Heroes: Beyond This Place of Wrath and Tears
Title: Beyond This Place of Wrath and Tears
Author: Desiree
Rating: PG 13
Spoilers: All seasons
Characters: Peter Petrelli, Sylar, with a cameo from Noah Bennett
Disclaimer: Sylar, Peter and co. are property of their respective creators...
Summary: The years behind the wall have left their mark, but Peter still has to decide what to do about his new found understanding out in the real world.
A/N: So this is the story I said I'd post sometime in Jan. Yeah, I know. Anyway, I think I mentioned, bits and pieces of this have been hibernating on my hard drive ever since the series' finale. I tried to pull them together into something cohesive, although I'm not sure how much I succeeded. In all honesty, this is more character exploration than fic with actual plot, b/c I kept asking myself if, realistically (as far as it goes) they really would wake up the best of friends with everything that stands between them. The answer (for me) is no, but I also think Peter might stick with Sylar regardless. Also, I might have retconned some facts about Sylar's regeneration, but honestly, I don't think the writer's put much thought into it when they decided he could just willfully displace his kill spot...
(...)
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
(...)
~Invictus, William Ernest Henley
When asked to quote Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, one of the first things that comes to mind is: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. An overused quote, but there is good reason for its popularity.
It was another quote from the same book, however, that would keep running through Peter's mind over and over again the following years.
oOo
He'd lost sight of Sylar pretty fast in the turmoil that had followed Claire's jump off the Ferris Wheel. The truth was, Peter hadn't gone out of his way to go looking for the other man. The bone deep conviction that Sylar wouldn't start another killing spree had made it easy to just leave.
For all that they'd found common ground in Sylar's prison, Peter didn't yet know where to go from there. Being stuck together in a nightmare was one thing - out here, in a world they'd left behind years ago, a world where their lives didn't just revolve around each other, he had trouble deciding on how to deal with a reformed Sylar.
oOo
His mother's dreams never lie - Sylar will save Emma, and hundreds of others by proxy. But Angela isn't wrong; with the killer there's always a price to pay.
Nevertheless.
Peter has been prepared to break Sylar out of the psychic prison Matt has him trapped in and deal with the consequences later. Spending an indefinite amount of time with his brother's killer as his only company? Not so much.
Peter isn't a cruel person by nature, though he can get spiteful on occasion. Those first few weeks in an uninhabited world 'spiteful' is a very apt description of Peter's emotional state; so is 'desperate, angry, frustrated.' So is 'petty.'
And he just doesn't want to deal with Sylar; he's not ready to admit yet that he'll have to.
So he hides.
Sylar goes looking for him at first, his shouts wheedling and desperate, pleading and furious in turns. And Peter doesn't feel guilty about it; not until later. Not until the next time Peter visits his brother's killer in his small space full of books, spare parts and watches and timepieces, taken apart and put together again and again.
For a few minutes, Peter just leans against the doorjamb and observes as the other man holds a wristwatch to his ear, concentrating on the mechanisms within (and how is it that Sylar still seems to have that intuition for how things work, when they lost all other powers in this place?).
Sylar's eyes keep flicking in his direction, emotions flitting across his features that Peter doesn't have the inclination to read, but the man makes no other move to acknowledge his visitor's presence.
“Are you ignoring me?” Peter snaps after another few minutes have gone by, grim annoyance quickly following the initial exasperation. “What, is this payback for avoiding you?”
Sylar's poker face isn't what it used to be. His fingers jerk on the watch he's inspecting, his heavy brows twitch in and out of a frown, his eyes keep sliding to Peter's form in the doorway. The man isn't exactly ignoring him, but he's obviously refusing to interact.
“Goddamn it, Sylar!”
The watch clatters to the table, and Peter has a moment of stunned disbelief as his adversary covers his ears with his hands, his face contorting into a mask of desolate rage.
A few swift strides take him across the room and, thoroughly fed up, he slaps Sylar's arms down, snarling, “Don't act like a fucking child!”
The response is immediate: wooden chair legs scrape over hardwood floor as the other man scrambles to get away from him, roaring, “Stay away from me! You're not real, you never were! You're not - “
In an unexpected, impulsive show of savageness, Peter lands a vicious uppercut on Sylar's chin, drawing blood from the corner of the man's lips with the force of his blow.
“That real enough for you?” he snaps, turning away and stalking out the way he came. The last thing he sees before leaving are Sylar's wide eyes and fingers coming away bloody from the cut on his mouth.
He doesn't go very far. Antagonizing Sylar isn't going to get them out of here; Peter just can't seem to help himself. But as he's pacing up and down the utterly empty street, an unbidden thought creeps up on him.
Three years.
It already feels like weeks to him, and unlike Sylar Peter knows what's happening. Sylar's claim suddenly doesn't seem so preposterous.
Three years.
Even convicts in solitary confinement have a bare minimum of social interaction, and there have long since been efforts to eliminate the procedure as a viable form of punishment because of adverse psychological effects. Some even consider it a form of torture.
There's an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach when he eventually makes his way back to Sylar's place. Something that almost feels like dread - almost feels like guilt.
A low, rhythmic sound reaches his ears before he even walks through the door. For a moment, Peter stops and stares, not quite sure what he ought to be feeling at the sight before him. His arch-nemesis is huddled on the floor in a small space that isn't stacked with books like the rest of the room, pressed against the floor to ceiling bookcase, clawing at his hair, banging his head against the shelf in his back over and over.
He doesn't want to feel pity for the man, but he does.
There's a small red smear on the wood that grows steadily larger.
“Okay, stop!”
The sight of the blood suddenly spurs Peter into action. He's kneeling in front of the pathetic form before he knows it, tries to stop cranial bone reconnecting with wood. It takes more effort than he expected. Sylar fights him, tries to get away, snarling and furious and silent and horribly inept without his powers to help him out. Peter's fingers get smashed between bone and wood, and Sylar will be sporting an impressive shiner some time soon, but eventually, Peter gets him to stop. Gets him to listen.
“You're not hallucinating! I'm not a product of your imagination, dammit!”
This time, it's not so easy to ignore the gamut of emotions written large across Sylar's expression, in his dark eyes. Desperate hope shines through the madness.
When the killer doesn't move, Peter lets go of his head and collapses next to him, back against the wooden shelf. He shoves a stack of books out of his way to make room and watches dispassionately as the pile comes tumbling down. Pressed against the other man's side, the position feels awkward and too close, but Peter doesn't move away. Sylar's eyes track him, stare at him, fathomless - those eyes always have been.
They're both panting.
“I came here to get you out, and I'm not leaving without you.”
The reassurance is as much for Sylar's benefit as a reminder to himself.
His brother's killer lets his head fall back, one last heavy thud against the blood stained wood. It looks more like resignation than anything else.
They stay like this for over an hour.
After that, Peter may give his fellow inmate the cold shoulder, may refuse to talk to him for weeks on end, may let himself be provoked to throw a punch, but he never stays deliberately out of sight again when Sylar is looking for him.
oOo
Angela didn't want to give him the files at first.
But Peter wanted answers, and he could be obnoxiously persistent if he set his mind to it.
He could have just asked Sylar himself, of course. Peter knew the man would have answered him honestly, but he also knew it wouldn't have been the answers he was looking for.
While Peter couldn't, wouldn't take away Sylar's culpability, absolve him of all responsibility, he did want a time-line, an outsider's point of view on the events that had led a gentle if socially awkward clockmaker to become the sort of monster Peter had had nightmares about for years. And he wouldn't get that from the man himself.
Not once during all their years in Matt's dream-scape had Sylar tried to place the blame for his actions at someone else's feet. He didn't blame his parents, or his upbringing, or the two Doctors Suresh; not Noah or the Company the man had been working for - and Peter knew they had to have had their fingers in there somewhere, there was no way a special like Gabriel Gray could have passed under their radar for long; not the one thing Peter would have had a hard time challenging without any kind of hypocrisy: the siren's call of Sylar's own innate ability.
In all their discussions, what Sylar had had to say about that boiled down to, “I couldn't control it - I didn't want to.”
No, Peter didn't want to take away Sylar's culpability, but from the bits and pieces he'd gleaned of the man's past, he was also pretty sure Sylar wasn't the only one responsible. If Gabriel Gray had been anything like the man Peter kept getting glimpses of beneath Sylar's veneer of arrogant confidence, he refused to believe his descent into madness had been a foregone conclusion; that there hadn't been opportunities to stop it if only someone had cared enough to help.
It didn't bring Peter any kind of satisfaction to learn that he was right about his assumptions when his mother finally gave in and gave him a copy of the salvaged company files he had been asking for.
oOo
Peter keeps finding himself spoiling for a fight. It doesn't help that Sylar is so persistent in his quest for forgiveness, that he sounds so sincere, seems so genuine that Peter almost wants to believe him. But the killer has always been good at playing games, at playing a part, and even if he is serious - he doesn't deserve forgiveness, much less redemption.
So Sylar's voice keeps grating on his nerves, and there's no escape from it. The other man keeps seeking him out. And Peter keeps losing it. It's little things mostly, and at first, Peter is sure Sylar is deliberately baiting him. But while there is that, too, Sylar only resorts to baiting these days if he is desperate to get a reaction out of Peter.
After a few months in this dystopic dream world, Peter gets the impression that, while he fakes it really well, Sylar doesn't truly understand social behavior or moral conventions. It's like he doesn't even realize how offensive the things are that come out of his mouth sometimes, and the surprise when Peter invariably snaps is genuine. Not that Peter takes it upon himself to educate him. Sylar's missteps in this fucked up dance they're forced to perform are a good excuse, and an excuse is all Peter needs nowadays.
It's the aftermath of one such fight; it's Peter who changes the steps on them.
Fittingly enough, they're on a rooftop again.
As most times, Peter's come out on top, literally, poised above the killer's prone form, fist ready to throw another punch, when he takes in the look in Sylar's wide eyes. Surprise, anger, humiliation; resignation, acceptance. Peter may have lost his original power, but he's still able to read emotions really well.
And suddenly, he's tired. His anger and hate, the furious helplessness that have sustained him all those long months now leave him feeling burned out, hollow. He lets his fist fall, lets his hands relax. Studies Sylar's bruised cheek and bloody lips and knows he'll find the matching counterparts on his own scraped knuckles.
Sylar watches him warily as Peter pushes off him, slumps down next to him and just lies there, panting.
“Has anyone ever told you that you can't fight for shit without your powers?” His voice sounds almost amiable.
By all rights, Sylar should be able to hold his own against Peter; he has the height advantage, ridiculously long limbs and quick enough reflexes. But while he doesn't make it easy, it's obvious he's never learned how to fight. Peter isn't exactly an accomplished fighter himself, but he's had his fair share of brawls and he's learned some new tricks ever since he can't rely on his powers anymore.
Suspicion is still etched in Sylar's expression as he answers grudgingly, “It has been remarked upon.”
“Yeah?” Idle curiosity makes him follow that up with, “By who?”
“Ah, Noah, around the time he slit my throat during the eclipse.”
The quiet laugh that escapes him is tinged with the beginnings of hysteria. “Jesus! You're like Michael Myers, you know that?”
“Who?”
Peter can clearly hear the confusion. He turns his head towards the other man and tries to jump-start his memory. “Michael Myers? The psychopathic serial killer from 'Halloween'?”
The way Sylar's brows furrow in utter befuddlement, Peter would have called almost endearing on any other person. “I'm not aware of any serial killings on Halloween.”
It's around this time that Peter first starts to doubt his own perception of one of Sylar's most irritating habits, reluctant and torn, because Nathan was the one who got him started on those movies, back when he was just barely a teenager and their mother would have had a fit if she had found out.
Sylar should be able to remember this. He pushes the thought away with a vengeance.
“Not Halloween, 'Halloween.' With Jamie Lee Curtis? No matter what you did to him, the guy never died. Or stayed dead, or whatever.”
Sylar's expression clears in understanding. “Ah. A movie.”
“Movies, plural. Horror movies to be exact. I can't believe you've never heard of them.”
“Not exactly my idea of time well spent.”
A careless scoff and derisive superiority, and suddenly, the anger is back.
“No,” Peter agrees, voice tight, flat. “That would be going on a killing spree of your very own.”
He makes to stand up, is almost on his feet when he feels long fingers circling his wrist.
“Peter, I'm sorry.”
Sylar's grip isn't tight; Peter breaks it easily.
“Don't. I don't wanna hear it.”
He straightens, takes a few steps with the intention to walk away, but something still keeps him here. He turns around, stomps back and sees his brother's killer sitting there, hunched in on himself, pathetic and forlorn, looking up at him with hopelessness and longing, as if Peter is his messiah, his salvation, and Peter can't deal with it. He turns away, reeling. There's so many things he wants to say to that man, so many accusations to heap at his feet, so much abuse he wants to hurl at him.
What makes it out of his mouth when he whirls around again is, “You know, I never got why you even needed Claire's ability. You survived a twenty feet fall, a hit with a parking meter that should have crushed your ribcage, a stab-wound to the chest. Sometimes I wonder if you can be killed at all.”
Desperation seeps into his gut again, anger and frustration. He feels like pleading, feels like being cruel. All things he never used to feel, not this intense, not before Sylar. The whiplash of emotions makes him dizzy.
Sylar stares up at him, still on the floor leaning back on his hands, and for once, after what feels like years, Peter can't read his expression. His voice is quiet when he speaks, soft in a way Peter has come to understand means he shares something honest, something he doesn't necessarily want to share. “I may have shifted the kill spot, Peter, but a small caliber bullet to the brain will kill me just as surely as anyone else.”
Because a small caliber bullet rarely leaves someone fatally injured unless it's a close range shot to the head; then it'll ricochet off the skull walls and turn the brain into mush.
It takes a long moment for the rest of the sentence to sink in. “You shifted the kill spot?” It still sounds wrong. “How? How is that even possible?”
Sylar shrugs awkwardly, tries to put words to an action that comes as natural to him as breathing. “The brain is adaptable,” he says. “Each area has specific functions, neural pathways formed for one specific purpose, but it's not static. If one area is incapacitated, another takes up the slack. And some things can just be taught.”
He's seen stroke patients having to steadily relearn the most basic procedures, talking, reading, writing, walking, because parts of their brains just died. In nursing school, Peter has heard of a young man who lost one half of his brain in an accident, and still went on to graduate from college. Sylar's account is nothing new to him.
“I know all that,” he replies impatiently. “But those are processes, they don't happen overnight. What I meant was, how can you consciously shift what is basically a vital function from one area of the brain to another? How does that even work?”
Sylar looks up at him, confounded and frustrated. “I...just...”
And Peter has a sudden epiphany. “You don't do it consciously, do you? It's the same with your powers, the way you take them, right? You may be able to see how it works, what makes us tick, but you can't really explain how your body adepts to that understanding, how you make those powers your own. I mean, this is the instinctive part of your ability, the part that you don't understand anymore than any of us understand how our abilities actually work.”
Sylar shifts uncomfortably, his unease at this lack of control over his own mind clear on display, but he doesn't disagree. Peter doesn't know why this unexpected insight should change anything between them. Nevertheless he feels something shift in his own mind. Maybe because for the first time, however precariously, they truly have something in common.
oOo
Nathan's memories are a continuous bone of contention between them.
It has taken Peter awhile - too long, to be honest - to figure out that Sylar can't help it. That assimilating his brother's memories isn't something that Sylar has chosen, but is, rather, something that has been done to him. As consequence he has little to no control over when those memories choose to surface. Peter can now tell it irritates Sylar just as much, but he still wishes the man would learn to keep his mouth shut.
He is pounding away at the wall, the heavy fall and impact of the sledgehammer resounding in his bones, when something occurs to him.
Sylar is watching him from the mouth of the alley, a constant shadow in his periphery, even if he doesn't always dare to get this close. The gaze out of those dark eyes is a steady weight on Peter's back, settling between his shoulder blades as a by now familiar pressure. He doesn't help Peter in his task, he never does. He doesn't see the point.
He's right, of course. No hammer in this world or any other will bring down this wall, but what else is Peter supposed to do?
“Tell me something about yourself,” he calls over his shoulder.
Over the steady tattoo of steel meeting brick, he hears the other man shuffling closer. “What?”
With a sigh, Peter lets his hammer sink. Heaving breaths, he leans his hot forehead to the warm wall for a moment, asking himself if he really wants to know. He's no closer to an answer when he pivots around to face his companion, but he repeats his request anyway, rough brick digging into his spine and the back of his head.
“Tell me about your childhood, your neighbors, your life. Anything.”
It's time for a break at any rate.
Sylar looks at him as if Peter's the crazy one, and maybe he is, he can't tell anymore. Really, what does it say about you when the only thing keeping you sane is the company of a mass murderer?
“Why?”
Peter slides down to sit on the bare asphalt of the street, leaning against the wall in his back. After a moment Sylar joins him there, the distance between them a carefully calculated arm's length - still too close for Peter's comfort, still too far away for a touch-starved Sylar. It's all about compromises these days.
He says, “Because I know hardly anything about your past, and I figure with,” when his breath catches, he forces himself to go on, “with Nathan's memories in your head, you know practically everything about me. It's only fair if I get to know something about you in return. You owe me that much.”
He owes a hell of a lot more. But Sylar hesitates, and for a moment Peter is sure he'll refuse.
“What do you want to know?” Sylar's voice is barely above a whisper when he acquiesces. He stares off into the distance when Peter rolls his head over to look at him, the far-off expression on his face laced with regret and sadness and dejection. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He makes for an almost peaceful picture, Peter thinks bitterly.
“Let's start with your parents,” he demands. “Who were they? What were they like?” Did they know what their son has become? Did they have a hand in the monster's making?
“My biological parents or my adopted parents?”
Peter glowers, suddenly pissed off again, and not just at the man beside him.
Almost as much as he despises the idea of keeping company with a murderer, he despises the fact that he has fallen for his mother's incomprehensible manipulations as thoroughly as Sylar himself - twice now, she has had them both believing they were brothers. But his mother is his mother and Sylar is Sylar, and Sylar has a way of making everyone around him act as irrational and insane as the man himself is.
“Sylar, we already established that Mom...”
But the other man interrupts him. “Oh, I don't mean her. Angela may have had us both fooled, but she was right on one account. The people who raised me were not my real parents.”
Peter's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You know who they are?” he prods curiously.
“I tracked my father down after Pinehearst,” Sylar divulges after a moment's pause. “He's like me. Same ability, same hunger for more.”
Sudden, cold dread starts to form at the base of Peter's spine. The world can't handle one man with Sylar's hunger. Two don't even bear thinking about. In the back of his mind, he can't help but wonder why this is the first time he's heard of another man with Gabriel Gray's dangerous, destructive ability.
Sylar, like the predator he is, senses his disquiet and finally turns his head to look Peter in the eye. “Oh, don't worry.” He snorts, disgust evident on his face, and Peter idly wonders about what put it there. “He's retired.”
“Retired.” It sounds like a euphemism, and knowing Sylar... “You killed him?” He tries to sound accusing, but his voice merely sounds tired in his own ears.
Sylar just looks at him for an endless moment. Looks through him. “I was tempted,” he finally confesses. What surprises Peter is the implication that Sylar held off. “He tried to kill me.” The tone of his voice strikes an unwilling chord in Peter. Resigned acceptance; vulnerability; it's become uncomfortably familiar. “He has lung cancer. He may already be dead.”
They let silence spread between them, but it doesn't last long. Peter's thoughts are a whirligig, and he's as unable as he is unwilling to reign in his curiosity, so he asks, “And your mother?”
Sylar doesn't answer, looks away again, and Peter watches his jaw work in profile. A different kind of dread coils in the pit of his stomach.
“Sylar?”
This time, the man answers, turning his head to look Peter dead in the eye, his own eyes dark roiling pits in the paleness of his face, voice hard and flat.
“He killed her before my eyes when I was about four years old, and then he sold me off to his brother and sister-in-law. I didn't even remember that until I found him.”
Abruptly feeling like his breath has been punched from his lungs, it's all Peter can do to stare at the man next to him. In an unconscious show of distress, Sylar's long legs have come up to fold against his chest, arms holding on to his own ribcage. He must have caught something in Peter's expression, because the next thing he says is, “Oh, don't look at me like that, Peter.”
Peter swallows. “How do I look at you?”
“Like you just figured me all out. Poor little Gabriel Gray, had to watch his father kill his mother. No wonder he turned out the way he did! It's patronizing, demeaning, and it's not what happened.”
“That's not - ” he struggles for words, unable to explain his reaction even to himself for a long few moments, because he is actually hurting for Sylar right now, and that can't be right. Peter doesn't want to feel sorry for the bastard, isn't yet ready for the realization that his brother's killer is a person he could sympathize with.
No, not for Sylar, he tells himself, not exactly, and that somehow makes it easier to accept.
Peter hurts for the child who had to bear witness to such cruelty, for four year old Gabriel Gray, innocent and full of possibilities, quite literally sold down the river by the man who should have protected him.
“No kid should have to watch something like this, Sylar!”
oOo
As he closed the file, a passage from Exupéry's The Little Prince came to his mind. Very deliberately exhaling, Peter rested his hands on the cardboard lid, pushed down his anger, and took a long moment to contemplate the words.
'Men have forgotten this truth. But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'
You were responsible for what you created, too, and 'Sylar' had been created as much by Gabriel Gray's own delusions as by scientific hubris, non-assistance, malevolent indifference, aiding and abetting - hell, if he had read it right, Noah had encouraged Elle to all but goad Gabriel into his second murder. It was a testament to how screwed up their lives had become that the only one taking responsibility for his own actions now was the unstable serial killer.
As for the things done to him - the experimentation, the torture he had suffered at the hands of the company doctors, the manipulations, having his mind purposely fractured to the point where he couldn't easily distinguish between his own memories and those of a superimposed personality... Noah, Claire, Mohinder, Matt, Peter's own mother, they all refused to even acknowledge that there were wrongs done at all.
Peter knew why, of course.
After all, Peter had tortured Sylar, too, had crucified him with a nail gun and invaded his mind against his will to bring back his brother and erase his killer from existence once and for all. That it hadn't worked didn't change the fact that he had felt justified in his actions then. Because Sylar was a monster, because he had killed his brother and so many more, because the world would be better off without him.
The truth was, their denial of the injustices inflicted wasn't only about Sylar. It was about what crimes any given person was capable of, how far they would bend their own moral integrity. He didn't know if he could ever bring himself to apologize for that night, but Sylar wasn't the only one who had changed during their captivity: Peter wasn't going to make up excuses for his own crimes any longer. Because whatever his intentions, Sylar hadn't forced his hand, not that time. What had happened on that roof top had been intentional, premeditated, and wholly Peter's choice, emotional, rash and half-baked as it might have been. He could acknowledge the cruelty of his actions now, how far he had been willing to go to deliberately inflict pain on another human being.
It was frightening to know that about one's self, to admit to that darkness inside.
oOo
The separation anxiety of the first few years has quieted down some. Sylar isn't Peter's constant shadow anymore, he ventures out for himself every once in a while.
When Peter goes looking for him, he finds him staring at the wall again, sitting on the pavement with his knees drawn up, long legs crossed at the ankles. A loose heap of gangly limbs and quiet reflection, looking nothing so much as a little boy lost. It's one of Sylar's most honest manifestations, and it disturbs and amazes Peter in equal measure how someone so wicked can look so innocent. It's also something Sylar can't fake; Peter's seen him try. Whenever he actively tries for that look, he invariably fails - there's always something giving him away.
He ambles up to the other man, sitting down a few paces behind him. Sylar's lean black-clad form is in stark contrast to the brick-red of the wall in front of him. Peter remembers closing his fingers around that pale neck, remembers incongruously fragile bones breaking like twigs in his hand. He's still learning he can't judge Sylar too harshly.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he breaks the silence. Sylar starts almost imperceptibly, so lost in his own mind he hasn't noticed Peter's approach, and it's a curious feeling, this implicit level of trust.
The years in this place have mellowed him. His initial obstinate and resentful defiance has long since been discarded. If he wants company, he seeks Sylar out; if he feels like talking, he strikes up a conversation. They still clash, still fight, but... their edges are being worn down.
Peter catches the edge of a sharp cheekbone, the fleeting impression of a dark eye underneath an equally dark brow as Sylar throws a short glance over his shoulder. “If you're right,” he says slowly, gaze riveted on the wall again, “if this world is all just a construct of my mind, I may be the one keeping us here.”
The idea isn't new to Peter. Parkman's judgment, Sylar's remorse, Peter's anger and fears, those are the bricks and mortar this wall is made of. He's sure Sylar's figured it out long ago, but maybe it's something he needs to verbalize.
“Because you think you deserve to be here?” Peter knows this to be true. The killer has said so before.
“No,” Sylar denies absentmindedly, then takes a moment to reconsider. “Well, yes, but it's more than that. I'm good, here. I'm sane, as much as I'll ever be. It's...safe. There's no temptation, nothing to envy, nothing to understand...”
And this, this is one of the reasons why Peter still has faith, why after years of fruitless attempts to break down the wall that keeps them here, he still clings to the hope to get out. Sylar isn't the cold, uncaring, arrogant monster he used to be; no, that's not entirely true - in some ways he's all that still, but he's learned to be afraid of himself; afraid of what he can do.
“I don't want to be that man again, Peter,” he goes on, “but I've never been good with temptation.”
Strange, how similar their fears have become.
Sylar is still resolutely facing the wall. Peter just sits there, watching, letting him find his words in his own pace. “If we get out of here, I'll help you save your friend. But you have to promise me something.”
Here, he twists around, the look in his eyes determined and unwavering as he holds Peter's gaze.
“What?”
He can't think of anything he's willing to promise to this man, but he's still curious what Sylar would want from him. The answer he gets floors him, leaves him unexpectedly short of breath and out of sorts.
“If I go back to who I was don't hesitate to pull the trigger.”
It takes him a few seconds to regain his composure, and he spends them staring back into Sylar's pleading, dark eyes. It costs him nothing to agree to that request - he's already made himself a similar promise. But to hear Sylar actually ask for this, to be put down like a rabid dog... it suddenly doesn't sit right with Peter.
Did anyone ever actually try to help? Outside of manipulating him into an asset, was there anyone to fight for his soul, for his humanity when it still could have made a difference? It shouldn't fall to Peter to help his brother's killer this late in the game, but who else is there? And when did he ever stop wanting to help?
“I'll promise you more than that.” A spur of the moment decision, but he can't bring himself to stop the words flowing out of his mouth. “When we get out of here, you won't be in this on your own anymore. I'll help you.”
The expression flickering over Sylar's face is a complicated mix of anger and disdain, and something else, too fleeting for Peter to grasp.
“Don't make promises you can't keep, Peter,” he admonishes, voice dark and low, as he pushes himself to his feet.
Peter finds himself reaching for a thin wrist when the man passes him by, holding him in place.
“Who says I won't keep it?”
“You won't.” Sylar just stands there, not looking at him, but neither trying to dislodge Peter's hold on him. “No one will help. I don't think there's anyone who can.”
Stung, and not entirely able to say why, Peter drops the bony wrist in his fingers as if burned and, words rife with sarcasm, snaps, “Wow, your faith in people is astounding.”
There's something weary in the other man's voice when he answers that seems out of place coming from the tall lanky figure looming over him. “It's not about faith. Just experience. This isn't the first time I've asked for help, Peter.”
With that, he takes his leave, and Peter doesn't try to stop him again.
It's not even the first time he's asked Peter to end his life, he realizes. But it's the first time Peter considers that the request - now and then - may have been serious. The thought puts a sudden heavy knot in his stomach.
oOo
He'd meant what he'd told Sylar just before they had been able to break through the wall. He didn't yet know how exactly he felt about it, but he had forgiven his brother's killer.
Still.
Forgiveness was a long way from anything else, didn't even mean he had to like the other man. Peter didn't owe Sylar anything, didn't need to stick around. He could walk away now with a clear conscience.
Only...
(You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.)
He still felt responsible. And he'd made a promise in that dream-scape, a promise the other man had simultaneously called him out on and absolved of. Did Peter really want to prove him right? Use Sylar for what he could do and then drop him, like Peter's own mother before, forget everything that brought them to this point? Would Peter be able to do that, even if he wanted to?
Hard to swallow though it was, Peter had come to trust Sylar in their years together. They weren't friends, but they were no longer enemies, either, and Peter - Peter had reluctantly started to feel comfortable in Sylar's presence. He admitted to himself now that he could easily learn to like the man emerging from Sylar's broken shell if he just allowed himself to let go of the history between them.
Only now that they were free did it occur to Peter that trust was a two way street.
Sylar did trust him but only to a point; in all the ways that usually mattered most to Peter, he held back, waiting to be betrayed again, because that's what people did.
So. Peter had yet to earn Sylar's trust.
It came as something of a surprise to him that he wanted to.
oOo
About two weeks after the events at the carnival Peter finally tracked Sylar down to Isaac's studio. Somehow, he had known it was either that or Mohinder's old apartment. Their paths always seemed to lead them back there eventually.
The mural on the floor was as foreboding as ever, and Sylar sat staring down at it, cross-legged on the elevated concrete floor right at the edge of the five-step metal stairs. His knees were drawn up, long arms hugging them loosely against his chest, and Peter had seen him sit like this before, often, in front of the wall that had held them captive in Parkman's prison. It struck a chord in Peter to see the man like this - pensive, vulnerable, lost - in the outside world.
“What are you doing here, Pete?”
Peter walked along the railing and plopped down beside his companion at the top of the stairs, heavily resting his arms on his knees.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
A frustrated huff sounded from his left.
“I didn't mean... Not here, not Isaac's loft - ”
“I know what you meant.”
Slowly rubbing his palms together, Peter didn't look at Sylar as he said, “You asked me a question down in Matt's basement that I never answered. The answer is it doesn't.” He slanted a look at the other man out of the corner of his eyes. Sylar was still looking down at the mural. “It doesn't make it any less real.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, and Peter suddenly realized he had missed this, missed the company. Sylar's quiet words eventually put an end to the moment.
“You're not responsible for me, Peter.”
Sighing, Peter looked up at the high ceiling. “Yes, I am.”
The other man was trying to cut him loose again from the promise he'd made, and Peter appreciated the gesture. But it just gave him that much more incentive to stick to it.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sylar twisting around to face him. Peter turned his head and caught the other man's eye, continuing quickly, firmly, “And I don't mind, Sylar. Gabriel. I made you a promise, and I don't intend to go back on it.”
“It's another world out here, Peter. It's not just you and me anymore. How long do you think your resolve will last once Ma Petrelli starts in on you. Or Claire.”
Peter was silent for a long moment. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't occurred to him.
“They'll just have to deal. Both Ma and Claire had their turns at trying to... tame you.” He studiously ignored Sylar's snort at that. “Now we'll try it my way. Just think of me as your probation officer.”
He was just trying to lighten the mood, but Sylar looked away, refused to meet his eyes as he muttered almost under his breath, “That's not how I want to think of you.”
Peter stared at him. Looked away, back down at the mural. Sighed.
“Yeah. Me either.”
A shrink would tell him that he - both of them, really - suffered from effects not unlike those of Stockholm Syndrome. Peter was aware of that. It didn't negate the things they had learned about each other, and as painful as the process had been, given the chance he wouldn't change any of it.
Truth was, these days he felt less anger at his brother's killer for his crimes and more guilt for wanting to let go of that anger, for enjoying his companionship. He didn't know if there ever would come a time when he would actually be able to call them friends, but the feeling wasn't far off.
They sat in silence once more, until Sylar asked, voice smaller than Peter had ever heard, “What am I going to do now?”
He'd need a place to stay. Work, if only to keep him occupied. ID. A clean record.
Turning him over to the authorities only fleetingly crossed Peter's mind. Sylar didn't belong in an ordinary prison, and as far as justice went - well, a special had taken matters into his own hands to play judge, jury and executioner and had sentenced Sylar to an eternity of solitary confinement - and Sylar had accepted that punishment. He'd gotten out on parole, so to speak, and maybe that wasn't what he deserved, but Peter wasn't about to renege a judgment he'd already doled out.
Others wouldn't see it that way, but they'd cross those bridges when they came to them.
The fight with his mother, at least, was all but won, the stack of files underneath his bed a tangible proof. She wouldn't be happy about it, but she would follow Peter's lead.
For now.
And if they could convince her that Sylar had finally gained control... Angela Petrelli was nothing if not a very pragmatic woman. And Sylar without a doubt had the potential to be their most powerful weapon. It rankled Peter to think in such terms, but he had long ago accepted that his mother did, and some people were just too valuable to get rid of.
“We'll figure something out.” Playfully, he bumped Sylar's shoulder with his own. “I'll bully Ma into helping. It's not like she's in any position to throw the first stone, and she knows it.”
Peter had to endure a few long seconds of Sylar's intense scrutiny. Then a tentative smile stole across the man's dark features. Peter returned it without a second's hesitation.
It may not have been what he would have chosen for himself eyes open, but he thought he was finally making peace with the position he'd been pushed into.
Because in the end, it came down to an older, much simpler truth:
Peter wanted to be needed. He wanted to make a difference.
The truth was:
No one had ever nor would ever need him as much as Sylar did.
oOo
His mother's house was too large for one resident and a handful of staff. Peter wondered how she could stand the echoing silence here.
Not that she didn't have company at the moment.
“So, how is your pet sociopath?”
It was a surprise - and then again not - that the first one to confront him about Sylar this day was Noah Bennett. For some reason, Peter had expected Claire to break first. But today his niece was stubbornly giving him the silent treatment, mouth a thin, tight line whenever she looked at him, and Sylar had been right, it hurt, but it was easier to bear than Peter would have imagined.
Instead, Claire took her frustration with him out on the next best target, arguing ferociously with Angela down the hall. There weren't any distinctive words to discern, but Peter was well able to fill in the blanks; Claire's furious outbreaks and the laden silences in between which were undoubtedly filled with his mother's calm, reasonable disputation were telling in and of themselves.
Peter didn't turn around from where he was standing in front of the large bay windows looking out at the terrace.
“He's not a sociopath.”
Another thing that had changed about him: he wasn't as easily riled anymore. His voice stayed calm as he answered, and it was Noah who struggled to keep his cool.
“I beg your pardon?” the man responded, quiet rage lacing his words. Claire's anger might burn bright, but her father's contained white-hot fury was the more dangerous kind of passion. “Do I really have to remind you of all that...”
Peter interrupted him before he could.
“The definition of a sociopath precludes someone from being able to feeling any compassion towards fellow human beings.”
“Right.” Noah scoffed, face twisted with disgust. “Because Gabriel has shown such compassion in the past.”
“But he has. On various occasions even before Matt trapped him in his own mind.” Peter himself had been the recipient of several such glimpses of humanity underneath the monster, and it had baffled him then, made him look for hidden agendas. That he hadn't found any only made Sylar's atrocities all the more horrifying. “Look, Noah,” he now sighed. “I'm not trying to excuse his crimes.”
“Well, good!” The man approached, stabbing an accusing forefinger in Peter's direction. “He's still a killer, no matter what he has you believing! My God, Peter! You of all people...”
“Me of all people?” Peter snapped, once again interrupting the older man mid-sentence. He wasn't as easily riled anymore, but he'd be lying if he said the Bennetts' constant nagging and his mother's silent condemnation weren't getting to him. And after studying the old Primatech files, he had a certain bone to pick with the former Company man.
“Tell me something, Noah,” he started, gritting the words out through clenched teeth as his own anger started to rise to the surface again. “As far as body counts go: just how far ahead of him are you? You think 'It's part of the job' is a better excuse than being psychologically unstable? I've seen both your files from back at the company!”
It was Peter who advanced now, muscles tightly coiled with tension. In the nightmare, Sylar used to back away from him when he was in this kind of mood. It surprised him to see that Noah was taking an unconscious step backwards as well. “Whatever you wish to believe, you had a part in the creation of Sylar! You and Elle, you both pushed him that last step off the deep end when he was reaching out for help!”
It took only a few seconds for Noah to regain his footing, all indignation and righteous anger.
“I am not responsible for Sylar's deeds!” he denied. “He made his own choices!”
And yes, that was all true, but - “So did you! What he did was wrong, but you don't have the moral high ground to judge him!”
The voices in the hall had gone silent. Peter didn't notice nor did he care, and neither, apparently, did Claire's father as he spat, “You always were an arrogant, righteous bastard, Peter. You two have that much in common, I'll give you that. It was always a dirty job, but someone had to do it. Anyway,” he motioned with his arm, encompassing the entire room and the world beyond, in one arrogant gesture, “we had to know what we were up against.”
“Right.” The smile suddenly stretching Peter's lips felt brittle and ugly, and it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You wanted to study his ability. And was it worth the price he and his victim's had to pay? Was he easier to study as an unwitting lab rat when he could have been a willing participant?” He scoffed, unable to hold back the helpless, infuriated incomprehension that had been eating at him ever since reading Noah's old reports. “You never did find out how his power works, did you?”
“So we made some mistakes along the way, I never said we didn't!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Claire and his mother standing in the door. Claire's eyes were wide with shock, her face pale, her eyes flitting between her father and uncle, clearly torn. She loved her father, and Peter didn't begrudge her that, but he doubted that she ever really let herself understand just what her father was capable of.
Although.
He had his own daddy issues, but maybe Claire saw her father more clearly than Peter had his own even all those years ago when he had been willing to testify against Arthur in court.
His mother, on the other hand, looked... she looked as if, for once, she'd listened. It was an encouraging development.
He didn't heed the women any more mind, however, when Noah went on, quieter now, but still with that same unwavering conviction and uncompromising hatred that made it so hard to argue with him, “It doesn't matter anymore. Sylar is a monster, and if you really think you have him leashed you're delusional! He may pretend he's changed, he may even believe it himself, but sooner or later he will be back to his old ways. And when that happens, his victims' blood will be on your hands!”
Of course, he might be a hypocrite, Peter acknowledged silently, as confident in his own belief as his adversary in his. Because, for all that Noah's concerns were very real, Peter didn't believe it would ever come to that. Not anymore. Or maybe, the better wording was: he didn't want to believe it would ever come to that again.
For good or bad, Peter had made a choice.
“Yeah, I guess it will.”
Only time could tell if he would come to regret it.
~The End
P.S.: Okay, seriously? The editing in this place has become a ridiculous effort, so if it still looks weird, it's because I stopped trying. Also, this is unbeta-ed, feel free to tell me if you caught something.
Author: Desiree
Rating: PG 13
Spoilers: All seasons
Characters: Peter Petrelli, Sylar, with a cameo from Noah Bennett
Disclaimer: Sylar, Peter and co. are property of their respective creators...
Summary: The years behind the wall have left their mark, but Peter still has to decide what to do about his new found understanding out in the real world.
A/N: So this is the story I said I'd post sometime in Jan. Yeah, I know. Anyway, I think I mentioned, bits and pieces of this have been hibernating on my hard drive ever since the series' finale. I tried to pull them together into something cohesive, although I'm not sure how much I succeeded. In all honesty, this is more character exploration than fic with actual plot, b/c I kept asking myself if, realistically (as far as it goes) they really would wake up the best of friends with everything that stands between them. The answer (for me) is no, but I also think Peter might stick with Sylar regardless. Also, I might have retconned some facts about Sylar's regeneration, but honestly, I don't think the writer's put much thought into it when they decided he could just willfully displace his kill spot...
(...)
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
(...)
~Invictus, William Ernest Henley
When asked to quote Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, one of the first things that comes to mind is: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. An overused quote, but there is good reason for its popularity.
It was another quote from the same book, however, that would keep running through Peter's mind over and over again the following years.
oOo
He'd lost sight of Sylar pretty fast in the turmoil that had followed Claire's jump off the Ferris Wheel. The truth was, Peter hadn't gone out of his way to go looking for the other man. The bone deep conviction that Sylar wouldn't start another killing spree had made it easy to just leave.
For all that they'd found common ground in Sylar's prison, Peter didn't yet know where to go from there. Being stuck together in a nightmare was one thing - out here, in a world they'd left behind years ago, a world where their lives didn't just revolve around each other, he had trouble deciding on how to deal with a reformed Sylar.
oOo
His mother's dreams never lie - Sylar will save Emma, and hundreds of others by proxy. But Angela isn't wrong; with the killer there's always a price to pay.
Nevertheless.
Peter has been prepared to break Sylar out of the psychic prison Matt has him trapped in and deal with the consequences later. Spending an indefinite amount of time with his brother's killer as his only company? Not so much.
Peter isn't a cruel person by nature, though he can get spiteful on occasion. Those first few weeks in an uninhabited world 'spiteful' is a very apt description of Peter's emotional state; so is 'desperate, angry, frustrated.' So is 'petty.'
And he just doesn't want to deal with Sylar; he's not ready to admit yet that he'll have to.
So he hides.
Sylar goes looking for him at first, his shouts wheedling and desperate, pleading and furious in turns. And Peter doesn't feel guilty about it; not until later. Not until the next time Peter visits his brother's killer in his small space full of books, spare parts and watches and timepieces, taken apart and put together again and again.
For a few minutes, Peter just leans against the doorjamb and observes as the other man holds a wristwatch to his ear, concentrating on the mechanisms within (and how is it that Sylar still seems to have that intuition for how things work, when they lost all other powers in this place?).
Sylar's eyes keep flicking in his direction, emotions flitting across his features that Peter doesn't have the inclination to read, but the man makes no other move to acknowledge his visitor's presence.
“Are you ignoring me?” Peter snaps after another few minutes have gone by, grim annoyance quickly following the initial exasperation. “What, is this payback for avoiding you?”
Sylar's poker face isn't what it used to be. His fingers jerk on the watch he's inspecting, his heavy brows twitch in and out of a frown, his eyes keep sliding to Peter's form in the doorway. The man isn't exactly ignoring him, but he's obviously refusing to interact.
“Goddamn it, Sylar!”
The watch clatters to the table, and Peter has a moment of stunned disbelief as his adversary covers his ears with his hands, his face contorting into a mask of desolate rage.
A few swift strides take him across the room and, thoroughly fed up, he slaps Sylar's arms down, snarling, “Don't act like a fucking child!”
The response is immediate: wooden chair legs scrape over hardwood floor as the other man scrambles to get away from him, roaring, “Stay away from me! You're not real, you never were! You're not - “
In an unexpected, impulsive show of savageness, Peter lands a vicious uppercut on Sylar's chin, drawing blood from the corner of the man's lips with the force of his blow.
“That real enough for you?” he snaps, turning away and stalking out the way he came. The last thing he sees before leaving are Sylar's wide eyes and fingers coming away bloody from the cut on his mouth.
He doesn't go very far. Antagonizing Sylar isn't going to get them out of here; Peter just can't seem to help himself. But as he's pacing up and down the utterly empty street, an unbidden thought creeps up on him.
Three years.
It already feels like weeks to him, and unlike Sylar Peter knows what's happening. Sylar's claim suddenly doesn't seem so preposterous.
Three years.
Even convicts in solitary confinement have a bare minimum of social interaction, and there have long since been efforts to eliminate the procedure as a viable form of punishment because of adverse psychological effects. Some even consider it a form of torture.
There's an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach when he eventually makes his way back to Sylar's place. Something that almost feels like dread - almost feels like guilt.
A low, rhythmic sound reaches his ears before he even walks through the door. For a moment, Peter stops and stares, not quite sure what he ought to be feeling at the sight before him. His arch-nemesis is huddled on the floor in a small space that isn't stacked with books like the rest of the room, pressed against the floor to ceiling bookcase, clawing at his hair, banging his head against the shelf in his back over and over.
He doesn't want to feel pity for the man, but he does.
There's a small red smear on the wood that grows steadily larger.
“Okay, stop!”
The sight of the blood suddenly spurs Peter into action. He's kneeling in front of the pathetic form before he knows it, tries to stop cranial bone reconnecting with wood. It takes more effort than he expected. Sylar fights him, tries to get away, snarling and furious and silent and horribly inept without his powers to help him out. Peter's fingers get smashed between bone and wood, and Sylar will be sporting an impressive shiner some time soon, but eventually, Peter gets him to stop. Gets him to listen.
“You're not hallucinating! I'm not a product of your imagination, dammit!”
This time, it's not so easy to ignore the gamut of emotions written large across Sylar's expression, in his dark eyes. Desperate hope shines through the madness.
When the killer doesn't move, Peter lets go of his head and collapses next to him, back against the wooden shelf. He shoves a stack of books out of his way to make room and watches dispassionately as the pile comes tumbling down. Pressed against the other man's side, the position feels awkward and too close, but Peter doesn't move away. Sylar's eyes track him, stare at him, fathomless - those eyes always have been.
They're both panting.
“I came here to get you out, and I'm not leaving without you.”
The reassurance is as much for Sylar's benefit as a reminder to himself.
His brother's killer lets his head fall back, one last heavy thud against the blood stained wood. It looks more like resignation than anything else.
They stay like this for over an hour.
After that, Peter may give his fellow inmate the cold shoulder, may refuse to talk to him for weeks on end, may let himself be provoked to throw a punch, but he never stays deliberately out of sight again when Sylar is looking for him.
oOo
Angela didn't want to give him the files at first.
But Peter wanted answers, and he could be obnoxiously persistent if he set his mind to it.
He could have just asked Sylar himself, of course. Peter knew the man would have answered him honestly, but he also knew it wouldn't have been the answers he was looking for.
While Peter couldn't, wouldn't take away Sylar's culpability, absolve him of all responsibility, he did want a time-line, an outsider's point of view on the events that had led a gentle if socially awkward clockmaker to become the sort of monster Peter had had nightmares about for years. And he wouldn't get that from the man himself.
Not once during all their years in Matt's dream-scape had Sylar tried to place the blame for his actions at someone else's feet. He didn't blame his parents, or his upbringing, or the two Doctors Suresh; not Noah or the Company the man had been working for - and Peter knew they had to have had their fingers in there somewhere, there was no way a special like Gabriel Gray could have passed under their radar for long; not the one thing Peter would have had a hard time challenging without any kind of hypocrisy: the siren's call of Sylar's own innate ability.
In all their discussions, what Sylar had had to say about that boiled down to, “I couldn't control it - I didn't want to.”
No, Peter didn't want to take away Sylar's culpability, but from the bits and pieces he'd gleaned of the man's past, he was also pretty sure Sylar wasn't the only one responsible. If Gabriel Gray had been anything like the man Peter kept getting glimpses of beneath Sylar's veneer of arrogant confidence, he refused to believe his descent into madness had been a foregone conclusion; that there hadn't been opportunities to stop it if only someone had cared enough to help.
It didn't bring Peter any kind of satisfaction to learn that he was right about his assumptions when his mother finally gave in and gave him a copy of the salvaged company files he had been asking for.
oOo
Peter keeps finding himself spoiling for a fight. It doesn't help that Sylar is so persistent in his quest for forgiveness, that he sounds so sincere, seems so genuine that Peter almost wants to believe him. But the killer has always been good at playing games, at playing a part, and even if he is serious - he doesn't deserve forgiveness, much less redemption.
So Sylar's voice keeps grating on his nerves, and there's no escape from it. The other man keeps seeking him out. And Peter keeps losing it. It's little things mostly, and at first, Peter is sure Sylar is deliberately baiting him. But while there is that, too, Sylar only resorts to baiting these days if he is desperate to get a reaction out of Peter.
After a few months in this dystopic dream world, Peter gets the impression that, while he fakes it really well, Sylar doesn't truly understand social behavior or moral conventions. It's like he doesn't even realize how offensive the things are that come out of his mouth sometimes, and the surprise when Peter invariably snaps is genuine. Not that Peter takes it upon himself to educate him. Sylar's missteps in this fucked up dance they're forced to perform are a good excuse, and an excuse is all Peter needs nowadays.
It's the aftermath of one such fight; it's Peter who changes the steps on them.
Fittingly enough, they're on a rooftop again.
As most times, Peter's come out on top, literally, poised above the killer's prone form, fist ready to throw another punch, when he takes in the look in Sylar's wide eyes. Surprise, anger, humiliation; resignation, acceptance. Peter may have lost his original power, but he's still able to read emotions really well.
And suddenly, he's tired. His anger and hate, the furious helplessness that have sustained him all those long months now leave him feeling burned out, hollow. He lets his fist fall, lets his hands relax. Studies Sylar's bruised cheek and bloody lips and knows he'll find the matching counterparts on his own scraped knuckles.
Sylar watches him warily as Peter pushes off him, slumps down next to him and just lies there, panting.
“Has anyone ever told you that you can't fight for shit without your powers?” His voice sounds almost amiable.
By all rights, Sylar should be able to hold his own against Peter; he has the height advantage, ridiculously long limbs and quick enough reflexes. But while he doesn't make it easy, it's obvious he's never learned how to fight. Peter isn't exactly an accomplished fighter himself, but he's had his fair share of brawls and he's learned some new tricks ever since he can't rely on his powers anymore.
Suspicion is still etched in Sylar's expression as he answers grudgingly, “It has been remarked upon.”
“Yeah?” Idle curiosity makes him follow that up with, “By who?”
“Ah, Noah, around the time he slit my throat during the eclipse.”
The quiet laugh that escapes him is tinged with the beginnings of hysteria. “Jesus! You're like Michael Myers, you know that?”
“Who?”
Peter can clearly hear the confusion. He turns his head towards the other man and tries to jump-start his memory. “Michael Myers? The psychopathic serial killer from 'Halloween'?”
The way Sylar's brows furrow in utter befuddlement, Peter would have called almost endearing on any other person. “I'm not aware of any serial killings on Halloween.”
It's around this time that Peter first starts to doubt his own perception of one of Sylar's most irritating habits, reluctant and torn, because Nathan was the one who got him started on those movies, back when he was just barely a teenager and their mother would have had a fit if she had found out.
Sylar should be able to remember this. He pushes the thought away with a vengeance.
“Not Halloween, 'Halloween.' With Jamie Lee Curtis? No matter what you did to him, the guy never died. Or stayed dead, or whatever.”
Sylar's expression clears in understanding. “Ah. A movie.”
“Movies, plural. Horror movies to be exact. I can't believe you've never heard of them.”
“Not exactly my idea of time well spent.”
A careless scoff and derisive superiority, and suddenly, the anger is back.
“No,” Peter agrees, voice tight, flat. “That would be going on a killing spree of your very own.”
He makes to stand up, is almost on his feet when he feels long fingers circling his wrist.
“Peter, I'm sorry.”
Sylar's grip isn't tight; Peter breaks it easily.
“Don't. I don't wanna hear it.”
He straightens, takes a few steps with the intention to walk away, but something still keeps him here. He turns around, stomps back and sees his brother's killer sitting there, hunched in on himself, pathetic and forlorn, looking up at him with hopelessness and longing, as if Peter is his messiah, his salvation, and Peter can't deal with it. He turns away, reeling. There's so many things he wants to say to that man, so many accusations to heap at his feet, so much abuse he wants to hurl at him.
What makes it out of his mouth when he whirls around again is, “You know, I never got why you even needed Claire's ability. You survived a twenty feet fall, a hit with a parking meter that should have crushed your ribcage, a stab-wound to the chest. Sometimes I wonder if you can be killed at all.”
Desperation seeps into his gut again, anger and frustration. He feels like pleading, feels like being cruel. All things he never used to feel, not this intense, not before Sylar. The whiplash of emotions makes him dizzy.
Sylar stares up at him, still on the floor leaning back on his hands, and for once, after what feels like years, Peter can't read his expression. His voice is quiet when he speaks, soft in a way Peter has come to understand means he shares something honest, something he doesn't necessarily want to share. “I may have shifted the kill spot, Peter, but a small caliber bullet to the brain will kill me just as surely as anyone else.”
Because a small caliber bullet rarely leaves someone fatally injured unless it's a close range shot to the head; then it'll ricochet off the skull walls and turn the brain into mush.
It takes a long moment for the rest of the sentence to sink in. “You shifted the kill spot?” It still sounds wrong. “How? How is that even possible?”
Sylar shrugs awkwardly, tries to put words to an action that comes as natural to him as breathing. “The brain is adaptable,” he says. “Each area has specific functions, neural pathways formed for one specific purpose, but it's not static. If one area is incapacitated, another takes up the slack. And some things can just be taught.”
He's seen stroke patients having to steadily relearn the most basic procedures, talking, reading, writing, walking, because parts of their brains just died. In nursing school, Peter has heard of a young man who lost one half of his brain in an accident, and still went on to graduate from college. Sylar's account is nothing new to him.
“I know all that,” he replies impatiently. “But those are processes, they don't happen overnight. What I meant was, how can you consciously shift what is basically a vital function from one area of the brain to another? How does that even work?”
Sylar looks up at him, confounded and frustrated. “I...just...”
And Peter has a sudden epiphany. “You don't do it consciously, do you? It's the same with your powers, the way you take them, right? You may be able to see how it works, what makes us tick, but you can't really explain how your body adepts to that understanding, how you make those powers your own. I mean, this is the instinctive part of your ability, the part that you don't understand anymore than any of us understand how our abilities actually work.”
Sylar shifts uncomfortably, his unease at this lack of control over his own mind clear on display, but he doesn't disagree. Peter doesn't know why this unexpected insight should change anything between them. Nevertheless he feels something shift in his own mind. Maybe because for the first time, however precariously, they truly have something in common.
oOo
Nathan's memories are a continuous bone of contention between them.
It has taken Peter awhile - too long, to be honest - to figure out that Sylar can't help it. That assimilating his brother's memories isn't something that Sylar has chosen, but is, rather, something that has been done to him. As consequence he has little to no control over when those memories choose to surface. Peter can now tell it irritates Sylar just as much, but he still wishes the man would learn to keep his mouth shut.
He is pounding away at the wall, the heavy fall and impact of the sledgehammer resounding in his bones, when something occurs to him.
Sylar is watching him from the mouth of the alley, a constant shadow in his periphery, even if he doesn't always dare to get this close. The gaze out of those dark eyes is a steady weight on Peter's back, settling between his shoulder blades as a by now familiar pressure. He doesn't help Peter in his task, he never does. He doesn't see the point.
He's right, of course. No hammer in this world or any other will bring down this wall, but what else is Peter supposed to do?
“Tell me something about yourself,” he calls over his shoulder.
Over the steady tattoo of steel meeting brick, he hears the other man shuffling closer. “What?”
With a sigh, Peter lets his hammer sink. Heaving breaths, he leans his hot forehead to the warm wall for a moment, asking himself if he really wants to know. He's no closer to an answer when he pivots around to face his companion, but he repeats his request anyway, rough brick digging into his spine and the back of his head.
“Tell me about your childhood, your neighbors, your life. Anything.”
It's time for a break at any rate.
Sylar looks at him as if Peter's the crazy one, and maybe he is, he can't tell anymore. Really, what does it say about you when the only thing keeping you sane is the company of a mass murderer?
“Why?”
Peter slides down to sit on the bare asphalt of the street, leaning against the wall in his back. After a moment Sylar joins him there, the distance between them a carefully calculated arm's length - still too close for Peter's comfort, still too far away for a touch-starved Sylar. It's all about compromises these days.
He says, “Because I know hardly anything about your past, and I figure with,” when his breath catches, he forces himself to go on, “with Nathan's memories in your head, you know practically everything about me. It's only fair if I get to know something about you in return. You owe me that much.”
He owes a hell of a lot more. But Sylar hesitates, and for a moment Peter is sure he'll refuse.
“What do you want to know?” Sylar's voice is barely above a whisper when he acquiesces. He stares off into the distance when Peter rolls his head over to look at him, the far-off expression on his face laced with regret and sadness and dejection. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. He makes for an almost peaceful picture, Peter thinks bitterly.
“Let's start with your parents,” he demands. “Who were they? What were they like?” Did they know what their son has become? Did they have a hand in the monster's making?
“My biological parents or my adopted parents?”
Peter glowers, suddenly pissed off again, and not just at the man beside him.
Almost as much as he despises the idea of keeping company with a murderer, he despises the fact that he has fallen for his mother's incomprehensible manipulations as thoroughly as Sylar himself - twice now, she has had them both believing they were brothers. But his mother is his mother and Sylar is Sylar, and Sylar has a way of making everyone around him act as irrational and insane as the man himself is.
“Sylar, we already established that Mom...”
But the other man interrupts him. “Oh, I don't mean her. Angela may have had us both fooled, but she was right on one account. The people who raised me were not my real parents.”
Peter's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You know who they are?” he prods curiously.
“I tracked my father down after Pinehearst,” Sylar divulges after a moment's pause. “He's like me. Same ability, same hunger for more.”
Sudden, cold dread starts to form at the base of Peter's spine. The world can't handle one man with Sylar's hunger. Two don't even bear thinking about. In the back of his mind, he can't help but wonder why this is the first time he's heard of another man with Gabriel Gray's dangerous, destructive ability.
Sylar, like the predator he is, senses his disquiet and finally turns his head to look Peter in the eye. “Oh, don't worry.” He snorts, disgust evident on his face, and Peter idly wonders about what put it there. “He's retired.”
“Retired.” It sounds like a euphemism, and knowing Sylar... “You killed him?” He tries to sound accusing, but his voice merely sounds tired in his own ears.
Sylar just looks at him for an endless moment. Looks through him. “I was tempted,” he finally confesses. What surprises Peter is the implication that Sylar held off. “He tried to kill me.” The tone of his voice strikes an unwilling chord in Peter. Resigned acceptance; vulnerability; it's become uncomfortably familiar. “He has lung cancer. He may already be dead.”
They let silence spread between them, but it doesn't last long. Peter's thoughts are a whirligig, and he's as unable as he is unwilling to reign in his curiosity, so he asks, “And your mother?”
Sylar doesn't answer, looks away again, and Peter watches his jaw work in profile. A different kind of dread coils in the pit of his stomach.
“Sylar?”
This time, the man answers, turning his head to look Peter dead in the eye, his own eyes dark roiling pits in the paleness of his face, voice hard and flat.
“He killed her before my eyes when I was about four years old, and then he sold me off to his brother and sister-in-law. I didn't even remember that until I found him.”
Abruptly feeling like his breath has been punched from his lungs, it's all Peter can do to stare at the man next to him. In an unconscious show of distress, Sylar's long legs have come up to fold against his chest, arms holding on to his own ribcage. He must have caught something in Peter's expression, because the next thing he says is, “Oh, don't look at me like that, Peter.”
Peter swallows. “How do I look at you?”
“Like you just figured me all out. Poor little Gabriel Gray, had to watch his father kill his mother. No wonder he turned out the way he did! It's patronizing, demeaning, and it's not what happened.”
“That's not - ” he struggles for words, unable to explain his reaction even to himself for a long few moments, because he is actually hurting for Sylar right now, and that can't be right. Peter doesn't want to feel sorry for the bastard, isn't yet ready for the realization that his brother's killer is a person he could sympathize with.
No, not for Sylar, he tells himself, not exactly, and that somehow makes it easier to accept.
Peter hurts for the child who had to bear witness to such cruelty, for four year old Gabriel Gray, innocent and full of possibilities, quite literally sold down the river by the man who should have protected him.
“No kid should have to watch something like this, Sylar!”
oOo
As he closed the file, a passage from Exupéry's The Little Prince came to his mind. Very deliberately exhaling, Peter rested his hands on the cardboard lid, pushed down his anger, and took a long moment to contemplate the words.
'Men have forgotten this truth. But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'
You were responsible for what you created, too, and 'Sylar' had been created as much by Gabriel Gray's own delusions as by scientific hubris, non-assistance, malevolent indifference, aiding and abetting - hell, if he had read it right, Noah had encouraged Elle to all but goad Gabriel into his second murder. It was a testament to how screwed up their lives had become that the only one taking responsibility for his own actions now was the unstable serial killer.
As for the things done to him - the experimentation, the torture he had suffered at the hands of the company doctors, the manipulations, having his mind purposely fractured to the point where he couldn't easily distinguish between his own memories and those of a superimposed personality... Noah, Claire, Mohinder, Matt, Peter's own mother, they all refused to even acknowledge that there were wrongs done at all.
Peter knew why, of course.
After all, Peter had tortured Sylar, too, had crucified him with a nail gun and invaded his mind against his will to bring back his brother and erase his killer from existence once and for all. That it hadn't worked didn't change the fact that he had felt justified in his actions then. Because Sylar was a monster, because he had killed his brother and so many more, because the world would be better off without him.
The truth was, their denial of the injustices inflicted wasn't only about Sylar. It was about what crimes any given person was capable of, how far they would bend their own moral integrity. He didn't know if he could ever bring himself to apologize for that night, but Sylar wasn't the only one who had changed during their captivity: Peter wasn't going to make up excuses for his own crimes any longer. Because whatever his intentions, Sylar hadn't forced his hand, not that time. What had happened on that roof top had been intentional, premeditated, and wholly Peter's choice, emotional, rash and half-baked as it might have been. He could acknowledge the cruelty of his actions now, how far he had been willing to go to deliberately inflict pain on another human being.
It was frightening to know that about one's self, to admit to that darkness inside.
oOo
The separation anxiety of the first few years has quieted down some. Sylar isn't Peter's constant shadow anymore, he ventures out for himself every once in a while.
When Peter goes looking for him, he finds him staring at the wall again, sitting on the pavement with his knees drawn up, long legs crossed at the ankles. A loose heap of gangly limbs and quiet reflection, looking nothing so much as a little boy lost. It's one of Sylar's most honest manifestations, and it disturbs and amazes Peter in equal measure how someone so wicked can look so innocent. It's also something Sylar can't fake; Peter's seen him try. Whenever he actively tries for that look, he invariably fails - there's always something giving him away.
He ambles up to the other man, sitting down a few paces behind him. Sylar's lean black-clad form is in stark contrast to the brick-red of the wall in front of him. Peter remembers closing his fingers around that pale neck, remembers incongruously fragile bones breaking like twigs in his hand. He's still learning he can't judge Sylar too harshly.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he breaks the silence. Sylar starts almost imperceptibly, so lost in his own mind he hasn't noticed Peter's approach, and it's a curious feeling, this implicit level of trust.
The years in this place have mellowed him. His initial obstinate and resentful defiance has long since been discarded. If he wants company, he seeks Sylar out; if he feels like talking, he strikes up a conversation. They still clash, still fight, but... their edges are being worn down.
Peter catches the edge of a sharp cheekbone, the fleeting impression of a dark eye underneath an equally dark brow as Sylar throws a short glance over his shoulder. “If you're right,” he says slowly, gaze riveted on the wall again, “if this world is all just a construct of my mind, I may be the one keeping us here.”
The idea isn't new to Peter. Parkman's judgment, Sylar's remorse, Peter's anger and fears, those are the bricks and mortar this wall is made of. He's sure Sylar's figured it out long ago, but maybe it's something he needs to verbalize.
“Because you think you deserve to be here?” Peter knows this to be true. The killer has said so before.
“No,” Sylar denies absentmindedly, then takes a moment to reconsider. “Well, yes, but it's more than that. I'm good, here. I'm sane, as much as I'll ever be. It's...safe. There's no temptation, nothing to envy, nothing to understand...”
And this, this is one of the reasons why Peter still has faith, why after years of fruitless attempts to break down the wall that keeps them here, he still clings to the hope to get out. Sylar isn't the cold, uncaring, arrogant monster he used to be; no, that's not entirely true - in some ways he's all that still, but he's learned to be afraid of himself; afraid of what he can do.
“I don't want to be that man again, Peter,” he goes on, “but I've never been good with temptation.”
Strange, how similar their fears have become.
Sylar is still resolutely facing the wall. Peter just sits there, watching, letting him find his words in his own pace. “If we get out of here, I'll help you save your friend. But you have to promise me something.”
Here, he twists around, the look in his eyes determined and unwavering as he holds Peter's gaze.
“What?”
He can't think of anything he's willing to promise to this man, but he's still curious what Sylar would want from him. The answer he gets floors him, leaves him unexpectedly short of breath and out of sorts.
“If I go back to who I was don't hesitate to pull the trigger.”
It takes him a few seconds to regain his composure, and he spends them staring back into Sylar's pleading, dark eyes. It costs him nothing to agree to that request - he's already made himself a similar promise. But to hear Sylar actually ask for this, to be put down like a rabid dog... it suddenly doesn't sit right with Peter.
Did anyone ever actually try to help? Outside of manipulating him into an asset, was there anyone to fight for his soul, for his humanity when it still could have made a difference? It shouldn't fall to Peter to help his brother's killer this late in the game, but who else is there? And when did he ever stop wanting to help?
“I'll promise you more than that.” A spur of the moment decision, but he can't bring himself to stop the words flowing out of his mouth. “When we get out of here, you won't be in this on your own anymore. I'll help you.”
The expression flickering over Sylar's face is a complicated mix of anger and disdain, and something else, too fleeting for Peter to grasp.
“Don't make promises you can't keep, Peter,” he admonishes, voice dark and low, as he pushes himself to his feet.
Peter finds himself reaching for a thin wrist when the man passes him by, holding him in place.
“Who says I won't keep it?”
“You won't.” Sylar just stands there, not looking at him, but neither trying to dislodge Peter's hold on him. “No one will help. I don't think there's anyone who can.”
Stung, and not entirely able to say why, Peter drops the bony wrist in his fingers as if burned and, words rife with sarcasm, snaps, “Wow, your faith in people is astounding.”
There's something weary in the other man's voice when he answers that seems out of place coming from the tall lanky figure looming over him. “It's not about faith. Just experience. This isn't the first time I've asked for help, Peter.”
With that, he takes his leave, and Peter doesn't try to stop him again.
It's not even the first time he's asked Peter to end his life, he realizes. But it's the first time Peter considers that the request - now and then - may have been serious. The thought puts a sudden heavy knot in his stomach.
oOo
He'd meant what he'd told Sylar just before they had been able to break through the wall. He didn't yet know how exactly he felt about it, but he had forgiven his brother's killer.
Still.
Forgiveness was a long way from anything else, didn't even mean he had to like the other man. Peter didn't owe Sylar anything, didn't need to stick around. He could walk away now with a clear conscience.
Only...
(You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.)
He still felt responsible. And he'd made a promise in that dream-scape, a promise the other man had simultaneously called him out on and absolved of. Did Peter really want to prove him right? Use Sylar for what he could do and then drop him, like Peter's own mother before, forget everything that brought them to this point? Would Peter be able to do that, even if he wanted to?
Hard to swallow though it was, Peter had come to trust Sylar in their years together. They weren't friends, but they were no longer enemies, either, and Peter - Peter had reluctantly started to feel comfortable in Sylar's presence. He admitted to himself now that he could easily learn to like the man emerging from Sylar's broken shell if he just allowed himself to let go of the history between them.
Only now that they were free did it occur to Peter that trust was a two way street.
Sylar did trust him but only to a point; in all the ways that usually mattered most to Peter, he held back, waiting to be betrayed again, because that's what people did.
So. Peter had yet to earn Sylar's trust.
It came as something of a surprise to him that he wanted to.
oOo
About two weeks after the events at the carnival Peter finally tracked Sylar down to Isaac's studio. Somehow, he had known it was either that or Mohinder's old apartment. Their paths always seemed to lead them back there eventually.
The mural on the floor was as foreboding as ever, and Sylar sat staring down at it, cross-legged on the elevated concrete floor right at the edge of the five-step metal stairs. His knees were drawn up, long arms hugging them loosely against his chest, and Peter had seen him sit like this before, often, in front of the wall that had held them captive in Parkman's prison. It struck a chord in Peter to see the man like this - pensive, vulnerable, lost - in the outside world.
“What are you doing here, Pete?”
Peter walked along the railing and plopped down beside his companion at the top of the stairs, heavily resting his arms on his knees.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
A frustrated huff sounded from his left.
“I didn't mean... Not here, not Isaac's loft - ”
“I know what you meant.”
Slowly rubbing his palms together, Peter didn't look at Sylar as he said, “You asked me a question down in Matt's basement that I never answered. The answer is it doesn't.” He slanted a look at the other man out of the corner of his eyes. Sylar was still looking down at the mural. “It doesn't make it any less real.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, and Peter suddenly realized he had missed this, missed the company. Sylar's quiet words eventually put an end to the moment.
“You're not responsible for me, Peter.”
Sighing, Peter looked up at the high ceiling. “Yes, I am.”
The other man was trying to cut him loose again from the promise he'd made, and Peter appreciated the gesture. But it just gave him that much more incentive to stick to it.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sylar twisting around to face him. Peter turned his head and caught the other man's eye, continuing quickly, firmly, “And I don't mind, Sylar. Gabriel. I made you a promise, and I don't intend to go back on it.”
“It's another world out here, Peter. It's not just you and me anymore. How long do you think your resolve will last once Ma Petrelli starts in on you. Or Claire.”
Peter was silent for a long moment. It wasn't as if the thought hadn't occurred to him.
“They'll just have to deal. Both Ma and Claire had their turns at trying to... tame you.” He studiously ignored Sylar's snort at that. “Now we'll try it my way. Just think of me as your probation officer.”
He was just trying to lighten the mood, but Sylar looked away, refused to meet his eyes as he muttered almost under his breath, “That's not how I want to think of you.”
Peter stared at him. Looked away, back down at the mural. Sighed.
“Yeah. Me either.”
A shrink would tell him that he - both of them, really - suffered from effects not unlike those of Stockholm Syndrome. Peter was aware of that. It didn't negate the things they had learned about each other, and as painful as the process had been, given the chance he wouldn't change any of it.
Truth was, these days he felt less anger at his brother's killer for his crimes and more guilt for wanting to let go of that anger, for enjoying his companionship. He didn't know if there ever would come a time when he would actually be able to call them friends, but the feeling wasn't far off.
They sat in silence once more, until Sylar asked, voice smaller than Peter had ever heard, “What am I going to do now?”
He'd need a place to stay. Work, if only to keep him occupied. ID. A clean record.
Turning him over to the authorities only fleetingly crossed Peter's mind. Sylar didn't belong in an ordinary prison, and as far as justice went - well, a special had taken matters into his own hands to play judge, jury and executioner and had sentenced Sylar to an eternity of solitary confinement - and Sylar had accepted that punishment. He'd gotten out on parole, so to speak, and maybe that wasn't what he deserved, but Peter wasn't about to renege a judgment he'd already doled out.
Others wouldn't see it that way, but they'd cross those bridges when they came to them.
The fight with his mother, at least, was all but won, the stack of files underneath his bed a tangible proof. She wouldn't be happy about it, but she would follow Peter's lead.
For now.
And if they could convince her that Sylar had finally gained control... Angela Petrelli was nothing if not a very pragmatic woman. And Sylar without a doubt had the potential to be their most powerful weapon. It rankled Peter to think in such terms, but he had long ago accepted that his mother did, and some people were just too valuable to get rid of.
“We'll figure something out.” Playfully, he bumped Sylar's shoulder with his own. “I'll bully Ma into helping. It's not like she's in any position to throw the first stone, and she knows it.”
Peter had to endure a few long seconds of Sylar's intense scrutiny. Then a tentative smile stole across the man's dark features. Peter returned it without a second's hesitation.
It may not have been what he would have chosen for himself eyes open, but he thought he was finally making peace with the position he'd been pushed into.
Because in the end, it came down to an older, much simpler truth:
Peter wanted to be needed. He wanted to make a difference.
The truth was:
No one had ever nor would ever need him as much as Sylar did.
oOo
His mother's house was too large for one resident and a handful of staff. Peter wondered how she could stand the echoing silence here.
Not that she didn't have company at the moment.
“So, how is your pet sociopath?”
It was a surprise - and then again not - that the first one to confront him about Sylar this day was Noah Bennett. For some reason, Peter had expected Claire to break first. But today his niece was stubbornly giving him the silent treatment, mouth a thin, tight line whenever she looked at him, and Sylar had been right, it hurt, but it was easier to bear than Peter would have imagined.
Instead, Claire took her frustration with him out on the next best target, arguing ferociously with Angela down the hall. There weren't any distinctive words to discern, but Peter was well able to fill in the blanks; Claire's furious outbreaks and the laden silences in between which were undoubtedly filled with his mother's calm, reasonable disputation were telling in and of themselves.
Peter didn't turn around from where he was standing in front of the large bay windows looking out at the terrace.
“He's not a sociopath.”
Another thing that had changed about him: he wasn't as easily riled anymore. His voice stayed calm as he answered, and it was Noah who struggled to keep his cool.
“I beg your pardon?” the man responded, quiet rage lacing his words. Claire's anger might burn bright, but her father's contained white-hot fury was the more dangerous kind of passion. “Do I really have to remind you of all that...”
Peter interrupted him before he could.
“The definition of a sociopath precludes someone from being able to feeling any compassion towards fellow human beings.”
“Right.” Noah scoffed, face twisted with disgust. “Because Gabriel has shown such compassion in the past.”
“But he has. On various occasions even before Matt trapped him in his own mind.” Peter himself had been the recipient of several such glimpses of humanity underneath the monster, and it had baffled him then, made him look for hidden agendas. That he hadn't found any only made Sylar's atrocities all the more horrifying. “Look, Noah,” he now sighed. “I'm not trying to excuse his crimes.”
“Well, good!” The man approached, stabbing an accusing forefinger in Peter's direction. “He's still a killer, no matter what he has you believing! My God, Peter! You of all people...”
“Me of all people?” Peter snapped, once again interrupting the older man mid-sentence. He wasn't as easily riled anymore, but he'd be lying if he said the Bennetts' constant nagging and his mother's silent condemnation weren't getting to him. And after studying the old Primatech files, he had a certain bone to pick with the former Company man.
“Tell me something, Noah,” he started, gritting the words out through clenched teeth as his own anger started to rise to the surface again. “As far as body counts go: just how far ahead of him are you? You think 'It's part of the job' is a better excuse than being psychologically unstable? I've seen both your files from back at the company!”
It was Peter who advanced now, muscles tightly coiled with tension. In the nightmare, Sylar used to back away from him when he was in this kind of mood. It surprised him to see that Noah was taking an unconscious step backwards as well. “Whatever you wish to believe, you had a part in the creation of Sylar! You and Elle, you both pushed him that last step off the deep end when he was reaching out for help!”
It took only a few seconds for Noah to regain his footing, all indignation and righteous anger.
“I am not responsible for Sylar's deeds!” he denied. “He made his own choices!”
And yes, that was all true, but - “So did you! What he did was wrong, but you don't have the moral high ground to judge him!”
The voices in the hall had gone silent. Peter didn't notice nor did he care, and neither, apparently, did Claire's father as he spat, “You always were an arrogant, righteous bastard, Peter. You two have that much in common, I'll give you that. It was always a dirty job, but someone had to do it. Anyway,” he motioned with his arm, encompassing the entire room and the world beyond, in one arrogant gesture, “we had to know what we were up against.”
“Right.” The smile suddenly stretching Peter's lips felt brittle and ugly, and it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You wanted to study his ability. And was it worth the price he and his victim's had to pay? Was he easier to study as an unwitting lab rat when he could have been a willing participant?” He scoffed, unable to hold back the helpless, infuriated incomprehension that had been eating at him ever since reading Noah's old reports. “You never did find out how his power works, did you?”
“So we made some mistakes along the way, I never said we didn't!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Claire and his mother standing in the door. Claire's eyes were wide with shock, her face pale, her eyes flitting between her father and uncle, clearly torn. She loved her father, and Peter didn't begrudge her that, but he doubted that she ever really let herself understand just what her father was capable of.
Although.
He had his own daddy issues, but maybe Claire saw her father more clearly than Peter had his own even all those years ago when he had been willing to testify against Arthur in court.
His mother, on the other hand, looked... she looked as if, for once, she'd listened. It was an encouraging development.
He didn't heed the women any more mind, however, when Noah went on, quieter now, but still with that same unwavering conviction and uncompromising hatred that made it so hard to argue with him, “It doesn't matter anymore. Sylar is a monster, and if you really think you have him leashed you're delusional! He may pretend he's changed, he may even believe it himself, but sooner or later he will be back to his old ways. And when that happens, his victims' blood will be on your hands!”
Of course, he might be a hypocrite, Peter acknowledged silently, as confident in his own belief as his adversary in his. Because, for all that Noah's concerns were very real, Peter didn't believe it would ever come to that. Not anymore. Or maybe, the better wording was: he didn't want to believe it would ever come to that again.
For good or bad, Peter had made a choice.
“Yeah, I guess it will.”
Only time could tell if he would come to regret it.
~The End
P.S.: Okay, seriously? The editing in this place has become a ridiculous effort, so if it still looks weird, it's because I stopped trying. Also, this is unbeta-ed, feel free to tell me if you caught something.