More Between Us, Chapter 5/? "Settling In"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 5/?
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: 8. 764
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 looked at the bank of elevator buttons blankly. He felt emotionally drained and that meant he couldn’t think. The buttons went up to eight. Top floor? Bottom? In which case, why did I get on the elevator? I’ll look like even more of an idiot if I get out and there probably aren’t any apartments there anyway - just offices and services. My luck Sylar would still be standing there, watching. He hit the button for eight and reminded himself it wasn’t like he was going to be staying wherever he ended up. He could always move later.
He walked out into an empty hallway, looking at doors distinguishable from one another by only the numbers. He went to the first one and…knocked, because he couldn’t bring himself to just walk in. There was of course no answer. He knocked again - still no answer. He sighed and tried the door. It was unlocked. He swung it wide and looked in. “Hello?”
In all of his wandering, he hadn’t gone inside the buildings very much. He’d gone in ground floor, commercial establishments, but Sylar’s apartment had been the only one he’d been in. It had been creepy enough going in an empty store. It was worse going in an empty residence. He kept expecting to see an elderly person passed out on the floor, or a cat vanishing out of sight, like the times he and Hesam had been called to investigate by concerned neighbors or relatives.
There was nothing there, though. The rooms were also strangely sterile. There were no pictures of loved ones, no clothes left out on the floor, no hair in the hairbrush that was neatly put away in a drawer. The few articles of clothing were separated by the same distance in the closet; folded identically in the dresser. Everything was set ‘just so,’ staged for his perusal.
Well, first thing’s first. He walked to the door and locked it. He put his vegetables away in the refrigerator and set the bread on the counter. Unable to resist, he got out a slice, then a second, and ate them together like an empty sandwich. He took the rest of his acquisitions to the bathroom, noting there was a showerhead over the tub so he could bathe or shower as he wished. He figured he’d do both. He considered what order to do things in and decided that as much as his feet hurt, any bandaging and wrapping he did wouldn’t do any good if he took a bath right after, so he plugged the drain and started the water running.
He put the toilet seat down and unlaced his boots, gingerly removing them. His socks were grey, but they had a few dark spots on them now, unsurprisingly. He peeled them off and threw them into the trash. Need new socks. He twisted his foot up to look at the bottom. He was blistered in a patch under the ball of his big toe, on the top of his little toe, and across his heel. His other foot had a similar wear pattern. He shook his head and stripped off his shirt. He suspected it was a bit ripe. He tossed it on the sink and followed suit with his pants. His underwear he tossed on top of the socks in the wastebasket, then climbed into the tub.
He played with the water settings, heating it up a little more, and settled back. I wonder if there are hot tubs around here? Or swimming pools? I thought I saw the ocean…I wonder if there are seasons. I suppose there are, since Sylar thought of it as ‘years.’ He let the hot water soak into his muscles and ease them. He leaned forward to rub fitfully at his calves, then his thighs, before leaning back again and resting.
It had been a while since he’d really relaxed. Even before he came here - grieving for Nathan disturbed his rest and taking his mother’s ability hadn’t done him any favors. In more ways than one. Once here, his sleep had still been tense. He couldn’t guard his mind then. That probably has a lot to do with it. That and never being sure if Mr. Murder-happy might show up. He sighed. That’s…probably uncharitable. He probably…he must have a good side in there somewhere, or at least a side that’s not… Peter sighed again and shifted, finding a more comfortable position, shutting his eyes and drifting. He let his thoughts wander in the lassitude that comes between lying down and falling asleep.
I wonder what he does with his free time, that’s so secret or embarrassing he wouldn’t talk about it? What, does he knit pictures of kittens? The warmth seemed to be seeping into his bones, calming him and soothing. Peter let his mind unwind too, letting the stress of constant concentration disperse.
He was a very focused man and when he paid attention to something, he paid attention with everything he had. It was a trait he’d shared with Nathan and their father - a peculiar ability to make a person feel like they were the most important thing in the world to them at that moment. It wasn’t a lie, either. No one wanted Arthur’s hawk-eyed attention, and everyone wanted to be Nathan’s friend, if only for a moment. Peter had a different effect on people, but it was no less intense.
He replayed the conversation they’d had on the street outside, what few words they’d exchanged. Was the question about the file trying to change the subject? His mind turned over the tone of voice, the body language, Sylar’s expression, his gaze, his motions and stance - he didn’t consider them clinically, but as a whole, assuming them inside his own head like a set of new clothes, trying to gauge what it felt like to be Sylar at that moment, trying to understand his motives.
Finally even that bit of mental work exhausted him and he fell asleep in the bathtub. He twitched a little, not noticing as the last of the barriers in his mind came down. A memory, or a dream, came to him. He was…someone else, someone with long, thin fingers, quick and delicate, yet still masculine. \\He was working carefully at a watch, incorporating a part he’d fabricated himself, having failed to find an adequate replacement. He wasn’t sure he had the diameter right, but that was how it had gone for a long time with his Sylar.\\
Peter twitched again, eyes moving back and forth under his lids. The watch was familiar.
\\Of course it was. He’d worked on it for years. It was his pride and joy.
The bell over the door rang. He looked up and saw one of his occasional repeat customers, Mr. Thomson. He told the older gentleman, “I’ll be just a minute,” in a voice that was almost Sylar’s - but too young, unguarded (Peter heard the difference instantly) - and made a final adjustment to the gear. He’d been right though - the diameter was wrong. He’d have to go back to the Swiss shop and beg a little more time with their machine to make another part, this time just a tiny bit smaller. The customer leaned over the counter; looking at what he was doing there at the workbench he’d set up near the front window.
“Whatcha got there?” the older man asked, his blue eyes sparkling with interest.
“Oh,” he said, looking up. He wanted to know what he was doing? It wasn’t the first time the man had asked about his work, which was part of why Gabriel remembered him as a customer. “This is a Sylar Field Edition. It’s my hobby watch. I’ve been trying to repair it for years now, but they’re very rare.” He started to warm to the subject, smiling and turning towards the man. “I’ve been having to make custom parts for it, because the three I found were all a little corroded on the inside and-“
The man laughed - he laughed! - and shook a hand at him in negation. “No, no. I’m sorry. I just thought that might be the watch I brought in last week.”
The smile fell slowly off his face. He was an idiot. Why had he thought the man cared? He recovered his smile, but it was false now. With a bit of effort, he made it look almost as genuine as the one he’d worn before. “Of course, Mr. Thomson. I finished that one Tuesday and called you yesterday. It’s right over here.” He moved to the register and produced the repaired chronograph for the man’s inspection. The older man barely looked at it. It was a woman’s watch, his wife’s, Gabriel recalled him saying. He stuffed it in a pocket almost as soon as he’d seen it, not asking what had been wrong with it, not even checking if it ran. Gabriel blinked once at the careless treatment of the timepiece, swallowed and rang up the sale.
The customer left. Gabriel stood very still next to the register, berating himself inside. He had such a rare interest, a virtually extinct hobby and he knew that. He’d known that all along, but it didn’t stop him from looking for someone else who might be interested. They didn’t have to share it - they just had to be … they just had to show an interest in him… It was a stupid desire, because no matter what empty words his mother gave him about how special and interesting he was, he knew no one else felt that way.\\
Peter struggled out of the vision with the utmost of difficulty. He roused himself, waking, and shook his head a little to try to clear it. Mission accomplished, he took a deep breath and then settled back into his previous position, mulling over the revelation. It seemed unlikely to be a dream, at least in that Peter’s mind might have made it up. It had to be another of those thought-leak things and this time he could understand perfectly why Sylar would be thinking about this. He’d expected that only happened when they were both asleep, but apparently not. It was closing on noon. It was improbable that Sylar had gone home for a nap. Grumbling about his sour luck, Peter relaxed again.
He tried to recall all the details he could about the scene. He shifted a little and let the water swirl around him, letting him almost float. He’d been drowsy before and however unexpected the intruding thoughts were, they hadn’t been upsetting. He settled back down quickly, falling back asleep.
\\A waitress addressed him as he sat in a diner, pretending to contemplate the menu. She said “Oh, nice watch. That’s a, um, Sylar Field Edition, right? You know those were modeled after the watch that Allied Command John Pershing brought back from Russia after WWI.”
“Are you a collector?” For just a second, his face relaxed, his mouth opened more, and his eyes widened.
She saw his response, muted and brief though it was. “Uh, no,” she laughed - she laughed at him for his moment of hope - and spoke quickly to head off any interest he might have in pursing that side of the conversation. “No, I just, um, read about them in a magazine and I just remembered. Just something my brain’s been doing lately, just remembering everything.”
“Everything?” Sylar asked with a slight edge to his voice.
“I’m my very own wikipedia.” Sylar thought she sounded like a ditz.\\
Peter breathed harder, trying to wake himself again but having less luck. He’d heard the tone in his (Sylar’s) voice. He knew what that meant. He could remember/feel/know the thoughts that had been in Sylar’s head. There had been a smirking, calloused disappointment…
\\He really hadn’t expected more, but for a second there he’d thought that maybe…maybe that he’d found someone with a similar passion, but no. Of course not. Just an empty-headed waitress with an ability she was milking to increase her tips, no doubt having mentioned his watch solely for that reason. She wasn’t interested in the Sylar - it was just another useless fact stuck in her head by an ability she didn’t even seem to appreciate. He would appreciate it. He would value it, cherish it, just like he had the watch…\\
Peter clenched his teeth. He knew where this was headed and he had no desire to see it for himself. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the side of the tub and splashing. The flash of pain and the noise finally pulled him out of it. This time he sat up and threw water on his face, scrubbing at himself. As if I needed a reminder that he’s a killer. Someone laughs at him and he thinks he needs to murder them.
Peter shook his head and got carefully to his feet, pulling the plug on the tub. He didn’t want to risk another lapse and get bombarded by another…whatever these were. Peter pulled the curtain closed and turned the showerhead on to rinse off before the tub was empty, enjoying the sound of water against water. It brought back other memories; ones he was sure were his alone - walking in the rain after slugging Nathan, trying to get a cab, running into Simone. He smiled. That had been a good night. Sort of. The smile slipped away as he thought about why he’d been out there in the rain - Nathan had publicly humiliated him by claiming Peter had tried to kill himself.
He frowned and got out of the shower. He didn’t like this ‘alone with his thoughts’ business. He dried off and saw to his feet, thinking that after eating lunch, he’d spend the rest of the day exploring the building because he needed to do something to keep his mind busy, and the idea of ‘reading’ or whatever Sylar had suggested just truly didn’t appeal to him. Maybe eventually, because he supposed it was okay as a way to focus your thoughts, but he wouldn’t really be learning anything new. That was impossible, after all.
He found underwear that fit him, to his surprise, in the dresser drawer. They were a little tight, as was the dark t-shirt he pulled out, but they were okay. The socks were a better fit, but they came in a small range of sizes anyway.
He roamed through the building to find that most of the apartments were carbon copies of the one he’d been in. There were always details different - one might have a room decorated for a kid, with a dinosaur theme or all done in pink; another might have crocheted covers on all the furniture, bringing to mind the elderly. But there were no people. One empty apartment after another weighed on him.
Peter suspected it was a feature of the place; a deliberate aspect of it; a part of the prison Matt had made for Sylar. Of course, now that Peter was in it, he was affected as well, but at least he understood. Sylar didn’t seem to have that benefit, even now that he’d been told. Understanding it didn’t mean Peter didn’t feel it, but he didn’t leave the building.
I don’t have to. I’m not lonely. And there’s no one out there anyway but Sylar…a man who can’t even get through small talk with a waitress without finding something to take offense at. So he stayed inside, busied himself searching for supplies that he might need - a few more clothes, he scavenged a few cans of food from other apartments, he found a messenger bag and a backpack.
When he finally laid down for sleep that night, he prayed for a dreamless night. He needed the rest dreadfully. The bed was soft and warm. It was comforting. He’d propped up a tower of canned soup against the door in case Sylar tried to get in - it was stupid, and he thought it almost impossible, but he hadn’t been able to relax and lie down until he did it, so that was just how it was. His slumber was undisturbed, by demons within or without.
Day 5
Peter woke early, before it was even light outside. He showered again, this time washing his hair. He shaved, not really approving of the choice of toiletries in the apartment, but they would do for the time being. He stood before the sink contemplating the toothbrush, holding it before him. He sucked at his teeth and looked at the hairbrush he’d been using. There’d been not a hair on it when he pulled it from the drawer. It hadn’t looked brand new, but the use marks it had, if any, were sort of generic. The same could be said of the toothbrush.
He tried, and failed, to convince himself that he was in Sylar’s head and this was perfectly sanitary. It’s all a dream. The toothbrush doesn’t even exist. He sighed. I don’t even have to brush my teeth. I can just skip it and get one from the store today - a new one, in a package - if that’s what it takes to make my subconscious feel better. He stared at the toothbrush, an expression of defiant mulishness creeping over his face. Fuck my subconscious! He stuck the toothbrush in his mouth and turned on the water, getting out the toothpaste. He brushed dry for a little bit until he was sure he’d swapped germs with whatever illusory mental construct had previously owned it and then wet it and applied toothpaste to brush properly. He glared at himself briefly in the mirror. There!
Feeling strangely victorious, he headed out into the world instead of staying in. His feet still hurt, but not as bad and his back and thighs were much improved. He still took the elevator, though he wondered if ‘exercising’ here would make him think he was stronger and had more stamina. It was a thought. He liked exercising. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for free weights, though if he didn’t see any in apartments, he was pretty sure that sporting goods store he’d seen the first day would have something appropriate. Even a jump rope would be nice.
I need to clear some of that crap out of my apartment. There’s too much stuff in it. All of his stuff. Not the sort of stuff I want in my apartment. I wonder … if everything I do here is just a mental exercise, then maybe I could get some good out of doing things that benefit from concentration and mental repetition, like music. He smiled a little and thought of Emma as he walked down the street in the pre-dawn gloom, heading immediately for the diner he’d fixed himself breakfast at before. Doing so took him past Sylar’s apartment. He hesitated as he turned onto the street, eyes sweeping up and down it. It was empty. The lights above were off. He headed on.
At the diner, he found the place as messy as he’d left it. His brow furrowed at that. He guessed he’d imagined that it would fix itself after he was gone, but really, he hadn’t thought about it at all. He cleaned up, then made himself scrambled eggs with bell peppers. Scrambled eggs with onion had been Nathan’s favorite breakfast dish (unless you counted an omelet with onions). He almost never ate either because of the effect on his breath. It was probably the sense of the forbidden that made him love them more. Peter tossed some onions in a little late in the cooking process. He didn’t care what his breath smelled like. This time, he cleaned up before leaving.
He walked back, feeling competing urges to see where Sylar was and what he was doing, and to swing wide to avoid the man’s residence. His mind threw up other possible places to explore, but he refused them. He would stick to the plan he’d had that morning. Sylar was not going to keep him from being wherever it was Peter wanted to be. He wasn’t afraid of him, for God’s sake. He walked down the street in front of his apartment resolutely, but it was empty.
He turned the corner to head to his apartment and there was the man, sitting on the front step across the street from the building Peter was already thinking of as his own. His stride didn’t falter, because now this was not him intruding onto Sylar’s space, but Sylar in his. Or… sort of. The street outside was mostly public, at least insofar as ‘public’ meant anything here.
He wondered if it was purely coincidental that Sylar was directly outside the building Peter had been planning on exploring next. It didn’t matter. Peter walked over to him, pausing four or five paces from the other man. He glanced at Sylar in acknowledgement, then looked up at the building façade. “Hey,” he said, still looking up.
Day 4
Closing his eyes with a sigh, Sylar turned and began to meander back towards his own humble abode, leaving Peter as…requested. Just when he’d been getting…not comfortable, but…acclimated to the sheer brain-blowing boredom of being alone, Peter waltzed in and turned everything on its head; everything was now without Peter. Living this mind-numbingly boring life now had an additional factor. The EMT was as unlikely to sit and play a game of chess with him as he was to break out into a soft-shoe number. Meaning Sylar would have to reacclimatize to Peter.
The other man wasn’t going to be thrilled with his presence either, making the job that much harder. He would have to be polite, avoiding annoying and angering, even saddening his companion which was a harder task than it seemed at first glance. Peter the empath, Sylar the psychopath. Someone who understood every human emotion meeting someone who could barely begin to grasp the concept, who failed to understand even his own subtle emotions? What a pair.
Alright, alright. I need to be thinking of what I can do to keep him around, keep him…interested for lack of a better word. God, that sounds like a wife desperate for an indifferent, ED-affected husband. Sylar went so far as to stop walking at the metaphor. Anything but that. I won’t beg. Or so he told himself. Frankly, he couldn’t guess at his limits at this point. He could be very well capable of….outrageous actions to get what he wanted. That much was very clear over his less-than-stellar track record.
Sylar was surprised at himself as he began to walk mindlessly again; his pride….where had it mysteriously vanished? When, even? Somewhere around….oh, yeah, being mind-fucked. If he was still in possession of his pride (and powers), what would he be doing now? Torturing Peter, without a doubt. Yet somehow that struck him as strange, no, not because of the lack of pride and powers, but because of the hypocritical nature of that thought. Sylar knew he would gladly torture, abuse, break and even kill Peter had he those things; he’d been ready to at Mercy Heights.
Here he was, however: partially alone, powerless and no sense of accomplishment or even his so-called god complex to see him through. Mortally immortal with the exact opposite of himself, Peter. But he has my flaws, the same as Bennet, the same as Claire, Angela even. Briefly the thought to call out to Matt, the unseen, unbelievable, fat LA cop in the sky…. Oh, help me now, he mentally moaned, I don’t want to die from a doughnut crumb when he finally decides to snuff me. Because so help me, that is not going on my damn tombstone- death by fat LA cop in the sky’s doughnut crumb. Parkman is not God. Shaking off the image with some physical help, he went back to his original idea. Was this some kind of test? Throw the boa constrictor….(well, Peter certainly was no mouse) live prey and rate his progress? No, that made obviously no sense. Neither of them had powers.
Go back to the beginning. Peter….’came’ in here of his own free well, so he says, to get me out. All over some prophetic dream he’s had (probably a nightmare), that his random girlfriend of the week is going to….kill lots of people. Sylar straightened as he stopped dead again, turning around to glance back at Peter’s building as if it were the man himself. That’s it, isn’t it? She’s special. How else would she even register on his map? How easy would it be to kill thousands of people with the right ability? Don’t I just know it. Meanwhile….I’m…”sleeping” somewhere, in no real danger…so I hope. Where does that leave him? He can’t be two places at once- Time travel. Is…is he from this time? I don’t know any Amanda, Amy, Emily, whatever the hell her name was. It’s possible.
Nodding at his own cleverness, he set the thought away to ripen, focusing instead on where he was physically walking, what he was doing. Interests….Peter can’t cook. He’s not that big a reader, too ADD or too much of a dreamer for that. Nathan’s memories were seamlessly tapped into (for once by choice, this allowing him some kind of power over the run-away recollections; they didn’t overwhelm him this time. Sylar chuckled gleefully) and he ransacked through the files looking for hobbies and interests.
Wow, he thought, his list is….nearly as short as mine. That’s…. His mind had been about to supply ‘that’s so sad’, but he caught himself before it formed in his mental voice. Pathetic. Guy like that, he’s got everything but control and killer- no, he’s got killer instincts. Sylar was torn at the thought between gloating and sorrow and a twinge of bite-sized guilt. Arthur. He’d had his own neck broken and before that been thrown off a roof with Peter, then the whole nail gun thing….Yeah, he’s got the balls. Looks, money, enough personality to make almost anyone bend over for him and what does he do with his life?
Baseball- not playing it, but watching it; Nathan had gifted him with a ball signed by the Yankee’s Batting champ Paul O’Niell, .359 in 1994, a game they’d seen together. At least it’s a decent hobby.
Music- the guy liked to play instruments, something you forgot to mention. Strange how it doesn’t trigger one of Sky-boy’s memories. He plays piano and guitar fairly enough.
Helping people- Uugh! Sylar knew this was going to be a problem instantly. He was the person in need here, Peter was….well, was he supposed to help? Certainly he was under no obligation unless he suddenly decided to overlook the whole Nathan thing and undo the wrongs of his kin. Un-fucking-likely. If there were any animals here, I bet they’d go to him. While Sylar was and had been good with animals, the past six years (only three of which actually mattering) the creatures tended to treat him like a well-learned electric fence.
Continuing on…
Travel (Europe, huh?), swimming and diving (Okay….), blah blah blah…nope…nope…Board games….the kid used to like sex when he could get it, that much I can tell. At that, Sylar tried not to snigger, he really did, but the idea of Peter Petrelli, I-talian Eagle Scout, boy-wonder charming his way into some invalid cougar’s bed was honestly sickeningly amusing to him. Chess, checkers, board games….card games when they’re relatively clean or unless you get him to…well, well, well. Popular TV shows, movies (those are wasted), exercise, he speaks some French, likes politics.
Ah, shit. Should have invited him over for dinner. Again. Not that he’d accept, of course. Sylar was fairly confident that the offer would eventually be granted, even if it took some time. Time they had to spare (even if Sylar doubted his sanity had it to spare). By then, Sylar had purposefully bypassed his apartment building and headed towards the library, intent on his purpose. He made a mental note to stock up on ‘Peter food’ for the next time the man decided to raid Sylar’s kitchen.
Musing on this, Sylar entered the library. It never crossed his mind that Peter would feel under a lens or feel objectified as he racked up memories of Peter’s favorite foods: mac ‘n cheese, chicken alfredo, the cinnamon bread…. Focus. He went to the sports section and after leafing briefly through the selections, he chose a few on stats and biographies; specifically of New York’s Yankees and Mets teams, the two he assumed Peter would have the most exposure to.
Taking up the books, he headed back towards his apartment, going up three flights of stairs to his rooms, closing the door behind himself without much care. Sylar set the books down on his single table, passing into the kitchen. He was hungry and the urge to feed was starting to affect him and he hated that; even if he was usually so focused on something he would actually forget to eat; again, something he knew he and Peter had in common. Now what to make?
Sylar drew out a can of chicken noodle because, yes, he was a little stressed, but when had that become news? Stress is all in the mind. Oh, fuck you, Chandra, just….go to hell. Preparing the soup in a bowl, he threw it in the microwave and sat down with a flurry of motion to still as he read the stats book. Joe Torre, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Alex Rodriguez, check, check, check, check; damn….forty World Series wins from 1921 to 2009. Yeah, he would have remembered that with the red-head’s ability, but he didn’t have it and he’d never heard that information.
He wasn’t a total loser in sports; he knew the teams, a few of the big players, but nothing substantial. Sylar had known the Yankees were a bit of a disreputable and famed wild card while the numbers were hazy. The microwave made a ‘ding!’ of finish and he rose with the book in his hand, still reading, to remove it and grab a spoon, returning to his seat. All the while his eyes never left the book, drinking in the information as he failed to notice the fading light outside.
Nathan’s memories aided him in knowing which games they’d seen together in person or via the television but soon he grew uncomfortable sitting in the wooden chair, moving himself into the bedroom with the book attached to his left hand. Laying the hardback on the desk after he’d gathered up his pajamas, he quickly stripped and redressed for bed, tossing the pillows into submission and settling in under the blankets.
His last thought was, Hey, maybe this could be fun.
Day 5
Sylar awoke the next morning, finding the book on the floor next to his cot. It drew a frown from him to see something so valued on the ground. The sight prompted him into action, rolling from the bed to grab it up. Once he straightened with it in hand, he was forced to shove back his unruly dark hair when it fell all over his face. Sighing, he padded into the bathroom to take care of business, entering the kitchen once he’d done that and dressed. Yawning as he sat at the table, Sylar opened up the hardback as he poured out Lucky Charms, catching on too late as he missed the bowl, spilling the cereal over the table top.
He groaned. I hate it when that happens. /”Why does this keep happening?” At an extra tooth in his mouth. That’s not my fucking tooth. It’s not mine. It’s not mine!/ Sylar set the bowl under the edge of the table, scraping the cereal back into it from the table top, pouring milk in, this time with his attention on the carton, not the book. After he’d finished, he took an apple and the book and left the apartment in search of Peter, rather, to stalk Peter’s place for when he left.
Arriving not long after, he sat on the steps of a building across the street from the medic’s place in the nice morning sun, stretching out his too-long legs and opening the book again. It wasn’t a book for the mild-reader by any means; chock full of facts from cover to cover, it was no walk in the park for someone like…Peter, for example. But Sylar thrived on those facts. Surprisingly Peter showed up much sooner than he anticipated; he’d been kind of expecting a barricade situation with the man. Even more so surprising was that he’d already been out and about.
Peter wasn’t limping so bad; clearly his feet pained him less than yesterday, but the man stopped shorter than the average proximity distance. Some long-buried or half-learned social ruling triggered something in Sylar’s head and he stood quickly; all awkward legs and arms, nothing like the graceful, predatory killer he’d been before. Holding the book in one hand, the other quickly burrowing into his pants pocket under his pea coat, he replied, “Hey. Peter,” Sylar tacked on the man’s name, unsure of why he had, noting the man’s clean-shaven face and continually broken watch.
Sylar wasn’t staring (pretending to stare) at the building, instead he gazed at Peter, trying to discern the man’s shifting moods. I can do this. I can win him over. “Like your new place?” He asked randomly, just to start a conversation on the right foot this time. “Quite the choice, huh? I mean…” Don’t belabor that again, he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want your assistance in settling in. “Uh…I found some board games.” Smooth, that was real casual.
XXX
He watched the other man scramble to his feet and there was something unthreatening about the motion. It was different. Peter contemplated that, but he couldn’t figure out how to characterize it. It was like Sylar stood up with less poise, less prepared to uncoil in an attack - maybe that was it, that his posture was unguarded. One of his hands was occupied and the other was in a pocket - yes, definitely unguarded, so much so that he wondered if it was intentional. Peter grunted and looked past him at the door of the building, his gaze called back when Sylar said his name. He gave a brief nod and looked away again, inwardly relieved that they’d managed to exchange greetings in a civilized manner.
He glanced back at the other building when Sylar referenced it. He supposed it was appropriate to call it his new place. He still didn’t plan on staying there, though getting through a dreamless night had been a relief. Maybe that has something to do with it - I’m only vulnerable to those thoughts if I’m uncomfortable? One night hardly proves anything. I might as well stay a few more to find out.
Board games? Well…he supposed he would eventually, probably, sit down and play something with Sylar if he got bored enough. And if Sylar learned, at some point, to self censor. He wasn’t interested at the moment. A quick glance around confirmed Sylar hadn’t actually brought any such games with him, so that saved Peter the rudeness of declining.
Peter wasn’t real sure how he felt about Sylar being here, waiting for him. He looked back at the building he’d picked out for today’s search. He supposed that three relative years alone, being mentally tortured, would probably make someone a bit desperate for company. And so Peter didn’t try to run him off. He wasn’t interested in playing games though. “Board games, huh? That’s cool. Maybe some other time.”
I found some cool stuff in the other building… no. He’s been here a long time, and that’s an opening for him to be a smug, arrogant bastard and I’d rather not start that. Again. “I’m going to look through the rooms here.” He gestured at the building in question, hoping belatedly that Sylar didn’t take that as if he was searching the city for bodies, which in a vague sort of way he was. Bodies, a presence, a life force, something to relate to other than Sylar. And there was the other angle that this was Sylar’s head. Peter wasn’t the curious type by nature, but he wondered if there was an end to the level of detail he’d find and if somewhere, there was something darker and more mysterious than empty room after empty room.
Suiting action to words, he moved forward, deliberately not taking the wide berth around Sylar of the day before and instead giving him only a normal amount of space. He opened the door and moved inside, looking around at the foyer. I wonder if he could tell me what’s in every room before I go in them? ‘The tour’ he offered…maybe after I get done here. Then I’ll have a better idea of what’s in all these buildings.
XXX
This time Sylar noticed the attention Peter was giving him as he stood. Honestly, he didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing or what to do with it, so he didn’t bother to acknowledge it. There were no obvious signs of where Peter had been or been doing; he assumed the medic was out for a walk. The man looked at him at his name being voiced; a natural enough response and Sylar met his eyes as he did, almost asking permission to be in his presence.
The nod he received was answer enough and Sylar relaxed further, the set in his shoulders easing into casual that would be unfamiliar to Peter. That alleviated many doubts in his mind as to Peter’s mentality and…strength, if that was the right word. The empath would keep fighting and so long as he did, they would be fine.
Peter addressed the board games and Sylar nodded back, enthused about the idea. He hadn’t played a board game in….eleven years? Grinning lightly, he looked back to Peter’s building, which seemed to be the focus of the day. “Why? Do you need something?” Tilting his head, he turned back to Peter, his grin fading into a slight frown, confused. “Um…what….what would you be looking for?” Suspicion did begin to creep up in his mind. He tried to avoid being defensive and on the attack, managing not to turn and stare Peter down (his favorite method of getting an answer).
However, the space between them closed on Peter’s accord and he blinked in surprise and delight. Grinning again at the man’s retreating back, he followed along behind towards the building. “Seriously, man, what’s going on?” Besides not much? He so helpfully supplied them both mentally. Jostling his book and apple, he darted quickly forward to catch the door as Peter opened it for himself. Clearly he didn’t expect Peter to hold the damn door open for him or anything. Of course, he wasn’t thinking about the suddenness of the motion and how it might strike his companion.
Honestly, Sylar was happy as a clam to be near someone, hell, have the option to converse, even if it wasn’t exactly welcomed. It was equally strange to be…close to a person and not have to worry and keep his guard up (well, as much). No weapons other than words, no cells, drugs, no abilities. That was the real crux of it all for Sylar. To be this close a special and not feel that….gut-wrenching need to fix and discover (minus that goddamn watch of his!). Cotton and ice….heavy on the ice. On top of it all, it would appear that he’d won over Peter….while he kept his mouth shut, that is. That’s why I brought the book, he supposed.
XXX
When Sylar’s hand landed unexpectedly on the door a foot above Peter’s, the empath jumped and stiffened, freezing in place for a moment. He bristled and it felt nearly literal - like every hair he had attempted to stand straight up. He turned and looked at Sylar with a long, level look and one slightly raised eyebrow that was a lot more threatening than any amount of hysterical response. It communicated very clearly, ‘I do not want you that close to me.’ Or perhaps it was actually saying, ‘Get the fuck away from me.’
Peter let go of the door and walked inside so stiff-legged he hardly bent his knees. He got a little space and felt better immediately. Stupid overreaction. All he’s doing is holding the door. Don’t want him holding the door. Shouldn’t have walked so close when I went past him then, idiot. I’m still overreacting.
With an effort, he drew his thoughts away from berating himself and looked around the foyer. There was a spacious little lobby separated from the foyer by a set of interior glass doors. The lobby was a bit shabby around the edges but, like most everything in Sylar’s world, it was clean, empty and open. There was a board on the wall near the division between the foyer and lobby, next to a bank of buttons to ring individual apartments. There were no names on the board - no way to indicate who was supposed to live here. Peter pressed one of the buttons anyway.
XXX
Oops. Why oh why was he not born with the (natural) ability of being social? That would have come in handy and made things….a lot easier. Peter telegraphed restrained hostile awareness the instant his hand landed on the glass. Sylar himself froze and waited until Peter got his desired (required) space even though he desired to crowd him in the entryway. He could have easily; a quick excuse to be close.
Sylar assumed Peter would recall just how useful he was without abilities and weapons. Peter stalked off with a burr up his ass, looking like he needed to puke from fear and possibly anger for getting within Sylar’s personal bubble, even by accident. The glare he was given was only a cover he could tell. He frowned, following several feet behind; God, this is ridiculous. Walking twelve steps behind. What’s next, bowing and scraping?
His face taking on a scowl at the back of the man’s head as he walked further into the foyer, only glancing at the surroundings. Peter moved in through gated doors and Sylar settled for opening the door again for himself due to his distance. That should please him. The medic began to explore the lobby, peeking around in the few doors. Of course Sylar lingered behind, not getting in the man’s space as he looked into the rooms for several reasons.
XXX
He stared vacantly at the board for a moment, remembering going by to pick up an Irish guy named Chris while on his way to Julie’s birthday party. The ringboard for the redhead’s apartment had looked just like this. He’d hoped to hook up with Chris, but the guy had showed up with Ivan. Peter had ended up with Justin instead, which was probably a good thing all the way around. God, that has to be more than ten years ago, because I think that was my second year in college. Wonder what ever happened to any of them?
He reached over and opened one of the glass double doors just like someone had buzzed him in, having waited about the right amount of time while thinking. He was unconscious to the pattern, carrying it out without realization - no doubt in the same manner that Sylar carried out many of his own habits in this nightmare world. To anyone cast in the role of an observer, though, it would be immediately apparent. Peter glanced back at Sylar still shadowing him, moving on through the door abruptly enough to avoid any possibility of Sylar’s arm reaching above or past him to catch the door.
He looked around. He had elevators, the door to an office, another door to…Peter looked inside, through the glass built into the door…laundry room. And over here is…ah, an exercise room. He stood in front of the door for a very long, still moment, eyes cataloguing the equipment. He saw no free weights, jump rope or anything small and portable. He was uninterested in the stair machines or the treadmills, but the stationary bikes might be useful and the weight machine could be disassembled. I’ve always wanted one of those. He held himself on the doorframe, leaning close to the glass panel in the door, looking off to either side with wide eyes and obvious interest.
For some reason he picked then to finally answer Sylar’s question. “Just looking for stuff. I don’t need anything, really,” he said distantly. He’d seen enough. He pushed away from the door and went to check what was behind the other ground floor doors. Janitor’s closet, storage, and a…he looked at the sign on the door: Facilities Room. He pulled the door open. It was a large, open room featuring a couple long folding tables, a few neat stacks of folding chairs, some blank, empty corkboards on the walls (the sort that really should have had announcements pinned to them), a folded up ping pong table, a foosball table, and an upright piano.
Peter went straight to the piano like it was magnetized. It was old, battered and not a high-end piece to start with, but it was here. He glanced back warily at Sylar like the other man might interfere somehow or get between Peter and the precious piano. Peter shifted to the other side of it, so he could better see Sylar in his peripheral version. He folded back the fall and pressed a single white key, listening to the deep tone it produced. He pressed the next and then the next, several in sequence. It wasn’t tuned properly.
Peter pursed his lips and frowned. He’d watched the repairman who came by to tune his mother’s every few years, so he knew the basics. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of time. He thought about sitting next to Emma, doing something simple like playing, making music, and connecting with someone. He looked down thoughtfully at the keys under his fingers and stroked their smoothness. It had been a long time since he’d connected with someone and that’s why Emma meant so much to him. It wasn’t romantic - it could be, it might be eventually - but what had thrilled him at the time was the simple human element after so many months of self-imposed isolation. Emma had brought him back in touch with the world and the people in it. She’d let him remember he was an empath first, before anything else.
He sighed and looked up at Sylar.
XXX
Peter lingered significantly over the workout room and Sylar glanced sideways at the man. He had bulked up recently. Surely it was all the freedom fighting. Wonder what’s behind that…. Eventually Peter stopped daydreaming and moved on to the next door, actually entering the room. Sylar lingered in the doorway, making half an attempt to look invisible and just observe. Making a beeline for the piano, Peter lifted the top and plunked a few notes, making Sylar wince; it was horribly out of tune, something that made his spine shudder.
Somehow, the noise was pleasant in an emotional sense; to have music and know that the sound came from another person was comforting. He frowned slightly again as Peter turned to him and sighed. What did he want, a duet? “In case you’re wondering,” Which I know you’re not, “I can play something if I hear it. I can’t read music.” Just thought I’d…throw it out there. Given the man’s reaction to Sylar’s hand being placed flat on a piece of glass in his area, Peter was not likely to allow Sylar to sit next to him and allow their arms and fingers to brush.
Sylar was beginning to think Peter would take a slow death by poison before he allowed any such activity; he wasn’t subtle about it. Not all that surprising, really. This time it was Sylar who was first to leave the room, turning from the doorframe and moving to push the button for the second floor on the elevator. Leave Peter to whatever far more pleasant memory he’s having. Lucky bastard. He’ll come up eventually. He didn’t really consider any meaning behind the piano, go figure that Peter would find something in it. The idea was more than a little foreign to him.
Of course the elevator car was on the first floor; where else would it be? So Sylar entered it and turned around, absently smacking the second floor button again, not really waiting for Peter. Rubbing at his face, he groaned to himself as the doors began to close. This was incredibly frustrating.
XXX
Peter looked down at the standard piano bench with a blank expression. It had not and still did not occur to him that Sylar might have been implying they sit together as he had with Emma. He imagined the implication was more that Peter would play something, get up, let Sylar sit down, and Sylar would try to copy it - rinse and repeat until Sylar got the hang of it. That sounds…really tedious. But there is that issue of having enough time. I wonder if I could actually teach-
There was a ding of the elevator door opening. He lifted his head. Sylar wasn’t in the doorway anymore. Peter strode over quickly to look out the door, seeing the elevator closing and Sylar finishing rubbing at his face. Peter’s face looked mildly surprised, but he stayed where he was. The doors shut.
Huh. I wonder where he’s going? Is there something here he needs to hide? He considered Sylar’s body language, since Peter had said he was going to explore here. Nope. Not hiding anything. He turned and walked back over to the piano. I wonder what he’s going to do?
He opened the bench seat, which he’d been planning on doing anyway. As he’d hoped, there was sheet music and a couple compilation books in it. He leafed through them, just looking at the titles. A lot were familiar to him. Much of it was religious, but not all. Nearly all of it was on a beginner level, which was good, because Peter was much better with a guitar than the piano. He saw a few favorites of his in the mix. Peter replaced them and shut the seat. Why would Sylar leave? Does he just want to be the first one there?
XXX
Sylar moved on mostly because he couldn’t really handle watching Peter zone out on some happy memory with people, with friends. He wasn’t aware the other man was alerted to his departure, not that it mattered any. Any amount of suspicion placed on Sylar’s shoulders would be nothing new.
He half-sat, half-leaned on the railing of the elevator as most people did on the brief trip up and found himself staring at the painted down escape hatch of the roof of the car. Blankly, he eyed it for a moment before snorting; really, the idea that somewhere, there was a disintegrated maintenance man who’d fucked the paint job of painting and screwing down the hatch.
The ridiculousness of it stuck with him as he exited the car and into a bland gray hallway, the typical New York fare. No one will need to make a quick escape out of that elevator, will they, José? He shook his head with a mix of emotions; pushing open the nearest apartment door on the left since the door to the right was a janitor closet and that was just bound to be full of goodies. He started in, alone, by taking note of his surroundings.
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: 8. 764
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 looked at the bank of elevator buttons blankly. He felt emotionally drained and that meant he couldn’t think. The buttons went up to eight. Top floor? Bottom? In which case, why did I get on the elevator? I’ll look like even more of an idiot if I get out and there probably aren’t any apartments there anyway - just offices and services. My luck Sylar would still be standing there, watching. He hit the button for eight and reminded himself it wasn’t like he was going to be staying wherever he ended up. He could always move later.
He walked out into an empty hallway, looking at doors distinguishable from one another by only the numbers. He went to the first one and…knocked, because he couldn’t bring himself to just walk in. There was of course no answer. He knocked again - still no answer. He sighed and tried the door. It was unlocked. He swung it wide and looked in. “Hello?”
In all of his wandering, he hadn’t gone inside the buildings very much. He’d gone in ground floor, commercial establishments, but Sylar’s apartment had been the only one he’d been in. It had been creepy enough going in an empty store. It was worse going in an empty residence. He kept expecting to see an elderly person passed out on the floor, or a cat vanishing out of sight, like the times he and Hesam had been called to investigate by concerned neighbors or relatives.
There was nothing there, though. The rooms were also strangely sterile. There were no pictures of loved ones, no clothes left out on the floor, no hair in the hairbrush that was neatly put away in a drawer. The few articles of clothing were separated by the same distance in the closet; folded identically in the dresser. Everything was set ‘just so,’ staged for his perusal.
Well, first thing’s first. He walked to the door and locked it. He put his vegetables away in the refrigerator and set the bread on the counter. Unable to resist, he got out a slice, then a second, and ate them together like an empty sandwich. He took the rest of his acquisitions to the bathroom, noting there was a showerhead over the tub so he could bathe or shower as he wished. He figured he’d do both. He considered what order to do things in and decided that as much as his feet hurt, any bandaging and wrapping he did wouldn’t do any good if he took a bath right after, so he plugged the drain and started the water running.
He put the toilet seat down and unlaced his boots, gingerly removing them. His socks were grey, but they had a few dark spots on them now, unsurprisingly. He peeled them off and threw them into the trash. Need new socks. He twisted his foot up to look at the bottom. He was blistered in a patch under the ball of his big toe, on the top of his little toe, and across his heel. His other foot had a similar wear pattern. He shook his head and stripped off his shirt. He suspected it was a bit ripe. He tossed it on the sink and followed suit with his pants. His underwear he tossed on top of the socks in the wastebasket, then climbed into the tub.
He played with the water settings, heating it up a little more, and settled back. I wonder if there are hot tubs around here? Or swimming pools? I thought I saw the ocean…I wonder if there are seasons. I suppose there are, since Sylar thought of it as ‘years.’ He let the hot water soak into his muscles and ease them. He leaned forward to rub fitfully at his calves, then his thighs, before leaning back again and resting.
It had been a while since he’d really relaxed. Even before he came here - grieving for Nathan disturbed his rest and taking his mother’s ability hadn’t done him any favors. In more ways than one. Once here, his sleep had still been tense. He couldn’t guard his mind then. That probably has a lot to do with it. That and never being sure if Mr. Murder-happy might show up. He sighed. That’s…probably uncharitable. He probably…he must have a good side in there somewhere, or at least a side that’s not… Peter sighed again and shifted, finding a more comfortable position, shutting his eyes and drifting. He let his thoughts wander in the lassitude that comes between lying down and falling asleep.
I wonder what he does with his free time, that’s so secret or embarrassing he wouldn’t talk about it? What, does he knit pictures of kittens? The warmth seemed to be seeping into his bones, calming him and soothing. Peter let his mind unwind too, letting the stress of constant concentration disperse.
He was a very focused man and when he paid attention to something, he paid attention with everything he had. It was a trait he’d shared with Nathan and their father - a peculiar ability to make a person feel like they were the most important thing in the world to them at that moment. It wasn’t a lie, either. No one wanted Arthur’s hawk-eyed attention, and everyone wanted to be Nathan’s friend, if only for a moment. Peter had a different effect on people, but it was no less intense.
He replayed the conversation they’d had on the street outside, what few words they’d exchanged. Was the question about the file trying to change the subject? His mind turned over the tone of voice, the body language, Sylar’s expression, his gaze, his motions and stance - he didn’t consider them clinically, but as a whole, assuming them inside his own head like a set of new clothes, trying to gauge what it felt like to be Sylar at that moment, trying to understand his motives.
Finally even that bit of mental work exhausted him and he fell asleep in the bathtub. He twitched a little, not noticing as the last of the barriers in his mind came down. A memory, or a dream, came to him. He was…someone else, someone with long, thin fingers, quick and delicate, yet still masculine. \\He was working carefully at a watch, incorporating a part he’d fabricated himself, having failed to find an adequate replacement. He wasn’t sure he had the diameter right, but that was how it had gone for a long time with his Sylar.\\
Peter twitched again, eyes moving back and forth under his lids. The watch was familiar.
\\Of course it was. He’d worked on it for years. It was his pride and joy.
The bell over the door rang. He looked up and saw one of his occasional repeat customers, Mr. Thomson. He told the older gentleman, “I’ll be just a minute,” in a voice that was almost Sylar’s - but too young, unguarded (Peter heard the difference instantly) - and made a final adjustment to the gear. He’d been right though - the diameter was wrong. He’d have to go back to the Swiss shop and beg a little more time with their machine to make another part, this time just a tiny bit smaller. The customer leaned over the counter; looking at what he was doing there at the workbench he’d set up near the front window.
“Whatcha got there?” the older man asked, his blue eyes sparkling with interest.
“Oh,” he said, looking up. He wanted to know what he was doing? It wasn’t the first time the man had asked about his work, which was part of why Gabriel remembered him as a customer. “This is a Sylar Field Edition. It’s my hobby watch. I’ve been trying to repair it for years now, but they’re very rare.” He started to warm to the subject, smiling and turning towards the man. “I’ve been having to make custom parts for it, because the three I found were all a little corroded on the inside and-“
The man laughed - he laughed! - and shook a hand at him in negation. “No, no. I’m sorry. I just thought that might be the watch I brought in last week.”
The smile fell slowly off his face. He was an idiot. Why had he thought the man cared? He recovered his smile, but it was false now. With a bit of effort, he made it look almost as genuine as the one he’d worn before. “Of course, Mr. Thomson. I finished that one Tuesday and called you yesterday. It’s right over here.” He moved to the register and produced the repaired chronograph for the man’s inspection. The older man barely looked at it. It was a woman’s watch, his wife’s, Gabriel recalled him saying. He stuffed it in a pocket almost as soon as he’d seen it, not asking what had been wrong with it, not even checking if it ran. Gabriel blinked once at the careless treatment of the timepiece, swallowed and rang up the sale.
The customer left. Gabriel stood very still next to the register, berating himself inside. He had such a rare interest, a virtually extinct hobby and he knew that. He’d known that all along, but it didn’t stop him from looking for someone else who might be interested. They didn’t have to share it - they just had to be … they just had to show an interest in him… It was a stupid desire, because no matter what empty words his mother gave him about how special and interesting he was, he knew no one else felt that way.\\
Peter struggled out of the vision with the utmost of difficulty. He roused himself, waking, and shook his head a little to try to clear it. Mission accomplished, he took a deep breath and then settled back into his previous position, mulling over the revelation. It seemed unlikely to be a dream, at least in that Peter’s mind might have made it up. It had to be another of those thought-leak things and this time he could understand perfectly why Sylar would be thinking about this. He’d expected that only happened when they were both asleep, but apparently not. It was closing on noon. It was improbable that Sylar had gone home for a nap. Grumbling about his sour luck, Peter relaxed again.
He tried to recall all the details he could about the scene. He shifted a little and let the water swirl around him, letting him almost float. He’d been drowsy before and however unexpected the intruding thoughts were, they hadn’t been upsetting. He settled back down quickly, falling back asleep.
\\A waitress addressed him as he sat in a diner, pretending to contemplate the menu. She said “Oh, nice watch. That’s a, um, Sylar Field Edition, right? You know those were modeled after the watch that Allied Command John Pershing brought back from Russia after WWI.”
“Are you a collector?” For just a second, his face relaxed, his mouth opened more, and his eyes widened.
She saw his response, muted and brief though it was. “Uh, no,” she laughed - she laughed at him for his moment of hope - and spoke quickly to head off any interest he might have in pursing that side of the conversation. “No, I just, um, read about them in a magazine and I just remembered. Just something my brain’s been doing lately, just remembering everything.”
“Everything?” Sylar asked with a slight edge to his voice.
“I’m my very own wikipedia.” Sylar thought she sounded like a ditz.\\
Peter breathed harder, trying to wake himself again but having less luck. He’d heard the tone in his (Sylar’s) voice. He knew what that meant. He could remember/feel/know the thoughts that had been in Sylar’s head. There had been a smirking, calloused disappointment…
\\He really hadn’t expected more, but for a second there he’d thought that maybe…maybe that he’d found someone with a similar passion, but no. Of course not. Just an empty-headed waitress with an ability she was milking to increase her tips, no doubt having mentioned his watch solely for that reason. She wasn’t interested in the Sylar - it was just another useless fact stuck in her head by an ability she didn’t even seem to appreciate. He would appreciate it. He would value it, cherish it, just like he had the watch…\\
Peter clenched his teeth. He knew where this was headed and he had no desire to see it for himself. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the side of the tub and splashing. The flash of pain and the noise finally pulled him out of it. This time he sat up and threw water on his face, scrubbing at himself. As if I needed a reminder that he’s a killer. Someone laughs at him and he thinks he needs to murder them.
Peter shook his head and got carefully to his feet, pulling the plug on the tub. He didn’t want to risk another lapse and get bombarded by another…whatever these were. Peter pulled the curtain closed and turned the showerhead on to rinse off before the tub was empty, enjoying the sound of water against water. It brought back other memories; ones he was sure were his alone - walking in the rain after slugging Nathan, trying to get a cab, running into Simone. He smiled. That had been a good night. Sort of. The smile slipped away as he thought about why he’d been out there in the rain - Nathan had publicly humiliated him by claiming Peter had tried to kill himself.
He frowned and got out of the shower. He didn’t like this ‘alone with his thoughts’ business. He dried off and saw to his feet, thinking that after eating lunch, he’d spend the rest of the day exploring the building because he needed to do something to keep his mind busy, and the idea of ‘reading’ or whatever Sylar had suggested just truly didn’t appeal to him. Maybe eventually, because he supposed it was okay as a way to focus your thoughts, but he wouldn’t really be learning anything new. That was impossible, after all.
He found underwear that fit him, to his surprise, in the dresser drawer. They were a little tight, as was the dark t-shirt he pulled out, but they were okay. The socks were a better fit, but they came in a small range of sizes anyway.
He roamed through the building to find that most of the apartments were carbon copies of the one he’d been in. There were always details different - one might have a room decorated for a kid, with a dinosaur theme or all done in pink; another might have crocheted covers on all the furniture, bringing to mind the elderly. But there were no people. One empty apartment after another weighed on him.
Peter suspected it was a feature of the place; a deliberate aspect of it; a part of the prison Matt had made for Sylar. Of course, now that Peter was in it, he was affected as well, but at least he understood. Sylar didn’t seem to have that benefit, even now that he’d been told. Understanding it didn’t mean Peter didn’t feel it, but he didn’t leave the building.
I don’t have to. I’m not lonely. And there’s no one out there anyway but Sylar…a man who can’t even get through small talk with a waitress without finding something to take offense at. So he stayed inside, busied himself searching for supplies that he might need - a few more clothes, he scavenged a few cans of food from other apartments, he found a messenger bag and a backpack.
When he finally laid down for sleep that night, he prayed for a dreamless night. He needed the rest dreadfully. The bed was soft and warm. It was comforting. He’d propped up a tower of canned soup against the door in case Sylar tried to get in - it was stupid, and he thought it almost impossible, but he hadn’t been able to relax and lie down until he did it, so that was just how it was. His slumber was undisturbed, by demons within or without.
Day 5
Peter woke early, before it was even light outside. He showered again, this time washing his hair. He shaved, not really approving of the choice of toiletries in the apartment, but they would do for the time being. He stood before the sink contemplating the toothbrush, holding it before him. He sucked at his teeth and looked at the hairbrush he’d been using. There’d been not a hair on it when he pulled it from the drawer. It hadn’t looked brand new, but the use marks it had, if any, were sort of generic. The same could be said of the toothbrush.
He tried, and failed, to convince himself that he was in Sylar’s head and this was perfectly sanitary. It’s all a dream. The toothbrush doesn’t even exist. He sighed. I don’t even have to brush my teeth. I can just skip it and get one from the store today - a new one, in a package - if that’s what it takes to make my subconscious feel better. He stared at the toothbrush, an expression of defiant mulishness creeping over his face. Fuck my subconscious! He stuck the toothbrush in his mouth and turned on the water, getting out the toothpaste. He brushed dry for a little bit until he was sure he’d swapped germs with whatever illusory mental construct had previously owned it and then wet it and applied toothpaste to brush properly. He glared at himself briefly in the mirror. There!
Feeling strangely victorious, he headed out into the world instead of staying in. His feet still hurt, but not as bad and his back and thighs were much improved. He still took the elevator, though he wondered if ‘exercising’ here would make him think he was stronger and had more stamina. It was a thought. He liked exercising. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for free weights, though if he didn’t see any in apartments, he was pretty sure that sporting goods store he’d seen the first day would have something appropriate. Even a jump rope would be nice.
I need to clear some of that crap out of my apartment. There’s too much stuff in it. All of his stuff. Not the sort of stuff I want in my apartment. I wonder … if everything I do here is just a mental exercise, then maybe I could get some good out of doing things that benefit from concentration and mental repetition, like music. He smiled a little and thought of Emma as he walked down the street in the pre-dawn gloom, heading immediately for the diner he’d fixed himself breakfast at before. Doing so took him past Sylar’s apartment. He hesitated as he turned onto the street, eyes sweeping up and down it. It was empty. The lights above were off. He headed on.
At the diner, he found the place as messy as he’d left it. His brow furrowed at that. He guessed he’d imagined that it would fix itself after he was gone, but really, he hadn’t thought about it at all. He cleaned up, then made himself scrambled eggs with bell peppers. Scrambled eggs with onion had been Nathan’s favorite breakfast dish (unless you counted an omelet with onions). He almost never ate either because of the effect on his breath. It was probably the sense of the forbidden that made him love them more. Peter tossed some onions in a little late in the cooking process. He didn’t care what his breath smelled like. This time, he cleaned up before leaving.
He walked back, feeling competing urges to see where Sylar was and what he was doing, and to swing wide to avoid the man’s residence. His mind threw up other possible places to explore, but he refused them. He would stick to the plan he’d had that morning. Sylar was not going to keep him from being wherever it was Peter wanted to be. He wasn’t afraid of him, for God’s sake. He walked down the street in front of his apartment resolutely, but it was empty.
He turned the corner to head to his apartment and there was the man, sitting on the front step across the street from the building Peter was already thinking of as his own. His stride didn’t falter, because now this was not him intruding onto Sylar’s space, but Sylar in his. Or… sort of. The street outside was mostly public, at least insofar as ‘public’ meant anything here.
He wondered if it was purely coincidental that Sylar was directly outside the building Peter had been planning on exploring next. It didn’t matter. Peter walked over to him, pausing four or five paces from the other man. He glanced at Sylar in acknowledgement, then looked up at the building façade. “Hey,” he said, still looking up.
Day 4
Closing his eyes with a sigh, Sylar turned and began to meander back towards his own humble abode, leaving Peter as…requested. Just when he’d been getting…not comfortable, but…acclimated to the sheer brain-blowing boredom of being alone, Peter waltzed in and turned everything on its head; everything was now without Peter. Living this mind-numbingly boring life now had an additional factor. The EMT was as unlikely to sit and play a game of chess with him as he was to break out into a soft-shoe number. Meaning Sylar would have to reacclimatize to Peter.
The other man wasn’t going to be thrilled with his presence either, making the job that much harder. He would have to be polite, avoiding annoying and angering, even saddening his companion which was a harder task than it seemed at first glance. Peter the empath, Sylar the psychopath. Someone who understood every human emotion meeting someone who could barely begin to grasp the concept, who failed to understand even his own subtle emotions? What a pair.
Alright, alright. I need to be thinking of what I can do to keep him around, keep him…interested for lack of a better word. God, that sounds like a wife desperate for an indifferent, ED-affected husband. Sylar went so far as to stop walking at the metaphor. Anything but that. I won’t beg. Or so he told himself. Frankly, he couldn’t guess at his limits at this point. He could be very well capable of….outrageous actions to get what he wanted. That much was very clear over his less-than-stellar track record.
Sylar was surprised at himself as he began to walk mindlessly again; his pride….where had it mysteriously vanished? When, even? Somewhere around….oh, yeah, being mind-fucked. If he was still in possession of his pride (and powers), what would he be doing now? Torturing Peter, without a doubt. Yet somehow that struck him as strange, no, not because of the lack of pride and powers, but because of the hypocritical nature of that thought. Sylar knew he would gladly torture, abuse, break and even kill Peter had he those things; he’d been ready to at Mercy Heights.
Here he was, however: partially alone, powerless and no sense of accomplishment or even his so-called god complex to see him through. Mortally immortal with the exact opposite of himself, Peter. But he has my flaws, the same as Bennet, the same as Claire, Angela even. Briefly the thought to call out to Matt, the unseen, unbelievable, fat LA cop in the sky…. Oh, help me now, he mentally moaned, I don’t want to die from a doughnut crumb when he finally decides to snuff me. Because so help me, that is not going on my damn tombstone- death by fat LA cop in the sky’s doughnut crumb. Parkman is not God. Shaking off the image with some physical help, he went back to his original idea. Was this some kind of test? Throw the boa constrictor….(well, Peter certainly was no mouse) live prey and rate his progress? No, that made obviously no sense. Neither of them had powers.
Go back to the beginning. Peter….’came’ in here of his own free well, so he says, to get me out. All over some prophetic dream he’s had (probably a nightmare), that his random girlfriend of the week is going to….kill lots of people. Sylar straightened as he stopped dead again, turning around to glance back at Peter’s building as if it were the man himself. That’s it, isn’t it? She’s special. How else would she even register on his map? How easy would it be to kill thousands of people with the right ability? Don’t I just know it. Meanwhile….I’m…”sleeping” somewhere, in no real danger…so I hope. Where does that leave him? He can’t be two places at once- Time travel. Is…is he from this time? I don’t know any Amanda, Amy, Emily, whatever the hell her name was. It’s possible.
Nodding at his own cleverness, he set the thought away to ripen, focusing instead on where he was physically walking, what he was doing. Interests….Peter can’t cook. He’s not that big a reader, too ADD or too much of a dreamer for that. Nathan’s memories were seamlessly tapped into (for once by choice, this allowing him some kind of power over the run-away recollections; they didn’t overwhelm him this time. Sylar chuckled gleefully) and he ransacked through the files looking for hobbies and interests.
Wow, he thought, his list is….nearly as short as mine. That’s…. His mind had been about to supply ‘that’s so sad’, but he caught himself before it formed in his mental voice. Pathetic. Guy like that, he’s got everything but control and killer- no, he’s got killer instincts. Sylar was torn at the thought between gloating and sorrow and a twinge of bite-sized guilt. Arthur. He’d had his own neck broken and before that been thrown off a roof with Peter, then the whole nail gun thing….Yeah, he’s got the balls. Looks, money, enough personality to make almost anyone bend over for him and what does he do with his life?
Baseball- not playing it, but watching it; Nathan had gifted him with a ball signed by the Yankee’s Batting champ Paul O’Niell, .359 in 1994, a game they’d seen together. At least it’s a decent hobby.
Music- the guy liked to play instruments, something you forgot to mention. Strange how it doesn’t trigger one of Sky-boy’s memories. He plays piano and guitar fairly enough.
Helping people- Uugh! Sylar knew this was going to be a problem instantly. He was the person in need here, Peter was….well, was he supposed to help? Certainly he was under no obligation unless he suddenly decided to overlook the whole Nathan thing and undo the wrongs of his kin. Un-fucking-likely. If there were any animals here, I bet they’d go to him. While Sylar was and had been good with animals, the past six years (only three of which actually mattering) the creatures tended to treat him like a well-learned electric fence.
Continuing on…
Travel (Europe, huh?), swimming and diving (Okay….), blah blah blah…nope…nope…Board games….the kid used to like sex when he could get it, that much I can tell. At that, Sylar tried not to snigger, he really did, but the idea of Peter Petrelli, I-talian Eagle Scout, boy-wonder charming his way into some invalid cougar’s bed was honestly sickeningly amusing to him. Chess, checkers, board games….card games when they’re relatively clean or unless you get him to…well, well, well. Popular TV shows, movies (those are wasted), exercise, he speaks some French, likes politics.
Ah, shit. Should have invited him over for dinner. Again. Not that he’d accept, of course. Sylar was fairly confident that the offer would eventually be granted, even if it took some time. Time they had to spare (even if Sylar doubted his sanity had it to spare). By then, Sylar had purposefully bypassed his apartment building and headed towards the library, intent on his purpose. He made a mental note to stock up on ‘Peter food’ for the next time the man decided to raid Sylar’s kitchen.
Musing on this, Sylar entered the library. It never crossed his mind that Peter would feel under a lens or feel objectified as he racked up memories of Peter’s favorite foods: mac ‘n cheese, chicken alfredo, the cinnamon bread…. Focus. He went to the sports section and after leafing briefly through the selections, he chose a few on stats and biographies; specifically of New York’s Yankees and Mets teams, the two he assumed Peter would have the most exposure to.
Taking up the books, he headed back towards his apartment, going up three flights of stairs to his rooms, closing the door behind himself without much care. Sylar set the books down on his single table, passing into the kitchen. He was hungry and the urge to feed was starting to affect him and he hated that; even if he was usually so focused on something he would actually forget to eat; again, something he knew he and Peter had in common. Now what to make?
Sylar drew out a can of chicken noodle because, yes, he was a little stressed, but when had that become news? Stress is all in the mind. Oh, fuck you, Chandra, just….go to hell. Preparing the soup in a bowl, he threw it in the microwave and sat down with a flurry of motion to still as he read the stats book. Joe Torre, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Alex Rodriguez, check, check, check, check; damn….forty World Series wins from 1921 to 2009. Yeah, he would have remembered that with the red-head’s ability, but he didn’t have it and he’d never heard that information.
He wasn’t a total loser in sports; he knew the teams, a few of the big players, but nothing substantial. Sylar had known the Yankees were a bit of a disreputable and famed wild card while the numbers were hazy. The microwave made a ‘ding!’ of finish and he rose with the book in his hand, still reading, to remove it and grab a spoon, returning to his seat. All the while his eyes never left the book, drinking in the information as he failed to notice the fading light outside.
Nathan’s memories aided him in knowing which games they’d seen together in person or via the television but soon he grew uncomfortable sitting in the wooden chair, moving himself into the bedroom with the book attached to his left hand. Laying the hardback on the desk after he’d gathered up his pajamas, he quickly stripped and redressed for bed, tossing the pillows into submission and settling in under the blankets.
His last thought was, Hey, maybe this could be fun.
Day 5
Sylar awoke the next morning, finding the book on the floor next to his cot. It drew a frown from him to see something so valued on the ground. The sight prompted him into action, rolling from the bed to grab it up. Once he straightened with it in hand, he was forced to shove back his unruly dark hair when it fell all over his face. Sighing, he padded into the bathroom to take care of business, entering the kitchen once he’d done that and dressed. Yawning as he sat at the table, Sylar opened up the hardback as he poured out Lucky Charms, catching on too late as he missed the bowl, spilling the cereal over the table top.
He groaned. I hate it when that happens. /”Why does this keep happening?” At an extra tooth in his mouth. That’s not my fucking tooth. It’s not mine. It’s not mine!/ Sylar set the bowl under the edge of the table, scraping the cereal back into it from the table top, pouring milk in, this time with his attention on the carton, not the book. After he’d finished, he took an apple and the book and left the apartment in search of Peter, rather, to stalk Peter’s place for when he left.
Arriving not long after, he sat on the steps of a building across the street from the medic’s place in the nice morning sun, stretching out his too-long legs and opening the book again. It wasn’t a book for the mild-reader by any means; chock full of facts from cover to cover, it was no walk in the park for someone like…Peter, for example. But Sylar thrived on those facts. Surprisingly Peter showed up much sooner than he anticipated; he’d been kind of expecting a barricade situation with the man. Even more so surprising was that he’d already been out and about.
Peter wasn’t limping so bad; clearly his feet pained him less than yesterday, but the man stopped shorter than the average proximity distance. Some long-buried or half-learned social ruling triggered something in Sylar’s head and he stood quickly; all awkward legs and arms, nothing like the graceful, predatory killer he’d been before. Holding the book in one hand, the other quickly burrowing into his pants pocket under his pea coat, he replied, “Hey. Peter,” Sylar tacked on the man’s name, unsure of why he had, noting the man’s clean-shaven face and continually broken watch.
Sylar wasn’t staring (pretending to stare) at the building, instead he gazed at Peter, trying to discern the man’s shifting moods. I can do this. I can win him over. “Like your new place?” He asked randomly, just to start a conversation on the right foot this time. “Quite the choice, huh? I mean…” Don’t belabor that again, he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want your assistance in settling in. “Uh…I found some board games.” Smooth, that was real casual.
XXX
He watched the other man scramble to his feet and there was something unthreatening about the motion. It was different. Peter contemplated that, but he couldn’t figure out how to characterize it. It was like Sylar stood up with less poise, less prepared to uncoil in an attack - maybe that was it, that his posture was unguarded. One of his hands was occupied and the other was in a pocket - yes, definitely unguarded, so much so that he wondered if it was intentional. Peter grunted and looked past him at the door of the building, his gaze called back when Sylar said his name. He gave a brief nod and looked away again, inwardly relieved that they’d managed to exchange greetings in a civilized manner.
He glanced back at the other building when Sylar referenced it. He supposed it was appropriate to call it his new place. He still didn’t plan on staying there, though getting through a dreamless night had been a relief. Maybe that has something to do with it - I’m only vulnerable to those thoughts if I’m uncomfortable? One night hardly proves anything. I might as well stay a few more to find out.
Board games? Well…he supposed he would eventually, probably, sit down and play something with Sylar if he got bored enough. And if Sylar learned, at some point, to self censor. He wasn’t interested at the moment. A quick glance around confirmed Sylar hadn’t actually brought any such games with him, so that saved Peter the rudeness of declining.
Peter wasn’t real sure how he felt about Sylar being here, waiting for him. He looked back at the building he’d picked out for today’s search. He supposed that three relative years alone, being mentally tortured, would probably make someone a bit desperate for company. And so Peter didn’t try to run him off. He wasn’t interested in playing games though. “Board games, huh? That’s cool. Maybe some other time.”
I found some cool stuff in the other building… no. He’s been here a long time, and that’s an opening for him to be a smug, arrogant bastard and I’d rather not start that. Again. “I’m going to look through the rooms here.” He gestured at the building in question, hoping belatedly that Sylar didn’t take that as if he was searching the city for bodies, which in a vague sort of way he was. Bodies, a presence, a life force, something to relate to other than Sylar. And there was the other angle that this was Sylar’s head. Peter wasn’t the curious type by nature, but he wondered if there was an end to the level of detail he’d find and if somewhere, there was something darker and more mysterious than empty room after empty room.
Suiting action to words, he moved forward, deliberately not taking the wide berth around Sylar of the day before and instead giving him only a normal amount of space. He opened the door and moved inside, looking around at the foyer. I wonder if he could tell me what’s in every room before I go in them? ‘The tour’ he offered…maybe after I get done here. Then I’ll have a better idea of what’s in all these buildings.
XXX
This time Sylar noticed the attention Peter was giving him as he stood. Honestly, he didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing or what to do with it, so he didn’t bother to acknowledge it. There were no obvious signs of where Peter had been or been doing; he assumed the medic was out for a walk. The man looked at him at his name being voiced; a natural enough response and Sylar met his eyes as he did, almost asking permission to be in his presence.
The nod he received was answer enough and Sylar relaxed further, the set in his shoulders easing into casual that would be unfamiliar to Peter. That alleviated many doubts in his mind as to Peter’s mentality and…strength, if that was the right word. The empath would keep fighting and so long as he did, they would be fine.
Peter addressed the board games and Sylar nodded back, enthused about the idea. He hadn’t played a board game in….eleven years? Grinning lightly, he looked back to Peter’s building, which seemed to be the focus of the day. “Why? Do you need something?” Tilting his head, he turned back to Peter, his grin fading into a slight frown, confused. “Um…what….what would you be looking for?” Suspicion did begin to creep up in his mind. He tried to avoid being defensive and on the attack, managing not to turn and stare Peter down (his favorite method of getting an answer).
However, the space between them closed on Peter’s accord and he blinked in surprise and delight. Grinning again at the man’s retreating back, he followed along behind towards the building. “Seriously, man, what’s going on?” Besides not much? He so helpfully supplied them both mentally. Jostling his book and apple, he darted quickly forward to catch the door as Peter opened it for himself. Clearly he didn’t expect Peter to hold the damn door open for him or anything. Of course, he wasn’t thinking about the suddenness of the motion and how it might strike his companion.
Honestly, Sylar was happy as a clam to be near someone, hell, have the option to converse, even if it wasn’t exactly welcomed. It was equally strange to be…close to a person and not have to worry and keep his guard up (well, as much). No weapons other than words, no cells, drugs, no abilities. That was the real crux of it all for Sylar. To be this close a special and not feel that….gut-wrenching need to fix and discover (minus that goddamn watch of his!). Cotton and ice….heavy on the ice. On top of it all, it would appear that he’d won over Peter….while he kept his mouth shut, that is. That’s why I brought the book, he supposed.
XXX
When Sylar’s hand landed unexpectedly on the door a foot above Peter’s, the empath jumped and stiffened, freezing in place for a moment. He bristled and it felt nearly literal - like every hair he had attempted to stand straight up. He turned and looked at Sylar with a long, level look and one slightly raised eyebrow that was a lot more threatening than any amount of hysterical response. It communicated very clearly, ‘I do not want you that close to me.’ Or perhaps it was actually saying, ‘Get the fuck away from me.’
Peter let go of the door and walked inside so stiff-legged he hardly bent his knees. He got a little space and felt better immediately. Stupid overreaction. All he’s doing is holding the door. Don’t want him holding the door. Shouldn’t have walked so close when I went past him then, idiot. I’m still overreacting.
With an effort, he drew his thoughts away from berating himself and looked around the foyer. There was a spacious little lobby separated from the foyer by a set of interior glass doors. The lobby was a bit shabby around the edges but, like most everything in Sylar’s world, it was clean, empty and open. There was a board on the wall near the division between the foyer and lobby, next to a bank of buttons to ring individual apartments. There were no names on the board - no way to indicate who was supposed to live here. Peter pressed one of the buttons anyway.
XXX
Oops. Why oh why was he not born with the (natural) ability of being social? That would have come in handy and made things….a lot easier. Peter telegraphed restrained hostile awareness the instant his hand landed on the glass. Sylar himself froze and waited until Peter got his desired (required) space even though he desired to crowd him in the entryway. He could have easily; a quick excuse to be close.
Sylar assumed Peter would recall just how useful he was without abilities and weapons. Peter stalked off with a burr up his ass, looking like he needed to puke from fear and possibly anger for getting within Sylar’s personal bubble, even by accident. The glare he was given was only a cover he could tell. He frowned, following several feet behind; God, this is ridiculous. Walking twelve steps behind. What’s next, bowing and scraping?
His face taking on a scowl at the back of the man’s head as he walked further into the foyer, only glancing at the surroundings. Peter moved in through gated doors and Sylar settled for opening the door again for himself due to his distance. That should please him. The medic began to explore the lobby, peeking around in the few doors. Of course Sylar lingered behind, not getting in the man’s space as he looked into the rooms for several reasons.
XXX
He stared vacantly at the board for a moment, remembering going by to pick up an Irish guy named Chris while on his way to Julie’s birthday party. The ringboard for the redhead’s apartment had looked just like this. He’d hoped to hook up with Chris, but the guy had showed up with Ivan. Peter had ended up with Justin instead, which was probably a good thing all the way around. God, that has to be more than ten years ago, because I think that was my second year in college. Wonder what ever happened to any of them?
He reached over and opened one of the glass double doors just like someone had buzzed him in, having waited about the right amount of time while thinking. He was unconscious to the pattern, carrying it out without realization - no doubt in the same manner that Sylar carried out many of his own habits in this nightmare world. To anyone cast in the role of an observer, though, it would be immediately apparent. Peter glanced back at Sylar still shadowing him, moving on through the door abruptly enough to avoid any possibility of Sylar’s arm reaching above or past him to catch the door.
He looked around. He had elevators, the door to an office, another door to…Peter looked inside, through the glass built into the door…laundry room. And over here is…ah, an exercise room. He stood in front of the door for a very long, still moment, eyes cataloguing the equipment. He saw no free weights, jump rope or anything small and portable. He was uninterested in the stair machines or the treadmills, but the stationary bikes might be useful and the weight machine could be disassembled. I’ve always wanted one of those. He held himself on the doorframe, leaning close to the glass panel in the door, looking off to either side with wide eyes and obvious interest.
For some reason he picked then to finally answer Sylar’s question. “Just looking for stuff. I don’t need anything, really,” he said distantly. He’d seen enough. He pushed away from the door and went to check what was behind the other ground floor doors. Janitor’s closet, storage, and a…he looked at the sign on the door: Facilities Room. He pulled the door open. It was a large, open room featuring a couple long folding tables, a few neat stacks of folding chairs, some blank, empty corkboards on the walls (the sort that really should have had announcements pinned to them), a folded up ping pong table, a foosball table, and an upright piano.
Peter went straight to the piano like it was magnetized. It was old, battered and not a high-end piece to start with, but it was here. He glanced back warily at Sylar like the other man might interfere somehow or get between Peter and the precious piano. Peter shifted to the other side of it, so he could better see Sylar in his peripheral version. He folded back the fall and pressed a single white key, listening to the deep tone it produced. He pressed the next and then the next, several in sequence. It wasn’t tuned properly.
Peter pursed his lips and frowned. He’d watched the repairman who came by to tune his mother’s every few years, so he knew the basics. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of time. He thought about sitting next to Emma, doing something simple like playing, making music, and connecting with someone. He looked down thoughtfully at the keys under his fingers and stroked their smoothness. It had been a long time since he’d connected with someone and that’s why Emma meant so much to him. It wasn’t romantic - it could be, it might be eventually - but what had thrilled him at the time was the simple human element after so many months of self-imposed isolation. Emma had brought him back in touch with the world and the people in it. She’d let him remember he was an empath first, before anything else.
He sighed and looked up at Sylar.
XXX
Peter lingered significantly over the workout room and Sylar glanced sideways at the man. He had bulked up recently. Surely it was all the freedom fighting. Wonder what’s behind that…. Eventually Peter stopped daydreaming and moved on to the next door, actually entering the room. Sylar lingered in the doorway, making half an attempt to look invisible and just observe. Making a beeline for the piano, Peter lifted the top and plunked a few notes, making Sylar wince; it was horribly out of tune, something that made his spine shudder.
Somehow, the noise was pleasant in an emotional sense; to have music and know that the sound came from another person was comforting. He frowned slightly again as Peter turned to him and sighed. What did he want, a duet? “In case you’re wondering,” Which I know you’re not, “I can play something if I hear it. I can’t read music.” Just thought I’d…throw it out there. Given the man’s reaction to Sylar’s hand being placed flat on a piece of glass in his area, Peter was not likely to allow Sylar to sit next to him and allow their arms and fingers to brush.
Sylar was beginning to think Peter would take a slow death by poison before he allowed any such activity; he wasn’t subtle about it. Not all that surprising, really. This time it was Sylar who was first to leave the room, turning from the doorframe and moving to push the button for the second floor on the elevator. Leave Peter to whatever far more pleasant memory he’s having. Lucky bastard. He’ll come up eventually. He didn’t really consider any meaning behind the piano, go figure that Peter would find something in it. The idea was more than a little foreign to him.
Of course the elevator car was on the first floor; where else would it be? So Sylar entered it and turned around, absently smacking the second floor button again, not really waiting for Peter. Rubbing at his face, he groaned to himself as the doors began to close. This was incredibly frustrating.
XXX
Peter looked down at the standard piano bench with a blank expression. It had not and still did not occur to him that Sylar might have been implying they sit together as he had with Emma. He imagined the implication was more that Peter would play something, get up, let Sylar sit down, and Sylar would try to copy it - rinse and repeat until Sylar got the hang of it. That sounds…really tedious. But there is that issue of having enough time. I wonder if I could actually teach-
There was a ding of the elevator door opening. He lifted his head. Sylar wasn’t in the doorway anymore. Peter strode over quickly to look out the door, seeing the elevator closing and Sylar finishing rubbing at his face. Peter’s face looked mildly surprised, but he stayed where he was. The doors shut.
Huh. I wonder where he’s going? Is there something here he needs to hide? He considered Sylar’s body language, since Peter had said he was going to explore here. Nope. Not hiding anything. He turned and walked back over to the piano. I wonder what he’s going to do?
He opened the bench seat, which he’d been planning on doing anyway. As he’d hoped, there was sheet music and a couple compilation books in it. He leafed through them, just looking at the titles. A lot were familiar to him. Much of it was religious, but not all. Nearly all of it was on a beginner level, which was good, because Peter was much better with a guitar than the piano. He saw a few favorites of his in the mix. Peter replaced them and shut the seat. Why would Sylar leave? Does he just want to be the first one there?
XXX
Sylar moved on mostly because he couldn’t really handle watching Peter zone out on some happy memory with people, with friends. He wasn’t aware the other man was alerted to his departure, not that it mattered any. Any amount of suspicion placed on Sylar’s shoulders would be nothing new.
He half-sat, half-leaned on the railing of the elevator as most people did on the brief trip up and found himself staring at the painted down escape hatch of the roof of the car. Blankly, he eyed it for a moment before snorting; really, the idea that somewhere, there was a disintegrated maintenance man who’d fucked the paint job of painting and screwing down the hatch.
The ridiculousness of it stuck with him as he exited the car and into a bland gray hallway, the typical New York fare. No one will need to make a quick escape out of that elevator, will they, José? He shook his head with a mix of emotions; pushing open the nearest apartment door on the left since the door to the right was a janitor closet and that was just bound to be full of goodies. He started in, alone, by taking note of his surroundings.
XXX
Continued...