More Between Us Chapter 37/? "Puzzling Future"

[means2bhuman]

Chapter 37/? "Puzzling Future"



See the puzzle here.

Day 11, Late morning

“Smear that stuff around before you put your shirt on. You’ll be more comfortable.” He offered the container. “I’m going to head out now. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

XXX

Sylar knew Peter was trying to make an exit. Peter balked at handing over the watch. What’s to think about? ‘What?’ started to make its way out of his mouth before the nurse looked him over again. You’ll…think about that, too? My body? Screw the shirt; that thought was plenty warming. Peter bent too quickly and Sylar almost started up himself in response, but the empath covered it. Sylar frowned, desiring to nag ‘be careful’ at him. What’s he looking for? Duct tape?

The man made to throw something at him; he reacted on instinct, sitting up, and moving his hands out to intercept but whatever it was didn’t leave Peter’s hand. Sylar felt his lips thin out. He took the tube of…ben-gay, following the arm that held it up to Peter’s face. Smear it where? He thought to ask, clueless. Okay, I’ll…figure it out. Can you find your way back, Peter? I’ve heard ‘I’ll be back’ before. But he did come back. For now, at least. He nodded once, roughly. Peter might very well disappear as quickly as he’d appeared and that was very worrisome. It wasn’t above his mind to fuck him over, too, just for laughs.

XXX

Peter gave a final bob of his head in response to Sylar’s uncertain nod, like the other man’s acknowledgment and approval of Peter’s departure was difficult to grant. Whatever. He left, shutting the door behind him and walking slowly to the elevator, listening. It was only as the doors dinged open that he realized what he was doing - listening for the sound of the lock on Sylar’s door, which didn’t come. But as the elevator doors shut, he supposed that wasn’t conclusive of anything. He’d kicked the door open before, so why would Sylar bother?

It was something he mused on as he walked to the store, meandering off course for a block, but then finding it on his first course correct. He wandered inside, not feeling any great rush. Sylar’s bath had not taken hours, nor had their talks. So Peter figured he had plenty of time until lunch. He found himself staring at the frozen food section, where he liberated a couple bags of veggies before returning to the front of the store. He arranged a seat for himself on a pallet of forty-pound bags of dry dog food, lounging back with a bag of broccoli on his right wrist and hand and frozen peas over his left eye. It felt good to relax, but he felt lonely and purposeless.

He shut his eyes and daydreamed about being a kid, laying on the couch in the living room and reading his comic books, having positioned himself where he could see and hear the comings and goings of people in the house. His mother, the principle one whose movements he’d followed as a kid, had meant so much to him. She still did, but there wasn’t a member of his family who hadn’t abused his trust in profound and what seemed irreparable fashions. He supposed it was nice he’d managed to reconnect with Nathan before … Walking down the hallway at the Stanton Hotel … ‘I love you, Nathan.’ ‘I love you, Pete.’ He shifted the bag of peas and wiped at his eyes, sighing. He didn’t want to think about that - it just made him hurt inside. He tried to think of nothingness, tried to remember the lessons on meditation and the passages he’d read in trying to educate himself on the human spirit.

Peter succeeded in zoning out, getting up a couple times to switch cold packs until the rumble of his stomach finally signaled the end of his repose. He rose stiffly from his odd resting place, setting aside the latest slightly squishy bags of vegetables and rubbing the cold-numbed parts of his body. He took up a basket, and set to shopping. Milk, eggs, bread and … what else was there? Snacks, right? He picked up a can of applesauce, hefting it. A moment spent contemplating attempting to use a can opener had him putting it back on the shelf and going for the single-serving plastic cups of applesauce with foil lids - much more manageable. He snagged a few banana pudding cups and those for clear, red Jell-O. He grunted to himself at the hospital-food-like aspect of his choices, and picked up a canister of cheese-flavored Pringles partly to dispel that image. But in observance of his still sore jaw, he added a loaf of the softest white bread he could find, and a couple bananas, then hit up the section in the back of the store for eggs and milk.

XXX

Peter left and Sylar was left staring at the ben-gay and a frazzled puzzle. It was worse than when he’d dropped Peter off at his apartment. He’d had a concussion then, too, but it was difficult to give the equivalent of waving good-bye. And to do it so casually. It was baffling. First things first, Sylar moved to sit in the seat Peter had vacated, getting closer to the puzzle. He began flipping over the wrong-side-up pieces, taking his time, using both hands. He came out of nowhere, babbles some nonsense at me, beats up a few buildings, my door, avoids me, then comes back to beat me up…Oh, yeah. Then he takes care of me, but insults me. A pause in his thoughts; he adjusted the border pieces, making them straight - the rearranged pieces were set inside and outside (as he lacked room to do otherwise) the border, face up now. Of course, his mind, despite being busy, prompted him to coordinate them by shape. I suppose insulting me is…natural. But who does that? Beats someone into near-unconsciousness then takes them home and gets them ice and…clothes and food and baths? Sylar wasn’t complaining. He loved the company, once it was established that it was fairly safe company to be in (so long as he was injured, it seemed)…I wonder if he’ll go back to beating me up once I’m better...Probably. Sylar wondered if he would mind that cycle…Not if he takes care of me afterwards. That’s new. So long as he sticks around, that’s the important thing. And that was what worried him most now; being unable to go find Peter, bring him back if he had to. He wouldn’t leave. Little idiot thinks he needs me. That relaxed him somewhat, enough, anyway.

The pieces organized as he wished, Sylar stared at them for a while, his natural itch present, wanting to connect the parts, make a whole. In a way, if he pushed aside his urge, he enjoyed looking at the deconstruction. His head throbbed harder; probably overheating with the amount of thought he was trying to push through it. Sylar stood and made his uneasy way to the kitchen, making an ice bag with cubes, grabbing a towel with additional consideration. A few minutes later, he sat on the bed, sat on the tube of ben-gay, actually, to his annoyance. He sighed. Putting it on would mean he’d have to wash his hands, get up again. Setting aside the towel, he uncapped the tube and began rubbing the stuff into the back of his neck. He debated putting it on his forehead and wondered if that was bad for his skin, so he didn’t. Should’ve had Peter do this, he mentally grumbled, applying it to his left wrist after removing the wet bandage he’d forgotten before. After washing his hands, he slid into his shirt and buttoned three or four of the lower buttons, collapsing at last in his own bed, throwing the ice pack over his forehead for some relief. I’ll be ‘lazy’ while he’s gone…

XXX

Fully laden, Peter returned to the front of the store and picked out one of the reusable canvas bags hanging near the door, the products trying to encourage imaginary shoppers in Sylar’s brain-space to go green. Peter smiled at the thought, although his own motivation was the thicker strap of the handle. Everything in one sack certainly wasn’t what he would call ‘heavy’, but it would cut into his hand if he carried it for blocks in a plastic bag. He set off through the creepily quiet city, finding himself looking forward to the mere presence of another human being more than he thought he should be. He assumed that was another aspect of the place. But aspect or not, as he took the elevator up, he had to admit to the reality of the feeling. He knocked at the door, thinking the day wasn’t too far off when he’d be knocking just for companionship rather than any concern for Sylar’s health.

I gotta learn how to be friendly with the guy. “Sylar? It’s me,” he called out unnecessarily.

XXX

Sylar awoke with an uncomfortable start, hearing a noise, then a voice. Peter. His sense of relief at that thought, that name, was strange, yet very welcome. He was becoming more comfortable with the empath, faster than he thought he would. Dimly, he wondered if that should bother him, but he didn’t much care. Clearing his throat, he called back, removing the bag of water from his forehead, “Yeah?” How long was I asleep? I didn’t mean to sleep…or did I? My body wanted me to, I guess. Is there any help for that? He moved to sit up as Peter came in, passing to the kitchen with a bag. A moment later, the fridge opening and shutting, he returned and Sylar looked him over, almost as if checking for trouble’s fingerprints that might be all over the nurse. There’s a thought… Peter’s eye looked better, though; and that was a good thing. Sylar wondered what Peter had been doing while he slept.

XXX

“Hey, how are you-“ Peter caught sight of the fact that the puzzle pieces had been rearranged. Part of the thing had been worked - at least by Peter’s definition of such. He stepped over to the edge of the worktable and looked it over, an expression of mild amusement on his face, not at all territorial of it. He worked part of my puzzle. Why would he work part of my puzzle? He looked back at Sylar, smiling bemusedly. “How are you feeling?”

His eyes next took in the truly rambunctious hairstyle Sylar was sporting now and Peter’s smile widened. What was that I was thinking at breakfast? Peter Petrelli, Bang-Man or something? Oh yeah, Super-Bang. I have defeated Sylar’s hair. The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkled up as his smile warmed further. Sylar looked … well, like really something, with his hair fluffy and sticking out in odd directions, shirt partly buttoned and chest visible, bare feet and the usual intent, threatening expression that just looked laughable given the rest of his appearance. Peter managed to succeed in not chuckling, but the desire was probably clear on his face, or as clear as it would get with one eye still mostly swollen shut.

XXX

His companion shamelessly checked out first the tabletop (at which Sylar’s face took on a ‘what?’ type of innocent expression. It was clear his work had been spotted) then Sylar himself. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. No idea why he’s smiling at me; don’t really care - its nice, Sylar thought of the smile. Make that very nice. It wasn’t hard to see or imagine how Peter got around considering it; that dazzling, disgusting combination that was the Petrelli charm. It was hard to play Johnny Raincloud to that face, too; Sylar’s own mood boosting or staying lifted even after waking. “About the same,” Sylar said, neutrally positive. Better now you’ve brought your smiling face, sexy. Seriously, what is so funny?

XXX

“Yeah? Listen, my stomach’s been rumbling all the way back from the store, so I’m going to make some sandwiches.” He started for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “What were we going to have on them, anyway?” The raised voice and twisting his neck hurt, so he stopped and turned back around near the far end of the couch. “Peanut butter and jelly? You’ve got jelly, right?” Damn, was I supposed to get that at the store? Did I even check it this morning? I checked the eggs this morning. Did I put the eggs in the fridge just a minute ago? No, just the milk. Probably doesn’t matter … they’re just eggs. I don’t think they go bad quick.

Peter seemed companionable, cooperative and relatively cheerful, all things considered.

XXX

Why does he keep asking me what I want? Sylar thought once he got over his slight surprise at getting away, sans lecture or beating, with the rearrangement of the puzzle. You’re weird, Petr- hmm? Sylar’s quickly moved his gaze from ‘unfocused and thinking’ to Peter’s as the man turned. He couldn’t help his grin. Yes, Mom, I have jelly for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “I have jelly,” was the ambiguous reply.

XXX

“Good.” Peter turned to head on into the kitchen, setting out the bread and putting away the eggs. He found jelly in the door of the fridge while he was in there. The peanut butter was also an easy find. He’d already located where Sylar kept most of his canned food (other than that which was shelved next to the front door). He put together two sandwiches, heavy on the toppings for both, and poured two glasses of milk. He put the jug away, standing in the kitchen trying to figure out what it was he was forgetting.

A few moments of silence later, it came to him what he was missing and he fetched painkillers and decongestants, portioning them out on the appropriate plates. A few moments more passed as he pondered. What’s next? Eat out there, or in here? No real reason to eat out there … and getting him to walk in here’s probably useful. A little activity. Probably good for him.

“Hey, it’s ready.” He moved plates and glasses to the table, looking out several times to watch Sylar’s progress.

XXX

Sylar easily slid back into catatonia without the stimulus that was Peter in the room. If pressed, he’d say he was thinking about his injuries, and he was. After the bath his muscles (all but the worst bruised ones) had done a fairly good job of relaxing. After his nap, they’d stiffened up, lost their heat, but the rest of his body did feel better, however it served to make the key injuries feel that much worse. “Huh?” Sylar asked to the empty room when Peter called out. Blinking, he focused. Lunch, right. Standing slowly, checking his balance, Sylar then limped to the kitchen. At the door he was forced to brace, pause and scrape his wild hair back as it fell in his face before continuing to sit. Faced with sandwiches, he grinned again. That’s right. Peanut butter and jelly Petrelli. I don’t have the heart to tell him five year olds can make these themselves. He did wonder why Peter kept pouring milk for every meal with the occasional break for water and once for juice. Was there significance or did Peter just want his hand to heal up faster with all the calcium in milk?

He lifted the top piece of bread to check the contents of the sandwich. Satisfactory, nothing odd going on, not that he really expected it. Picking it up, he took a bite, carefully around his bruised face. Peter did the same and Sylar really couldn’t find anything to point out or criticize or bring up, so the meal was an exercise in chewing.

XXX

Peter’s brows pulled together in mild surprise at Sylar double-checking the sandwich. Paranoid, or just weird? Like you’d even be able to tell if I’d slipped something into the peanut butter, Sylar. When Sylar gave him no suspicious look to see his reaction and carried on as normal, Peter dismissed it as merely weird. Not that he was above unexplained, outwardly odd behavior himself. He was eating his sandwich in very small bites, drinking frequently and trying not to actually chew so much as gum his food and swallow. That made sense to him, though probably not to Sylar. Peter’s jaw didn’t hurt very much at the moment, but the key to getting it to stop hurting was to avoid doing things that aggravated it. If he could do that, then the inflammation would fade all the faster.

XXX

Sylar was not very hungry, the time elapsing between lunch and breakfast, the nap not included, was hardly enough for him to digest let alone work up an appetite. He was eating about the same speed Peter was, but the guy had said he was hungry. It wasn’t like finishing a sandwich was going to insult Peter’s cooking skills…anymore than they were already insulting. As Peter looked to be finishing, Sylar having ground to a halt, he thought to ask something. “So, um…why milk all the time? Milk is fine, doesn’t…bother me, but you just…drink it a lot.”

XXX

Peter wiped at his lower lip with his left thumb, thinking he felt a crumb or a dribble of milk, but the skin was just odd-feeling as usual. “No, it’s, uh … concussion victims don’t have much appetite. I’m told for severe ones they sometimes refuse food altogether. Sometimes they’re nauseous. Sometimes nausea comes and goes and it can be like that for weeks.” Peter gestured at Sylar’s plate. “A single sandwich for lunch, a couple eggs for breakfast - they’re small meals. Your body needs a lot of nutrients to heal. I’m trying to get as much into you as I can without nagging. I should be pushing fluids, too, but …” He shrugged. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.” Peter looked up at the ceiling over Sylar’s head, then off to the right as his mind played out the likely consequences of that. “You’re not being a combative patient. Last thing I want to do is give you reason to be.”

XXX

Sylar blinked and looked down at his sandwich. “Oh…” That explains it. Wait…he hasn’t been nagging, has he? He gazed up at Peter a little from under his brows as much as his injuries would allow, “If I kicked you out, you’d probably come right back in.” Peter surprised him. I’m not combative? Hold on….He’s…afraid of setting me off? After a moment’s thought: He is treading carefully, isn’t he? I’ve got him right where I want him.

XXX

Peter looked back at Sylar, giving a small dip of his head. “Speaking of nagging, don’t forget to take your pills there.” He took his own advice, swallowing down his dose a moment later.

XXX

Sylar was dragged out of his discovery by Peter’s voice. Once again, he blinked in surprise. Did he really-? The nurse’s last delivery had him chuckling loudly, nearly a laugh. “Okay, okay.” He didn’t think he’d forgotten the pills. “But I don’t think you have the right tone down to be a nag.” A compliment disguised as insult. Nagging is…usually….really bitchy, at least what he knew of it.

So he didn’t finish his sandwich, but he took the pills as directed, making attempts at drinking a lot of milk. You should be a house-mother, Peter. Such an odd duck. It got him thinking, though, something that had been on the back of his mind. “What’s the order of the day?” He asked when Peter’s back was turned. He’s running the ship, I suppose I should ask. He’s not…forcing me to do anything. And again, he had a moment of being mind-blown. Whoa…he really isn’t. That put his thinking-face on.

XXX

Peter helped put away the plates, eyeing the growing stack next to the sink. “At some point I’m going to have to wash those. But for now, I thought I’d look at the puzzle and see what you did.”

XXX

Yeah, because that’s not weird, you doing my dishes. Sylar stared at Peter, his face blanked and patient. So he knows I did something. And he’s….confronting you about it. His head tilted slightly in curiosity.

XXX

Peter asked, “Do you want to help? I’ve never worked one with someone else. It was always something I did alone, when it was raining and I couldn’t go visit friends.”

XXX

An invite? That was unexpected. “Yeah, sure.” He wasn’t so much into thinking about the rest of Peter’s words; those told him he was a last resort, nothing new there. Or maybe Sylar was his friend and Peter was just stuck home by the rain? Sylar doubted he’d be able to sleep again - for one thing, he was starting to think oversleeping like this was worsening his headache. He’d be at a loss of what to do with himself beyond reading which wasn’t much of an option. A puzzle, though, with Peter…

Sylar stood as that seemed to be the thing to do, slowly hitting on what to do next. He brought his glass to the sink and then, wobbling, went back to hover over the puzzle. He knew the bed was too far from the table, the couch was leagues away and there was only one chair…I must be standing. Maybe I’ll be directing or something…but won’t that annoy him?

XXX

Peter half-dragged, half-carried one of the kitchen chairs along behind him with his left hand. Sylar was standing next to the worktable, apparently lost in thought, maybe already putting the pieces together in his mind. Peter remembered that flash of brilliant clarity he’d felt in that future world, where he’d learned how to tap into Sylar’s ability. He set the chair down next to Sylar. “I get the good chair. You get this one,” he said lightly, making it a joke even as he wondered how Sylar would take the humor. The guy had, after all, called him a loser or something like it the day before, but just because he dished out ribbing didn’t necessarily mean he’d take it well.

XXX

Head whipping around as fast as he could, he saw Peter bringing him a chair. He brought me a chair. Like a girl. He brought me a chair. That was…How’d he manage that with his hand? Oh, well, he looks fine. Then Peter went about…what, being sassy? Clearly, this was Peter’s project and Sylar was just a guest. He stared after Peter, boring his eyes into the back of the man’s skull. It took him a moment with his concussion to dig up a response. “Typical Petrelli,” he said in the same tone as Peter, seating himself calmly. Peter hadn’t delivered it to be a dick or ‘put Sylar in his place’ so he was much more forgiving of, what he took as, a harmless joke.

XXX

Peter settled in on the other side of the table, his thoughts returning to when he’d held a Sylar watch in his hand and disassembled it with a deft telekinetic touch he hadn’t known he possessed. “These puzzle pieces … they’re not like … clock parts for you, are they? Something you feel, like, driven to fix?” He gestured across them, looking up at Sylar with particular attention. It seemed pretty unlikely that the guy would go all brain-man on him (no abilities, after all), but Peter was remembering his own sudden descent into, if not madness, then at least homicidally skewed reasoning. Might be important to know that before we get started. I’d really hate to find out that he’s been trying to fix stuff in his head all this time and failing … and that if he succeeds in putting the puzzle together it will turn on his ability like it turned mine on that time. I wonder if that’s why he was asking about my watch?

XXX

As he was getting comfortable, Peter posed an odd question that gave him pause. Generally, questions about his former profession or his ability were not a… positive thing. Quirking a brow, he answered slowly, carefully, looking right back at Peter, “I didn’t know they were broken, Peter. I thought the point of a puzzle was to put the pieces together.” A tilt of his head was the only inquiry he made in return, keeping his hands to himself the moment. “I hope you’re not one of those weirdos who cuts the pieces to size or mashes them in to make them fit.”

XXX

Peter snickered. Ah, that would be funny! I bet I could drive him up the wall by screwing things up intentionally. I wonder what he’d do if I pocketed a couple pieces? Yeah, not that I’d really do that, but it’s nice to know my options. “No, I’m sure I’m some other kind of weirdo than that.” Peter smiled and shrugged a little, letting himself be distracted from the moment of mirth by eying the division of pieces Sylar had made. They were grouped up in some sort of pattern. It wasn’t by color, so he wasn’t sure what the difference was. All the straights were still together as he’d left them, so he mentally settled himself on working on the frame first and leaving the rest alone until he understood why Sylar had sorted them as he had.

XXX

That said and done, he reached for a piece to see what Peter would do, fingering it and batting the box around so he could see the picture on the front of the lid, comparing the piece to it. As an afterthought, he decided to address the actual question. “But, yes, they are like clock parts. Why do you ask?” now he was curious.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar turn the box, and true to human nature, felt a sudden desire to look at it himself. He craned his head a little, but Sylar was on the opposite side of the table, box pointed towards him. Peter couldn’t see it now and he made no rude attempt to reclaim it. Instead, he tracked Sylar’s next motion, watching which piece he picked up - just one at random as far as Peter could tell - and Peter picked up a straight edge piece as well. Since, you know, it wouldn’t do to sit there empty-handed if Sylar had a piece in his hand. Peter looked at the piece, then at the four corner pieces he’d placed earlier.

He glanced up at Sylar’s question, then put down his piece and picked one out more intentionally, trying to match it to the corner he was working from. It didn’t fit, so he took the corner and held it over the straight edges, looking for a better match. Still looking, he said, “I got your ability once. Got it and actually used it, you know. But to use it, I had to … you … there was a …” Peter grimaced, put the puzzle piece down and rubbed his forehead with his left hand, then down his jaw and across his chin.

He picked up the corner piece again and started over. “I went to the future. I met a future version of you. You showed me how to activate your ability, but to do that you had me fix a broken watch.” Peter looked up at Sylar now, focusing on him. “Once I got started on it, everything was … well, it was kind of weird. I felt weird. Like my thinking was weird. And you’d kind of warned me about that, but I didn’t …” He gave a pained smile. “You know me. Anyway, I sort of wondered if maybe fixing something, or putting things together had something to do with triggering your ability.” He gestured at the puzzle board. “You’ve said we don’t have any abilities here. This is safe, right?”

XXX

Sylar’s lips pursed in lieu of his jaw clenching at hearing that news. I knew that already - he comes out of nowhere to break my neck, snarling about ‘not being me’. Ha. He still didn’t take kindly to having his ability jacked, in any tense, past, present or future. He’d thought to question it at the time, but then dismissed it given the nature of Peter’s natural ability. Then, Admission of use…interesting. I knew he used it; of course he did. Sylar didn’t feel like ringing the bell for round three in (again) asking Peter who he killed and what ability he got. Peter got to the part about his watch, which watch wasn’t even in doubt; he knew it was the Sylar. He felt the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist defensively as it lay on the table, but didn’t otherwise move it. That…isn’t what he’s here for. Sylar kept wary eyes on his companion; he’d had thieves try for it before, unworthy thieves. He doesn’t want to take it, he can’t anyway; he came here for me, something only I can do…which is suddenly saving girlfriends.

His face didn’t move except to relax a little from ‘high-alert’ wariness, but being called weird? Peter really wasn’t one to talk, it was not his natural ability. Sylar exhaled an ‘I told you so’ breath. Yeah, I do know you. A few greatly amused, rough chuckles came from him; bitter and a bit hysterical in feeling though the sound spoke of being dry. “Yeah, as far as I know, its safe,” he gave a hint of a nod and moved on, trying not to feel like he was losing it, ditching the puzzle piece he had and going for another. It gave him time to think.

“So…Why the hell would I give you my ability?” He’s seen my future? Like, actually been there? There was something about my name earlier, too…Is this that future? Sylar shoved down his instant momentary panic that Peter’s warped abilities might reach out for his and the puzzle would have Peter turning into that neck-snapping psycho again. There wouldn’t be any Angela or other family members, not even the Haitian around - just Sylar and a hungry Peter, on the hunt for his next, obvious victim. With said victim loaded up with lots of delicious powers, the grudge between them and Sylar’s inability to defend himself at the moment, he was explicably nervous. Until he remembered that Peter was a complete doofus with his powers and the hunger didn’t work that way.

XXX

Peter sighed. “I … talked you into it. I think the future version of you cared a little more about people getting hurt.” He found a match for his corner piece and hooked them up, unduly pleased to have found a link before Sylar did. He thought back over what he’d said and realized it sounded like he’d threatened someone (like the child named Noah) to get Sylar to cooperate. “No, that sounds … well, wrong. The thing was, if you didn’t give me your ability, the whole world was going to be destroyed. And I don’t mean ninety-some-odd percent of humanity, I mean the planet exploding. You didn’t believe me, so I had you paint the future. You saw it. You gave me your ability.” Peter’s face made a tiny smirk. “I suppose you weren’t keen on not having anywhere to live anymore.” He swallowed, trying a likely third piece and then rejecting it. “But you had other reasons, too.”

“I think the planet thing had something to do with everyone getting abilities. Or too many of them getting them.” Kind of a bigger version of Kirby Plaza. Doesn’t even have be a bad person getting them - just a misunderstanding, bad place in their life, family members with plans of world domination. Could happen to anyone, right? He snorted softly at his thoughts, trying a couple other pieces fruitlessly.

XXX

Sylar forced himself to relax further as Peter spoke, yes, telling him another kind of story. This one of the future, instead of the past. The world was barren so whatever this future was, it couldn’t come to pass. He’d practically forgotten about the puzzle, going mindlessly through the motions, much more taken with listening and trying to reason things out with his limited capacity. The puzzle, he suspected, kept Peter busy enough to talk comfortably. What does that mean? He was surprised to hear about the whole planet going ‘boom!’ But knowing there were loons like Samuel on the loose…”Ha,” he said to that. It was true. The downsides of regeneration. It put ‘going green’ in a completely new light, actually. Interested at the new food-for-thought, he only replied, “Huh,” otherwise invested in solving the mystery. He was sure he’d enjoy thinking about it later, when he could process better, maybe pestering Peter about it more.

“Why would I have other reasons? That sounds like a cause everyone should get behind,” For once. Stopping the destruction of the world for once instead of causing it. His brain was too tired, thankfully, to cue up the host of Nathan’s memories surrounding those instances (plural), but he knew there were plenty. He sat up straighter as the thought of something, a hand making a quick patting gesture to get Peter’s attention. “Wait, this doesn’t, like, violate the rules of the universe in telling me this, right? I know you’re not from the future.” Right? He knew that because Peter said he’d had a ‘dream’, not visited the future, although neither of those had to happen in that order, nor were they mutually exclusive. Not that that future is relevant anymore, so…it should be safe.

XXX

“Yeah, you’d think so. The world was pretty messed up, to tell the truth. Not that blowing it up or whatever would have been an improvement.” Peter toyed with the puzzle pieces, mulling over Sylar’s question in his mind as he found another piece to connect. His moment of elation drained away as he realized Sylar was just sitting there idly fingering the puzzle piece he was holding, watching Peter and his movements. Well … okay. Stop patting yourself on the back for outdoing Mr. Traumatic-Brain-Injury. He considered prompting Sylar on their joint project, but decided to space it. Sylar was calm; they were interacting, if not happily then at least well. Sylar was listening to him and that was nice. Very nice.

“You had people you cared about. You’d settled down, I guess. I don’t really know everything that was going on there. It was like a Bizarro world - everyone who had been an ally was an enemy; everyone who had been against me, like you, was my friend. You came up and hugged me.” Peter grinned and chuckled, remembering how utterly freaked out he’d been about that. “You patted my cheek and were … real friendly.” He shook his head, shooting Sylar a smile, then reaching out and turning the box lid towards him so he could figure out why he wasn’t finding the next piece on the edge he was working on. “Ah, that’s what those little marks are. There’s a signature there.” And a rust-colored splotch of mud on the otherwise light grey, rain-slicked street. He reviewed the available straight-edges for ‘rust-colored’.

XXX

Now Sylar was really all ears. I had, like…a life? He pondered that, eyes shifting back and forth over nothing of note. Settled down…How…? It must have been - ‘Bizarro’ world, Sylar thought amused and annoyed, hopeful yet sad about the situation. A part of him always noted that particular word being used between Peter, Nathan and Claire. Right now, he was almost wishing he could have seen this future himself; it was one of those ‘see to believe’ things. Sylar ignored the chance to take shots at the Petrelli family, this once. Poor Peter, everyone he counted as an ally usually was an enemy; odd, though, that he’d wind up turning to Sylar a few times. His eyebrows went up in surprise, eyes widening as the man went on. I did…what now? I suppose I shouldn’t look so surprised… I’m trying to sleep with the guy now. I guess he did? Does, then? God, I hate the future. No wonder Angela’s crazy, dealing in…half-possibilities. Some of it might come true, some of it might not…Dare he hope?

“That’s, um…a new angle,” Sylar reflected aloud, clearly confused about it, doing his best to think in what universe he would hug Peter from Clan Petrelli. What did I hope to get out of that? Generally, hugs were the kiss of death, so he’d noticed. Not that, you know, he ever got hugs from any Petrellis, not even Angela when she’d been his mom. He didn’t spend much time thinking on what it would have been like otherwise; reminiscing was pointless and rather sappy. Maybe Peter’s…bringing that up for a reason? His face lit up a little and he grinned. Ignoring Peter’s blurt about the puzzle artist’s signature, Sylar asked, without lewdness as he was genuinely pleased to have reached this conclusion, “You liked the hugging?” I can do hugging.

XXX

Yeah, you don’t say, Peter thought of it being a new angle. He found the right puzzle piece, rust-colored and all, and hooked it up. He looked up at Sylar’s question, his gaze fixing sharply on Sylar’s face for a few seconds, then drifting down as he mentally backed off from reflexive near-hostility to think about the question, rather than the motives behind it. Simple question. Obvious. He’s not necessarily still making a pass at me, so get over it. We’re just talking. Peter shrugged exaggeratedly. “Yeah, I liked it. I was shocked. I’d come into the house expecting a fight, and then …” He tilted his head to the side, shrugging again with less affect. Then there was a kid there, and that changed everything.

“I’ve had some pretty rough days … in my life. That one certainly ranks up there in the top five.” He drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “That was pretty much the only decent thing that happened to me all day.” Peter shook his head and made the mistake of actually thinking about it. He’d woke up in someone else’s body, got hauled along on a bank heist, then got yanked out of the body and into the future by himself of all people (made it hard to lay blame, that did), then future him got shot dead in front of him, he had to flee Claire, met friendly-Sylar, got a little kid killed, got blown up along with part of California, woke up to be tortured by Claire and then killed his brother. Oh, then teleported back home in the midst of a psychotic rage, assaulted this Sylar, tried to kill his own mother, and was knocked out, neutralized and tied to a table. It was probably for the best.

His right hand hurt. He looked away from where he'd been vacantly gazing at Sylar's right elbow to see he was trying to clench his fist, having already done the same with his left. He stretched out his fingers and tried to focus on his breathing, tried to relax, tried to keep the tremor he could feel in his hands from becoming visible. Peter’s voice dropped to artificial calm, like the voice he used with patients who were hurt bad and needed to know someone was still with them (‘Yes, I’m right here. No, everything’s going to be fine. We’re just going to get you to the hospital so the doctors can take a look at you. Stay with me, alright? I’m right here.’) “I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

He pushed himself upright and weaved towards the little room uncertainly.

Continued...