More Between Us, Chapter 2/? "No Escape To Reality"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 2/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 5, 225
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 1
What? Disbelief flooded through Peter. It couldn’t be. The dream had said Sylar would save Emma. So here Peter was, getting Sylar. Somehow this was supposed to work! He hadn’t come here to get trapped in some psycho-nightmare with Nathan’s murderer!
He turned and took a few steps away, hand to his own forehead, trying to think. I’ll just get out. Matt can help me. Maybe only he can let Sylar out of here. Matt? He tried to call out mentally. Matt! He didn’t say anything aloud, because…well, honestly he was trying to abandon Sylar here (if only for the moment) and Sylar probably wouldn’t be too happy if he knew that. Peter tried again, trying to activate the ability and get himself out of this prison. Honestly, this was only the second time he’d tried - once with Sylar and once now. Earlier he’d been trying to find Sylar, not get out. Now he just wanted out.
It didn’t work.
Peter wanted there to be a blinding pain or some barrier he could rail against, some manifestation of the block because then it would be something he could overcome - but no, there was nothing. He tried, and nothing happened. It was as futile as trying to fly by jumping up and down. Reality just didn’t work that way. But it did for some people.
He wheeled, turning back to Sylar, frustration marring Peter’s features. “Let me try again.” He reached out towards him hastily, probably moving a bit too fast but he wasn’t thinking. Despite the hammer, despite everything else, Sylar was still coded in Peter’s head as someone he didn’t respect, someone he could grab (if he so chose to) and try to summarily yank out of this place.
XXX
Sylar just laughed merciless and without humor, shaking his head at the younger man’s antics. Stupid Peter, thinking he could waltz in and save (Sylar) the day. Sylar, for one, didn’t half-ass even his mistakes, thank you. When he got in, he got in damn deep. Why the hell would he get help now? Under any other circumstance, he would have viewed the addition and subsequent doubling of humanity, as it were, as a burden, something to weigh him down. But he had someone to talk to now.
Eyes narrowing as he watched Peter move away; poor, poor Peter looked like he was about to be sick at the thought of being stuck here. However, he noted the tilting of his head, the tightly closed eyes as if he were….That was fucking subtle. “Come here to leave my sorry ass this time it seems,” he sneered. Too bad he was just as alive and kicking as Sylar.
Rolling his eyes at first, he was prepared to tolerate another foolish, hare-brained attempt until the sudden motion. Try what again? Jerking his body, mainly his face away from the attack, he slipped and slid a little on the floor in his haste to get out of range of the blow. “What the-” he hissed, mostly to himself, completely unused to moving that fast for literal years. Realizing he looked like an idiot, what’s worse, a pansy, flinching from a hit like that (really, it was ingrained self-defense by now), he licked his lips and glanced about the room when Petrelli made no further move.
Talk about telegraphing weaknesses. Joy. Just like he hated doing. When his eyes had returned to their normal size from shock, god, he’d have to relearn his people skills all over again; he still moved back a half-step, not eager to play shoulder mannequin until Peter passed out from trying. To cover his lapse in nerves, he asked in his asshole voice, “So how long have you had Claire’s power?”
The reason for the question was obvious; Peter had to be immortal to survive…whatever the hell had happened to the world just as Sylar had. Speaking of….Where was everyone’s favorite cheerleader? Don’t ask now. Seem too eager. Only face I’ve seen with this damn tattoo. Better keep that covered.
XXX
Peter held his hand still in the air for a long moment as Sylar recovered himself, the gesture exaggerating how much of an overreaction Sylar had made. Then he dropped it to his side and stood there uncertain. He hadn’t been about to hit him, but yeah, Peter conceded that maybe it had looked like that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that ingrained defensiveness on Sylar’s part. A tiny, hated part of himself was amused that Sylar was wary of him. Mostly though he felt embarrassed. It brought back all the thoughts he’d entertained so willingly, before, about hurting the man. Now that he was faced with the flesh (so to speak), it was less appealing. And to actually see him jerk back from a casual touch…Peter wasn’t sure at all how he felt about that.
He put it aside. It wasn’t important. Sylar had asked him a question. Claire’s power? What? Before he could stop himself, Peter said, “I have Matt’s.” He wondered if Sylar knew of the limits to his abilities these days (or, “ability”, singular). That was something that had taken a while to get over (assuming he was over it) - the anger at his sudden impotence, the jealousy that the serial killer still had a suite of abilities to choose from, stolen from his victims. The feelings of inadequacy had something to do with Peter’s occasionally almost compulsive need to swap powers, or so he assumed.
He swallowed, the previous few minutes flashing back through his mind. He huffed out a breath and raised both hands in the same conciliatory gesture he’d made earlier, going back to what had worked. Now though, stripped of the newness, the gesture just looked patronizing and Peter realized that, but he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to get out of here, now. The whole point of coming here was to find Sylar and get out. He’d found Sylar, so it was time to move on to the next part. “I need to get us both out of here. Hold still. Let me try again.” He settled himself as before and reached out, as though fully expecting that Sylar would cooperate with this.
XXX
Sylar tilted his head upward, examining the ceiling casually, but he kept an eye on Peter’s outstretched hand, clearly making a gesture. Embarrassing. Well, if he hadn’t just labeled every weakness and set the tone for the rest of all eternity with that. Just ignore, just ignore. Finally fixing Peter with a narrowed eyed stare, head cocked in thought, “Obviously.” It hadn’t escaped him the other’s attempt to ‘escape’ without him; not that he expected more if truth be told.
The urge to cross his arms over his chest was strong, but Peter might still decide to make a move, trapped as Sylar was, unmoving. His head righting on his axis, he continued to stare, taking in the man’s reaction to his mention of his power. Very, very annoyed, a little angry, that much he could read. Perhaps there was more to that question than was being answered.
At this point, Sylar wasn’t actually out to be difficult, beyond being wary, but he wasn’t going to cater to Peter’s lofty ideals of freedom. Eyeing the man’s hands, unmistakably attempting to placate and sooth, his penetrating gaze slid back up to the hazel eyes that watched him in return, albeit with far more impatience.
“What’s the rush? The girl’s long dead by now,” he said lightly. But the real question he was dying to ask was, Where is Claire? One would almost be led to think Peter Petrelli, Boy Wonder, wasn’t thrilled to find another human being still alive in the world. No surprise.
So Sylar didn’t move. “Suicide is not the answer, Pete,” he mocked the choice of words, ‘getting out of here’ especially the part about ‘get YOU out of here’. “Sorry, but that’s the only way you’re going ‘anywhere’ fast. But I guess you’d pop right back up like a daisy, wouldn’t you?”
The other man had always been a little…touched with his delusions of….whatever-it-was this time. At least it wasn’t screaming ‘save the cheerleader, save the world’ or ‘the world is ending! Repent!’ Because he was doing enough of that for three years to last a lifetime.
XXX
He paused. Sylar was just a little out of reach and he was staying there very deliberately. There was an invisible line here, not really a personal space issue because Peter’s sense of such things had always been ridiculously small anyway - he was perfectly fine being crowded in a subway, jostled by people on the street, and touching just about anyone in a friendly, familiar manner. It worked great in the medical profession.
But there were limits. And Sylar’s body language, head thrown back, spine straight for once, pretending to ignore him - all said that he was near one. Now he could push past that and see what would happen, and Peter was pretty sure the answer was ‘nothing’ or he could try something else. He let his hand fall.
“She’s not dead. You think you’ve been here three years? Sylar, I saw you just last month, at the Mercy Heights Hospital.” His voice became tight and tense and his body wound up with that tension unconsciously, his breath coming harder and his hands curling lightly. Peter took a half step back, even though Sylar had made no threatening gesture beyond sarcasm. “Last month. You have been …”
Suddenly his eyes lit up and a little of the tension left his frame. He leaned forward, more animated. Obviously, he’d had an idea. “Listen, remember back when … my mother was put into a coma by my dad, and you thought she was your mother, too?” Hm, actually, this is probably not my best idea. Not sure how he’ll react to this. “And she was stuck inside her own head for days? You asked me to go inside her head and get her out. That’s how your body is, right now. I saw you, before I came into your head to try to get you out. That’s where we are - inside … your mind.”
Peter stayed leaned forward, watching Sylar intently. His lips were pursed and his eyes alert, trying to read his reaction. He expected flippancy, more disbelief and defensiveness. But he was hoping that somewhere in there would be a shred of belief.
XXX
Well, well. Looks like an old dog can learn new tricks. Peter halted any forward motion, and Sylar didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. At the mention of the hospital (what an idea that had been), his eyes turned into black slits at the other man, but instead of completing his usually discomforting glare and following up with violence, he just chuckled and shook his head.
That felt a familiar coil of rage through his system, a similar urge to punch Peter for mentioning his mistake. Not his damn fault Angela was so clever. Was he supposed to be blamed for wanting family, fucked up and dysfunctional as it was, but family nonetheless. But his hands were just as chained as Peter’s.
He couldn’t kill him, well, he could, but….he’d regret being alone afterwards just as Peter wouldn’t kill him because he was off his meds enough to believe that he ‘needed’ Sylar. He did not find any humor in being baited and mocked, never mind the fact that’s what he’d just been doing to Peter.
“//Dear ol’ Ma….The one time she decides to get into Dad’s business and look where that got her//,” a shrug was thrown out with his hunched shoulders. He did find himself wondering who she was protecting with that, which of the then-trio of siblings. Surely that was the only reason she would act the way she had.
“See, the thing is, Pete,” Sylar placed a hand flat to his own chest, “I have a body. Whatever your medical diagnosis, this isn’t my mind. I can feel, I can reason, I can sleep, there’s no dream pattern to this. And if I was dreaming?” here he inserted an indignant snort of breath, “I assure you, you would be the last person on earth I would dream about.” Okay, not the last, but….close.
“Oh, yeah. And there would be fucking people in my dreams!” he snapped out; he hadn’t been angry in a long time, the need to strike and rail against something had passed….months and months ago. Arch-enemies on a vengeance kick and one-time brothers didn’t make for Sylar’s average wet dream no matter his mental state.
This was seriously one of the more ridiculous things he’d been forced to listen to. The typical Petrelli serenade. Eventually he’ll get bored of being wrong.
XXX
Now Peter was pretty sure Sylar was being difficult just because he could be. Having found he had some form of leverage, he was using it. He seemed desperate, defensive and grasping at straws, which was bizarre given that Peter was here offering a way out. Admittedly, what Peter was saying was apparently challenging Sylar’s whole world view, but that world view was ludicrous. Peter figured he’d exhaust this avenue a little more - beating dead horses was something of a hobby for him. Useless as it usually was, it at least made him feel that he hadn’t merely given up.
“Do you seriously believe I’m a figment of your imagination then? Where did all the people go? How did you get here? How did I get here? How the hell did you get out on that street earlier?” Peter pointed energetically back in the general direction of the windows.
“One moment it’s empty; the next you’re there! Are you saying you gained teleportation while you were at it?” Along with all the rest…Huh, I wonder if he wants my ability in here? I wish I still had that parking meter pole. Knew I shouldn’t have thrown that down.
Peter’s eyes went to the hammer Sylar had discarded earlier on the desk. It was closer to him that to the other man. A sudden strange desire ran through him to pick that up and use it on the other man. He shook his head against it because that was stupid - it would do no good at all. He took a deep breath and turned away, turning his back on whatever it was Sylar had been about to say in response. This is all just a dream. It’s in his head. That hammer is not even there.
XXX
Sylar’s only response was to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sigh, his form going back to slumped. Of course he had no answer; he’d only been pondering those questions for three years. Hours. Whatever. “Abilities don’t work here,” he remarked quietly, “I-I think it’s something in the air….” That was the only lame explanation he had. God, it felt like he had never been special at all. The blood and torture and travel and violence and tears, the betrayal, the loneliness… Let that not be for nothing.
It was so real, the three years he’d been here; granted his own dreams were vivid and equally nightmarish, but….never like this. Peter was obviously no illusion or hallucination or…waking dream of some kind, he was very lively and what’s more Sylar had felt that he was alive. Dreams left out details like that; breathing, warmth, and they lacked his kind of intelligence. He had no memory of how he came to be here, he’d sat wracking his brain to remember it, but he just couldn’t. All he came up with was the black of his eyelids.
This can’t be happening. Even his mind seemed to be turning on him, his great intellect, his goals; his freaking vision of everything was gone in a wisp of invisible smoke. Frowning briefly, he wanted to remember himself, something to define him at this point. Guess that’s what Peter is now, isn’t he.
Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he stood there, shuffling in full awareness that Peter was angry with him, angrier than he was letting on. He’d always hated that, but he’d had to live with it in the past. He would be forced to do it again, this time for all eternity. But his stupid conscience was prodding him to apologize for….what he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was Peter angry, anyway? Minus the whole…Nathan thing. Pete didn’t know about that big thing with Claire in the study hall, did he? Think he’d have mentioned that. Or that thing with Angela…When he looked back on it…the Petrelli clan had fucked him over just as much as he’d repaid them in kind. Rematch, then? You’ll lose him. I hate being the not-so-good guy.
XXX
Peter heard Sylar’s quiet comment, but he didn’t respond to it. The man still thought things were real here. But at least he wasn’t being sarcastic and trying to provoke a fight, or whatever it was he’d been trying to do. Peter looked back over his shoulder, calmed down a little. “Listen, you’re either going to let me try to get us both out of here, or I’m going to try to get myself out of here and maybe Matt can tell me what I’m doing wrong, because it should work.” He sighed, exasperated. Abilities did not come with instruction manuals. They didn’t have to. A person tended to know exactly what they did…or at least Peter did. He gained an ability and he knew how to use it. It was automatic.
His brow furrowed. Of course, there was that part about almost blowing up New York. And that other part about jumping off that building, being unable to fly. And that yet other part about being thrown off a building and being unable to fly. And the purse snatching, and getting hit in the nuts with a stick wielded by a sadistic Englishman with hygiene issues…
Okay, so maybe using abilities isn’t always so straightforward. Wasn’t Matt trying to warn me about this? Surely he’ll do something to try to get me out, won’t he? Eventually, my body will shut down. That would take days though, and weeks or basically the rest of my life if I got medical support. Someone will get me out of here. But in the meantime, I have to get me out of here.
I don’t want to look like an idiot, always having to be saved from my own ability.
He turned around and faced Sylar, noting the degree to which the other man’s body language had changed. Peter let his own body relax in response. He was still pissed, but they had a common goal here. No reason why they couldn’t work together towards it. I already look like an idiot. Came here to get him out and can’t.
“Now, are you going to let me try again, or not?” He raised his right hand in invitation.
XXX
He let out a low frustrated growl at the insinuation Peter would leave him here. Muttering, “No way in hell you’d come back,” he stepped closer to the man, but didn’t look at him. If he’d had telepathy at the moment, he’d have been laughing at Peter’s theory that he ‘knew what he was doing with an ability’. True, the empath wielded them just fine around Sylar….Minus Kirby that is.
“Yes, go ahead,” was the mumbled reply while he removed his nearer hand from his pocket, just in case he needed it. Sylar himself was enough embarrassed; flinching from non-existent blows, making a fuss over….sort of nothing. He was cranky (and wary) at having someone tromp in and try to stir up his life. Again. Not to say he was comfortable here or anything, but….
Mom- Virginia- No, Mom always said you were stubborn. Time to hang onto his….would-be savior or playmate so he didn’t ditch him here. That might actually be worse than before. The fear mind-game wasn’t a fun one to be played at this stage, given his three long lonely years of solitude and misery. It didn’t change his mind, mostly because he wouldn’t be manipulated into something again.
Of course, neither of them would be going anywhere anyways, right? No need to get his hopes up for any of Peter’s antics. “The place is empty, you’ll have you pick of apartments and suites,” he reminded again that he didn’t buy Peter’s plan. And that was about as close an invitation the other would get towards getting help ‘moving in’ so to speak.
XXX
Peter bit back a snort at the implication he’d move into an apartment and live here. It was a ludicrous idea - living in Sylar’s head for days and days. What the hell would they do to pass the time? Discuss brain surgery techniques? He supposed they did have a certain shared medical background, grotesque as that was.
Peter exhaled and with that breath, tried to drive out the useless thoughts. He needed to focus. Maybe that was his problem before - he’d had too many other things on his mind. He rested his hand lightly on Sylar’s shoulder, noting the other man freeing up his dominant hand. Peter waited a beat, but nothing else happened, so he gripped more firmly - businesslike - and tried.
Unlike when he tried to do it himself, he could actually feel something here. There was a resistance. It had to be coming from Sylar. Or maybe it was just a lot more difficult to take someone else with him. The world shifted, his perception of it wobbled, and nothing at all happened. Sylar acted like he hadn’t noticed even that much, which made Peter wonder if that, at least, was all in his head.
Rather than admit it wasn’t working, he took another deep breath and forged on until he was certain he looked like an idiot. He finally let his hand fall to his side and took a step back. He wasn’t real comfortable being that close to the other man anyway. It did weird things with his emotions, like static in an otherwise clear picture. Peter suspected if he said, ‘that didn’t work’, he’d probably get an ‘I told you so,’ in response, so instead he said, “There’s a different way,” with much more confidence than he felt. “We’ll have to try that.”
He turned and looked around the room for the first time really, trying to pull together what that ‘different way’ was. Sylar had been trapped in here for three hours, which was, as Peter thought about it, a pretty long time. Surely he had some ideas - but would he offer them? There was stuff everywhere in here. Why was that? Did all of this stuff mean something, mentally, for Sylar? Why was it here? Peter didn’t even know where to start.
XXX
Sylar gave a light, inaudible chuckle, but no more at Peter’s pause at touching him. It won’t bite unless you do, Petrelli. He stood still while Peter played hero again, rather, he tried to; the room rushing towards him and away at the same time, but the scenery didn’t change. Waiting patiently, he’d gotten so much better at the whole waiting thing; three years with only clocks and, yes, his own head for company did that to you, Sylar watched Peter’s face swirl over with emotions.
Jaw ticking to speak, his habit to annoy and botch the attempt nearly overriding his new found patience, his own focus was….staying as sane as possible. Peter’s arrival could go both ways at the moment towards that goal. The empath had his own pattern of ruining things. //Always the Peter way.// Then again, it would be really nice to have someone to talk to…maybe get to know someone. No abilities even. That in and of itself was probably a shock.
“To what?” Sylar asked, confusion showing on his face, soon opening out his hands to gesture at the room. “This is all there is. It’s no Disneyworld, but….New York is home, isn’t it? At least there’s that…” his voice trailed off as he realized he was rambling, giving a slight wince at the other’s turned back. “Look, it’s about lunchtime. You can see if there’s anything in the fridge or pantry or we can always go raid a store. Not like anyone will miss it,” again, a nearly forced chuckle escaped him. Gosh, people were hard to please. No wonder I gave this up for a lost cause.
XXX
Peter looked back at Sylar with an expression that clearly asked, as much as if he’d spoken it, ‘Are you crazy?’ He gave himself a shake and made a visible effort to fix his face, trying to be polite. The two possibilities that flew through his head were that this was something Matt did to him, seriously and severely scrambling Sylar’s sense of reality, or maybe that Sylar just really did have this tenuous a grasp on things. It would explain why he’d become a serial killer, why he’d thought he was the hero at Kirby, how he’d acted when he’d thought they were brothers…
Peter resisted the urge to go sink down in a chair and…he didn’t know what. Try to cope. This was the person who was going to save Emma? Surely there was another explanation for why Sylar believed all this was real. He’d never seemed quite this unstable. He’d always seemed… Peter glanced over at him again, an appraising look, like he was seeing Sylar for the first time and this time without any questions as to his sanity. He’d always seemed a lot more driven and dangerous and eat up. Now he just seemed…Peter couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there, scuttling around in the back of his mind. He’d flush it out into the open sooner or later. Probably. In the meantime, there was the issue of getting out of here.
Peter walked over and pulled back the thin curtains, looking out the window. The street still looked the same. He turned from there and picked up a book at random, flipping to whatever page it opened to. He felt compelled to explain himself so Sylar didn’t think he was ignoring him. “In a normal dream, there’s ways you can tell it’s a dream. Text on a page doesn’t stay the same if you try to read it twice. Things you’ve stopped looking at and look at a second time are different.”
Peter managed to point at the window with his elbow as he read and reread a bit from An Heraldic Alphabet. “Everything’s the same out there as when we came in here. And this…now I know that another word for ‘damasked’ when referring to a coat of arms is ‘diapered.’” He sighed and put the book back down. Well, that didn’t work. “Not that I thought this was a normal dream, of course.”
“Have you ever tried just walking out?”
XXX
Sylar pursed his lips at the first look. Oh, boy was that familiar. The attempt to at least dull the look was appreciated, but too late. Turning partly away to avoid the look that so clearly telegraphed, he attempted to move from it and into the kitchenette. Peter was silent for a few moments while he eyed the kitchen, hoping to be hinting. He wasn’t particularly hungry himself, but he wasn’t sure when Peter had last eaten. Hero work had to be tiring stuff.
On that note, why on earth would Peter have a dream that he would save someone? He'd have to ask about that later. One of his large eyebrows raised a centimeter or so when the other man spoke, “Uh…” he left off his sentence, his head canted to the side as Peter picked up a book and read from it. That was a change of pace; Peter was ready to sit down and read a book now? But the other man spoke while he read, “No. Not normal at all. We are, or were, special after all.” That was what he’d been trying to say, had said earlier. Normal, he mentally scoffed. Silly Peter.
It was his turn to return the loving look, "Walking out of where, Peter? I never fancied that much of a walk into Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey or Pennsylvania. I didn't know you were so into travel, but that could explain your hero gig." Inclining his head towards the kitchen, he asked, "Lunch?"
XXX
Peter opened his mouth a couple times like he wanted to say something, but even in the pause that Sylar left between ‘hero gig’ and asking about lunch, Peter said nothing. Instead, he walked over to the kitchen and peered inside after the other man. He looked at Sylar’s face, then around the kitchenette, still obviously on the verge of saying something and not able to find any words he wanted to utter. He looked mystified by the very concept of lunch.
Vermont? What? We’re in California! No, wait, we’re in his head. In his head we’re near Vermont? Didn’t he mention New York earlier? Where the hell does he think…? No, just ignore it. It doesn’t matter. We just have to get out of here, wherever he happens to think we are. Maybe in here it’s a metaphor and we have to leave in a physical way, like finding the right door to walk through or going down the right street.
Lunch…does he actually eat here? Does he expect me to eat here? Getting out of here is a lot more important than pretending to eat, like some sort of make-believe tea party with dolls. We can eat later. But does he have to eat in his own head? Maybe he’s deluded himself into thinking he does. Does that count? This is…confusing. Do I have to eat if I’m in his head, since it’s his delusion? Or pretend to eat - whichever?
Wait a second - Sylar is asking me to eat with him. Why would he do that? Why isn’t he kicking me out of here? I’m of no use to him. I can’t even get him out of here. He’s not being such an asshole anymore. Why? Is he just bored? Three hours of not talking to anyone and he’s gone batty already? I think I’m going batty and I’ve only been in here a few minutes. This place is crazy. Or is it that way because he’s crazy?
“I’ve got to see what’s outside of this apartment.” He looked around the rest of the place as if the walls might be closing in on him. All of this is his head. Suddenly he was apprehensive about what was behind the closed doors and where all the people had gone. There was no one else in the version of Sylar’s reality that they were inhabiting. And while yeah, that might have been Matt’s doing, what if Sylar thought he’d killed them all and he was trying to lure Peter into...? Peter walked out into the hall, getting his bearings and heading for the stairs. He felt shaken. Action. I need to be doing something, anything.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 5, 225
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 1
What? Disbelief flooded through Peter. It couldn’t be. The dream had said Sylar would save Emma. So here Peter was, getting Sylar. Somehow this was supposed to work! He hadn’t come here to get trapped in some psycho-nightmare with Nathan’s murderer!
He turned and took a few steps away, hand to his own forehead, trying to think. I’ll just get out. Matt can help me. Maybe only he can let Sylar out of here. Matt? He tried to call out mentally. Matt! He didn’t say anything aloud, because…well, honestly he was trying to abandon Sylar here (if only for the moment) and Sylar probably wouldn’t be too happy if he knew that. Peter tried again, trying to activate the ability and get himself out of this prison. Honestly, this was only the second time he’d tried - once with Sylar and once now. Earlier he’d been trying to find Sylar, not get out. Now he just wanted out.
It didn’t work.
Peter wanted there to be a blinding pain or some barrier he could rail against, some manifestation of the block because then it would be something he could overcome - but no, there was nothing. He tried, and nothing happened. It was as futile as trying to fly by jumping up and down. Reality just didn’t work that way. But it did for some people.
He wheeled, turning back to Sylar, frustration marring Peter’s features. “Let me try again.” He reached out towards him hastily, probably moving a bit too fast but he wasn’t thinking. Despite the hammer, despite everything else, Sylar was still coded in Peter’s head as someone he didn’t respect, someone he could grab (if he so chose to) and try to summarily yank out of this place.
XXX
Sylar just laughed merciless and without humor, shaking his head at the younger man’s antics. Stupid Peter, thinking he could waltz in and save (Sylar) the day. Sylar, for one, didn’t half-ass even his mistakes, thank you. When he got in, he got in damn deep. Why the hell would he get help now? Under any other circumstance, he would have viewed the addition and subsequent doubling of humanity, as it were, as a burden, something to weigh him down. But he had someone to talk to now.
Eyes narrowing as he watched Peter move away; poor, poor Peter looked like he was about to be sick at the thought of being stuck here. However, he noted the tilting of his head, the tightly closed eyes as if he were….That was fucking subtle. “Come here to leave my sorry ass this time it seems,” he sneered. Too bad he was just as alive and kicking as Sylar.
Rolling his eyes at first, he was prepared to tolerate another foolish, hare-brained attempt until the sudden motion. Try what again? Jerking his body, mainly his face away from the attack, he slipped and slid a little on the floor in his haste to get out of range of the blow. “What the-” he hissed, mostly to himself, completely unused to moving that fast for literal years. Realizing he looked like an idiot, what’s worse, a pansy, flinching from a hit like that (really, it was ingrained self-defense by now), he licked his lips and glanced about the room when Petrelli made no further move.
Talk about telegraphing weaknesses. Joy. Just like he hated doing. When his eyes had returned to their normal size from shock, god, he’d have to relearn his people skills all over again; he still moved back a half-step, not eager to play shoulder mannequin until Peter passed out from trying. To cover his lapse in nerves, he asked in his asshole voice, “So how long have you had Claire’s power?”
The reason for the question was obvious; Peter had to be immortal to survive…whatever the hell had happened to the world just as Sylar had. Speaking of….Where was everyone’s favorite cheerleader? Don’t ask now. Seem too eager. Only face I’ve seen with this damn tattoo. Better keep that covered.
XXX
Peter held his hand still in the air for a long moment as Sylar recovered himself, the gesture exaggerating how much of an overreaction Sylar had made. Then he dropped it to his side and stood there uncertain. He hadn’t been about to hit him, but yeah, Peter conceded that maybe it had looked like that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that ingrained defensiveness on Sylar’s part. A tiny, hated part of himself was amused that Sylar was wary of him. Mostly though he felt embarrassed. It brought back all the thoughts he’d entertained so willingly, before, about hurting the man. Now that he was faced with the flesh (so to speak), it was less appealing. And to actually see him jerk back from a casual touch…Peter wasn’t sure at all how he felt about that.
He put it aside. It wasn’t important. Sylar had asked him a question. Claire’s power? What? Before he could stop himself, Peter said, “I have Matt’s.” He wondered if Sylar knew of the limits to his abilities these days (or, “ability”, singular). That was something that had taken a while to get over (assuming he was over it) - the anger at his sudden impotence, the jealousy that the serial killer still had a suite of abilities to choose from, stolen from his victims. The feelings of inadequacy had something to do with Peter’s occasionally almost compulsive need to swap powers, or so he assumed.
He swallowed, the previous few minutes flashing back through his mind. He huffed out a breath and raised both hands in the same conciliatory gesture he’d made earlier, going back to what had worked. Now though, stripped of the newness, the gesture just looked patronizing and Peter realized that, but he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted to get out of here, now. The whole point of coming here was to find Sylar and get out. He’d found Sylar, so it was time to move on to the next part. “I need to get us both out of here. Hold still. Let me try again.” He settled himself as before and reached out, as though fully expecting that Sylar would cooperate with this.
XXX
Sylar tilted his head upward, examining the ceiling casually, but he kept an eye on Peter’s outstretched hand, clearly making a gesture. Embarrassing. Well, if he hadn’t just labeled every weakness and set the tone for the rest of all eternity with that. Just ignore, just ignore. Finally fixing Peter with a narrowed eyed stare, head cocked in thought, “Obviously.” It hadn’t escaped him the other’s attempt to ‘escape’ without him; not that he expected more if truth be told.
The urge to cross his arms over his chest was strong, but Peter might still decide to make a move, trapped as Sylar was, unmoving. His head righting on his axis, he continued to stare, taking in the man’s reaction to his mention of his power. Very, very annoyed, a little angry, that much he could read. Perhaps there was more to that question than was being answered.
At this point, Sylar wasn’t actually out to be difficult, beyond being wary, but he wasn’t going to cater to Peter’s lofty ideals of freedom. Eyeing the man’s hands, unmistakably attempting to placate and sooth, his penetrating gaze slid back up to the hazel eyes that watched him in return, albeit with far more impatience.
“What’s the rush? The girl’s long dead by now,” he said lightly. But the real question he was dying to ask was, Where is Claire? One would almost be led to think Peter Petrelli, Boy Wonder, wasn’t thrilled to find another human being still alive in the world. No surprise.
So Sylar didn’t move. “Suicide is not the answer, Pete,” he mocked the choice of words, ‘getting out of here’ especially the part about ‘get YOU out of here’. “Sorry, but that’s the only way you’re going ‘anywhere’ fast. But I guess you’d pop right back up like a daisy, wouldn’t you?”
The other man had always been a little…touched with his delusions of….whatever-it-was this time. At least it wasn’t screaming ‘save the cheerleader, save the world’ or ‘the world is ending! Repent!’ Because he was doing enough of that for three years to last a lifetime.
XXX
He paused. Sylar was just a little out of reach and he was staying there very deliberately. There was an invisible line here, not really a personal space issue because Peter’s sense of such things had always been ridiculously small anyway - he was perfectly fine being crowded in a subway, jostled by people on the street, and touching just about anyone in a friendly, familiar manner. It worked great in the medical profession.
But there were limits. And Sylar’s body language, head thrown back, spine straight for once, pretending to ignore him - all said that he was near one. Now he could push past that and see what would happen, and Peter was pretty sure the answer was ‘nothing’ or he could try something else. He let his hand fall.
“She’s not dead. You think you’ve been here three years? Sylar, I saw you just last month, at the Mercy Heights Hospital.” His voice became tight and tense and his body wound up with that tension unconsciously, his breath coming harder and his hands curling lightly. Peter took a half step back, even though Sylar had made no threatening gesture beyond sarcasm. “Last month. You have been …”
Suddenly his eyes lit up and a little of the tension left his frame. He leaned forward, more animated. Obviously, he’d had an idea. “Listen, remember back when … my mother was put into a coma by my dad, and you thought she was your mother, too?” Hm, actually, this is probably not my best idea. Not sure how he’ll react to this. “And she was stuck inside her own head for days? You asked me to go inside her head and get her out. That’s how your body is, right now. I saw you, before I came into your head to try to get you out. That’s where we are - inside … your mind.”
Peter stayed leaned forward, watching Sylar intently. His lips were pursed and his eyes alert, trying to read his reaction. He expected flippancy, more disbelief and defensiveness. But he was hoping that somewhere in there would be a shred of belief.
XXX
Well, well. Looks like an old dog can learn new tricks. Peter halted any forward motion, and Sylar didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. At the mention of the hospital (what an idea that had been), his eyes turned into black slits at the other man, but instead of completing his usually discomforting glare and following up with violence, he just chuckled and shook his head.
That felt a familiar coil of rage through his system, a similar urge to punch Peter for mentioning his mistake. Not his damn fault Angela was so clever. Was he supposed to be blamed for wanting family, fucked up and dysfunctional as it was, but family nonetheless. But his hands were just as chained as Peter’s.
He couldn’t kill him, well, he could, but….he’d regret being alone afterwards just as Peter wouldn’t kill him because he was off his meds enough to believe that he ‘needed’ Sylar. He did not find any humor in being baited and mocked, never mind the fact that’s what he’d just been doing to Peter.
“//Dear ol’ Ma….The one time she decides to get into Dad’s business and look where that got her//,” a shrug was thrown out with his hunched shoulders. He did find himself wondering who she was protecting with that, which of the then-trio of siblings. Surely that was the only reason she would act the way she had.
“See, the thing is, Pete,” Sylar placed a hand flat to his own chest, “I have a body. Whatever your medical diagnosis, this isn’t my mind. I can feel, I can reason, I can sleep, there’s no dream pattern to this. And if I was dreaming?” here he inserted an indignant snort of breath, “I assure you, you would be the last person on earth I would dream about.” Okay, not the last, but….close.
“Oh, yeah. And there would be fucking people in my dreams!” he snapped out; he hadn’t been angry in a long time, the need to strike and rail against something had passed….months and months ago. Arch-enemies on a vengeance kick and one-time brothers didn’t make for Sylar’s average wet dream no matter his mental state.
This was seriously one of the more ridiculous things he’d been forced to listen to. The typical Petrelli serenade. Eventually he’ll get bored of being wrong.
XXX
Now Peter was pretty sure Sylar was being difficult just because he could be. Having found he had some form of leverage, he was using it. He seemed desperate, defensive and grasping at straws, which was bizarre given that Peter was here offering a way out. Admittedly, what Peter was saying was apparently challenging Sylar’s whole world view, but that world view was ludicrous. Peter figured he’d exhaust this avenue a little more - beating dead horses was something of a hobby for him. Useless as it usually was, it at least made him feel that he hadn’t merely given up.
“Do you seriously believe I’m a figment of your imagination then? Where did all the people go? How did you get here? How did I get here? How the hell did you get out on that street earlier?” Peter pointed energetically back in the general direction of the windows.
“One moment it’s empty; the next you’re there! Are you saying you gained teleportation while you were at it?” Along with all the rest…Huh, I wonder if he wants my ability in here? I wish I still had that parking meter pole. Knew I shouldn’t have thrown that down.
Peter’s eyes went to the hammer Sylar had discarded earlier on the desk. It was closer to him that to the other man. A sudden strange desire ran through him to pick that up and use it on the other man. He shook his head against it because that was stupid - it would do no good at all. He took a deep breath and turned away, turning his back on whatever it was Sylar had been about to say in response. This is all just a dream. It’s in his head. That hammer is not even there.
XXX
Sylar’s only response was to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sigh, his form going back to slumped. Of course he had no answer; he’d only been pondering those questions for three years. Hours. Whatever. “Abilities don’t work here,” he remarked quietly, “I-I think it’s something in the air….” That was the only lame explanation he had. God, it felt like he had never been special at all. The blood and torture and travel and violence and tears, the betrayal, the loneliness… Let that not be for nothing.
It was so real, the three years he’d been here; granted his own dreams were vivid and equally nightmarish, but….never like this. Peter was obviously no illusion or hallucination or…waking dream of some kind, he was very lively and what’s more Sylar had felt that he was alive. Dreams left out details like that; breathing, warmth, and they lacked his kind of intelligence. He had no memory of how he came to be here, he’d sat wracking his brain to remember it, but he just couldn’t. All he came up with was the black of his eyelids.
This can’t be happening. Even his mind seemed to be turning on him, his great intellect, his goals; his freaking vision of everything was gone in a wisp of invisible smoke. Frowning briefly, he wanted to remember himself, something to define him at this point. Guess that’s what Peter is now, isn’t he.
Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he stood there, shuffling in full awareness that Peter was angry with him, angrier than he was letting on. He’d always hated that, but he’d had to live with it in the past. He would be forced to do it again, this time for all eternity. But his stupid conscience was prodding him to apologize for….what he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was Peter angry, anyway? Minus the whole…Nathan thing. Pete didn’t know about that big thing with Claire in the study hall, did he? Think he’d have mentioned that. Or that thing with Angela…When he looked back on it…the Petrelli clan had fucked him over just as much as he’d repaid them in kind. Rematch, then? You’ll lose him. I hate being the not-so-good guy.
XXX
Peter heard Sylar’s quiet comment, but he didn’t respond to it. The man still thought things were real here. But at least he wasn’t being sarcastic and trying to provoke a fight, or whatever it was he’d been trying to do. Peter looked back over his shoulder, calmed down a little. “Listen, you’re either going to let me try to get us both out of here, or I’m going to try to get myself out of here and maybe Matt can tell me what I’m doing wrong, because it should work.” He sighed, exasperated. Abilities did not come with instruction manuals. They didn’t have to. A person tended to know exactly what they did…or at least Peter did. He gained an ability and he knew how to use it. It was automatic.
His brow furrowed. Of course, there was that part about almost blowing up New York. And that other part about jumping off that building, being unable to fly. And that yet other part about being thrown off a building and being unable to fly. And the purse snatching, and getting hit in the nuts with a stick wielded by a sadistic Englishman with hygiene issues…
Okay, so maybe using abilities isn’t always so straightforward. Wasn’t Matt trying to warn me about this? Surely he’ll do something to try to get me out, won’t he? Eventually, my body will shut down. That would take days though, and weeks or basically the rest of my life if I got medical support. Someone will get me out of here. But in the meantime, I have to get me out of here.
I don’t want to look like an idiot, always having to be saved from my own ability.
He turned around and faced Sylar, noting the degree to which the other man’s body language had changed. Peter let his own body relax in response. He was still pissed, but they had a common goal here. No reason why they couldn’t work together towards it. I already look like an idiot. Came here to get him out and can’t.
“Now, are you going to let me try again, or not?” He raised his right hand in invitation.
XXX
He let out a low frustrated growl at the insinuation Peter would leave him here. Muttering, “No way in hell you’d come back,” he stepped closer to the man, but didn’t look at him. If he’d had telepathy at the moment, he’d have been laughing at Peter’s theory that he ‘knew what he was doing with an ability’. True, the empath wielded them just fine around Sylar….Minus Kirby that is.
“Yes, go ahead,” was the mumbled reply while he removed his nearer hand from his pocket, just in case he needed it. Sylar himself was enough embarrassed; flinching from non-existent blows, making a fuss over….sort of nothing. He was cranky (and wary) at having someone tromp in and try to stir up his life. Again. Not to say he was comfortable here or anything, but….
Mom- Virginia- No, Mom always said you were stubborn. Time to hang onto his….would-be savior or playmate so he didn’t ditch him here. That might actually be worse than before. The fear mind-game wasn’t a fun one to be played at this stage, given his three long lonely years of solitude and misery. It didn’t change his mind, mostly because he wouldn’t be manipulated into something again.
Of course, neither of them would be going anywhere anyways, right? No need to get his hopes up for any of Peter’s antics. “The place is empty, you’ll have you pick of apartments and suites,” he reminded again that he didn’t buy Peter’s plan. And that was about as close an invitation the other would get towards getting help ‘moving in’ so to speak.
XXX
Peter bit back a snort at the implication he’d move into an apartment and live here. It was a ludicrous idea - living in Sylar’s head for days and days. What the hell would they do to pass the time? Discuss brain surgery techniques? He supposed they did have a certain shared medical background, grotesque as that was.
Peter exhaled and with that breath, tried to drive out the useless thoughts. He needed to focus. Maybe that was his problem before - he’d had too many other things on his mind. He rested his hand lightly on Sylar’s shoulder, noting the other man freeing up his dominant hand. Peter waited a beat, but nothing else happened, so he gripped more firmly - businesslike - and tried.
Unlike when he tried to do it himself, he could actually feel something here. There was a resistance. It had to be coming from Sylar. Or maybe it was just a lot more difficult to take someone else with him. The world shifted, his perception of it wobbled, and nothing at all happened. Sylar acted like he hadn’t noticed even that much, which made Peter wonder if that, at least, was all in his head.
Rather than admit it wasn’t working, he took another deep breath and forged on until he was certain he looked like an idiot. He finally let his hand fall to his side and took a step back. He wasn’t real comfortable being that close to the other man anyway. It did weird things with his emotions, like static in an otherwise clear picture. Peter suspected if he said, ‘that didn’t work’, he’d probably get an ‘I told you so,’ in response, so instead he said, “There’s a different way,” with much more confidence than he felt. “We’ll have to try that.”
He turned and looked around the room for the first time really, trying to pull together what that ‘different way’ was. Sylar had been trapped in here for three hours, which was, as Peter thought about it, a pretty long time. Surely he had some ideas - but would he offer them? There was stuff everywhere in here. Why was that? Did all of this stuff mean something, mentally, for Sylar? Why was it here? Peter didn’t even know where to start.
XXX
Sylar gave a light, inaudible chuckle, but no more at Peter’s pause at touching him. It won’t bite unless you do, Petrelli. He stood still while Peter played hero again, rather, he tried to; the room rushing towards him and away at the same time, but the scenery didn’t change. Waiting patiently, he’d gotten so much better at the whole waiting thing; three years with only clocks and, yes, his own head for company did that to you, Sylar watched Peter’s face swirl over with emotions.
Jaw ticking to speak, his habit to annoy and botch the attempt nearly overriding his new found patience, his own focus was….staying as sane as possible. Peter’s arrival could go both ways at the moment towards that goal. The empath had his own pattern of ruining things. //Always the Peter way.// Then again, it would be really nice to have someone to talk to…maybe get to know someone. No abilities even. That in and of itself was probably a shock.
“To what?” Sylar asked, confusion showing on his face, soon opening out his hands to gesture at the room. “This is all there is. It’s no Disneyworld, but….New York is home, isn’t it? At least there’s that…” his voice trailed off as he realized he was rambling, giving a slight wince at the other’s turned back. “Look, it’s about lunchtime. You can see if there’s anything in the fridge or pantry or we can always go raid a store. Not like anyone will miss it,” again, a nearly forced chuckle escaped him. Gosh, people were hard to please. No wonder I gave this up for a lost cause.
XXX
Peter looked back at Sylar with an expression that clearly asked, as much as if he’d spoken it, ‘Are you crazy?’ He gave himself a shake and made a visible effort to fix his face, trying to be polite. The two possibilities that flew through his head were that this was something Matt did to him, seriously and severely scrambling Sylar’s sense of reality, or maybe that Sylar just really did have this tenuous a grasp on things. It would explain why he’d become a serial killer, why he’d thought he was the hero at Kirby, how he’d acted when he’d thought they were brothers…
Peter resisted the urge to go sink down in a chair and…he didn’t know what. Try to cope. This was the person who was going to save Emma? Surely there was another explanation for why Sylar believed all this was real. He’d never seemed quite this unstable. He’d always seemed… Peter glanced over at him again, an appraising look, like he was seeing Sylar for the first time and this time without any questions as to his sanity. He’d always seemed a lot more driven and dangerous and eat up. Now he just seemed…Peter couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there, scuttling around in the back of his mind. He’d flush it out into the open sooner or later. Probably. In the meantime, there was the issue of getting out of here.
Peter walked over and pulled back the thin curtains, looking out the window. The street still looked the same. He turned from there and picked up a book at random, flipping to whatever page it opened to. He felt compelled to explain himself so Sylar didn’t think he was ignoring him. “In a normal dream, there’s ways you can tell it’s a dream. Text on a page doesn’t stay the same if you try to read it twice. Things you’ve stopped looking at and look at a second time are different.”
Peter managed to point at the window with his elbow as he read and reread a bit from An Heraldic Alphabet. “Everything’s the same out there as when we came in here. And this…now I know that another word for ‘damasked’ when referring to a coat of arms is ‘diapered.’” He sighed and put the book back down. Well, that didn’t work. “Not that I thought this was a normal dream, of course.”
“Have you ever tried just walking out?”
XXX
Sylar pursed his lips at the first look. Oh, boy was that familiar. The attempt to at least dull the look was appreciated, but too late. Turning partly away to avoid the look that so clearly telegraphed, he attempted to move from it and into the kitchenette. Peter was silent for a few moments while he eyed the kitchen, hoping to be hinting. He wasn’t particularly hungry himself, but he wasn’t sure when Peter had last eaten. Hero work had to be tiring stuff.
On that note, why on earth would Peter have a dream that he would save someone? He'd have to ask about that later. One of his large eyebrows raised a centimeter or so when the other man spoke, “Uh…” he left off his sentence, his head canted to the side as Peter picked up a book and read from it. That was a change of pace; Peter was ready to sit down and read a book now? But the other man spoke while he read, “No. Not normal at all. We are, or were, special after all.” That was what he’d been trying to say, had said earlier. Normal, he mentally scoffed. Silly Peter.
It was his turn to return the loving look, "Walking out of where, Peter? I never fancied that much of a walk into Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey or Pennsylvania. I didn't know you were so into travel, but that could explain your hero gig." Inclining his head towards the kitchen, he asked, "Lunch?"
XXX
Peter opened his mouth a couple times like he wanted to say something, but even in the pause that Sylar left between ‘hero gig’ and asking about lunch, Peter said nothing. Instead, he walked over to the kitchen and peered inside after the other man. He looked at Sylar’s face, then around the kitchenette, still obviously on the verge of saying something and not able to find any words he wanted to utter. He looked mystified by the very concept of lunch.
Vermont? What? We’re in California! No, wait, we’re in his head. In his head we’re near Vermont? Didn’t he mention New York earlier? Where the hell does he think…? No, just ignore it. It doesn’t matter. We just have to get out of here, wherever he happens to think we are. Maybe in here it’s a metaphor and we have to leave in a physical way, like finding the right door to walk through or going down the right street.
Lunch…does he actually eat here? Does he expect me to eat here? Getting out of here is a lot more important than pretending to eat, like some sort of make-believe tea party with dolls. We can eat later. But does he have to eat in his own head? Maybe he’s deluded himself into thinking he does. Does that count? This is…confusing. Do I have to eat if I’m in his head, since it’s his delusion? Or pretend to eat - whichever?
Wait a second - Sylar is asking me to eat with him. Why would he do that? Why isn’t he kicking me out of here? I’m of no use to him. I can’t even get him out of here. He’s not being such an asshole anymore. Why? Is he just bored? Three hours of not talking to anyone and he’s gone batty already? I think I’m going batty and I’ve only been in here a few minutes. This place is crazy. Or is it that way because he’s crazy?
“I’ve got to see what’s outside of this apartment.” He looked around the rest of the place as if the walls might be closing in on him. All of this is his head. Suddenly he was apprehensive about what was behind the closed doors and where all the people had gone. There was no one else in the version of Sylar’s reality that they were inhabiting. And while yeah, that might have been Matt’s doing, what if Sylar thought he’d killed them all and he was trying to lure Peter into...? Peter walked out into the hall, getting his bearings and heading for the stairs. He felt shaken. Action. I need to be doing something, anything.
XXX
Continued...