Wall Verse Chapter 12, Good Night Until It Be Morrow
Title: Good Night Until It Be Morrow
Characters: Peter/Sylar
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: ~2,800
Setting: The Wall, part of the series Wall Verse
Summary: After Sylar knocked Peter out, Peter wakes and hides; Sylar gloats, then begins to doubt.
Peter thought he saw Sylar there, standing over him, but an instant later the man was gone like the film of Peter's life had skipped forward. Peter's eyes weren't cooperating. He reached up and tried to touch his forehead, but he missed. He missed the second time, too, so he gave it up and rolled over - that was easier, even if it made the room spin. His head ached, not just his cheek. The back of his skull where he'd hit the hard floor - concrete with a thin, barely padded layer of carpet - felt odd. A lot of things felt odd. His vision was coming back slowly; the pain was faster in returning.
Concussion. Shit. He looked around the room, but Sylar was gone. How long was I laid out? So much for sex, he thought flippantly. He managed to sit up, putting together that his only injury was his head, which was now throbbing. His thoughts were muddled. I've got to get out of here. He might come back.
He didn't stop to consider why Sylar might come back, or that the other man might return to help him and had never, here in the Wall, attacked him without some manner of provocation, however flimsy. Peter wouldn't even have counted this assault as unprovoked, because he'd had warning and he'd felt Sylar's emotions spiraling out of control. None of that mattered though - he was afraid anyway, too confused to do more than fall back on the same creeping fear he'd felt when he first came here and realized that not only was he alone with Sylar, but trapped with him.
Sylar, the man who had thrown him off a stadium and crushed him; who had cut open his head and later killed him with a glass shard in Mohinder's apartment; who had hit him with a parking meter and choked him, toying with him at Kirby Plaza. The man who had bounced in and out of being a family member, who had helped him a couple times almost randomly, who had attacked him in his apartment and at his workplace. He'd murdered Peter's brother, he'd attacked Peter's mother, killed his father, assaulted his niece, left his niece's mother to burn to death and been responsible for the deaths of untold others. Sylar, the man for whom Peter had been forced to swallow his hate, shove aside his fear, man up, and come into this nightmare world and ask, beg, and plead with him to help others, to be good, and save someone.
Sylar … who had refused.
Why the hell was I fucking him? All the closeness and trust and intimacy they'd built up in the weeks prior was erased and obliterated. Peter's heart pounded in his chest, making his head feel like it was going to explode. Peter's fear was conditioned - four years of repeated traumatic events had made the man the embodiment of death and destruction for him. Sylar's name meant pain, if not physical, then at least emotional. It dredged up the worst events in Peter's life and threw his psyche into a pit. Here in this nightmare world, Peter faced a perpetual catch-22. He couldn't fight Sylar; he couldn't destroy him. But on the other hand, the man wouldn't help and he wouldn't even let Peter give him what Sylar seemed to desperately want - affection, connection, a relationship that might mean something.
The two men had traded plenty of blows over their time together here, but somehow this one had hit Peter far harder than any other. It was the pairing of the attack with the intimacy that did it. Peter felt useless, worthless, humiliated and degraded. He'd tried to be nice, he'd tried to make love with his fucking enemy, and been hit for it, hurt for it, and left lying on the floor like an empty condom wrapper. Everything was a loss. It was pointless. He was defeated. He was a failure and his mission here was botched. There was nothing he could do about it.
He couldn't fight, but he could at least hide from the source of his pain.
Peter got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled to the door, clinging to the frame as the world refused to stay still and upright like a decent world should. He fell twice on the trek across the lobby to the stairs, looking around furtively before slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He thought about going to his apartment in the building across the street, but discounted it immediately. Sylar might be outside - and Peter's thoughts were consumed by a fear that was almost instinctive.
He pulled himself up the stairs, stopping at the fourth floor because he was getting nauseous and the waves of dizziness were coming closer together. He could have taken the elevator, of course, but he didn't want to be confined in it, and he thought Sylar would be able to deduce which floor he'd gone to by the car's location. He didn't think about just sending the car back to the ground floor once he got here. He wasn't thinking well at all, and knowing that a common symptom of concussion was confusion didn't help when he was the one who was confused.
He made it to the second apartment along the hall before rushing inside, trying to make it to the kitchen sink. He fell at the entrance and threw up on the linoleum flooring. He was thankful he'd gotten that far at least, his tortured brain entertaining some odd thought about Sylar tracking him by the smell if nothing else. Peter threw a hand towel over the mess, resolving to clean it when he didn't feel like his head was about to fall off. He staggered to the couch where he collapsed, just barely coherent enough to be worried about himself. He thought that maybe he'd hidden himself well enough. Maybe.
He passed out.
XXX
Sylar stalked off down the street, head held high, with a disdainful sneer still on his face. I am no one's performing dog. Not anymore. And certainly not a Petrelli's. He went straight to his apartment and cleaned up, embarrassed at himself for letting Peter take things so far. While yes, Sylar had started the day hoping something would happen, Peter had virtually thrown himself on him and that wasn't what he'd signed up for. Holy shit, why did I let him do that? What was I thinking? I wasn't ready for that! What is he trying to get from me? It was too much, way too much, too fast and it was setting off Sylar's bullshit meter.
Or at least that's what he told himself. He buttoned the new pair of jeans and paused, trying to think if it was possible that Peter's motivations were … sincere. Was it-was it possible? He grimaced and shook his head, trying to will away far more memories than he wanted, courtesy of Nathan, that told him Peter was not like the rest of his family. The younger Petrelli declared his love easily and immediately and had generally been a giver, not a taker.
Sylar shook his head again. Because, c'mon, that's ridiculous. Peter had come here to talk him into saving Emma or whoever. Sylar had declined. It had been a while and Sylar hadn't budged. Peter had stopped asking. Obviously Peter must have given up on the honorable methods and resorted to the underhanded. He was capable of it, after all. And he was a Petrelli, which made it almost automatic. That he'd managed to pull one over on his brother, convincing Nathan that Peter was a harmless little angel with his puppy-dog eyes and innocent, free-love façade just proved Peter was even better at the game than his relatives. With an effort, Sylar dredged up other memories, also courtesy of Nathan, of Peter holding a gun to Nate's head and pistol-whipping him into unconsciousness. Peter was perfectly capable of being deceitful when pushed to it. Sylar's lack of cooperation on the issue of saving Amanda or Emma or whoever was provocation enough.
Peter would be back in no time, Sylar was certain, because he had to come back. Peter was a man on a mission here and failing to woo Sylar was a threat to that mission. I didn't expect him to literally whore himself out to save others, but … desperate times call for desperate measures, eh, Peter? Peter would be trying to patch things up. He'd be trying to win Sylar back over. Whatever con he was pulling, he wasn't done with it. One punch wouldn't deter him. Peter was a really stubborn man when he set his mind to something and they'd already beaten on each other a lot during their time here. It had never put Peter off much before. Sometimes when Sylar would let Peter win, Peter would be positively fraternal, in fact.
This could work for me. I could play him, let him think he's getting through to me, let him think that if he does a good enough job, I'll do what he wants. I can string him along, now that I know what he wants. It's not me he's after - it couldn't be, can't be - it has to be his mission here that's making him be with me, it has to be his goal that's motivating him. That's why he did it, why he … was with me. Why would Peter even think I have any real feeling for him? Does it matter either way? He doesn't ask for much … not that it's that hard to fake it. Heh.
Sylar, in keeping, now had to consider his … 'partner's' feelings and he wasn't totally sure where those were placed at the moment. Peter had won that round … up until the end, there. So what would Peter be feeling now, after the fight? Sylar sighed, frowning, thinking about the times when he'd started fights just so he could let Peter take care of him afterward. The last time that had happened, Peter, with his face marred with a bloody lip and swollen eye, had done just that. He'd even gone so far as to stroke the soft skin on the inside of Sylar's forearm. Clearly he'd known the touching was what Sylar really wanted out of those fights. Peter had become more and more cooperative about giving it. Peter had never asked anything for that, either - not a hint that he was trying to manipulate Sylar into anything.
Sylar snarled at himself. It was impossible! Peter had every reason to hate him. This was all some machination. He would see. He'd wait. Peter would turn up and prove it. Peter had to know Sylar had swallowed the bait and Peter had set the hook, for a moment at least until Sylar had broken free. He'd come back to try to get Sylar on the line again. It was the only explanation.
He fixed himself lunch and then devoted himself to his watches. He hadn't worked on them in a while, which was surprising to realize just how much his days had been revolving around Peter and his activities lately. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was nice to have someone to spend time with, but it was drawing him away from … himself. It was threatening his sense of self, overwhelming him with other, with Peter.
His life was becoming all about Peter and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he wasn't happy about that. He frowned at the dust that had accumulated on his workbench and set to cleaning it with exceptional vigor. It wasn't like there was a steady stream of new timepieces piling up, but he still had several he could tinker with and puzzle out why they didn't keep perfect time. He let himself become absorbed in his work, only lifting his head when his stomach rumbled at him the third time.
He made his dinner (canned beef stew - meh) and tried to decide if he should be worried that Peter had not come knocking. He wouldn't have expected the manipulator to let this much time pass before coming by to chum the water. Doubt began to seep into his mind. Maybe Peter didn't get up from the floor back there. I did hit him really hard. What if he's too hurt to take care of himself? He always took shit care of himself. A part of his mind naggingly added, but good care of me. Wouldn't let me help him at all, sometimes, but he'd always help me. Every time. He tried to ignore the guilt buzzing in the back of his head, but it wouldn't disappear.
Sylar stood abruptly from his mostly finished bowl and strode over to the window, hitching the curtain out of the way and staring out into the darkened street. No one was there and he was surprised to see it was night already. He hadn't really been paying attention to the time. Ah, that's ironic, for a watchmaker. I heard every second, but somehow missed the passage of hours. He stared out, trying to marshal his unruly, unsettled thoughts that seemed determined to see-saw between pride that he'd stood up for himself and a barely acknowledged guilt at what he'd done.
He went back to the table and wolfed the rest of his now-lukewarm stew, mind made up about what he'd do. He rinsed the bowl perfunctorily and headed out in haste, worry speeding his steps. His long strides ate up the few blocks between his apartment and Peter's. Peter's window was dark. Sylar knew which one was the Italian's through simple observation of which one had a light that was sometimes on and sometimes off. The others were dark or lit, but always the same way. He spared it only a glance before going into the building across the street, the one with the piano, the one where they'd had their conflict.
Sylar stopped in the doorway to the facilities room and sighed, tension draining out of him like water. Peter wasn't there. Now he felt stupid; Peter was probably fine. He'd just dragged himself off somewhere to heal. He'd probably just hit his head when he fell, in addition to getting punched, and was recuperating. Most likely, he was in his apartment sleeping it off. Sylar huffed at his unnecessary worry and turned to go back home.
On the street, he looked up at Peter's unlit window one more time. He wanted to be sure … and he wasn't. He looked back at the building he'd just come out of, thinking back on the irregular twitching Peter's hands had made the last time he'd looked at him, laid out on the floor, leg twisted under him. He's tough; he's fine. He sighed. Why can't I make myself believe that? Why do I think there's something wrong here? Heh. Probably because everything else in my life has been a complete fuck-up. No reason why this should be any different.
I could … go up to his apartment and knock …? He stared up at the window again. And then what would happen? I'd be falling right into his trap. I'll see him soon enough anyway. He'll be around. He has no other choice. He began taking slow, uneven steps back to his apartment. As he walked, his pace became increasingly regular as he managed to shove his misgivings into a box in his mind and hammer it shut for the time being.
Characters: Peter/Sylar
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: ~2,800
Setting: The Wall, part of the series Wall Verse
Summary: After Sylar knocked Peter out, Peter wakes and hides; Sylar gloats, then begins to doubt.
Peter thought he saw Sylar there, standing over him, but an instant later the man was gone like the film of Peter's life had skipped forward. Peter's eyes weren't cooperating. He reached up and tried to touch his forehead, but he missed. He missed the second time, too, so he gave it up and rolled over - that was easier, even if it made the room spin. His head ached, not just his cheek. The back of his skull where he'd hit the hard floor - concrete with a thin, barely padded layer of carpet - felt odd. A lot of things felt odd. His vision was coming back slowly; the pain was faster in returning.
Concussion. Shit. He looked around the room, but Sylar was gone. How long was I laid out? So much for sex, he thought flippantly. He managed to sit up, putting together that his only injury was his head, which was now throbbing. His thoughts were muddled. I've got to get out of here. He might come back.
He didn't stop to consider why Sylar might come back, or that the other man might return to help him and had never, here in the Wall, attacked him without some manner of provocation, however flimsy. Peter wouldn't even have counted this assault as unprovoked, because he'd had warning and he'd felt Sylar's emotions spiraling out of control. None of that mattered though - he was afraid anyway, too confused to do more than fall back on the same creeping fear he'd felt when he first came here and realized that not only was he alone with Sylar, but trapped with him.
Sylar, the man who had thrown him off a stadium and crushed him; who had cut open his head and later killed him with a glass shard in Mohinder's apartment; who had hit him with a parking meter and choked him, toying with him at Kirby Plaza. The man who had bounced in and out of being a family member, who had helped him a couple times almost randomly, who had attacked him in his apartment and at his workplace. He'd murdered Peter's brother, he'd attacked Peter's mother, killed his father, assaulted his niece, left his niece's mother to burn to death and been responsible for the deaths of untold others. Sylar, the man for whom Peter had been forced to swallow his hate, shove aside his fear, man up, and come into this nightmare world and ask, beg, and plead with him to help others, to be good, and save someone.
Sylar … who had refused.
Why the hell was I fucking him? All the closeness and trust and intimacy they'd built up in the weeks prior was erased and obliterated. Peter's heart pounded in his chest, making his head feel like it was going to explode. Peter's fear was conditioned - four years of repeated traumatic events had made the man the embodiment of death and destruction for him. Sylar's name meant pain, if not physical, then at least emotional. It dredged up the worst events in Peter's life and threw his psyche into a pit. Here in this nightmare world, Peter faced a perpetual catch-22. He couldn't fight Sylar; he couldn't destroy him. But on the other hand, the man wouldn't help and he wouldn't even let Peter give him what Sylar seemed to desperately want - affection, connection, a relationship that might mean something.
The two men had traded plenty of blows over their time together here, but somehow this one had hit Peter far harder than any other. It was the pairing of the attack with the intimacy that did it. Peter felt useless, worthless, humiliated and degraded. He'd tried to be nice, he'd tried to make love with his fucking enemy, and been hit for it, hurt for it, and left lying on the floor like an empty condom wrapper. Everything was a loss. It was pointless. He was defeated. He was a failure and his mission here was botched. There was nothing he could do about it.
He couldn't fight, but he could at least hide from the source of his pain.
Peter got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled to the door, clinging to the frame as the world refused to stay still and upright like a decent world should. He fell twice on the trek across the lobby to the stairs, looking around furtively before slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He thought about going to his apartment in the building across the street, but discounted it immediately. Sylar might be outside - and Peter's thoughts were consumed by a fear that was almost instinctive.
He pulled himself up the stairs, stopping at the fourth floor because he was getting nauseous and the waves of dizziness were coming closer together. He could have taken the elevator, of course, but he didn't want to be confined in it, and he thought Sylar would be able to deduce which floor he'd gone to by the car's location. He didn't think about just sending the car back to the ground floor once he got here. He wasn't thinking well at all, and knowing that a common symptom of concussion was confusion didn't help when he was the one who was confused.
He made it to the second apartment along the hall before rushing inside, trying to make it to the kitchen sink. He fell at the entrance and threw up on the linoleum flooring. He was thankful he'd gotten that far at least, his tortured brain entertaining some odd thought about Sylar tracking him by the smell if nothing else. Peter threw a hand towel over the mess, resolving to clean it when he didn't feel like his head was about to fall off. He staggered to the couch where he collapsed, just barely coherent enough to be worried about himself. He thought that maybe he'd hidden himself well enough. Maybe.
He passed out.
XXX
Sylar stalked off down the street, head held high, with a disdainful sneer still on his face. I am no one's performing dog. Not anymore. And certainly not a Petrelli's. He went straight to his apartment and cleaned up, embarrassed at himself for letting Peter take things so far. While yes, Sylar had started the day hoping something would happen, Peter had virtually thrown himself on him and that wasn't what he'd signed up for. Holy shit, why did I let him do that? What was I thinking? I wasn't ready for that! What is he trying to get from me? It was too much, way too much, too fast and it was setting off Sylar's bullshit meter.
Or at least that's what he told himself. He buttoned the new pair of jeans and paused, trying to think if it was possible that Peter's motivations were … sincere. Was it-was it possible? He grimaced and shook his head, trying to will away far more memories than he wanted, courtesy of Nathan, that told him Peter was not like the rest of his family. The younger Petrelli declared his love easily and immediately and had generally been a giver, not a taker.
Sylar shook his head again. Because, c'mon, that's ridiculous. Peter had come here to talk him into saving Emma or whoever. Sylar had declined. It had been a while and Sylar hadn't budged. Peter had stopped asking. Obviously Peter must have given up on the honorable methods and resorted to the underhanded. He was capable of it, after all. And he was a Petrelli, which made it almost automatic. That he'd managed to pull one over on his brother, convincing Nathan that Peter was a harmless little angel with his puppy-dog eyes and innocent, free-love façade just proved Peter was even better at the game than his relatives. With an effort, Sylar dredged up other memories, also courtesy of Nathan, of Peter holding a gun to Nate's head and pistol-whipping him into unconsciousness. Peter was perfectly capable of being deceitful when pushed to it. Sylar's lack of cooperation on the issue of saving Amanda or Emma or whoever was provocation enough.
Peter would be back in no time, Sylar was certain, because he had to come back. Peter was a man on a mission here and failing to woo Sylar was a threat to that mission. I didn't expect him to literally whore himself out to save others, but … desperate times call for desperate measures, eh, Peter? Peter would be trying to patch things up. He'd be trying to win Sylar back over. Whatever con he was pulling, he wasn't done with it. One punch wouldn't deter him. Peter was a really stubborn man when he set his mind to something and they'd already beaten on each other a lot during their time here. It had never put Peter off much before. Sometimes when Sylar would let Peter win, Peter would be positively fraternal, in fact.
This could work for me. I could play him, let him think he's getting through to me, let him think that if he does a good enough job, I'll do what he wants. I can string him along, now that I know what he wants. It's not me he's after - it couldn't be, can't be - it has to be his mission here that's making him be with me, it has to be his goal that's motivating him. That's why he did it, why he … was with me. Why would Peter even think I have any real feeling for him? Does it matter either way? He doesn't ask for much … not that it's that hard to fake it. Heh.
Sylar, in keeping, now had to consider his … 'partner's' feelings and he wasn't totally sure where those were placed at the moment. Peter had won that round … up until the end, there. So what would Peter be feeling now, after the fight? Sylar sighed, frowning, thinking about the times when he'd started fights just so he could let Peter take care of him afterward. The last time that had happened, Peter, with his face marred with a bloody lip and swollen eye, had done just that. He'd even gone so far as to stroke the soft skin on the inside of Sylar's forearm. Clearly he'd known the touching was what Sylar really wanted out of those fights. Peter had become more and more cooperative about giving it. Peter had never asked anything for that, either - not a hint that he was trying to manipulate Sylar into anything.
Sylar snarled at himself. It was impossible! Peter had every reason to hate him. This was all some machination. He would see. He'd wait. Peter would turn up and prove it. Peter had to know Sylar had swallowed the bait and Peter had set the hook, for a moment at least until Sylar had broken free. He'd come back to try to get Sylar on the line again. It was the only explanation.
He fixed himself lunch and then devoted himself to his watches. He hadn't worked on them in a while, which was surprising to realize just how much his days had been revolving around Peter and his activities lately. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was nice to have someone to spend time with, but it was drawing him away from … himself. It was threatening his sense of self, overwhelming him with other, with Peter.
His life was becoming all about Peter and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he wasn't happy about that. He frowned at the dust that had accumulated on his workbench and set to cleaning it with exceptional vigor. It wasn't like there was a steady stream of new timepieces piling up, but he still had several he could tinker with and puzzle out why they didn't keep perfect time. He let himself become absorbed in his work, only lifting his head when his stomach rumbled at him the third time.
He made his dinner (canned beef stew - meh) and tried to decide if he should be worried that Peter had not come knocking. He wouldn't have expected the manipulator to let this much time pass before coming by to chum the water. Doubt began to seep into his mind. Maybe Peter didn't get up from the floor back there. I did hit him really hard. What if he's too hurt to take care of himself? He always took shit care of himself. A part of his mind naggingly added, but good care of me. Wouldn't let me help him at all, sometimes, but he'd always help me. Every time. He tried to ignore the guilt buzzing in the back of his head, but it wouldn't disappear.
Sylar stood abruptly from his mostly finished bowl and strode over to the window, hitching the curtain out of the way and staring out into the darkened street. No one was there and he was surprised to see it was night already. He hadn't really been paying attention to the time. Ah, that's ironic, for a watchmaker. I heard every second, but somehow missed the passage of hours. He stared out, trying to marshal his unruly, unsettled thoughts that seemed determined to see-saw between pride that he'd stood up for himself and a barely acknowledged guilt at what he'd done.
He went back to the table and wolfed the rest of his now-lukewarm stew, mind made up about what he'd do. He rinsed the bowl perfunctorily and headed out in haste, worry speeding his steps. His long strides ate up the few blocks between his apartment and Peter's. Peter's window was dark. Sylar knew which one was the Italian's through simple observation of which one had a light that was sometimes on and sometimes off. The others were dark or lit, but always the same way. He spared it only a glance before going into the building across the street, the one with the piano, the one where they'd had their conflict.
Sylar stopped in the doorway to the facilities room and sighed, tension draining out of him like water. Peter wasn't there. Now he felt stupid; Peter was probably fine. He'd just dragged himself off somewhere to heal. He'd probably just hit his head when he fell, in addition to getting punched, and was recuperating. Most likely, he was in his apartment sleeping it off. Sylar huffed at his unnecessary worry and turned to go back home.
On the street, he looked up at Peter's unlit window one more time. He wanted to be sure … and he wasn't. He looked back at the building he'd just come out of, thinking back on the irregular twitching Peter's hands had made the last time he'd looked at him, laid out on the floor, leg twisted under him. He's tough; he's fine. He sighed. Why can't I make myself believe that? Why do I think there's something wrong here? Heh. Probably because everything else in my life has been a complete fuck-up. No reason why this should be any different.
I could … go up to his apartment and knock …? He stared up at the window again. And then what would happen? I'd be falling right into his trap. I'll see him soon enough anyway. He'll be around. He has no other choice. He began taking slow, uneven steps back to his apartment. As he walked, his pace became increasingly regular as he managed to shove his misgivings into a box in his mind and hammer it shut for the time being.