More Between Us Chapter 46/? "Channeling"
Chapter 46/? "Channeling"
Day 13, Morning
“Okay, so here’s the problem with power.” Peter spoke slowly, fiddling with the puzzle as he did. “Let’s say you got Matt’s power, with all the bells and whistles. You go to this crime scene, because you’re trying to do right by people. There’s a guy who’s been shot - I’ll call him Chris. And there’s a guy who’s been beaten up and stabbed in the neck - we’ll call him Bill. EMTs are working the scene and there’s cop cars arriving, but they’re going to let you handle it because you’re the hero, see?” Peter waited a beat to make sure Sylar was following his mostly hypothetical situation.
XXX
Sylar’s brows drew together as he listened, trying to picture…himself on the ‘other’ side of morality. He just didn’t belong there and it made imagining it difficult. What…does this matter, Peter? he wondered. Also, Is this a paramedic story masking a test? It sounded like a hidden test.
XXX
“You use your power to find out what happened. A while back, Chris borrowed money from Bill. Today, Bill showed up to get his money back. They got into an argument because Chris didn’t have the money. Bill called Chris names and Chris pulled a knife, threatening to slice Bill up. Bill went back to his car, got his gun, and shot Chris. Chris’ friend, inside the house, heard the shot, came out, and got in a fight with Bill. He got the gun away and beat Bill up. Chris gave his friend his knife, and the friend stabbed Bill in the neck. Thinking Bill was going to die, they just left him there and called 911 for Chris’ gunshot wound, while the friend ran off and hid so he wouldn’t get in trouble for murder. Chris tries telling you that he’d stabbed Bill in self-defense, but you know he’s lying. Both Bill and Chris are going to survive and there’s no evidence to implicate Chris’ friend unless you say something.”
Peter eyed his companion to make sure the other was still with him, then added, “Okay. You have this power. You’re the hero. What do you do?”
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A moment to wrap his head around the actual scenario…well, that took longer than his answer. “If I’m the ‘hero’, I’d make them tell the truth.” It sucks to be Bill, Sylar thought emphatically - outnumbered and looking for repayment…granted getting the gun wasn’t called for. It was simple enough to Sylar. “All of them,” he said to include ‘Chris’ friend. “They’re all guilty of something, so punish them all.” Wait…is that the point he’s…We’re all guilty? He frowned, obviously thinking that through. “Then…why do you call me names and treat me like shit and lie to me about everything if we’re all guilty? What makes you so…” Sylar’s voice wavered and broke. He recovered after a few seconds of anguished mental static, regret, really, that he was as horrible as he was. “So special. No one died and made you God. You don’t have any authority either.”
XXX
Peter’s mouth gaped open for a moment at the rapid transition, but he didn’t interrupt and by the time Sylar’s statement paused, Peter was shutting his mouth. ‘You’ doesn’t mean me. He means … everyone else. No. No, he means everyone other than him, me included. Sylar’s pain was so palpable that Peter felt some of it himself. ‘Call me names’, ‘treat me like shit’, ‘lie to me’ - well, I wanted a list. Desperately as he wanted not to be at fault for any of it, there had been many times in the previous week where Peter had vividly imagined and a couple where he even violently tried to hurt Sylar. And succeeded.
XXX
Oh. It struck him then. The Petrellis, the heroes, they weren’t natural-born monsters. Their specialness and power came to them innately, intuitively, organically. That was the difference between them, the distinction, reason, logic, whatever. It was a damn good reason, too. He inhaled a rough breath, letting it out in his words, “Right. That.” I just have it coming. They’re right and I’m still wrong. “Never mind.”
XXX
Peter waited for a long pause, before saying sadly, “No, we don’t have any authority. We’re not God, no matter how many powers we get.” Peter used the plural ‘we’ intentionally, meaning everyone and knowing that Sylar would probably hear it as ‘everyone other than Sylar’. It didn’t matter - it worked either way. ‘Lie to me about everything’ … \\‘You jumped ... Peter. Twenty-five feet to a fire escape. I climbed up and carried you down. That's what happened. The rest is just crazy talk. You understand?’\\ Nathan, of all people, should have told me the truth. “Does it help any of us, in the end, to punish us all? Has it helped you to be treated badly, or would things have turned out differently if someone had … given you help, or the truth, when you needed it?” Peter’s brows were drawn together, his voice low.
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Sylar could only watch Peter, partly listening and partly trying to determine if the man spoke the honest truth. So much of this was unfathomable, always had been, to him anyway. I wish someone could just…tell me my…purpose. Why I exist. At least I’d have an answer. “There are consequences to prevent chaos. That’s….universal. It has to apply to everyone, not just the black sheep or the weakest links or the outsiders.” That way I know where I stand…I know what the rules are and I can…pick and choose my…mistakes. I just…don’t think it’s…really fair to punish me because I didn’t get a fair start. It wasn’t for lack of trying and…lack of options for people to help me when they knew, they knew! I had a problem. That’s their fucking job! “My calling is keeping you in check.” And I don’t think it had to be that way…He desperately wanted to think it was possible for him to have been a hero before things went wrong. Most times when he started thinking that way the word monster would ring in his ears as the scars and bones and memories tried to heal while he ran again.
Sylar’s lips worked miserably after that for a moment. “Has it helped you to treat me badly?” he posed back, throat gravely and stuck. The idea of getting help and truth, thus changing the outcome, wasn’t a new consideration to him. At all. The probability of it happening? That was impossible as well he knew now. He couldn’t bring himself to answer that part of it. I didn’t deserve it, Peter, is that what you want to hear? Almost as an afterthought, he realized something important had been hinted at, “And why would you even say you’ve treated me badly? You don’t believe that.”
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Peter snorted. “Sylar, you’re beat to hell. Unless you wanted that somehow, then of course you’ve been treated badly.” Peter’s brows jumped in emphasis as he leaned forward. “I believe that’s wrong - it’s wrong to hurt other people. There have been times when I have thought I needed to stop you from hurting people or …” to get Nathan back. Peter gave a brief shake of his head, grimacing as he leaned back. “But there was probably a better way than violence. If I couldn’t find that way, then that’s my fault for not finding it.”
He growled, pushing his hair back aggressively. I’m not doing a good job of explaining. He spoke more slowly, intentionally trying to relax. “It’s complicated. But the simple stuff is that I say I’ve treated you badly because I have. It hasn’t helped me, except that sometimes it seemed like the only way to stop you.” Or to shut you up, like the other day. You might have started that, but I’m the one who started swinging. I’ve got to do something about that. “There were probably better ways of accomplishing what I was trying to do. I didn’t know those ways, but that’s not a moral excuse. I did the best I could. That’s … hardly ever good enough and it doesn’t make anything right, but it is what I did.”
Peter exhaled and looked away for a long moment, mulling over the rest of what Sylar had said. He didn’t want to talk about his endless fuck-ups in pursuit of trying to do the right thing. The only good thing about those were that they were more palatable to Peter than if he’d screwed up (or succeeded) while chasing after more selfish goals. But the times when he’d succeeded in heroism were outnumbered by the times he’d fucked up. He tried to change the subject. “What do you mean by ‘my calling is keeping you in check’? Keeping me in check? Or someone else? And what do you mean by ‘calling’?” What are you trying to do? You have some greater goal? Like right now, keeping me from … leaving this place or something?
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Sylar did his best to take that in, but the concussion added insulation from strange and foreign ideas. Peter’s words just didn’t sound like much, strung together. The words ‘my fault’ coming from Peter just seemed…odd; it didn’t seem right. It certainly couldn’t be directed at Sylar; that would be like some kind of apology. How…was it his fault? Why…I don’t get that. Treating me badly because there isn’t another way….because treating me any other way is a waste of time. If Peter doesn’t know another way, then…This really is all there is, then. I already knew that.
By Peter’s own definitions there…he did the right thing, though. There’s no other way and he’s doing the right thing. I’m evil, so he beats me up. It’s simple. “Nature, Peter. You don’t punish your own. So someone has to punish you and…the good guys.” Sylar looked down to the puzzle piece he was playing with, exhaling a light snort or ironic derision, “You struck first; I’m just finishing it.” I’m always finishing it, always behind. Or so it felt. Sad, too, that the cycle of punishment never ended. It was a never-ending game of tit-for-tat catch-up. I wish it didn’t matter anymore, but it does. It will always apply to me.
XXX
Peter tilted his head. ‘You don’t punish your own.’ The image of his father sighted down the barrel of a gun came to mind as an example of a time when Peter had certainly tried to punish his own, but it was chased away by his focus on the next things Sylar said. ‘You and the good guys’ - we need to be punished? We need it? That’s kind of like saying a dog needs to be kicked - it’s just stupid. But … wait, there are people who think that kids need to be spanked, like it’s morally good for them. His father came to mind again, but this time in a different context. Slowly, he said, “You know, my father used to say that what a young man like myself - this was back when I was a teenager - needed was a good beating. He seemed to think that would teach me to respect him. He said as much.” He glanced away with a sullen expression, not liking the memory of getting casually backhanded or the sentiment expressed. He looked back. “Since then, I’ve been beat up a lot. I’ve had bad things happen to me. I’ve even been killed a few times.” Peter shook his head slowly and spoke with condemnation in his tone as he said, “None of that’s ever made me more respectful of anyone. It just pissed me off and made me hurt.” Hurt in a way that transcended the mere physical.
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Well, you were kind of a pain in the ass as a teen, Peter…That didn’t negate the fact that Sylar thought (and knew from Nathan) that that course of action wouldn’t help or produce results, not from Peter. It would just make him dig his heels in. I need to remember that. Sylar could understand Arthur’s perspective a bit; even Martin’s. But beating a hero, the good guy, Peter…that was pretty brutal. Some teens have it coming, though, he thought with a depressed, painful pang in his core as he tried not to remember being beaten himself, at any age, wondering why it was happening to him. He knew now, of course, but that was little comfort. I deserve it; Peter doesn’t; it’s that simple.
But then Peter brought up the Achilles’ heel of that rationalization: pain. Sylar floundered with that concept or consequence, whatever it was. Pain just….is. I can’t avoid it, I can’t change to not deserve it. Isn’t it only fair that he suffer some, too, hero or not? His sense of fair, right and wrong internally roared: He can’t be that perfect!!
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Peter drew in a deep breath. “You beat the crap out of me a couple days ago,” he paused for a long beat before continuing, “but what made the biggest impact on me was that you stopped, right in the middle of it, and you let me get my bearings. I’m still trying to figure that out. You didn’t have to do that. What were you doing there, Sylar? Why didn’t you just keep beating on me?” You had me. The only reason you’re concussed is because of that breather you let me have.
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Sylar's brain arrested at the word ‘impact’. Damn, his cognition! That meant something and he couldn’t figure it out, being too stuck on the irony of ‘beat the crap out of’ in connection with ‘impact’ even though he knew that wasn’t the point Peter was trying to make. “I did?” Yeah, I guess I did. Why did I do that? “Uh…You….You were down,” he delivered lamely. I was enjoying my win? I liked…sitting on y- no. Being on t- no. “Maybe it was because you brought up your b-…” Sylar drew out the consonant ‘b’ making a sort of ‘bbbbbrmmhmm’ sound as he shut his mouth. That was a dangerous tool Peter might try and use (never mind that Sylar thought it was probably nothing of use, a one-time lapse): mentioning Nathan to get Sylar to instinctively quit beating the kid. Peter had suddenly looked like his, Sylar’s, brother. Or maybe his one and only, somewhat close friend. Potential fuck-buddy or something along those lines. Suddenly hitting Peter when he was down, bleeding and injured didn’t appeal to him. It was as startling to him as it must have been to Peter.
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My brother. Peter had a moment of weighing if Sylar had cut himself off because he remembered Peter forbidding the subject, or if he was doing it for some other reason. Given the lack of guilt or any quick glance on Sylar’s part to see that he wasn’t in trouble, the indication was for the latter. But then why? There seemed no other likely way of finishing the sentence and certainly not a way that would lead Sylar to fail to finish it.
What was it Sylar said? ‘Something will happen and I get reminded of him and I remember having him in my head and I can't ...’ Peter cocked his head a bit more. Maybe he didn’t stop because him-Sylar wanted to stop, but something happened to distract him into him-Nathan? Is there even a ‘him-Nathan’ to consider here? … Well, he more or less said there was. I suppose if you’re forced to play a role for a while, like Matt making him think he was Nathan, then … maybe it’s not so easy to shake off? And in the middle of the fight that’s why he stopped? Peter’s brows drew together and lips tightened as his head moved back to vertical. He would have rather thought that Sylar offered him a moment of mercy and found at least a shadow of goodness in his heart. Does it count if it was him-thinking-he’s-Nathan?
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“There isn’t much pleasure in beating the unconscious, Peter. They’re not awake to know they’re beaten.” Sylar gave Peter a briefly pointed glance before shrugging, “Besides…I know I have to keep you alive here. I have enough self-control,” he stressed on the subject of anger management, “To stop because I’m not a nurse and I can only patch you up so much, assuming I wanted to do that at all.” Which I do. Oh, yeah. Let me give you a physical. It’ll be fun, I promise.
XXX
Disbelief. Peter didn’t believe what Sylar had just said. I’m being lied to. That’s a dodge. Sylar’s had plenty of opportunity to be a sadistic bastard before and he didn’t that I know of. Gloating - yes. Sadism - no. But there’s something there that turns him on, for sure. Peter could read a hint of lust in Sylar’s demeanor now and he remembered getting slapped by the guy in the middle of the fight, accompanied by some snarky glorying in being on top. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, being left with the feeling that the answer was right in front of him if he’d could only see it. All he could make out was: Winning - important.
Keep pushing? Or leave it alone? Peter glanced over at one of the clocks. The morning was wearing on. He sent a glance back at Sylar, wondering how the man felt and what Sylar’s stamina was. Best way to find out … “Speaking of nursing, how do you feel? Do you mind talking like this, or does it wear you out? I’d like to go out a little later and I want to make sure you’re up for it, if you’re still interested in going.”
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Leaned on an elbow, he was trying to shove his hair back while he studied the muted puzzle pieces when Peter’s questions struck him. Sylar looked up, paused, then straightened up and away from the table, removing his elbow. In his limited capacity, he tried to make it look purposeful and relaxed enough to imply that he was, in fact, healthy, capable and in control. “I’m fine…I’m fine…Sure.” Of course it wears me out, you idiot. Of course, circulation will help my raging headache. Of course, let’s go for a walk. I can’t talk, so walking will help! This has got to be some kind of test. I thought I was supposed to sleep and drink lots or something, not go on fieldtrips to god-knows where. This was still Peter’s idea. Who said I was interested?
“When?” he asked, surprised by his own politeness, intentionally not phrasing it as ‘when are we going?’ This was all rather new and strange to Sylar - medical treatment, company, a sort of invitation/demand to go somewhere with someone (he didn’t confuse that with Peter desiring his presence in any way). Where were we even going again? His imagination supplied a few ugly scenes, but nothing that happened in them wasn’t impossible to perform here, in his apartment, so they made little sense. Point was, he didn’t have a clue what his role was in this beyond being…available.
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That was irritating. Peter’s lips thinned. For a guy who doesn’t like lying, he’s sure doing a lot of it today. Peter didn’t buy the ‘I’m fine’ routine any more than he did the ‘I stopped beating you because I wanted you to feel me beating you’ line. How would I treat a normal patient who was snowing me? “That’s great.” Peter’s voice came out a little tense. He immediately softened and modulated it to the usual tone he used with recalcitrant patients. “We’ll go just as soon as you’ve had a chance to lie down and get some rest. There’s no hurry.” And then Peter looked at Sylar levelly and directly for a few seconds, trying to draw inspiration from Nurse Hammer, who was famed at Mercy Heights for bossing patients around. He made a pointed glance at the couch just in case Sylar wasn’t getting the message.
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Sylar blinked in surprise before his eyebrows furrowed as Peter’s seriousness slowly dawned on him. What? His head tilted a few inches, eyeing Peter right back. Did he really just…? Wh- take a nap? Seriously? He followed the glance at the couch with confusion. He’s gonna make me? Why? He’s making this…conditional? I’m not a kid! Fuck…what do I do? “Uh…wh- but I don’t need rest,” Sylar hedged, torn between asking a question and sticking to his story. You’re the one who’s bored, Peter! Why do you want to wait and watch me sleep? (Actually, I don’t wanna know).
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“Yes, you do,” Peter said firmly. “You’re not telling me the truth and I’m not going to play games with you to figure it out. If you feel fine, go ahead and lie down, get comfortable, and we’ll keep talking.” Peter glanced at the couch, then turned his chair so he could get a pillow and blanket from Sylar’s bed. It’d be better if I just left, but I promised him earlier I wouldn’t. Sort of. What I meant was not leaving this place, this universe, this mental construct-thing we’re in, but it would look bad for me to say that to him and then take off a few hours later. In a quiet voice, Peter said, “Tell me the truth or not, I’ll still keep you company,” as he rose and brought the pillow and blanket over to the couch. “Not like being lied to is a big change of pace.”
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But how did he know that? There’s no way he knows that. He’s just guessing. The offer of talking even if Sylar got comfortable, horizontal was novel. It seemed too good to be true, probably was. Mentally, he wanted to stick to his guns and deny his condition and limitations. Physically, he wanted to lie down, relax and enjoy. Hell, Peter was making him a nest over there. His next internal sound was a whine of frustration - this had to be a test. He said even if I feel fine. I’m not losing face if I lay down. Or is that just a joke? He said he won’t leave…A squirm and shift, hesitantly, towards the edge of his chair, he froze when Peter turned back, began to approach him. His instinct was that he was going to be beaten and/or dragged into place, like it or not. It made him cringe inside, but he did his best to puff up to look bigger on the outside. Peter said that last piece. “What?” he blurted, purely incredulous, bordering on how-dare-you? How does he know that?! Then it hit him. Peter wasn’t talking about Sylar, but about the Petrellis. “O-oh.”
Peter reached out for him when Sylar didn’t make a move for the couch. Sylar stiffened and canted his head to eye the incoming appendage and that stopped Peter short, long enough for Sylar to take a much-needed breath and begin positioning himself to stand, unassisted. Dizziness from sitting too long, nausea and a miniscule wobble of balance - hey, I’m getting better! - came when he stood, but he limp-marched over to the couch with purpose. “…’M telling the truth,” he mumbled, adjusting the blanket over himself as he settled his head into the pillow as directed. He thought back to all the times he’d been allowed or encouraged to sleep, waking up unharmed and undisturbed in Peter’s presence. This seemed safe, historically.
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Buoyed by the cooperation, Peter smiled as Sylar settled in. In a good-humoredly sarcastic tone, he said, “Yeah, of course. You have a concussion and I’m sure your head is killing you, but you’re fine!” With his right hand, he ran his fingers in a quick stroke over Sylar’s left deltoid, tapping them against him a couple times in a finger version of a pat. “You’re a tough guy, Sylar. I know that. Lemme look at your toes. I’m sure they’re fine, too, but I want to see them.”
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Sylar’s glanced at the hand touching him. Touching. He’s always touching. He hates me and he still touches me. Does- Is his problem that bad? I could get so used to this…His eyes twitched towards narrowing - Is he mocking me? - but he allowed his ego to be stroked. Some respect was due for physical durability and endurance after all and he was long overdue for having that noticed. So long as he knows that. I kicked his ass twice. The blanket was pulled up to reveal his foot and he watched with interest. And he’s gentle, too. Perhaps that was the majority of his surprise: there was a difference between doing something for Sylar like he was worth it and doing the same thing bereft of that gentle touch, begrudging him the treatment the whole way.
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Peter’s examination was brief; resting the fingers of his right hand on the bridge of Sylar’s foot while his left cupped the ball. He moved it in a slight flex, not moving or touching the injured toes themselves, but watching the faint change in coloration that told him about circulation and degree of inflammation. “Doesn’t look like ice would help you much at this point. Looks okay.” He tugged the blanket over Sylar’s feet, tucked it in carefully, and went on.
Seating himself again, Peter looked at Sylar’s face for a few moments in case the other man had something to say. Seeing no immediate indication, Peter picked a topic. “Tell me about Matt using his ability at work. I’ve used different ones of mine at work, but I had the impression there was something wrong with what Matt was doing.” Normally, Peter didn’t like thinking about Matt’s ability. It gave his stomach a queasy turn. But given who he was spending time with, and where, and how, it seemed like the sort of thing he needed to confront.
He could remember commanding people to let them through security (did they lose their jobs?); ordering them to draw guns on their coworkers while he and Parkman infiltrated the government’s databases (were they or their coworkers traumatized by that? How would Peter feel if Hesam one day pulled a gun on him under some supernatural influence, or if he lost control of himself and was forced to threaten an innocent without knowing if he’d be made to pull the trigger or not?); Matt whammying a bartender to allow them to dope Noah’s drink and then drag him off later (did that make her more likely to look the other way for similar misconduct in future? Did she think less of herself for ‘allowing’ that?); and then … there were the serious things. Like the way Noah had jerked and twisted and fought against Matt’s mental invasion as Peter had stood by, tacitly endorsing the interrogation and what looked like torture. Noah didn’t seem to take it personally, but then again, they were talking about Mr. Bag and Tag who left confused kids with lethal powers all alone in a situation that led to the kid killing his own parents. Noah’s moral compass spun as much as Samuel’s in his hand.
Peter looked at Sylar, remembering Sylar’s words from earlier when the subject of Matt’s effects on him had come up: ‘I’m fine, Peter. Thanks for asking!’ was what Sylar had said, angry and sarcastic. Defensive. ‘I’m fine,’ Peter repeated Sylar’s line to himself. Huh. Sylar did not seem as hardened to it as Noah. Not as internally scarred, cicatrized, and calloused as the man who was twenty years their senior and had been dealing with specials for four or five times as long. And perhaps Noah had come to the situation more prepared, less mentally vulnerable because he understood what was going to happen to him. Peter remembered how much of his own terror and desperation had made things worse for him when he’d just discovered his abilities. He doubted Sylar had had any warning the first time he was blotted out. Peter had given him only a few seconds the next time. He remembered Sylar jerking his head back during the exam and freaking out for a moment when Peter had reached for his forehead. Ah! Peter’s eyes widened slightly at the realization. It wasn’t a mirror image fear that I was going to cut into his brain. It was fear that I was going to do that to him all over again. Especially if his head hurt and his memory was fucked up and we’d just had a fight and … yeah. Yeah.
XXX
Sylar licked his lips, turning his head to the side a moment to cope with a rush of memories - his own, Nathan’s and Matt’s - all of using powers at work. Telekinesis in his watch shop to murder Brian Davis; telekinesis to call the coffee cup to himself, electricity, shape-shifting and flight; pushing thoughts and readings minds of friend and foe and stranger and victim alike. He swallowed, forcing that uncontrolled panick-y feeling away, having to ground himself in his identity. It helped him to wonder what powers Peter had used; how and why.
“That’s the only way he got to be a real cop, I’m pretty sure. Reading minds. He can’t read, you know,” Sylar snorted. Cop with a GED. Mastermind with a high school diploma. Peter….with a medical degree and some law school. “He used it to save his job, push thoughts on his boss.” A chuckle was next, “He made the water boy get a new route because Matt was feeling threatened,” he leered, comfortable from his throne now, smirking and waggling his eyebrows briefly to make his lewd point, “His wife has needs he’s not fulfilling, but other men can, apparently. Filled her needs just fine,” he heavily implied with the tone of ‘I filled’. “Oh, he beat up a suspect in his custody and threw a chair at a guy he was…interrogating.” /’I’m going to use this room for…interrogation again. I’m gonna get a confession out of you about how you murdered your mother’/ He twitched sharply at that, blinking, feeling the fright chase through him still, dulled somewhat now, but that time, when he’d been a mindless body wandering around, had been terrifying and amazing at the same time, very clear even now. Lubbock’s dead. Serves him right. “He used it all the time on me,” Sylar sniffed an inhale, shrugging back his shoulders in dismissive defiance as he crossed his arms, “Of course, that’s all fair and above board.”
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Peter listened, an expression of slight befuddlement growing on his features. “How do you know all this?” Not that Peter doubted him - he didn’t - but those weren’t things Matt would have shared willingly and since Sylar didn’t have telepathy ...What happened after the Stanton Hotel? What was going on that Matt Parkman wanted Nat- Sylar? to touch his hand in the hospital? Should I ask that? Peter weighed the situation. Sylar was lying down, relaxed, and non-threatening, even if a bit twitchy and defensive.
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Sylar frowned at Peter because it seemed so obvious. “I was…stuck in his head. You were with me- Nath- um…my body. He said he pushed me out, stuck Nathan in and…we found out that I hung onto Matt’s pea-sized brain for what that was worth,” he snorted disgusted and dismissive. Bastard wouldn’t take me to my body!
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Really? That's...weird. Like Matt made a copy of Sylar somehow when he tried to erase him? Peter's brow furrowed, but he put it aside for pondering later. Back to topic he thought, Better question is me - can I handle whatever he says? Whatever he admits to? Matt was angry enough to do this - this place - to him. 'That's all fair and above board,' huh? He wants me to tell him that what Matt did was wrong, like it justifies the stuff Sylar's done. Don't know, but maybe he'll tell me more if I lean it that way. “I don’t know what’s fair or not without knowing the whole situation. Will you tell me?” Peter tilted his head slightly, watching Sylar for a long moment before looking back at the puzzle pieces, giving the man an opportunity to gather his thoughts.
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Sylar huffed slightly, annoyed that the conversation was focusing on Matt (yet he’d offered Parkman up as the topic all the same). He felt like he was getting pumped for information - he probably was - There’s more entertaining ways to do that, you know, Peter… “He was in substance abuse counseling, trying to quit his ability, the idiot.” He shifted, his intensity rising as he leaned forward a bit, gesturing passionately, “You can’t do that, it’s part of you,” a drop in the intensity as he realized what he was doing, at least physically, settling back, “I told him he was crazy for trying. He did all those things while trying to ‘quit,’” he sneered the word. It was repugnant to him. Everyone had told Sylar to quit; he’d tried and failed because there was a need in him that could not otherwise be met without abilities. /’The powers are me now.’/ Why can’t anyone see that?
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Peter gave another quizzical look. How do you quit an ability? But then Sylar answered Peter’s unspoken question, getting genuinely emotionally engaged in the subject, which made Peter smile faintly to see. That tiny blip of positive or at least non-negative emoting made Peter realize how little of it Sylar had done. He didn’t count much of the long walk they’d taken, discussing favorites and such. He’d had such an impression that Sylar had been acting then. This seemed genuine.
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Pondering that as deeply as he could, Sylar wanted to ask Peter something important. “Why does everyone think they need to get rid of their ability like it’s a disease?” It’s the one thing that makes you special. /’You’ve been handed so much. And yet you want to destroy the one part of yourself that makes you truly special. Your power,’ he remembered analyzing Nathan the same way/.
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“Not everyone,” Peter said mildly, looking down at the puzzle to fiddle with a piece. “I happened to like mine. Both of them.” Scary as hell at times, though.
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"That's a relief," Sylar murmured. Peter thinking otherwise about his ability would probably earn the man a beating all it's own somewhere down the line.
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He breathed out and put the puzzle piece down, pushing the chair back a little and swiveling it towards Sylar as he leaned back. He rubbed his right forearm with his left hand before saying, “I think a lot of people are scared of changing, of becoming something different than they were.” He was thinking about Nathan and not only his brother’s initial pretense that he couldn’t fly, but his later assault on everyone who was special. “I think the difference scares them. They want to control it, maybe starting with themselves.” He shook his head. “People don’t work that way.”
He leaned forward, brows drawing together as a thought struck him. “You say Matt did all that stuff while he was trying to quit. Did you get the impression he’d done worse before? Was there anything in-“
XXX
“Worse?!” was Sylar’s instantaneous, mortally offended demand. Obliterating me wasn’t worse?! Of course not!
XXX
“… um,” Peter suddenly put two and two together and didn’t like the answer. Did Matt try to quit his ability because of what he did to Sylar? Was that just too much for him? He took a deep breath and let it out, thinking of a different angle that seemed more likely. Or was it the whole Homeland Security/Daphne thing? “I don’t know about his wife, but he lost someone really important to him not long before that. Maybe he thought that if he quit his ability, he could quit,” Peter gestured around vaguely, “all the dangers that come with our life. I was just wondering if, in his process to do that, he was under so much stress trying to live a lie that he was being worse than he had been before.”
XXX
Peter clearly realized his blunder and auto-corrected enough that, with a glare, Sylar grudgingly let it pass at that and continued to listen to Peter’s semi-interesting points that made little applicable sense. Change was part of life, humans were made to evolve - barring that, they were made to adapt. “Since when is that an excuse?” he reasoned disdainfully about Matt being under stress and wanting to get away from the dangerous life. Because, really, that ‘excuse’ would never pass for Sylar; why should it for Matt?
But something in the way Peter phrased it, ‘I don’t know about his wife’ and ‘lost someone really important to him’ caught up with his brain. Parkman wasn’t in contact with his father, his mother was still alive, Sylar knew that for a fact; the man had no siblings and no one dreadfully close besides maybe (sickeningly) Mohinder that Matt would miss…When he tried to think of Matt’s past, Nathan supplied some of Parkman’s history during the whole Building 26 phase that Sylar couldn’t otherwise account for. A name and a face appeared (albeit dimly) as well as an ability: “The Millbrook woman.” Sylar laughed until it hurt his head, halting him with a grimace, “Oh, that’s rich.” Another pause to think that through, connecting some guilty dots of Matt’s life, chuckling, “And that explains a few things.” That’s why Matt acted strange when I fucked Janice, all that fake anger was just for show. He cheated on her. Ha!
XXX
Peter made a long, disapproving frown at Sylar’s laughter, ended by a judgmental grunt and looking down at the puzzle. He chose to otherwise pretend the outburst hadn’t happened and responded to Sylar’s prior comment. “I’m not excusing him. But there’s always something that happens to set things in motion. I’m trying to understand what happened.” Like I’m trying to understand you. “I want to know what motivated him to do those things.”
A puzzle piece slotted into position unexpectedly. Peter picked up a new one. Sylar doesn’t give a flip about Matt’s motivations. We’re talking past each other - I’m not connecting. He doesn’t want to hear the difference between an excuse, an explanation, and a justification. What does he want to hear? He glanced up briefly, casting his mind back over the most recent bits of conversation, thinking of Sylar’s moment of engagement. He focused on his companion, gesturing loosely with his words. “You said a person can’t quit their ability. Can they at least channel it? Choose when to use it?”
The answer seemed obvious, but he wanted to hear it from Sylar’s lips, because there was a hint in what Sylar had said that maybe the man felt his own ability wasn’t something he could direct. If Sylar’s control of his ability, early on at least, was no better than Peter’s had been, then what if it activated every time he encountered a special, the same way Peter’s ability hadn’t consulted him about adding a new power to the arsenal? Peter’s had done its ‘thing’ even to the point of putting him in a coma. But was Sylar saying that people couldn’t stop using their ability? That Matt had been forced to use it? If Sylar were equally ‘forced’ to use his ability when he was new to it and couldn’t control it … what would that mean? Peter’s absorption was painless and unnoticeable when it activated, so uncontrolled use didn’t hurt anyone else. Sylar’s ability was … not the same, not at all.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes narrowed a centimeter or two in confused curiosity. “Evidence shows they can be channeled, yes.” After all Matt channeled his; Peter channeled his; Claire…sort of did. Sylar was much more in the grey whether he did any channeling - if that was even possible. He always felt channeled instead, like there was far too much power contained in his body and brain and he was just the weak conduit, steps behind and lacking the strength to fight his own power. His options at that stage had not been pretty, healthy or desired. It was a “choice” between sanity and insanity at best. So it wasn’t much of a choice.
He gave a slow blink at Peter, “You can probably choose. You’re not going to want to, though. People with powers come with the urge to use them. That’s why everyone gets into the messes they do - they want to use their power…Most of the time it’s a choice between letting the bullet hit you, kill you, or…stopping the bullet. I don’t have to use my powers; I could use a scalpel and drill and get the same effect - that’s why the police couldn’t figure out how I did it. I don’t have to worry about a murder weapon with prints,” he stated proudly, feeling clever and ahead of the game.
“Doing that,” in reference to the drill/scalpel bit, he turned disparaging, “it’s…it’s…normal…it’s cheap, it’s average. It’s too easy, anyone can do it - it takes skill to do what I do. I’m the only one who can do what I do, except…for when you take my power,” he hedged somewhat unhappily about that, ignoring thoughts of Samson, too. Why did you tell him that? “I like my abilities and they aren’t something that can be separated.” Sylar switched to warning and threatening, backing it up with an intense stare, “I won’t let you take them.” I’m not a walking….Rolodex or power bank for you, either!
Continued...