More Between Us, Chapter 4/? "Moments of Weakness"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 4/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 7, 510
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 4
“Peter,” Sylar acknowledged, sensing quiet from the other man’s wrist watch and it made him itch, “as stubborn as I remember. Seen the light, I take it.” To appear nonchalant, he approached the other man. Obviously Sylar wasn’t armed or dangerous (anymore, goddamnit. Good thing Peter thinks I’m more dangerous than I am) with each hand holding a plastic grocery bag. The same couldn’t necessarily be said of Peter….He noted the man’s face was drawn and rather pale, but that was to be expected. He’d been AWOL or MIA rather for four days, probably not eating; his body seemed to be intact so he hadn’t been trying anything too dangerous.
Sylar would have to intervene if he did try anything extraordinarily stupid (which would have to be really, really stupid for it to qualify in this case). He had absolutely no desire to go back to being alone and lonely, not if he could help it. Peter also seemed to have gained some dark under-eye circles and he looked haggard, all the factors leading to the medic’s discovery of reality. Honestly the signs Peter was displaying couldn’t help but go unnoticed by Sylar because Peter was the only real scenery.
“I’ve got food. You should probably eat if you haven’t; and knowing you, you haven’t. You look pretty rough, man,” Sylar commented as he passed by the other on his way back to his apartment. Peter would most likely follow behind if he’d come all this way and it wasn’t like he had pressing engagements elsewhere no matter what he believed.
Over his shoulder he said mildly, “You’ll get used to it; the quiet, the solitude. I’m-” All you’ve got, was what he wanted to say, but he substituted, “the only one left.” Did that sound as bad as I think it did? The point he was trying to make was that Peter should give up on the day-dreaming. //Comas and nuclear explosions, worldwide viruses and all that cheerleader business to gain a long-lost, thought-to-be-dead daughter….Maybe it was a good thing Heidi left you.//
The thought threw off Sylar’s equilibrium and he stumbled enough to be obvious; the bags pulled him off balance further and he shook his head with a deep-seated frown. Fuck you, Petrellis. Just….fuck you. Yeah, Pete, I am sorry to be here. Know why? I didn’t get the chance to fuck with your mother! I’m not married, I don’t have kids or family, I’m not the type for life-long community service, I’m…not that, whatever the fuck it is. I’m Sylar….Hope he didn’t notice that. Don’t ask, don’t ask.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar’s greeting a sneering smile. He gave ground and stepped out of the other man’s way, not that interested in getting too close; but the cast of his features didn’t put this as a retreat - merely an inevitable avoidance. Now that Sylar mentioned it, he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten yet today, though he’d drank from one of the drinking fountains in the building he’d slept in. Even that had been a couple hours before. Or so he assumed. Time was strange here.
He followed along quietly, debating whether he should share a meal, with all the symbolism of breaking bread and putting aside differences the act entailed, or go find something to eat on his own. His trailing footsteps indicated that he’d made up his mind on that even if he was still consciously undecided. It wasn’t the eating with him that bothered him, but the idea of accepting food from the other man, or anything that seemed to be of a helpful or beneficial nature. It made it harder to see Sylar as an enemy.
Peter noticed, but ignored the opportunity to fight with his foe over being the only one left. First, obviously even in Sylar’s delusions, Peter was here, so there were two of them. Second, obviously even in Sylar’s delusions, the world wasn’t real, so it didn’t matter. He just made a small sigh to himself and tried to figure out how to look like he was walking comfortably when his feet hurt like a bitch. I wonder if my feet hurt because Sylar thinks they should? No matter where I was, he had to be aware of me…subconsciously, maybe.
Peter also noticed, but ignored Sylar’s stumble. He felt the slightest pang that he ought to help, ought to support, ought to at least take one of the bags. That pang of humanity didn’t stand a chance against how inhuman Sylar was to him. So the psychopathic killer got lonely and went shopping. It didn’t make him a nice guy. Peter’s eyes narrowed, then further when he caught a glimpse of Sylar’s angry face as the man righted himself.
What does he have to be angry about? Peter was here, which was a concession of defeat by itself. Even if Peter’s sojourn had only confirmed the mental construct of the world, he had been sure the other man would take this as proof he was right. And predictably, Sylar had gotten to give an ‘I told you so’ and would no doubt get to give more. As they started up the stairs, Peter’s legs and lower back reminded him of all the flights he’d climbed the evening before. He went up with a resolute tread though, lifting his eyes before him. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at Sylar’s ass before. He immediately diverted his thoughts elsewhere, taking refuge in a sort of defeated anger and heavy resentment. “Do you want me to leave? Let you be the only one here again?”
He stopped on the stairs, frowning up at the other man. Because if that’s how it was - Sylar was angry he’d come back, then Peter could damn well go back to that furniture store and pick himself out a nice bed to sleep on. The diner was right down the block and the breakfast he’d cooked there had been pretty tasty. There was no real point to being right here with Sylar. Yeah, they were sharing headspace, but they could obviously get along apart. A stubborn expression settled over Peter’s features, even as he thought to himself, No more do I get here than I want to leave. He huffed and waited for Sylar’s answer.
XXX
Oh, that clever bastard. Peter cut to the chase that somehow managed to catch Sylar off guard. Ever the direct one, he’d felt the need to say it aloud. Hasn’t he ever heard of the unspoken rules of men? Sylar was quiet for a moment or two, long enough to reach the landing as he heard the other man’s footsteps halt. Slowly turning back to Peter, he dug up whatever asshole attitude he could muster to say, “You need me, Peter, remember? And the answer is no; you’ll always substitute a punching bag if I ever I need one.” There, problem neatly avoided.
“Speaking of, you should take care of yourself more. There’s no healing here, even if you are a nurse,” Sylar knew all too well Peter’s body was screaming from aching pains, that he tended to run himself to the ground to save someone, that Peter was a EMT and that Nathan used to mock him with the word ‘nurse’. “No more special,” he muttered to himself, the noise of his motion back up the stairs ideal to cover his comment.
“I’m guessing you went everywhere and ended up nowhere, so your back is killing you and your neck is crackling, your legs….” Stupid hero punk. Why him?! Why me, for that matter? Why couldn’t it be a random, sexy, horny blonde or something? Gee, because life has it out for you? You knew you’d get into this when you killed Davis and that Trevor kid. You didn’t sign on for heaven. Eternal retribution. His steps grew quicker as he took the stairs faster. Purgatory.
“Your legs are busted up, am I right?” //Like after that time Howie Kaplan had beaten Pete in the fifty-yard-dash and they’d-//
“Stop it!!!”
It took him a few moments to figure out he’d protested aloud, the echoes of his outburst and the swishing of the bag he’d swung fading in the stairwell. His back hadn’t been against the wall before, had it? Way to make a scene. Well aware that Peter was probably staring at him, he shuffled the bags into one hand and delayed anything by fussing with his dark mess of hair that had found its way in his face.
Sylar licked his lips and swallowed, trudging back up the stairs as quickly and as casually as he could, hoping to sink into the floor while Peter didn’t ask him why he seemed to have developed another personality, voices in his head (probably the devil or Mom, if Peter’s read my file), or had really taken a swan dive into the deep end. Thank god that sounded so mature and put together, not like a little preschooler squawking at the bullies. God. No wonder people drop dead to take you seriously.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly; he’ll totally eat with you now. Just chat your ear off about who’s in your head.
XXX
“I’ll be up later,” Peter said mildly, and sat down on the step right where he was at. He was tired. He hurt. He was miserable and depressed. And his only companion was a serial killer who had gone starkers mad. He smiled a little, recalling Claude using that turn of phrase once. It had taken Pete a little while to understand that, in the context Claude was using it at the time, he meant he’d spent a period of his life roaming around naked, but invisible. Obviously it hadn’t lasted. Either the weather in New York or brushing up against a rose bush or the like had persuaded him that there was a purpose to clothing other than hiding one’s body.
Peter glanced back to see if Sylar had gone the fuck on yet. It seemed he had. Peter leaned back against the steps and stretched. Something popped in his back, which was nice. He rolled one shoulder and then the other. And here I’d thought I was in shape. Damn. He glanced up again. At least if Sylar was crazy, he was still clothed. The thought of the alternative - Sylar, naked, running around gibbering in the street - made him chuckle. The humor faded to sadness.
His stomach growled restlessly.
\”Anything else is just crazy talk.”\ Peter thought about his brother talking to him in the hospital room so many years ago, after he’d jumped off that building. He reached up and scratched at his cheek. There was a heavy growth of bristles following his jaw line. He supposed he did look pretty rough. The furniture store wouldn’t have a shower, or a tub. He wouldn’t mind a bath. To get one, he probably would need to move into an apartment. His stomach growled again.
Alright, alright. Christ. He drew himself back up and got to his feet. He trudged up the stairs slowly. He found himself outside Sylar’s door, where he paused, hand on the door frame. His mind still hadn’t settled on what he wanted here - food and human conversation, perhaps to interrogate Sylar about the world here, or to get some form of satisfaction from him, hurt him maybe, and then leave.
He felt compelled to make some sort of greeting though, so he called out, “Hey. You in there, man?”
XXX
The other man obviously wasn’t following him (not after that little display; he’s probably fearing for his life), so much he stated. Sylar was beginning to wonder if things could get any worse, even if things were ‘looking up’ with Peter here. The medic seemed only to exacerbate every facet of his life to the fullest. So Peter didn’t comment, but he was surely thinking something. Sylar just sighed and raised his eyes to look morosely at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, stumbling yet again from inattention, this time fully aware of the lapse. This one pushed his final button and he really did want to make something into his punching bag; he wanted to take a swing at something, cause some damage. That’s because you are damaged; that’s what he’s thinking right now.
Growling, he shoved open the door and tossed the bags onto the kitchen counter; resting his elbows on the surface, resisting the urge he seemed to always have to scream, he raked his fingers roughly through his hair. Somehow the part about busting up his hands wasn’t at the forefront of his brain. You can’t win this one; you won’t get anywhere with him. Slumping, he was busy ignoring the thawing chicken and other groceries he’d gotten when the sound of Peter’s voice carried into his apartment.
He straightened up quickly and began digging into the bags, making plenty of noise to cover the previous silence. What could he want? Clearing his throat, he called back, “Yeah…?” with a slight inflection of question at the end. Sylar went about putting away his findings, hoping to prepare somehow for whatever the unpredictable man wanted (hide the power tools); pretending that he could avoid whatever it was if he just put the items away as quickly as he could appear to, yet take up the maximum amount of time in doing so.
“Do you want a….tour or something?” he suggested hesitantly. It sure wasn’t for the sake of showing Peter whatever ‘exit’ or ‘way out’ he thought Sylar was hiding from him. “Draw you a map,” he muttered, realizing that his apparent hot-and-cold routine wasn’t going to win him any friends about the time he ran out of things to put away in the kitchen. Sylar bit his lip. That meant he had to face Peter’s carefully (or not to carefully) constructed features so he wouldn’t give away his contempt, obvious hatred and anger at being stuck here with Sylar.
XXX
“Not really. Had one,” Peter said brusquely, walking inside a few steps, seeing that Sylar was in the kitchen, putting things away. Don’t really want to go anywhere with him. Plus I need to see what’s the matter with my feet. But…on the other hand, it’s a better conversational topic than anything else we’ve talked about, since it probably won’t include mention of people he’s killed. “Well…maybe later. I’m sure there’s places you know about that I haven’t seen.” It’s his head after all. Speaking of which…
He walked over to the nearest clock, which was all of about three feet away on a table. He bent to look at it, but his lower back protested. He started to squat, but his thighs protested. Peter winced and stood up, putting a hand to the small of his back and straightening. Frowning heavily, scowling even, he grasped the side of the device with his other hand so as to bring it up to eye level where he could examine it more closely. It was running - that was obvious. He wanted to look at that.
As he lifted, he tilted the clock without thinking. The internals of it made a clattering sound and an off-key chiming sounded. Startled, he nearly dropped it. It chimed again with an odd warble and another clatter, like there was something loose inside it rolling around. Peter put it back on the table hastily, turning back to see if Sylar had noticed that. How could he not?
XXX
Sylar couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. Of all the people, it had to be one that probably annoyed him the most. No, I take that back…it could have been Maya or Mohinder. Parkman would bore. Angela or Bennet would have been interesting; at least I’d know where I stand with him. Passing by Peter, he didn’t look at him as he went to put the toilet paper, toothpaste and other non-kitchen items where they belonged. But he did manage to smirk a little at Peter’s obvious inflexible pain. The kid’s back was really killing him, too. Ooh, sex-y, was his mental mockery of the sight and he almost rolled his eyes again at himself.
What he didn’t see was Peter grabbing for the precious regulator. If he had he would have snapped and smacked at Peter’s grabby hands, but unfortunately the imprecise, careless and broken medic was able to lay hands on his circa 1915 treasure. The sound of small parts clattering out of place raced up his spine and he stiffened, turning slowly to glare death and destruction at the other man. He knew he would really complete the whole hermit or cat lady image by shrieking ‘my babies!’, so he stalked to Peter and gently and firmly snatched the clock from him.
He knew there was no damage (the pieces merely being shaken out of place), but there could easily have been; it was an antique after all, something Peter knew nothing about appreciating. “New rule, don’t touch my stuff,” he commanded angrily and it showed on his face. Practically cradling the device, he set it gently on his watch table to be repaired. Again. “I can see why you didn’t make doctor,” he scathed, “God forbid a pediatrician.”
Peter being amongst his prized possessions, his fixed pieces with that semi-crappy unfixed watch, screaming at him like it was, sounded like nails on a chalkboard. He wanted it (and Peter) gone. Fixed. And now his hands were clear, his agitation, annoyance and near-malice were all the more clear to shine through as his hands fisted and he shoved them into his armpits, crossing them over his chest to prevent any homicidal damage to his companion. Sylar felt a prick of embarrassment at having to defend his former trade and current hobby to someone who knew him only as a Sylar, the world’s most special killer.
Having Peter around was obviously upsetting Sylar’s balance significantly enough that it was probably fucking with his long-since-dormant hormones; specifically the dopamine, serotonin, epinephrine and testosterone; the kind that made fights. He assumed it was because he wanted to know or find out where he stood with Peter. The subject of Nathan hadn't been broached since the medic first arrived, and the continued silence on the matter was surprising. Peter meanwhile reminded him of a child in a china shop. No wonder I hate kids. Sylar merely clenched and unclenched his fists where the other couldn’t see exactly, eyes black and narrowed at him.
XXX
“I’ll touch whatever I want.” He looked down at the clock, but it was innocent and besides, he was really worried he might have damaged it. That is, until he recalled it didn’t matter - nothing here was real, no one other than Sylar would even know what had happened here. Anything might transpire and there would be no witnesses other than himself and a deranged serial killer who couldn’t tell reality from fantasy.
Peter snorted, feeling a sudden very specific urge to set the tone for their relationship, or rather ‘re-set’ it. He didn’t like being pushed around, yammered at, talked down to or smarted off to. It was really starting to irritate him. He’d tried to be patient and he’d tried to be polite. The guy was clueless, socially inept and completely immoral, far past the rather loose standards of the Petrelli family (actually, the idea of ‘Gabriel’ as a brother hadn’t been so bizarre, on that front, but the whole time of dealing with him all Peter could think of was how his mother had lied about his father’s death - Peter hadn’t believed Sylar was his brother for a second, but what he had believed was that Sylar believed it…and for a little while, that was enough). Right now, Sylar didn’t seem to understand what it was he’d done wrong, or even that he had done wrong, most of the time. He’d been saner before, but then again, this whole mind trap seemed to have driven him right over the edge.
Peter looked past Sylar, at the kitchen. Maybe he’d find something to eat in there. He had no special desire to do that a few moments ago and really not an overpowering one to do it now, but what he did have was a desire to assert himself here. He took a stride forward, setting himself, knowing what he was about to do.
“Get out of my way,” he growled, leading with his left shoulder, his right hand free, moving like he fully expected and intended to move Sylar himself if he needed to. Maybe what Sylar needed was someone to put him in his place and keep him there.
XXX
Sylar was left to blink in surprise; he hadn’t expected…that. Did Peter think he could seriously barge in and starting upsetting and poking at his belongings? That was not going to happen. There was no wrong in his mind, of course (at least for the actions of the past three years; he’d been a saint); Sylar was minding his own business quite well, thank you.
He glanced around the apartment, noting that his apartment seemed to have been entered and rearranged, and not by himself. “What… Did you bust in here while I was gone, too?” Sylar turned accusing eyes toward the apparent intruder, “Looking for murder weapons, Pete?” the use of Nathan’s old reference towards Peter was intentional.
The would-be younger brother approached him and while he felt the need to back down as Peter would surely demand, but it was his place, damnit. Sylar just squared his body at the other man’s tone, the proximity anything but friendly, “No, you won’t. It’s my place.” While he didn’t see why Peter felt threatened by his demand not to touch his stuff, he was sure that he wasn’t in the wrong to demand what he had; however, the surging dynamics between the two left Sylar unsure of where he stood or if this battle was even able to be won.
The debate of showing good faith and keeping his arms locked to his chest crossed his mind, but Peter crossed a line first. “Should I be concerned about you walking in whenever I make a move, Pete?” he sneered, dropping his arms to his sides, his fists still balled up. His jibe clearly biting since he was slurring Peter as something of a pervert, snooping around his place the way he had.
XXX
‘Pete’ - so that was intentional, was it? Peter had been biting his tongue and ignoring it as nothing but an irritating diminutive, but he really should have thought. With Sylar, it wasn’t just a diminutive; it wasn’t just an unearned familiarity. No, that was saying something about Nathan; and Sylar shouldn’t get to say things about Nathan.
Sylar had every (or at least many, Peter didn’t know the details and he wasn’t sure he wanted to) memory Nathan had had. He had something of Nathan’s so intimate and so personal that no one else had ever had it; no one else would ever have it. He’d taken not only his ability, which was obscene by itself because of the murder it typically involved, but it was almost like he had stolen a piece of Nathan’s soul along with it. Nathan’s murderer had that precious thing, held it, and was throwing the fact in Peter’s face.
Peter took two quick steps towards the other man, his chin tucked and the beginning of a snarl on his face. He was actually pleased that Sylar didn’t get out of his way and that he limbered his arms. Shitty as Peter felt, it would all be wiped clean if he could beat the crap out of this guy. He’d taken him before, only a few weeks ago really, although a two-by-four to the back of the head would slow down anyone’s fighting ability. Rene’s power created a level playing field - not too different from what they had here, if Sylar was telling the truth about having no abilities.
Peter led with his left shoulder, which obscured his right arm to some extent. You ought to be concerned, all right, Peter thought, but the time for speaking was gone. He swung his right with an explosive strength, putting everything into it. Sylar seemed surprised, having stood there arrogantly busying himself with mouthing off and being superior rather than noticing he had pushed it too far. It was just another item on a long list of not-right behaviors Sylar had been showing, constantly hitting the wrong note. Peter had begun to think the man was doing it on purpose, trying to goad him. Well, with the ‘Pete’, he was sure.
He smacked him solidly on the cheek, managing to tag him hard even though Sylar had been jerking back and getting his hands up. It was too late for the hands to do much good, but the backward motion took out a little of the force of the blow. Sylar backpedaled and Peter hesitated, teeth bared. He wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a paste. He knew he would lose his advantage if he didn’t press immediately, but he had to see if something had finally engendered a recognizably normal reaction in the other man, or if he really was as crazy as he seemed.
XXX
Peter didn’t answer or make any form of non-verbal communication other than the snarl that Sylar caught way too late. Before he knew it and before he could react, Peter was on him, and his jaw hurt and he tasted blood from the swift punch to his face; the impact jarring his head around to the side. Moving back, getting quickly away, Sylar raised his hands out of surprise and to protect himself. “Uuhn,” was all he could groan from the pulsing pain in his cheek.
Stunned and angry, hurt eyes rose to stare at Peter. Probably had that coming. Should have seen it coming, too. He always was a little unhinged when it came to people. He didn’t move other than to rub at his cheek; not wanting to set the other man off again and with the idea Peter would ignore him if he remained still. He was dying to snap ‘Fuck you’ at Peter, but he managed to occupy his tongue with exploring the split inside of his cheek.
Slowly his hand dragged through the hair that fell over the side of his face opposite the injury. You should be fighting back, since when do you let people hit you and get away with it? ‘Die Alone’. //”I love you, Peter.” “I love you, too.”// Oh my god! Get out of my head! Sylar barely avoided slinking back to the couch with a book to pretend that hadn’t happened.
Contrary to popular belief, the current population being Peter, Sylar did possess survival instincts; the same ones he’d been using for six years, if only three of them were active. Besides, if he felt any desire to do so, his patience had grown (beyond what it had been) over the years to become a force to be reckoned with; he would easily wait in a dark alley to give Peter his due. Too bad that would leave him alone in all likelihood. There wasn’t really anything to say; he’d provoked the other man with his dead older brother’s nickname for him, even if Peter had started it.
XXX
Peter’s urge to continue was so strong that he swayed forward unconsciously, coiled tensely like a spring, a subtle motion that only became obvious as he pulled back. He breathed hard, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes evaluating Sylar over and over for a possible threat - or an excuse to hit him again. When Sylar stopped moving back and reached up to rub at his face, Peter met his stare evenly, watching for the slightest twitch of aggression to react to. Sylar didn’t look happy (and there was that ‘normal reaction’ Peter had been looking for), but there was no sign he was going to fight back.
Peter put his lips together and stopped baring his teeth, but his jaw remained tight. His gaze tracked that slow movement through Sylar’s hair before he finally relaxed a fraction and looked away for a second. Regret chased across his face, quickly swallowed up by another surge of anger - but it had been there for a moment.
He looked back at Sylar with a glare. “You don’t get to call me ‘Pete,’” he bit out.
Peter turned suddenly and stalked on into the kitchen, muttering, “Murder weapons,” to himself, but it was loud enough to be overheard. He looked around the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a wooden block with knives. He raised his hand towards them, then caught himself for the nth time and let it drop. He kept wanting to kill Sylar and he suspected he was going to keep wanting to kill him until he… he didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine what would make him stop wanting to avenge Nathan’s death. What was it he’d told his mother? ‘No one wants him dead more than me.’ He looked back over his shoulder in Sylar’s direction, wondering if he’d seen that motion, wondering what the other man made of it. He didn’t ask, though. Peter just shook his head and huffed.
What the hell am I doing in here? His flimsy reasons for barging into the kitchen came back to him, which was mainly a pretense to hit his companion. Oh…yeah. He looked around at the reasonably tidy countertops and opened the refrigerator, again glancing back to check status on Sylar. Peter remained wary and edgy, clearly willing to continue the fight at the drop of a hat or a single false move. He struggled to calm himself down, looking back at the contents of the fridge, swallowing and trying to master his breathing. He reached in and pulled out a half gallon carton of milk, then went to searching the cabinets for a glass.
XXX
Sylar caught the forward motion and stiffened, his head coming up (potentially making himself larger and taller to intimidate, but also out of reaction and to move out of range), but he avoided moving backwards mostly to be stubborn. Talk about taking things out of proportion, he was left to believe Peter was having some repressed issues and was likely to lash out at the slightest provocation.
While he didn’t stare back at Peter; he wasn’t that stupid, Sylar looked away and kept close track of the other man’s movements, completely prepared to duck back if he made another move. He felt Peter’s eyes boring into him and that instantly made him uncomfortable; that kind of attention was never good attention (not that he expected any less). Careful, I might attack you with my hair, Pete, he mentally snapped.
He took to staring at the wall behind and beside Peter that led to the kitchen. Peter wanted to play dirty did he? That was more than unfair but what was there to do? The man was within reason and Sylar knew it. Catch-22. Sneering at the name comment, Sylar just sniffed and shook his head in a display of teenage rebellion he hadn’t shown even as a teenager.
Eyes narrowing in latent danger as he caught the obvious jab that was humiliating if more harmless than the words themselves. Sylar was powerless, but so was Peter and that leveled the field just as it had weeks before at Mercy Heights. Yeah, totally leveled, fucking bastard. Play his game; you can always drug his damn food. Suddenly the worry he’d convinced himself he needn’t have about his life statics by homicide came back as Peter entered the kitchen with those parting words.
Plenty of weapons in there. He’s got motive, he’s shown he’s not hesitant to take a crack at you. But he thinks he needs you… He stood there debating whether to arm himself to prevent some kind of undocumented Survivor episode when Peter answered his inner dialogue for him, reaching for the knives he had. Shit, shit, shit. Die Alone. Die Alone, his mind was busy screaming at the motion. Thanks a lot, Claire, stupid bitch, Lydia. Going to your grave cursing them? Is that really worth your time? Should be praying to whatever god there is because you're as mortal as you were the day you were spawned.
Sylar’s eyes had widened, but he stood frozen, waiting to see he if needed to bolt. Should he even run? We all know Elle shouldn’t have saved your miserable neck from the noose, maybe this is what Hiro the hero meant…. Peter aborted the idea, but that did nothing to ease Sylar’s desire for survival and his suddenly boosted paranoia. He saw the medic moving about his kitchen toward the fridge and he made a show of making eye contact before looking away; the high school theatre classes and years of faking anything with Virginia with less, but more intense time spent as a psychopathic killer going far towards making the action casual and natural. Meanwhile his mind was buzzing to think if he’d left any cutlery or sharp objects in the refrigerator. He knew all too well just how dangerous vengeance was in anyone's hands, let alone someone as capable and as wronged as Pete. He won't need any damn weapon when he decides the time is right.
His hands fiddled at his sides and he gave thought to blocking up the door to his room with him inside. Signals, signals, what’s he looking for? Milk?! What the hell does he want here? Despite the desire to set boundaries, childish as it was, and kick Peter out after he’d made it clear that he couldn’t come traipsing in whenever he so damn chose to beat Sylar’s face in while he slept, Sylar did nothing. He told himself it was Catch-22. Who buys that? He has to trust you; no weapons, he told himself firmly, squashing his crazed mind’s attempt at heightened survival tactics.
“Choke and die,” he muttered, barely aloud and completely lacking in real conviction for obvious reasons. It was times like this he really cursed his parents, biological and adopted, for his lack of social skills. Yes, he could talk his way out of a jail cell (minus Bennet, the fucking little...). Granted, it was easier with stupid women like Maya and Candice-Michelle whatever the fuck, because he lacked conviction in sex to be able to use it as the casual weapon it was. But his true talents came in getting his way; the super-powered neural pathways and synapses in his brain would find the shortest, more direct route to 'his way' after considering the consequences and every potential outcome. When in doubt, bitch about it.
XXX
Peter heard Sylar say something, but didn’t catch what it was. He looked back out of the corner of his eye, then returned to searching the cabinets. Spices…plates…glasses. He got one down, one of a matching set of nice crystal. He paused to look at that. He was sure it meant something - the trappings of affluence in a small, cluttered apartment. He poured slowly and put the carton away, once more doing a status check on his companion. He took his glass and turned backwards against the counter, looking out at where Sylar was still standing and managing to look restless and fidgety without even moving.
Peter took a drink and God, did that taste good. He felt the cold liquid all the way down. Medically, he thought, milk is classed as a solid. It would calm his hunger for the moment. He tried to relax. He made a sharp exhalation - an attempt at a sigh, but he was still too wound up for that. “So. Three years alone, huh?” He looked at the milk, chewing his lip a little before taking another drink. “That’s gotta be rough.” He looked around the room blankly. He sounded insincere even to his ears. He was struggling to make small talk, but everything else he thought to say got vetoed by his brain before it made it to his tongue.
I had all those questions earlier - now I can’t think of them! Can he sense me? Can he read my mind? Did he know I was out there? Why is he here? Why this apartment? Why all this stuff around here? Does he still believe this is real? How can I convince him it’s not? Is that what I have to do? Does he get my dreams when I sleep? Why is he such an asshole? Does he understand this is a punishment? Does he think he needs to be punished? Is that why he acts so weird with me all the time - because he thinks I’m part of it? Is there a way to get past that so I can actually ask him this stuff?
He took another drink and reached up to rub his forehead. He looked at his right hand. The knuckles hurt. He’d been lucky, he supposed, in that he hadn’t broken the skin, or his hand. He turned his hand and rested them against the cool glass. He raised his eyes to Sylar, whose face was probably hurting him worse. He was pretty sure he ought to feel sorry about that. What he felt sorry about was that he didn’t.
He walked out of the kitchen slowly. His feet still hurt and reminded him of this fact now that he wasn’t riding high on adrenaline. He went immediately left, getting no closer than absolutely necessary to Sylar. He looked at the sofa. He’d intended to sit on it, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get up fast enough if he needed to. “We’ve got to get along with each other.” He glanced over at Sylar, then at the clock he’d manhandled earlier. He looked back at the other man. “Okay?”
XXX
Sylar’s expression ranged from narrowed eyes to a blank look at Peter’s sarcastic attempts at conversation, the lack of emotion on his face as it smoothed out conveying his singular thought very clearly; seriously? Peter was probably biting his lip to hold back his laughter at baiting him because Sylar found nothing about it funny. He made no answer to such a lame attempt at humiliation, instead leaning back against the wall in disinterest.
Peter was quiet for a while and Sylar noticed him pressing his fingers to the cold glass and he looked away in disgust. The whole thing was making him feel incredibly used, but that was not a new experience when dealing with Petrellis. Peter had broken into his house after he’d busted the door, snooped around, then come back and upset more things then punched him and raided his kitchen to ease the pain in his knuckles from the (in his mind) unwarranted blow. Peter moved and he stood straight again, but stayed still as the medic passed by, clearly and thankfully avoiding his person.
Keeping a close eye on Peter, he moved slowly to follow him into the living room, standing nowhere near the other, but he saw the aborted thought to sit at the couch pass through Peter’s head and he glared at his back. Now his couch was sub-standard? Was this Claire in shape-shifted form? Because his ‘guest’ was starting to remind him of the cheerleader, what with the hitting and the pickiness not to mention the brainless conversation, or lack thereof.
Crossing his arms again, he shifted his weight. He knew that was the closest to an apology he Peter was ever going to cough up, so he took what he could get. “Yeah, okay, Peter,” he conceded quietly, “You…” he started then stopped, deliberating whether to speak his mind, again, making direct eye contact looking up at Peter to show him how dead serious he was, “You’re stuck here, man. Get a place, get some hobbies that don’t include saving people. Settle down and find a sex toy because we’re going to rot here.” Words of wisdom however unspoken Peter might prefer them to be.
XXX
“Fine.” He eyed Sylar again and finally decided there was no counter attack coming. He sank down on the couch, but not without a wary glance yet again at his companion. That was the last though. He leaned back and put the heel of his palm to his forehead and shut his eyes. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck. “I might be stuck here for a while,” he admitted reluctantly. He put his hand down and took a drink.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking for a way out. Regardless of whether you believe it or not, or whether I can convince you or not, can you just accept that I don’t think this place is real?” He looked over at Sylar quite earnestly.
He started to put his glass down, then noticed there was literally no clear space on the desk next to it that was large enough to set a glass on. Everything was books and clocks in bell jars next to other jars of little metal parts, sitting on top of yet more books. “Why do you have all this stuff? Did you bring this here or was it here to start with?”
Once upon a time, Peter had had the normal allotment of ‘stuff’ that most people his age had - university textbooks, old clothes, CDs, a television, a trendy laptop that fit nicely in his equally trendy messenger bag, dishes that supported a place setting of six (like he’d ever have that many in his apartment!), along with furniture - a bed frame, dresser, table, end tables, sofa and a comfortable chair, among other things.
He’d come back after being locked up in Company jail to find his place had been cleaned out and had some Jewish couple from Indiana living in it. It was reasonable - he hadn’t been paying rent while locked up. After that, he’d lived a very sparse lifestyle. He hadn’t missed it much, actually, though he was unhappy about his mother telling him his place looked like he had a mental illness. Noah’s snide comments about it had not gone unnoticed either.
Hobbies that don’t include saving people…yeah. My whole purpose here is saving people. Noah kind of implied I was a little obsessive about that, too. He finished off his milk so he wouldn’t have to worry so much about where to set it and rested the empty vessel on his knee for the moment. He frowned over at Sylar, but it wasn’t a personal judgment. He was angry at the world; Sylar just happened to be the closest part worth looking at.
XXX
He exhaled a breath, sensing that Peter’s violent streak had passed, so he relaxed enough to slide his hands into his dark jeans. “I don’t expect you to stop,” he said with some amusement, “I give you about a year and a half, maybe two.” Sylar’s gaze grew distant as he examined the wall again; a little lost in his own thoughts of the years he’d had alone.
“You’ll find it doesn’t matter what either of us believes, Peter,” Sylar replied in the same tone of earnestness, but his voice and eyes were sad, his mouth downturned. He shrugged and shook his head at the medic. “The stuff?” Giving the man a strange look as if to ask why it mattered to him, he replied slowly as it addressing a child, “Three years is a long time alone.”
Closing his eyes briefly, he went on to answer the rest of the question, “I brought most of it. I…haven’t…I’ve been busy; I haven’t been here in….a long time.” He shrugged again to avoid the answer he had to give, felt compelled to give, “And now I’ve been here a long time and its worse. It was….how I left it six years ago.”
Clenching his jaw, he turned slightly away and leaned his hip against the desk his watches rested on. “And what brings you to New York, Peter Petrelli? I thought you were….” He waved a hand vaguely, “elsewhere with //Ma-//Angela or Parkman or something. And don’t give me that bit about coming here to save me to save your girlfriend.” Sylar’s tone changed to be firm and still be socially acceptable.
The impact of Peter’s fist was a possible reason for Peter to be here from Sylar’s way of thinking. Peter was a Petrelli, however (normally) decent and well-meaning he was, he still had Angela’s blood in his veins. Now that Angela had set Sylar’s bar that much higher by turning him into her beloved eldest, Sylar was willing to believe the woman was capable of anything; this could be the most elaborate mind-fuck to date in his short but memorable career.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray (Matt and Nathan if you squint?)
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery (no pun intended), violence, angst (?), dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 7, 510
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): In collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN) who writes for Peter (I write for Sylar). This is everything that goes on 'behind the scenes' of the episode. The story begins after Peter telepathically joins Sylar in his Matt-induced nightmare (The Wall) in the episode. Based on CANON with fanon and intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in all those nasty plot-holes, but we won't point fingers.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage when Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight, he gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability that allows the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them from the person. AKA Peter has every single one of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear from time to time when Peter sleeps or becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has since recovered his memories with a combination of IA and regeneration. Sylar still has Nathan's memories from Matt Parkman's previous mind-fuck in Invisible Thread. The boys are powerless inside the Wall.
Things you'll need: // // denotes a Nathan Petrelli memory from Sylar's head. Sylar/Gabriel's memories are within singular lines / /. Peter's are \ \ and Peter’s recollection of a Sylar memory (via Rene/the Haitian's ability) is \\ \\. 'Posts' are separated between the boys by XXX (no, that's nothing naughty).
Day 4
“Peter,” Sylar acknowledged, sensing quiet from the other man’s wrist watch and it made him itch, “as stubborn as I remember. Seen the light, I take it.” To appear nonchalant, he approached the other man. Obviously Sylar wasn’t armed or dangerous (anymore, goddamnit. Good thing Peter thinks I’m more dangerous than I am) with each hand holding a plastic grocery bag. The same couldn’t necessarily be said of Peter….He noted the man’s face was drawn and rather pale, but that was to be expected. He’d been AWOL or MIA rather for four days, probably not eating; his body seemed to be intact so he hadn’t been trying anything too dangerous.
Sylar would have to intervene if he did try anything extraordinarily stupid (which would have to be really, really stupid for it to qualify in this case). He had absolutely no desire to go back to being alone and lonely, not if he could help it. Peter also seemed to have gained some dark under-eye circles and he looked haggard, all the factors leading to the medic’s discovery of reality. Honestly the signs Peter was displaying couldn’t help but go unnoticed by Sylar because Peter was the only real scenery.
“I’ve got food. You should probably eat if you haven’t; and knowing you, you haven’t. You look pretty rough, man,” Sylar commented as he passed by the other on his way back to his apartment. Peter would most likely follow behind if he’d come all this way and it wasn’t like he had pressing engagements elsewhere no matter what he believed.
Over his shoulder he said mildly, “You’ll get used to it; the quiet, the solitude. I’m-” All you’ve got, was what he wanted to say, but he substituted, “the only one left.” Did that sound as bad as I think it did? The point he was trying to make was that Peter should give up on the day-dreaming. //Comas and nuclear explosions, worldwide viruses and all that cheerleader business to gain a long-lost, thought-to-be-dead daughter….Maybe it was a good thing Heidi left you.//
The thought threw off Sylar’s equilibrium and he stumbled enough to be obvious; the bags pulled him off balance further and he shook his head with a deep-seated frown. Fuck you, Petrellis. Just….fuck you. Yeah, Pete, I am sorry to be here. Know why? I didn’t get the chance to fuck with your mother! I’m not married, I don’t have kids or family, I’m not the type for life-long community service, I’m…not that, whatever the fuck it is. I’m Sylar….Hope he didn’t notice that. Don’t ask, don’t ask.
XXX
Peter gave Sylar’s greeting a sneering smile. He gave ground and stepped out of the other man’s way, not that interested in getting too close; but the cast of his features didn’t put this as a retreat - merely an inevitable avoidance. Now that Sylar mentioned it, he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten yet today, though he’d drank from one of the drinking fountains in the building he’d slept in. Even that had been a couple hours before. Or so he assumed. Time was strange here.
He followed along quietly, debating whether he should share a meal, with all the symbolism of breaking bread and putting aside differences the act entailed, or go find something to eat on his own. His trailing footsteps indicated that he’d made up his mind on that even if he was still consciously undecided. It wasn’t the eating with him that bothered him, but the idea of accepting food from the other man, or anything that seemed to be of a helpful or beneficial nature. It made it harder to see Sylar as an enemy.
Peter noticed, but ignored the opportunity to fight with his foe over being the only one left. First, obviously even in Sylar’s delusions, Peter was here, so there were two of them. Second, obviously even in Sylar’s delusions, the world wasn’t real, so it didn’t matter. He just made a small sigh to himself and tried to figure out how to look like he was walking comfortably when his feet hurt like a bitch. I wonder if my feet hurt because Sylar thinks they should? No matter where I was, he had to be aware of me…subconsciously, maybe.
Peter also noticed, but ignored Sylar’s stumble. He felt the slightest pang that he ought to help, ought to support, ought to at least take one of the bags. That pang of humanity didn’t stand a chance against how inhuman Sylar was to him. So the psychopathic killer got lonely and went shopping. It didn’t make him a nice guy. Peter’s eyes narrowed, then further when he caught a glimpse of Sylar’s angry face as the man righted himself.
What does he have to be angry about? Peter was here, which was a concession of defeat by itself. Even if Peter’s sojourn had only confirmed the mental construct of the world, he had been sure the other man would take this as proof he was right. And predictably, Sylar had gotten to give an ‘I told you so’ and would no doubt get to give more. As they started up the stairs, Peter’s legs and lower back reminded him of all the flights he’d climbed the evening before. He went up with a resolute tread though, lifting his eyes before him. He didn’t think he’d ever looked at Sylar’s ass before. He immediately diverted his thoughts elsewhere, taking refuge in a sort of defeated anger and heavy resentment. “Do you want me to leave? Let you be the only one here again?”
He stopped on the stairs, frowning up at the other man. Because if that’s how it was - Sylar was angry he’d come back, then Peter could damn well go back to that furniture store and pick himself out a nice bed to sleep on. The diner was right down the block and the breakfast he’d cooked there had been pretty tasty. There was no real point to being right here with Sylar. Yeah, they were sharing headspace, but they could obviously get along apart. A stubborn expression settled over Peter’s features, even as he thought to himself, No more do I get here than I want to leave. He huffed and waited for Sylar’s answer.
XXX
Oh, that clever bastard. Peter cut to the chase that somehow managed to catch Sylar off guard. Ever the direct one, he’d felt the need to say it aloud. Hasn’t he ever heard of the unspoken rules of men? Sylar was quiet for a moment or two, long enough to reach the landing as he heard the other man’s footsteps halt. Slowly turning back to Peter, he dug up whatever asshole attitude he could muster to say, “You need me, Peter, remember? And the answer is no; you’ll always substitute a punching bag if I ever I need one.” There, problem neatly avoided.
“Speaking of, you should take care of yourself more. There’s no healing here, even if you are a nurse,” Sylar knew all too well Peter’s body was screaming from aching pains, that he tended to run himself to the ground to save someone, that Peter was a EMT and that Nathan used to mock him with the word ‘nurse’. “No more special,” he muttered to himself, the noise of his motion back up the stairs ideal to cover his comment.
“I’m guessing you went everywhere and ended up nowhere, so your back is killing you and your neck is crackling, your legs….” Stupid hero punk. Why him?! Why me, for that matter? Why couldn’t it be a random, sexy, horny blonde or something? Gee, because life has it out for you? You knew you’d get into this when you killed Davis and that Trevor kid. You didn’t sign on for heaven. Eternal retribution. His steps grew quicker as he took the stairs faster. Purgatory.
“Your legs are busted up, am I right?” //Like after that time Howie Kaplan had beaten Pete in the fifty-yard-dash and they’d-//
“Stop it!!!”
It took him a few moments to figure out he’d protested aloud, the echoes of his outburst and the swishing of the bag he’d swung fading in the stairwell. His back hadn’t been against the wall before, had it? Way to make a scene. Well aware that Peter was probably staring at him, he shuffled the bags into one hand and delayed anything by fussing with his dark mess of hair that had found its way in his face.
Sylar licked his lips and swallowed, trudging back up the stairs as quickly and as casually as he could, hoping to sink into the floor while Peter didn’t ask him why he seemed to have developed another personality, voices in his head (probably the devil or Mom, if Peter’s read my file), or had really taken a swan dive into the deep end. Thank god that sounded so mature and put together, not like a little preschooler squawking at the bullies. God. No wonder people drop dead to take you seriously.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly; he’ll totally eat with you now. Just chat your ear off about who’s in your head.
XXX
“I’ll be up later,” Peter said mildly, and sat down on the step right where he was at. He was tired. He hurt. He was miserable and depressed. And his only companion was a serial killer who had gone starkers mad. He smiled a little, recalling Claude using that turn of phrase once. It had taken Pete a little while to understand that, in the context Claude was using it at the time, he meant he’d spent a period of his life roaming around naked, but invisible. Obviously it hadn’t lasted. Either the weather in New York or brushing up against a rose bush or the like had persuaded him that there was a purpose to clothing other than hiding one’s body.
Peter glanced back to see if Sylar had gone the fuck on yet. It seemed he had. Peter leaned back against the steps and stretched. Something popped in his back, which was nice. He rolled one shoulder and then the other. And here I’d thought I was in shape. Damn. He glanced up again. At least if Sylar was crazy, he was still clothed. The thought of the alternative - Sylar, naked, running around gibbering in the street - made him chuckle. The humor faded to sadness.
His stomach growled restlessly.
\”Anything else is just crazy talk.”\ Peter thought about his brother talking to him in the hospital room so many years ago, after he’d jumped off that building. He reached up and scratched at his cheek. There was a heavy growth of bristles following his jaw line. He supposed he did look pretty rough. The furniture store wouldn’t have a shower, or a tub. He wouldn’t mind a bath. To get one, he probably would need to move into an apartment. His stomach growled again.
Alright, alright. Christ. He drew himself back up and got to his feet. He trudged up the stairs slowly. He found himself outside Sylar’s door, where he paused, hand on the door frame. His mind still hadn’t settled on what he wanted here - food and human conversation, perhaps to interrogate Sylar about the world here, or to get some form of satisfaction from him, hurt him maybe, and then leave.
He felt compelled to make some sort of greeting though, so he called out, “Hey. You in there, man?”
XXX
The other man obviously wasn’t following him (not after that little display; he’s probably fearing for his life), so much he stated. Sylar was beginning to wonder if things could get any worse, even if things were ‘looking up’ with Peter here. The medic seemed only to exacerbate every facet of his life to the fullest. So Peter didn’t comment, but he was surely thinking something. Sylar just sighed and raised his eyes to look morosely at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, stumbling yet again from inattention, this time fully aware of the lapse. This one pushed his final button and he really did want to make something into his punching bag; he wanted to take a swing at something, cause some damage. That’s because you are damaged; that’s what he’s thinking right now.
Growling, he shoved open the door and tossed the bags onto the kitchen counter; resting his elbows on the surface, resisting the urge he seemed to always have to scream, he raked his fingers roughly through his hair. Somehow the part about busting up his hands wasn’t at the forefront of his brain. You can’t win this one; you won’t get anywhere with him. Slumping, he was busy ignoring the thawing chicken and other groceries he’d gotten when the sound of Peter’s voice carried into his apartment.
He straightened up quickly and began digging into the bags, making plenty of noise to cover the previous silence. What could he want? Clearing his throat, he called back, “Yeah…?” with a slight inflection of question at the end. Sylar went about putting away his findings, hoping to prepare somehow for whatever the unpredictable man wanted (hide the power tools); pretending that he could avoid whatever it was if he just put the items away as quickly as he could appear to, yet take up the maximum amount of time in doing so.
“Do you want a….tour or something?” he suggested hesitantly. It sure wasn’t for the sake of showing Peter whatever ‘exit’ or ‘way out’ he thought Sylar was hiding from him. “Draw you a map,” he muttered, realizing that his apparent hot-and-cold routine wasn’t going to win him any friends about the time he ran out of things to put away in the kitchen. Sylar bit his lip. That meant he had to face Peter’s carefully (or not to carefully) constructed features so he wouldn’t give away his contempt, obvious hatred and anger at being stuck here with Sylar.
XXX
“Not really. Had one,” Peter said brusquely, walking inside a few steps, seeing that Sylar was in the kitchen, putting things away. Don’t really want to go anywhere with him. Plus I need to see what’s the matter with my feet. But…on the other hand, it’s a better conversational topic than anything else we’ve talked about, since it probably won’t include mention of people he’s killed. “Well…maybe later. I’m sure there’s places you know about that I haven’t seen.” It’s his head after all. Speaking of which…
He walked over to the nearest clock, which was all of about three feet away on a table. He bent to look at it, but his lower back protested. He started to squat, but his thighs protested. Peter winced and stood up, putting a hand to the small of his back and straightening. Frowning heavily, scowling even, he grasped the side of the device with his other hand so as to bring it up to eye level where he could examine it more closely. It was running - that was obvious. He wanted to look at that.
As he lifted, he tilted the clock without thinking. The internals of it made a clattering sound and an off-key chiming sounded. Startled, he nearly dropped it. It chimed again with an odd warble and another clatter, like there was something loose inside it rolling around. Peter put it back on the table hastily, turning back to see if Sylar had noticed that. How could he not?
XXX
Sylar couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. Of all the people, it had to be one that probably annoyed him the most. No, I take that back…it could have been Maya or Mohinder. Parkman would bore. Angela or Bennet would have been interesting; at least I’d know where I stand with him. Passing by Peter, he didn’t look at him as he went to put the toilet paper, toothpaste and other non-kitchen items where they belonged. But he did manage to smirk a little at Peter’s obvious inflexible pain. The kid’s back was really killing him, too. Ooh, sex-y, was his mental mockery of the sight and he almost rolled his eyes again at himself.
What he didn’t see was Peter grabbing for the precious regulator. If he had he would have snapped and smacked at Peter’s grabby hands, but unfortunately the imprecise, careless and broken medic was able to lay hands on his circa 1915 treasure. The sound of small parts clattering out of place raced up his spine and he stiffened, turning slowly to glare death and destruction at the other man. He knew he would really complete the whole hermit or cat lady image by shrieking ‘my babies!’, so he stalked to Peter and gently and firmly snatched the clock from him.
He knew there was no damage (the pieces merely being shaken out of place), but there could easily have been; it was an antique after all, something Peter knew nothing about appreciating. “New rule, don’t touch my stuff,” he commanded angrily and it showed on his face. Practically cradling the device, he set it gently on his watch table to be repaired. Again. “I can see why you didn’t make doctor,” he scathed, “God forbid a pediatrician.”
Peter being amongst his prized possessions, his fixed pieces with that semi-crappy unfixed watch, screaming at him like it was, sounded like nails on a chalkboard. He wanted it (and Peter) gone. Fixed. And now his hands were clear, his agitation, annoyance and near-malice were all the more clear to shine through as his hands fisted and he shoved them into his armpits, crossing them over his chest to prevent any homicidal damage to his companion. Sylar felt a prick of embarrassment at having to defend his former trade and current hobby to someone who knew him only as a Sylar, the world’s most special killer.
Having Peter around was obviously upsetting Sylar’s balance significantly enough that it was probably fucking with his long-since-dormant hormones; specifically the dopamine, serotonin, epinephrine and testosterone; the kind that made fights. He assumed it was because he wanted to know or find out where he stood with Peter. The subject of Nathan hadn't been broached since the medic first arrived, and the continued silence on the matter was surprising. Peter meanwhile reminded him of a child in a china shop. No wonder I hate kids. Sylar merely clenched and unclenched his fists where the other couldn’t see exactly, eyes black and narrowed at him.
XXX
“I’ll touch whatever I want.” He looked down at the clock, but it was innocent and besides, he was really worried he might have damaged it. That is, until he recalled it didn’t matter - nothing here was real, no one other than Sylar would even know what had happened here. Anything might transpire and there would be no witnesses other than himself and a deranged serial killer who couldn’t tell reality from fantasy.
Peter snorted, feeling a sudden very specific urge to set the tone for their relationship, or rather ‘re-set’ it. He didn’t like being pushed around, yammered at, talked down to or smarted off to. It was really starting to irritate him. He’d tried to be patient and he’d tried to be polite. The guy was clueless, socially inept and completely immoral, far past the rather loose standards of the Petrelli family (actually, the idea of ‘Gabriel’ as a brother hadn’t been so bizarre, on that front, but the whole time of dealing with him all Peter could think of was how his mother had lied about his father’s death - Peter hadn’t believed Sylar was his brother for a second, but what he had believed was that Sylar believed it…and for a little while, that was enough). Right now, Sylar didn’t seem to understand what it was he’d done wrong, or even that he had done wrong, most of the time. He’d been saner before, but then again, this whole mind trap seemed to have driven him right over the edge.
Peter looked past Sylar, at the kitchen. Maybe he’d find something to eat in there. He had no special desire to do that a few moments ago and really not an overpowering one to do it now, but what he did have was a desire to assert himself here. He took a stride forward, setting himself, knowing what he was about to do.
“Get out of my way,” he growled, leading with his left shoulder, his right hand free, moving like he fully expected and intended to move Sylar himself if he needed to. Maybe what Sylar needed was someone to put him in his place and keep him there.
XXX
Sylar was left to blink in surprise; he hadn’t expected…that. Did Peter think he could seriously barge in and starting upsetting and poking at his belongings? That was not going to happen. There was no wrong in his mind, of course (at least for the actions of the past three years; he’d been a saint); Sylar was minding his own business quite well, thank you.
He glanced around the apartment, noting that his apartment seemed to have been entered and rearranged, and not by himself. “What… Did you bust in here while I was gone, too?” Sylar turned accusing eyes toward the apparent intruder, “Looking for murder weapons, Pete?” the use of Nathan’s old reference towards Peter was intentional.
The would-be younger brother approached him and while he felt the need to back down as Peter would surely demand, but it was his place, damnit. Sylar just squared his body at the other man’s tone, the proximity anything but friendly, “No, you won’t. It’s my place.” While he didn’t see why Peter felt threatened by his demand not to touch his stuff, he was sure that he wasn’t in the wrong to demand what he had; however, the surging dynamics between the two left Sylar unsure of where he stood or if this battle was even able to be won.
The debate of showing good faith and keeping his arms locked to his chest crossed his mind, but Peter crossed a line first. “Should I be concerned about you walking in whenever I make a move, Pete?” he sneered, dropping his arms to his sides, his fists still balled up. His jibe clearly biting since he was slurring Peter as something of a pervert, snooping around his place the way he had.
XXX
‘Pete’ - so that was intentional, was it? Peter had been biting his tongue and ignoring it as nothing but an irritating diminutive, but he really should have thought. With Sylar, it wasn’t just a diminutive; it wasn’t just an unearned familiarity. No, that was saying something about Nathan; and Sylar shouldn’t get to say things about Nathan.
Sylar had every (or at least many, Peter didn’t know the details and he wasn’t sure he wanted to) memory Nathan had had. He had something of Nathan’s so intimate and so personal that no one else had ever had it; no one else would ever have it. He’d taken not only his ability, which was obscene by itself because of the murder it typically involved, but it was almost like he had stolen a piece of Nathan’s soul along with it. Nathan’s murderer had that precious thing, held it, and was throwing the fact in Peter’s face.
Peter took two quick steps towards the other man, his chin tucked and the beginning of a snarl on his face. He was actually pleased that Sylar didn’t get out of his way and that he limbered his arms. Shitty as Peter felt, it would all be wiped clean if he could beat the crap out of this guy. He’d taken him before, only a few weeks ago really, although a two-by-four to the back of the head would slow down anyone’s fighting ability. Rene’s power created a level playing field - not too different from what they had here, if Sylar was telling the truth about having no abilities.
Peter led with his left shoulder, which obscured his right arm to some extent. You ought to be concerned, all right, Peter thought, but the time for speaking was gone. He swung his right with an explosive strength, putting everything into it. Sylar seemed surprised, having stood there arrogantly busying himself with mouthing off and being superior rather than noticing he had pushed it too far. It was just another item on a long list of not-right behaviors Sylar had been showing, constantly hitting the wrong note. Peter had begun to think the man was doing it on purpose, trying to goad him. Well, with the ‘Pete’, he was sure.
He smacked him solidly on the cheek, managing to tag him hard even though Sylar had been jerking back and getting his hands up. It was too late for the hands to do much good, but the backward motion took out a little of the force of the blow. Sylar backpedaled and Peter hesitated, teeth bared. He wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a paste. He knew he would lose his advantage if he didn’t press immediately, but he had to see if something had finally engendered a recognizably normal reaction in the other man, or if he really was as crazy as he seemed.
XXX
Peter didn’t answer or make any form of non-verbal communication other than the snarl that Sylar caught way too late. Before he knew it and before he could react, Peter was on him, and his jaw hurt and he tasted blood from the swift punch to his face; the impact jarring his head around to the side. Moving back, getting quickly away, Sylar raised his hands out of surprise and to protect himself. “Uuhn,” was all he could groan from the pulsing pain in his cheek.
Stunned and angry, hurt eyes rose to stare at Peter. Probably had that coming. Should have seen it coming, too. He always was a little unhinged when it came to people. He didn’t move other than to rub at his cheek; not wanting to set the other man off again and with the idea Peter would ignore him if he remained still. He was dying to snap ‘Fuck you’ at Peter, but he managed to occupy his tongue with exploring the split inside of his cheek.
Slowly his hand dragged through the hair that fell over the side of his face opposite the injury. You should be fighting back, since when do you let people hit you and get away with it? ‘Die Alone’. //”I love you, Peter.” “I love you, too.”// Oh my god! Get out of my head! Sylar barely avoided slinking back to the couch with a book to pretend that hadn’t happened.
Contrary to popular belief, the current population being Peter, Sylar did possess survival instincts; the same ones he’d been using for six years, if only three of them were active. Besides, if he felt any desire to do so, his patience had grown (beyond what it had been) over the years to become a force to be reckoned with; he would easily wait in a dark alley to give Peter his due. Too bad that would leave him alone in all likelihood. There wasn’t really anything to say; he’d provoked the other man with his dead older brother’s nickname for him, even if Peter had started it.
XXX
Peter’s urge to continue was so strong that he swayed forward unconsciously, coiled tensely like a spring, a subtle motion that only became obvious as he pulled back. He breathed hard, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes evaluating Sylar over and over for a possible threat - or an excuse to hit him again. When Sylar stopped moving back and reached up to rub at his face, Peter met his stare evenly, watching for the slightest twitch of aggression to react to. Sylar didn’t look happy (and there was that ‘normal reaction’ Peter had been looking for), but there was no sign he was going to fight back.
Peter put his lips together and stopped baring his teeth, but his jaw remained tight. His gaze tracked that slow movement through Sylar’s hair before he finally relaxed a fraction and looked away for a second. Regret chased across his face, quickly swallowed up by another surge of anger - but it had been there for a moment.
He looked back at Sylar with a glare. “You don’t get to call me ‘Pete,’” he bit out.
Peter turned suddenly and stalked on into the kitchen, muttering, “Murder weapons,” to himself, but it was loud enough to be overheard. He looked around the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a wooden block with knives. He raised his hand towards them, then caught himself for the nth time and let it drop. He kept wanting to kill Sylar and he suspected he was going to keep wanting to kill him until he… he didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine what would make him stop wanting to avenge Nathan’s death. What was it he’d told his mother? ‘No one wants him dead more than me.’ He looked back over his shoulder in Sylar’s direction, wondering if he’d seen that motion, wondering what the other man made of it. He didn’t ask, though. Peter just shook his head and huffed.
What the hell am I doing in here? His flimsy reasons for barging into the kitchen came back to him, which was mainly a pretense to hit his companion. Oh…yeah. He looked around at the reasonably tidy countertops and opened the refrigerator, again glancing back to check status on Sylar. Peter remained wary and edgy, clearly willing to continue the fight at the drop of a hat or a single false move. He struggled to calm himself down, looking back at the contents of the fridge, swallowing and trying to master his breathing. He reached in and pulled out a half gallon carton of milk, then went to searching the cabinets for a glass.
XXX
Sylar caught the forward motion and stiffened, his head coming up (potentially making himself larger and taller to intimidate, but also out of reaction and to move out of range), but he avoided moving backwards mostly to be stubborn. Talk about taking things out of proportion, he was left to believe Peter was having some repressed issues and was likely to lash out at the slightest provocation.
While he didn’t stare back at Peter; he wasn’t that stupid, Sylar looked away and kept close track of the other man’s movements, completely prepared to duck back if he made another move. He felt Peter’s eyes boring into him and that instantly made him uncomfortable; that kind of attention was never good attention (not that he expected any less). Careful, I might attack you with my hair, Pete, he mentally snapped.
He took to staring at the wall behind and beside Peter that led to the kitchen. Peter wanted to play dirty did he? That was more than unfair but what was there to do? The man was within reason and Sylar knew it. Catch-22. Sneering at the name comment, Sylar just sniffed and shook his head in a display of teenage rebellion he hadn’t shown even as a teenager.
Eyes narrowing in latent danger as he caught the obvious jab that was humiliating if more harmless than the words themselves. Sylar was powerless, but so was Peter and that leveled the field just as it had weeks before at Mercy Heights. Yeah, totally leveled, fucking bastard. Play his game; you can always drug his damn food. Suddenly the worry he’d convinced himself he needn’t have about his life statics by homicide came back as Peter entered the kitchen with those parting words.
Plenty of weapons in there. He’s got motive, he’s shown he’s not hesitant to take a crack at you. But he thinks he needs you… He stood there debating whether to arm himself to prevent some kind of undocumented Survivor episode when Peter answered his inner dialogue for him, reaching for the knives he had. Shit, shit, shit. Die Alone. Die Alone, his mind was busy screaming at the motion. Thanks a lot, Claire, stupid bitch, Lydia. Going to your grave cursing them? Is that really worth your time? Should be praying to whatever god there is because you're as mortal as you were the day you were spawned.
Sylar’s eyes had widened, but he stood frozen, waiting to see he if needed to bolt. Should he even run? We all know Elle shouldn’t have saved your miserable neck from the noose, maybe this is what Hiro the hero meant…. Peter aborted the idea, but that did nothing to ease Sylar’s desire for survival and his suddenly boosted paranoia. He saw the medic moving about his kitchen toward the fridge and he made a show of making eye contact before looking away; the high school theatre classes and years of faking anything with Virginia with less, but more intense time spent as a psychopathic killer going far towards making the action casual and natural. Meanwhile his mind was buzzing to think if he’d left any cutlery or sharp objects in the refrigerator. He knew all too well just how dangerous vengeance was in anyone's hands, let alone someone as capable and as wronged as Pete. He won't need any damn weapon when he decides the time is right.
His hands fiddled at his sides and he gave thought to blocking up the door to his room with him inside. Signals, signals, what’s he looking for? Milk?! What the hell does he want here? Despite the desire to set boundaries, childish as it was, and kick Peter out after he’d made it clear that he couldn’t come traipsing in whenever he so damn chose to beat Sylar’s face in while he slept, Sylar did nothing. He told himself it was Catch-22. Who buys that? He has to trust you; no weapons, he told himself firmly, squashing his crazed mind’s attempt at heightened survival tactics.
“Choke and die,” he muttered, barely aloud and completely lacking in real conviction for obvious reasons. It was times like this he really cursed his parents, biological and adopted, for his lack of social skills. Yes, he could talk his way out of a jail cell (minus Bennet, the fucking little...). Granted, it was easier with stupid women like Maya and Candice-Michelle whatever the fuck, because he lacked conviction in sex to be able to use it as the casual weapon it was. But his true talents came in getting his way; the super-powered neural pathways and synapses in his brain would find the shortest, more direct route to 'his way' after considering the consequences and every potential outcome. When in doubt, bitch about it.
XXX
Peter heard Sylar say something, but didn’t catch what it was. He looked back out of the corner of his eye, then returned to searching the cabinets. Spices…plates…glasses. He got one down, one of a matching set of nice crystal. He paused to look at that. He was sure it meant something - the trappings of affluence in a small, cluttered apartment. He poured slowly and put the carton away, once more doing a status check on his companion. He took his glass and turned backwards against the counter, looking out at where Sylar was still standing and managing to look restless and fidgety without even moving.
Peter took a drink and God, did that taste good. He felt the cold liquid all the way down. Medically, he thought, milk is classed as a solid. It would calm his hunger for the moment. He tried to relax. He made a sharp exhalation - an attempt at a sigh, but he was still too wound up for that. “So. Three years alone, huh?” He looked at the milk, chewing his lip a little before taking another drink. “That’s gotta be rough.” He looked around the room blankly. He sounded insincere even to his ears. He was struggling to make small talk, but everything else he thought to say got vetoed by his brain before it made it to his tongue.
I had all those questions earlier - now I can’t think of them! Can he sense me? Can he read my mind? Did he know I was out there? Why is he here? Why this apartment? Why all this stuff around here? Does he still believe this is real? How can I convince him it’s not? Is that what I have to do? Does he get my dreams when I sleep? Why is he such an asshole? Does he understand this is a punishment? Does he think he needs to be punished? Is that why he acts so weird with me all the time - because he thinks I’m part of it? Is there a way to get past that so I can actually ask him this stuff?
He took another drink and reached up to rub his forehead. He looked at his right hand. The knuckles hurt. He’d been lucky, he supposed, in that he hadn’t broken the skin, or his hand. He turned his hand and rested them against the cool glass. He raised his eyes to Sylar, whose face was probably hurting him worse. He was pretty sure he ought to feel sorry about that. What he felt sorry about was that he didn’t.
He walked out of the kitchen slowly. His feet still hurt and reminded him of this fact now that he wasn’t riding high on adrenaline. He went immediately left, getting no closer than absolutely necessary to Sylar. He looked at the sofa. He’d intended to sit on it, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get up fast enough if he needed to. “We’ve got to get along with each other.” He glanced over at Sylar, then at the clock he’d manhandled earlier. He looked back at the other man. “Okay?”
XXX
Sylar’s expression ranged from narrowed eyes to a blank look at Peter’s sarcastic attempts at conversation, the lack of emotion on his face as it smoothed out conveying his singular thought very clearly; seriously? Peter was probably biting his lip to hold back his laughter at baiting him because Sylar found nothing about it funny. He made no answer to such a lame attempt at humiliation, instead leaning back against the wall in disinterest.
Peter was quiet for a while and Sylar noticed him pressing his fingers to the cold glass and he looked away in disgust. The whole thing was making him feel incredibly used, but that was not a new experience when dealing with Petrellis. Peter had broken into his house after he’d busted the door, snooped around, then come back and upset more things then punched him and raided his kitchen to ease the pain in his knuckles from the (in his mind) unwarranted blow. Peter moved and he stood straight again, but stayed still as the medic passed by, clearly and thankfully avoiding his person.
Keeping a close eye on Peter, he moved slowly to follow him into the living room, standing nowhere near the other, but he saw the aborted thought to sit at the couch pass through Peter’s head and he glared at his back. Now his couch was sub-standard? Was this Claire in shape-shifted form? Because his ‘guest’ was starting to remind him of the cheerleader, what with the hitting and the pickiness not to mention the brainless conversation, or lack thereof.
Crossing his arms again, he shifted his weight. He knew that was the closest to an apology he Peter was ever going to cough up, so he took what he could get. “Yeah, okay, Peter,” he conceded quietly, “You…” he started then stopped, deliberating whether to speak his mind, again, making direct eye contact looking up at Peter to show him how dead serious he was, “You’re stuck here, man. Get a place, get some hobbies that don’t include saving people. Settle down and find a sex toy because we’re going to rot here.” Words of wisdom however unspoken Peter might prefer them to be.
XXX
“Fine.” He eyed Sylar again and finally decided there was no counter attack coming. He sank down on the couch, but not without a wary glance yet again at his companion. That was the last though. He leaned back and put the heel of his palm to his forehead and shut his eyes. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck. “I might be stuck here for a while,” he admitted reluctantly. He put his hand down and took a drink.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking for a way out. Regardless of whether you believe it or not, or whether I can convince you or not, can you just accept that I don’t think this place is real?” He looked over at Sylar quite earnestly.
He started to put his glass down, then noticed there was literally no clear space on the desk next to it that was large enough to set a glass on. Everything was books and clocks in bell jars next to other jars of little metal parts, sitting on top of yet more books. “Why do you have all this stuff? Did you bring this here or was it here to start with?”
Once upon a time, Peter had had the normal allotment of ‘stuff’ that most people his age had - university textbooks, old clothes, CDs, a television, a trendy laptop that fit nicely in his equally trendy messenger bag, dishes that supported a place setting of six (like he’d ever have that many in his apartment!), along with furniture - a bed frame, dresser, table, end tables, sofa and a comfortable chair, among other things.
He’d come back after being locked up in Company jail to find his place had been cleaned out and had some Jewish couple from Indiana living in it. It was reasonable - he hadn’t been paying rent while locked up. After that, he’d lived a very sparse lifestyle. He hadn’t missed it much, actually, though he was unhappy about his mother telling him his place looked like he had a mental illness. Noah’s snide comments about it had not gone unnoticed either.
Hobbies that don’t include saving people…yeah. My whole purpose here is saving people. Noah kind of implied I was a little obsessive about that, too. He finished off his milk so he wouldn’t have to worry so much about where to set it and rested the empty vessel on his knee for the moment. He frowned over at Sylar, but it wasn’t a personal judgment. He was angry at the world; Sylar just happened to be the closest part worth looking at.
XXX
He exhaled a breath, sensing that Peter’s violent streak had passed, so he relaxed enough to slide his hands into his dark jeans. “I don’t expect you to stop,” he said with some amusement, “I give you about a year and a half, maybe two.” Sylar’s gaze grew distant as he examined the wall again; a little lost in his own thoughts of the years he’d had alone.
“You’ll find it doesn’t matter what either of us believes, Peter,” Sylar replied in the same tone of earnestness, but his voice and eyes were sad, his mouth downturned. He shrugged and shook his head at the medic. “The stuff?” Giving the man a strange look as if to ask why it mattered to him, he replied slowly as it addressing a child, “Three years is a long time alone.”
Closing his eyes briefly, he went on to answer the rest of the question, “I brought most of it. I…haven’t…I’ve been busy; I haven’t been here in….a long time.” He shrugged again to avoid the answer he had to give, felt compelled to give, “And now I’ve been here a long time and its worse. It was….how I left it six years ago.”
Clenching his jaw, he turned slightly away and leaned his hip against the desk his watches rested on. “And what brings you to New York, Peter Petrelli? I thought you were….” He waved a hand vaguely, “elsewhere with //Ma-//Angela or Parkman or something. And don’t give me that bit about coming here to save me to save your girlfriend.” Sylar’s tone changed to be firm and still be socially acceptable.
The impact of Peter’s fist was a possible reason for Peter to be here from Sylar’s way of thinking. Peter was a Petrelli, however (normally) decent and well-meaning he was, he still had Angela’s blood in his veins. Now that Angela had set Sylar’s bar that much higher by turning him into her beloved eldest, Sylar was willing to believe the woman was capable of anything; this could be the most elaborate mind-fuck to date in his short but memorable career.
XXX
Continued...