More Between Us Chapter 42/? "Hand Holding"
Chapter 42/? "Hand Holding"
Day 11, Evening
‘Resident moral authority’? Huh. He heard Sylar out though, without interrupting. After Sylar stopped speaking, Peter waited to see if that was all the man had to say. He wanted to blurt out, ‘Well, then I trust you!’, but he didn’t. It wasn’t true; it wouldn’t be true just because he said it. Sylar won’t be trustworthy just because I want him to be. He turned to face Sylar completely, eyes intent, Peter’s mind trying to make sense of this chicken-or-the-egg dilemma. He reached up and touched his bottom lip with the middle finger of his left hand, rubbing it back and forth slightly.
“You … have a lot of influence over whether I trust you or not. The things you say … the things you do.” Peter’s head cocked a little. Of course, you’d rather say it’s all me, because then you don’t have to change. “I came here … believing that you would save people. Believing that no matter what else you’d done … you could …” change, “you could do that. You could do something good. I didn’t know how, or why. And I still don’t. Maybe I won’t.” Maybe I make you change somehow? Just by trusting you? Peter looked down, drawing in a deep breath. His hand moved to touch at his forehead. “I don’t know a lot of stuff.” Like whether or not you’ll kill me somewhere in this process.
Peter ranted inside angrily. I’m already trusting you a lot! What good would more trust do? You tell me you’re not the savior kind. You tell me you … well, actually, you just say a lot of vague stuff where what you mean is clear but you don’t actually say it. And what it means is you’re not going to help. Peter let out an unhappy, exasperated sigh, then looked at his left hand, picking sullenly at the superglue on the injury. He looked around for the tote. Might as well fix it myself. I’m not going to ask a third time.
He saw what he wanted, rose and walked over to the plastic tote, squatting slowly next to it and refusing to look at Sylar while he did. He had a sulky expression on his face as he dug through it for the surgical tape.
XXX
Peter drew closer as the tote was conveniently on Sylar’s side of the couch. Sylar leaned out, reached out and took hold of Peter’s nearer, left wrist. “Peter, relax,” he demanded firmly, his grip was just as sturdy as he looked Peter dead in the face. “If you don’t know something, the logical thing to do is ask questions, not give me this huffy brat routine for the rest of our lives. I am familiar with it. Now give me the tape.” Sylar held out his right hand for it. Don’t play coy; treat me like an adult.
XXX
It was a good thing Sylar had a solid grip, because Peter jerked hard at being grabbed. He’d been too lost in his own thoughts to see it coming, but now all he could think was that he shouldn’t try to hit Sylar with his right hand. A second later he processed the words along with an expectation that Sylar wouldn’t hit him if he was telling him to relax. That didn’t rule out various other ill-behaved possibilities. Where’s a skillet when you need one?
The tape? OH! Peter’s eyes darted down to which hand Sylar had grabbed and things started to make sense. He looked up at Sylar angrily and gave a single, hard jerk of his left hand, teeth slightly bared. He was not released, which was fine - he hadn’t expected to be and was mainly figuring out how determined Sylar was with this. Peter shifted his weight slightly, making Sylar hang onto him as a constant pressure, and turned to retrieve the tape. He handed it over, feeling strangely victorious in that he was making Sylar work for it.
XXX
“Now, sit,” Sylar pointed beside himself on the couch. When Peter did after gathering up alcohol, gauze and wipes, Sylar took them from him, too. He took back Peter's hand and it was dry and cool. “You trust me enough to save your girlfriend, you trust me enough to eat with me…turn your back on me, clean you and give you a physical. You trust me to…handle taping your hand and putting a brace on the other because if I can handle a brain with care, I can handle a fucking hand or two.” This was said in a matter-of-fact tone that inflected ‘don’t interrupt or try to feed me your bullshit right now’.
XXX
The hubris that Peter would just go where directed, under the circumstances, was pretty astounding. Of course, Peter did go where directed, so maybe it wasn’t so out of line after all. Peter had a strong tendency to follow direct orders, something he wasn’t sure if he should blame on his father’s powers or his own personality, but it took a lot to make him balk altogether. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t make things difficult, though, and when Sylar took his hand again without asking, Peter tried to jerk it away once more. “Hey!” he objected, but it went ignored as Sylar began lecturing him.
XXX
Sylar's hands were busy unscrewing the alcohol cap and getting it onto the gauze. “I haven’t attacked you or started fights. This might sting,” he intoned with a quick glance upwards into hazel irises as his hands went about gently, gently rubbing and patting at the glued-up tear. How he knew he was supposed to do this or that the alcohol was for this purpose was pure assumption. Informing Peter of the sting was also to keep the man’s trap shut for a moment longer while he spoke some truth. “And I’ve helped you, and your family, in the past before, now. You do recall where that landed me the first time. Of the two of us, I think I have more reason to be trusted than you and yours.” He was through with the alcohol, setting aside the gauze, looking around a moment to see where he could wipe his hands clean. His jeans were the reluctant target before he took up the tape. “You can be a real pain in the ass when you want to be, Petrelli.”
XXX
By now, Peter left his hand where it could be worked on. His lips pursed with a desire to argue that he squelched at least at first. Sylar was being more careful with his injury than was necessary and Peter appreciated that. It made him relax, trying to blink away the confusion that wanted to settle in as he eased off the moment of higher tension. When Sylar seemed done haranguing him, Peter sighed, his left hand hanging cooperatively in the air where Sylar had left it as the man went about getting the tape. He sat calmly now, virtually shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee with Sylar, watching what he was doing and occasionally glancing to his face to follow his words.
In a low, patient tone of voice, Peter said, “I don’t know your past. Just little pieces, here and there. I know you killed me, twice. I killed you. You thought you were my brother and you came back for me. Broke my fall; left me alive, later. I thought I’d killed you at the Stanton.” Peter looked away, fingers and legs moving uncomfortably. “I don’t want to talk about the rest. It just hurts.” He was silent for a moment, then resumed, his voice as low-key and calm as before. “You’ve killed a lot of people; done things that don’t make sense to me because I don’t know why you did them. Trust comes from understanding. I probably won’t agree, but that doesn’t have anything to do with it. One of these days, you’re going to have to explain yourself.”
XXX
Sylar inhaled and grimaced, stiffened at the mere mention of Stanton. Peter’s voice…said what he would have liked to say, about the hurting. It gave him an ignorable twinge to hear that pain from someone who felt like his brother. Storm clouds gathered around him, but he forcefully kept his hands gentle through sheer force of will after he managed the tape sections. Did you hear that? He doesn’t want to hear it. He wouldn’t listen if I told him, no one would, no one will. Fine, you son of a bitch. Dig your own grave.
He snorted, feeling anger but it masked itself in his scoffing. “Don’t you mean ‘pay for what I’ve done’?” That’s what you’re here to do, whether you’ll admit it or not. No need to sugar coat it. Yet I see you’re enjoying your ignorance and not asking. I notice that today is not that day. “You want to play hero, I’m the villain and you have to get through me. I see no reason to stick my neck out for your girlfriend, who is dead, by the way. And you assume I want to explain myself at all.” Sylar, as casually as possible, went about taping up Peter’s hand the same as before, taking his sweet, concussed time in doing so. In truth, he was also enjoying keeping patient, wounded, hopeful Peter here even though Peter expressed interest to get away and stay away. And feeling up the guy’s hand was nice, too, comforting. “I like you better when you’re playing with your puzzle,” he said as he finished the taping, laying his hand against Peter’s nearest cheek, patting it several times to motion him off. Hmm, that felt good, too.
XXX
Peter stiffened and leaned away from Sylar, sensing the anger clearly. I shouldn’t have said that. What did I say? I shouldn’t have said it, whatever it was. Doesn’t want to explain himself? There’s no way to pay for what he’s done. It can’t be paid. You can’t pay for that. Peter stared at him, a mix of confused and affronted, silent and tense, breathing shallowly. His head jerked aside at the pat and the send off. He rose without a word, looking down at his hand, then the puzzle, then down at Sylar, not moving a step.
“I was … actually feeling friendly there for a moment,” Peter confessed, and he hurt inside to admit that. He had no business feeling friendly towards Sylar, as Sylar had just so rudely reminded him. He swallowed and moved over to the work table, scooping up his half-finished banana and cup. He carried them into the kitchen and dropped them in the trash, coming back out and heading for the door. It’s late. I don’t want to take this any more. I’m tired. I’m grouchy. I’m not thinking well and neither is he. I need to get out of here. That was what Peter told himself. It was a helpful diversion of thoughts from the fact that yeah, he had felt kind of friendly there for a moment, and it kept him from thinking very much about anything Sylar had said.
XXX
It was the way Peter phrased it. It stung. Then the helplessness started. There wasn’t any apology he could give to Peter, or anyone, that would be worth the breath it took to speak it. He’d put his foot in it somehow (he didn’t think it was really his fault…perhaps it wasn’t) and now he couldn’t take it back. He had no idea what he’d done wrong, didn’t know how to ask for the specifics and couldn’t apologize. “Wait!” he called out, pulling himself to stand as Peter made for the door, “Wait…”
XXX
Another swing. I’m so tired of these mood swings. Peter waited, an arm’s length from the door. His angry glare was sabotaged by a wince as his jaw twinged. With an effort, he relaxed his face and then his hands. He couldn’t do anything about his shoulders for the moment. He was too wound up. He held his place, though, waiting for whatever parting comment Sylar wanted to make.
XXX
Sylar's frown bloomed with his problems. Something had to be said and he was at a loss, inhaling and blowing air out from his nose. Flapping his hands out from his sides in a sort of shrug or ‘what can you do?’ gesture, he tried, “I don’t… “ A sigh and a slump later, Sylar spoke gently, genuinely while avoiding eye contact. “I’m glad you felt…that way.” I need to talk less. I really piss him off. What else do I say? What can I say? I already told you I’m no good at this. His hands burrowed into his pockets and he could feel his need to get out a pair of socks. “We’ll talk about something with less…. depth.” It was almost a question the way his voice raised to inflect it. Just…be comfortable with me.
XXX
Yeah, right. Let’s talk about it tomorrow, after I’ve had a night of sleep and maybe you’re more stable. Maybe some of this is due to the concussion, Peter thought, a little of the anger seeping away as he found a way to blame Sylar’s repeated offenses on his medical condition. He didn’t speak.
XXX
“My head hurts.” Sylar pointed to a spot in his hair, roughly in line above his right eyebrow but not so far over as the temple. “I don’t know if I can sleep. What....what do I do if I can’t sleep?” His statement of pain was just that, a statement. Sometimes that section just into his hairline would ache and throb without mercy, more so than the rest of his head and he’d been wondering if something had been damaged - broken or bent or bruised there. Peter hadn’t…gotten to check his forehead and certainly hadn’t checked his head thoroughly in the physical. It was worrisome.
XXX
“You haven’t taken your painkillers,” Peter said, remembering that fact and not sure whether to blame it on his failing as a nurse or Sylar’s nausea. “You’ll sleep easier if you do.” You didn’t take them because you wouldn’t eat dinner, because you were upset I wasn’t going to rent myself out to you or whatever. And now you’re desperate that I stay here. Is that because you think you’re going to make another play for me? “You think you can eat something?”
XXX
“Oh.” That made sense, he’d forgotten about them. Now he was stuck there, standing awkwardly with a guy who wanted nothing more than to be gone from his apartment. “Yeah, I guess.” Am I even hungry?
XXX
“Try to relax. Go in the kitchen. Sit down.” Peter’s shoulders slumped and he waved in the direction of the kitchen, but instead of going there himself, he turned and leaned the middle of his back against the front door. “I need a moment,” he mumbled. He felt staggered. All of these little shock/resets that he kept getting were befuddling him. He wanted to lay down and sleep, or at least have a nice, long, calm period where he didn’t feel like Sylar was randomly poking him with a stick. He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, eyes shut, then pushed off and followed Sylar in.
“Tell me something you want to eat.” And please don’t pick something elaborate or that I have to cook. I’ll just get you something to eat, have you take your meds, and go.
XXX
Now he’s telling me to relax. Peter didn’t sound or look too good - mostly he looked tired. Sylar hated the feeling of trapping someone with him. That person never wanted to be trapped there with him, but he always tried to make their stay comfortable, hell, he had to, being appealing to ally with them. Sickeningly enough, it was like taking in an animal and fluffing the pillows for its cage - he intended to keep it as long as possible, but the animal would never be happy and it would do its best to sink its teeth into him or poison him over time if he tried to pet it. The whole affair never failed to make him feel pathetic which made him angry. He only wanted someone to want to stay. Sylar did as directed, moving into the kitchen, sitting. Several seconds later Peter…didn’t follow. Worse than I thought. I didn’t...What did I do? He realized he’d been ordered into the kitchen, like time-out or ‘stand in the corner’ and he hadn’t even seen it coming and he’d fallen for it. The waiting was bothersome because he had no idea who or what was going to come through the door. He sat squirming until Peter made his appearance, still in the same mood.
You’re not some short-order cook. He had not expected to be fed, let alone asked his preference. It was a test, too; on what he would decide independently if given the chance and he couldn’t botch it and ask for too much. He tried to think back to the last food he’d seen. “Um…ch-chips?” I’d do it myself, but I don’t know if I can. I want him to stay and…he probably needs to feel needed to stay. Just suck it up.
XXX
“Chips?” Like crackers? No, those Pringles. That’s probably what he means. Peter looked around the kitchen, turning in place as he scanned the counter. Where did I leave those? I had them out at the puzzle. “Okay.” He walked out to the living room and then returned with the tube. He hesitated when he got to Sylar, not sure if he should open it, pour some out, pull some out of the tube (his hand didn’t fit more than a few inches into it anyway), or what. He didn’t want to just set it down in front of the man like a self-serve, but Peter ended up doing just that. “Are these okay?”
XXX
“Yeah,” was Sylar's simple answer, extending his hand at a pace to take the tube from the table, bringing it back to his lap.
XXX
He thought about the waver in Sylar’s voice when he’d asked for them. Why is he so nervous now? He was a huge asshole just a few minutes ago, on the couch - lecturing me about trust like it’s something I can turn on and off, that he’s so trustworthy but he’s not about to actually help anyone. What’s he think I’m going to do to him? If I’d wanted to hit him over it, I would have. He was fine then - not upset. He patted me on the cheek and told me to go work on the puzzle … and instead I went to leave. Peter blinked a few times as that connected for him. Yeah. Didn’t he get upset last night when I left, too? Does he think I’m not going to come back? Fuck. Three years alone. Peter sighed, shaking off the probably-rude and unusual amount of time he’d just spent standing there lost in thought, and moved off to get the pills.
He came back and pulled out the other chair, counting out painkillers for himself and Sylar both, then adding decongestants to Sylar’s pile. He pushed them over to the other man and said in a medium-soft voice, “I forgot to take my own, earlier. I’ll get you some water.”
Returning with drinks, Peter took a seat again, leaning back and relaxing a little, staring vacantly at the table. He downed his pills, then took a long pull on his glass to wash them down. I want a beer. He considered the medical inadvisability of alcohol, not to mention the risk factor that his companion represented. Speaking of which … Peter raised his eyes to the other man and said, “Sylar, I’m coming back tomorrow. What time do you want me to come by?” He was seeking to reassure - he was coming back - and hoping to give Sylar come sense of control by letting him pick the time.
XXX
Peter stood near him for a moment, long enough for Sylar to wonder what was going on. The air didn’t seem quite so awkward or tense now, certainly not violent. He didn’t start in on the chips until the nurse moved away, getting…ah, the pills. “Thanks,” he said in legitimate gratitude when the man returned with water, warming back up to his companion. It was shocking how easy that was to do. When he’s not making me angry or insulting me, he’s…well, I think he’s almost always a nice guy, but, you know…being nice to me…
Opening the tube, he worked at tilting it just so, careful not to slide dozens of chips into his lap, crumbs and fragments and all. He wound up using two hands, one to hold the container, the other to get the chips where he wanted and snag them out to consume slowly. His stomach was still in turmoil, but it was easier to eat as his environment lacked stress at the moment - he was able to force the chips down, the salt making that easier, too. Peter spoke again, with more purpose, saying he would return in the morning. Sylar didn’t see any reason to disbelieve Peter so he was relieved. Not only that, he got to chose the time? He swallowed the chip that had been melting in his mouth. “Uh…” he stopped to try and consider what time Peter got up. And when he himself would rise as his sleep schedule was a mess. “Nine or ten? Does that work? I-You said you’re concussed, I don’t know…how you sleep.” He could come over for breakfast again. That’s so strange, he thought quite joyfully. “You know there’s…other apartments here. You don’t have to go all the way back.” It was a long shot, but it made sense, whether Peter was fucking him or not.
XXX
Peter smiled wanly, choosing to ignore the suggestion of moving closer. “I don’t know how I sleep either.” Considering this is your head, I’m not sure what sleeping really constitutes. Probably the same thing it does in real life, though, which is sort of a reset button. Much needed chance to get away from this guy. Ha. “I’ll come over, nine or ten, best I can figure.” Crap. I think I tossed out the clock. Wait, isn’t there one built into the oven? Like a timer. I wonder if it goes up to hours and hours? Hell, I’ll just go to sleep and see what time it is when I wake up. I’m pretty sure there’s a clock on the oven along with the timer thing. Peter frowned down at his watch, trying to weigh the joy of being free of time constraints versus the politeness of showing up when he was promising to show up. He tapped softly on the face of it. I don’t want it fixed.
Peter quit looking at his watch and instead fiddled with his water for a bit, almost like he wasn’t inclined to go. He rose eventually, though, having mentally discarded the idea of ice cream, because it would seem rude to eat if Sylar didn’t join him. He put his glass in the sink and came back by Sylar, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder as he had somewhat earlier. “Thanks for taping my hand up,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Day 13, Morning of December 23rd
Sylar had made a goal of being nicer to Peter and it worked - there were no blow-ups. Peter had administered the same mental test and discovered, yes, Sylar was still concussed and in need of assistance. They’d eaten sandwiches and soup and worked on the puzzle more. Sylar actually succeeded in laying in a few pieces, getting some of the horses done as well - both were ridiculous accomplishments in his book because it was stupid that they were accomplishments at all given his medical status. It had been, dare he say it, almost peaceful even if Peter was still kind of annoying.
The day passed, Peter going back to his own bunk once again and at first Sylar slept well enough. The more he slept, the worse it got, incredibly uncomfortable with the headache, his bruising, and of course, the nightmares. It was like his mind wouldn’t leave him alone even for his own health which was not a new concept. he still ached and his head was killing him.
Regardless, Peter came the next day, waking him and going about breakfast. After his initial grogginess and stiffness, happy as he was to see Peter, Sylar visited the bathroom to shave and comb his hair (Sylar shook his head in rueful, annoyed amusement at having his own comb in his possession) before appearing in the kitchen doorway. He was there to see if Peter needed help or had a use for him or…something. Either Peter was a god at mastering the Sylar’s unvoiced intentions (perhaps that was part of his ability - he’d always been good about reading Nathan except when Nathan lied like a jackass) or Peter was a god at making semi-educated guesses that were often correct. Sylar would appear or look at him and Peter would find a use for him, a project, a part, assistance, something to say or something to give. Is this what having a friend is like? Someone who knows you? That’s…He could barely put a word to how amazing that was. He really liked it. He was hooked.
XXX
“Hey. Eggs are almost done. Could you pour up drinks? I’d like juice this morning.”
XXX
Sylar snorted. Yes, Your Majesty, he thought lightly, but he was already moving to procure the drinks. Pouring and setting them on the table, he sat.
XXX
Peter busied himself doing some final scraping and turning of the scrambled eggs before turning off the stove and bringing them to the table. As he divided the meal onto plates, he observed, “Hey, have you noticed we’ve both detoxed off of caffeine?” He chuckled, full of good humor this morning. And why not? Yesterday had gone well, aside from a few death glares that in retrospect were pretty funny all by themselves - that Sylar would give him such an evil eye for touching the wrong puzzle pieces was worth a laugh, though at the time he’d just kept his hands even more to himself. “That was probably a little of why we were so irritable a couple days ago, along with everything else.” Peter set the skillet aside, waving vaguely at his head and then Sylar’s, referencing the head injuries. His headache had dulled to a low ache, definitely manageable, though he assumed it would get worse under stress and exertion.
“It also means that when we go back to it, we’ll get a jolt. That stuff’s always sharpest once you’ve cleaned out.”
XXX
Sylar honestly had to think back, knowing that Peter was (for once) mentally sharper than he was. I assume he means coffee. When did I- we last have coffee? Must have at some point. I’ll take his word for it. Peter sat a moment afterwards and Sylar took up his fork, laying out an amused, “You would know, Peter.” And I think I’m always that irritable, so don’t get your hopes up.
XXX
Peter sat down to eat, putting away a few mouthfuls before saying, “I used to do a few drugs back in college: pot, poppers, opiates when I could get them.” He scratched his jaw. “I tried cocaine and meth - you know that sort of stuff, stims - but I didn’t like them. Made me nervous and sort of itchy. Once I took off to nursing school, though, I got my head on straight and cut it all out. It was messing up my body, maybe my head, too.” He took a long drink of juice. “Sure was easier to study clean and sober, but I guess that was kind of my point of doing them before. I hadn’t been too wild about going to law school.” He shrugged. “But I wanted to be a nurse, so there’s that.” He wondered if Nathan had realized how important that was to him, or if he’d just gotten tired of seeing Peter ruin his life. On the other hand, Peter considered, it would be tough for him to say whether he’d wanted to be a nurse, or just wanted to live his own life, and chosen nursing as the most realistic and likeable path of rebellion.
XXX
That was…certainly a lot to take in. Peter really had done it all, or the good majority of it. Well, that explains your brain working funny like it does now…Sylar thought sarcastically. Peter just worked funny regardless of schooling, drugs or brain damage. Who’d have thought quitting drugs would help you study? Hmm…I wonder which is worse for drug-usage, med school or law school…Sylar pondered the odds while eating. Again, these were Peter’s great eggs.
XXX
“What about you?” Peter looked at Sylar’s expression and felt a need to clarify, even though he intended the question just as broadly as it sounded. “Before you got your ability, what did you think you’d do with your life? What were you doing with your life? Did you get out and party? Did you work hard? Were you a homebody or did you travel?” Peter’s voice shifted from light and conversational to softer, more serious and intent. “What kind of person were you, Sylar?” Peter’s eye contact on the last question was total for several seconds, before looking back to his food, but he was clearly still listening attentively.
XXX
He was positive a sudden Peter-inspired question mark had appeared on his face. Going from intellectual self-thought and focuses on egg breakfasts to a recap of his life (drug life?) was a shift. Peter’s eyes were piercing until he looked away, for which Sylar was grateful. Why do you want to know? He blinked several times, orienting himself to the questions. Which answers is he looking for? Vague and broad, I guess. “Um…” Sylar skipped over the part about what he thought he’d do with his life. This is so strange. No one since….Chandra. Wow. “I was working in my shop….taking care of my mother,” he said, fiddling with his eggs as he spoke. It was easier to talk that way. It helped that Peter was busy with his own food and not staring him down. A derisive breath, “Tried high school parties. Didn’t fit in. Of course I worked hard.” His eyes narrowed slightly at that. Some would say I didn’t work hard enough, but that’s why I’m here. Doing hard time and all that. “Homebody,” his answer was really that short. He’d had nowhere else to be besides a movie theatre or library.
The last question was the real hit. “Pathetic, insignificant and boring,” he delivered bluntly, pointedly, looking directly at Peter for this one. Of course, I was Gabriel, then. But that’s who he’s asking about.
XXX
Peter was watching intermittently as Sylar spoke, listening as he stumbled over a question the man didn’t seem familiar with. Peter not only had Petrelli training on how to give an elevator speech summing up his existence in a positive way for a stranger, but he’d gotten lots of practice at it as a nurse and paramedic. Though he had to admit it was refreshing to hear someone give him an honest, unscripted answer. If anything tells me that Nathan’s not in there …
When Sylar got to the end, Peter’s brows rose, meeting and keeping the eye contact Sylar was giving him. Sad images came to Peter’s mind, of people he’d seen as a paramedic: an elderly man, abandoned in his bed, forgotten by everyone who knew him; a young man overcome with depression, who had inexpertly slashed his own wrists; a middle-aged woman who called the EMTs frequently to report symptoms of cardiac arrest, but in truth Peter was fairly sure she just wanted some excitement in her otherwise lonely life. They were what people might call pathetic, insignificant or boring, but Peter had found them interesting, whole people who were in bad places in their lives. This, this place, all alone, no one else here with him, is the worst hell Matt could summon for him and Matt would know. And me leaving just to go home at night makes Sylar anxious, now that he’s decided I’m real. I don’t think he did at first - otherwise he’d have never let me wander off.
In a gentle, yet determined tone, Peter said, “No one is pathetic, insignificant, or boring.” He moved his fork around, spearing another bite and looking down at it briefly. “I am interested in your life. I’d like to know more about it.” Fearing the intensity might be overkill for Sylar, Peter cranked it down a notch and asked, “What was your favorite subject in high school?”
XXX
“Oh, okay, Peter,” Sylar delivered with deadly sarcasm complete with contemptuous expression. Don’t think I’m so stupid that I don’t know why you want to know. Probably bored as hell, too. It just meant he had to watch what information he let slip. As usual. He wasn’t letting Peter worm out any manipulative and incriminating footholds. Petrellis were sly that way; you wouldn’t necessarily see it coming. A scowl was building in intensity, eggs forgotten for the moment, until Peter backed down. Sylar rolled his eyes, having won but now being faced with a useless question. “Science,” he sighed, giving Peter one wary, warning last look before re-engaging his breakfast. “Stupid because before my abilities, that class always made sense.” He gave a small shrug.
XXX
Peter gave an amused smile, having difficulty taking Sylar’s irascible sarcasm seriously. He noticed Sylar’s dodge on talking about his past - not too surprising if he was going to characterize it as pathetic, insignificant, and boring. Peter leaned back, chewing his latest bite slowly, and letting Sylar succeed at dodging the subject. He reached up and rubbed at his jaw, watching Sylar until eyes lifted to notice the observation, then finding something else to look at, generally his own plate. He wasn’t thinking about much of anything, sort of blank-headed at the moment, with thoughts flitting through his mind about the residual soreness of his jaw, the color and texture of Sylar’s hair, and the degree of hostility the man had about his background.
Peter took a sip and said, “You know, about abilities … they never were something I could figure out. Mohinder …” He shrugged. “He seemed to think it was obvious, the genes worked a certain way, and it was, uh, ‘demonstrable’,” Peter said, aping a word out of Chandra Suresh’s book, “that abilities would result from certain … um, configurations.” He knitted his brow, trying to remember the rest of what Activating Evolution had to say. Peter frowned and shook his head. It wasn’t too important - not to what he was trying to ask Sylar. “Did they ever make sense to you?”
Sylar was smart; Peter respected that or else he wouldn’t be asking. Mohinder had always talked over Peter’s head - not that Sylar didn’t have a tendency to the same thing, but he wasn’t as bad about it. Peter preferred his personal theory that abilities were a gift from God or an expression of the ineffable supernatural, but he wasn’t going to discount the possibility that someone else had figured it out. If anyone could, it would be the man he was sharing breakfast with.
XXX
Strange question. But its not like he ever talked about it with Nathan. And Nathan never really got it. “You mean where they came from? Same place as your eye color - DNA. You could have been born the odd man out and had green eyes in a brown-eyed family, but you were born with your ability. Nathan wasn’t.” Nathan remembered the horror and shock of finding out he’d been tested on by his own parents (or parent, most likely). It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, but Nathan had taken his hurt feelings to the extreme and sided with Arthur, not the-bearer-of-bad-news Angela who was probably innocent.
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No, that’s not what I meant at all. Peter frowned and tried to think of how to rephrase his question to get at what really mattered, but before he came to any conclusion about what to say, Sylar was speaking again. Peter leaned forward, intent on the words. Maybe Sylar would say something more relevant.
XXX
“Your parents both have abilities and you inherited those markers, yeah, configurations, same as me. Yours is a variant of //Dad’s//….Arthur’s,” a pause after the slip before he correct himself. “Mine is…pretty much the same as my dad’s. Claire is….well,” he chuckled, “Meredith and Nathan. Simon and Monty didn’t show any abilities so Claire probably got her power from Meredith. It wouldn’t surprise me since his ability isn’t…. inherited, he can’t pass it on.” Sylar shrugged, “Matt’s was the same as his father’s, et cetera. Fate’s random draw. How they came into being? I don’t think anyone knows. Chandra didn’t, Mohinder didn’t and I….would know if they knew. They talk too much to keep secrets especially when they think you’re too stupid to know what they’re talking about, which is almost all the time….Sure seems supernatural when something like an eclipse can take away your power, you know, like some kind of…god or…demi-god maybe.”
XXX
Peter frowned at the use of ‘Dad’ for ‘Arthur’, feeling his blood pressure rise, but when Sylar moved on from it, Peter relaxed. Besides, Sylar’s next statement surprised him. Your dad had your ability? For some reason, Peter had trouble imagining that, having heretofore thought of Sylar’s murder sprees as a singular event. To think that someone else had done the same for decades? It was appalling and sad. Unless his dad could control himself, like Sylar in that future? Or, well, he didn’t say he met him. Maybe his dad died a long time ago?
The rest of Sylar’s spiel, Peter glossed over until the end. Supernatural, a god? That was what Peter wanted to know, but he’d wanted it in more detail. He leaned back slowly, considering what he’d been told, an introspective frown on his face as he stared at his nearly empty plate.
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Sylar thought on that and went back to eating for a few bites. Another thought struck him. “The weird part about that was my ability went undetected. Was that the same for you? It was…early before everything started, so he probably didn’t know what he was looking for yet and Mohinder wasn’t there. He said I didn’t have an ability, do you believe that? My DNA comes up on some national list and no power?” He heaved an aggravated, grumbling sigh, remembering his stress and distress at that time in his life, going back to stabbing his eggs. “The Company didn’t find anything either, the idiots.”
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Peter’s eyes rose to Sylar’s and he leaned forward again, this time taking up his fork. He held it while Sylar finished speaking. ‘Early before everything’? Who? Must be Chandra. He just mentioned him, that they’d talked. And Mohinder said that Sylar had killed his father. A momentary expression of sadness crossed Peter’s features. He studied Sylar’s reaction, with the sigh and angry use of the fork. More sedately, Peter scooped up the last of his breakfast and put it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, but with an expression and hand gesture of ‘give me a moment’.
There was a lot Peter wanted to ask about Chandra, and Sylar’s emotional reaction made the temptation to ask even higher. But wisdom won out and Peter put it aside to ask at some other point. It wasn’t what he’d asked Sylar for; it wasn’t what Sylar was asking him. To that latter, he gave answer. “My first ability was my mother’s, or maybe Charles Deveaux’s - telepathy. I wasn’t using either of them intentionally. Flight happened about the same time.”
He drummed the fingers of his left hand very slowly and softly on the table, the focus on his eyes far away as he made a serious attempt to draw up the information. “The problem is that I don’t know when my mother knew. Or Charles.” Peter looked down at his plate and fidgeted with it, setting the fork on it, moving his glass a little. He was starting to touch on a subject that was still unprocessed, still upsetting. He tried to skirt it. “In retrospect, I think Charles knew. And,” Peter drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Obviously my mother knew. I don’t remember being tested. But I told Ma about some of the dreams I’d been having.” Peter swept up his dish suddenly and rose, walking it over to the sink.
“Yah, idiots,” he spat out without explanation and more of a New York accent than usual. His mother had set him up to blow up the city; she’d done this thing to Sylar, desecrating Nathan’s … everything. Peter was angry - so angry at her. For so long, she’d been the parent he’d looked up to, loved, adored, and trusted. But she’d betrayed him the same as his father.
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Sylar paused after that, his appetite was still very low, but he did want a few more bites. He watched Peter, curiously. “Mothers…are like that, Peter,” Sylar deduced Peter’s emotionality was linked his mommy. “Good news is, they’re not here. It’s like a sleepover,” he said with wry humor in his voice. Just…without the sleeping over part, obviously. I don’t see ‘when’ being the ‘problem’ - I showed my mom my power and she didn’t…well. A slow bite, then, “I didn’t think about Charles, telepathy…”
XXX
Continued...