More Between Us Chapter 43/? "Godsends and Girlfriends"
Chapter 43/? "Godsends and Girlfriends"
Day 13, Morning of December 23rd
Peter rinsed his plate off more vigorously than necessary, then walked back over to flop in his chair in a tense, overly dramatic sprawl. The chair protested slightly. “Yeah,” Peter huffed in agreement with Sylar. He ran his left hand through his hair once, twice, a third time, then swept his bangs out of his face and gave his pelage one last pass to smooth it. He sighed voluminously. Emotional demonstration complete, he answered Sylar’s wry smile with his own. “She didn’t want me to come here. Begged me not to.”
XXX
Sylar just growled, expressing his displeasure about Angela in general. “No surprise there,” he groused with feeling. Didn’t want me to take away her baby. Kill off her last son. She showed me the way to really fuck with people - convert them, don’t kill them.
XXX
Peter gave a fitful roll of his eyes about his mother and leaned forward abruptly, not wanting to get into it. In his heart of hearts, he suspected, feared, that she was right about Sylar and that, yes, Sylar might help Emma, but what of after? Peter didn’t want to contemplate it, so he didn’t. They were safe anyway, in their little ‘sleepover’. Probably asleep in Matt’s basement still. He put his elbows on the table and asked, “But that’s not what I was asking, earlier. What I wanted to know is if there’s any scientific basis to the way abilities work. Or is it something more in the realm of the … divine?”
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“Oh.” He felt slow and a little dumb for having not addressed Peter’s questions correctly. “There’s…basis for both. Neither can be proven, so pick your poison, really. There’s no basis that we have some special gene or gland or hormone and there’s no way we’ve evolved or mutated into what we are this fast. No way our natural bodies can keep up with what we can do. You can’t prove there’s a God or Allah or Buddha. Even if you could, why would he give someone like me, or someone like Samuel, a power? Why not give only good people a power so they can do good things? It’s like asking how the world came to be.” Sylar leaned back, his gaze far away again before looking to his companion. “I know the answer you’re looking for, even a concrete answer, but it’s…” he waved a hand for the word and failing to find it. “You must really be lost if you’re coming to me for…information,” was his casual remark, digging at why Peter would ask that of him. If I had the answer, I don’t know that I’d tell you, Peter. He’s the one who thinks he’s got all the answers.
XXX
Peter listened carefully, snorting softly when Sylar brought up the lack of logic in someone evil having a power. He didn’t shift back when Sylar leaned away, still thinking, watching the hand gesture as carefully as everything else. A smile curled Peter’s lips when Sylar tried to fend off his interest. “You don’t know,” Peter said confidently, not buying Sylar’s ‘I know the answer’ BS. He relaxed in his chair.
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Sylar’s eyes narrowed, his mouth opening to correct Peter that, obviously, he didn’t know - he’d fucking said as much! (Had he held such a valuable piece of information, such was his point, things would be run a lot differently). But Peter was already off on…something else.
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“The existence of evil doesn’t disprove God. Not for me, at least,” Peter said quietly. “God’s not about … giving us what we want. Or even what we can take.” He shook his head, getting wound up a bit. “That old canard about Him not giving a person more than they can bear? Tell that to someone struggling for their last breaths.” Peter snorted, looking off to the side because his disgust was not with Sylar. Peter tensed and sat up straighter. “People get broken. Sometimes they lose. God doesn’t save people on this Earth. People save people.”
XXX
Again, Sylar began to speak, not getting to voice any of it. He’d been about to quote that exact lovely phrase when Peter beat him to it. Church and Puritanical living with his mother had left marks, not nice ones where he would chirp out Bible verses on demand and live by them. If anything, he’d probably mock them, burdened by retaining those holy quotes. If Peter was so ‘godly’, then it was naturally Sylar’s job, as the respective devil or demon, to punch holes in that logic. How did we get on theology?...Is he saying I can’t cut it because I’ve died so often? I’ll ‘lose’?...Don’t tell me about broken people and ‘last breaths’…The idea that high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli was lecturing him about God giving him too much to bear that had resulted in…many attempts at suicide was hard to take with any grace.
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He frowned, leaning forward now and trying to engage Sylar. “Every heroic act is discredited by the people who say it was ‘God’s work’ or ‘God’s will’.” Peter jabbed his finger at the table in emphasis. “If that were true, then we wouldn’t need heroes. We wouldn’t need paramedics or EMTs or even doctors!”
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To his own great surprise, Sylar actually….thought about that one for a moment prior to responding - Peter could accurately label that one a miracle for all its rarity. His lips closed while he turned that over. So if I do a good deed, I get the credit, is that it? I mean, I made the choice, that’s what Christianity is all about - God’s still there, supposedly, whether I chose Him or not….And I can do a good deed independently, without Him. Clearly. “That…makes sense,” he said slowly, still thinking. He hit on what was bothering him: “Angels don’t save people, either…for the record,” he intoned, dully. They just….Sylar heaved a distressed sigh, rubbing his face for a moment. He was remembering Elle. They’re not some almighty being, but names give power, he considered his own ‘birth’ name, Gabriel.
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Peter watched alertly after Sylar quit trying to butt in while he was talking and now appeared to be thinking about what Peter had said. It was so much better than the usual snarking off at him or arguing mindlessly. He calmed and sent his thoughts self-consciously over what he’d just said. Did I say something stupid? No, he’d be on me right away if I had. I must have said something smart. And even then … he’s not jumping on me anyway like he did before. Weird. Are we actually getting along better? I should tone it down regardless. It’s not his fault and I don’t want him to take it that way. He relaxed himself purposefully, which wasn’t that hard since he wasn’t being opposed.
When Sylar began acting upset, Peter leaned forward silently, head turned slightly in concern. He didn’t do or say anything, though, feeling that he didn’t have that privilege.
XXX
After another pause, going back to the Christianity belief theme at hand, “Does that mean God’s not working at all through us, or we get….all the credit?” Sylar stumbled around what he was trying to say, hoping it made sense. It did in his head.
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Peter put his elbows on the table. “Anything we do, we do. I believe in free will. I don’t think God pushes people one way or another. That’s like …” Peter paused, searching for an analogy. “It’s like the guy who designed your car being held accountable for the speeding ticket you got.” He hesitated again, trying to fish up an example that had to do with ‘credit’ rather than ‘blame’, but nothing came to mind. He shook it off and went on, “I don’t pretend to know the mind of God, or why there’s evil in the world. I just know there is, and any good God would want us to do something about it.” He shrugged. “And even if there isn’t a god, we should still do something about it.” Maybe even more important then.
XXX
That took much longer for him to process than he would like, but Peter was stupid enough to engage in conversation (a smart one, for once, complete with good points) while Sylar was concussed. Actually…that makes sense, too. Dumbing me down so he can talk? Mostly Sylar was enjoying having something to wrap his mind around, be it Peter or Peter’s motives or the conversation - it wasn’t often he was challenged on a topic that lacked…emotion and morals (for the most part) and social understandings. It was ideal, minus the concussion.
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Peter waited several beats, but Sylar was silent, looking contemplative. In a quiet tone, Peter related, “I remember a call Hesam and I had. It was around Christmas. A couple teens, had found a homeless woman sleeping in the park, non-responsive, and called it in. She had critical hypothermia. After we took her in, Hesam said that things like that were what made him lose his faith - how many people must have walked right past her, never bothering to see if she was okay.” Peter frowned and looked away. “I told him … those kids who called it in had done the right thing.” Peter’s eyes flicked back to Sylar, then down at the table. “Not everyone does, I know, but faith in people and faith in God are two different things. As long as people are able to make choices … well, then they’re making choices. God … He’s immutable. He’s a constant. You can take Him out of the equation or leave Him in and people are still making their own decisions.”
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Sylar would again agree - if there was a God, He clearly followed that principal. Sylar didn’t know if that was a good thing or not, didn’t know where exactly that left him. Pastor Peter over there. As interesting as the conversation was, it was too close to being lectured at embarrassing, awkward, tedious length about anything religious (something he’d had to endure growing up and even after that). The level of sharing Peter was giving was great, the topic was less so - Sylar was looking to depart from it. “You would know, Boy Scout. Give them a gold st-…” He broke off to consider something. He looked quickly to the calendar he’d begun keeping a few months into his stay in Hell, checking off each day-square with a single black, permanently inked, diagonal line. He’d fallen behind what with being injured and distracted, but by his calculations…. “Fuck,” he murmured, not enjoying that feeling of lateness. Looking back to the table, his eggs since cooled and he was finished with them anyway, Sylar hemmed around addressing the date appropriately. He turned to Peter and spoke, nearly questioning but sincere nonetheless, “Um…Usually I’m a lot…better with this, but, uh…Happy Birthday.”
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“It’s my birthday?” Peter said in bewilderment. He followed Sylar’s eyes to the calendar. It didn’t look like the 23rd yet, but then again, maybe Sylar hadn’t been marking off the days recently. He’d know the current date better than Peter did, certainly. My birthday. Huh. He had fond memories of the date. The whole holiday season had always made him happy. They saw family; he was off school; there were presents and special food and outings to see Christmas lights. None of that here. The beginnings of a smile on his face faded out to blankness.
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“Yeah,” Sylar informed slowly, intent on watching Peter’s face, his reaction. It started out well enough, but…it crashed and burned. I thought as much. He knew enough of the Petrelli rituals, specifically the ones for Nathan and Peter - he was the youngest, emotional and needy, and his birthday was in December, so near Christmas. Sylar got the point. Doubtless, it was his fault. His efforts (such as they would be with a concussion) wouldn’t hold a birthday candle against Peter’s other birthdays. His presence wasn’t inspiring joy in Peter, either. ”This must suck for you, being here...like this.” With me. “Uh...have anything special in mind you want to do?"
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What is there to celebrate? Peter turned dull eyes on Sylar. His first birthday without Nathan loomed. The knowledge that this place was false didn’t help, because even after he got out of here and back to the real world, it would still be a few short weeks until the same thing happened. Followed by Christmas. Followed by New Years. Year after year until the end of his life - always someone absent who should have been there. He looked over at the calendar again, face a little paler than it should be, devoid of expression. He thought of the last holiday he’d had with Nathan … his mother bringing over Thanksgiving dinner …
And snatched his thoughts away from that as fast as he could, blinking his suddenly burning eyes and looking down. “No. There’s nothing I want to do,” he murmured quietly. “Thank you.” He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes, making a half-hearted attempt to pass off his pang of grief as tired eyes. “What about you? When’s your birthday?” He sighed, making his voice normal. “You have any family customs for it?”
When he’d been a kid, the Petrellis had done the usual cake, candles, ice cream, and singing; inviting over friends; each meal through the day was favorite foods of whoever’s birthday it was. Once he was an adult, he could still rely on being taken out to dinner (and probably lunch, too, if he didn’t spend the other meal with college friends). Abilities had changed all that. Remembering how it used to be just made the last few years stand out even more. He’d spent one birthday in a prison cell, entirely unmarked. But he’d at least gotten phone calls for the others. There were no voices here but Sylar’s and his own. He felt … lonely.
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Oh, but Peter’s face told him it was so much worse than he’d thought. It made him tense and feel a foot tall at the same time, not good feelings. Shit…is he…crying? That sniff was pretty indicative, from what Sylar knew of that type of thing. I made him cry? Or…is it just the situation? Did I do something wrong? I thought I was being nice…Sylar blinked and nodded, completely out of his depth. Why is he thanking me? I don’t know what to do for crying, or any of this, really. What do I do now? Get him a gift card for one free beating; that’ll make him feel better. Can’t pass that up. He suspected he wasn’t supposed to let this drop, but he could come back to it. He’d have time to drum up some kind of gift or food idea for Peter anyway.
Peter threw him a curveball. Sylar suspected he’d have to get used to that - Nathan mostly ignored the curveballs or covered them up and denied them away. This wasn’t a fun topic he wanted turned on himself, but it Peter wanted to avoid things and perk himself up with Sylar’s misery and discomfort…Sylar rolled his eyes, picking at his eggs, “June second as near as anyone knows. That’s what we always used anyway. Cake, books, clothes. Going to church and going over every embarrassing photo album and kid story my mother could remember.” It was usually a horrid gathering once he’d developed cognition and independent thought - an event he would almost happily do without. He wanted bring up how, technically, birthdays should be used to celebrate the mother, not the child, a literal ‘mother’s day’. But this was Peter’s birthday and saying it wasn’t all about Peter was…well, rude. God knew Sylar didn’t want Peter’s birthday to be credited to Angela. “Kind of stupid, really. Whatever that saying is, ‘anyone can get born.’ Of course,” he looked at Peter with slight amusement, “some of us are born special.”
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Peter gave a wry smile, imagining Sylar being embarrassed by his mother’s stories. His mother. She’s out of the picture now, isn’t she? He remembered Jeremy Greer’s parents, dead by his ability; and how Amanda had confessed to burning down her family home. Peter’s eyes widened a little as they crept over Sylar’s face. Did his mother have an ability? Oh no. What if she was his first … no wonder he won’t talk about it! If it is, was, her. His first victim. Fuck. Peter drew in a deep breath and looked away. Okay … my life looks so much better in comparison. There was no expression of sympathy Peter could think to give for something that was just a suspicion anyway. He wished he’d been in a more observant frame of mind when Sylar had stopped him from killing Peter’s mother back on Level 5.
“June second, yeah?” Peter said, making an attempt to be cheerful and focus on the now. “Maybe I’ll have learned to bake by then. If not, there’s always grocery stores.” ‘What about Christmas?’ he wanted to ask, wondering how Sylar had observed the date when younger, but the topic of Sylar and holidays didn’t sit well with him, leading inevitably as it did to the one in November. “June’s a good month. Fresh out of school, got the whole summer ahead of you. Hey, both of us have birthdays you never spend in school.”
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“Maybe by then I’ll be able to bake for your birthday,” he snarked playfully about his concussion and Peter’s ability to keep his fists to himself for that long. He had to say something before he blurted out that he didn’t observe his own birthday - it was so pointless. In re-evaluation, it might have a purpose, if it gave Peter something to do, even if it was slipping laxatives or poison into the cake, otherwise burning it or underbaking it. That would feel awfully weird, but maybe it was worth allowing. Funny that he was born in a hot month while Peter was born in a cold one - Sylar would have thought they’d be opposite.
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Peter stood and wandered over to the stove, moving the skillet over and filling it in the sink to let it soak. The thought of it being his birthday depressed the hell out of him. He grasped around for something else to talk about, recounting Sylar's words. Born special. “You wouldn’t happen to know why some people get their ability as kids and others as adults, would you? I’ve always kind of supposed it was the eclipses, but there were people I know got them other times.” Like me, apparently. “Do you think that’s what triggers it for most people?”
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Sylar snorted derisively, aiming it at the Suresh men. “No, I don’t. Mohinder was just getting into the whole eclipse thing when the…second…one happened. //Dad// probably knew.” Sylar frowned and pursed his lips in deep thought. “Matt’s kid got his powers in that eclipse, not from birth…” he shook that away. Off the top of his head, he didn’t know of anyone whose powers manifested at birth or in utero. “I imagine just genetic susceptibility to manifestation triggers - each ability, each person is different. They probably get switched ‘on’ in the eclipses, yeah. How, I don’t know. I know mine started….priming before it…kind of snapped, same as yours, I guess. You had dreams and your foot floated before you could fly… Rather, before you knew you could fly.”
//”Anything else is just crazy talk.”// Sylar was struck with how random and just plain weird that had been for Nathan, finding out that Peter could not only fly and do the same thing he could, but do all these other freaky things. The idiot had only faced it, owned up to it, acknowledged it for his brother’s sake and for New York City’s sake at the last moment at Kirby. How convenient. Sylar clamped his mouth shut on a biting Nathan comment: ‘Your brother was a real asshole about that, wasn’t he?’ while thinking: If I was your brother I would have believed you.
“Kind of uncomfortable to be a walking solar panel: one thick cloud and all your powers go ‘poof!’” Then again it was uncomfortable that he hadn’t rid the world of the Haitian. That man still roaming about, on friendly terms with any Petrelli - as evidenced by Mercy Hospital - was bad news. He's dead now, I guess. Sylar took the time as he spoke to watch Peter. “I’m- I’m…Did I say something wrong again?” he had to ask, seeing his companion’s short movements and the sudden space between them. It was slowly becoming apparent that Peter didn’t want to be here, or more accurately, be here with Sylar - more so than usual.
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Peter turned, drying his left hand on a kitchen towel. “No.” He sighed. “Well, I’d rather you quit calling Arthur your father. That’s … upsetting. If I thought you were being sarcastic about how Ma said you were my brother, that’s one thing. But I don’t think that’s what’s going on.” I think you’re confused. Your brain’s been scrambled, and I don’t mean the concussion. He tossed the towel on the counter and walked back, glancing at Sylar’s plate but seeing no reason to hurry the guy. He took a seat. “But as things go for me to be upset about, that’s not a big deal.”
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Did I do that? Sylar thought back. Crap. I did. I’d rather I quit calling him my dad, too, Peter. He failed to follow the part about Angela, but picked up that Peter was…cutting him slack? Hold on, it is but isn’t a big deal? So…what’s the big deal, then?
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Peter looked at the table, finding an imaginary irregularity to pick at. He watched his fingers, momentarily debating whether or not to say anything about what was really bothering him. He actually asked. Asked if he said something wrong. Like he’s being more aware of that. I think that’s … maybe what we need. Be kind of dumb for me to make him run blind. Peter’s eyes flicked up to Sylar’s. “Just the mention of my birthday … Nathan’ll never be there again,” he finished softly. He looked back down, lips pursed.
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“Oh…That.” It struck him as remarkably emotional, Peter being this depressed about his birthday in connection with Nathan. Like, the ooey, mushy, love-dovey and otherwise icky amount of emotion. It made Sylar queasy for a number of reasons, guilt being nowhere near the top of the list. Absolutely unfair was Peter getting to pout and sulk and mourn his brother, that Peter could even feel things that deeply or have those happy memories. Sylar had neither the right to complain, mourn his own loss, like his mother, he couldn’t connect or feel to that depth (hell, one little mood swing and he got slapped upside the head with ‘psychopath’), and he certainly had few happy memories to call on. He was a little nauseated now and definitely finished with the eggs.
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Yes, ‘that’, Peter thought, letting the long, awkward silence stretch out. Every murder you committed tore someone else up inside. Maybe five or ten other people - kids, spouse, parents … not just siblings. Peter exhaled heavily. There was no point in going over it. There was nothing Sylar could say or do to make it better, so best not to dwell on it. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said, mentally casting about for a different topic.
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Peter said…nothing. Not a peep of blame, not even a dirty look for Sylar to go off of. Spoiled little rich boy brat. And so dependent on that jerk. And on Mommy Dearest. Grow a pair, Petrelli. You wanna be your own man, do your own thing all the time, stop looking for approval so much. Since he was done and he wanted to do something that didn’t involve standing or violence or being sick, Sylar pushed his plate away a few inches, working up a scowl.
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Peter snagged the plate, glancing over Sylar’s unhappy, perhaps angry expression. Don’t like the idea of consequences, do you? People thinking less of you because you killed someone they loved? He stood and took the plate to the sink, letting Sylar’s pique pass unremarked. He found something else to discuss as he rinsed the dish. “You mentioned your ability ‘priming’. I think I know what you mean. I felt like I had my ability a long time before I started being able to do stuff.” Peter gave a harsh, short laugh over his shoulder. “Funny thing - I thought it had to do with me being a nurse, helping people, and doing the right thing. Because they both happened at the same time. Right around graduation, and then the feeling just got stronger as the months went by and I worked more ….” He shook his head and turned to lean against the counter. “The joke was on me.” Getting an ability had nothing to do with being a good person. I wish it did. I really, really wish it did. Peter wore an expression of bitter amusement, which faded a bit into hopelessness.
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Sylar would admit, he’d partly hoped some other special had felt the same - just so he wasn’t alone. He didn’t have to be special and singular in how his power manifested; he had to be special after it manifested. It was reassuring; one small thing about him was ‘okay’. He ignored the spike of envy and anger and hate at the mention of Peter’s fancy life - school, graduation, the job after that, feeling like he had a place… Quit rubbing that in! Christ. But the following information caught his interest.
“Well, you were the one hounding me that our jobs are formative. You didn’t…strip any gears in the process. You were a little- a lot more…” Sylar waved a hand generally to indicate that Peter had been more sane, normal and balanced about the whole manifestation gig. “Besides, what other job are you actually going to do?...Start a daycare? No offense, Peter, but I don’t think you have the head for babies. Dying old people is more your thing, apparently. As is saving the cheerleader,” Sylar aimed a pointed, somewhat humorous look at Peter. That gave him pause, something genuinely funny forming, “Is your girlfriend a cheerleader, too?” he leered a bit about that.
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Peter cocked his head slightly at first, his expression blanking a bit because he was expecting a barb. Sylar had been angry, then sullen, and now had something he wanted to say - Peter expected it to be insulting. Then he gathered he was wrong and Sylar was instead truly just talking. If the comment about starting a daycare was the verbal attack Peter had been waiting for, then that was wonderfully toothless. Peter smiled, face and shoulders relaxing at that remark. He didn’t mind babies and he was told he was good with kids. He didn’t feel any burning desire to have either, but running a daycare certainly wouldn’t be the world’s worst job in his eyes.
The smile faded a bit on the rest, disappearing entirely with Sylar’s parting question. Peter didn’t look upset, though, just uncertain and a little suspicious, eyes narrowing some. Caitlyn? Emma? Someone else? And what’s he trying to say about me and Claire? Voice low but even, Peter said, “I don’t have a girlfriend. Haven’t for … a while.” Couple years, I guess it’s been. Don’t know that he’d be able to make sense of that if he thinks he’s been here for two or three already. He stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, and crossed his legs at the ankle with a bit of a slouch, indicating his willingness to stay there and keep talking even if he didn’t say anything else. Mostly, he wanted to know what Sylar was angling at.
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“Bullshit. Yes, you do.” How dumb do you think I am? No, don’t answer that. I’m concussed and you already think I’m warped. “This girl you want me to save - your girlfriend.” The idea that maybe Peter was single (unlikely) sunk in slowly. Could it be? There was not a snowball’s chance in Hell (no puns intended) that Sylar would have a shot for anything bigger than a one-night-stand - that had always been certain - but he didn’t need much more than that. Still…it was Sylar’s job to cultivate some sort of affection between them (in a decade or so) to make his own life easier.
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Peter raised his brows in disbelief at Sylar calling BS on him. Then he gave a short, easy laugh, deciding to take Sylar’s certainty that Peter had a girl as a compliment. He glanced down, distracted by his right wrist itching where the brace chafed it. He scratched at it idly as Sylar went on.
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“Or…maybe you want me to save her from whatever mad plot so you can be the hero and then get the girl. Hard to have a girlfriend when she’s ‘dead’, right?” (You would know). Peter had had his head in the clouds before Mercy, when he’d been….the guy’s brother. It was half-distracted and glazed, like Peter had to remind himself to focus on life, not whatever flavor of the week - Nathan knew that look well, suffering sore fingers from snapping them so much in his baby brother’s face. He wants her; I don’t need telepathy for that. I’m so, so screwed if he’s into her.
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Peter bristled at the end of Sylar’s question, immediately dropping both hands to his sides. A moment later, he tried to force himself to relax, putting them on the counter to either side, but he wasn’t very successful. The joviality of before was gone. Simone’s death had unnerved him; Caitlyn’s had hit him harder. He felt responsible for both, and one of the many things he felt uncertain of with Sylar was whether Emma (or anyone else) would be safe after the events of the dream played out. He didn’t want any more deaths on his hands.
“She’s not dead and she’s not my girlfriend,” he said tensely.
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“Ah,” Sylar remarked mildly, somehow sure he wasn’t about to get punched. He briefly considered the possibility of a single Peter. I’m not playing matchmaker. But he wants her. That’s a problem. He’ll be thinking of her when I need him to be…Oh. “Right. Because she’s alive. Wouldn’t want to cheat on her or anything,” he said meaningfully. He thinks he’s got something much better waiting in the wings.
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“It’s not like that!” Peter snapped, voice rising in volume. He reached up and rubbed at the twinging point of his jaw, pushing off the counter. He moved around restlessly in lieu of pacing, as the room wasn’t big enough for full strides of the sort he wanted to take. “The last couple people I was with are dead and it’s my f-“ He hesitated, looking at Sylar and considering the wisdom of what he was confessing to the guy. I’ve already said nearly all of it. “It was my fault,” he finished softly. “I’m not with anyone; I’m not going to be.”
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Sylar was struck dumb, eyes a little wide, fixated wholly on Peter. Him, too? How…? Sylar knew that feeling all too well, unlike Peter, it was all he’d ever known. Jokes of lethally-violent sex were absent from his mind as was Peter’s overly-loud protests about the cheating. Sad eyes looked to the floor a moment, trying to think of anything to say to help or otherwise manipulate. He desperately needed an angle to get Peter on board with his plans, but his brain wasn’t cooperating. “No one blames you, Peter,” was his attempt to console; it was lame and the best he could provide. “That’s…It happens all the time, trust me. And you’re with me, like it or not,” he added with heat, insulted. “They’d give you a medal, not blame, if I turned up missing, so there’s your green light.” I think ‘they’ would like nothing more, actually. Of the two of us, who’s more worried about…hang on, is he worried he’ll kill me?
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Peter snorted sharply about it happening all the time. What? Getting your partner killed? Stranding someone in space-time? Or do you mean like domestic violence? He exhaled forcefully a second time after the rest of what Sylar had to say. “Fine. I’m ‘with you’. We’re here together. You know what I meant, though.” A ‘green light’. Peter eyed Sylar, gaze appraising his frame a couple times before the empath turned away. All this talk about being with someone was making him anxious. Peter ran a hand through his hair nervously.
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“Oh, do I?” That was insulting through and through, being written off like that, to his face no less. And that fucking tone… ‘I’m with you, but not, you know, with you. I’m only doing it because I have no other choice.’ Please, just rub it in. Peter topped it off by giving him a look and the furnace of rage ignited in his chest. Don’t you even…Don’t you even. Son of a bitch. That- you son of a bitch.
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“Sylar,” he said, turning back and this time his eyes went nowhere else but the other man’s face. “There are so many issues, between you and I …” I can’t exactly suggest he go find someone else. There is no one else. Not here, and not back in reality. I suppose he’d find someone like-minded eventually, but it’d be a service to humanity to prevent that, out of fear of what two of them would do. And telling him not to want to be with someone is just dumb. It doesn’t work that way, any more than I ... Peter looked away from Sylar abruptly, hand restlessly mauling at his hair again while he looked around the kitchen for something useful to do. Nothing came to mind, unless he wanted to wash dishes. He wanted something else to think about than his own inability to quench his desire for companionship. Even here it plagued him; especially here, with the constant pressure of loneliness and nothing else to distract him.
He walked back over and sat down, shutting his eyes briefly. “It doesn’t matter that people wouldn’t blame me, or that they’d give me a medal, or whatever. Hell, they don’t even know.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying not to think of how much of a fuck-up he was. That he was sitting across the table from a guy who put him to shame on that front was the only reason why Peter was even willing to talk about this. “I know, and that’s what matters.”
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The increasing headache and anger was fast dulling his processing. It’s about the issues? Is that what you think? Once again, he was downplayed - Peter suddenly didn’t care about getting even or the accolades for bringing Sylar down or bringing him in. The last time he’d seen Petrelli, he’d been getting nailed to a table like a prized butterfly, having the shit beaten out of him for the sake of one lousy brother/senator who could fly. Suddenly that doesn’t matter? It must matter enough. Issues my ass. “Maybe to you,” Sylar spat venomously, making to rise too quickly, getting tunnel, black, hazy vision from it as well as a stumble of balance. He reached out for the back of the chair, catching it in time, but it shoved the whole seat back causing it to make a loud scraping noise against the floor. He grunted an exhale of all around frustration and anger, blinking and rubbing his eyes until they cleared a few seconds later. By that time, he was moving into the living room, limping furiously for the couch. Fucking rich boy. Spoiled and pampered. Thinks he gets to pick and choose. What makes him so much better?
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It took Peter a moment to realize how unsteady Sylar was, and a moment more to get himself up out of his chair and a step over to help, both hands out. He was swatted away with a violent, decisive, and energetic motion that came way too close to hitting his broken right hand for his comfort. One of the first rules of being an EMT was to keep yourself safe. Also, Sylar had a hold of the chair with his other hand. He hadn’t fallen yet; maybe he wouldn’t. Peter faded back and let him be, watching as Sylar fumed out of the room a few moments later.
The first thing that came to mind was to get the pills and rush them out, forcing them on Sylar. Peter understood the urge - social maneuvering, wanting to re-establish the dominance he’d felt in rejecting the guy, and insecurity resulting from Sylar stomping out. He sighed, turning his head, and eyed the floor as he considered what had been said. ‘…with me, like it or not’ … ‘I’m not with anyone’ … ‘you know what I meant’ … ‘oh, do I?’ … ‘that’s what matters’ … ‘maybe to you.’ Three years alone. It keeps coming back to that. Or wait, does it? It’s not the three years alone, it’s that being alone is the worst. The three years is just the result. This attitude thing, problem, situation would have been there without the three years. It was there. That’s why Matt made this place.
Peter frowned in thought. Sylar killed people because he was lonely? That’s kind of fucked up. All kinds of fucked up. Friends - none. Played board games just with his mom. Peter took a deep breath, rubbed at his forehead, and let it out. His memories wandered over the bottomless, light-headed, dissociated feeling he’d had before he’d stepped off that rooftop, feeling at one with everything and non-existent at the same time. In that moment, his life didn’t matter if he was wrong about being special. I felt strongly enough about it to kill myself. Maybe he felt strongly enough about the same thing to kill someone else? Willing to throw away his life just like I was, just to have that … moment … when I could be someone. My chance to be someone. Come on, Sylar, Peter thought with a definite empathetic pang. Don’t let that be it.
But he suspected it was. The puzzle piece fit too neatly not to be the right one. Peter took his pills, still mulling it over, and shook out Sylar’s dose. He took it and the man’s glass into the living room, setting them down on the end table closest to Sylar, with no reminder or nagging other than making them available and convenient.
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Sylar glared full force at Peter’s hands when he dumped off the pills and glass. I hope those are poisoned…for his sake. That little fuck. It’s all about him. His anger (a downgrade from ‘rage’) was still boiling, ignoring Peter for the most part in the silence, once the man was stationary, still glaring at anything, everything else.
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In a soft tone, he said, “Sylar, I know I’m not … what you’d like me to be.” He stood a few feet away, his back to the work table, and looked down. He reached over with his left hand to scratch at his right, messing with whatever it was about his brace that wasn’t sitting properly. Peter was trying to apologize without actually apologizing. “I came for you because … I thought there was a chance. You …” He shrugged. “You know, maybe you could turn things around.” Peter huffed, looking around helplessly and wishing like hell he could read people as easily as he used to. Was Sylar still angry? Was this the right thing to say? It felt close to right, but the words used to come so much more easily when he wasn’t as guarded or disillusioned as he was now.
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By then, Sylar was sullen, grumpy and put out, his headache burning along. His eyes slowly slid up to Peter’s face, holding there. You're not erect and horny, you mean? Who said I want that; did I say that? What the fuck does it matter what I want? Just, out of the blue, 'what do you want?' But he didn't say that did he; smartass. Sylar was waiting for the man to stick his foot in his mouth or the trap, which, sure enough, he did. It was such bald-faced manipulation, even Sylar saw through it - while concussed! “Because you were so much help the last two times, Petrelli!...Don’t even pretend this is about me!” he barked roughly, eyes blazing as much as they could, sitting forward and tensing up. The God-damn nerve! I am going to rip him apart, just get him close…Son of a bitch would off me before he’d look at me. How stupid does he think I am? Taking notes from Mommy. Bastard.
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Continued...