More Between Us Chapter 47/? "Morals of a Monster"
Chapter 47/? "Morals of a Monster"
Day 13, Morning
Peter’s brows rose. He smiled slightly and looked away with a very soft snort. I didn’t get any choice in losing my abilities, buddy. If someone decides to neuter you, I don’t think they’ll ask permission first. I’m sure my dad wasn’t the only one with that power. He shook his head, deciding not to comment on any of that. “Didn’t come to take your powers. And anyway, the way mine works these days doesn’t ‘take’ anything. It just copies.” He looked back at Sylar, reminded of a thought he’d entertained before about what would happen if he tried to use his ability here, on Sylar. It seemed like a bad idea, though, no matter how strange he’d felt a few times when he’d touched the man.
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Sylar grunted, relenting. That’s right. But the ability he claims to have is Matt’s, not Claire’s. I just hope he isn’t lying and he really has the Haitian’s…
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Peter leaned back in his chair again, saying, “Story time again. This one’s about abilities.” So you’ll like it. “I needed healing for a friend. I went to Noah. Asked him if he could help me find someone who had it. Claire’s blood wouldn’t work. He knew this kid, named Jeremy, who he’d last seen …” Peter pursed his lips and shook his head, “years ago. Kid was 15 or 16 now. So we went to his house …” Peter stared off into the distance, his eyes directed towards the shelves over where Sylar lay. “Plants outside were dead. Inside, his parents were dead. Had been for a week or so. Hard to tell, given that there weren’t even any bugs alive in the place.” His nose wrinkled, but Peter looked distressed from more than a remembered stench.
“Jeremy was still living there. He couldn’t … figure out how to do anything but kill.” Peter swallowed, blinking himself out of it and glancing down uncomfortably at Sylar. He shifted in the chair restlessly. “He shot me, with a shotgun, right through the chest. Point blank.” He chewed his lip. “Noah … heh. I guess he talked him through how to switch. How to ‘channel’ the other direction.” Peter scratched at his upper lip with his thumb. “Obviously, I survived.”
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A scowl-type frown of intent interest (aka ‘listening’) crossed his face when Peter got to the parts about dead parents and pure killing. Is he trying to insult me or…say something here? How much could he really have to say on the subject? He had my power for, what, a day? Something in him, something that probably wasn’t actually him, twinged when Peter told about getting shot. His protective urges, however misguided and rotten, were useless now. Then his eyebrows went up a little. “Noah talked him through the switch?”
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Peter gave an 'I guess so' shrug about Noah talking Jeremy through it. He remembered Noah and Jeremy yelling, voices raised in tension, while he was very certain he was about to die. He had that moment of clarity just as he’d had twice before: when thrown off the roof by Claude and when falling off with Sylar. Peter had died a lot of other times, but the others had been too fast for him to think about it; he'd expected to revive, or he'd been too distracted by other things. This time, too, death had lost its grip on him, he'd woke up laughing.
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What does Noah know about-…Oh. Yeah. Sylar closed his eyes for a moment, too angry and sad to do much else. Of course Peter’s worth saving. “I suppose you would get the benefit of everything…Knew that bullshit about him retiring was a lie, too. He never could keep his nose clean.” A tilt of his head and a blink as he hit on what Peter probably meant by all that: “A healer who killed?"
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“Yeah.” Peter gave Sylar a very intent look for a second or two before breaking it, deciding that Sylar’s interest was on the level. “A healer who killed,” Peter mused, picking out a different puzzle piece to toy with while he talked. He looked back to Sylar, more conversational in his eye contact now. “Noah called it a 'dual ability', that he could either drain life or give it. Story doesn't end well.” Peter's eyes slid out of focus as he pondered a few things. I told Sylar he should have killed himself when he saw he couldn't stop himself. That's … that's what Jeremy did. Was it right? He sighed heavily. Jeremy was just a kid, but did Sylar's age make a difference? Jeremy had had his power for years before losing control of it. And Sylar? Peter chewed the inside of his lower lip, uneasy at the hypocrisy he knew he was enacting. How would I feel if Jeremy had killed someone I loved? But Sylar's different, right? He was trying to kill or at least impersonate the president and he didn't kill Nathan for his power. He did it because he could. He gave Sylar a half-second glare before turning his eyes to the puzzle to keep from escalating the tension. Just leave it alone.
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Not for the first time, Sylar wished for his full mental capacity - dual abilities was something of deep interest. What does that mean for my ability? He’d tried fixing people, helping them, saving them a few times so he had a little experience, but it hadn’t resulted in much experimentation. Is there another side to it? He wondered, since that was all he could do for now. He beat down the flutterings of hope (ridiculous now that he didn’t even have the problematic aspect of ability); he didn’t want it crushed. Of course it doesn’t end well.
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“He died. Jeremy, that is. Noah was fine.” Peter turned back to Sylar. “But my point was that I've seen a lot of cases where channeling an ability … wasn't easy. You said people couldn't quit them, but they could be channeled. What does it take to do that? When I had my first ability, I never did figure out how not to absorb an ability. And I tried. Tried every way I could figure out - not to meet Ted, not to get his ability, not to activate it. Didn't matter.”
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Of course he died. Saw that coming. They killed a kid. Does that mean they have something against people who have ‘dual abilities’? A mental snort and eyeroll accompanied Peter’s admission that Noah was fine - This is me real worried about Noah, Pete. Sylar nodded at first, mostly sarcastic if that was possible. It made him feel a little better that control-less, powerful, perfect Peter couldn’t control his ability much either. Then again, that meant that Peter was a hypocrite just like the rest - persecuting and damning Sylar for the same fault that every special suffered. Howver, he’d mastered his collection. Really, the only abilities he’d ever lost control of were his original, shapeshifting, and the memory-touch and only one of those was actually dangerous. He considered that pretty good control, given the number of powers he possessed. Peter was like a gun waiting to go off at all times. Sylar's temper was similar, but not the same.
Head down for a few seconds, he plucked at the blanket over his thighs before curiously looking up at Peter after he asked, “So you killed him?” I’m not surprised. Noah would insist. Or do it behind Peter’s back.
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Peter stared at him blankly. Ted? I didn't kill Ted. You killed Ted! Is his concussion and memory stuff that bad? Wait, no. He's talking about Jeremy. But … why would he think I …?
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Sylar thought on Peter’s question then, again, wondering why Peter would ask about something Sylar clearly hadn’t mastered himself. “I don’t know anything about channeling. Every time I try I get my neck broken,” he gave a dark, pointed glare, “or drugged or something like that. I’m lucky to wake up alive and in one piece as myself, not stuck in a cell or related to a bunch of crazies. There’s only so many times you can find out you’re adopted or not related to people before it loses its thrill, Peter.”
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Peter frowned and his brows drew together. A number of nasty comebacks floated to the surface of his mind, but he pushed them back under. Sylar's tone, with his last words, shifted from being deliberately offensive to something else, something more like … wistful. It sent Peter's thoughts to how Sylar had reacted to the idea of being related. 'Brothers come back for each other.' He was a hell of a lot better brother at that point than Nathan was. At least, he understood loyalty. No, he didn't really. He had a fantasy of what family was like. Peter snorted slightly and glanced away. 'Pie in the sky', 'dreamer', 'head in the clouds' - that's what Nathan and Dad would tell me, sometimes even Ma. Like it was a bad thing. And here I am about to accuse Sylar of the same thing, of being too idealistic, of wishing things were good and better?
He wouldn't have made that bad a brother.
Peter had no idea where that last thought came from. It made him instantly uncomfortable, sending his mind scrambling for a new topic, anything to distract and think of something else. “No, I didn't kill Jeremy,” he blurted. “I left Noah to … Noah said he had it. My friend was dying. I had to get back. I thought,” Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head. I thought Noah could handle it. “I thought wrong. The police took Jeremy in for questioning. Apparently, there was more background to things than just his parents dying. Noah got him out, but Jeremy accidentally killed someone else outside the police station and then turned himself back in. He was dead that night.” He sighed heavily, looking away and trying not to think about the manner of death. He'd seen enough motorcycle accidents that he had a good idea of how gruesome it likely was. “Someone tore down the police station right after, crushed a bunch of people. Whole thing made the news.” Peter chewed his lower lip briefly, looking back to Sylar thoughtfully. “I'm thinking it was the same guy who made that sinkhole in New York. Killed a bunch of people there, too.”
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Okay, so it wasn’t Peter and Noah. Or so Peter said - supposed truths coming from a Petrelli about a Company man? Peter’s story did sound a bit…far out to be a lie, though…It made the news? Where was-? Hmm. Sylar watched Peter’s lip a moment as the empath played with it before returning his gaze innocently to the man’s eyes. The concussion slowed him down, he felt more sluggish the longer he sat propped with pillow and blanket and company. It also made him a bit fussy - the fear of sleeping and waking up alone was still very much present.
Sylar scrunched up his face in thought. Sinkhole…sinkhole…I assume he means a power, so who has the power to…? His face lit up and smoothed out, “’S probably Samuel. Sullivan. Uh…you know about the Carnival, //I told you I was there for a week//? Er…” he shook his head and refocused, “Longer…than that, I think…Anyway, Samuel’s…not the guy he says he is. Those pebbles of his are pretty deadly. Think sandstorm.” He backed that up with a ‘yeah, I’ve been there’ expression, not necessarily a proud one, crossing his arms. “I think I have myself a copy-cat fan,” by which he meant Samuel.
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“Samuel, huh?” A copy-cat fan? Peter's brows pulled together and he looked down at the floor for a moment. Samuel tried to recruit me. Does he kill the people he recruits? Is that what Sylar means? Or does he just keep them around him? What if he traps them somehow? That would explain a lot. Emma … she can summon people. Did Samuel create that sinkhole because he was pissed I turned him down? “What do you mean by copy-cat fan?" he asked as he looked at Sylar again. "What's Samuel up to?” Because he was definitely up to something.
Peter was wondering if Samuel's 'plot' involved using Emma to draw specials to him. Perhaps he gained powers through proximity? Maybe Samuel had a form of empathic mimicry like Peter himself used to have, except instead of needing to think about the power-donor and remember what they meant to him, he needed to have them on hand? Someone like Emma would keep people from being able to say no to their captivity (at least initially - Peter wasn't sure how her power worked), but Peter didn't see how that fed into Emma being forced to summon thousands of people to their doom. What purpose did that serve?
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Peter seemed contemplative. He knows Samuel? Has…No, he hasn’t been to the Carnival. He said the guy was in New York and that’s where Pete works. Sylar shrugged. He knew things at the Carnival had been heating up (in more ways than one) from desires he’d stolen from Lydia’s kisses. Samuel was relying on a witless lackey, Eli, for mysterious tasks and Lydia was worried about the run-away Edgar and her daughter, and wanting Samuel out of the picture little did Samuel know. “Every time I show up there, he’s talking about family,” Sylar snitted out the last word, “And there’s always new…family members. I mean, he can’t be collecting them just for me,” Sylar chuckled a little, his meaning obvious. The thrum of being amongst that many powers was an aphrodisiac, a narcotic. He was half-high the last time he’d visited and the haze had cost him a bit. It had been a while since he'd felt that. Failing to kill the slimy bastard still rankled, getting killed by him even more so, but it flew in the face of being hugged and welcomed, freaking baptized (what had he been thinking? That was just it - he hadn’t been thinking). Samuel had gone out of his way to make Sylar ingratiated and comfortable during his stay(s); that hadn’t gone unnoticed.
However, the Irishman had been too pushy in his delivery, his desperation was unmistakable - that whole bullshit about Velma? Valerie? That was a rip-off. The tattoo had been bunk as well. More was the pity. “He killed a cop that was after me. Or rather…Edgar did. Samuel seemed to want me back, my powers, my memories. My memories. Because they weren’t…in the body at the time.” He glanced at Peter then, a little questioning. “He made me part of the family,” he intoned with some light, hesitant pride and challenge. Then he killed me and tried to be my best friend after giving me back my memories and baptizing me into the cult. What an idiot.
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“Hmp,” Peter grunted in displeasure. Guess the thrill of thinking you're related to people hasn't worn off completely. “Yeah, he had a lot to say about his family when I met him, too. I didn't have a good impression of him. His opening move was to sue me for negligence.” Peter pursed his lips, looking away and concentrating. “You know … I told him I was wrong, that I'd made a mistake … but I still don't remember him being at the accident.” Peter exhaled, realizing this didn't make much sense for Sylar without background.
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Sylar blinked. What? Sue him fo-...They met in New York, yeah. Peter got sued? For something he...thinks he didn't do? Doesn't remember? Did Parkman or the Haitian do something to him? Maybe that explains him being nice...
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“First thing I knew about him was a process server giving me papers that he was suing me. Samuel was going under the name of William Hooper. I found him in the hospital.” Peter chewed his lip again. “What I noticed right away was that he was lying and used to doing it. He was lying and used to doing it. He was trying to manipulate me. Hardly a word about his injuries and a lot of talk about how what I'd done was going to cause his family to starve.” Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head, a more honest reaction than he probably would have had elsewhere. Being trapped with Sylar had its perks. “I just couldn't tell what he was aiming at. But I thought Hesam remembered him and then I found a picture of Samuel at the accident scene, so I decided he was right and my memory was wrong. I found him again. He accepted my apology and shook my hand. There was definitely something there - an ability, and something else. I felt it.
“That night, the tattoo of that compass that's on his carnival showed up on my arm.” Peter rubbed at the spot on the inside of his right forearm. “Took me a while to find out what it meant. Wasn't until Samuel sent E- ...” Peter smiled sourly like he'd just been suckered into something. Being trapped with Sylar also had its downsides, as it seemed far too short a distance between Samuel giving Emma a cello and Sylar figuring out she had a power. Peter stood up, making no attempt whatsoever to conceal his sudden change of topic. “Hey, you want something to drink?”
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Sylar’s eyebrows arched when Peter mentioned the tattoo, then dropped into a frown when Peter grimaced in mental discomfort, cutting himself off. He just couldn’t figure it and the segue to drinks wasn’t subtle. He exhaled a grumpy sound lightly in answer, unhappy at not getting the full picture.
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"Okay," Peter said, walking off into the kitchen. Nearly slipped there. I dunno what to think about that. We're just talking. If we're talking, then I'm going to talk. How the hell am I going to censor myself for the next however long? He sighed and drew Sylar a drink anyway, leaving his own on the counter, partly drank. Just like with Hesam and all the rest - just different subjects.
Peter dropped off the drink with a low but distinct, “You should be drinking as much as you can.” He moved on without waiting for a response and sat down. “What do you know about that compass, anyway? Does it mean something?”
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Sylar glanced back and saw the man return, with a glass. Oh, stop mothering me. On second thought…never mind that. Keep nursing me. While Sylar had done nothing to deserve this, he felt entitled to it. The Petrelli family certainly owed him dues aplenty. Besides, who didn’t like getting pampered when they were sick or injured? “The compass?” Sylar snorted. Why does he assume I know anything about them at all? What should I tell him: ‘Nathan got a tattoo of a compass on his left nut while he was there’? “Yeah. Samuel gave one to me before //I came to see you//. It’s…something to do with his power and…specials - it’s how they find their way back to the carnival.” His eyes scanned over Peter’s frame, what he could see of it. “It’s not there anymore…the tattoo?” Might be kinda hot…Matching ability tattoos? Oh, God, he groaned to himself, wishing as he always did for more people in the world - for his full power (strange as that sounded) and for abilities to consume. His reaction was one of lust. He could lead me right to them; fuck!
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Peter pulled up his sleeve, hesitating at Sylar's obvious examination of him. The expression on Sylar's face looked … odd. Sort of 'sizing him up' odd, or maybe being a bit too appreciative of how Peter looked. But nothing else came of it and Peter's forearm was not a part he was bothered to reveal, even if Sylar wanted to ogle it. He raised his right hand to display the area - smooth, normal, and currently un-inked skin. “It comes and goes. Or at least it did - showed up, disappeared, showed up again, then gone.” He tugged his sleeve back into place. “Been gone for a while now.” A few weeks, which Sylar would probably characterize as three years, so Peter didn't go there.
Instead, he reached up around his neck and tugged out the necklace he'd been given several years ago. “Do you think the compass is anything like this?” If the compass is all about family and this symbol is about the Company, then is this some sort of weird work/life balance statement? Peter knew symbols held great power. He looked down at the squiggly bit of metal he often wore and rubbed it between his fingers restlessly. “Is this some sort of … rallying cry?” Peter's brows drew together in concern. All these forced adoptions seemed off. Family was important - perhaps the most important thing there was, but it wasn't something that could be bestowed with a few words and empty promises. Anyone who claimed it could was selling something. He looked up at Sylar. “I don't think I'm on board with that.”
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“Samuel gave me one, too,” Sylar frowned a little. But he had to use a stick in his mouth, not a handshake…He gestured with his own right arm. “It’s gone now.” I don’t know why. I used to miss it, back when there were no…faces here. For very obvious reasons he didn’t mention the nature of the tattoo or why he'd insisted on getting it.
“Like a plot to wipe us out? I doubt it, from Samuel.” Sylar eyed the necklace, a little surprised that Peter still wore it given the connotations of the medallion - of course, it related back to the Petrellis, which should have been a sore subject. “He seems to want to run some kind of…hidden home for stray specials.” Maybe Peter could understand that? Then again, maybe not… The Carnival had been pretty successful except for allowing Sylar himself in, and Captain Lubbock. “The Company was trying to keep us a secret by whatever means necessary; Pinehearst was trying to hand out abilities and destroy the world that way.” Clearly, he was not a big advocator of either party, but he especially didn’t want to become obsolete.
He shrugged. “You don’t have to be. They’re all gone. This is all just speculation.” Planting his hands, he adjusted his half-upright position on the couch, making use of his bed pillow behind him to recline a bit more, still eyeing his companion. He could feel physical comfort (such as he was able to feel with a concussion) creeping up and he allowed it, feeling safe as Peter was only talking. In a way, he supposed, ‘speculation’ was an invitation to Peter, intentionally or not.
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Peter frowned, but he didn't disagree about everyone being gone. “I suppose it only makes sense that each group would have a goal that's bigger than they are - a mission. It's just that so many of these missions don't seem to be in the best interest of … well, anyone.” Peter's frown intensified and he turned to look at the puzzle, picking up a piece and trying it against another that didn't match it. “Like with my d-dad,” Peter said, stumbling over the word and furtively glancing Sylar's way. This wasn't a subject Peter wanted to talk about with Sylar, but who else was there? It wasn't like he could talk to Nathan about it. He huffed.
“He's … He was really smart. He'd been,” Peter grimaced and waved his right hand, the one with the puzzle piece, “at this 'special ability' thing for forty years maybe. So ...” He sighed, emoting all over the place. “He should have known what he was doing. He should have known … right, you know? But what he was doing just seemed so wrong.”
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“I don’t…think the time spent doing something…wrong matters. It’s…abilities, Peter. It’s pretty instantaneous,” Sylar intoned seriously, speaking for himself. He knew it was the same for Nathan in some ways, but the senator had done some very strange things that lacked mental reasoning. The whole Building 26 fiasco for example. It made sense to Nathan, but there was no follow-through plan. Hell, the facility didn’t even have proper holding cells or any medical treatment plans (not surprising, given how the Company used to work as well Sylar knew).
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Peter did not follow that at all and as a result, he got quiet and focused his full attention on Sylar. Whatever internal dialogue Peter might have had in the course of trying to make sense of Sylar's statement had the volume turned way down on it. It was nothing but a murmur in the back of his mind as he listened to what else Sylar might have to say.
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Sylar knew Samson had been on the hunt for at least as long as little Gabriel had been around, so thirty some years? If not more. Samuel had probably been working some angle with Joseph over the years, too. Mostly, he didn’t want to be judged by the years he’d spent murdering - he’d been condemned the moment the temptation crossed his mind and that had nothing to do with time spent or evil deeds accumulated. “You can’t understand why…bad people do the things they do. You just can’t,” and suddenly it felt like everything Peter was saying was aimed at him personally and it caused his voice to attempt breaking and wavering. He felt his face twisting up - it probably looked scary and pathetic, certainly no silver-screen pre-cry moment - the tiredness was getting to him. How could the good guys ever understand? They could only ever see….black and white.
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Peter blinked, feeling the jangle of Sylar's emotions a lot more strongly than he'd felt anyone's for a long time. He did happen to be paying careful attention. Can I understand why do people do bad things? It's because they want to, right? Thoughts of telling Nathan off about his ill-fated decision to set Homeland Security against people came to Peter's mind. Why did Nathan do that? Desperate? Thought it was the right thing to do? Was he that afraid of people? Hell, you'd think I'd be the one flipping out about abilities after seeing that future where everyone was dead - not Nathan.
Sylar was taking this personally - no guesses needed for why. With Sylar there was that odd confession from future-Gabriel about the hunger he kept in check for the sake of his son - but that still meant it could be kept in check. You think I can't understand why you've done what you've done? Is there no way you can explain it? Is it that you don't think I'd agree with you? Does it matter that I agree? Can I understand something if I don't agree with it? Peter honestly didn't know. He'd like to think he could. “I can't?” he said with doubt lacing his few words. He leaned forward, letting out a deep breath and issuing a challenge: “Try me.”
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His brain honestly fuzzed out for a few seconds, running in place and going nowhere on that…invitation, was it? Sylar stared at him for a few additional seconds, allowing who he was trying to talk to sink in. Yeah right this was some kind of unbiased, equal courtroom. Peter was just digging for leverage, no more no less. And, what was almost worse, Sylar knew Peter would think what he would think regardless of actual fact or reality.
“You can’t. There’s no talking about this with a Petrelli. Especially not the one who tried to Haitian my mind away so your worthwhile brother could live in my body and the Petrelli who routinely beat me into unconsciousness for trying to help. Please…tell me all about your ‘understanding’, empath Peter. I’m all ears,” Sylar sneered with angry contempt the whole way through. You’re a hero; you’re a Petrelli; you want your brother back; you want me to do a trick for you; you want my mind erased - you want me dead and gone; and you won’t fuck me. Why the hell are you even talking to me? Treating me like…a patient? Don’t think I’m so stupid or sick that I’ll talk to you because you’re talking to me like I’m a real person for a few days - that’s been done before. I do not talk about my life with good reasons.
He was tired, running on fumes as his mouth was running on flames, but still it wasn’t finished. “Do you really think you could lower your stainlessly pure self down into the mud and blood and set aside your morals to try to understand an evil monster? Think you could live as they do? Think you’d survive? The life of any evil monster would eat you alive and spit you back out as a toothpick because you’re a spoiled, naïve, good-guy, hypocritical prick.” Sylar had to inhale after that one, a slight ping going through his head that, perhaps, he’d said too much. What’s the worst he’ll do? Beat me again?
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Peter leaned back in his chair, digesting that and giving a moment in case Sylar had something more to add. He wasn’t angry, despite the venom Sylar was lobbing his way. Sylar was venting and being honest. It was a nice change from how emotionally constipated the man normally was. Funny - it was a Petrelli whose motives I was asking about. But this isn’t about Arthur anymore. “Yeah, I did that.” He shifted back forward, speaking seriously and calmly, staying completely focused. “And I’ve done more than that, some of which you know. What I don’t get is how you know some of the things I’ve done, yet still think I couldn’t understand someone who’s made bad choices.
“I’m not comfortable calling anyone a monster.” He glanced off to the side for a moment, thinking of his two encounters with the malformed Mohinder. “Physical transformations aside.” He looked back to Sylar. “As for evil … I don’t think you’re as lost as you think you are.” At least I hope you aren’t. I thought the dream meant you’d save her. “For one thing, you’ve got some strong opinions about what I’ve done that’s good and bad. Those are coming from somewhere, from some sense of morality and fairness.”
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At first Sylar shifted, busy trying to work his mind into rationalizing the inconsistency of perfect Peter doing bad things. His eyes and head snapped up at Peter’s out and open refusal to call ‘anyone’ a monster. He was insulted, yet his soul thrilled a little because he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t at least felt like a monster. He sat up and forward for this. I look like a monster? That confused him greatly. The natural camouflage his body offered had served him very well in hiding his true nature, although everyone, aware or not, still reacted to the raw power he exuded…when he allowed it to show. Never mind what he’d always felt like growing up. He frowned - first at being called an ugly troll (feeling fear, horror and sadness that he couldn’t hide that part of himself even in his looks anymore), his frown deepening at the rest.
How the hell am I not lost? My act is…that I’m not lost…that’s right. But I really am. And he can’t ever know that. Peter had worked him into a scowl by the end of it; he had a point and he was right on the money. He sniffed and haughtily scooted his way around to lie on his side, back to Peter, hissing out a yelp as his right hip pulled under him, “Aah!” His only response as he got situated so was a bitter, bitchy mutter of, “Morals of a monster. They’re nothing compared to your saintly ones, I’m sure.”
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As usual, when Peter won an argument, it wasn't nearly as satisfying as he wanted it to be. He wasn't sure anyone's mind had been changed or anything useful had been accomplished. But maybe Sylar was going to sleep. That was a good thing, as Peter realized the conversation had likely only been agitating and bothering an already tired and hurting man.
He sighed, leaning back in the chair and ruffling his hair - once, twice, then bunching it up a third time and finishing up by swiping it out of his eyes. For good measure, he shifted and got out his comb, despite that calling into question why he'd tousled it to start with. Peter finished with his comb, returned it to his pocket, and watched Sylar for a while. He could see the man’s face in profile. He was handsome. Nearly all the swelling had gone down and most of the discoloration from their fight had faded.
Monster. Peter’s mind drifted to when he’d told Mohinder that in the future, the man had changed into one. He’d disliked the term even then, but it was the only shorthand that had come to Peter’s rattled mind at the time. He’d been drained of powers, abandoned by his father (which was something of a surprise, actually - the man hated him, Peter knew, but the last time he’d seen his dad for any length of time, he’d thought they were just normal father and son battles), strapped down, and about to be given a probably lethal injection. Seconds later, Sylar had burst dramatically into the room and saved him, for no reason Peter could divine other than the supposition of blood relation - ironic given that the ‘real’ blood relations had been the ones to put Peter there.
Morals of a monster. No talking about it with a Petrelli. Yeah, I can see the point. I can’t trust them either. Peter’s face pulled a frown and he turned away, looking at the puzzle. He buried his mind in the minutia of quietly placing pieces for the next few hours, rising a few times to stretch and watching with concern as Sylar occasionally twitched or whimpered in his sleep. Peter frowned at that, too. If I wake him every time he has a bad dream, then he’ll never any sleep at all. He looks miserable. Shaking his head, he left it alone and eventually started on making some simple salmon sandwiches to take with them for lunch. The grinding of the can opener sounded loud in the confines of the kitchen.
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Sylar came to with a grunted groan. What? Who…? He couldn’t decide if he was irked or pleased to be woken. He’d been dreaming childhood nightmares of legitimate monsters - the under-the-bed and in-the-closet kinds. The shadows still got to him sometimes, if he wasn’t paying attention, if he didn’t swiftly convince himself it was his imagination. Tilting his head around, he searched the room for the source of the sound, imminently fearing that he hadn’t really woken up and that the sound was just a medical device transformed for torturous purposes. Something that could grind tin (he knew it was tin) would have no difficulty with the soft flesh of a human body, namely his own.
Sylar worriedly cleared his throat, loudly, “Uhmm-hmm. Hey?” he called out, unsure of who would walk through the door or answer. With that, he pulled himself up by his elbows, trying to keep his head’s motions to a minimum as he shifted to his left to face the kitchen. “What-what are you doing?” The sound was familiar, but it had been so long since he’d heard it, and after his disturbed sleep (which he might still be lost in), and being unsure of who he was at the moment (a glance at his hands confirmed he was in his own body at least), and whoever might make an appearance…Sylar hesitated to nail this down as his reality. He hoped for a response - silence might kill him because it would mean he’d truly lost his mind (again, if he wanted to get technical) - and a pleasant one from a pleasant source. That was probably asking too much.
XXX
Can openers, like most of the world, were designed for right handed people. It wasn’t something Peter usually thought about, but then again he didn’t usually have a bum right hand. He could hold the handles with his left, but he couldn’t get the torque he needed with his right without a lot of misery. Irregular grinding was interspersed with grunts, curses, hisses of pain, and the occasional clatter as Peter dropped the damn thing. It hadn’t occurred to him to save the task for Sylar.
He missed Sylar’s first noises, but clued to the second, longer question. Crap. I was being noisy. Did he hear me cursing? Well … he needed to get up anyway. “Ah … I was just trying to get this can open,” Peter said, setting can and opener aside and wiping some stray fish juice off his brace. He left the kitchen, saying, “I could really use some help in here. I was going to make salmon sandwiches for lunch. Need to know what you want on yours - butter, mayo, nothing at all?” Peter stopped next to the couch, looking at Sylar’s confused, just-a-little fearful expression. He looked so open … It was weird given how frightening he could be at other times. Peter smiled softly, in a manner that could have passed as fond, though his feelings were more for the way Sylar looked than Sylar himself.
XXX
Peter. For no good reason (really, the reason was probably Nathan, or so Sylar chose to blame) why his reaction consisted of his heart going thub-lub! upon hearing Peter’s voice. It was equal parts relief and affection (yeah…affection) and the rest fear and tension. It’s just Peter. Telling himself that didn’t help. He couldn’t figure why Peter was here at all so he was a mess of confusion. Can? Can of…what? Oh. What? Then Peter said the magic word as he entered the living room - help. But Sylar was still stuck between deciding if the situation was dream or reality because, c’mon…this scene had to be a dream.
Peter was…smiling. Something foreign twisted in him because it wasn’t often someone showed him a happy or pleased face and when they did it was usually a joke (at his expense) or they wanted something. And Peter just said he wanted ‘help’. Sylar always hated when a person appeared to smile at him when the person was really smiling at someone else standing behind or beside Sylar. He just wasn’t pleasing. So seeing that expression made it that much more likely this was a dream.
“Am I awake?” he thought to ask. Getting lunch and a smile from Peter freaking Petrelli was a very big stretch, one his mind was amply capable of supplying and sick enough to provide.
XXX
Peter’s smile broadened, taking that as a compliment - ‘Am I dreaming? There’s someone in my house making me lunch and taking care of me? I must be dreaming!’ “Ha. Yeah, buddy, you’re awake. Come on. Let’s get you up.” He put his right hand behind Sylar’s shoulder and nudged to guide/encourage him upright. “If you’re okay with it, I’d like to go out with-“ Peter stumbled on the wording, nearly saying he wanted to go out with Sylar. “Go outside together. Um, go down the street to where we found that piano and see if I can’t tune it a little or something. I think it might be good for us to get some air, see something outside of the apartment.” And get away from this constant ticking!
He stepped back a little, giving Sylar some space while the man finished getting oriented. The salmon wasn’t going anywhere; they weren’t in a hurry. Peter had to tell himself that, though. The prospect of leaving on an expedition other than ‘going shopping’ or ‘going back to my apartment’ was exciting.
XXX
The smaller man’s smile turned up the wattage and Sylar’s stomach nearly lost it from nerves right then. He wanted to look behind him to see if someone else was standing in the bathroom; that might explain who or why Peter was smiling at all, but he was too paranoid to look away from the potential threat. What is he smiling about? Peter reached out and Sylar had to control his cringe: ‘Let’s get you up’, that wasn’t a good sign. Oh, he picked up on the impatience alright. Either he would be made to get up or he could do it on his own in a damn hurry.
Sylar bit his tongue to hold back his noises of pain on sitting up as fast as he did, head swimming, hip spasming, nauseous, spine a little stiff. He wound up gasping, breathing harder and blinking to see straight. Peter didn’t do anything more than touch him. Sylar couldn’t figure out his part in this as he didn’t even know what the impatience was about, besides maybe sleeping for too long (but Peter didn’t seem angry - it just threw him off all the more). “What do you want?” he managed emphasis on ‘want’, his question surprisingly un-sassy as he was asking seriously. More information might tell if this was a head-trip or real-time. He turned so Peter was firmly on his left, his feet on the ground, albeit supporting himself on either side with a hand to the couch cushions.
XXX
Peter eyed Sylar. The man was acting hurt. Well, probably not 'acting'. Did I get him up too quick? Maybe he's just stiff? Or maybe he slept wrong. “Just thought maybe you could turn the can opener easier than I can. I was having a lot of trouble with it.” Peter fidgeted. Help? Don't help? Go back to the kitchen? Say something useful? Relax. He's just … getting his bearings. “Just … catch your breath. Come on in when you're ready.”
Continued...