More Between Us, Chapter 25.2/? "Couch Surfing"
Chapter 25.2/? "Couch Surfing"
Day 10
In a dry, tired voice, Peter said, “Breakfast is served, Sylar. If you’ll sit up, I’ll hand it to you.”
XXX
Sylar lay there nicely, keeping his body mainly relaxed by force of will, eyes closed for the moment just because it hurt to keep them open all the time. His headache had since tripled from the rush to and from the bathroom and the bruising and rashes on his stomach and hip aggravated by his jeans. He heard Peter shuffle up and pause, his eyes opening and staring ahead, giving the man only a cursory side-glance before looking straight again. From the angle he couldn’t actually see Peter but the look was mostly to let Peter know he’d been seen.
Sylar’s fists clenched, tightening briefly before relaxing his hands and using them to push himself up without comment, not caring if Peter saw that. He felt like he was on Level Five again, a prisoner, injured, dealing with his captor, who was now ringing the proverbial breakfast bell. The same as before, he had no powers. He was angry as hell and powerless to act on it…for the moment. Sylar’s “silver tongue” had always seemed to enrage his opponents almost more than his presence or his sins so he took this inaction as an opportunity to plan barbs to irritate Peter.
When he’d managed to sit up and quell the world’s spinning for all of five seconds, he took the offered plate and glass, knocking the pill box over onto the toast, but whatever. From somewhere deep inside he garnered up a grunted, “Thanks.” I did not ask for any of this. Not the fight, not busting into my apartment, not the TLC. You’re here because you fucking wanna be. Sylar otherwise kept his focus directed elsewhere because looking at his nurse would only get the man’s groin crushed right now. Feeling like a beat-up, filthy whore, which he supposed he was in a sense, wasn’t a new experience, neither was being turned down for those reasons. But the heroes were so, so good at slathering on a sense of unworthiness that burned like a criminal brand. Who came looking for whose help here? Huh? They always come running to me.
Situating himself, plate and glass while Peter went back to the kitchen, doubtless to tend to his own meal, Sylar’s nostrils were accidently filled with the smell of toast. “Ugh.” Sylar held it at arm’s length as his gut churned in both hunger and repulsion. Instead he dug out three Tylenol and swallowed them with a large gulp of the water. Like it or not the pills had helped him sleep before and that’s really all he wanted to do again now. He wondered why Peter seemed tired and angry at his secondary offer. There were a few answers, none of them pleasant.
XXX
"You're welcome," he said quietly. Peter returned to the kitchen to see that his toast was ready. He set up a second plate identical to the first, including the glass of water balanced on it. He’d seen the fists. Sylar was angry. Given that Peter had rejected whatever advance Sylar had been making there, the emotion certainly made sense. And then there was the lack of desire for Peter’s help, which sucked because Peter wanted to give it so much. It was Peter’s primary way of being friendly - rejections all around.
He’s a loner. I wonder if he’s always been that way? Is he a loner because he’s so anti-social, or is he anti-social because he’s been a loner? If it’s the first, then if he could just pick up some social skills, he might be okay. If it’s the second, then he’s probably happy like he is. But yesterday … he was fine the other day - talkative, friendly, so chummy and buddy-buddy that it freaked me out. So he has social skills.
Of course, he doesn’t seem to have any recognition that I have a right to be really fucking pissed at him for everything he’s done. No … he does recognize that. It just doesn’t matter. Like I was thinking day before yesterday, it’s like coming onto the scene of a murder and the killer calmly admitting that he got upset, stabbed someone seventeen times and he knows it was wrong. ‘Lead me away, officer,’ complete with letting himself be cuffed and taken in, then just as calmly confessing. He told me, ‘They had it coming.’ ‘He’s dead, I made sure of that.’ ‘…this is my thank you?’
Peter sighed, letting his thoughts flow around and through those lines, trying to pull them together and figure out what was going on in Sylar’s (probably black, shriveled excuse for a) heart. If he was going to see him as human, frail and failure-prone like anyone else, then he had to figure out where the guy was coming from, even if that meant tackling some subjects that moved Peter to rage.
Peter gathered up his plate and glass, moving out to his chair across from the couch because he was a social creature who sought the company of others, present company included. He could see Sylar had opted not to eat his toast yet. Peter sat, not addressing it, but filing the information away. Sylar hadn’t eaten dinner and he was skipping breakfast (so far). He needed to get something in him to counteract the stomachache that might, or might not, be caused by the Tylenol. Peter decided to keep thinking rather than nag. He had his own meal to eat first before getting into it with Sylar over something that would be uncomfortable, but not dangerous. Peter set his glass between his legs and leaned back a little. He chewed gently and slowly at his toast due to his still-quite-sore jaw. He tugged the bread apart carefully with his teeth so he could mull over small bites as he kept pondering his companion’s mental make-up.
How was he expecting me to respond to everything he said to me? He seemed genuinely thrown when I told him he had provoked me on purpose, like he didn’t think he’d done or said anything wrong. He never answered me about that. Why was he bringing that shit up like that if it wasn’t to set me off? What did he expect me to do, say, ‘Yep, you’re right. Thank you so much for killing all those people. You’re a real hero, Sylar!’
Mostly, Peter was staring at the wall over the couch, but occasionally he glanced down to Sylar, acknowledging his presence without any particular reaction to it. Peter had his ‘thinking face’ on, complete with an unfocused look as he tried to make sense of things.
He knows it’s wrong, but he doesn’t care. How does that work? Or is it just that he doesn’t seem to care? Or has he convinced himself he doesn’t care, like Nathan always did? Like Ma ... Peter frowned, no more happy about his mother’s rationalizations than he was about Sylar’s. So frustrating. They cared, but they hurt people anyway. Both of them. Well, three, with Sylar. He glanced down at Sylar’s face and gave him a small, fleeting and sympathetic smile, his brain having managed to put Sylar into the category of other people who irritated and frustrated the hell out of him, but whom he could do nothing about: Peter Petrelli’s Penalty Box for Bad Behavior. It was a step up from ‘no one wants him dead more than me’.
XXX
Peter sat without comment, surprisingly, and started in on his own food. Sylar had settled with his back to the armrest and his side and cheek pressed to the back of the couch, idly staring into space once he’d discerned that Peter was of no consequence at the time. Wow, I’m not even going to get nagged, he thought sarcastically, Nurse Petrelli falling down on the job. Lack of eating was not caused by lack of hunger, but lack of taste buds and stomach calm. The toast looked fine, great even, and he knew he should eat. He just couldn’t fool the food past his tongue.
His head was back to its bone-deep throbbing, making his vision pulse in dull red waves and the position was wrinkling the skin of his hip against his jeans. It was at times like this and only at times like this he missed his regeneration. Anything that might have set and begun to heal in its painful way had been shifted and agitated by the trip to the bathroom. He was a head-to-toe aching mess and he assumed or maybe hoped Peter was no better off. The important thing was that I won. Twice. And I didn’t start it either.
Not comfortable enough yet to drift off and wary of a lack of promise of truce today, Sylar considered the things he wanted to know: Why did he turn me down? Why does he think I provoked him? He acts like someone is watching us most of the time; does he know something I don’t? The Germans in World War II knew how to tell lying informers from truthful ones on whether they were hiding traitors based on the preparation and repetition of their story. There’s always pupil dilation. I know he’s not giving me the whole story.
“Why are you so guilty about all this, Peter?” Sylar murmured without his usual energy, his voice still carrying some sting. “You’ve never been guilty about…” a pause to consider how to phrase it, “what goes on between us before.” Code for ‘pummeling me to a pulp.’ Something in him acts like this is all new…and yet he still goes at it like he doesn’t care if I die….but he doesn’t go all the way. Sylar purposefully ignored the whole ‘this is all in your head’ bullshit, which Peter sadly believed. But, he could use it. Granted…they’d never been forced together this way and Peter had never stuck around to play hero for him. Could seeing the damage bring that much change? Sylar pondered it honestly and curiously. Evidence was to the contrary.
XXX
Peter shut his eyes and set his plate on his thigh, holding it with his right hand. His left he used to rub very slowly and carefully across his face, not really exploring, but just brushing over it, finding comfort in the touch of a hand even if it was his own. “Beating you up here is stupid, and it’s pointless.” Not the real reason. “Always before, I was …” What was I doing? He attacked me at Odessa and then in Mohinder’s apartment. He was the one who started it at Kirby Plaza. But after that, it was pretty much me doing it at Pinehearst and Primatech, because he was in my way and I was pissed. He started it at Mercy Heights, even if I’d intended to find him and start something. Maybe that one counts as mutual?
“I was trying to stop you from killing people, or I was messed up with your ability and not thinking straight.” Still not the real reason. He sighed and got a little closer to the core of it: “Hitting people and hurting them is wrong, no matter who they are. Self defense is one thing, but …” His voice took on a strained, tired tone. “I’m not defending anything here except someone’s reputation,” he grated out, angry and uneasy all over again.
XXX
Had Sylar been up to it, he would have pounced all over the man’s explanation, if he called it that. He longed to tilt his head and stare Peter down, but right now, the couch was more appealing. ‘Stupid and pointless’ isn’t stopping you so far. You admit you were messed up and not thinking straight. Of course it would be okay to pound the murderer because he’s opposing you. You did no better with my ability and you still, to this day, treat me like I’m the only one with the fucking problem.
Hitting and hurting people is wrong, tell that to the nail gun, Peter. Tell that to the glass in your skull…which was…pre-self-defense habits. Its always been okay to everyone I know….No matter who I am, huh? If I was Nathan would you hit me? Or is just because I’m so…special, I get “special” treatment? You’re defending a dead person’s reputation, Peter. Sylar did have to stop and think if he would defend his mother so fiercely…He decided it would vary based on topic. Then again…Sylar knew all about the Petrellis and Peter knew nothing of Virginia and so was likely to make a lot of assumptions just like everyone else.
XXX
Peter pressed the heel of his palm briefly against his forehead before dropping it to the armrest with a small shake of his head. “Beating you up over words is wrong, but so is letting you get by with saying those sorts of things about the people I love. There’s no right choice here.” He made an empty, open-handed gesture with his left hand, a sort of ‘can’t you see’ emphatic hand-wave. Actually, there is a right choice. Stop beating him up and take the high road. But I can’t let him disrespect Nathan and Claire and whoever else he decides to bad-mouth! Defending one’s family honor was too important for Peter to let it pass. Perhaps he was just too stereotypically Italian, but it was one the values he’d been raised with and probably the most important one. Comparatively, any doctrine of nonviolence was a recent adoption.
Peter pushed around his second piece of toast on the plate, fitful and restless because he couldn’t find a solution that satisfied him. “Why do you keep forcing me to make that choice?” I can’t believe that you don’t know what you’re doing. You either want to get beat up, or you want me to agree with you that my family is shit. You want to drag me down into that pit with you, where you hate everyone and that justifies everything you’ve done. The situation was only exacerbated by Peter’s agreement that his family had done wrong, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle Sylar running them down.
While all of what Peter was saying was true, it was the reason for the anger, not the guilt. The idea of not hurting people, of respecting them, and the like was an extension of his concept of honor and the primacy of familial love. Peter had extended that 'family' to all of humanity, with something of a priority scale - his mother most important, then his father and Nathan, then other female relatives (like Claire, Heidi or Meredith), then other male relatives, then his friends and people he had an obligation to, then the helpless or exceptionally vulnerable, then the rest of the world. Sadistically beating someone up went against all of that, but it was what he wanted to do to Sylar. He wanted to hurt Sylar. He wanted to make him pay for what he’d done to Nathan and it burned inside of him like a well-banked fire, just waiting to flare up. That was where the guilt was coming from.
XXX
Sylar frowned a little bit. So…defending his family in ways that he feels violence solves in necessity…makes him guilty? He didn’t buy it; that theorem lacked historic evidence. Shrugging lightly with a shoulder, he said, “Entertainment maybe? Or I think it’s a choice you need to make. Because I’m telling the truth.” Your family’s screwed everyone over, including you, especially you. I’m against abuse of specials, the same as you. We are, sort of, basically on the same side, then. “Hell, maybe to see what you’ll do. Maybe make you eat your words. Maybe to corrupt you, who knows,” Sylar droned without much inflection, his sinuses becoming obvious now.
Sylar turned to Peter and opened his mouth to begin on a tidbit of wisdom about family, betrayal and how-to-deal but stopped himself. Somehow he doubted Peter could grasp it. And it was personal. It would give Peter numerous openings for mockery, teasing and blame, not to mention it would increase the man’s sense of disgust. My dad tried to kill me. For an ability no less; immortality. I doubt he’d have let me heal and live to fight another day. That was after I spent the day with him, trying to reconnect. He would have turned on the Petrellis for their power bank. He was my father and I let him die. So that makes me a heartless, murdering patricidal monster, right? Don’t even get me started about killing my mother. Sylar shut his mouth and faced straight again. The same betrayal, but I’m not clinging to excuses or false hopes. I made a choice.
XXX
Peter sighed and considered what Sylar had said. In the absence of much in the way of emotion in Sylar’s delivery, Peter was left to weigh the words themselves, which was like reading with every other letter missing. It could be done, but it took more effort. He gave it a few moments of thought and then set it aside, taking a drink of water. Frowning slightly, he regarded Sylar in profile, noting the faint bulge of the goose egg over his brow from where Peter had head-butted him. Injuries aside, it was a good face - very distinctive and striking, if less imposing from this angle. Peter didn’t feel so skewered by Sylar’s full, unadulterated focus while looking at him like this. The man’s cheeks were darkly shaded by a day’s growth of stubble, standing out sharply against skin that was a little paler than it would have been at full health. Peter’s frown faded as he wondered idly what Sylar shaved with: electric razor, safety razor, or a full blade?
XXX
The other man was silent for a while. A while dragged into too long and, much slower than he would have liked, Sylar became aware that Peter was staring. When he looked back in response, Peter’s face was neither desirous nor angry. Not even a little bit confused. Strange as what Sylar had said was probably something Peter took great offense at, the whole ‘just to screw with you’ angle. See something you like, Petrelli? He wondered, the least bit curious.
XXX
He noticed Sylar had detected the scrutiny. Without any guilt, but recognizing his social faux pas, Peter redirected his eyes to his toast. He took another bite of the bread, rolling it around in his mouth and gumming it to death rather than chewing. His jaw was getting sorer the more he used it. Definitely soup for lunch. His thoughts returned to what Sylar had said.
“Entertainment.” Peter huffed out. “You don’t look entertained.” He paused for a moment, choosing his words with care even though he knew Sylar was operating at reduced capacity here. Maybe Peter was asking because of that. Sylar was less intimidating this way. “This isn’t a choice I’m happy making - picking between making you answer for your words or letting you say whatever you want about the people I love. Can you tell me why you think I need to make it?” He was genuinely asking. For now, he ignored the truth angle. It was irrelevant and a lot of people clung to the idea that ‘it’s the truth’ justified hurting other people. “I know Nathan and Claire are no saints, but that’s my brother and my niece.” I’d be a pretty lousy brother, uncle, whatever if I didn’t do something about the crap you were saying. Can’t you just be polite?
He waited for Sylar’s answer, listening intently, paying attention and trying to understand. He knew that not everyone shared his sense of familial loyalty, but it was a common enough trait that Peter didn’t feel inappropriate in asking for Sylar to avoid speaking ill of them. Sort of like how, if Sylar had expressed a morbid fear of spiders, then it would be foul play of Peter to get a toy one and harass him with it. On the heels of that thought, it occurred to Peter that Sylar might consider that sort of conduct to be completely fair.
XXX
“Hmm, I look like I got run over by an angry Petrelli, the one and only.” Sylar substituted ‘a mac truck’ for the man’s last name - by now the event (being beaten this particular one) was commonplace enough. “I look ready for the asylum, same as always,” waving a tired hand at his own words indifferently. Why is he asking the hard questions now I can’t think? What’s with that? His thoughts were annoyed, a little flattered and understanding.
“Oh, that’s good to know. Here I was thinking that was your happy face,” he said of Peter’s purported happiness as to choosing. If he sat and thought about it, which he was being forced to do, he would have eventually concluded that it was a test for Peter. As to why he was performing it…remained largely a mystery even to him. That meant it was an emotional decision as he was almost always very aware of his motivations and goals. That also meant there were things he wanted emotionally from Peter. It wasn’t a course he was eager to…continue on. Sylar was quite uncomfortable with that prospect.
He’d been silent while he thought on it for a moment or so. He counted the heartbeats that ached throughout his form absently, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in and force him to sleep, promise or no promise of truce and safety from Peter. “Because you’re different.” That was all he could sum up and to him, it really did summarize. The Petrellis, the Company, Bennet, Mohinder, Matt, they had all been evil; they had all been ‘bad guys’. It didn’t matter that Peter had been related to or friends with them. Because Peter had once possessed the Hunger and been possessed by it. Peter clearly wasn’t damaged enough to value safety over love, right over wrong when it came to relatives so he stayed and allowed the abuse and kept loyalty with the snakes. Because I am the hero - I’m fighting you. “Because I think you’re weak and stupid for not punishing them…letting them off the hook time after time only enforces behavior, you know. Besides. They’re all dead anyway.”
XXX
Continued...