of static feedback is almost deafening, your hips rocking against his, and you’re getting a migraine because you can’t stop your mind from reaching for his, from trying to form an instinctive connection. His nose is bleeding, a thin streak of red that smudges against your lips when he kisses you, fierce and angry.
Something breaks on a groan through his teeth; suddenly there are thoughts in your head that feel and taste and sound like yours, but something about them tells you that they’re not, they’re his. You have too much in your head and his eyes screw closed; you can tell he’s overwhelmed too.
“Do you ever stop?” he demands roughly.
You laugh. “You tell me.”
You reflect that your nose might be bleeding too; both of one mind and the thoughts slip uneasily, side-by-side.
XIII.
Later, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and refuses to look at you, fingers sharp and narrow against your hips.
Conversation has stopped; either he’s run out of things to say to you or maybe your minds are still connected and so words are unnecessary. He isn’t bleeding any longer, though there’s a thin dark crust on his upper lip. You shiver inadvertently as splinters work their way out of your skin, turning your back and shoulders into a mess that writhes without you needing to move.
You’re a mirror image, the two of you pressed skin to skin, ripe and thick with guilt and confusion. His mannerisms aren’t yours, his voice a low scrape, face twisted into a mockery; he pulls away from you, leaving you slick and tired on his floor. He lights a cigarette, smearing drying blood away with his palm, and you know that you cannot tell anyone about this. He doesn’t look at you, eyes skipping over the smudged and ugly walls.
“You still internalise,” you observe, almost pleased. Your smile curls in a way that it never has before; sadism you think, and for a moment you’re not sure if the thought is even yours.
“Don’t.” He bites it off, smoke surrounding the word.
You wonder if he’s afraid of you. You almost want him to be afraid of you (you suspect you might be terrified of him).
XIV.
“We should leave,” he says. “Before it’s too late.”
You shrug, healed. He is completely and utterly insane, and seems to have lost you. You want to know what he’s done with you, where he’s shuttered you away; what killed you off one afternoon and made him stand up, cold and smooth. When the transition comes, you wonder if you’ll even know.
“Fine,” you mumble.
He glances at you, eyes narrowed. “This was a bad idea,” he mutters.
You almost want to ask what exactly he means by this; he seems to have come up with kind of a lot of inadvisable ideas lately. The two of you slip back through the brick wall, heading for daylight once more. He still has things to tell you, things to show you.
“We’ve changed each other,” he explains. And you already know; think you’ve known since the first moment you bit back. Powers as dangerous as yours, and you know things have altered, swift and awkward.
You nod. “And now we’re the same person,” you mutter, wondering absently if maybe you deserve a scar.
The two of you stranded halfway between each other, left with a new Peter Petrelli. A Peter Petrelli with the worst opposites of personality bubbling inside. He might stay a little angrier than you, but on the whole, you’ve amalgamated. Two bodies, one personality.
You sigh. “Fuck.”
He just laughs. You’re temped to join in.
XV.
Head tipped, a ticking going on behind your left ear, twelve hours later strapped to a table you kind of wonder if he planned this. If he set you up.
Your mouth still tastes like him, in spite of the explosion, and already it’s becoming strange, unfamiliar.
You could wonder desperately what you’ve done, but the Sylar watch snapped back together before your eyes and you know exactly what you’ve done. What he did. You even know who Peter Petrelli is now, though no one else does and you won’t mention it.
He’s been locked away by your collective niece, who seems unphased by the two-different-same-uncles thing. But that’s perfectly all right.
Your neck clicks as you turn your head a little, the ticking getting ever louder. You don’t need him any more anyway.