More Between Us, Chapter 3/? "A Long Walk To Nowhere"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 3/?
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, 421
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
Peter was relieved and disappointed that Sylar didn’t follow him. ‘Relieved’ made sense. ‘Disappointed’ didn’t, but it was how he felt anyway. He jogged to the T-intersection and stopped. He looked both ways, made a quick decision, and without looking back to see what was behind (was Sylar standing in the road looking after him? Walking after him and somehow keeping pace like Pepe Le Pew? Had he disappeared? Or was he just walking back to his apartment to fix that lunch he kept mentioning?), Peter turned left and slipped out of sight.
He took a deep breath and kept going to the next block. He glanced back. The street was empty - no visible pursuit. He ducked into the cross street and leaned against a stucco façade. He calmed down, or at least tried to. He was breathing hard. Was that because of oxygen deprivation? He didn’t know. He doubted it. He seemed to be thinking okay.
He looked at his watch, wondering how long it had been since he’d gotten in here, but that was no help. It was stopped at 12:42. He tapped it and put it to his ear. Nothing. He fiddled with the settings, but as it was self-winding, that really didn’t do any good. He tapped it again. Still nothing. He sighed. Great. Just great. Probably has something to do with why Sylar thinks it’s been years. He had all those clocks in his apartment though. Were they running? He hadn’t paid attention, but surely they were. Why would Sylar surround himself with clocks that didn’t work?
Okay, let’s think this through. If I’m trapped behind that wall with Sylar, then… Okay, if I’m not trapped behind it, then I have days until I’ll need medical attention and I think it’s a safe bet Matt will get me some. And my mom knows where I went. So if he didn’t brick me up, then I’m fine, really, other than the part about being stuck here. Eventually someone will get me out.
But if I am walled up with Sylar, then I only have until my air runs out. Technically, that probably should be, like, now, unless Matt took a break, or had to tear it back down to put me in, or something like that. He rubbed his forehead. Sylar thinks it’s been years. Either it’s seemed like years to him, or Matt told him it was years and now time’s passing normally. If it really seemed like years, then if time is still passing that slow, then I’ll have…I dunno, weeks? in here before I should be worried. If it was just something Matt pushed in his head like a projected thought, then I’m still out of time. Okay then. I need to get out of here in the next hour or two and if I can’t, then…who knows.
He took another long moment to concentrate, emptying his mind, and trying to use Matt’s ability to get out. As before when he’d tried alone, absolutely nothing happened. He could think all he wanted about getting out, but it didn’t help in the least. “Damnit!” he exclaimed into the emptiness. He balled up his fist, but there was nothing to strike and no one to blame. He let out a long, frustrated sigh.
Peter looked around at the faceless buildings. Fine. Back to the plan of walking out of here, finding the right door, or whatever. He walked down the sidewalk, passing in front of a storefront for sporting goods. One side of his mouth quirked up as he looked at the baseball bat in there and imagined uses for it. He caught himself and shook his head. Really, I seem to be fixating on smashing his head in. I wonder - if I killed him, would I get out of here? Would we both get out of here? If I was wrong though, I would have just murdered him and committed suicide. Even for my ‘brilliant’ plans, that would be stupid.
He banished his fantasies, but still reached out towards the bat, focusing on it, really reaching. His fingers touched the glass. It was unyielding. He tried again, trying to phase his hand through the glass by sheer mental effort and desire. If this was a dream world, then his will should make a difference. But just like in the real world, it didn’t work.
He sighed and put his hand flat on the glass. He pushed. It was hard and cold. He frowned and went to the door. It was open and unlocked. It felt creepy to walk inside, all alone. The store was full of products, unattended. He walked around to the display and reached in for the bat. He pulled it out and hefted it for a moment, a memory of playing ball with Nathan coming to mind. He put it back and sighed. He didn’t need it, but he’d confirmed at least that the stores weren’t just fronts. They contained things, as Sylar had implied.
Peter walked out, then froze, looking up and down the street. Crap, which way did I come from? I’m pretty sure it was that way. I turned left at the T…then I turned…um…right? I’m pretty sure it was right. And then I came in here, so I need to go…right. Okay. He squared his shoulders and headed off to the right. He passed what looked like unfamiliar territory, so he was heartened in his direction sense.
He kept walking for…a long time, not sure how much actual time passed or how to measure it. He tried every door he came to. Walking through them didn’t help. He thought various things while walking through them. That didn’t help either. He stood restlessly inside a bagel shop and finally helped himself to a couple bagels. He told himself he was just testing and it wasn’t because he felt hungry. I can’t be hungry. This is all a dream.
They certainly didn’t seem like three year old products. Not all that fresh, either, but perfectly edible. As long as he was behind the counter, he snagged a bottle of orange juice. The refrigeration units were still running, which seemed odd. He wondered how they were maintained. He caught himself. Things have not been here three years. They’re like this because Sylar thinks they’re like this. Why hasn’t he noticed discrepancies like this?
He shook his head and walked out, guzzling the juice because his dream self felt thirsty and it was easier just to drink the damn juice than to argue with himself over his perceptions. It was getting dark. Peter stared up at the sky like he’d never seen approaching darkness. It’s been hours - it has to have been. I’m still alive. And I’m still here. So that means either time isn’t stable, or Matt didn’t wall me up. Three years to three hours…if Matt wanted to use his ability to get me out, I’d already be out. That means…I guess I have to rely on Mom coming to get me. That might be days. It’s an eight hour flight at least. He swallowed roughly. I might be here…for what will seem like years. With him.
He sank down slowly against the sun-warmed concrete outside the bagel store. He felt so tired - almost defeated. Maybe time passes the same in here as out there. Maybe it will just be a couple of days. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his drawn up knees, letting his mind drift, trying to tackle his problem from different directions.
\\Whirling gears, a strange ticking sound, comforting in its familiarity, wishing the world would make sense, the gorgeous beauty of realizing that it did, the slow passage of the celestial bodies through their courses as lovely as the dance of electrons in the valence shell, bonding...\\
Peter jerked awake. What the hell? He was certain, completely certain that those were not his thoughts. He wasn’t even sure what a valence shell was. He struggled to his feet. It was totally dark, save for a few lonely lights on inside of stores. The storefronts themselves were dark and the streetlights weren’t on. He rubbed at his eyes. Okay, calm down. So I’m trapped in Sylar’s head and I get…thought-leak, I guess. He could have been thinking about worse things, I suppose.
Wait, was I asleep? Why was I sleeping? Damnit. I don’t need to sleep. In a huff, he turned and headed off through the dark, determined to get somewhere and accomplish something no matter what. Blocks passed under his shoes, probably miles. He kept to a straight line when he could, with the tall, stark buildings looming up around him.
Day 2
When dawn came, Peter realized the area he was in looked vaguely familiar. That he might have gotten turned around at some point seemed likely. He didn’t think it mattered too much, really, because it wasn’t like he’d thought the place would conform to physical limits.
He walked more slowly, examining the structures, looking for street signs (there weren’t many, but there were a few) and memorizing the landmarks. He walked out to a new street and jumped. There was a palm tree. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen others, but he’d stood in front of this one with Sylar just yesterday. He turned and yes, there were two others down the side street. Damn. Huh. He looked down the road towards where he imagined Sylar’s apartment to be.
By now the sun was well above the top of the buildings. He frowned at the day orb, the dream-like thoughts from the night before tickling in his head, something about the drift of the heavens marking the truest progression of time. He glanced down the street and jumped again, for there was Sylar, a few feet from the sidewalk, peering at him. They were separated by a half dozen blocks, so it wasn’t like he was right at hand, but for some reason seeing the other man unsettled Peter anyway. He walked forward across to the side street, heading down to those other two palms because he needed a destination.
As far as he could tell, Sylar didn’t follow him, a fact that made him glad for a while. Then a little annoyed, as the sun climbed higher; he passed through more blocks of empty city, and he wondered restlessly why Sylar wasn’t following him. What is he doing, back there, all alone? What would I do, if I were trapped here alone and someone new showed up? I think I’d follow them. I’d want to know what they were doing here. Maybe they knew a way out. I’d try to find out how they got here…
Of course, all that presupposes that I’d be willing to talk to the person. Maybe Sylar hates me. No, I’m pretty sure he probably does. I don’t want him to hate me! I don’t deserve to be hated by the likes of him! He’s the one who’s always been… Peter thought about how often he’d ruined Sylar’s plans, from Sylar’s point of view. His mind didn’t like that course, so it jumped tracks. He’s got to be doing something. Maybe he’s laying a trap for me. No, that’s paranoid. He’d have done something before.
He considered the reactions Sylar had had to him here - running away, conflicted emotions, hope, fear, anger, disdain, unexpected opening up, oversharing of information Peter really didn’t want to know, a sort of disjointed rambling at times… He sighed. Okay, so the guy was lonely. He got it now. He’d gotten it before, for the most part, he just hadn’t cared. He wasn’t sure he cared now.
He went in a furniture store and picked out a nice recliner. He sat down, tilted it back, and settled in. His brain was tired; the sun was setting. His stomach rumbled discontentedly. He’d eaten a muffin around noon, but nothing else. He refused to admit he needed to eat. If he hadn’t been so tired from walking nearly nonstop for the previous eighteen hours, he would have argued with himself about needing to sleep, but whatever. His back hurt, his legs hurt, his feet hurt, and his brain was so dulled he couldn’t think, so he relaxed and fell asleep after a little bit.
Day 3
\\He was eating a cheeseburger that was pretty good and some fries that were merely passable while Mohinder rambled on about specials. He talked interminably and it was really, really grating on his nerves. The food was good though. Mohinder addressed him as Zane and it took him a moment to remember the man was talking to him. The peach pie he had for dessert was delicious and his mind had been occupied by a combination of that and a fantasy of killing Mohinder in the same way he’d killed Chandra. He recovered easily enough, making small talk until Mohinder went to the bathroom, then blithely drugging his drink so the Indian would be asleep when he went to Dale Smither for her ability.\\
Peter stirred uneasily, waking. He didn’t want to see the next part and he had a disturbing feeling that if he didn’t wake up, he would. He slapped himself firmly and that seemed to shake it. Why the hell would Sylar be thinking of that now? As if in answer, Peter’s stomach rumbled. He tried to go back to sleep, but between his body telling him it was hungry and the apprehension that he would be subjected to having to watch Sylar dream about killing someone, he couldn’t rest.
He got up and stalked out of the furniture store, even though it was still dark out and his feet hurt abominably. Dawn was close though. He guessed he was getting Sylar’s dreams, maybe not intentional thoughts. That was disturbing. The latter, he could insist Sylar cut it out. The former…well, there might not be much Sylar could do about that. It might just be an occupational hazard of being stuck in his head. He wondered if Sylar got his dreams in return.
He found a diner and helped himself, frying eggs and making toast, going so far as to even brew coffee. If he was going to admit that Sylar’s weird mental world required him to eat, then he might as well make decent food. As he ate, he reflected on the passage of time. It had been a day and a half by now. His mother, and anyone else she sent, would have been here by now, if time was passing normally. If he didn’t have life support…then he should be getting dehydrated. Although he didn’t expect he’d feel it in here, he expected that he might start having some impairment - that is, if time was passing normally.
He spent the day circling out from Sylar’s apartment, which had become the center of the universe by virtue of having the only other occupant of the universe living at it. He managed to avoid Sylar - or so he thought. He worried the other man might be skulking around after him. He couldn’t shake the idea that he ought to be, and so he spent the late afternoon trying to catch his phantom follower. Either Sylar knew the territory too well (which he should - it was his head, after all), or he wasn’t there. The frequent stops were also a good excuse to rest his feet and stretch. He hurt, a lot. Even more than the hunger though, he resisted admitting to the pain.
Before the sun set, Peter gave up trying to ambush someone who likely wasn’t there and climbed to the top of the tallest building he could find. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. By the time he very laboriously drug himself up a bazillion stairs and reached the top, it was rapidly darkening. He surveyed the terrain, but there was really nothing to see. It was as Sylar had said - streets and buildings, and more streets and buildings. Distantly he could see hills in one direction and the ocean in the other, but for some reason he couldn’t focus on which was east and which was west. That was ridiculous, because only one horizon was light but…
Peter caught himself again. Time after time, his mind tried to apply logic and rationality to this world. It was stupid to try. He leaned against what was probably an air processing unit. No wonder Sylar believes this is real. I know it’s not and I keep trying to treat it as real. He shook his head, not wanting to admit Sylar was right, but here was the evidence of his own behavior. If he didn’t remind himself constantly, he fell into the routine of thinking this was the real world. He walked back inside, not relishing the prospect of navigating all those flights of stairs again, even if it was heading down this time.
He went down a couple flights, then leaned on an emergency door, stretching the small of his back and idly looking in. He wondered how Sylar had managed to fill all of these buildings with such detail. He must be a really smart guy. What’s that over there? Is that an elevator? His brows furrowed. He triggered the door, which was open, just like all the other doors. It shouldn’t have been, as a standard security door like this shouldn’t open into a floor. Peter didn’t bother to argue with himself about reality and just accepted it. Just like he accepted that the elevator worked as it carried him down to the ground floor without incident. Wish I’d noticed that before climbing all those stairs. Wait…I didn’t really climb all those stairs. I just think I did. He sighed again and slept in the lobby of the building, on a couch, because he was too sore and disheartened to go out and look for a more comfortable place.
Day 4
The next morning, he felt terrible. Peter ambled around randomly. There really wasn’t much point to exploring, he’d decided, and in addition to his feet hurting, his thighs ached. His back wasn’t all that happy either - he was pretty sure that had something to do with sleeping on hard couches, recliners and crouched against walls.
So he took it slow. It gave him more time to think. He wondered what Sylar was doing. He didn’t think the other man was following him. So…what did he do to pass the time? Three years? Peter supposed he might as well admit to the possibility that Sylar had experienced the relative passage of three years, just as Peter was now beginning his third day. He didn’t feel dehydrated or “impaired” from anything other than his exertions and experiences here. He supposed that was a good thing.
His feet unwittingly led him back towards Sylar’s apartment. He started a little when he found himself on the same block, but after a moment of consideration, he decided he might as well say hello. Avoiding the other man was childish. And Sylar was definitely lonely. He was doing him a favor, really. Peter stopped in front of the door of the building and stalled for only a few minutes before squaring his shoulders and walking inside. He headed up the stairs with a heavy tread, determined to get this over with. Sylar would gloat that he’d come back and Peter would just have to suck it up, because he knew Sylar would be secretly very happy to see him. Peter could handle a little gloating.
He stopped outside the other man’s door and knocked loudly, rather than barging in like before. Seconds passed, then minutes. Peter hadn’t heard anything. He hammered at the door again. More silence passed. He tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. It was also repaired, he noticed, from where he’d kicked it in. Within, the place was empty. He gave it a quick search, including behind that other door, the one he’d worried about before, but it was just a bathroom. There were no dead bodies or anything at all unusual. He left the door hanging open as he moved on.
He walked back outside, beginning to get worried. Where the hell was Sylar? This was his place. This was where he should be. Where else would he be? This was his head. There was no more reason for him to explore than there was for Peter. What if something happened to him? What if Matt got him out instead of Peter, and this was now Peter’s own head he was stuck in? No, that was preposterous. But what if Sylar got himself out, now that he knew it could be done, and just left Peter here? Now that was chilling. Peter might be stuck here forever…alone. “No,” he murmured.
He had no more thought that though than he heard a noise. Not stopping to listen further, he hurried towards the intersection, hastening around the corner to find Sylar - less than twenty feet away and walking towards him, grocery bags in hand. Peter stared at him with wide eyes, then relaxed. Two minutes before, finding Sylar was the most important thing in the universe. Now…he was disappointed and relieved to have found him. ‘Disappointed’ made sense. ‘Relieved’ did not, but that was how he felt anyway.
Day 1
Let the kid have his moment. Sylar shrugged and turned slowly back towards his apartment, meandering back home. Home. Guess it is home. Not that it was much of one or that he particularly desired it to be, but it wasn’t that way before all this, three years ago. When he was young he’d moved around with his birth parents since his d- Samson had Intuitive Aptitude as well and he needed to sate it just as Sylar had used to. But for a good twenty-one years he’d been stationary in Queens. With mom, Virginia….mom, whatever the hell she was.
Maybe he and Peter could compare travel notes or something, although he doubted Peter kept much track of things like that, being the airhead on a mission that he was. Peter would be focused on who he had to save, who he had to throw in a cell, who he had to fight and he wouldn’t be looking at the scenery. The medic had managed to show up at nearly every one of Sylar’s important kills or manage to get in his way several times a year for the past six (barring the three Sylar had been incarcerated here).
So…where’s he really been all this time? Probably stuck in a coma somewhere I didn’t look.
First order of business….fix the damn door, then lunch. Sylar went out to the nearest hardware store, about eight or so blocks away to get wood, screws, screw driver, weather strip and insulation as well as new lock plates and a circular electric saw because he didn’t have those things lying around. After an hour or so of cutting, he’d fixed the door; the signs of Peter’s break-in (and that’s what it was) now long gone.
Padding into the kitchen, he got out some soup. It was cause enough for celebration by not cooking now that Peter was here, besides, he wanted to think. He briefly considered making enough for Peter, but he dismissed it. He went about the motions of preparing the soup; putting it in a bowl and heating it before he went back to the living room to get his latest book. Settling down on the couch after eating his vegetable soup, he read until he lost track of time (not really), but he was engrossed. He woke up some time later with a stiff neck and moved into his bed. Sylar found himself suddenly very fearful he wouldn’t see him again, that Peter would fade like a dream. After frowning out the window to see if he could see his recent and missing companion, he waited despite the dark exterior. He couldn’t the medic so eventually he gave it up and went to bed. Fuck Peter. He’s a big boy. //Little idiot kid dreamer//.
Day 2
When he woke the next morning about seven, Sylar started up from his drowsiness when he remembered he was no longer alone. Peter? Was Peter still here even? Had he been a dream? That got him up more rapidly than usual, the blood rushing through his body making him a little dizzy at first, but he changed his clothes and grabbed a banana, his coat, and headed out the door. He was left to scrape his too-long hair from his face as he ate since he’d forgotten to manage it before he left. Sighing out into the gray morning air, his breath left a slight puff of white in the weather, Sylar walking for the sake of walking….Okay, and he was hoping to spot Peter.
He was in the habit of visiting the library that was about ten blocks or so away. Around lunch time he went by, rooting around in the piles and stacks of books. He hoped that maybe on the off chance, Peter would be here researching. He wasn’t, oh well. But Sylar amused himself for the rest of the evening, picking out new books to take home and others to kill time with. To think, I used to read the dictionary for fun. So much for avoiding life. It came close enough, he still learned things here and he was so hungry for knowledge. It beat out being Hungry.
Growing bored with reading because there were only so many positions he could contort his body into to stay comfortable and only so long even he could do it, his patience wasn’t that amazing, Sylar left the library, wandering around aimlessly.
As he walked, he wasn’t particularly avid in checking his surroundings; it wasn’t like there was anything here that could harm him. Unless he fell on a rusty nail or choked on a chicken bone or something ridiculous. He remembered the habit of being wary taking a while to leave him. He’d been running for so long, immortality or not. Wait….He paused in his musings, but not his steps. What was Peter doing exactly? If Peter thought this was his mind….and he ran off in such a god-awful hurry….what if he was aiming to kill Sylar?
He did spot Peter at one point, from a distance in the afternoon. He knew Peter saw him because the medic paused briefly, then continued on. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of weapons and poisons and other ways to trap and torture him, and Sylar knew from experience that he could bleed and feel pain here, not from any self-inflicted wounds, no. Merely the sensations and marks he’d received from the scrapes and bruises and cuts he’d gotten around and about. What’s he up to?
Arriving back at home as the sun began to set around him and the city, Sylar trod up the stairs to his apartment, tip-toeing past the mountains of books he kept in the hall. Should I be preparing for an attack or….just wait for him to come back? He chose the latter. Did he get lost or something? Sylar entered his apartment and got out a pizza crust he’d gotten before Peter arrived, beginning to make it complete with sauce and cheese (lots of that) and pepperoni that he cut along with some sausage and olives. He then threw it in the oven and admittedly read Reader’s Digest. It had a few interesting things in it but it was mostly something to read.
Once he knew the pizza was done, he removed it and cut it absent-mindedly, reading the mini-magazine in his other hand. Taking a few slices on a plate with a napkin, he debated leaving the rest out for the missing medic. He placed it in the fridge anyway; he moved to the couch to eat and read again. I’ll work on watches tomorrow, he thought mildly, shake things up. He found he kept glancing at the door. Why are you waiting for him? I’m torn between trying to make him understand me and letting him think what he likes. Maybe…if I wait long enough…I’m sick of waiting, everything’s always been waiting. Why can’t he just see reason this time? Can’t anyone see me?
By the time he’d read everything in four Reader’s Digests (such a dumb name) cover to cover; it was late and time for bed. He sighed and rose to change into pajamas and such in the bathroom, staring at himself for a few moments, unlike usual. What do they see? He had to ask. Too bad he was unlikely to get an answer…well, ever. Sylar padded to bed and rolled into it, lying awake for a bit, again something odd.
Day 3
Morning; again. Another day another…ah, fuck. Where the hell is he? He’s redefining ‘can’t run from your problems’. Rolling his eyes he got up. This time he was in less of a hurry to get out and….do whatever. Clearly Peter wasn’t going to be returning any time soon. What if he took off running….really trying to get away? What would I do then? Chase after him, he answered himself. Sylar changed into day clothes, brushing his teeth after he ate a few bowls of Lucky Charms (because he could), this time reading Wired. This magazine never really said anything, but again, it was just something to read, distract.
He spent the rest of the day thinking if he should search for Peter or continue fixing and tinkering with his watches like he was doing. //That one Omega watch Heidi had given him when he decided to run for senator. ‘Got to dress to impress, Mister Navy Man,’ she’d teased. He kept handing it off to Jeff, one of his security guards who was a former demo man in Korea, because the damn thing always went out of time; he’d manage to fix it temporarily, but never permanently. He’d only worn it because Heidi had gifted it to him. After a few attempts and if it hadn’t been for others running his schedule, he’d have missed appointments and events because of it, he threw it away.//
Sylar paused to frown in the middle of fixing the current watch. Why does that keep happening? He’s dead. Nathan’s dead. Gone, dead and buried. Why won’t his memories die with him? I used to regenerate. The only thing to do was sigh, stretch and replace the backing screws. The rest of the day was uneventful. A few breaks from sitting and a sandwich later, he settled down to read and work on a Sudoku puzzle for the remainder of the evening.
Sleep was longer in coming that usual; fuck Peter and whatever scheming he’s doing. If he doesn’t want to come back….I was alright for three years without him, I can do it again. I will do it again. Eventually slumber rose up to greet his eyelids.
Day 4
Rising slowly, his body a little stiff this morning, Sylar sat blinking in the light for a few moments. Ugh. Remember when this used to be fun? Waking up every morning to death, bullets, blood, screams and abilities?
/“You will die alone. No one will mourn your death.”/
Yeah and fuck you, too. That’s exactly what that katana is for. He rubbed at the long-faded scar that Hiro had left in his guts six years ago. Three, according to Petrelli. He snorted and went about dressing and feeding himself. Groceries…. How long is that brat gonna stay out anyway? Sure there’s plenty of places to crash…he’s got the whole city, but c’mon. Sylar found himself en route to Ralph’s, going through the motions of picking up the necessary items. Chicken and rice for tonight…. Need toothpaste….paper towels….should make spaghetti soon, that sounds good…..
Of course there was no cashier, so he walked out with his self-bagged groceries past inactive security cameras that stared blank and glassy. He was fairly lost in his own thoughts as he eventually meandered back home, pausing as he detected sudden movement and heard a sound around the nearest corner. His eyes locked with Peter’s widened pair, noting his stiff posture at first before it loosened up and relaxed. Sylar gave a slight grin. He, for one, was relieved. He came back.
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, 421
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
Peter was relieved and disappointed that Sylar didn’t follow him. ‘Relieved’ made sense. ‘Disappointed’ didn’t, but it was how he felt anyway. He jogged to the T-intersection and stopped. He looked both ways, made a quick decision, and without looking back to see what was behind (was Sylar standing in the road looking after him? Walking after him and somehow keeping pace like Pepe Le Pew? Had he disappeared? Or was he just walking back to his apartment to fix that lunch he kept mentioning?), Peter turned left and slipped out of sight.
He took a deep breath and kept going to the next block. He glanced back. The street was empty - no visible pursuit. He ducked into the cross street and leaned against a stucco façade. He calmed down, or at least tried to. He was breathing hard. Was that because of oxygen deprivation? He didn’t know. He doubted it. He seemed to be thinking okay.
He looked at his watch, wondering how long it had been since he’d gotten in here, but that was no help. It was stopped at 12:42. He tapped it and put it to his ear. Nothing. He fiddled with the settings, but as it was self-winding, that really didn’t do any good. He tapped it again. Still nothing. He sighed. Great. Just great. Probably has something to do with why Sylar thinks it’s been years. He had all those clocks in his apartment though. Were they running? He hadn’t paid attention, but surely they were. Why would Sylar surround himself with clocks that didn’t work?
Okay, let’s think this through. If I’m trapped behind that wall with Sylar, then… Okay, if I’m not trapped behind it, then I have days until I’ll need medical attention and I think it’s a safe bet Matt will get me some. And my mom knows where I went. So if he didn’t brick me up, then I’m fine, really, other than the part about being stuck here. Eventually someone will get me out.
But if I am walled up with Sylar, then I only have until my air runs out. Technically, that probably should be, like, now, unless Matt took a break, or had to tear it back down to put me in, or something like that. He rubbed his forehead. Sylar thinks it’s been years. Either it’s seemed like years to him, or Matt told him it was years and now time’s passing normally. If it really seemed like years, then if time is still passing that slow, then I’ll have…I dunno, weeks? in here before I should be worried. If it was just something Matt pushed in his head like a projected thought, then I’m still out of time. Okay then. I need to get out of here in the next hour or two and if I can’t, then…who knows.
He took another long moment to concentrate, emptying his mind, and trying to use Matt’s ability to get out. As before when he’d tried alone, absolutely nothing happened. He could think all he wanted about getting out, but it didn’t help in the least. “Damnit!” he exclaimed into the emptiness. He balled up his fist, but there was nothing to strike and no one to blame. He let out a long, frustrated sigh.
Peter looked around at the faceless buildings. Fine. Back to the plan of walking out of here, finding the right door, or whatever. He walked down the sidewalk, passing in front of a storefront for sporting goods. One side of his mouth quirked up as he looked at the baseball bat in there and imagined uses for it. He caught himself and shook his head. Really, I seem to be fixating on smashing his head in. I wonder - if I killed him, would I get out of here? Would we both get out of here? If I was wrong though, I would have just murdered him and committed suicide. Even for my ‘brilliant’ plans, that would be stupid.
He banished his fantasies, but still reached out towards the bat, focusing on it, really reaching. His fingers touched the glass. It was unyielding. He tried again, trying to phase his hand through the glass by sheer mental effort and desire. If this was a dream world, then his will should make a difference. But just like in the real world, it didn’t work.
He sighed and put his hand flat on the glass. He pushed. It was hard and cold. He frowned and went to the door. It was open and unlocked. It felt creepy to walk inside, all alone. The store was full of products, unattended. He walked around to the display and reached in for the bat. He pulled it out and hefted it for a moment, a memory of playing ball with Nathan coming to mind. He put it back and sighed. He didn’t need it, but he’d confirmed at least that the stores weren’t just fronts. They contained things, as Sylar had implied.
Peter walked out, then froze, looking up and down the street. Crap, which way did I come from? I’m pretty sure it was that way. I turned left at the T…then I turned…um…right? I’m pretty sure it was right. And then I came in here, so I need to go…right. Okay. He squared his shoulders and headed off to the right. He passed what looked like unfamiliar territory, so he was heartened in his direction sense.
He kept walking for…a long time, not sure how much actual time passed or how to measure it. He tried every door he came to. Walking through them didn’t help. He thought various things while walking through them. That didn’t help either. He stood restlessly inside a bagel shop and finally helped himself to a couple bagels. He told himself he was just testing and it wasn’t because he felt hungry. I can’t be hungry. This is all a dream.
They certainly didn’t seem like three year old products. Not all that fresh, either, but perfectly edible. As long as he was behind the counter, he snagged a bottle of orange juice. The refrigeration units were still running, which seemed odd. He wondered how they were maintained. He caught himself. Things have not been here three years. They’re like this because Sylar thinks they’re like this. Why hasn’t he noticed discrepancies like this?
He shook his head and walked out, guzzling the juice because his dream self felt thirsty and it was easier just to drink the damn juice than to argue with himself over his perceptions. It was getting dark. Peter stared up at the sky like he’d never seen approaching darkness. It’s been hours - it has to have been. I’m still alive. And I’m still here. So that means either time isn’t stable, or Matt didn’t wall me up. Three years to three hours…if Matt wanted to use his ability to get me out, I’d already be out. That means…I guess I have to rely on Mom coming to get me. That might be days. It’s an eight hour flight at least. He swallowed roughly. I might be here…for what will seem like years. With him.
He sank down slowly against the sun-warmed concrete outside the bagel store. He felt so tired - almost defeated. Maybe time passes the same in here as out there. Maybe it will just be a couple of days. He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his drawn up knees, letting his mind drift, trying to tackle his problem from different directions.
\\Whirling gears, a strange ticking sound, comforting in its familiarity, wishing the world would make sense, the gorgeous beauty of realizing that it did, the slow passage of the celestial bodies through their courses as lovely as the dance of electrons in the valence shell, bonding...\\
Peter jerked awake. What the hell? He was certain, completely certain that those were not his thoughts. He wasn’t even sure what a valence shell was. He struggled to his feet. It was totally dark, save for a few lonely lights on inside of stores. The storefronts themselves were dark and the streetlights weren’t on. He rubbed at his eyes. Okay, calm down. So I’m trapped in Sylar’s head and I get…thought-leak, I guess. He could have been thinking about worse things, I suppose.
Wait, was I asleep? Why was I sleeping? Damnit. I don’t need to sleep. In a huff, he turned and headed off through the dark, determined to get somewhere and accomplish something no matter what. Blocks passed under his shoes, probably miles. He kept to a straight line when he could, with the tall, stark buildings looming up around him.
Day 2
When dawn came, Peter realized the area he was in looked vaguely familiar. That he might have gotten turned around at some point seemed likely. He didn’t think it mattered too much, really, because it wasn’t like he’d thought the place would conform to physical limits.
He walked more slowly, examining the structures, looking for street signs (there weren’t many, but there were a few) and memorizing the landmarks. He walked out to a new street and jumped. There was a palm tree. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen others, but he’d stood in front of this one with Sylar just yesterday. He turned and yes, there were two others down the side street. Damn. Huh. He looked down the road towards where he imagined Sylar’s apartment to be.
By now the sun was well above the top of the buildings. He frowned at the day orb, the dream-like thoughts from the night before tickling in his head, something about the drift of the heavens marking the truest progression of time. He glanced down the street and jumped again, for there was Sylar, a few feet from the sidewalk, peering at him. They were separated by a half dozen blocks, so it wasn’t like he was right at hand, but for some reason seeing the other man unsettled Peter anyway. He walked forward across to the side street, heading down to those other two palms because he needed a destination.
As far as he could tell, Sylar didn’t follow him, a fact that made him glad for a while. Then a little annoyed, as the sun climbed higher; he passed through more blocks of empty city, and he wondered restlessly why Sylar wasn’t following him. What is he doing, back there, all alone? What would I do, if I were trapped here alone and someone new showed up? I think I’d follow them. I’d want to know what they were doing here. Maybe they knew a way out. I’d try to find out how they got here…
Of course, all that presupposes that I’d be willing to talk to the person. Maybe Sylar hates me. No, I’m pretty sure he probably does. I don’t want him to hate me! I don’t deserve to be hated by the likes of him! He’s the one who’s always been… Peter thought about how often he’d ruined Sylar’s plans, from Sylar’s point of view. His mind didn’t like that course, so it jumped tracks. He’s got to be doing something. Maybe he’s laying a trap for me. No, that’s paranoid. He’d have done something before.
He considered the reactions Sylar had had to him here - running away, conflicted emotions, hope, fear, anger, disdain, unexpected opening up, oversharing of information Peter really didn’t want to know, a sort of disjointed rambling at times… He sighed. Okay, so the guy was lonely. He got it now. He’d gotten it before, for the most part, he just hadn’t cared. He wasn’t sure he cared now.
He went in a furniture store and picked out a nice recliner. He sat down, tilted it back, and settled in. His brain was tired; the sun was setting. His stomach rumbled discontentedly. He’d eaten a muffin around noon, but nothing else. He refused to admit he needed to eat. If he hadn’t been so tired from walking nearly nonstop for the previous eighteen hours, he would have argued with himself about needing to sleep, but whatever. His back hurt, his legs hurt, his feet hurt, and his brain was so dulled he couldn’t think, so he relaxed and fell asleep after a little bit.
Day 3
\\He was eating a cheeseburger that was pretty good and some fries that were merely passable while Mohinder rambled on about specials. He talked interminably and it was really, really grating on his nerves. The food was good though. Mohinder addressed him as Zane and it took him a moment to remember the man was talking to him. The peach pie he had for dessert was delicious and his mind had been occupied by a combination of that and a fantasy of killing Mohinder in the same way he’d killed Chandra. He recovered easily enough, making small talk until Mohinder went to the bathroom, then blithely drugging his drink so the Indian would be asleep when he went to Dale Smither for her ability.\\
Peter stirred uneasily, waking. He didn’t want to see the next part and he had a disturbing feeling that if he didn’t wake up, he would. He slapped himself firmly and that seemed to shake it. Why the hell would Sylar be thinking of that now? As if in answer, Peter’s stomach rumbled. He tried to go back to sleep, but between his body telling him it was hungry and the apprehension that he would be subjected to having to watch Sylar dream about killing someone, he couldn’t rest.
He got up and stalked out of the furniture store, even though it was still dark out and his feet hurt abominably. Dawn was close though. He guessed he was getting Sylar’s dreams, maybe not intentional thoughts. That was disturbing. The latter, he could insist Sylar cut it out. The former…well, there might not be much Sylar could do about that. It might just be an occupational hazard of being stuck in his head. He wondered if Sylar got his dreams in return.
He found a diner and helped himself, frying eggs and making toast, going so far as to even brew coffee. If he was going to admit that Sylar’s weird mental world required him to eat, then he might as well make decent food. As he ate, he reflected on the passage of time. It had been a day and a half by now. His mother, and anyone else she sent, would have been here by now, if time was passing normally. If he didn’t have life support…then he should be getting dehydrated. Although he didn’t expect he’d feel it in here, he expected that he might start having some impairment - that is, if time was passing normally.
He spent the day circling out from Sylar’s apartment, which had become the center of the universe by virtue of having the only other occupant of the universe living at it. He managed to avoid Sylar - or so he thought. He worried the other man might be skulking around after him. He couldn’t shake the idea that he ought to be, and so he spent the late afternoon trying to catch his phantom follower. Either Sylar knew the territory too well (which he should - it was his head, after all), or he wasn’t there. The frequent stops were also a good excuse to rest his feet and stretch. He hurt, a lot. Even more than the hunger though, he resisted admitting to the pain.
Before the sun set, Peter gave up trying to ambush someone who likely wasn’t there and climbed to the top of the tallest building he could find. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. By the time he very laboriously drug himself up a bazillion stairs and reached the top, it was rapidly darkening. He surveyed the terrain, but there was really nothing to see. It was as Sylar had said - streets and buildings, and more streets and buildings. Distantly he could see hills in one direction and the ocean in the other, but for some reason he couldn’t focus on which was east and which was west. That was ridiculous, because only one horizon was light but…
Peter caught himself again. Time after time, his mind tried to apply logic and rationality to this world. It was stupid to try. He leaned against what was probably an air processing unit. No wonder Sylar believes this is real. I know it’s not and I keep trying to treat it as real. He shook his head, not wanting to admit Sylar was right, but here was the evidence of his own behavior. If he didn’t remind himself constantly, he fell into the routine of thinking this was the real world. He walked back inside, not relishing the prospect of navigating all those flights of stairs again, even if it was heading down this time.
He went down a couple flights, then leaned on an emergency door, stretching the small of his back and idly looking in. He wondered how Sylar had managed to fill all of these buildings with such detail. He must be a really smart guy. What’s that over there? Is that an elevator? His brows furrowed. He triggered the door, which was open, just like all the other doors. It shouldn’t have been, as a standard security door like this shouldn’t open into a floor. Peter didn’t bother to argue with himself about reality and just accepted it. Just like he accepted that the elevator worked as it carried him down to the ground floor without incident. Wish I’d noticed that before climbing all those stairs. Wait…I didn’t really climb all those stairs. I just think I did. He sighed again and slept in the lobby of the building, on a couch, because he was too sore and disheartened to go out and look for a more comfortable place.
Day 4
The next morning, he felt terrible. Peter ambled around randomly. There really wasn’t much point to exploring, he’d decided, and in addition to his feet hurting, his thighs ached. His back wasn’t all that happy either - he was pretty sure that had something to do with sleeping on hard couches, recliners and crouched against walls.
So he took it slow. It gave him more time to think. He wondered what Sylar was doing. He didn’t think the other man was following him. So…what did he do to pass the time? Three years? Peter supposed he might as well admit to the possibility that Sylar had experienced the relative passage of three years, just as Peter was now beginning his third day. He didn’t feel dehydrated or “impaired” from anything other than his exertions and experiences here. He supposed that was a good thing.
His feet unwittingly led him back towards Sylar’s apartment. He started a little when he found himself on the same block, but after a moment of consideration, he decided he might as well say hello. Avoiding the other man was childish. And Sylar was definitely lonely. He was doing him a favor, really. Peter stopped in front of the door of the building and stalled for only a few minutes before squaring his shoulders and walking inside. He headed up the stairs with a heavy tread, determined to get this over with. Sylar would gloat that he’d come back and Peter would just have to suck it up, because he knew Sylar would be secretly very happy to see him. Peter could handle a little gloating.
He stopped outside the other man’s door and knocked loudly, rather than barging in like before. Seconds passed, then minutes. Peter hadn’t heard anything. He hammered at the door again. More silence passed. He tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. It was also repaired, he noticed, from where he’d kicked it in. Within, the place was empty. He gave it a quick search, including behind that other door, the one he’d worried about before, but it was just a bathroom. There were no dead bodies or anything at all unusual. He left the door hanging open as he moved on.
He walked back outside, beginning to get worried. Where the hell was Sylar? This was his place. This was where he should be. Where else would he be? This was his head. There was no more reason for him to explore than there was for Peter. What if something happened to him? What if Matt got him out instead of Peter, and this was now Peter’s own head he was stuck in? No, that was preposterous. But what if Sylar got himself out, now that he knew it could be done, and just left Peter here? Now that was chilling. Peter might be stuck here forever…alone. “No,” he murmured.
He had no more thought that though than he heard a noise. Not stopping to listen further, he hurried towards the intersection, hastening around the corner to find Sylar - less than twenty feet away and walking towards him, grocery bags in hand. Peter stared at him with wide eyes, then relaxed. Two minutes before, finding Sylar was the most important thing in the universe. Now…he was disappointed and relieved to have found him. ‘Disappointed’ made sense. ‘Relieved’ did not, but that was how he felt anyway.
Day 1
Let the kid have his moment. Sylar shrugged and turned slowly back towards his apartment, meandering back home. Home. Guess it is home. Not that it was much of one or that he particularly desired it to be, but it wasn’t that way before all this, three years ago. When he was young he’d moved around with his birth parents since his d- Samson had Intuitive Aptitude as well and he needed to sate it just as Sylar had used to. But for a good twenty-one years he’d been stationary in Queens. With mom, Virginia….mom, whatever the hell she was.
Maybe he and Peter could compare travel notes or something, although he doubted Peter kept much track of things like that, being the airhead on a mission that he was. Peter would be focused on who he had to save, who he had to throw in a cell, who he had to fight and he wouldn’t be looking at the scenery. The medic had managed to show up at nearly every one of Sylar’s important kills or manage to get in his way several times a year for the past six (barring the three Sylar had been incarcerated here).
So…where’s he really been all this time? Probably stuck in a coma somewhere I didn’t look.
First order of business….fix the damn door, then lunch. Sylar went out to the nearest hardware store, about eight or so blocks away to get wood, screws, screw driver, weather strip and insulation as well as new lock plates and a circular electric saw because he didn’t have those things lying around. After an hour or so of cutting, he’d fixed the door; the signs of Peter’s break-in (and that’s what it was) now long gone.
Padding into the kitchen, he got out some soup. It was cause enough for celebration by not cooking now that Peter was here, besides, he wanted to think. He briefly considered making enough for Peter, but he dismissed it. He went about the motions of preparing the soup; putting it in a bowl and heating it before he went back to the living room to get his latest book. Settling down on the couch after eating his vegetable soup, he read until he lost track of time (not really), but he was engrossed. He woke up some time later with a stiff neck and moved into his bed. Sylar found himself suddenly very fearful he wouldn’t see him again, that Peter would fade like a dream. After frowning out the window to see if he could see his recent and missing companion, he waited despite the dark exterior. He couldn’t the medic so eventually he gave it up and went to bed. Fuck Peter. He’s a big boy. //Little idiot kid dreamer//.
Day 2
When he woke the next morning about seven, Sylar started up from his drowsiness when he remembered he was no longer alone. Peter? Was Peter still here even? Had he been a dream? That got him up more rapidly than usual, the blood rushing through his body making him a little dizzy at first, but he changed his clothes and grabbed a banana, his coat, and headed out the door. He was left to scrape his too-long hair from his face as he ate since he’d forgotten to manage it before he left. Sighing out into the gray morning air, his breath left a slight puff of white in the weather, Sylar walking for the sake of walking….Okay, and he was hoping to spot Peter.
He was in the habit of visiting the library that was about ten blocks or so away. Around lunch time he went by, rooting around in the piles and stacks of books. He hoped that maybe on the off chance, Peter would be here researching. He wasn’t, oh well. But Sylar amused himself for the rest of the evening, picking out new books to take home and others to kill time with. To think, I used to read the dictionary for fun. So much for avoiding life. It came close enough, he still learned things here and he was so hungry for knowledge. It beat out being Hungry.
Growing bored with reading because there were only so many positions he could contort his body into to stay comfortable and only so long even he could do it, his patience wasn’t that amazing, Sylar left the library, wandering around aimlessly.
As he walked, he wasn’t particularly avid in checking his surroundings; it wasn’t like there was anything here that could harm him. Unless he fell on a rusty nail or choked on a chicken bone or something ridiculous. He remembered the habit of being wary taking a while to leave him. He’d been running for so long, immortality or not. Wait….He paused in his musings, but not his steps. What was Peter doing exactly? If Peter thought this was his mind….and he ran off in such a god-awful hurry….what if he was aiming to kill Sylar?
He did spot Peter at one point, from a distance in the afternoon. He knew Peter saw him because the medic paused briefly, then continued on. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of weapons and poisons and other ways to trap and torture him, and Sylar knew from experience that he could bleed and feel pain here, not from any self-inflicted wounds, no. Merely the sensations and marks he’d received from the scrapes and bruises and cuts he’d gotten around and about. What’s he up to?
Arriving back at home as the sun began to set around him and the city, Sylar trod up the stairs to his apartment, tip-toeing past the mountains of books he kept in the hall. Should I be preparing for an attack or….just wait for him to come back? He chose the latter. Did he get lost or something? Sylar entered his apartment and got out a pizza crust he’d gotten before Peter arrived, beginning to make it complete with sauce and cheese (lots of that) and pepperoni that he cut along with some sausage and olives. He then threw it in the oven and admittedly read Reader’s Digest. It had a few interesting things in it but it was mostly something to read.
Once he knew the pizza was done, he removed it and cut it absent-mindedly, reading the mini-magazine in his other hand. Taking a few slices on a plate with a napkin, he debated leaving the rest out for the missing medic. He placed it in the fridge anyway; he moved to the couch to eat and read again. I’ll work on watches tomorrow, he thought mildly, shake things up. He found he kept glancing at the door. Why are you waiting for him? I’m torn between trying to make him understand me and letting him think what he likes. Maybe…if I wait long enough…I’m sick of waiting, everything’s always been waiting. Why can’t he just see reason this time? Can’t anyone see me?
By the time he’d read everything in four Reader’s Digests (such a dumb name) cover to cover; it was late and time for bed. He sighed and rose to change into pajamas and such in the bathroom, staring at himself for a few moments, unlike usual. What do they see? He had to ask. Too bad he was unlikely to get an answer…well, ever. Sylar padded to bed and rolled into it, lying awake for a bit, again something odd.
Day 3
Morning; again. Another day another…ah, fuck. Where the hell is he? He’s redefining ‘can’t run from your problems’. Rolling his eyes he got up. This time he was in less of a hurry to get out and….do whatever. Clearly Peter wasn’t going to be returning any time soon. What if he took off running….really trying to get away? What would I do then? Chase after him, he answered himself. Sylar changed into day clothes, brushing his teeth after he ate a few bowls of Lucky Charms (because he could), this time reading Wired. This magazine never really said anything, but again, it was just something to read, distract.
He spent the rest of the day thinking if he should search for Peter or continue fixing and tinkering with his watches like he was doing. //That one Omega watch Heidi had given him when he decided to run for senator. ‘Got to dress to impress, Mister Navy Man,’ she’d teased. He kept handing it off to Jeff, one of his security guards who was a former demo man in Korea, because the damn thing always went out of time; he’d manage to fix it temporarily, but never permanently. He’d only worn it because Heidi had gifted it to him. After a few attempts and if it hadn’t been for others running his schedule, he’d have missed appointments and events because of it, he threw it away.//
Sylar paused to frown in the middle of fixing the current watch. Why does that keep happening? He’s dead. Nathan’s dead. Gone, dead and buried. Why won’t his memories die with him? I used to regenerate. The only thing to do was sigh, stretch and replace the backing screws. The rest of the day was uneventful. A few breaks from sitting and a sandwich later, he settled down to read and work on a Sudoku puzzle for the remainder of the evening.
Sleep was longer in coming that usual; fuck Peter and whatever scheming he’s doing. If he doesn’t want to come back….I was alright for three years without him, I can do it again. I will do it again. Eventually slumber rose up to greet his eyelids.
Day 4
Rising slowly, his body a little stiff this morning, Sylar sat blinking in the light for a few moments. Ugh. Remember when this used to be fun? Waking up every morning to death, bullets, blood, screams and abilities?
/“You will die alone. No one will mourn your death.”/
Yeah and fuck you, too. That’s exactly what that katana is for. He rubbed at the long-faded scar that Hiro had left in his guts six years ago. Three, according to Petrelli. He snorted and went about dressing and feeding himself. Groceries…. How long is that brat gonna stay out anyway? Sure there’s plenty of places to crash…he’s got the whole city, but c’mon. Sylar found himself en route to Ralph’s, going through the motions of picking up the necessary items. Chicken and rice for tonight…. Need toothpaste….paper towels….should make spaghetti soon, that sounds good…..
Of course there was no cashier, so he walked out with his self-bagged groceries past inactive security cameras that stared blank and glassy. He was fairly lost in his own thoughts as he eventually meandered back home, pausing as he detected sudden movement and heard a sound around the nearest corner. His eyes locked with Peter’s widened pair, noting his stiff posture at first before it loosened up and relaxed. Sylar gave a slight grin. He, for one, was relieved. He came back.
XXX
Continued...