Broken Connections, Chapter Four: Repair Attempts
A/N: Warning - more sexual contact of dubious consent. Also, rough sex.
Peter's conversation with Audrey Hanson had gone well past the point when he should have left. It was only after he was out of the cargo container and standing in the chill, late morning air of New York in winter that he realized how much he'd fucked things up by talking to her. Surely she would just call Building 26 on the phone and tell them to move Claire. It would take him hours to drive there and by then, who knew where she'd be? I know! Hiro! He pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang … and rang … and finally voice mail picked up with Hiro's voice chattering excitedly in a Japanese greeting before the beep sounded. Peter left a message in English and stuffed his phone in his pocket, frustrated. Now what?
As he stood there trying to formulate a plan, the tall police woman who'd followed him into the green trailer and had been waiting for her turn with Audrey when he'd left, walked up next to him. "Director Hanson said for me to escort you to Building 26 where you're to offer consultation on the Claire Bennet case."
Peter looked up at her blankly. "Why … what?"
In a patient but bored tone, the woman said, "I am to requisition a car, drive you to the airport, and take the next government flight to DC with you, then see to it that you make it to Building 26 safely."
"Why would she order that?" He looked around suspiciously, but it was only the one police officer. If they were intending to take him by force, then they hadn't sent enough goons.
"I would assume because that's the most expeditious way to get there."
'Expeditious' struck Peter as a weird word for a standard beat cop to use. "They're probably going to lock me up, too, then."
The cop looked him up and down in an oddly familiar manner and purred, "That wasn't part of my orders, but I'm sure it could be arranged."
"What?" He stepped back, affronted by the inappropriate and unexpected comment.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That was unprofessional of me. Let's go." She turned and walked off, all business now, but there was still a rolling prowl to the way she moved that made Peter cock his head in puzzlement. There was something … something he couldn't quite identify. He followed her, mostly out of curiosity, but also partly because he didn't know what else to do. The government was offering to fly him to DC? Even if it was a trap, it would work best for him if he went along with it for now and made a break for it later. If they thought he had taken the bait, then they might not move Claire after all.
Getting the car, boarding the plane, and taking off was thankfully uneventful. It was good that he had an escort, because no one they ran into had been informed of Peter's trip. That was oddly reassuring, because he was fairly sure that if this were a trap, then all barriers to getting him to his destination would have been removed before they ever reached them. Instead, he had to push a few thoughts to get them through. They ended up as the passengers in a half-empty cargo plane. A tarpaulin barrier shielded the back half of the area from sight. The front half, where they were, was simply empty, open space, aside from a few jump seats that could be folded down from the wall.
Once they were airborne and en route, Peter unstrapped himself from the jump seat and wandered back to see what Hanson's operation was shipping to DC besides himself. The cop he was with went forward to talk with the pilots in their sealed compartment. Behind the blue tarp, Peter discovered they weren't the only passengers on the plane. Three people rested on gurneys locked to the floor. They were unconscious and strapped in place, with tubes he was all too familiar with inserted in their noses. He checked vitals. All seemed stable. The tarp pulled back out of the way and his 'escort' joined him. Her expression didn't show surprise at the sight. Peter wondered how much trouble he'd cause by waking them up. He'd already lived through one plane crash caused by abilities gone wrong in mid-flight. He pressed his lips into a thin line and decided he'd be better to wait until they had landed.
His companion had moved over to the medical equipment stowed to the side, and was rifling through it. "I hope you're just looking for aspirin," Peter said.
"I don't think the principle behind 'painkillers' is one they understand," she murmured back, apparently finding whatever it was she was seeking. She stood and the stolen articles were slipped into a pocket without Peter being able to make out what they were. Despite his ingrained disapproval of theft of medical supplies, he decided that in the grand scheme of things, stealing a little from the government wasn't that big a deal. It certainly wasn't on the scale of what he was contemplating - letting these people go altogether.
"What do you think of all of this?" Peter asked. Early on, he'd discovered he couldn't read her thoughts without getting a stab of pain, as though she were a telepath, too. But it wasn't exactly an ability that was visible, nor was the reaction conclusive. There were several abilities he knew of personally that blocked telepathy, and he didn't put it past the government to have an injection or mechanical device that did it as well. He'd asked and been told merely, "I'm on your side," without getting a good chance to find out what that meant.
"What I think about it doesn't matter, does it?"
"What, you're just going to follow orders when the government is telling you to lock up kids?" He gestured at the girl who was strapped down, the youngest of the trio. "Her name's Amanda, by the way. I don't think she's more than 15. I met her once. She's a nice kid. She was having some trouble, but we all go through that."
"Some worse than others," the woman said, gazing at the unconscious teen.
Peter sighed. The idea of tap-dancing around his intentions for the entire two-hour plane ride wasn't appealing. He wanted to know what it meant that this woman claimed to be on his side. "I'm not going to let this happen. When we land, I'm letting these people go."
The cop's eyes lifted to his, eerily distant. "I would expect nothing less from you."
He cocked his head. Something just really, really wasn't right here. "Do I know you?"
"Amanda was the one personally responsible for burning two policemen to death. It was the act which precipitated all the other violence. Are you really going to forgive that?"
Peter frowned. "She's a kid. Get her help. Don't just lock her up in a cell somewhere and throw away the key. What good does that do anyone?"
"It would probably do a lot of good to the people she didn't have an opportunity burn to death in future. The people who died had families - wives, daughters ... brothers. What sentence would they impose?"
"They don't get to impose the sentence. We don't have a society that lets victims or victim's families set punishments. That's the whole idea behind the 'jury of your peers' thing."
"Specials don't have peers, Peter. Each and every one of us is alone."
"No, we're not. We're going to stick together. Amanda needed a family. That's what she was looking for when I met her before. She needed people whom she could depend on."
"She needed a connection."
"Exactly." Peter's brows drew together. Wait … "Sylar?" he said uneasily. There was something in the head tilt and twitch of eyebrow that told him he was right. To Peter's own surprise, he found himself smiling in relief, not just at the mystery of the woman resolving itself, but also … he was weirdly happy to see the guy. Or, sort of see him. Peter looked up and down the form Sylar was wearing. She was good-looking, in an intimidating, Grace Jones sort of way. Sylar had managed to find a woman even taller than himself to duplicate - no mean feat.
That woman strode out of the section with the gurneys, returning to the empty hold with the closed pilot compartment on the far side. Peter followed, taken completely by surprise when she turned, gripped him with telekinesis, and shoved him against the side of the aircraft. She pressed herself to him, lifting him for a probing, take-no-prisoners kiss. Sylar didn't ask him how he felt about it, didn't stop to see if he was interested. She (he?) wrapped fingers into Peter's hair and shoved her tongue inside his mouth, swallowing him down and letting him feel every inch of the tight, firm body flush with his.
It was such a fucking turn-on. His nerves sizzled, his body lit up, his heart thudded in his chest and his skin heated. He didn't give a damn who it was or what they'd done. The suddenness had taken away the option of thinking it over, weighing his scruples, and it wasn't like he hadn't already allowed more … so much more.
Peter was gasping by the time she was done, but Peter didn't want to be finished. "Come here. Come here." He wriggled, feeling the telekinetic hold relax off his arms, allowing him to reach and pull her (him?) close again. He hugged and nuzzled, pushing Sylar back enough to look in her face. "First time we've ever kissed." He looked at the woman's dark eyes. Sylar's were a lighter shade of brown, he thought. Her thin brows just didn't seem right, the mental image of the person he was dealing with being so at odds with what his eyes were showing him. "Can we do it again, with you … being you?"
The shape-shift was immediate and a moment later, Peter was dropped down a couple inches with telekinesis. His feet touched the floor now, but Sylar was still keeping him in place. "You prefer this?" Sylar asked, obviously uncertain.
"Yes." Peter reached out, but held where he was, he could only put his hands on Sylar's front. He couldn't quite reach to hook behind his neck or over his shoulder to pull him in. It was frustrating. After a few seconds, he contented himself with touching - chin, cheek, nose, lips. Sylar stood quietly, watching the hand and not Peter's face, not moving in reaction to the examination but clearly allowing it. "Yes," Peter repeated. "I prefer this."
Sylar's eyes finally rose to meet his. "You … want me." It wasn't said as a question, but it came out so doubtful.
The side of Peter's mouth twitched upwards a couple times. His fingers dropped to Sylar's chest and rested there, feeling him breathe deep and fast. "I … do."
Sylar tilted his head as though puzzled, the same expression he'd had the first time he'd pinned Peter to a wall, back in Mohinder's apartment. Sylar said, "I don't like not being able to read you. Take regeneration."
For Peter, Mohinder's apartment wasn't a good memory. Besides, he didn't like being told what to do. He pulled his head back until it was resting on the netting that lined the wall of the cargo hold. "Maybe I don't want you reading me."
"Take it!" Sylar took Peter's hand, squeezing it like he thought that might force the transfer.
His vehemence caused something to click in Peter's mind, remembering Sylar suggesting regeneration last night and then resisting when Peter tried to take something else that morning. And here they were, minutes from Sylar disclosing his identity, and he was trying to push the same ability on him again. "Are you trying to … protect me?"
"You're my connection, Peter. You can't be that if you're dead," Sylar said by way of confirmation. But as positive as it made Peter feel to have someone looking out for him, he was still feeling stubborn about not letting Sylar dictate what ability he carried. Sylar looked down at their joined hands, where nothing was happening. Then he looked up, eyes dark under heavy brows. "If you don't take it, I will make you."
Peter laughed in his face. "I'd like to see you try."
"I'm sure you will," Sylar promised.
Peter wasn't even done laughing when Sylar spun him in place, his jeans opened themselves, and the garment was jerked to his calves, exposing him. Peter's head whipped to the side, staring in the direction of the cockpit.
Sylar didn't need telepathy to know what Peter feared (and it was more than a little darkly perverse that he was more afraid of being seen by the pilots than molested by Sylar). Sylar cupped his body from behind, dragging his lips along Peter's cheek before breathing, "They won't bother us. I made sure of that earlier. Though if it turns out you're a screamer, they might get curious." Sylar rolled his head, rubbing the tip of his nose across the side of Peter's. "But I already know what sounds you make when I fuck you." Sylar's hands slid down Peter's hips, circled his buttocks, and kneaded them firmly. Peter grunted and pressed the side of his face into the netting, mouth opening as he panted with desire.
Sylar took a moment to drop his own pants to mid-thigh before resuming his explorations with a hand sliding up Peter's inner thigh. Ever cooperative, Peter spread for him. "Oh yes," Sylar purred, forehead pressed to Peter's left shoulder blade. He fondled Peter's balls and they reflexively tightened, skin wrinkling. Sylar chuckled, fingers reaching beyond to touch at the base of Peter's erect dick, before sweeping back again to trace his crack.
"Yeah," Peter whispered, his assent lost in the drone of the jet engines, but he wasn't sure Sylar would have stopped had he refused. He supposed he might have been able to make it not worth Sylar's while, but that was the last thing on Peter's mind. He didn't have much conscious thought going on at the moment anyway. He was lost in a wash of feeling and being felt, sensing and being sensed. Peter groaned softly as Sylar pushed at him with his fingers, then withdrew them for a moment, and replaced them wet. They breached him without preamble and Peter huffed out a sound. Sylar's fingers slid in, pushed, rotated, curled, and stretched him. Sylar raised his head and bit Peter on the shoulder, hard enough through the cloth to make Peter wince and choke on a whimper. He could feel Sylar's erection hot and needy against his buttock.
A little more fingering had Peter pressing his ass back onto Sylar's hand, begging for more. His own fingers curled into the netting. He didn't know if telekinesis still held them there or not - nor did he care. He wasn't about to distract from things by checking his limits. Sylar shifted and pressed against him. With no lube other than that he'd used on his fingers and what precome was wetting the head of his cock, it wasn't going to work. Peter was too nervous, too keyed up to take him that dry. "No!" he said sharply. "No, don't hurt me like that. Please, Sylar." He twisted as much as he could to look back, trying to convey that he was serious and whatever game Sylar was playing, Peter didn't want this to be part of it.
"But I need to hurt you, Peter." Sylar humped him slowly, cock sliding up and down the groove of his ass. "My whole plan is to leave you aching with there being only one way you can remedy it." Sylar reached up, putting his hands over Peter's and lacing his fingers over them. "If you don't want me to, then take regeneration."
Peter growled and put his head down, teeth bared. He was not about to give in to the threat.
Sylar pulled his hands back and fiddled for a moment with something. A hand returned to his crack, and to his relief, a little more lube was spread on him. He could feel it cool and slick on the head of Sylar's cock as it nudged against him, Sylar's other hand steadying it. "Whenever you want to end this, Peter, you can." He pushed in with a short, solid thrust. Peter grunted loudly, snapping his teeth shut over the noise as much as he could.
Sylar wasted no time in putting his plan into motion, allowing no lengthy or considerate period for Peter to adjust. Once firmly seated, he started fucking him hard, fast, and vigorously, with ramming thrusts that left Peter struggling for breath. It was terrible at first, painful and wretched as his pent-up body refused to relax enough to let it be pleasurable, and Sylar refused to do anything for him. Peter finally gave up on trying to hold it in and not show that it was hurting him. He let it out, groaning and keening into the netting, hanging onto it and letting Sylar abuse him. When he finally loosened, he had a new problem, which was the friction. He knew it had to be pulling and dragging on Sylar as well, but with regeneration … yeah. They might both be feeling the burn, but Sylar's body continually healed him from such a minor aggravation. For Peter's, though, every shove inside of him was a cumulative torture. He felt like he was being rubbed raw and torn apart. Very soon, he was aching as promised, and after that he just hurt - badly, beyond sore, a pain that made him weak in the knees and his breath started to catch unevenly in rough gasps every time Sylar shifted hard, brutal, and unceasing inside of him. The pain hazed his mind so much he couldn't remember why he was allowing this and if there was anything he could do to stop it. He felt helpless.
Sylar paused and it took Peter way too long to realize the motions had stopped. He was breathing hard and unevenly, chest heaving, fingers curled white-knuckled into the netting. He was sure now that telekinesis was holding him up, because otherwise he'd have fallen well before now. Sylar reached around him, hand slipping up under his shirt, caressing his chest and abdomen tenderly in jarring contrast to how roughly he'd treated Peter's other side. His hand swept down to Peter's groin, passing over his entirely limp dick and hesitating. "You're not turned on at all." He sounded worried.
He sounded worried. Peter couldn't wrap his mind around that. Maybe he'd be able to later, but right now it made no sense.
Tensely, Sylar said, "If I could hear your thoughts, then I'd know what you wanted from me!"
It's my fault? Peter made a noise that was either a sob or a laugh. He didn't know which. "Let me go," he said hoarsely.
Sylar released him, withdrawing himself (which was less painful than it could have been; he was losing his erection fast), and took a short, half-step back as Peter turned. His dark eyes were inscrutable, studying Peter intently.
Peter stared at the guy who had killed him, saved his life, been his brother, killed his brother, fucked him, and fucked him up. It all came back to Sylar - every road of Peter's life. It was like they were bound together by fate. Unsteadily, Peter bent and loosened the laces on one of his shoes, pulling his foot out of it and thereby out of the leg of his pants. Laboriously, he bent to repeat it on the other foot. Sylar braced him with a hand on his shoulder. Peter stood and with a stretch, pulled his shirt off over his head, dropping it to the floor on top of his other clothes. He stood naked now (aside from socks), defenseless, possessed of an ability he couldn't even use effectively on Sylar now that he didn't have the advantage of surprise. And he hurt inside. His eyes dropped for a moment as he caught his breath. It was more than just physical pain. There was something else there, so close to the surface. It was something he usually kept buried so deep - that feeling of … helplessness, worthlessness, inability. The pain had worn away his armor and crumbled his walls. Peter just wanted comfort, acceptance, and approval. He didn't want to be hurt.
"You need your connection; I need mine." He pulled Sylar in for a kiss, feeling the other man's initial hesitation. As soon as their lips met, Sylar's eyes rolled up and his lids fluttered shut, overcome with pleasure or some kind of sensory overload. He stood very still as Peter tasted him for the first time, tongue licking lazily across Sylar's full lips, then slipping inside. Sylar groaned, a deep rumble in his chest. "Mmm," Peter answered, hands sliding up and down Sylar's arms. He liked what he was getting. It was delicious. One hand snaked behind Sylar's head, tilting him as Peter mouthed at him harder. Peter's desire ignited inside of him, going from a spark to a flame in seconds. A moment later, Sylar sucked in air and started kissing in return. The flame exploded into a bonfire. Sylar pushed him backwards against the netting and Peter knew, even if Sylar wasn't reading his mind, he was reading him somehow, responding to his needs.
Or at least some of them. "Touch me," Peter whispered, taking one of Sylar's hands and guiding it to his cock, an organ Sylar had heretofore skirted around, but never made full contact with. "You have some lube?"
Sylar's other hand rooted around in his pocket, pulling out a medical dispensary packet, probably one he'd filched from the med-packs earlier. He squirted it onto his hand and slowly, carefully, watching what he was doing, Sylar eased his hand around Peter's member.
"It's just like touching yourself," Peter said, getting a sense of how limited Sylar's experience was with this. It explained a lot. The hand caressed him gently at first. Sylar put his other hand to the back of Peter's head, leaning in as he kept watch on what he was doing. So careful. Peter leaned back against the netting, letting his eyes close and head fall back. This was so delicate, so perfect, such a counterpoint to previously. It buoyed his battered spirit. Peter's hands roamed up and down Sylar's body, accepting the, "No, you'll distract me," when he tried to return the hand job and moving back to stroking flat, hairy planes of belly and sides, reaching up under Sylar's shirt to do it.
Peter was hard, so hard, and trying to thrust into Sylar's fist. He wanted more - more forceful, like it had been before. He wanted that level of passion and drive and desire from Sylar. Not this too-careful version. "Can you hold me up with telekinesis like before? There are more positions than rear-entry, you know."
Sylar looked up at him, mouth opening in a predatory smile. Peter felt the ability take hold of him, lifting and supporting. He spread his legs, feeling a sharp twinge. He wondered if he was bleeding. He wondered if this was even safe. Or sane. Probably not. "Use a lot more lube," he warned.
Sylar applied the entirety of a second packet, smearing himself copiously, then Peter. Peter gritted his teeth and clung to Sylar at the touch. "Are you certain this is what you want?" Sylar asked.
"I'm certain I want your shirt off," Peter answered. And that I'm not taking regeneration on your terms.
Sylar blinked at him and complied. Peter stroked all that pale, exposed skin with furry patches in all the right places. He drew him close, feeling Sylar line up and push inside. Despite being slick and smooth, Peter's ass was super-sensitized by the rough usage it had been put through. He cried out, fingers digging in. Sylar's hand flew to his mouth, muffling him. Peter bit him - not hard, but firmly enough to make Sylar jump and stare, not sure what he was up to. Then a wicked smile creased his face and he picked up the pace.
It hurt, but it felt fantastic with that hot, hard length inside of him, soothing and irritating at the same time. Peter moaned under Sylar's stifling hand, feeling himself free to make any noise he wanted, and making plenty of them. Most were pained at first, but then they transformed to sounds of ecstasy and awe at the sensations sweeping through him. Sylar had one hand on his mouth and the other on Peter's dick, quickly working out a pattern of hip thrust and hand pump. Peter let himself go, hanging on and letting the endorphins carry him away. Beyond agony, beyond pleasure, is a euphoria that he'd unintentionally entered. He felt like he was flying, propelled along by every surging wave of sensation. Head cast back, mouth slack, eyes rolled upwards, his body trembled in readiness for release.
Then Sylar stopped.
Sylar leaned forward, licking a slow trail from the join of Peter's collarbones over his Adam's apple and to the underside of his chin. Teeth nipped lovingly at him. "Show me how special you are, Peter. Use your ability."
"What?" The realization that Sylar might hold out on him, might cut him off and not give him anything more shot through him. He scrambled, wriggling his legs and trying to get purchase. If he fucked himself on Sylar's dick just a little more, would he come? Could he get enough stimulation that way?
Sylar kissed around the corners of his mouth, smoothing his hand to the back of Peter's neck. "Please, Peter," he said, drawing it out as a prayer against Peter's lips. "Use me, like I was meant to be used. For you, by you. Let me take care of you." His voice shook with powerful emotion, like he was asking Peter for life itself. "Let me mean something." He ended by staring into Peter's eyes from inches away, his hip rolling slightly to move himself inside of Peter; his hand on Peter's shaft giving the slowest squeeze and pull.
It was a request Peter couldn't deny, but he still wasn't going to do it on Sylar's terms. He tingled - his whole body did at every point they were in contact - and he picked exactly what he wanted. But it wasn't regeneration.
Sylar made a gaping grin of victory, immediately shifting to hammering Peter hard and fast like he had before. Peter shouted - in pain, in pleasure, in perfect, prolonged completion. Sylar didn't put a hand over his mouth this time, but instead his throat, pressing him to the netting over the wall and throttling him. Peter came and it felt like he just kept coming over and over as Sylar pounded into him, pinning him in place, denying him air but providing everything Peter needed more. He tingled. Sensation roared through him. Sylar's hips snapped a last, decisive lunge inside of him, before his snarl was replaced by a look that was almost frightened, it was so vulnerable. Peter watched him come as if through a haze, pawing at Sylar's hair and petting his face. Sylar collapsed slowly to the floor, releasing the telekinesis and bringing a clinging Peter with him.
Peter felt like he had been torn open. He felt like that broken, jagged part of him that was deep inside, the part he kept hidden and protected, had finally been reached and all his protections had been pushed aside. He had no barrier, no defense against Sylar's essence. It invaded him, filled him, covered him. He was breathing it in. He wanted to be one with it, pushing his face against Sylar's and sucking in lungfuls. Peter rubbed his cheek against Sylar's face, smelling and tasting him while his hands bunched and carded through the man's hair and slid over the top of his sweaty shoulders. He felt like something had changed inside of him, some pair-bonding part of his brain was working on overdrive. He accepted Sylar in every way - caretaker, brother, lover, partner. He wanted to climb inside of him and live there.
Sylar shifted, pulling out. He reached between them to touch Peter's swollen, violated asshole like he had after the first time they'd fucked. Peter winced. "You didn't take regeneration," Sylar said uncertainly.
A slow, smug smile cracked Peter's face. "Something even better." He laid his lips over Sylar's and activated his new treasure. He pulled out Sylar's deepest needs and desires, opening him up just like Peter had sensed he'd been stripped and made naked to Sylar's heart. Peter knew that embarrassment and shame raced through Sylar, and a feeling that he was going to be rejected, found unworthy, and it would all be for naught. But a tiny hope flickered there, a tiny hope that made Sylar keep kissing him. If this was what fate wanted for him, if this was his destiny, if this was the connection he had to have to be human, then he would give himself to it entirely - no shrinking, no fighting, but a total surrender to reality and whatever it held for him.
It felt like they kissed for an eternity, until Peter's mind couldn't hold everything he knew, his heart filled to bursting with what he felt. He separated, finally, and they sat quietly for long minutes, arms around each other, foreheads resting against each other, both staring down sightlessly. It was a lot to process. Peter moved one hand up and cupped the back of Sylar's neck, transferring to a different ability. The ache inside of him, which had been building to a highly unpleasant agony, receded and then vanished. He relaxed from a tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, sighing in relief as the pain left and only the incredible post-coital buzz was left.
Sylar, his voice slightly slurred, said, "So you finally took what I was offering?"
Peter smiled at him. "I'll take everything you're offering." He turned and leaned back, pulling Sylar down on top of him. He wasn't renewed enough to go again immediately, but their love-making was hardly at an end. They made love this time, slow and sensual, without the urgency of before. Peter had never felt so complete as when he was in Sylar's arms.