More Between Us, Chapter 24/? "Anger Issues Part Two"
Chapter 24/? "Anger Issues Part Two"
Day 9
Peter’s mood appeared to shift right back to perky (what was this boy on?), smiling and grinning. Admittedly that was much preferable to grumping, growling and accusing or that blank face, but it was all those were all understandable. What did Peter have to smile about?
How we missed what? Sylar thought before Peter explained it. He was following Peter’s every move and word, waiting for the light bulb to go off, not realizing that, impaired as he was, he might not have the mental electricity available. Sylar froze and went still, then his head slowly tilted back a little. Introduced? But how did we meet again? //They let me hold him in the hosp-// No!...Homecoming. We didn’t have time for that! While his mind raced through all this, both people in his head pinged that this might definitely be a sick joke, ongoing. I know who you are…, he thought, quiet even in his own mind. After everything we’ve…that’s happened, you still want to… with me?
Nathan recognized the look, had been on the receiving end many times as a lawyer and congressional candidate. Sylar was left floundering at what looked like a friendly, serious introduction, having never received that kind of attention - he’d never been deserving of it (introduction or attention of that nature), so why would it come his way? It screamed of manipulation because Peter was fucking with the natural order of things. People like Petrellis didn’t so much as glance at people like him. Why now would he get something…unexpectedly nice? He absolutely couldn’t deny whatever game it was, it was working - something twisted painfully pleasant in his chest and found up feeling a little fluttery and luke-warm (while the rest of his nerves fought fires with chilled apprehension).
Sylar was left to blink, once and slowly, gauging the unfamiliar social scene directed at him. “Sylar. Just…Sylar.” He quickly redirected his mind from how goddamn cheesy it sounded not to ‘have a last name’ but it wasn’t like his watch came with a baby name book or a how-to-Villain’s-guide. The damn thing hadn’t even come with working insides. Glancing at the motions of Peter’s braced hand, his own appropriate fingers twitched in social sympathy and habit, but he didn’t move otherwise though the fingerprints were now hooked on all things Peter-Petrelli’s-face. Perhaps waiting for the ‘and you killed my brother!’ finale of violence made sense?
XXX
Peter made a small bob of his head, still smiling warmly. He could see he’d flustered and thrown Sylar. The damage control he opted for was simply to continue with the predictable pattern: “Well, Sylar, how do you do.” It wasn’t inflected as a question because it really wasn’t one, not even rhetorical. It was just what was said. He waited a beat anyway in case Sylar had a response and then held up his left thumb, fist curled loosely. “Hey. We got through introductions without anyone getting punched in the face or horribly pissed off, right?”
Maybe there’s hope for us yet. Maybe we won’t kill each other. He hoped, sort of forlornly in the recesses of his mind. But Sylar wasn’t responding in kind, an absence of friendliness that at best left Peter feeling socially awkward and at worst threw Sylar back in the ‘might be an enemy’ category. Peter made a formless gesture towards the man, what might have ended with a shoulder pat had they known each other better, but without that bond it was just an abbreviated motion of intention without carry through. He was reading from Sylar pretty clearly the man’s unease with Peter’s … (introduction? attempt to be friendly? trying to help?) … presence.
XXX
But I’m a murderer, Peter…and you know that. And you want to be introduced? How-? How do I do? You do this NOW?! Sylar missed whatever tonal usage Peter had or hadn’t employed, opening his mouth once to answer, but what could he say? I’m in major pain because of you and my life’s fucked up and so is the world. I killed your brother and here you are, treating me and introducing yourself like we haven’t killed each other a dozen times? I never got any of that from geneticists and scientists, so why you, why now? Sylar closed his mouth, his emotions raging yet oddly contained, probably numbed by the force of them. It wasn’t as unlikely as he’d like. Why would he try to make me feel special now? What’s the point?
His gaping finished, he just stared at Peter in dazed wonderment or maybe dazed befuddlement. His face pinched in, his eyes briefly following Peter’s ‘thumbs up’ as if he’d done something gold-star-worthy. Then he tracked Peter’s gesture, it came close to him. What had that been?. I just had to get a concussion to get an introduction? All…all we’ve been through to get that? And even then only from someone who’s fucking ability is predisposed. This may never happen again. Someone looking at you like that, fully knowing what you are and using the right name that way. He must think I’m not going to remember this…
XXX
What confidence Peter had been exuding began to flag in the face of Sylar’s muted response. The idea that Sylar couldn’t respond appropriately to a basic introduction was difficult for Peter to deal with. Not because he couldn’t imagine that Sylar might have such a problem - that was part of the problem, Peter could imagine it, but instead because of everything it might imply about Sylar’s history and his internal logic. Maybe Sylar was a murderer because he couldn’t get past ‘hello, how are you doing?’ And Peter had no idea if that was cause or effect (despite how the angry part of him wanted to believe it was cause, the rest of him suspected it was more complicated than that).
It was deeply unsettling, leaving him sorry for Sylar and yet very wary about what it might mean to be trapped here with him. One thing was for sure - he wasn’t treating Sylar like Sylar expected and that cast all manner of uncertainty on the possible reactions as a result. They were in uncharted territory.
“There’s uh … you know, it might be that I, uh, have a lot of preconceptions about you.” Wrong ones, probably. I’m not saying you’re okay, but … the dream seemed to indicate you could be and you saved my life that once and … “I don’t know.” Too uncomfortable with the words coming out of his mouth, much less the direction of his thoughts, Peter stood up abruptly. Sylar had had moments of being good and Peter knew it. He knew Sylar had the potential to be a decent person for long periods … hell, maybe he was a decent person now, which was just too much cognitive dissonance for Peter to process so soon after losing Nathan.
Standing so fast was a little too quick for his sore body, but he tried to ignore the stiffness. He gathered up the bag of peas and took them into the kitchen for delivery into the freezer before they were too far gone. Just … change the subject. I don’t want to talk about any of that anyway. “Um, I think I missed your answer earlier. Do you have any Tylenol around here? Aspirin is off-limits for concussions, but Tylenol won’t hurt you.”
XXX
What was there for Peter to be preconceived about? Sylar just shrugged. Everyone has them. They’re not worth correcting because you won’t believe a word I tell you. You can’t test or check- up on anything I tell you, so I have no solid proof and the only thing you have to go on is your own memory as a witness. And victim. Besides, Peter didn’t want to talk.
“Yes, I’ve got Tylenol!” Sylar tried to snap and failed as his voice cracked and dipped into a whisper. He was badly stung that Peter…gave up, all the same, on the conversation and the proximity. Sylar had no right to be hurt. Peter’s behavior made no sense, not a lick. Sylar hadn’t kept up the conversation, but it was like speaking Mandarin - he had no idea how. How could Peter do it either? That didn’t mean ‘Mandarin’ was…so bad…
XXX
Peter, too, felt like he was speaking a foreign language to Sylar, who was only getting bits and pieces and misunderstanding the rest. So Peter, at least, tried to shift things back to a subject he was more comfortable with, something where he was in control and felt like he was contributing something worthwhile. He could try to alleviate pain and try to make things better. Sylar would want that, right?
Peter walked back out, giving Sylar a look of concern for his brain injury. “Your head has to be killing you. Tylenol will help. And even if you don’t want it, I’ll take some.” He adopted a slightly different voice like he was quoting someone, “’Pain management is an important part of medical treatment.’” He looked at Sylar’s blotchy, bruised face and felt a strong urge to be helpful somehow, rather than useless and the cause of someone else’s misery. “Can I …” He gave himself a little shake. ‘Can I help you?’ and ‘Can I get you anything?’ were too open-ended. He didn’t know what he’d get as answers and … well … this was Sylar. Peter was still way too wary to even speak freely. “I should just go get the pills,” he muttered grumpily.
The previous small twitch of Sylar’s fingers like he might have been willing to shake hands nagged at Peter’s mind - how abortive it was, and how he’d apparently unsettled his companion just by trying to say ‘hi’ the wrong way. Why am I so fucking insecure about this? ‘You’re the only one who uses my name in a sentence, to my face, to refer to me. Not ‘hey, you’ or…something.’ That was bothering the hell out of Peter, but he had yet to be able to consciously articulate it to himself.
XXX
Sylar stared at Peter like he’d lost his marbles. This was a hallucination, that was it. That at least made sense. Get me outta here, was what he thought of the situation. He cares about my pain now? Peter stood there, bugging him still about the damn pills like they mattered, so Sylar lurched to his feet. Angry and confused, he was too weirded out to direct Peter to the bathroom. Keeping a hand along the couch, he half hoped to do just what Peter claimed to fear - bash his brains out on something.
XXX
Peter felt an almost tangible discomfort at the expression on Sylar’s face. We’re not understanding each other. He’s pissed at me. I’m not making sense to him. Hell, I don’t make sense to myself! At least, not really … What the hell am I supposed to do, Sylar? Give you a fucking do-over? It’s not happening. I can put a polite face on it for however long it takes, but in the end, you still killed Nathan and no telling how many other people. I can be nice. I can act nice. But inside I’m still too fucking angry to stay that way!
Peter winced and raked his hand through his hair, his unhappiness beginning to take on a desperate edge as the desire to hate Sylar for being a monster conflicted with the need to treat him as human. Belatedly, he followed Sylar in case the man fell, though he was already staggering into the bathroom. What’s he doing? Going to the bathroom? Peter tried to assess Sylar’s stability and hoped the man had enough sense to give up on urinating while standing for a while. Bathrooms were generally a whole collection of hard, unyielding, dangerous surfaces. Peter hadn’t been a hospice nurse for very long - a mere six months - but it was enough time to help plenty of people with getting up and down in bathrooms and from beds to portable commodes. He didn’t think Sylar needed the help as long as he took it slow and respected the limits of his balance.
XXX
His hands were on autopilot and so they caught him at the bathroom’s doorjambs, leaning in over the sink and scrabbling to open the mirror cabinet. Just give him the pills and make him leave, he’s only here for the pills! Looking at the blurry boxes and bottles, he spotted one with a big yellow-and-red ‘T’ on it and snatched it up. Absently he’d wondered what the difference was between aspirin and Tylenol…something to do with fevers or blood pressure? Turning he held it (the Tylenol) at arm’s length as he leaned back out from the bathroom. Stupid Peter, surely knows his way around here by now to get fucking pills. He hit his head again, I hit him too hard. Of course my head fucking hurts!
When Peter was too slow for his tastes, he rattled the box at him - he would throw it but the top was opened and that would get pills everywhere.
XXX
At the moment, though, the toilet seemed to have no interest for the other man. Sylar was pawing through the medicine cabinet and it took Peter a moment to realize why. Sylar jammed the box of Tylenol in his direction and Peter hesitated, not sure how to respond. He was reading the anger. He felt guilty for having caused it even if he wasn’t sure what he should have done better. Sylar rattled the pills patronizingly and Peter reached out to take the box immediately, looking down for a moment and exhaling.
“Come on … Sylar, come on,” he said gently, stepping forward and putting his hand on Sylar’s elbow, still more afraid than he thought he should be that the slightest misstep was going to put them fighting again. Or rather, put Sylar fighting. Peter intended to surrender and give up completely if attacked, retreat maybe, but he’d promised not to fight and he intended to keep that promise. He tugged at Sylar’s elbow, offering to support him on the way back. “Come on. Let me get you back to the couch. I’m sorry about earlier. I guess I was rude. I didn’t mean to piss you off.” In a voice that was contrite, sincere and even more heartfelt than he wanted it to be, Peter said, “Can you just let me help you? Please? I want to help. It’s either that or go … away. Let me help, okay?”
XXX
Great, now Peter was annoyed with him. The man had no idea how lucky he was that Sylar wasn’t up to acting on his own frustration, although screaming was still an option. Sylar remembered how Peter had been inside Jesse’s body before Sylar killed the inmate for his ability - that type of scream was what he envisioned and he was sure it would be most gratifying. Instead Sylar sighed quietly when Peter urged him with the hand. He released the doorjamb and took a step with Peter.
To the apology (that seemed to come from out of nowhere): “Whatever. It isn’t as though you’re unentitled. I’m a big boy, Peter,” he looked at his momentary support, “I’ll manage.” That was as much to say ‘I understand’. Then the medic was threatening to leave if Sylar didn’t…what? Play the role of the patient? He stiffened, but not dangerously, at the implication as they walked the short distance back. Do what you want, clearly, its not like I can stop you. I can’t sleep, piss or eat with you here and there’s nowhere in my apartment for you to get comfortable. I really just want to know what you want from me!
Peter was looking down as much as he could manage while still being aware of Sylar’s expression, still trying to be alert for a mood change or a reaction that might be dangerous. Worse than the physical threat was the emotional. He’d beaten Sylar up. Even if Peter had taken blows in exchange, he knew what he’d done was wrong; he felt sorry for Sylar’s state, he knew Sylar needed his help, Peter felt lousy for having put Sylar in the position of needing his help especially when Sylar so clearly didn’t want it and would rather suffer than allow it … and Peter felt worthless and dejected that he wasn’t even good company. He wanted to do what he could to fix that.
XXX
What Sylar wanted was his cot, his bed, but Peter completely stripped away any comfort it might have and it now presented more hazard than safety. Sylar turned them back towards the couch and another round of annoying conversation. I can see why you annoy your family. And why none of us would get along at the holidays. It almost hurt his eyes for the muscles to keep his lids open and the sliding ricochet of pounding pressure in his head was officially redundant. He sat and left Peter to his own devices.
“What do you want me to do, then, Peter?” he parroted back without much inflection, some time passing between Peter’s declaration to help and Sylar’s reply; that honesty again biting him in the ass. He asked for pills, so I got them.
XXX
Feeling chastened by Sylar’s flat tone and the man’s obvious acquiescence under duress, Peter squatted down in front of where Sylar was sitting on the couch. He ignored the little warning bells that told him he could get kicked here. He grimaced and shifted, unable to ignore as easily the pain from his hip. He held onto the arm of the couch for balance and looked up at Sylar, getting eye contact and putting himself in a lower, subordinate position relative to the other man. That was his nurse training at work, but it also suited what he was trying to do, which was not exactly an apology, but at least an explanation, and an answer to the question Sylar was asking.
He started to speak, then shut his mouth and looked - really, really looked at the guy. It was probably rude as hell, or something, but … the face Peter was looking at was human, very human. Not a caricature, not a villain, but a human being, a patient with regular, even features, blotchy skin and forming bruises, unhappy, stressed and pained. He distantly noted that pupil size was equal - that was a good thing. All Peter was doing was looking, with a slightly puzzled expression of interest. His eyes slowly drifted over Sylar’s face until Peter swallowed, blinked and looked down at his left hand on the arm of the couch, his fingers twitching restlessly because of his complicated emotions. This was someone he’d hurt; it was Sylar and he still wanted to hurt him; and it was someone who needed his help, someone who was hurting and not just physically. He felt sorry for Sylar. He felt angry at himself. He was still, of course, angry at Sylar. That last wasn’t going away any time soon.
XXX
Peter crouched right before him as he sat on the couch and his eyes went wide and stayed that way. Was Peter going to break an ankle or cave in his knee this time? That entire bullshit about not hurting him was…well, it was completely overlooked as untruthful. Besides, what good would that so-called ‘promise’ do him the next day when he woke up? Twelve hours of truce, perhaps, but when the next dawn came around…Peter would be in his apartment while Sylar (most likely) slept. Talk about a free-for-all.
To make things totally better, Peter stopped himself from speaking to stare at him. Sorry, next time I’ll wash my face, too. But you told me to stay down. Sylar was all-too-clear on the fact that this, his original face, could provoke violence of its own accord. Violence on sight. Huh. Prolonged staring was…what was it? He didn’t and wouldn’t know. The ‘I’m-checking-for-foaming-at-the-mouth’ look wasn’t strictly limited to Peter or Peter as a medic so it could mean anything. He was well and truly sick of those looks - the ones in Level Five. Rabid dog seemed an accurate, expected description.
Peter’s…posture strangely reminded him of being a child - being sat down and delivered some sort of speech from an adult and it was never the ‘I’m proud of you’ type of thing, it was always bad news. It was that same kind of false positioning (that illusion that he was bigger, taller than the other person) that was designed to make him feel better, feel in-charge, right? That wasn’t really the case.
Sylar could feel his face stiffening up from the fight, but his mouth tensed and his jaw locked shut anyway as he stared back at Peter. The empath, if anything appeared questioning and had, as yet, asked nothing. It wasn’t a disappointed, disgusted or even an angry look which would have made since given Sylar’s last words. One of the medic’s hands had caged him in on his right side and suddenly Peter was looking that way. Just like that. Inspection over. No further interest. No wonder no one could keep up with Peter, he was like a freaking whiplash.
XXX
“Sylar,” he said in a low voice, looking back up at him and being sincere. “If I was getting what I wanted here, you’d trust me when I tell you that I’m not going to hurt you anymore today. You’d let me try to help you. You’d relax a little and get some rest. I’ve …” Peter’s eyes lost focus as a vision of Nathan, curled around a bottle, slumbering fitfully in Peter’s bed, flashed before them. That was him the whole time, Sylar, who I sat with in Nathan’s office, flew with to that storage center and then on to Texas. That was Sylar who sat there at my dining room table and told me I’d never be able to look at him as Nathan without seeing … this face instead. Peter twitched with the force of it, trying to shake it off because of how uncomfortably brotherly it made him feel towards Sylar. It was like they’d had some really bad times, but relied on each other and … pulled through? But the sin had already been committed - Nathan was already dead. Neither of them had known it and that left Peter feeling lost as to what was appropriate. He just knew that he’d had moments there with Sylar when they hadn’t been at each other’s throats and that gave him a bitter sort of hope.
He focused once more on the man in front of him. “I’ve watched you sleep before. Here … and before. You were safe. I promise you you’ll be safe now. I didn’t come here to kill you. Or to get revenge. Or to torture you or mind-fuck you or drive you crazy. I came here because I’d been shown that you would save people and … I believed that was possible. So here I am. I’m an idiot sometimes.” His eyes fell and he looked aside rather than at Sylar’s belly, knees or groin. He was a hopeful, too-hopeful idiot who thought he could change the world (Sylar included, himself included) if he just tried hard enough.
“Or maybe a lot of the time.” He pursed his lips, his rising dissatisfaction with himself prompting him back to ‘nurse’ mode where he felt he could do something worthwhile. Standard bedside manner included telling your patient what you were going to do, so he did. “I’m going to get you some water. I’d like you to take some Tylenol. I’ll bring you a new ice pack. And then I’ll back off and stay out of your hair unless you n- start moving around.” He’s not going to admit he needs me. For someone who’s gone through whatever he has, and most of it alone, he’s probably right and he doesn’t need help. But that’s kind of like saying you don’t need it to be comfortable in a room - sure does make things better if it is.
XXX
Trust you? Like Nathan did? Sylar immediately began grousing what he, apparently, couldn’t voice. His eyes glazed over as he did absorb Peter’s words, yet they were too…He disbelieved them. I AM letting you help me! That’s why I asked what you wanted! You can play hero, fine, but you are not rescuing me, got it? Then you want me to relax while you sit there and stare at me like a bloodstain you’d love to be rid of and can’t figure out how? You must make all your dates feel this special.
Peter jerked at something, probably just a twingeing muscle, Sylar assumed, and then dropped something that would have been amusing. You pervert, watching me sleep. Thanks for clearing that up cause I was real worried about my virtue. At the same time, Sylar knew Peter’s word was…as good as the poor empath could generally live up to being. The guy was still human and an empath with a murdered brother. Sylar decided he had little choice but to trust it, but he did not, by any means, trust it very far.
How many more bullshit, contradictory phrases can he lay on? Sylar was appalled to think that there may be no end to them. So this isn’t revenge? Or torture for what I’ve done? You just…felt like it? Oh, right, anger issues. You’re already driving me crazy - have done since Stanton, you little prick. Just say you don’t know why the hell you do shit! That’s the truth!
Sylar just nodded, mostly answering the ‘I’m an idiot’ part, but it covered his blanket emotions. He felt a tingle throughout his form anyway as Peter keep shifting his gaze around, down and then away, aware that he was a little bit vulnerable sitting here like this. “The second one,” he chipped in quietly, helpful as always.
Peter’s whole attitude of…nurture was only making Sylar’s natural response that much more resistant; he was getting ‘Mom’ vibes but Peter was phrasing things specifically to be polite. And Sylar had asked. He wasn’t being left with much choice - Peter could decide for Sylar to choke on said pills and force him to drink the water.
XXX
Peter patted the arm of the couch (another intention motion of kindness where he should have been patting Sylar but remained averse to touching the man for no reason other than soothing) and stood, moving off to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of water he’d drawn up earlier. He returned with it immediately, offering it, trying to make himself useful, trying to win Sylar’s approval of all things through humility and service even though he knew that was stupid and probably futile, maybe even counter-productive.
Peter rattled out a medium-high dose of pills, thinking about Sylar’s probably mostly-empty stomach. And he likely won’t want to eat anything for a while due to the concussion, aside from the fact that his mouth probably hurts. I tagged him a couple times in the face. Maybe he could eat some crackers or bread, because this many Tylenol might give him a stomachache? Wait, that’s when he threw up last time … when I started eating those crackers. Huh. Yeah, definitely no food for now.
He offered the pills to Sylar and tried to sweeten it with a peace offering that might matter more than some pills Sylar already owned and had fetched himself, or the looking-after Peter didn’t think Sylar wanted even though Peter was desperate to give it. He offered something he thought Sylar did want. “Maybe we can play one of those board games tomorrow. The ones you mentioned the other day. I think you said Clue, like, three times.”
XXX
Sylar felt his muscles tense as Peter patted the couch, again, one of those basic parental gestures that just didn’t, well, sit well with him. Sylar was left to sit and stew some more with all this would-be goodwill going on. He is real guilty about something. He didn’t need Nathan to spot that, although why Peter need feel guilty was beyond him. He’s sure as hell not sorry he endangered your life, why would he be? He’ll do it again tomorrow because, oops! He forgot.
The other man returned with water, which Sylar took when it was offered, and stood there and portioned out the pills. Incompetent and childish described his feelings at waiting to be served his medications - Oh, Peter was getting a kick out of this, surely. Sylar’s lips pursed up like he’d been sucking on a lemon because Clue was just the final straw.
“Think I’m up for that?” he asked, half-rhetorically with some sarcasm before his voice shifted to firm, “You need to relax, Peter. Guilt, your hero itch, buttering me up, having a laugh, maybe I hit you too hard, whatever it is. If anything, I’m not thrilled to have you trying to kill me when I’ve done nothing on the level of that. Because you are reminding me of my mother with this hovering and if I’m relaxing, you are relaxing or no one’s getting relaxed.” Of course he’d like to play a game with Peter, but the timing coincided with whatever weird behavior the man was displaying - the motives stank of a rat. Probably a guilty one.
XXX
Peter blinked at him uncertainly. Sylar’s tone was coherent enough, but the words weren’t making sense to Peter. His mind snagged on what was, to him, the most important thing: “I’m not trying to kill you.” He looked at the pill box in his hand thinking Sylar must have thought Peter had given him a dangerous dosage or something, recalling the single pill Sylar had reluctantly taken when Peter had offered them days before. “It’s Tylenol. You’re not going to die from Tylenol. It’s aspirin that interacts badly with a concussion - prevents clotting, increases brain bleed, that sort of thing. All these should do is decrease your perception of pain a little, sort of dull it out and make it more bearable.” Peter felt he was being unfairly accused of something that was pretty serious. If Sylar thought he was trying to kill him, then that explained the continued defensiveness and disjointed, odd read he kept getting off the man.
Peter remained confused. Even now Sylar’s voice didn’t sound alarmed or upset like it should if he thought Peter had just fed him poison (and if he did, then why had he swallowed the pills?), or was waiting for him to go to sleep so Peter could … what, suffocate him? Peter’s face drew together in lack of comprehension as he considered what else Sylar had said. Relax. Fine. I can relax if that makes him feel better. He looked around the place, settling on the chair behind Sylar’s main work desk as the most comfortable looking place to sit, aside from the couch. He expected Sylar to stretch out on the couch and if Peter sat on the opposite end, that would make that impossible. It would be more convenient if Sylar would move to his bed and let Peter have the couch, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about racking out on it in the same room as ... I suppose I’d be safe enough … the more he thought about it, the less settled he was.
He shoved that out of his mind and went to retrieve the desk chair, moving it out to where he could sit opposite Sylar.
XXX
All there was to do was close his eyes - he couldn’t roll them. Sylar tried rubbing his face, but grimaced and left off with a hiss due to the hurt. Good God, Peter…He’s fucked up, too. He’s fucked up, let it go. Of course Peter would misunderstand, whether on purpose or not - Saint Peter was no murderer. “My God, Peter…just…go sit. Sit and…shut up,” Sylar’s tone was exasperated, his last words were close to pleading as he pointed in the direction of the chair/desk/bed, never mind that the man was already moving towards them. To himself he muttered, “To think, I need you to tell me what a painkiller does.”
XXX
Peter took his seat, trying to ‘relax’. Now that he tried, consciously, to settle down, he realized how incredibly wound up he was. He had to fight the urge to get up and go get himself a glass of water so he could take some Tylenol, to go to the bathroom and adjust the band-aids on his face, to go to the kitchen and get a new ice pack. He didn’t need to do any of those things, but they sprang unbidden to his mind the moment he tried to calm down. He fidgeted, frowning, looking at his own knees as his left hand gripped the arm rest anxiously and his right rubbed back and forth uneasily. He wanted to be doing.
XXX
Peter relocated the chair to sit a few feet from Sylar on the couch and he saw the medic’s muscles unlock and only after he saw that did he allow his own body’s tension to ease somewhat, gradually decreasing the strain over the course of minutes. Any words of comfort he would offer would leave his state or intentions vulnerable: ‘I’m in no condition to hurt you, I’m not going to kill you.’ He could tell Peter to relax…and stop that fucking offbeat twitching he was going. Sylar’s posture slid into what could be described as a sag in the couch, fully intending to later turn and lay semi-comfortably.
Doing his best to re-scan the previous topics in the conversations, Sylar alighted on one of interest. Peter seemed happy when talking so maybe that was the trick. “So…” he said lowly into the otherwise-silence that descended, “Anger issues, huh?” His gaze was kept purposefully lenient and centered at Peter’s sternum, occasionally glancing to his eyes. Weird…once I lay down, this is going to be a reverse of ‘lay down and tell me about your childhood.’ I know a thing or twelve about anger. It’s not something really…describable.
XXX
Peter let the silence pass as Sylar didn’t immediately speak. His many aches and pains spoke louder in the quiet. When he’d been on his feet moving, focused on the next thing he needed to be doing, it was easier to ignore them. His thoughts kept turning to an ice pack, or taking another dose of pills. He stayed in the chair though. When Sylar sagged, Peter finally gave himself permission to relax as much as he could, which was downright painful. He wasn’t surprised at the visceral reminder of how much his mood and state fed off of and was linked to that of another. He let out a deep, slow breath and leaned back in the chair, settling in. His eyelid drooped, but he wasn’t feeling sleepy. He was just echoing Sylar’s posture.
“Anger issues,” Peter repeated. Sylar wants to talk … now? Peter had been desperate for it earlier, rattling off his story and then trying to recover from whatever offense that had caused. Relax, go sit, shut up and now an invitation to talk? It wasn’t nearly as nonsensical to Peter as it looked on the surface. His mind strung those words together and came up with the explanation that Sylar wanted control. Peter had stripped that from him and the man had responded badly. First time now that Sylar had told Peter what to do and Peter had complied - and things were settling back down. It didn’t seem like a coincidence. Control issues? He pondered it, trying to figure out how to make the jigsaw pieces he knew of Sylar’s personality fit together.
Of course he had his own issues to worry him, but he didn’t puzzle over them. Peter knew what was going on there. Maybe Sylar didn’t, though. So he decided to tell him. It probably wouldn’t screw things up any worse than anything else he’d done.
“You know my life. Or part of it, at least.” He scanned over Sylar’s face, then looked off to the side, as though perusing one of the many stacks of books. “I always wanted to do something with these abilities, to make a difference. A good difference. Sometimes it doesn’t seem like there’s any point. To trying.” He’d put all those newspaper clippings of people he’d saved on his wall to remind himself that there was a point. He was saving people. He was helping. Every day. It was just so hard to internalize that when he was doing it alone and in secret. He exhaled heavily. “Who could I talk to about it anyway, and try and figure out what it is I’m supposed to be doing? Nathan?” He chuffed a laugh, which hurt his face. Peter grunted and gave a grimace that turned into a snarl, an expression much more due to his anger at his brother than the pain. “We’ve already seen his answer to abilities,” Peter growled out.
“Ma?” he sneered. “Her idea of a sound moral decision isn’t anything I’m on board with.” He stared up at the ceiling, trying to shed the anger before it got too deeply entrenched. “Who else is there? Claire? She’s got her own problems. She doesn’t need mine. And then … no one else. Just people who don’t know me real well.” Like Emma. “It’s gotten to where I just … don’t talk to anyone. Not about anything that matters.” He gave a forced exhale.
“Didn’t talk when Ma started having dreams about Emma. I didn’t press her about it; I didn’t try to talk it out; I didn’t try to reason with her. I just took her ability, without even asking, over her objections, and used it. I did the same thing with Matt. I didn’t ask him what you were doing here or what he was trying to do. I didn’t ask him how to get back out before getting in here. Didn’t trust him. Wasn’t listening. Didn’t try to understand. I just jumped right in, and here I am. Nothing else to do now but talk, I guess.” He sighed, defeated by the situation. His eye wandered back to Sylar’s. “That, and beat the crap out of each other.”
XXX
Sylar tilted his head after Peter had looked away. The man was acknowledging it, how interesting. He kept his mouth shut as there were lots of things to say to what Peter spoke or felt, doing his best to absorb the information. He felt a surge of…anger and, strangely, disappointment at Peter for…well, losing faith; Sylar knew how important ‘a good difference’ could be and how rare it was. He reigned in on the desire to smack sense into Peter for daring to think that, because, geez, if Peter went nuts, how would Sylar fare? Peter and his efforts were more pivotal than the poor guy realized. Hell, look at how well the little pest had gotten in his way time and time again through sheer, dumb, flying-by-faith luck. So help him if the kid ever got smart and actually planned out his moves.
Sylar made a sour face. Nathan and his plans, ha. Problem was, the idiot meant well, he really did. Public service was, in its own way, helping those who could not help themselves because they lacked the backing and money and experience to be lawyers and senators. So in a way…Nathan was trying to do what Peter was trying to do, just in a different way, very different. Nathan looked so far ahead, he forgot the details; Nathan’s problem was having his head stuck so far up his own ass that…Nathan’s problem was not listening to those with more power than himself. Namely Peter. In the real world, Peter was a pretty low schmuck compared to Nathan, even for all their money the younger man refused to take. But inside, in that annoyingly simple-yet-mystifying brain of his…Peter held, debatably, more power than anyone save Arthur and Sylar himself. And his heart was in the right place even if he lacked…the occasional glimpse ahead for personal risk-taking. Peter looked around only when it was in the moment. Yes, Sylar knew about his life.
Sylar cast a baleful glare, the strongest he could muster (which wasn’t saying much) at Peter, who was checking out the ceiling, at the mention of Angela. He agreed so much it was scary. That woman…well, she never took her head out of the clouds to see the world below. A woman who would, quite willingly, kill her own sons and abandon them in their moments of need was hardly a mother at all. When said women had the power to see the future? Well… All three men, the two Petrellis and Sylar, were, to varying degrees, irate at Angela for her favoritisms and her neglect of Peter and testing on Nathan…and then there was the lying at Primatech and brain-rape at Stanton.
Claire? Dear God, that idea was laughable and Sylar choked off his chuckle. That girl chose to be in her problems. The world revolved (quite literally apparently - “Save the cheerleader”) around her and if she chose, she could very well halt it - Bennets, Petrellis and all. The only insight he’d ever managed to….manipulate from her wasn’t aimed at him, it hadn’t been thought out, it was a stream of psyched out, terrified, warped, overly-emotional blonde-gushing intended for (of all things) her “girlfriend.” One thing and one thing only had that girl ever had to say of substance and that was AFTER four years of him trying to get help…more or less. Noah and Matt, Mohinder maybe? (now there was a thought), this Emma girl…friendships could be cultivated, right?
Peter kept on, so he listened some more to a truly familiar tale, only the empath’s had more viable options in it. “Funny how I’m supposed to get therapy when you can’t even get someone to listen to you about your feelings. And they like you,” Sylar snorted, shaking his head. His voice was observing, no more, although he’d nearly said ‘when you can’t even talk to your own mother’ but they had that very much in common as well.
“About that…” Sylar was easily segued into something he’d meant to bring up. “Apparently this is my second concussion in a week. You wanna flex your testosterone, I’m all for it. But I swear to God, Peter, if you try to kill me again, and I count things like breaking knees and concussions, I will retaliate. I have been on what you heroes like to call ‘good behavior,’” Sylar made a single, slow pair of air-quotes, quirking an eyebrow up mockingly, “you know, the non-homicidal gig. You’d hate for me to change that.” I am pretty good at killing people without powers. Just not so hot with the brawling.
XXX
Peter’s brows tried to rise at Sylar’s threat. It made his forehead hurt. He looked away instead and gave a small nod, giving in and agreeing rather than taking umbrage. He still felt that deep-seated urge to ‘flex his testosterone’ or whatever in response to it. Peter waited for several seconds, keeping himself calm and mulling over what Sylar had said rather than reacting to it immediately. He smiled slightly at how thoroughly skewered he was with that therapy comment. Feeling in possession of his reactions (or at least as much as he ever was), he shifted forward and said quietly, “I’m going to get an ice pack for myself and take some of these pills. Do you want anything while I’m up?”
XXX
There’s a lot of things I want. Sylar thought on it for a millisecond and decided no, an icepack wouldn’t help his brutal headache. He would wait for the drugs to kick in. He waved Peter off lightly, sinking further into his seat at the offer, “No.”
XXX
Peter rose stiffly and ambulated slowly into the kitchen, consuming an over-sized dose of Tylenol before liberating one of the extra ice packs he’d stowed in the freezer. As he walked back, he said, “Touché. About the therapy - touché. You’ve got a point there. You’re just winning time after time today.” Peter was being dryly sarcastic here. Sylar had won the fight - but he was far more messed up by it and hurt than Peter was. Sylar had a point about the therapy - but that only meant he was even more beyond help than Peter had tried to believe.
XXX
Sylar merely gave the equivalent of a facial shrug - acknowledging and moving on. It was sad and true and there was nothing to be done about it. He would admit that the wins were satisfactory but they meant so much less than it would have if the there were people still in the world. It felt like survival and as such there was no standard - it was just…them. It sucked more in that all they had to rely on was the past and all the negative encounters. However, without crowds and standards, maybe it left room for actual conversation. Case in point.
XXX
Peter settled back into the chair, carefully and slowly due to his aching muscles and a desire not to make any fast motions that might upset his companion. “I appreciate … your ‘good behavior’,” he said sincerely and he actually did appreciate it. Other than Sylar’s mouth and the hurtful words that came out of it, Sylar had largely conducted himself fine. That had slowly been sinking in. Peter leaned back, applying the ice pack to his left eye. “Despite my opinion that if I got killed here, it might not be a big deal, that’s a ‘might’ and there’s no way for me to prove it without taking a huge risk. Which I’ll take if I have to, but … if I was that suicidal, I’d have killed myself a long time ago. Well …” He tried to stifle a chuckle at the ridiculousness of the past, “more than I have.”
XXX
Sylar scanned over Peter’s face, taking his time as the man spoke. All he was doing was looking. Again, there were inconsistencies in Petrelli ‘appreciating good behavior’. Sure that was probably natural, human self-preservation and all. Still kind of felt like a dog being patted on the head. “You mentioned that before,” he stated quietly. Or at least that was the read Sylar gained from it, the potential for suicide or bad types of risks. God, no wonder Nathan was paranoid when it came to Peter - it was usually true! And the idea of Peter’s death being somehow uneventful or missed somehow was stupid and funny.
How many times had Sylar been in body bags, coffins or storage units, buried in the forest off some interstate, left to burn or rot, been someone else or been experimented on all while dead. James Martin, the shape-shifted dummy clone had not gotten what anyone in civilized North America would call a funeral or grave marker. The guy had been burned on a pyre as fucking Darth Vader as you please and all because Petrelli and Co. thought the corpse was Sylar’s. Regardless of whether he liked the stuck-up jerk, Sylar would be having his own mental breakdowns if Peter died here and it would not be pretty. It was adding to his list of Things to Hate About Hell.
The manipulative side of him new exactly which angles to strike should Peter get…risky: remember the mission, and, perhaps, I need you/your help. Sylar knew he was playing with so much less than a full deck of tricks here; there were only so many things Peter needed or wanted now. In general, it would be safe to say that whatever method he chose to soothe the empath with would be a lie. Because he was not enduring another three years alone and that was it.
XXX
He shut his one remaining good eye and took a few breaths to try to center himself. He said, “But honestly, I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to hurt you.” He hesitated a moment and said, “Okay … well … yeah, I didn’t really care if …” He shook his head slightly. “Once we got to fighting, it was just anything goes, whatever it takes.” Peter gave it a longer pause and cracked his eye to regard Sylar evenly through his lashes. “It doesn’t have to be that way?”
XXX
The man across from him looked liked hell; he really did, now they were both calm enough to notice. How Peter made a swollen-shut, black eye with bruises, lacerations and some pretty wonky looking band-aids look good was beyond him. Must be the bone structure.
“Hmm, right, of course,” Sylar murmured, quiet and light but deeply sarcastic if Peter heard it at all. Sylar canted his head in almost a bowing nod of ‘I told you so’. He knew Peter, in the heat of the moment, wouldn’t care if he killed. Somehow the message that Peter needed him had yet to register but it was only a little over a week into the man’s new confinement and he had yet to adjust. Anything goes? You want me to rack your nuts and strangle you because ‘anything goes’? Truth be told, Sylar would have to refrain from the true extent of his desires if it came down to Peter taking things too far. He planned on maybe tying the man up and humiliating him or something similar if pushed in the direction of living up to his threat. Clearly, Peter’s fight-or-flight instincts were unreliable so using that as motivation would be unpredictable.
Sylar had no idea what the look in the man’s one good eye meant, but the guy was so honest and open sometimes it almost begged to be fucked with. Catching the glance, he eyed the glass of water in his hand. Water’s probably okay. He took a drink, aware that he hadn’t had any liquids since he took the single gulp for pills a moment previous and his throat was a little rough. After that, Sylar just smirked at Peter, moving slowly to readjust his position on the couch, taking his time towards horizontal. He wasn’t going to answer the question seeing as he’d already laid everything out. Then again…maybe seeing Peter sweat a few things would make Sylar’s life interesting.
XXX
Peter waited … and waited … and waited for a response, a confirmation, an affirmation - something, something positive, something he could feel hopeful about. He got nothing. He was so disappointed in that and angry at himself for looking for cooperation from Sylar, of all people. He felt like he was offering a basic social contract and Sylar was refusing to sign up. “You are such an asshole,” he said finally, voice heavy with disgust. He shut his eye and leaned back a little further, adjusting the ice pack. He didn’t care if Sylar knew his opinion of him, or since he probably already guessed, had it confirmed out loud. I can’t trust you. There’s no reason why I should and that’s basically what you’re telling me. Hate surged up in him and burned dully. Nothing much was going on to spike it higher - he was too tired and hurt to act on it without some outer provocation so he just sat there and let his thoughts wander.
‘I will retaliate’, ‘good behavior’, ‘the non-homicidal gig’ … Peter mulled it over with a sour expression on his face and didn’t make much sense of it except that Sylar considered the beating he’d given to be okay and within bounds and something about the way Peter had fought had not been. It seemed possible, probable even this was just Sylar’s own personal bias at work - ‘what I do is right and okay, what you do is wrong and unjustified.’ Everyone was like that to some extent. That Sylar might have an exaggerated case of it tied in with ‘control issues’ pretty well. But how to work that? It’s not like I’m going to lay down and let him win.
It kept irritating him, like a bad smell he couldn’t quite find the source of. “Your idea of good behavior isn’t working.” He appreciated that Sylar wasn’t physically assaulting him, but there was a lot more to ‘good behavior’ than that. You insult my family, threaten me, taunt me about Nathan’s death … Peter growled slightly and shifted in the chair, fidgeting because the emotions that came with those thoughts demanded action. “Maybe we should … just … talk about this another time, okay?” Like tomorrow, when I can beat your asshole face in. He didn’t seriously intend to visit harm on Sylar again, but the man’s failure to answer his question had really set Peter off. Peter was seeing it as a declaration that Sylar wouldn’t play ball, or like Sylar was saying the next time they had a fight, it was still going to be knock-down, drag-out, fight to incapacitation. Peter would have liked the idea that he could cry uncle at some point (not that he tended to do that, but it was a nice option) and get a reprieve instead of beaten to death. He didn’t have that assurance and it alarmed him, leaving him even more sullen and uneasy with his companion than he’d been before.
God, why am I trapped here with this guy? Is this a lesson about patience or humility or something? Why can’t it be a lesson about wrath, huh? Come on, God … He sighed and gave the tiniest shake to his head. He wasn’t being blasphemous - he actually wanted an answer to that one. If he just had a purpose, a goal, a mission, something he could hang onto … but he didn’t. Not really. Everything was in limbo awaiting deliverance from this place, which was so distant as to may-as-well-be never. Didn’t Matt say something about ‘you go in there, you’ll never get out’? Great. Rest of my life trapped here. Maybe eternity.
XXX
Continued...