Just Talking (Part II)
Title: Just Talking (Part II)
Characters: Sylar/Gabriel Gray, Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG-13/NC-17
Warnings: Discussions of abortion, death of pregnant women, bad living conditions for children/infants including scientific testing. Discussions of semi-graphic casual sex/sex practices, contraceptives. It's a bit dark and depressing but it ends nicely. Abuse of nachos.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
A/N: Written as a response/follow up to game_byrd's Just Talking inspired by my own prompt 'Sylar asks Peter about pregnancy scares.' You must read Just Talking to grasp this one. Enjoy.
A/N #2: I wrote Peter all by myself! (During a layover with no Ipod in use - amazing!) Woo hoo!
Something from their previous conversation was bothering him. It was one of the annoying parts about being stuck with only one person (more so that that person thought breaking and entering Sylar’s apartment was A-OK) - he couldn’t take a break and think really. He was getting better about…just learning to shut up around someone. It was almost better than talking. Strangely enough, Peter seemed alright with that; just as he seemed (sometimes) to like the random questions Sylar asked to pry into the guy’s life.
Once they reached Pete’s Diner, Peter went to look for cheese and whatever else he wanted to slather onto his nachos. Nachos, what a random invite, what a random food. Sylar, to be useful, went looking for chips, finding some basic Mexican style plain salted ones. He brought them back with plates while Peter cut up some peppers.
“Anything else you want on them?” Peter asked him, not looking up from his cutting.
Sylar shook his head before cluing in that Peter couldn’t see it, then answered, “No...Thanks.” The manners were a little slow on the uptake. He was struck with memories of Maya invading Chandra and Mohinder’s apartment, making chilaquiles. He still thought that was the stupidest idea - travel from another country, across country, break into the guy’s place, keep quiet so as not to wake Molly, then cook for the guy? Then again, Maya’s logic wasn’t all that-
By now, Peter had finished melting the cheese in a restaurant heater in the back of the kitchen. “Let’s sit.” The medic grabbed some napkins. Smart.
Sylar went to sit at their usual booth, still dragging his thoughts away even though they didn’t want to linger on Maya of all people anyway. Peter dug in and so Sylar, a little mindlessly, followed suit. A few chips in, Peter asked, chewing, “So what about you? Any Claire situations?”
Sylar discovered just how sharp nacho chips could be as he choked on swallowing one. “What?” he asked anyway, although they’d already established what the indicator meant. Maybe he was buying time; it just flew out.
Peter looked at him, not letting him avoid the question yet showing concern for his rugged swallowing, hacking reactions. The idiot. Ever the medic. Then he went back to his own nachos.
Great. How am I gonna…The largest problem with the question being turned back on him was that his “number” would most likely become apparent. And if he was unlucky, a whole lot of family history that Peter didn’t need to judge him about. Not that he necessarily would - Peter probably, in all likelihood, didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“No scares.” Sylar said simply; no ifs, ands or buts. He studied his chips while he poked at them, miming interest to avoid the dialogue now. Maybe that's because I, unlike Peter, can remember all the people, both their names and faces, that I've slept with.
Peter was surely rejoicing. There would be no Sylar Juniors running around (in whatever Peter-world Peter imagined existed outside of “Sylar’s head”). No more brothers being killed while Peter was away. The world was - aside from “Emma” - safe.
Peter just nodded, enjoying his nachos like this was everyday. “On the pill, huh?” was his next question.
“I d-,” Sylar began before remembering that he’d been busy putting Peter down for not inquiring about those details. He scowled at his companion who went about eating chips while looking right back. Peter may have even looked a little smug and that made him want to shove twenty chips, cheese and all, up Peter’s nose. Peter seemed to get it and let it go.
“Well, what method did you use, then? Pulling out? Condoms?” Yes, Peter was definitely amused and hiding it. Peter was going to be the first person on record to be killed by nachos; he just didn’t know it yet. My methods are none of your business. Do you know how many people have tortured me for those answers and gotten nothing? Better people than you, too.
“Neither.” That was stated a bit proudly, daringly. There was nothing to be proud of in actuality, but testosterone and the rules of men made it some kind of kinky landmark - something to be envied and looked up to for the risk. Besides, he wasn’t an idiot and he knew that pulling out was basically non-effective. He didn’t appreciate the implication that he didn’t know that.
Peter’s eyebrows went up, “You just….inside?”
Sylar shrugged, doing his best to make it look indifferent and arrogant and probably failing.
“You know the risks for doing that are-“
“Don’t preach to me, choir boy. You can keep your medical opinions to yourself. You’re not my doctor.” That’s the only way I’ve ever been able to get any - fast, unexpected, random, weird, bad locations, no prep or real dating…Wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am at its finest. God, I sound like Nathan. This is not good.
Peter huffed and went back to eating.
After a moment passed, “Have you ever thought about kids?” Peter wasn’t about to let it go, though, goddamnit.
“Yes,” Sylar snipped, his voice turning annoyed and short. It was accompanied by a direct look at Peter that was almost a challenge, like: so what? I can think about kids, too, you know. But that was overreaching and they both knew it. Peter let it slide by as if he’d spoken normally.
“What did you think about?”
Jesus!
That really took Sylar by his word, didn’t it? Sylar realized he’d acknowledged more than he’d initially thought in affirming.
He took a growling breath and let it out as a sigh, throwing a chip back to the plate and leaning back a bit. “Not much.” It was true.
“How do you mean?” Once again, Peter was ignoring his displays of drama. That was extremely annoying: when someone knew you were just blowing hot air, your threats empty. Peter didn’t take him seriously. So why was he here?
“I mean its…my thoughts were probably limited to high school, when they might have been….relevant.”
Peter paused; not a good sign. “Why is it irrelevant after high school?” Crap. The puzzling frown on the man’s face was endearing, so Sylar studied it a little.
“I wasn’t….” Sylar ducked his head down to the plate again, “exactly on the market. Not hard not to think about-….” He licked his lips, rethinking his response. He’d been going to say ‘not hard not to think about kids when you’re not getting any’ or maybe ‘not hard not to think about kids when you can barely masturbate in mental peace.’ Okay, maybe not the last one. “You need women to make brats.” Sylar corrected himself for present company, the stupid semi-monogamous, semi-promiscuous Saint Peter, “Or….woman, I suppose.”
Peter snorted after a moment of partial glaring; Sylar bet he didn’t like the ‘brat’ usage, “Yeah. But why weren’t you on the market? Did you go to a boy’s only school or something?”
“No. There were girls - they were like Claire,” Sylar said pointedly, dropping the name because it was important and if Peter considered that Claire was a cheerleader (and a real bitch when she wanted to be, a regular Daddys’ girl) it would make perfect sense. That type of woman, the kind that interested him wouldn’t look twice at him. They wouldn’t look once, actually. He hadn’t been invisible in high school, even though he wished he was sometimes - wished he was invisible at home, really.
The type of women that interested him would have scandalized his mother. Oh, no. He needed “a nice, Christian girl from church.” That was Mom-code for ‘someone just like me! Aren’t you excited?’ Those were the only dates he’d been able to have… arranged; because make no mistake, he’d not gone after those girls; Virginia had gleefully ‘set him up.’
Peter deduced correctly, “So you didn’t get any in high school. What about after?”
Urgh! Sylar felt like choking Peter on the nachos this time. Stupid Peter. Stupid nachos.
He was angry that that was so apparent, that Peter guessed it or knew it now and the shame that came with that social stigma.
“I was too busy working. I’ve always had better things to do with my time than…any of that.” That was true, also. Never mind that Virginia had begun pestering him about girls about the time Martin started… Any school dance was subject of months’ worth of gossip, planning, nagging, phone calls, interrogation and shopping. He’d always known Mom wanted a girl, but it got ridiculous very quickly. He never had any desire to go and had no one to go with; having his mother set him up with suitors (bad ones) was shameful after only a few tries. He had school to focus on and work after that.
Eighteen had brought around the ‘baby’ talks (more accurately the “make me a grandmother!” talks), the ‘marriage’ talks (more accurately the “settle down with a nice girl” talks). Every “nice girl” around was getting engaged, married, pregnant or delivering and Virginia seemed bit by the bridal bug of rabies-like frothing excitement. Mom ignored all the failed dates and his complaints and protests. She wanted a baby. His baby. He would have to purposefully go out, pretend to date some girl, marry her with money he didn’t have, get another apartment he couldn’t afford and knock up a woman who wanted nothing to do with his penis. Then deal with the giant “consequence” just so his mother could have a new toy. He knew (even though she tried to remain neutral; a difficult task) she wanted a granddaughter. What Mom didn’t get was that he would be throwing his life down the tube, shackling some otherwise innocent girl to him and creating a small, broken-just-like-him human being he would be at a loss how to care for.
Peter grunted, “Yeah, I get that.”
Another few minutes of semi-quiet chewing took place while Sylar did his best to put the conversation behind him.
But alas; “You got laid, though,” Oh, yes, he had, and Peter knew it - he had the memories. Sylar glared. “Did you know any of them?”
“I knew them all for longer than a day if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That works….What’s the longest you’ve known someone before sleeping with them?”
Sylar’s face was disdainful of the question for its stupidity. “What do you need; a timetable? Two years.”
“Did you love any of them?” Sylar had no way of knowing if Peter was being smart and taking an educated guess about the number being more than Numero Uno or if Peter had really seen all three events.
“Does that matter?”
“Yes, it matters,” Peter had the good grace to look shocked. Sylar had partially said that just to see the reaction. But truthfully, love, marriage, romance, intimacy, sex, orgasms and happiness all existed on separate planes and they rarely conjoined or even overlapped. Besides, Peter asking him that was so remarkably dumb. Peter thought he was a psychopath, incapable of love.
Or maybe…he didn’t think that and he was finding that out. Interesting.
“Yes. Or I thought I did. Once.” Sylar’s words were short. “Not that it matters,” he sneered sarcastically in the other man’s direction. “Like you said, nothing ever came of it.” Literally. She blew away with the breeze.
“Would you consider abortion if you did get a girl pregnant?”
“Peter, do you want me to slice you apart with nacho chips? I can make it happen.”
“I’ll take that as a yes?” Peter’s face turned disapproving. Sylar read it as disgust and horror.
“No!” he spat out before he knew what he was saying. Within the context, it made it sound like he was saying he wouldn’t get an abortion. “I mean…” a hand raked his hair from his face as he leaned as far back as possible. “Yeah. If….if it was already born, I couldn’t….” If he ever saw the face of his child, he’d be doomed. He knew he’d fight tooth and nail to get that kid a good home because he wasn’t a capable father. Hell, he wasn’t a capable human, worthy of society. He also knew, even with sleeping with those he did, no questions about protection asked, that he might one day be called to abort his kid. It broke his heart, but there was nothing to be done about it (beyond, well, not having sex which was the norm). The little voice on his shoulder sneered that he’d never have the balls to actually go through with it. He knew in his gut that was the truth.
His kid would be a lab-rat from day one. It would be worse than what they did to Elle because she was innocent, but Sylar’s kid? The amount of horrors they could inflict on it because of its father would be unthinkable - the Company, the government, the heroes would never allow him to reproduce. Either that or the kid would be shipped off to some prison-camp or held hostage until Sylar turned himself in. Which he would do once the kid was safe; he knew that. He figured they’d probably kill the woman, the mother, too, or she’d be caught in some kind of cross-fire. If they were all lucky, the woman would die pregnant, the kid with her. Adoption he knew all too well was no better.
He just couldn’t be responsible for making another - mini - Sylar. He refused to be Samson or Martin or even Arthur when it came to his kid because he’d been there for too long and was completely unredeemable because of it.
But this was all pointless speculation. Sylar was pretty sure he was infertile - none of the women he’d been with had conceived, probably due to his own overload of foreign DNA. Peter was a heartless audience about this, thought he was some baby-killing monstrosity and his deadly/disgusting factor just took a leap in Peter’s opinion. Anything Sylar said about his feelings, the true ones, about his own (potential) kids would fall on deaf ears. “C’mon, I’m not father material.” That was bitter. “That kid would be nothing but a random assortment of convenient and valuable genes to anyone else. And it’s dangerous with my…profession.” I can’t afford a kid, even now. Even now when I had the Midas touch; how fucking ironic is that?
Peter didn’t say anything to that, but his mouth moved around a lot to make different faces.
“Would you marry any of the ‘bimbos’ you slept with?” The voice had an edge to it and Sylar didn’t miss the word-choice.
“Yes.” Sylar then pretended he’d misunderstood the question, sarcastically adding, “Oh, you mean if they were pregnant. I don’t know. If she’d have me,” he bitterly threw back. “But marriage isn’t for monsters. Neither is monogamy, or so I’m told.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Peter stated calmly around a nacho. “So you’d marry someone you didn’t love?”
Sylar’s eyes turned flat. “I expected to until I got my power, yes,” he said simply, his tone hiding the rough hurt that hid inside it.
Peter stared at him for a moment, trying to use Sylar’s own trick on him, but with Sylar eyeing him right back, it flopped.
“I gather sex isn’t a commitment to you, then.” Was that really disappointment he heard in Peter’s voice? The man certainly avoided eye contact…Was Peter really fishing for answers or just repeating the same ones Sylar had earlier?
“There’s never been any commitment made to me, so no. Why would there be?”
“Why would there be commitment made to you or why would there be commitment made at all?”
“Either,” he said after a moment’s thought.
“It’s the same answer, Sylar. Because it’s the right thing to do. That’s how it’s supposed to be; that’s how it’s intended.”
“So you do that to everyone you sleep with? Even the one-night stands? Doesn’t that get tiring, being so nice all the time?”
“Yes. Yes. No. No, it doesn’t, Sylar. It’s rewarding; you should try it sometime.”
“Show me the women and I’d be happy to. Thrilled to. At this point I’d be willing to change up my tactics.” I would even go down on her; I’m that desperate right now. Anything with a vagina will give it up to me, but not you, Peter, and your pretentious dick. “So, seriously, show me where you’ve been hiding the Petrelli harem. What do you have, like, three-hundred-sixty-five, one for every day of the year or do you have thirty, one for every day of the month or just seven?”
Peter chuckled a bit, shaking his head. “I’d prefer just one. It’s better that way. Much, much better.” Peter emphasized his inclination for monogamy with a certain amount of lusty enthusiasm and smugness. Sylar thought that was cute and oh-so sexy at the same time.
“And tell me about this “special One”, Peter,” Sylar’s voice dropped to a purr as he tilted forward a bit. If its not Emma, that is…His intention was clear: I could be your special one.
Peter dropped the chip he’d been holding, leaning forward with a sudden, surprising, sensual look on his face, his lips parted. Sylar struck dumb, but he would never admit to that. “How long’s it been for you?”
Dear God. That’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever-
Swallowing around the salty taste in his mouth, he wished it was the taste of Peter’s sweat in his mouth, not some dry chip afterflavor. The flirting invitation had him leaning in, too, eyeing Peter’s lips occasionally. “Four and a half,” was the quick answer, voice as intimately as possible, which, for Sylar, was pretty low and deep. He spoke as if he were moving into to kiss someone. To kiss Peter.
“How’s the villain act for getting people into bed?” Peter’s audio and appearance didn’t change or move.
“Better than yours.” Sylar’s left eyebrow slid into a slight arch. “I’ve got three on my bedpost.”
Peter leaned back, dropping the act as he chuckled. “Crime does pay.”
It does not pay enough, Peter. Not until your ass is mine, it’s not nearly enough.