Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 38: Push
Title: Push
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar exchanges a few words with Peter after a fight not too long after Peter's appearance in the world.
“You hate me,” Sylar said softly, but his tone told of the victory he found in those words. He was important, enough at least to have gained Peter’s hatred - Peter, who tried to find the good in everyone. How ironic. All the more humorous that Peter now had to put up with him regardless.
Peter glowered up at him for a moment and Sylar had to steel himself from flinching. Not at the gaze - of course not - but the unnerving feeling that he was about to get hit again. But then Peter looked away, dropping his eyes to the materials he’d laid out on his leg. He picked up the tube of ointment and began to fidget with it, unscrewing the cap. His head made jerky motions as his eyes darted around guiltily. A smug smile curved Sylar’s mouth and he settled back a little more, relaxing. Peter wouldn’t be hitting him any time soon. No, Peter was too busy flogging himself.
Peter put down the tube and reached out to take Sylar’s hand. Sylar indulgently allowed it, having the feeling that he was being served rather than assisted and that made all the difference. If Peter noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, I hate you.” He was silent a moment, dutifully applying ointment like he wasn’t care-taking on someone he’d just admitted to hating. Sylar found the man so confusing at times, but right at the moment he was pleased to let his hand rest on the brace on Peter’s right hand while his left was busy tending him. Peter put down the ointment and picked up one of the bandages, continuing, muttering out loud as if to himself, “Kind of stupid, really. ‘Hey, come help me save these people, and oh, by the way, I hate your guts.’ Ha. Like that’s going to work. Don’t know what I was thinking. No, I know. I thought …” He sighed and sagged, head dropping a little more over his work, “I thought it didn’t matter - how I felt. People’s lives are worth a lot more than my feelings. I fuck things up. Should have brought … I don’t know. Someone you might have listened to. Not me. Why would you?”
Sylar grinned, taking a sadistic pleasure in rubbing it in. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Peter. It’s not like fate should have expected any better from you.”
Peter glowered up at him again, but only for a second before looking back to apply the last bandage. “Thanks,” he said dully. “You certainly know how to make it hurt.”
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count: 500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar exchanges a few words with Peter after a fight not too long after Peter's appearance in the world.
“You hate me,” Sylar said softly, but his tone told of the victory he found in those words. He was important, enough at least to have gained Peter’s hatred - Peter, who tried to find the good in everyone. How ironic. All the more humorous that Peter now had to put up with him regardless.
Peter glowered up at him for a moment and Sylar had to steel himself from flinching. Not at the gaze - of course not - but the unnerving feeling that he was about to get hit again. But then Peter looked away, dropping his eyes to the materials he’d laid out on his leg. He picked up the tube of ointment and began to fidget with it, unscrewing the cap. His head made jerky motions as his eyes darted around guiltily. A smug smile curved Sylar’s mouth and he settled back a little more, relaxing. Peter wouldn’t be hitting him any time soon. No, Peter was too busy flogging himself.
Peter put down the tube and reached out to take Sylar’s hand. Sylar indulgently allowed it, having the feeling that he was being served rather than assisted and that made all the difference. If Peter noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, I hate you.” He was silent a moment, dutifully applying ointment like he wasn’t care-taking on someone he’d just admitted to hating. Sylar found the man so confusing at times, but right at the moment he was pleased to let his hand rest on the brace on Peter’s right hand while his left was busy tending him. Peter put down the ointment and picked up one of the bandages, continuing, muttering out loud as if to himself, “Kind of stupid, really. ‘Hey, come help me save these people, and oh, by the way, I hate your guts.’ Ha. Like that’s going to work. Don’t know what I was thinking. No, I know. I thought …” He sighed and sagged, head dropping a little more over his work, “I thought it didn’t matter - how I felt. People’s lives are worth a lot more than my feelings. I fuck things up. Should have brought … I don’t know. Someone you might have listened to. Not me. Why would you?”
Sylar grinned, taking a sadistic pleasure in rubbing it in. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Peter. It’s not like fate should have expected any better from you.”
Peter glowered up at him again, but only for a second before looking back to apply the last bandage. “Thanks,” he said dully. “You certainly know how to make it hurt.”