Getting It, Chapter 4: Getting It Together
Title: Getting It Together
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Words: 1,800
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar and Peter figure out what they need to do to make this work between them. Both start taking the right steps.
Respect. Appreciation. Sylar knew the definitions of the words, but that was no help. In Sylar-speak, they both translated to 'sucking up', which he had thought he was good at, but apparently he wasn't doing it right. When Sylar aggressing hadn't worked, he'd thought what Peter wanted was an excuse to aggress himself. So he'd created that opportunity - but apparently he'd been wrong again. He stayed away from Peter for the next few days, trying to figure that out. For one thing, he thought he did respect Peter. And what appreciation was there to show? Was he supposed to thank Peter for being there? For being willing to put up with his existence? That seemed really … petty. Plus, he didn't want to do it. It was galling that Peter might be right - Sylar wanted to give him whatever he wanted, but these two things apparently he wasn't giving enough of. If he wanted to get laid, which he did, then he was going to have to play the role his partner wanted.
That role did not involve Sylar calling the shots. That was terrifying to contemplate, especially given the things that had happened in Sylar's life. He'd never been safe except when he was in control. Would he be safe if he let Peter say how things would go, which seemed to be how Peter wanted to play things? The time at the pool and again at the wall, he'd been safe enough while Peter was in charge. Sylar could put together that it was only after he'd challenged that Peter became difficult. In each case, Peter had quit the scene entirely, which was not helpful, but it was certainly educational - being ignored by Peter was more painful than anything else the Petrelli had done to him. It motivated Sylar a lot, probably more than any drubbing would have.
He was thinking about this as he sat in his apartment, working on a small mantel clock, when he heard Peter's familiar, heavy tread in the stairwell. A few moments later, three sharp raps formally signaled his guest's arrival. "Come in," Sylar called out, trying to look like he wasn't looking as Peter walked in and deposited a plastic bag of fruit on the kitchen table. Peter was dressed as he usually was in a dark, long-sleeved t-shirt with jeans and his thick-soled work shoes. With Peter's back turned, Sylar got an eyeful of sleek, masculine posterior, taking the opportunity to admire. He ducked his head when Peter turned to come back to the living area, not sure if having his interest on blatant display was a good or bad thing. He fiddled anxiously with the needle file he'd been using.
"Got you some apples."
'How do I like them apples?' came to Sylar's mind, but for once he didn't say it, or any of the half-dozen other smart-ass comments about rotten apples, poisoned apples, forbidden fruit, the apple of knowledge, and so on that scuttled through Sylar's easily engaged mind. Instead he looked up and said simply, "Thank you." Peter's gentle, warm smile made Sylar's heart lurch. Wait, is that it? Is that what he wants? That's … so easy. I wasn't doing that before? A quick search of the recent past proved that … no, comments like his first through seventh instincts were the norm. Those are all challenges. 'Thank you' is receptive. It accepts. It recognizes.
Distantly, he heard Peter say, "I thought they might be your favorite. I noticed it was what you always picked out from the store." Sylar's eyes were still darting back and forth, digging through memories and putting together the mental puzzle that was other people's behavior, when Peter followed up his comment by walking next to him. Sylar's attention was snapped back to the present as fingers dropped to Sylar's forearm, exposed where he'd earlier rolled up the sleeves of his long-sleeved, button-up shirt, so he wouldn't get oil on it as he worked. Peter stroked lightly, fingertips disturbing the dark hairs and then retracing their path to smooth them back down. It felt so good - such a simple, easy touch just like the simple, easy show of gratitude.
It was also very forward. He wants me. That's why he's petting me - checking to see if I'm okay with him touching me. And he brought me a gift, like … like we're dating or something. I'm not sure what's going on, but don't fuck this up! No 'but's, no 'and', no sarcasm … just … let it happen. Let him be in charge. See if it works. Swallowing nervously, Sylar flipped his arm, keeping his head down as he watched Peter repeat the motions on the softer, more sensitive skin of his inner arm … and then the palm of his hand. Peter's fingers drifted over his own, touching and caressing with a degree of generous, free contact that was all new between them. Sylar stared, blinking, hardly able to breathe as he wondered what came next.
"Thank you," Sylar said again, this time earning a friendly rub to his shoulder before Peter went off to drag back one of the kitchen chairs. He put it right next to Sylar, casually seating himself in it as though it were perfectly natural to have their chairs side by side, legs nearly touching. Sylar wondered what the hell had happened to make Peter so friendly all of a sudden. Perhaps during the few days apart, Peter had been thinking things over, too, and like Sylar, had decided to change his approach.
"What are you doing?" Peter asked, looking at the mantel clock and making a slight gesture at it. His head bobbed to the side as he looked at the mechanisms exposed by the opened case.
Sylar said the obvious, "I was working."
Peter's sharp exhalation and tensing to rise forced the thought through Sylar's brain that 'respectful' might mean not talking to Peter like Peter was an idiot. His voice meek, he rushed the words out to try again. "I mean, I was working on this chronograph. R-right here, I mean ..." He didn't dare to look at Peter, staring at the edge of his work table instead and praying that Peter believed in second chances. If his suspicions were right and Peter was trying to work things out, then he'd stay, wouldn't he?
Peter's posture relaxed slowly. When he spoke, his tone was neutral. "What's wrong with it?"
"Um ..." Weird as it was, he wasn't sure how to answer as Sylar. Talking to people like he believed Peter wanted to be talked to just wasn't … it wasn't really in Sylar's repertoire. But it was in Gabriel's. It wasn't like he didn't know how to do it, how to be normal with someone. Has it really been that long since I've talked to someone respectfully? Back when I was trying to sell them things and couldn't make them give me their money … any more than I can make Peter give me anything. He felt happier, relieved, and surprisingly relaxed to set aside a little of the reflexive, defensive persona he'd worn like armor for so long. It felt strangely honest. Peter's question was non-threatening enough, asking about something Sylar would enjoy telling him about. Sylar smiled awkwardly, feeling very strange in his own skin as he knew Peter wasn't asking out of some sudden curiosity in clocks, but rather a curiosity about him and what he spent his time doing. Does this mean he likes me? Wait, what does it mean if he really, actually, likes me?
Swallowing his nerves, he explained. "Um, well, I was just oiling it. You have to do that, from time to time, to keep the mechanisms running smoothly." He used the file as a pointer, turning the clock so Peter could better see the places he was indicating. "See, you apply the oil here and here ..." Peter listened attentively, asking the names of a few parts and what sort of repairs Sylar liked to fix the most. He drew a few parallels between repair of timepieces and paramedic work on the human body, but mostly he left the focus on learning about Sylar's interests, prompting with another new question whenever Sylar fell silent.
It was hard for Sylar to focus with his sense of identity fading in and out and the constant press of Peter's knee shifting against his own, but he managed. He was required to break contact so he could put his tools away neatly in their designated drawers. He shot another cautious look at Peter as he sidled back into their previous proximity after he was done. He wasn't sure it was allowed now that they didn't have the clock to look at. I could get another one …
Softly, looking down apologetically, Peter said, "I'm sorry I was a bastard the other day."
Sylar didn't know what to say about that. Peter had done nothing unpardonable - pushed him around, felt up his back, led him on a little like he was going to do more, and then walked away. Everything but the walking away Sylar had been quite happy about. There was nothing bastard-y about it, but clearly this was more complicated than 'Peter wants to fuck me'. He glanced over at the apples and thought about the sudden interest in clocks. He wants more than just getting laid! That was almost unbelievable. The faint chance that it was true made his heart pound. Feeling like he was stepping into an emotional minefield (and perfectly willing to do that if it got him the connection he wanted), he offered, "You're allowed."
Peter studied him for a moment, then smiled and nudged his leg in jest. "Thank you for giving me permission to be a bastard, because I'm not promising I won't be one again."
"If the other day was you being a bastard, Peter, then by all means be one more often."
Peter chuckled and nudged his knee again, harder. Voice softer, Peter said, "Sometimes when we get close, you say things that make me feel like … like I'm nothing, no one important, or maybe like I'm someone you want to get one over on. I don't like that."
With that simple statement, Peter somehow clarified everything. Sylar had an odd moment of vertigo, like Peter had somehow used Sylar's ability to understand things, pinpointed the problem, and shined a light on it. Sylar suddenly saw how to fix it; how to fix all of the problems they'd been having recently. Peter wanted to be special and Sylar connected with that perfectly. "Then I won't say things like that anymore."