More Between Us Chapter 41/? "Turndown Service"
Chapter 41/? "Turndown Service"
Day 11, Evening
Out of the blue, a thought struck him - he was talking about what he needed and wanted, but hadn’t asked the same of Sylar. “What are your ideas?”
XXX
Is he always this annoyed? I’m not even doing anything, but let’s play the blame game. “There’s a difference between listening and applying, Peter,” he said firmly, but quietly. Sylar wanted to blast him with it, call him ‘Petrelli’ just because, but it wouldn’t do any good right now. The implication Peter made was that he wasn’t listening and that was far from the truth. There’s also difference between listening and understanding, yeah. Maybe if your logic made sense, maybe if you’d explain, maybe if your goals were somewhat reasonable…He doesn’t want to talk much so I bring up the family and make him angry. He makes me angry! He’s the- we both have anger problems, I suppose. Or maybe I could listen and understand better if he’d stop hitting me.
XXX
Listening and applying? Meaning you hear me, you understand me, you just decide to pick fights anyway, damnit. Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I suppose it’s good to have that out in the open, at least.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes then tracked between Peter’s, relentlessly intent in pursuit of the man’s motive. He’s really asking me about my ideas? Generous or stupid? Knowing Peter its naïve…”I think…” Sylar found the comb, aiming to have Peter use it to sooth his literally ruffled feathers. Staring the man down, he moved to hand it off, one elbow on the table but he kept a grip on it as Peter made to take it. It forced Peter to look at him in question, at closer range, almost held in place by the comb, so Sylar leaned in. Voice low, full of spikes and curves, “Give me what I want and that’ll help you avoid pissing me off,” and with that, he let Peter have the comb.
XXX
Peter took the comb, hackles up. Sylar’s statement read as blackmail (‘fuck me/let me fuck you and maybe I’ll deign to quit harassing you’) and the aggressive hanging onto the comb, along with the glare, reinforced it. Peter wanted to wrap his fist around the flimsy plastic and smack Sylar right in the nose. He looked at the comb briefly, dismissing it as irrelevant by itself, and a poor choice of objects to brace his hand with in the case of punching. He went to put it in his pocket only for Sylar to say, “Peter, fix your hair.”
Enough adrenaline was flooding Peter’s system that he had trouble processing the unexpected words. He pulled the comb back out and looked from it to Sylar, most of the lines on Peter’s face angry and suspicious. Eyes narrowed, he gave a rebellious, teenager-type hair flip with a jerk of his head (which hurt to do, but he did it anyway), then used the comb as directed. He was highly charged at the moment, very tense and deliberate with his motions, watching Sylar with the constant vigilance of aggression.
XXX
Really? Really? Sylar watched right back, snorting derisively; his face a work of art at being unimpressed and disbelieving. It’s a comb, Peter! Not a life-or-death moral command!
XXX
‘Give me what I want’? What the fuck would that be? Peter had his ideas, clearly. Sylar seemed to want to cut him down as much as possible and at the same time (a perverse reversal to Peter’s way of thinking) want to have sex with him. Usually, Peter was all about asking to firm up someone’s motivations, but at the moment too many layers of Petrelli training were keeping his mouth shut. He looked from the comb to Sylar’s hair, a barely restrained smile forming slowly on his lips. The idea ran through his head to toss the comb down in front of Sylar and tell him to fix his own damn hair, it was still a mess, but a better idea occurred to him. Meaner, pettier probably. It should have been beneath him. He let his smile become a little more evident as he eyed Sylar’s own coiffure before tucking the comb back into his pocket. I think you missed a little on the right cheek when you were shaving, too.
XXX
Rather bloodshot, dilated dark eyes narrowed in response to that simple, pre-mocking glance between comb and something over the top of Sylar’s head. Oh no you don’t…Sylar already sensed where this was headed. Peter’s smile turned devilish (which was either admirable, awe-inspiring, pride-inducing and kind of sexy or really bad form in mimicry-is-the-sincerest-form-of-flattery). Sylar’s tilted his head. He wanted to get up, grab Peter by that freshly-combed head of hair, shake him around, land a few disciplining blows and maybe spank the comb from Peter’s back pocket, but retrieve the comb one way or other. He wanted to wrestle and wrest it back, regardless of the cost. That little prick. You Petrelli prick. Stop using his last name, huh? Well, stop acting like one! However, the cost might be his health, mental capacity or his life if Peter won. His head was slowly killing him and he was only sitting - round three was out of the question because Peter would win. So his second urge was to decimate the puzzle. Maybe a biting retort but he just couldn’t think of one.
He took my comb. That’s my comb. Its mine. Even his mental voiced turned childish, whiney and hurt. That was a level of mean Peter had yet to stoop to - true schoolyard style. It was like little Gabriel had never left. This was hitting on deeper childhood issues he’d rather keep buried. True to form, he addressed it much the same as he would have then, “That’s mine. Give it back,” he held out his hand. His voice wavered between anger, demand and hurt. (Indian giver) I just gave it to him to fix his hair, not pocket it!
XXX
What? The comb? That’s my comb. It was. Peter knew it was. He always carried a comb in his back pocket. He gave Sylar an incredulous look and the only reason why he even reached to his back pocket was due to the hurt and very genuine tone in Sylar’s voice. And the man’s body language had totally changed, lagging only a few seconds behind Peter’s pocketing of the item. The glare was gone even if he was getting no less eye contact. Peter pulled the object out, entirely intending to demonstrate that no matter how much Sylar thought that him using it once made it his, like some twisted ‘Toddler Rules of Ownership’, it was still Peter’s comb.
It felt funny in his hand. He looked down at it and … Peter saw that it wasn’t his comb. Not even remotely. How the hell did I get this? His was black, like this one, but that was where the similarities ended. His was rectangular and simple, one of those cheap, virtually disposable ones you could get in a pack of ten at the drugstore, because Peter kept losing the damn things and didn’t see a reason to splurge on something more expensive. This one was thicker along the back, bringing to mind in a weird association Noah Bennet’s horn-rimmed glasses. Plus it had a handle. Gripping it around that portion gave him just enough muscle memory association for him to remember picking it up off the counter in Sylar’s bathroom. He’d used it because it was handy and he wasn’t thinking. It was there; it was a comb. Rude as hell, as was attempting to appropriate it.
But he’d already done that and Sylar was acting strange in response. An idea hatched in Peter’s head, proof that he deserved his last name. He smiled and breathed a ‘ha’ at the comb, still held close to his body in his left, and looked up at Sylar’s outstretched hand. With a twitch of his brows and a little motion of the comb, Peter questioned, “This? You want this?”
XXX
“Yes,” Sylar replied warily with a stare, his hand still open for it.
XXX
Without offering to give the comb back (yet), Peter said, “Just a little bit earlier, you said that if I gave you what you wanted, maybe you’d be a little more civil.” That wasn’t really what Sylar had said, but Peter couldn’t recall the exact words. “Maybe. I can’t hold you to ‘maybe’.” He extended the comb a few inches, but still outside of reach unless Sylar lunged, and then Peter might have enough time to get it away. Still, he was moving it to that tipping point of range. He glanced between their hands. “And so I won’t.” With his left hand, Peter extended the comb all the way, quickly enough that perhaps Sylar wouldn’t spring for it and might instead let him put it in or at least near Sylar’s hand.
XXX
Sylar reached out, slightly quicker than normal to get a grip on the comb as Peter put it in range and kept watching the man in case it was a trick of any sort. He pulled it to himself carefully, somewhat surprised. He hadn’t expected to get it back. But it's mine. That much was…nice. After he had it close to himself where Peter couldn’t get it and when Peter made no move to get to him, he looked down at it.
XXX
“But a guy can still hope, right?”
XXX
What does that mean? He won’t…expect, but he’ll hope? So I do…what? He looked back up at Peter, a little off-guard from getting his comb back. Why would anyone ‘hope’ that I’ll do anything even remotely decent? But he just wants decency. So does everyone. Is that a trick, though? “If I get what I want, I won’t have much reason to harass you, now will I?" In theory, at least. Is that what you’re asking? Hell if I know. No one's ever tried giving me everything or a lot of things I want for a prolonged period of time. It would be a totally new experiment. “So…yeah, I suppose.” As an afterthought of demands he could make while the window was open, “And don’t break my door down. Or I’ll make you fix it. You can knock like a normal person and I’ll let you in. And don’t steal my shit.” You can eat whatever you want, clearly. I’ll just get more. So long as I don’t turn into ‘Grandma’s House’ or something. Or maybe that’s a good thing.
XXX
Peter tilted his head a bit and raised a brow at Sylar’s question. I’m not here to give you what you want. Is that the problem? That he thinks my job here is to satisfy him? ‘Satisfy’? He blanched inside at the unintentionally sexual term, coming out as a small frown. Sylar went on and Peter listened.
“Yeah, I’ll leave your door alone,” Peter conceded. He stood up casually, glancing past Sylar at the door, then the kitchen. “I seem to remember you telling me that I didn’t have anything you wanted. Feeling’s mutual,” he said, trying to give a liberal hint that he was entirely uninterested in sex, despite whatever attractiveness Sylar possessed. He walked around the desk. “I’m going to go wash the dishes. You think you could help me tape my finger up again afterward?” He headed on to the kitchen, voice and body language as normal as Peter could get it, but there was an undertone of tightly controlled tension. In reality, he was irritated and wanted to be away from Sylar. So the deal is that he’s going to harass and fight with me. That’s pretty much what he’s saying. I don’t give him whatever it is he wants, which seems to include me for some stupid reason, then he’s going to pick fights. All the time. Joy.
He got in the kitchen, blew out air and shook his head. Yeah, washing dishes sounds like more fun than hanging out with him. He moved over to the sink to get started.
XXX
I said what? When did I say that? Is he trying to be smart? If I said that at all, it must have been…well… in the past, before Hell maybe? He wouldn’t have slept with me then either, or helped me or treated me much better so…why would I want anything from him? Besides, ‘want’ is such a….broad…thing. His face was dubious and heading into put-out and cranky. Peter went to the kitchen, Yes, do go do the dishes. After a moment of painful teeth-grinding to get his temper (and most of his tongue) under control, he followed Peter. Arms crossed, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watching Peter wash dishes from behind. “So…to be clear. You’re confusing ‘want’ and ‘need’? You need my help saving your girlfriend and taping your hand.”
XXX
Doesn’t matter what I want or need. You’re gonna save her. I saw it. That had to be what the dream meant. It had to. And anyway, you’re going to do what you want to do, whether that’s saving her or taping my hand. ‘Spose he’s right though. I do ‘want’ him to be polite and stuff. So I have some wants there. Peter didn’t say any of that, though. He plugged the bottom of the sink and filled it with water, moving the dishes into it one at a time.
XXX
He paused to think some more, drum up more points against Peter’s denial and rejection. It was his way of…dealing with such a firm and obvious shut-down. “The way I see it, you’ve crossed out most of the options other than fighting. It's either,” the points ticked off on his fingers, “fight, fuck, or talk. I’m all for making love not war here, Peter,” Sylar’s voice was a borderline chuckle. Make love - ha! “The puzzle’s great and all, but it won’t last.” Um…what the fuck are you saying? Or…implying, whatever? That’s a great pick-up line: ‘I’m immortal, fuck me forever?’ Or maybe ‘I’m immortal, I don’t come with a limited-fuck-time warranty?’ (You’re kind of sick, you know).
XXX
Peter glanced back at him after his first sentence - one of those wary, ‘checking’ looks. Something about the sentence triggered Peter to defense. He watched Sylar tick off his points with a blank face, his expression loosening up when Sylar chuckled. Quietly cycling off the momentary alert status, Peter turned back to the sink, squirting some dish soap into the filling sink. He decided to be perfectly blunt. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Sylar.” Somehow, Peter managed to get such a preposterous sentence out in an even tone. “And I don’t want to fight you.” Not completely true. “I’d rather talk. But you’re leaving out a lot of other options. We could just stay out of each other’s way.” Peter frowned. He wasn’t all that good at foresight and planning, but even he could see that was not a viable long-range plan. But on the other hand, nothing was really a viable long-range plan here. The best he could hope for was to wait subjective months, years or maybe decades with the faith that someone - his mother, Matt, anyone - might pull him out of here.
XXX
Sylar just chuckled again. That’s what they all say. “Why not?” He deliberately breezed over the rejection because that was all he could do. It hit harder than it should have, jarring him strangely. He’s just not desperate enough. Yet. He’ll ‘need’ me then, too, like always.
XXX
“Why not … what?” There were a bunch of things that could be response to - ‘why not stay out of each other’s way’ sort of fit, but it didn’t hurt to ask. Peter eyed Sylar speculatively over his shoulder.
XXX
“Why not sex?” I want an answer. And don’t say Nathan…If he comes back to screw up my sex life…Peter clearly doesn’t have anything against promiscuity. Sylar tried to perk himself up and remember he was being handed a challenge. It was very difficult when all he wanted was a normal interaction, maybe something he could twist into reassurance and comfort.
XXX
Peter looked Sylar over briefly, the guy standing there leaned against the frame of the entry. For a moment, Peter tried, and generally succeeded, in putting aside the past and really looking at Sylar, this man who wanted to know why Peter was passing rather than making a pass. He’s not bad looking. … But he’s mean. And that was the rub.
Peter’s face softened, looking off to the side as his eyes slid out of focus for a moment. He gave a small shake of his head. “You’re not my type.” Should I tell you why? How do I describe that? It’s not that you've done bad things in your life, even though that’s enough to sink you, it’s that … I don’t think I’d be safe with you. Or treated well. Or respected. My gut says no. I’m going to listen to it more than to you. He shook his head again to agree with his mental dialogue, and put the last of the dishes into the soapy water, leaving out a fork for no obvious reason. He looked around for the scrub brush, not saying anything at the moment, acting lost in thought.
XXX
Well…obviously. I’m not anyone’s ‘type’. Why do you need a type to fuck someone? I think he’s lying. Sylar thought on why that answer was ringing false. Peter continued to scrub and he came across it. There are other reasons - this is just an excuse. ‘Type’ implies that he has other options and he doesn’t. His jaw ticked once. “I think you’re lying,” he stated calmly. “You’re not my type either.” Something of an understatement. But you probably could be. It's prison rules now, literally last-man-alive business. He’d better not be trying to look down that Petrelli snout and judge me, so help him…
XXX
Peter looked over his shoulder briefly. “Think what you want.” If Sylar was the kind of guy who would listen to a reasonable explanation, then he wouldn’t be the kind of guy Peter automatically dismissed as a partner-option. Peter didn’t want to argue, so he didn’t. He was feeling increasingly trapped in the kitchen by someone who was known to be violent and had promised unpleasant repercussions if he didn’t get laid. Peter had rejected him firmly. The more Sylar harangued him over it, the more likely it seemed to Peter that this might get bad, fast.
He wished they’d eaten something that had required knives. He had nothing but a fork. The knife block wasn’t far away. He glanced over it and at the cabinets around it. No thought came easily to mind of how he could snag a blade inconspicuously. The skillet! Yes. He moved over to retrieve it from the stove. It was heavy enough to use as a weapon, and with the handle, more effective than the fork.
XXX
”How long do you think you could last alone, by yourself, Peter?” Sylar demanded, a sneer creeping over his face. “I’m not talking about sex because clearly you haven’t gone a long time without that.” It was his turn to shake his head, disgusted and frustrated. “Do you think, in all your-your…empath glory, that you could live without anyone around for four years? Consider learning how to adapt, Peter,” Sylar delivered with a frown. Look at the facts you’re facing, kid. “But we’ll play your game. Take your time. You’ll come around.” I’m a hunter, I have patience. I will be waiting, impatiently, for your return.
XXX
Slightly hunched over the sink, Peter looked back at him with narrowed eyes. He’d been expecting Sylar’s rant to lead up to a ‘it’s going to happen whether you want it to or not’ and then an assault. But this sounded like Sylar was done. Am I just being paranoid? How can I tell if it’s paranoid or realistic, given that he’s a multiple murderer who has it out for my family in particular, has told me he’s going to pick fights with me until I let him fuck me, and now, is telling me he doesn’t believe that I don’t want him? Plus he’s so concussed that even on top of ‘normal’ for him, his judgment could be wacked.
What Sylar had actually said, and the meaning of the words, didn’t make the impact they might have made had Peter been in a more contemplative frame of mind. His fingers squeezed and worked over the handle of the skillet as he waited to see if Sylar would leave now. Peter made no comment.
XXX
Peter was through washing the dishes but Sylar had no desire to stick around and watch him complete the task in drying. Peter…wasn’t washing the breakfast skillet, just….standing there, hunkered down, holding it a little too tightly. Oh. Oh. His head drew back in surprise, straightening his posture unintentionally. The situation, rather, Peter’s reactionary positioning and lack of response, dawned on him then. If it was possible, his eyes dulled in disappointment. Sylar sighed out, “So that’s how it is?” Shaking his head, he was let down and depressed about it. If you’re going to brain me with that, go ahead, but I’m innocent of whatever it is. Turning, he wandered back to the couch, seeking somewhere comfortable to be as he was clearly unwelcome in his own kitchen. He sat in the corner of the couch.
There always has to be something wrong with me to be the excuse. Actually, they don’t even need excuses - they have an army of…facts. That…really sucks. That stupid skillet was a harsh, visible reminder that Peter regarded him as a monster, probably would for a long time if not forever. The headache got in the way of his sad downward spiral, preventing him from emoting internally much further. He just knew he was miserable and in pain and it wasn’t going to get any better for a few years. Good things come to the evil people who wait, I guess. I don’t feel well. Sylar longed to sprawl on the couch, maybe cry if he was able, sleep if he was able, perhaps vomit, but he didn’t want Peter to walk out and see him like that, so he stayed upright, twiddling his thumbs.
XXX
Peter waited after Sylar left the entryway. Did he go back for a weapon of his own, or did he just go back? Silence reigned. Not a weapon, then. Wait, did he just give me space and leave me alone? Peter’s brows rose in surprise. He gave me space. He did! Finally, Peter straightened up, pulling in a deep breath and relaxing. He leaned against the counter, facing the middle of the kitchen, and rubbed his face carefully. Okay. Well … good. After a few minutes, he turned back to continue messing with the dishes, rinsing them off and doing a bit of last stage scrubbing while the skillet soaked. He felt the by-now expected lethargy and confusion that followed getting worked up anymore. I suppose that’s a concussion symptom I can’t consciously remember. Maybe I know it subconsciously or something. Or Sylar knows it, or thinks he knows it, and is inflicting it on me. Peter snorted softly. Sylar, you and your screwy brain.
He finished with the dishes and waited a bit longer. Peter scratched at the back of his neck and poked around in the pantry. What I really want is a banana and a pudding cup. He looked at his sack of snacks procured earlier. There was enough to share. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but he doubted Sylar had much appetite.
Peter walked over to the entrance of the kitchen, standing back a little from it and giving it a cursory glance to either side, as if Sylar might be lying in wait to jump him as he walked out. But no, Sylar was just sitting on the couch, looking sad. I’m sure I’m much for sad-making - the unwilling target of your rejected advances was ready to brain you if you tried for it. Enough to make any serial killer sad. Peter huffed. He still had a duty here, no matter how unpalatable he found the patient. In a bland tone of voice, he offered, “Hey, Sylar. I’m not very hungry, but it’s time for dinner. You need to eat something, then take some painkillers. I’ll get out of your hair after that. You want to join me for a pudding cup, or do you want me to make some soup?” Or something else. Probably best not to give a bunch of choices.
XXX
“No,” Sylar answered simply. He’s getting annoyed. And I strangely prefer you in my hair. He uses my name….how weird is that? I’m just…tired but I don’t know that I want to sleep. I don’t know what to do. Does Peter know what I sh-?
XXX
Peter put his left hand up on the wall next to him, picking at it a bit, trying to decide whether to take Sylar’s decline as an easy-out, grab his bag of food and bail out of the place, or whether to carry on with his task of care-taking on the guy. He sighed, because it was pretty simple - which of those two options he felt obligated to choose. "Come on, man. You need to eat something because you've got to take your pills. You'll be hurting more if you don't. How about some ice cream, or a piece of toast if your stomach's still feeling off?" He sounded tired. He didn’t want to fight over this, too - over whether Sylar would eat or take his painkillers. It was trivial compared to ‘stop threatening/harassing me’ and ‘back off; no means no.’
XXX
Sylar fully expected Peter to be force-feeding him regardless, making the food and putting it before him with a predictable ‘don’t disappoint me’ expression and staring at him until he ate. The fact that Peter was practically quoting Virginia wasn’t helping anyone. “I’m really not hungry.” Just let me be miserable along with feeling miserable, okay? It’s one meal. And I’ll probably be throwing it up tonight anyway. Don’t see why you care. How he could feel nauseous and slightly hungry was beyond him. “Just go back to the puzzle,” Sylar gave an indicating wave that direction. Despite…whatever had just happened, he wanted Peter to stay, that threat about leaving had not gone unnoticed and would probably become a reality all the same.
XXX
Peter stood there for long moments, watching Sylar. He didn’t bother looking over at the puzzle. Am I safe here? Does he have something planned? Isn’t he too fucked up to plan? Does he want me here? Do I need to let him win one, symbolic I guess, after telling him I’m not into him? How will tomorrow be if I leave now? Or the day after or any other time? We need to work something out, somehow, so that he’s getting enough of whatever it is he wants that he isn’t making my life here a living hell, and so that I’m okay with whatever’s going on. His fingers drummed restlessly on the wall as he thought, fairly quietly because it was just the pads of his fingertips, left hand, patting against the painted wood.
“Okay,” he said, decision made.
Peter went back in the kitchen for his bag, pulling out a banana and pudding cup. He took them, and a spoon, over to the work table, taking a seat. He studied the layout for a moment, then opened the cup carefully, licking the foily, plasticky lid absently. He set it aside and began to peel the banana, stopping about halfway and using the spoon to carve little chunks out, dropping them into the pudding. He stopped to try a puzzle piece. It didn’t fit, so he went back to preparing his food. He kept his eyes on his food and work, not so much as glancing Sylar’s way.
XXX
Exhaling, he oozed down into the couch more. Nowhere to be, nothing to do, his eyes trained on Peter’s person, watching with half-interest but mostly being calmed that he was looking at a real human being, here with him. Peter’s eating was undisturbed and the preparations and actual consumption were abnormal to say the least, but he knew that was just Peter being Peter - if there were no chunks in the food, Peter would make chunks as he was doing now. To think, Nathan knows that but doesn’t care. Do I care? Huh….I wonder what that means.
It didn’t appear that Peter was ignoring him, at least, not in so many words. After Peter settled and got into his snack (or dinner), Sylar thought to ask, seeing the limited motions, “How’s the hand?” It occurred to him then that Peter might only be holding his punches due to his primary hand’s injuries. When he heals, will he…backlog punishments?
XXX
Peter’s eyes flicked up to Sylar’s briefly, then he held up his left hand, which he’d stripped of the sodden tape during his various dish-washing efforts. “I’d like you to retape this … if you would.” His voice was cautious, more from an uncertainty as to how Sylar would take that than any fear of Sylar himself. “I mentioned it earlier,” Peter said, almost mumbling in his delivery. I’m not asking for help. I could do it myself. It’s just easier if he does it. He noticed he was breathing harder, which struck him as stupid. Shit. Calm the fuck down, Peter. He frowned at the puzzle like it was the cause of his tension.
XXX
“Hmm,” he affirmed, once again slouching down for further comfort. That wasn’t the hand I meant, Peter, Sylar thought with something of a mental grin. I might as well tape it. I know I should refuse - he turned me down. I don’t…want him to think I’m okay with that because I’m not, but…I’ve got nothing else to do. So frustrating. He knows I can refuse him and make him do it himself. I'm just choosing to be nice. And I don’t feel well enough to fight. Still gazing at his companion, Sylar asked, “How’s the eye?” Gonna talk about your right eye this time, too?
XXX
Peter noticed the distinct lack of offering to help and no indication of agreement. He exhaled heavily, trying another puzzle piece just to do something. It didn’t fit. “It’s doing okay,” he said mildly, trying to mask his irritation. “At this rate, tomorrow I should be able to see out of both of them.” He kept his eyes on his food and puzzle, other than a couple very brief glances up to be polite.
XXX
“You should be icing that more, you know,” was Sylar’s wisdom to the med-school graduate. It…kind of bothers me to see you busted up like that. I know I did it. I’m glad I won. But I have to look at you like that. No more face shots maybe? No, gut shots can kill. Besides, he can’t give me the full Petrelli glare or smile properly with only one eye. Not as pretty that way. His thoughts turned wistful, making less and less sense. It kept him upright and alert, though. That skillet is bothering me, too. He pretends like he trusts me sometimes, but he doesn’t really…or at least, not that much. He trusts me to tape his hand and clean his face, not sle- have sex with him. Is that…incon- incon-?…ugh. Point is, you’re not his type and he thinks you’re filthy. You’d think now would be the time he’d be jumping me, when I can’t fight back, but nooo, that would make some sense.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar a slightly longer glance. He’s done that before. Like with the puzzle. Peter looked down at it. He gives advice. Is there a way I could ask him to tape my finger that would tap into that? Like, what would I say? Something like, ‘I’m not sure how my hand should be taped, can you show me?’ Hm. I wonder if that would work? I think I’d rather do it myself, though. “Yeah,” he agreed, adding more banana to his cup, since he’d eaten enough to create space for it. “I should be.”
XXX
It was upsetting him, so Sylar went back to watching Peter eat and listened to his clocks. Only two in the room were off - Peter’s watch and the clock Peter had jangled. The machinations made him smile softly, his own eyes lidding as those objects made sense. “Peter, would you get in a car with me if I could regenerate and you couldn’t, would you let me drive if we really, really had to?”
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Peter’s head pulled up sharply, then tilted slightly. You … you could regenerate and I couldn’t? Like I didn’t have the ability, right? And you’d drive? “I … suppose that depends on what we were getting in the car for.” What if you wrecked it? I’d be dead. Is that what you’re asking? “I followed you when … when you … you were at my apartment …” as Nathan, but I knew … you knew … we both knew what was going on. Of course, I didn’t sleep that night. You did. Not a good example. Um … “I went to Matt’s. You had regeneration. I didn’t. I was going to get you. You could have … done anything to me. I knew that.” Stupid of me, but I had to. Peter sighed. “It just depends.”
‘Why do you ask’ didn’t come out of Peter’s mouth. The reason(s) were obvious. “You’ve been a lot of different things to me, Sylar. It’s just hard for me to figure out what you’ll be at any given moment. Care to give me any advice?” Oo! The advice thing. I didn’t even intend that.
XXX
Sylar hummed in acknowledgement, not following the part about Matt’s apartment, but it wasn’t relevant. So he trusts me sometimes, in some things. That’s good. Stupid of him, little sucker, but good for me. Or maybe it's smart of him…
I’ve been lots of things to you that you don’t want. Still am. He blinked slowly, not totally understanding what was being requested. “You want…advice on me?” I already told you! Give me what I want! He heaved a mental sigh. How am I supposed to answer that? “You bring up…his memories. Or I remember them,” he shrugged. It’s not a choice. You’ll think what you want, of course.
XXX
“No, that’s …” Peter held up a hand, blinking, his brow furrowing a little. “That’s not what I mean.” At least, I don’t think it is. It could be an answer - he’s Nathan because I remind him of … of Nathan, I guess. He put his hand down. “We’ve been enemies. We’ve been brothers. I don’t know what we are right now. Your question about the car - I think you’re asking if I’d trust you in a situation where you could kill me and you’d be guaranteed to survive.” Peter drew in a deep, long breath. He looked away for a moment, relaxing and little and calming. “If that’s what it took to save people, then it’s a risk I’d take.” Because I think … I hope … that inside of you somewhere is still a human being who wouldn’t … Peter fidgeted nervously now, because he didn’t believe his own thoughts. He figured Sylar would kill him. But it was still a risk he’d feel required to take, if other lives were on the line. He frowned.
I just wanted reassurance. He looked at the puzzle, drooping a little because his situation here still looked hopeless and stupid.
XXX
We’ve been brothers? You only acknowledge that when you want me to behave. When I misbehave, you want to get away from me. “Hmm. Yeah.” The trust only extends as far as saving other people’s lives - bad. No one here to save. So…no trust? Or…No! ‘A guy can hope, right?’ he wants to trust. Sylar’s head came up and he spoke softly as if to himself, “Ooh. That makes sense.” Now what? He shifted in position while he thought and it was harder than it should have been to get the mental juice running.
“Bear with me on this,” he said as forewarning, scratching the back of his neck, “you want my side of things….or you want me to tell you what we are? I can’t do that. I don’t know and it’s sure as hell not my decision.” You’re the one with the dead brother - you decide everything. I’m just the psycho. We both know I have no experience in being a normal human being. I don’t know any better; that’s what you’re here for - moral…guidance. “You…” he waved at the depressed Peter, “resident moral authority, pick something and make it stick. Trust me or don’t, it's not something I can control or get much say in.” That sounded familiar and it was. We’ve already decided that. He still hasn’t made up his mind. “Just…think yourself through and make up your mind - you’re all over the place, man.”
XXX
Continued...