More Between Us Chapter 44/? "Come to Jesus"
Chapter 44/? "Come to Jesus"
Day 13, Morning
Well, that answers the question of whether or not he’s angry, Peter thought sourly. He also noted that he’d managed to put Sylar roughly between himself and the only exit, not that Peter was feeling too disposed to take it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Sylar attacked him. Hitting him in the head had the potential to be fatal or at least incur serious brain damage on a scale beyond the problems the man was currently suffering. Peter was not keen on letting himself get beat up. He’d just gotten over the worst of the stiffness and soreness from the last round of battering. It occurred to him that both of the previous fights had been started by Peter. He hoped like hell that trend continued, because it meant if he could just keep himself from rising to the bait, they were safe.
But all that aside, Peter wasn’t going to cower in the corner because Sylar was angry. No, he engaged verbally, just as strongly. “It’s not about you! It’s about stopping a couple thousand people from getting killed in Central Park, sacrificed by a madman! If I’d seen any other option, I would have taken it, but the dream showed you. So I came to find you.” He pointed at the floor for emphasis. “After everything you’ve done,” Peter snarled, his jaw aching, “I still thought there was a chance. ‘Savior kind’ or not,” Peter spat out, “you’re still a human being!”
XXX
Sylar tried for a glare, but it wasn’t catching. He knew Peter’s words were useless, he did. It was no comfort, though. He settled for a penetrating stare, the definite gaze of a predator, not wanting to miss so much as a hair’s motion. He was struggling with the anger winding down, medical condition, resulting headache and the usual fuzzy Petrelli logic. After a moment, he slid into a blank expression, unimpressed and immobile, certainly unemotional. /’Oh, but you are special, Gabriel. You’re special just the way you are.’ ‘Show them why you are my favorite. Make Mommy proud.’/ “That’s been tried before, Peter,” he stated solemnly, slightly bitter, his voice a bit lower now than his normal conversational tone. He thinks there’s a chance because Mommy gave him a dream. Mommy gave me a dream and I get my neck snapped and thrown in a cell again by this…this would-be brother. He thinks there’s a chance because he wants something. Well. Fool me twice.
XXX
Peter kept up the eye contact initially, but when Sylar’s face slid to blank, he widened his gaze, scanning for other body language. He watched as Sylar eased down a bit from the ‘I’m about to lunge across the room to throttle you’ Peter thought he’d seen before. Peter let out a deep breath, frowning at Sylar’s words. “Yeah? You said you wanted to be a hero at Kirby Plaza. You said ‘brothers come back for each other’ when you saved me from that lab at Pinehearst and you broke my fall later on. You said you knew the killings were wrong. You. Are. Selective.” He paused, because really he had little idea as to what provoked Sylar to kill some people and ignore others. Certainly the ones who pissed him off, or got in his way, or had a particularly appealing power, seemed least likely to survive, but what about the rest?
XXX
After the word ‘selective’ passed Peter’s lips, Sylar leaned back, nearly sprawling on the couch. He was amused by this, once again someone trying to dissect him and make him fit in a box or a label. He might have a clue, which would be why he hasn’t asked yet…No! He said I’d have to explain one day. He doesn’t know. Educated guessing. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, on the fence about the cautious look he’d been given earlier.
XXX
Peter crossed his arms, putting his head back a little in a challenging posture. “If you had your ability right now, would you kill me?” Or try to?
XXX
“I’d sure feel the temptation,” Sylar answered, canting his aching head, thinking of other temptations his power would afford. Then again, he’d never taken his time inflicting tiny, razor cuts with a physical tool for any purpose, let alone arousal. “And isn’t that dumb of you to assume I need powers to kill someone?” Sylar shrugged a relaxed shoulder. He’d done so before, plenty of times. However, none of what he’d said proclaimed intent to kill Peter. He was also swiftly moving Peter away from his deluge of truthful and emotionally manipulative compromising historical reruns: Look how well those turned out for me, Peter. You were no help.
XXX
Peter snorted a little at Sylar’s first comment. I’m sure you would. That’s hardly conclusive. Or reassuring. Glancing back to find the work desk, he settled against it to match Sylar’s more relaxed posture. “Have you ever killed someone without powers?” He shook his head immediately, waving one hand in negation of the ambiguous question. “No, wait. Have you ever killed someone when you didn’t have powers?” And have you ever killed anyone who didn’t have abilities?
He recalled the bullets sent back into Matt at Kirby, Mohinder pinned to the ceiling, and the police in the SWAT van that was transporting Ted Sprague. None of those people had been killed, but it indicated a careless disregard for the lives of anyone between Sylar and what he wanted. Even if by some coincidence Sylar hadn’t killed anyone who didn’t have an ability, Peter judged the difference morally void. The man had done as bad, repeatedly; he just didn’t care. It was damning. Peter leaned back, arms crossed again in a pose somewhere between judgmental, curious, and receptive. There were important things about Sylar he wanted to know, needed to know, to understand what and who he was dealing with.
XXX
Initially Sylar’s expression remained static. It was as if he were a celebrity of the special community and the question was a common one, or at least an unimaginative one seeing as he’d never been asked that. Then he gave a lazy, toothy grin, very much taken with watching Peter learn the ropes - (finally) asking the right questions. “Yes to both. Unlike you, when I lose my powers, people come after me.” People hate me when I’m powerless, too. “And powerless people come after me with knives and guns.” His mind went to the people he’d killed in Mexico, the med techs on Level Five, the people in what-was-her-name, Landers’ office building. He ignored the most important one, his mother. Not about to take this lying down, being interrogated and singled out, Sylar shot back, “Have you?”
XXX
Peter snorted like it was hardly worth answering. Then he looked away and frowned. It deepened. He shifted his weight and loosened his arms. He wasn’t going to fault Sylar enormously for self-defense. Things were complicated and yeah, he could imagine the sort of crap that Sylar had to deal with if he didn’t have his abilities to defend himself. That he’d brought it on himself by being a mass murderer first stripped any sympathy Peter might have felt, but the circumstances just as surely muddied the waters. And then there was the matter of turning the question around on him.
“Have I killed someone who didn’t have powers … or when I didn’t have powers,” Peter murmured to himself, enough of the words understandable enough to Sylar that the other man could probably work out what he was saying. “Me?” he said louder, at a normal tone, glancing back at Sylar and shifting his weight again uncomfortably. “Personally? Doing something that ended someone’s life?”
He found a different corner of the room to look at and tried to ignore the parts of his brain that were insisting that Sylar had no right to ask such a question; that anything Peter had done was lesser in scope (which was ridiculously wrong and morally indefensible anyway). He gave a short, bitter smile at that corner, and a huff. Sucks to be on the hot seat, doesn’t it? It’s the same question I asked him. Fair is fair. Plus I’m not going to get answers from him if I don’t give some myself. He scratched at the hairline over his forehead and looked back to Sylar. “I’ve made bad calls as a medic and people have died who wouldn’t have if I’d made the right decision.” That was the easiest to admit. The next, Sylar knew about and so wasn’t revealing anything.
In a quieter voice, he said, “I shot my father. You … participated, but I pulled the trigger.” He glanced down. Then there was the one that haunted him the most, even if his culpability for something that hadn’t happened was questionable. “In a … future timeline … I killed ninety-some-odd percent of the world with some disease that I got duped into releasing. But … that wasn’t really me. Not this me, me-me.” He muttered, “That sounds stupid,” and moved his thoughts along before they could settle too firmly on the issue of Caitlin.
He swallowed as Nathan’s face flashed in front of his eyes, blood streaming down from the horizontal cut Peter had put across his brother’s forehead. Doesn’t count. We both had powers. It was a convenient cop-out, but Peter took what he could get on that one. “I shot at some guys in Haiti. Pretty sure I, or a ricochet, hit one of them in the leg. I don’t know if they survived or not. I’ve banged people around with telekinesis, given them head injuries, didn’t make sure they were okay.” In a small voice he said, “Caused an airplane to crash.” How many people were killed in that crash? I don’t even know.
His eyes flashed up to Sylar’s for a moment before he said in a low voice, “One other that I’m not going to talk about.”
XXX
Sylar made several hums to keep the information flowing. Everything Peter spoke about seemed so…lightweight. ‘Shooting at some guys’? ‘Bad medical calls’? Sylar had flipped trucks with ease and of course it would be an easy thing to crash a plane once on board. The virus… given what he knew from Nathan, it was possible for Sylar to do the same, had he known about the virus at all. “So you’ll kill pretty much anyone, the same as me, Peter.” Girlfriends, family, almost family, people pretending to be family…ninety-some-odd percent of strangers…Sylar was confident that the ‘one other’ that would not be named was equally unimportant as the rest of Peter’s tally (rather, what Peter liked to think was his tally - it was kind of lame facsimile). We all have dirty secrets, secret shame.
XXX
Peter exhaled sharply. There was so much he wanted to argue about right there, but Sylar’s assertion was so patently ridiculous he didn’t know where to start. He had to admit his surprise that Sylar was willing to let something be classified as ‘not Sylar’s business’ and respect it. That relaxed Peter a lot inside.
XXX
What interested Sylar instead: “Funny…you’re taking the ‘blame’ for //Dad//. Also - I mean, uh, your dad.” He corrected himself belatedly, sheepishly, then tried to breeze past the lapse, “But you cried when you thought he died of a heart attack, not when you shot him. Why’s that?” Both Nathan and Sylar assumed that under the heat of battle and the lies and betrayal involved had severed a few ties. Peter certainly could not be faulted for feeling vindication at the killing, considering Arthur’s treatment of his youngest.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar an odd look. He had a flash of sourness at the ‘Dad’ comment, but was too distracted by what followed it to fixate on it. Did Sylar really not see the difference in those two situations? Also, this was probably the most disturbingly personal question Sylar had put to him. Once again, the question of whether or not Sylar had a right to ask this of him came up. Peter looked away slowly, brows drawing together as he decided if he wanted to answer. Is he really that emotionally stunted that he wouldn’t know the difference? Is he just asking rhetorically, to get me to say something out loud so he can prove a point about killing people in general? What would I tell a child who asked that?
“When I thought he’d died of a heart attack, I’d lost a father. I’d lost a part of our family.” Our? He looked away from Sylar for a moment, then back, deciding to pretend he meant the Petrellis as a whole. “I mourned that. When I shot him, he wasn’t my father. He’d tried to kill Nathan; I think he tried to kill Mom; he took my abilities and I’m pretty sure he was trying to kill me.” Peter chewed on the inside of his lower lip, thinking about that scene. “And then there was what he was trying to do to the whole world, but he wouldn’t talk to me enough, like an equal, to …” Another head shake. “He was Arthur Petrelli. He used to be my father.” He shook his head. “But he lost the right for me to treat him like that when he stopped acting like my father.”
XXX
That pulled Sylar’s chin up and to the side, tilting his head as a new concept came to light: killing parents when they stopped acting like parents was okay in Peter’s book. Huh…I could have killed mine…ages ago then. More’s the pity, I think…
XXX
Taking a mild tone, Peter posed, “What about your father?” He wasn’t all that happy about the expression on Sylar’s face, like something had just clicked for the man. That feeling that maybe Sylar was trying to set him up for something remained, but what seemed more ‘right’ was that Sylar really hadn’t understood the distinction until Peter explained it. Peter’s head tilted slightly. ‘It’s what brothers do for each other’. He has some ideas about family roles. I think that’s it. But why that expression? What’s he thinking?
XXX
Sylar’s head returned to its axis point, eyes focusing on Peter. “What about him?” was the curt rejoinder.
XXX
"Tell me about him,” Peter said in the same tone, noting that Sylar was getting short and tense, his motions becoming stiff and weird. Defensive. Doesn’t share well. I’m not asking big secrets here.
XXX
Bitterly and with some sarcasm, he snipped, “Which one?” I’ve only got three.
XXX
He’d better not be talking about Arthur. Either when he thought he was my brother or as Nathan. "The one you knew,” Peter said, enunciating the simple words carefully, tipping his head down a little.
XXX
Sylar bit back a sigh. What to say about him? The better question was: what does Peter want to hear about? “When last I checked he was still alive,” his withering glare was directed elsewhere after a glance at Peter, making it fairly obvious he wasn’t happy about that. Both of them were, actually, he concluded on further thought, wondering what that meant. No way was I Martin’s son - he doesn’t have abilities. His mind refused to go into the deeper, emotional scars so he continued with, “Had his own shop in Baltimore a handful of years back.” Jackass tried to hold me up with a shot-gun…called me a thief. Still converting verges inefficiently. Idiot.
XXX
“How old were you when he left?” Peter asked cautiously, hoping he wasn’t wording it wrong. It was entirely possible that Sylar and his mother had left the father, rather than the other way around, but he could only ask it one way. ‘How old were you when your family split’ sounded awkward. He’d rather guess and get corrected if wrong. Speaking of guesses, Peter pondered ‘his own shop’. “Was he a watchmaker?”
XXX
Sylar’s widened eyes snapped back to Peter’s face in surprise. “How-?” he began before he shut himself up. How did he know that? I don’t think I said anything. Maybe I did and forgot? I thought….he said he hadn’t read my file. Lucky guess? Or is it…that obvious? The last idea made him squirm inside. If that much was obvious, what else was? He quickly tried to right his expression - from stunned to what he actually felt: annoyance. “I don’t know,” he initially lied, crankily. “Twelve?” I had long enough with him to ‘learn how to be a man’ if that’s what Peter’s asking. At the last question, he glared at Peter. “What gave that away?” A hysterical giggle popped into his brain. The other one’s a taxidermist murderer.
XXX
Peter shrugged and pushed straight, walking around the desk. As he went, he shot Sylar’s painkillers a pointed look like they were to blame for something. And they were. Sylar was getting grouchy and Peter faulted his lack of medication. Peter went on without mentioning it, though, and took the seat behind the desk, looking at the partly-worked puzzle. “Sometimes I wonder what I know about my parents. There’s the image I had of them - Dad an attorney, businessman; Mom a home-maker, socialite. Then there’s the reality.” A couple of super-powered villains trying to run the world. He looked over at Sylar with a resigned look and shrugged again. It concealed the rage he felt - not keenly, not right now - just in general, to know that the people who had professed to love him had lied to him his whole life. “The people I thought I knew … I didn’t know.” He shook his head. “Still don’t know if I know them. They keep doing these … things.” And by ‘they’, he meant ‘Mom’ even if he couldn’t bring himself to think it.
XXX
Sylar glanced at whatever Peter looked at so pointedly, remembering as he caught sight of the pills. A growled huff and a pained shift to head, hip and back later, he downed them, giving an equally pointed look back at Peter as if to say ‘so there’ or maybe ‘happy now?’ As he settled back in, Peter was speaking about his parents - not really something Sylar was interested in. Sylar felt sure that the Petrelli paternals had intended for the boys to lead what was known as a ‘normal’ life. Given his own childhood and growing up, he was positive Peter and Nathan had gotten one; a good one, too. Childhood and adult relationships weren’t the same thing. Maybe Angela and Arthur had had plans to bring their children into their plots and world-scheming once they reached a certain maturity. Or a certain manifestation rather... Oh, who was he kidding? They were rotten to the core.
XXX
Peter sighed and frowned, looking down at the pieces and shifting a few of them around. “Your dad owned his own business. What did your mom do?” Peter glanced up, his face showing polite interest. It wasn’t as intent as it had been earlier, but he didn’t want Sylar to feel any more interrogated than he probably did.
XXX
I don’t see what it matters to you! Sylar sighed, looking away. He’d been lulled into listening and the question wasn’t a happy one, at least for him. It was something of a jolt to reality. “She raised me,” he said with all the ice of a North Pole blizzard. That much is obvious. I don’t want to hear about how she shouldn’t have, how you send your…sympathy to her, how horrible her life must have been…how she didn’t deserve what she got…how she did a bad job and how I’m a….bad egg and all that crap. I’ve heard it all before. /’What’s the federal government care about some dead ol’ broad from Queens?’/ Fuck, I don’t want you talking about Mom. He loosened slightly, grumbling, “She was a secretary.”
XXX
“Yeah?” Peter said, frowning at the layout. He got back to his feet. He’d heard Sylar; he’d also heard the man’s tone of voice - angry, bitter, unhappy. Gone was the loose lounging back and Sylar’s ‘I’ll answer whatever you throw at me’ attitude of a few minutes ago. Now Sylar sounded like he was expecting an attack. He was defensive as hell about his family and his past. Getting any information out of him at all was difficult. Peter hadn’t missed that on the killings, Sylar had told him ‘yes’ and implied they were self-defense; while Peter had given a detailed breakdown. Even in Peter’s sole concealment about Caitlyn, he’d admitted to the existence of it.
He walked across to the kitchen, returning dragging a chair. “Come on over here and help me with this puzzle, would you? Maybe we can get it finished today.” That seemed optimistic, but possible. Peter was feeling much better than a few days before, and Sylar was showing definite signs of improvement. They were still, even combined, pretty far behind what a single, clear-headed person could accomplish, but it kept him busy and gave them both something minor to do with their hands. It allowed periods of silence and accommodated chatting just as well.
XXX
Sylar’s face was a confused frown. He doesn’t need my help; I’m concussed. Maybe he’s…lonely? Is that it? His mind spun out over thinking of anything else productive, a few blinks later he stood and walked the few steps over to the appropriated chair without saying anything. I’m just…helping him not be lonely.
XXX
Peter was intentionally dropping the subject before Sylar got wound up about it. Instead, he asked, “Is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about, or do you want me to tell you another paramedic story? I can tell you about the time Jesus Christ talked to one of my patients while I was treating her.”
XXX
The first section of Peter’s question sent annoyance dashing through him. What would I have to talk about? He doesn’t like it when I talk but he asks all these fucking questions! Sylar had been about to lean in and poke at the puzzle, but that stopped him short for now, hands to himself, back mostly against the back of the chair. Peter made it sound like an accusation, parental, ‘What have you done wrong today? Confess!’. His hearing perked up at ‘paramedic story’ and his eyes jerked to Peter on hearing ‘Jesus Christ’ because he totally expected that to be a joke. It probably was one, much like the…animal…road kill…skunk! (that was it) story. Curious and with dubious expression, he made his slow demand - because it wasn’t a request - “Tell me that one.”
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Peter chuckled, tickled at the insistence he heard in Sylar’s voice. “Oh, it doesn’t have a good punch line like some of the others. You would call me on it, too.” He grinned and launched into it immediately - glad of the audience and even more that Sylar was letting himself be eased off from the tension. “So. We get called to this lady’s house by one of her daughters. She’s in bed … the elderly lady. She’s ninety-seven and the daughter thinks something is wrong with her because she’s acting erratically. I go in the bedroom and the woman snaps at me, ‘Are you the FBI?’” Peter said, roughly approximating an older black woman’s voice. “‘I told her to call the FBI!’ I told her no and introduced myself, then asked why she wanted the FBI. She told me, ‘They have ghost busters, and you need to do something about those people over there behind the television.’ I looked over - it was just a TV set on a stand - and told her I didn’t see anyone. She said, ‘That’s because they hiding! Jesus here has an important message for me, but I want you to get rid of them others. I don’t like the looks of them.’”
XXX
Sylar exhaled a snort of amusement to hear Peter Petrelli miming an old black woman. He had to get his kicks in somehow. Peter Petrelli, socialite do-gooder rich boy that he was impersonating, well…a patient, was just the thing. Aah, God…ha. It’s like being back with Mom all over again…
XXX
Peter smirked in memory. “By then Hesam was in the room, too, and he opened up the pulse oximeter. It started beeping, and he waved it around the room … I told her he was scanning for paranormal activity. He says it’s all clear. I took her vitals and managed to get her to answer about her condition - how she felt, if she’d fallen, that sort of thing. I checked her head, hands, hips - no signs of trauma. She explained that she’d woke up earlier when a couple men in suits and a woman with long blonde hair had come out of a picture of Jesus she had on the wall, and then Jesus Himself had come out to tell her that her kids weren’t going to church often enough.
XXX
Eh-heh, was Sylar’s internal nod of horrified, been-there-as-a-miserable-victim understanding. Being nagged all week until it reached its Revelations-esque battlefield conclusion Sunday morning. Every Sunday morning. Until, of course, he saw the error of his ways and returned to the (brainwashed, blind-leading-the-blind) fold because God was watching him and only if he went to church and worked hard (and otherwise hobbled, lamed and inhibited himself) would he have a shot at redemption and forgiveness. Gabriel, at the time, had been under the impression that God would cut him some slack or none at all for his sinful existence - and for his failure to appear in His house on the holy day. Oh, well. Mystery solved.
XXX
“I talked to her daughter, but there wasn’t much we could do for her. Healthwise, she seemed fine. She wasn’t in danger and they might as well take her to her regular doctor in the morning. She was refusing to leave her room while ‘Jesus’ was there. The whole family was coming over, which was just what she wanted. She was going to pass on the Word of God to them.” Peter gave a wry smile and reached up to scratch at his temple. “We left. She started yelling at us to call the FBI to get after those other guys, but as far as Jesus - He could stay.”
XXX
Sylar made a wince of empathy. Can’t cure people’s minds. Trust me, I know. Thoughts of Nathan and Virginia, Angela and Arthur, Elle and Bennet, Parkman and being mind-wiped and insane himself. He cut himself off from thoughts along the lines of ‘opening brain cases was letting air into otherwise stagnant, moldy, corrupt and warped minds.’
XXX
Peter looked down, a little embarrassed. “I’ll admit … before we left … I went over and touched the picture, and then her. I tried to see if I could sense anything. I usually can, if there’s something there.” Peter shook his head. “Nothing.” He shrugged and his voice got a little softer. “I’ve never told anyone I worked with, anyone I knew who didn’t have abilities or already knew about them, about powers. They’d treat me like that old woman - ‘crazy talk’.” Peter snorted. “After everything I’ve seen, who am I to say Jesus wasn’t there in the room with her?”
XXX
Sylar did his best to hide his interest, watching Peter speak. If anyone would feel anything it would be Peter. He didn’t completely follow what Peter meant by ‘I usually can’ in context of sensing things - must be an empathy thing - so he disregarded it. That Peter felt…nothing was…a slight letdown. Wasn’t Peter the best of the best and if not through him, what lens could be used to ascertain hope? Well, none for me, obviously. That’s a bust.
A literal jerk went through his body at the derogatory tone, ‘crazy talk’. Nathan had been frustrated, busy and angry. Sylar mentally sneered something about ‘election year’ but everyone knew that was bullshit, Petrelli bullshit - Nathan bullshit. Peter jumping, ending up in the hospital, being erratic at such an important time, not taking anything seriously or considering anyone other than himself. Peter had even left Charles to practically die alone then gotten Simone killed or some such. Of course he’d told the brat to grow up and forget the fairy tales! Nathan had always had to (conveniently his own self-image and goals coincided with Arthur’s); it was the least Peter could do. A dose, no, a speck of realism wouldn’t kill the kid. //’You need to snap out of it, Peter. See a doctor. Get some drugs…It’s not cute anymore. The dreamy kid sitting in the back of the classroom, starin’ out the window? It’s time for you to grow up’// And that, they all knew, was just the tip of the iceberg. I, uh…hope he doesn’t blame me for that one. I’d have believed him. Rather, he wouldn’t have handled it the way Nathan did, that was for damn sure.
Back to the current conversation…Sylar had no advice in dealing with normal people, like coworkers, in a normal life. He had only the barest concept of it. Truthfully, it didn’t seem like a real big deal to him, either, the whole ‘secret identity’ thing. Both men wanted the ‘specialness’, Sylar paid the price, yet Peter wanted the ideal situation and couldn’t accept reality. Big surprise, there.
“You’re going to sit in a room with me and talk to me about Jesus?”
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Peter looked up steadily at Sylar, eyes going over the man’s face. That’s not what I was saying at all. Why would he think that? ‘I’m not a religious man, but there’s one thing I believe in: blood.’ Peter’s expression blanked. After a long moment of internal static and too many emotions to unsnarl, the thought surfaced that Sylar hadn’t followed the story. I must have lost him somewhere in there. Peter relaxed a little and glanced down, picking up a puzzle piece and holding it near the worked section, even though his brain wasn’t doing any processing of whether or not it would fit.
“No. No. I was just …” He leaned his head forward and to the side, looking up at Sylar. “Just telling a story.” He looked down at the puzzle piece and tried it a few places without luck. Quietly, he resumed with, “But I told Ma a … while ago, that with everything I’ve seen, it seems like anything is possible. Time travel, flight, telekinesis.” He made a cursory wave at Sylar at the mention of TK. “It’s like the abilities are unlimited, but what never changes are the people.”
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Sylar was fine with letting the story go, he felt better that Peter explained it the way he did. This is the part where I say ‘Jesus Christ! You just said you’re here for me to change, but now you say people can’t change -make up your mind!’ He sighed and ignored Peter’s hugely flawed contradictions because the man was just full of them. Or full of it.
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Peter’s brow knit as he thought about that. It was an angle he hadn’t considered before and his face reflected his pondering. In a distant voice, he said, “I remember arguing with that future version of me that it was about the people, not the abilities. He was saying we needed to stop people from getting abilities. I told him it wasn’t about the abilities.” Peter was staring fixedly at the table, trying and failing to remember the exact exchange of words. He remembered the scarred mirror image showing him a newspaper and talking about wrongs people had done, magnified by their new powers. Having more power doesn’t always make things worse. The invention of guns and bombs haven’t led to us killing more people in war - not on a percentage basis, at least.
Peter realized he’d tuned out Sylar almost entirely, having retreated inside his own thoughts for a moment there. He lifted his head, looking to the other man and mentally replaying the last things Peter had said. He wasn’t sure how to continue the discussion, such as it was, from that point, so he punted. “What do you think?”
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Sylar was staring back, confused. His mind had arrested at ‘stop people from getting abilities’, which made sense, but no one had, as yet, figured that out (thank God). His own specialness depended on having abilities, sadly. He couldn’t place the context of the question, though. “I, uh…” he hedged to hint at his lack of understanding. “You mean people like me?” We know the answer to this. “Kill them before they manifest, that’s the only way. You know that.” Or let them kill themselves…because some monsters have the foresight to off themselves to prevent more…problems - just let it happen, right? There are some abortion cases everyone would agree on, like Hitler, Stalin, Samson, Arthur, maybe Angela, me…Oh, if only the parents would have thought to wear a condom or not do it at all! We’d have been spared. Survival of the fittest. I know, I know, ‘feel shame for existing’. Sylar shrugged and went back to focusing as much as he was able on the puzzle, hunching over it a little.
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“No, that’s …” Peter paused, considering what he’d said, what Sylar had said, and what that implied about Sylar’s feelings about the man’s situation. ‘People like me … kill them … that’s the only way.’ That’s … kind of dark, Sylar. “That’s not what I meant. And anyway, there’s a way to get rid of people’s abilities after they manifest. I lost mine, after all.” He frowned about that event. “With all the abilities my father had, I obviously wasn’t the first.” He put down his useless puzzle piece and cocked his head, leaning forward with his brows pulled together intently. “Killing someone might be the only way to make sure, absolutely, that they never hurt anyone ever again, but that’s not the answer to how we can best live together.”
Peter’s left hand found the puzzle piece again without him looking. His fingers blindly explored the edges of it as he watched Sylar. I sure hope you don’t honestly think that killing anyone who could be a threat is a good policy, because if you do, and I ever piss you off too much, then I’m dead. Of course, part of why Peter was jumpy and cautious around Sylar was just that expectation - a bit muted by Sylar’s current condition, but no less present. Sylar had killed plenty of other people and it wasn’t that hard to fabricate offing Peter as ‘self-defense’, given Peter’s own track history and that of his family. It’s not like I don’t have motive, which would make it easy for him to justify acting first.
“I didn’t come here to kill you,” Peter said softly. ‘I wanted to crucify you in Times Square.’ Peter tried to banish his own hateful desires for revenge, but that was easier intended than done. Seeing Sylar day after day, confused and literally off-balance due to Peter’s last idiotic attempt to inflict pain on him (wanting to gouge Sylar’s eyes out came embarrassingly to mind) was doing a lot to mitigate Peter’s simmering vengefulness.
XXX
And suddenly something clicked. Sylar leaned away, straightening casually, casting a half-subtle glance over the left side of the desk, spying the screwdriver he’d have to reach for whilst pretending to look out the window. “I’m sure. Provided I give you your brother back, right?” Chin tilted up, he observed Peter with black, blank, eyes, his voice direct and expectant. How did I not see that earlier? Son of a bitch…He even admitted up-front he has telepathy! And that crap just now about losing his powers - I bet he got them all back. And I…have none. Concussion’s just the preview for laughs. Of course this would be about Nathan! A pang of the usual, nameless, painful, negative emotions shot through him: (It’s never about me…) What were you thinking - that he was actually here for you? Sylar had the feeling he was about to be tossed around like lunchmeat in a lion’s den - and come out about as shredded and defiled by the end of it.
XXX
You can do that? Part of Peter’s mind jumped at the possibility even as the rest noticed that something very wrong was radiating from Sylar, like a switch had been flipped. Oh no, what the hell is that reaction all about? He raised his hands a half inch from the table and looked up at the man cautiously. “No, that’s … I came here to get you to save Emma. If you would. If you won’t, then I’m just stuck here until I can figure a way out.”
Relaxing a little because violence hadn’t immediately followed Sylar’s shift, Peter sat up straighter. “I was under the impression that anything left was just recorded memories and mental commands.” A voice nagged in Peter’s head that he shouldn’t admit that and certainly shouldn’t tell Sylar he believed it. It was the voice of insane hope that wanted Nathan back at any cost. He steadfastly ignored it. “Nathan’s dead, isn’t he?” Peter asked with a steady voice and a tone that was asking for confirmation, like this was a fact known between them - Nathan’s dead, right? Right?
XXX
Sylar’s teeth tried to chip enamel at that one; it electrocuted his emotions to life so thoroughly. And he really expects an answer? Does he think I won’t notice how…(Here his mental voice impersonated Peter) ’No, Sylar, no one cares about your mind and the pain being Nathan must have caused.’ Just a fucking…casualty. I know if I die, no one cares, but I die so Nathan can ‘live’ and when that doesn’t work out I’m right back on the street…no harm, no foul, while that bastard is mourned and missed?! He’s got people defending his fucking name after death! “I’m fine, Peter. Thanks for asking!” he snapped, snarling and angry, though for the next part he slammed his fist down on the desk. “Yes, he’s dead! That’s all that’s left!” You’re stuck with me now! Sorry!
XXX
Peter leaned back in the chair, not reacting much to Sylar’s explosion (but he was watching him). “That’s what I thought,” he said calmly. “And I’m here anyway, for you.” Peter’s mind sorted through what he could do to help the situation without conceding anything. De-escalating the tension wasn’t Peter’s knee-jerk response. Sometimes strong emotion needed to be expressed and at the moment, Peter wasn’t feeling in danger, so letting Sylar feel however he was feeling wasn’t off the table.
XXX
Oh, for me. Gimme a break…Sylar scoffed that one away. The only reason anyone would be ‘here for me’ is because they want something. He’s not going to let it go, I just know it…
XXX
Peter spoke plainly and calmly, continuing to watch the other man. “People aren’t obligated to be your friend, Sylar. And they’re not going to be as long as their only way of knowing you is when you kill people they care about. You’ve got to bring other things to the table. You’ve got other things - you’ve got a quick wit, you’re smart, you’re capable, perceptive.” You need to find something else to contribute, like saving Emma. Or hell, going back to being a watchmaker. The bit about Emma seemed too blatantly self-serving, so Peter left it off. “I think you made a hell of a watchmaker. Have you thought about being an engineer, or an architect?”
XXX
I didn’t ask for friends!...Other things? “Those aren’t-“ he began to head off Peter’s ill-fated argument. He remembered his best efforts being dismissed; he couldn’t think of a good quality in himself; the ones Peter listed, the ones he did have, hadn’t gotten him anything. Pathetic. Boring. Insignificant. And harmless, which Peter knew or guessed and encouraged him to go back to - normality, that sub-average life without power, respect or future. Stunned silence reigned after that, the part about ‘I think you made a hell of a watchmaker’ coming from a good guy, from Peter. He thinks…He doesn’t even know me! He doesn’t have any…any…regard for me. (He’s way too late to tell me that…) To hear it from Peter made him feel warmer, more like a likable, nice person…or a person at all - so rarely did he hear that and so much did he want to. That means nothing now! It’s useless!
“You don’t know anything about me! You sound like my-“ Sylar really hadn’t meant to say that last part, but it was true: mother. Keep the shop open for when Dad got back, but do something useful with yourself; wasn’t that always it? Mom wanted a fucking banker or a lawyer…She would’ve been happy with a Petrelli for a son. A pause to get another line of thought (and dialogue) going, “I can’t go back to that. You may remember I have problems…you know, with abilities?” And it’s…complicated. His insides shrunk. Really complicated. “And you know you have to have….degrees for that stuff,” he dismissed the rest, haughty and snippy at the same time.
Continued...