More Between Us Chapter 51/? "King of the World"
More Between Us Chapter 51/? "King of the World"
Day 13, Evening
“Hm.” Peter made an approving hum as they walked into one of the penthouse apartments. It was a lot nicer than the lower floor places, which was part of why he’d wanted to come here. Why dink around in a bunch of played out flats they’d already checked when there were better options available? He went straight to the big windows, looking around outside and struggling for the view through the weather and night. He craned his neck around, but between the pitch blackness and the pouring rain, he saw nothing. There wasn’t even any lightning to illuminate things briefly. He could hear the erratic pinging of sleet or ice pellets, which affirmed they’d done right to camp out instead of straggling home.
XXX
Sylar immediately noted the couch - and the pair of bedrooms. They were separated by a bathroom; one was clearly the master, the other a guest room with a more traditional, hinge door. Peter was already scoping out the place so it looked like he approved and that they would be staying here for the night (or at least, one of them would be). “Where will you be sleeping?” was his casual question. It wasn’t really the one he wanted answered. Sylar wanted to know where Peter thought Sylar would be bedding. He didn’t think he’d get much leeway to argue, either, if it wasn’t a response he liked.
XXX
Peter looked at the bed that was visible. It was a double or a queen and looked comfortable. It was a little exposed, but apparently it could be closed off. The nagging desire to be in a separate apartment with a locked door between them ran through his mind, but he’d fallen asleep around Sylar before without mishap. His fear seemed stupid. He waved at the bed he could see. “I’ll take that one,” he said as he turned from the window and headed to the kitchen, putting aside his worries for the more immediate subject of eating.
XXX
Interesting he thinks I’m offering him a choice. I guess it sounded that way. Doesn’t matter, though, Sylar thought, pleased with that. The implication behind Peter’s answer was that Sylar would be rooming in the guest bed.
XXX
Peter realized he’d left the apple juice behind. He opened the fridge to see what there was. First thing his eyes lighted on was a bottle of champagne. He pulled it out and looked at it, then glanced over at Sylar as Peter tried to make a complicated mental judgment.
One bottle split between us … I’d been wanting something to drink … This isn’t hard stuff, we aren’t going to get wasted on it … Is he a teetotaler? If he’s not, how does he hold his liquor? Peter recalled the long night Sylar, shape shifted as Nathan and clutching an empty bottle, had spent in Peter’s bed just a month before. Might help to relax him. It’s just the one bottle, right? A quick survey of the refrigerator confirmed that yes, there was only the one bottle of anything alcoholic. Their other choices were milk, a few cans of Dr. Pepper, and some energy drinks - none of which sounded appetizing, although there was also some bottled water. There were a variety of other things in there - carrots, celery, some herbs in a glass of water, a package of red meat Peter didn’t bother to explore, cottage cheese, eggs, and the usual assortment of fridge dwelling condiments. “Well … uh … do you want some cottage cheese? I’m not sure what else you’d want in here unless you want another omelet.”
XXX
Sylar noticed Peter going to the fridge so he thought to set up the food at the small dining table. He unloaded the cheese and crackers and paused over the lunch remains. Didn’t we throw those away? I should have…remembered. Done that earlier. But he hadn’t and here it was. The problem was he didn’t know what to do with it - toss it or save it if Peter wanted it for whatever reason. So he stared at it in the bag until Peter addressed him. “No, cheese and crackers are fine.” It was sinking in - with amusement - just how much of a heavy snacker Peter was. He really doesn’t make meals much for himself does he? Nathan remembered that, dimly, but Sylar was reminded of it. That means he’s been cooking for me. That caught him flat-footed, not that he knew how to process it.
XXX
Not much of a dinner, Peter groused internally, but he was hungry now and nothing was really coming to mind other than what they already had in hand. “Sure. Let’s eat.” He lifted the wine bottle. “You okay with champagne, or do you want water?”
XXX
Sylar blinked and looked up. Did he say-? O-kay…He struggled with the implications of alcohol at this point as well as Peter’s motives in offering it. Won’t that…hurt my head? He’s a nurse - he would know. He wouldn’t offer it if it would hurt a patient, right? Yeah, I also don’t trust him. It’s safety understood (assumed), he moved on to the effects it might have. Nathan had drunk countless glasses and bottles of the stuff so he was aware of how low the alcohol content was and how much was needed to have the desired effect. But Nathan was something of an alcoholic in his opinion so…He wants me…buzzed? He’d be buzzed, too, though. What are we celebrating? He wondered before it hit him. The date was what decided him. His birthday. He wants- Okay. Let him have it. I thought candy or dessert might be more his sweet-tooth but whatever works.
Sylar thought he was supposed to be drinking water for fluid intake. “Sure.” He didn’t particularly want it but he also didn’t have to drink it. Most people would fail to notice after the initial agreement if he did or did not drink what was offered. Perception was a fascinating toy - it followed one’s expectations and after that, one would stop looking for or at things.
XXX
Peter handed over the bottle and said, “Look around for a corkscrew. I’m going to look for a cheese slicer.” He started on one side of the kitchen, leaving the other to Sylar. He didn’t find either before Sylar happened on a corkscrew and stepped aside. Peter continued his quest, finding a cheese grater, but no slicer. Figures. It’s Sylar’s head. If he doesn’t know what a cheese slicer is, it probably doesn’t even exist, he thought in exasperation. Why don’t my thoughts count?
XXX
Sylar didn’t want to extend the effort required to feel insult or relief about being given the familiar task of corkscrew location. He found it in a drawer with other utensils. Bottle in hand, he opened it over the sink anyway (in case Peter had been shaking the damn thing), hoping the cork wasn’t so crappy that it broke or went down into the bottle and liquid itself, though that was pretty rare from what he understood. He didn’t know much about brands to know if this one was good or not. I do all the heavy lifting; he just looks pretty and plays detective for missing kitchen tools. Screw inserted, he held the bottle firmly and hauled on the handle until the cork inched its way out with an eventual pop, and no mess to his satisfaction. Ha!
Peter hadn’t gotten glasses out - surely they weren’t going to share the bottle? That involved…well, germs. Peter’s germs to be exact. Might be kinda hot to see him wrap his lips around something…Sylar assessed with evil intent.
XXX
“Okay,” Peter said. “Can you slice up the cheddar and swiss? I’m going to look for some different crackers.” He left Sylar to the knife work and went through cabinets this time instead of drawers, finding some upper-end brand stoned wheat thins. Cool. Okay, maybe my thoughts count after all. He took the box, got out some plates and glasses, putting a plate next to Sylar to set the cheese on as he finished slicing it, and put the rest of the stuff on the table. Peter looked up from his extended, fruitless fiddling with the cracker sleeve. With a sigh, he offered it to Sylar-of-Two-Working-Hands to open.
XXX
Sylar was validated when Peter failed to come up with any mysterious cheese slicer. Did they even exist or was Peter being his regular deluded self or just pulling Sylar’s leg? He snorted and brought the bottle over after swiping a knife to do the cutting. He looked back to see the other man was looking for other crackers. Saltines aren’t…good enough? Or he just doesn’t like them? Sylar knew for a fact how well the sodium and bland flavor helped upset stomachs, but the bias didn’t occur to him. He rolled his eyes when he saw the fancy wheat-thin knock-offs. Of course.
The cheddar was difficult to slice thin and the swiss was only a little better. There was another package of cheese that didn’t need cutting - the wrapper said ‘brie.’ The force necessary kept noisily clanking the knife into the plate he was using to slice the cheese as it slipped through or slipped over which was frustrating. Eventually he got it into chunks at least that could be torn apart with fingers even if it looked anything but gourmet. Sylar held back his snicker when Peter had to hand over the stupid sleeve of crackers. That’s what you get. Getting your way here really isn’t working out for you, is it, Pete? Wonder if that will continue. But he dutifully opened the plastic for Peter and passed it back.
XXX
Peter pulled out a stack of crackers for his plate and at least got the sleeve out of the saltines box for Sylar's. “Saltine's guy, huh? Or is it just because that was what we found first?”
XXX
“Yeah. Well…I thought they’d be better for my stomach…” Sylar hedged.
XXX
Peter put a wheat cracker on Sylar's plate and pushed the open sleeve over next to the saltines so Sylar could pick. “Try one of these. They're good. I like Ritz and club crackers in soup, but not so much with cheese.” Since watching the cheese operation would make him tense (the clattering was bad enough, constantly worrying him that Sylar was going to cut himself), Peter poured their drinks, giving each a full glass.
XXX
Sylar eyed the lone wheat cracker on his plate. That was overstepping multiple social boundaries. That was something friends and family did. Sharing and trying new food was a relatively new phenomenon for him, but clearly not new for Peter, given the casualness of the gesture. “Okay,” he said faintly, still hung up - in a pleasant way - about that silly cracker. Recovering himself enough, he voiced his opinion, “Ritz get soggy, but club crackers are good in just about anything.” And that is a lot of champagne.
XXX
He headed back to the kitchen briefly for a dinner knife for the brie, pulling it over and unwrapping it as Sylar was finishing up. “I had a friend in college who'd take Ritz and put little squares of cheese on them and heat them in the microwave. They were pretty good. Never liked that canned cheese stuff though - the kind with a nozzle?” Peter raised his right hand and waved it around in a really poor imitation of using a can of Easy-Cheese. He gave it up and spread some brie on a couple crackers, watching while Sylar set up his own stuff.
XXX
Sylar chuckled about the canned cheese. It tasted like plastic and had similar consistencies. The idea was a little nauseating, not helped by the recollection of eating it with the sound of pressurized air with cheese. The idea was great - the product? Not so much. It belonged in a nuclear fall-out bunker for emergencies or apocalypse only situations. As they sat, he tried not to think how their current predicament might actually qualify.
XXX
“You're not getting enough calories, man,” Peter put in. “It's starting to worry me. If we find some ice cream after this, you'd better eat it,” he mock-threatened, waving the cheese-knife in Sylar's general direction. Peter set the knife down, handle facing Sylar, and pulled over the plate with the cheese pieces on it. He was a little surprised at how sloppy a job had been done, given Sylar's general fastidiousness, but then again, he didn't have proper tools for it. He glanced over at the sharper implement Sylar had been using, having an odd flash to 'Nathan' putting his hand over Angela's (and the knife for cutting the pie) in Peter's apartment, on Thanksgiving. Peter blinked it off, quickly trying to shove that memory away, although it did, for the moment, shut him up. He took a sip of the champagne, struggling not to remember how his mother had brought a merlot that day - blood red and complicated. Tonight's drink was pale gold and bubbly. He took a bigger drink and held it in his mouth for a long moment, tasting the lighter, simpler flavor and trying to focus on that to the exclusion of all the other swirling thoughts.
It didn't help much. Sensory overload was helpful, but what worked most reliably for directing Peter's thoughts was interacting with people. He swallowed and looked across the table, asking, “So, did you ever drink much? Beer, wine, mixed drinks, or none of it?”
XXX
Sylar laughed, watching the knife with slight wariness. “Cheese is a protein. I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t turn down ice cream, though.” He tiredly noted the knife was placed to his advantage, ignoring it thereafter. Sylar put a cheddar…chunk, he supposed it was, on the wheat cracker to try it out. He shrugged. “Triscuits go great with cheese, too.” He went back to digging out a handful of Saltines, laying them out rather neatly before alternating the toppings - brie, cheddar, swiss - in a clockwise direction. A second to admire it before he started it at the six o’clock cracker, sliding it whole into his mouth. Cheese is going to make me thirsty, he realized after a few chews.
Sylar glanced up to see Peter looking at him, asking about alcohol. Another realization struck: Peter was had a system, a reason to his rhythm. All Peter had to do was put things in the environment and ask Sylar about it, the champagne for instance, or a cracker type. It was ingenious and so subtle he’d missed it. It was a unique process of elimination. Clever, clever. Of course, that just raised more questions about why Peter wanted to know about his alcohol intake specifically. What would (or could) Peter do to him drunk that he couldn’t do when Sylar was sober?
He shook his head, “No. I wasn’t...Alcohol was really frowned on. I never got into it. Before…my abilities,” he phrased gently instead of saying ‘before I murdered people, including you,’ “I was more of a wine person, barely drank at all, ever.” Something about drinking alone and the idea that it was a sin anyway. That and it had a bad tendency of making him completely horny (perhaps it was the taboo of it) coupled with the ‘alone’ part meant he had nowhere to go but his hand. It was a recipe for guilt and more trouble than it was worth. He felt out of control, too. “After that…I got regeneration.” He shrugged that off, poking at his crackers before looking up to speak, “No point drinking if you can’t get drunk, you know?”
Already he began to feel Nathan’s more alcoholic urges, the feeling that being drunk and numb and out of it was pleasurable. //He’d needed it to cope at times. Deaths in the family, utter betrayals, life doing down the tubes. Mexico came to mind - his failure and guilt, cowardly running and involving the daughter he’d wanted to impress…His last binge had been…the night before Thanksgiving.// He’d slept in his brother’s familiarly-scented bed, safe for the moment from the outside world while his mind tore him apart in his dreams. He’d woken to Angela, lies, and pumpkin pie. “It’s kinda nice here, though.” I can get drunk now, if I want. He didn’t want to advertise that in case Peter got ideas. A concussion and more randy horniness than he knew how to handle, with Peter here, would not be a good combination.
XXX
Peter nodded agreeably, listening.
XXX
Sylar felt that he’d been talking so long, he’d missed the question so he tried to review it. “I don’t…um. Most drinks are fine. I don’t know that I really have a preference.” He shoved another cracker in his mouth just to shut up and look occupied.
XXX
“Can't say I have the best relationship with it, myself. I think alcoholism runs in my family.” Peter hesitated, not sure what he wanted to say to Sylar about that. More quietly he said, “People say a lot of hurtful things while they're drunk.” He toyed with his glass, interest in drinking it abruptly over. Peter set the glass down and stood up, a carefully polite expression on his face to hide his anger at himself - for spoiling the moment, for not being able to shut away the past, for even thinking that drinking might be a nice way to ease that pain in his back and hand. “I'm going to get one of those bottles of water. Do you want one?”
XXX
That was something that Nathan had never understood - but Sylar had grasped instantly - Angela’s wine habit. It was because of her ability. Nathan didn’t know about that until his forties, though he knew Angela came from a less-influential family than Arthur, a lawyer, businessman and a war veteran who also drank. If anything Arthur showed Nathan the ropes of alcohol - it was almost expected of him. He’d taken the brunt of imbibed Arthur to shield Peter; therefor Nathan knew just what kinds of things Arthur talked about when he’d been in his drink. And that decisive, so-called honesty turning cutting, looking for any vulnerable spot or perceived flaw under the influence when it stripped away any censor. Nathan himself had called Peter a few names after a few beers - the kid’s idealism, rebellion, and pacifism making him nauseous at the time.
There were things Sylar could say to that but he wanted to relax, at least a little, enough to rest later and not worry about an attack in the night - which he would worry about if he snarked off about the familial addiction. He was just being pragmatic. He didn’t want to get involved or endanger himself. Although his curiosity stood at attention, wondering what exactly Peter had heard (or said!). Gabriel’s own upbringing hadn’t required alcohol to allow poisonous words or phrases, even Bible versus to embed in his brain to be remembered forever. It was almost an every day occurrence for the over-sensitive and that had been torture. It wasn’t like Gabriel had ever figured out the source or purpose behind any of it, eventually he gave up trying to reason it out and just accepted what was. He could definitely relate to that feeling and maybe that helped keep his mouth shut. “Yes, please.”
At least…Peter and I turned out better than our fathers. Not by much in my case, but…I think that still matters.
XXX
Peter walked to the fridge, pausing to roll his shoulders and try to center himself before he opened the door. He got what he came for and returned. Small talk about cheese came to mind and was dismissed. Instead, after settling himself back in his chair, Peter said, “My back hurts. My hand hurts. I'm not feeling good.” I'm sure you aren't, either. The real reason why he was suddenly cranky wasn't because of his hand or back - it was thinking about his family. He didn't want to talk about that, though, so he picked up a cracker with brie on it, relying on the soft cheese to hold the cracker together after he bit off half of it. A swallow and a drink of water later, he said, “But you're right - it is nice here in a lot of ways. It's quiet. That's good and bad, but I really noticed it when I was playing the piano. Inside of your apartment has the clocks, but outside it's always so silent. You can definitely hear yourself think.” Maybe kind of literally.
XXX
And what do you want me to do about it? Sylar pondered Peter’s pointing out his symptoms, taking the second water bottle and a drink from it. Maybe you need to be eating the Saltines.
XXX
“There's a lot of time here. I kind of like that. It's … new.” He gave Sylar a frail smile, going back to eating.
XXX
Sylar had opened his mouth to say why he had the clocks (and the noise) in the first place, but that sweet, fleeting little smile stopped him. “So you spend it beating things up and tuning pianos.” A commonality struck him, “Hey, you tunes pianos and I fix clocks.” I wonder if there’s pianos at hotels he can tune? Is it a hobby or…Obviously it isn’t - he doesn’t know how to tune a piano. Why do something you don’t know how to do? “It’s probably good for you. You work too much anyway. No one here to save now.” Not even me. “You can do anything you want.” Sylar thought about that, then shrugged. It was….too much world, even for him. It was too big, too much room, empty space. He couldn’t fill it or be in it all at the same time. Hence his small apartment, stuffed to the ceiling with entertaining, special items. It was a comfortable, familiar, safe nest he barely fit in. That was also what he was used to.
Any conspirator who claimed he was out for world domination was dead wrong - literally, dead and wrong now. Making a change for him was both more difficult and more profound; for Peter change was easy and accessible, possible and somewhat approved of. Maybe it came down to inborn skillsets. Saving an individual life was more a personal thing whereas being president…would affect thousands if not millions of lives. “I was here first, though, so I make the rules,” Sylar sniffed, throwing that out casually and surely, munching on another cracker. He didn’t think that one through because while he would have liked to establish dominance, he couldn’t back it up at the moment or maybe ever.
XXX
Peter had been introspectively musing over Sylar's words until the man got to the last ones. For a moment, Peter's eyes danced over Sylar's serious face, trying to judge if he really meant that. Because it was still embedded in Peter's mind that this was Sylar he was dealing with and Sylar was an unpredictably violent, homicidal man with baggage Peter couldn't even begin to unpack. He was also an unpredictably violent, homicidal man who had just fed Peter a straight joke. In a twisted sort of way, he was not only acknowledging his past, but also making a joke of it. After three seconds of looking at him intently, Peter burst out in a very amused laugh.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes narrowed at the laughter. It mocked him. It wasn’t funny. Okay, maybe he’d meant it a little light-hearted but he was serious. Peter didn’t like it here; he was new; from out of town (or wherever - Peter still thought he was in California for fuck’s sake); he was younger and he was only here because Sylar had something he wanted. Besides, who had won the last two fight-fights? He wound up glowering.
XXX
Peter continued chuckling as he put some smoked cheddar on a couple more wheat crackers and leaned back, cracker in hand. “Okay, let's play that game. If you were king of the world here, what's the first law you'd pass?”
XXX
“I am king of the world here,” Sylar corrected with half his attention.
XXX
That spawned another bout of chuckles from Peter, who struggled to tamp it down. Sylar seemed serious, which was funny either way - if he'd intended it as a joke, then being serious was just Sylar playing along and it was definitely humorous; but if he hadn't intended it as a joke, then it was so preposterous that Peter couldn't help but laugh. He cleared his throat and forced an expression of soberness onto his face, difficult though that was.
XXX
Sylar ignored the peanut gallery this time. Already he was contemplating the question - a good one, too. The parameters were obvious - he was king and whatever law he made would be followed. Or else. It wasn’t…’make a wish; what wish would you make?’ The problem was he didn’t know the answer to either - wish or law ‘game.’ Peter can’t rape me. Peter has to sleep with me? Peter can’t laugh at me. Peter can’t leave. Peter can’t touch my stuff. Peter has to believe me? Peter has to play with me? Peter has to like me? Peter…does what I say? Or maybe…‘Sylar will be safe from all physical, mental and emotional harm’? Maybe ‘I’m special, not a monster’?
Sylar had zoned out completely, staring sightless at the tabletop at Peter’s right. As he came back to more conscious and social awareness, he could feel he’d been frowning. He licked his lips. “Uh…I’d make a constitution to begin with. Put…lots of things on it.”
XXX
“Write it all down? That's a good idea,” Peter said as he genuinely sobered. “I hadn't thought of that.”
XXX
Sylar thought some more, slowly formulating because he knew he had to have an answer. Not having one was…well, it would look weird. Saying something that didn’t match Peter’s concept of Sylar the monster, Sylar the murderer would set off alarm bells and raise more personal questions he didn’t want to answer. But damnit, he didn’t have just one and the ones he had he couldn’t or didn’t want to divulge. So he prioritized as best he could. “I guess…my first law would be that…you couldn’t leave. You have to stay living in whatever building you choose.” That’s not weird or conspicuous at all. But I can work down the list from there; what’s possible on it, anyway.
XXX
Peter lifted a brow. He already has that. Damn, that really is important to him. I guess we have an exemption for tonight?
XXX
Sylar bit off a corner of Swiss Saltine, entertaining his mind with multiple fantasies. After a moment, his curiosity peaked again. “How about you? Assuming you were king of the world, of course,” Sylar smirked without much energy, downplaying that likelihood.
XXX
“Ha,” Peter said, taking a liberal drink of champagne because it went better with the taste of smoked cheddar than water did. (He would have said it had nothing at all to do with any latent alcoholism that ran in his family - or tendencies towards denial.) “If I were king of the world … this world … and I don't want to over-think it, but I think we shouldn't beat each other up.” He took a moderate sip. “So this situation is one where whatever I order would really happen? Not just be something everyone agreed was a good idea?”
Peter knew that this proposed rule of his would impact him as much as Sylar, but he'd be somewhat gentler with Sylar if he wasn't feeling he needed to go over-the-top with violence to deter the homicidal maniac Sylar has proven himself to be in the past - the recent past, too. Again, though, this was what Peter would tell himself, because the admission that he really wanted to hurt people of his own desire rather than as a defense wasn't something he was prepared to make.
“I'd want to write it up in that constitution of yours, so we both knew what it meant.”
XXX
When do you overthink anything, Petrelli? Sylar queried to himself. He nodded agreement, though, when Peter seemed to look for one. He gave Peter nearly the capacity of his attention, the rest of it spared for his cracker. Although…I’m king of the world so the only ‘game’ is letting you pretend to put things in my constitution. If we’re both putting things in, then, yeah, it’s on a democratic basis.
XXX
It occurred to Peter that he might have stumbled upon a sideways method to working out some ground rules for interacting, if they could agree what was kosher and what wasn't between them. Sylar's 'rule' of Peter not leaving wasn't abusive or even megalomaniacal. Peter could live with it. He wondered what else he could live with from the other man. “So I can't leave, and neither of us can beat up on the other. What else should we have in the constitution?”
XXX
Sylar’s face was droll and unimpressed. ‘We’ can’t beat on each other. Think you can handle not beating me up, Petrelli? You seemed to like it even though I won. Peter’s last question was different than the ‘game.’ It sounded familiar, too, so he wasn’t unaware of the angle of Peter’s motives. Whatever. Let the kid think what he wanted to. Sylar was king and this wasn’t a democracy. Even if it was, both of them were far too different to reach agreement. The empath didn’t balk at the enforced living condition; that was hopeful.
“Guests have to be respectful of the owner’s apartment, including rare collectables and food.” Sylar gave an unmistakably pointed look at Peter. “Don’t make a mess. Don’t break things, like doors or people’s faces. Don’t take their things, like combs. Don’t move their things without permission - clocks and watches are delicate and probably have loose parts and the books are where I want them to be. Always wash your hands and don’t leave the toilet seat up.” Sylar finished his speech and took a drink from his champagne, suspecting that those terms wouldn’t go over as well as the first one had. Most of that was repetitious - Peter had heard it before - but some of it was new and advertising what he wanted as just as likely to wind up happening because…well, he wanted it. Peter now knew how to drive him up a wall and might do it on a whim. “The infraction of which may result in breach in contract of rule number two,” he muttered to himself.
XXX
Peter stifled a laugh at the emphasis on 'food'. He reached up and rubbed at his upper lip, his mouth, and then scratched at his chin, all the while failing to get an amused smile off his face. “I don't know, man. I might want to move things around just to upset you. That's worth seeing,” he teased.
XXX
“Ha ha.” Sylar deadpanned with so much seriousness it was nearly a threat. I don’t think it will be worth seeing. I won’t make it worth your while.
XXX
More seriously, Peter said, “But I'll try not to break things.” Thankfully, he wasn't a klutz. He took another sip of champagne and set about building another couple of crackers. As he finished, he said, “Guess it's my turn. Don't chase me. If I get upset and I want my space, let me have it. I've got to feel like I can get away from you when I need to or else we'll have some of those 'infractions' you're talking about.” Peter knew he got emotional and more demonstrative than a lot of other people. Which was fine most of the time, but there were a lot of feelings he harbored towards Sylar which probably wouldn't be healthy for either of them for Peter to let out. Putting pressure on him or getting in his face seemed like a sure way to break Peter's tenuous control on his more violent impulses.
XXX
Sylar was quiet, lips pursed. He didn’t like that one so much. It robbed him of an opportunity to get under Peter’s skin, should he ever feel the need. When I want your attention and your presence, I’m going to try to get it. There’s no guarantee you’ll come back. You’re asking me to just…let you go? Trust you’ll come back? (What if I want some infractions? They were just another way to get attention and the fighting rule was Peter’s, not his). Sylar was aware that he had, perhaps, something of paranoid phobia about being abandoned and/or neglected. That saying about ‘its not paranoia if they’re all out to get you’ came truthfully to mind even if he felt like some tacky alien conspiracy theorist about it. Having to remember that Peter needed him, too, just as badly - hell, Sylar was his mission here - seemed like small fry compared to being abandoned. It was difficult rationale to ask him to justify. Apparently his silence was read as acquiescence and Peter continued.
XXX
“Some of your rules from before that I'm okay with: don't lie, don't manipulate. At least not in a bad way. Influencing is different. So's persuading. Maybe what I'm saying is that being above-board is all right, but nothing underhanded. None of that 'I got away with it so it's okay' stuff.” Peter paused for a bite, swallowed quickly and added, “Not that I've seen you do that, but a lot of people do - Nathan always did - and it's not something I like. No one does and it's only the two of us here, so ...” He let that trail off with an expressive shrug as he finished his current cracker.
XXX
“Nuh-uh, Petrelli. One rule at a time. Wait your turn,” Sylar brandished a cracker at him warningly. The idea of being bound to tell the truth was…well, both very serious in applied reality and laughable as a concept. He didn’t have to agree to that one; he didn’t have to follow it - Peter didn’t have to know. Peter had already caught him lying about his medical status, how he’d done it, Sylar wasn’t sure. He’d been picturing the morally upright hero (Peter) would be held accountable for lying and manipulating since his last name was Petrelli back when he made that condition. The other one being that Peter not treat him like a sanitarium inmate had, for the most part, been upheld, to his surprise.
Sylar didn’t talk to people; it was just too dangerous. Already Peter figured how to use his preferences against him with that book rearranging comment. The last semi-truthful conversation Sylar had…he couldn’t recall. Madeline? Luke? Claire even? Or farther back to Danko or Chandra? The idea of honesty was a frightening one. It implied…safety and trust. He could always agree to the rule but distract and avoid answering, which wasn’t lying…“Besides,” he mused, “you’ll assume I’m lying anyway.” So let I’ll let you think what you want, believe what you want to believe. I don’t think my truth is going to make a difference here, now, with you, where it hasn’t done any good before. What’s so important that he needs to know the truth? All he asks are…weird get-to-know-you questions about my childhood. Like any of that matters. He’s not writing a book or planning a hit and he didn’t read my file. It’s just weird.
Sylar was a bit surprised Peter had so openly named his brother. He assumed the mere mention was a salted wound too deep to touch. Nathan’s bipolar conscience was certainly a pain in everyone’s ass; Sylar ought to know and clearly Peter did, too. Does he mention him now because…he thinks I’ll do something Nathan would do? That was an unpleasant thought.
“In my constitution I’d make it a law that you have to treat me at least like a coworker. None of that Company, hero under-the-rug stuff.” Peter felt like a brother and a friend to him, like a little shadow almost. It was jarring when Peter held him at arm’s length all the time with none of the familiarities he expected to receive, the ones he was used to. Sylar knew that was just Nathan’s ghost, but he wanted a foothold towards making that a reality because being the monster-next-door was going to make him crazy.
XXX
“A coworker?” Peter pulled his head back, brows down and lips pouted slightly. Like a partner? Like Hesam? He gave Sylar a quizzical look over another piece of cracker. Hesam knew his cell number, they talked about school and saving people’s lives and what it meant to be a medic together. They were in each other’s business enough that it really bothered Peter that he couldn’t tell Hesam the truth about his family or anything about abilities. Despite that, there was a lot more of a bond there than he had yet with Sylar. He doesn’t rate that!
XXX
Sylar frowned deeply at that. Yeah. So? I’ve worked with heroes before. His back was up over the mere suggestion that he wasn’t good enough for that. You need me enough to come get me; is this so much to ask?
XXX
Peter blinked a few times and took another drink, washing down his food and finally moving his thoughts along to the rest of what Sylar had said. “What do you mean by that? Not just the coworker stuff, but the hero-under-the-rug thing? Because … the people I work with, we’re kind of teamed up. We have each other’s back.” He dipped his head a little to the side, leaning forward inquisitively now. “Are you saying you’re on the same team with me? That we’re working together towards something?” Like getting out? Or saving Emma? That seemed too good to be true, not to mention Peter wasn’t entirely sure he wanted Sylar on the same ‘team’ as him.
XXX
Just like that, Sylar’s expression loosened as Peter made sense of his earlier tone and hesitation. He understood the problem because that would be asking for quite a bit, a partnership like that. “I wasn’t thinking about your job. Nursing- paramedic, whatever. That’s…” Does he even have a frame of reference for what I’m asking? How do I explain it? It’s not like I’ve ever had it either. “Different,” he tried to clarify. “I meant like an office coworker or something.” He shrugged off the whole idea because it wasn’t working. Peter had all but stated he was asking for too much. Sylar noticed how interested Peter was; he’d definitely stumbled onto something of value. He didn’t bother to address the ‘hero-under-the-rug’ part.
“I don’t know how well a team would work when we don’t trust each other and we have no common goals. Except maybe keeping sane here. That I can work toward.” I’ve been trying to work towards it. I want to get laid, maybe have a friend; you wanna save your not-so-girlfriend girlfriend and probably kill me after. Of the two, mine seems more likely (except the ‘killing me’ part) but apparently its all a matter of perspective, warped or otherwise. “Besides, you don’t really do ‘teams’, do you, Peter?”
XXX
Peter frowned at him briefly, lips pursed and affecting a sullen expression for a moment to get his feelings across about what Sylar had said. He was just emoting; it wasn't a lasting mood. He sucked down the remainder of his champagne - the last third of the glass - and set it back down. “I suppose my teamwork skills could use some work,” he allowed. At least, he knew Hesam would say his teamwork skills needed work. And maybe Noah or Matt or anyone else whom he'd tried to work with on anything of importance. Me and Noah seemed to be working together okay, once he started taking me seriously … He wasn't sure how Sylar felt about Noah, though, so he left that thought unspoken.
XXX
Sylar was a little surprised to get an admission at all, let alone one so direct. He didn’t know what to do with it, even though he supposed it was what he wanted, so he nodded his approval.
XXX
“We have more common goals than that,” Peter chided lightly, getting to his feet. “Keeping you alive. Keeping me alive.” He made some loose, wide gestures with his words. “Staying sane's a good one.” Peter ambled into the kitchen, calling back, “Maybe … finding some ice cream?” as he opened the freezer and checked their options. “Hm.” He dug around and emerged with a cardboard box, the outside illustrating the contents as ice cream bars - vanilla with a chocolate coating. “This is good enough,” Peter declared, pulling out two and putting the box back in the freezer before returning to the table. He offered one to Sylar.
XXX
People who want to keep others alive usually don’t beat them to concussions, plural, Sylar noted, but let it slide. It was strange to think that he took the idea of life more seriously than Peter did - Peter who was here, supposedly, to save his girlfriend. The idea of partnering up for the grand scheme of ice cream was funny - Sylar caught himself chuckling despite himself. He could definitely get on board a master plan for frozen dairy treats. The ‘good enough’ comment was equally amusing - it wasn’t strawberry and it didn’t have fun kiddie-chunks in it. It was vanilla, probably a cheap kind with equally cheap chocolate coating, but it was vanilla all the same, thus it was Sylar’s type of ice cream, not Peter’s. He took slightly sadistic pleasure in that as he took the ice cream bar, “Thanks.” I picked a good apartment then - convenient ice cream.
XXX
“I trust you some,” Peter said, settling back into his seat and picking at the wrapper for his dessert. “Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been sitting down to eat with you, getting you ice cream, dragging you out to make you listen to my horrible piano playing.” He smiled charmingly at Sylar - a staged smile more familiar to Nathan's face than Peter's, but it was the same sort of emoting he'd done earlier, just this time it was a positive emotion he was trying to project. “There's hope for us yet.”
XXX
Continued...
Day 13, Evening
“Hm.” Peter made an approving hum as they walked into one of the penthouse apartments. It was a lot nicer than the lower floor places, which was part of why he’d wanted to come here. Why dink around in a bunch of played out flats they’d already checked when there were better options available? He went straight to the big windows, looking around outside and struggling for the view through the weather and night. He craned his neck around, but between the pitch blackness and the pouring rain, he saw nothing. There wasn’t even any lightning to illuminate things briefly. He could hear the erratic pinging of sleet or ice pellets, which affirmed they’d done right to camp out instead of straggling home.
XXX
Sylar immediately noted the couch - and the pair of bedrooms. They were separated by a bathroom; one was clearly the master, the other a guest room with a more traditional, hinge door. Peter was already scoping out the place so it looked like he approved and that they would be staying here for the night (or at least, one of them would be). “Where will you be sleeping?” was his casual question. It wasn’t really the one he wanted answered. Sylar wanted to know where Peter thought Sylar would be bedding. He didn’t think he’d get much leeway to argue, either, if it wasn’t a response he liked.
XXX
Peter looked at the bed that was visible. It was a double or a queen and looked comfortable. It was a little exposed, but apparently it could be closed off. The nagging desire to be in a separate apartment with a locked door between them ran through his mind, but he’d fallen asleep around Sylar before without mishap. His fear seemed stupid. He waved at the bed he could see. “I’ll take that one,” he said as he turned from the window and headed to the kitchen, putting aside his worries for the more immediate subject of eating.
XXX
Interesting he thinks I’m offering him a choice. I guess it sounded that way. Doesn’t matter, though, Sylar thought, pleased with that. The implication behind Peter’s answer was that Sylar would be rooming in the guest bed.
XXX
Peter realized he’d left the apple juice behind. He opened the fridge to see what there was. First thing his eyes lighted on was a bottle of champagne. He pulled it out and looked at it, then glanced over at Sylar as Peter tried to make a complicated mental judgment.
One bottle split between us … I’d been wanting something to drink … This isn’t hard stuff, we aren’t going to get wasted on it … Is he a teetotaler? If he’s not, how does he hold his liquor? Peter recalled the long night Sylar, shape shifted as Nathan and clutching an empty bottle, had spent in Peter’s bed just a month before. Might help to relax him. It’s just the one bottle, right? A quick survey of the refrigerator confirmed that yes, there was only the one bottle of anything alcoholic. Their other choices were milk, a few cans of Dr. Pepper, and some energy drinks - none of which sounded appetizing, although there was also some bottled water. There were a variety of other things in there - carrots, celery, some herbs in a glass of water, a package of red meat Peter didn’t bother to explore, cottage cheese, eggs, and the usual assortment of fridge dwelling condiments. “Well … uh … do you want some cottage cheese? I’m not sure what else you’d want in here unless you want another omelet.”
XXX
Sylar noticed Peter going to the fridge so he thought to set up the food at the small dining table. He unloaded the cheese and crackers and paused over the lunch remains. Didn’t we throw those away? I should have…remembered. Done that earlier. But he hadn’t and here it was. The problem was he didn’t know what to do with it - toss it or save it if Peter wanted it for whatever reason. So he stared at it in the bag until Peter addressed him. “No, cheese and crackers are fine.” It was sinking in - with amusement - just how much of a heavy snacker Peter was. He really doesn’t make meals much for himself does he? Nathan remembered that, dimly, but Sylar was reminded of it. That means he’s been cooking for me. That caught him flat-footed, not that he knew how to process it.
XXX
Not much of a dinner, Peter groused internally, but he was hungry now and nothing was really coming to mind other than what they already had in hand. “Sure. Let’s eat.” He lifted the wine bottle. “You okay with champagne, or do you want water?”
XXX
Sylar blinked and looked up. Did he say-? O-kay…He struggled with the implications of alcohol at this point as well as Peter’s motives in offering it. Won’t that…hurt my head? He’s a nurse - he would know. He wouldn’t offer it if it would hurt a patient, right? Yeah, I also don’t trust him. It’s safety understood (assumed), he moved on to the effects it might have. Nathan had drunk countless glasses and bottles of the stuff so he was aware of how low the alcohol content was and how much was needed to have the desired effect. But Nathan was something of an alcoholic in his opinion so…He wants me…buzzed? He’d be buzzed, too, though. What are we celebrating? He wondered before it hit him. The date was what decided him. His birthday. He wants- Okay. Let him have it. I thought candy or dessert might be more his sweet-tooth but whatever works.
Sylar thought he was supposed to be drinking water for fluid intake. “Sure.” He didn’t particularly want it but he also didn’t have to drink it. Most people would fail to notice after the initial agreement if he did or did not drink what was offered. Perception was a fascinating toy - it followed one’s expectations and after that, one would stop looking for or at things.
XXX
Peter handed over the bottle and said, “Look around for a corkscrew. I’m going to look for a cheese slicer.” He started on one side of the kitchen, leaving the other to Sylar. He didn’t find either before Sylar happened on a corkscrew and stepped aside. Peter continued his quest, finding a cheese grater, but no slicer. Figures. It’s Sylar’s head. If he doesn’t know what a cheese slicer is, it probably doesn’t even exist, he thought in exasperation. Why don’t my thoughts count?
XXX
Sylar didn’t want to extend the effort required to feel insult or relief about being given the familiar task of corkscrew location. He found it in a drawer with other utensils. Bottle in hand, he opened it over the sink anyway (in case Peter had been shaking the damn thing), hoping the cork wasn’t so crappy that it broke or went down into the bottle and liquid itself, though that was pretty rare from what he understood. He didn’t know much about brands to know if this one was good or not. I do all the heavy lifting; he just looks pretty and plays detective for missing kitchen tools. Screw inserted, he held the bottle firmly and hauled on the handle until the cork inched its way out with an eventual pop, and no mess to his satisfaction. Ha!
Peter hadn’t gotten glasses out - surely they weren’t going to share the bottle? That involved…well, germs. Peter’s germs to be exact. Might be kinda hot to see him wrap his lips around something…Sylar assessed with evil intent.
XXX
“Okay,” Peter said. “Can you slice up the cheddar and swiss? I’m going to look for some different crackers.” He left Sylar to the knife work and went through cabinets this time instead of drawers, finding some upper-end brand stoned wheat thins. Cool. Okay, maybe my thoughts count after all. He took the box, got out some plates and glasses, putting a plate next to Sylar to set the cheese on as he finished slicing it, and put the rest of the stuff on the table. Peter looked up from his extended, fruitless fiddling with the cracker sleeve. With a sigh, he offered it to Sylar-of-Two-Working-Hands to open.
XXX
Sylar was validated when Peter failed to come up with any mysterious cheese slicer. Did they even exist or was Peter being his regular deluded self or just pulling Sylar’s leg? He snorted and brought the bottle over after swiping a knife to do the cutting. He looked back to see the other man was looking for other crackers. Saltines aren’t…good enough? Or he just doesn’t like them? Sylar knew for a fact how well the sodium and bland flavor helped upset stomachs, but the bias didn’t occur to him. He rolled his eyes when he saw the fancy wheat-thin knock-offs. Of course.
The cheddar was difficult to slice thin and the swiss was only a little better. There was another package of cheese that didn’t need cutting - the wrapper said ‘brie.’ The force necessary kept noisily clanking the knife into the plate he was using to slice the cheese as it slipped through or slipped over which was frustrating. Eventually he got it into chunks at least that could be torn apart with fingers even if it looked anything but gourmet. Sylar held back his snicker when Peter had to hand over the stupid sleeve of crackers. That’s what you get. Getting your way here really isn’t working out for you, is it, Pete? Wonder if that will continue. But he dutifully opened the plastic for Peter and passed it back.
XXX
Peter pulled out a stack of crackers for his plate and at least got the sleeve out of the saltines box for Sylar's. “Saltine's guy, huh? Or is it just because that was what we found first?”
XXX
“Yeah. Well…I thought they’d be better for my stomach…” Sylar hedged.
XXX
Peter put a wheat cracker on Sylar's plate and pushed the open sleeve over next to the saltines so Sylar could pick. “Try one of these. They're good. I like Ritz and club crackers in soup, but not so much with cheese.” Since watching the cheese operation would make him tense (the clattering was bad enough, constantly worrying him that Sylar was going to cut himself), Peter poured their drinks, giving each a full glass.
XXX
Sylar eyed the lone wheat cracker on his plate. That was overstepping multiple social boundaries. That was something friends and family did. Sharing and trying new food was a relatively new phenomenon for him, but clearly not new for Peter, given the casualness of the gesture. “Okay,” he said faintly, still hung up - in a pleasant way - about that silly cracker. Recovering himself enough, he voiced his opinion, “Ritz get soggy, but club crackers are good in just about anything.” And that is a lot of champagne.
XXX
He headed back to the kitchen briefly for a dinner knife for the brie, pulling it over and unwrapping it as Sylar was finishing up. “I had a friend in college who'd take Ritz and put little squares of cheese on them and heat them in the microwave. They were pretty good. Never liked that canned cheese stuff though - the kind with a nozzle?” Peter raised his right hand and waved it around in a really poor imitation of using a can of Easy-Cheese. He gave it up and spread some brie on a couple crackers, watching while Sylar set up his own stuff.
XXX
Sylar chuckled about the canned cheese. It tasted like plastic and had similar consistencies. The idea was a little nauseating, not helped by the recollection of eating it with the sound of pressurized air with cheese. The idea was great - the product? Not so much. It belonged in a nuclear fall-out bunker for emergencies or apocalypse only situations. As they sat, he tried not to think how their current predicament might actually qualify.
XXX
“You're not getting enough calories, man,” Peter put in. “It's starting to worry me. If we find some ice cream after this, you'd better eat it,” he mock-threatened, waving the cheese-knife in Sylar's general direction. Peter set the knife down, handle facing Sylar, and pulled over the plate with the cheese pieces on it. He was a little surprised at how sloppy a job had been done, given Sylar's general fastidiousness, but then again, he didn't have proper tools for it. He glanced over at the sharper implement Sylar had been using, having an odd flash to 'Nathan' putting his hand over Angela's (and the knife for cutting the pie) in Peter's apartment, on Thanksgiving. Peter blinked it off, quickly trying to shove that memory away, although it did, for the moment, shut him up. He took a sip of the champagne, struggling not to remember how his mother had brought a merlot that day - blood red and complicated. Tonight's drink was pale gold and bubbly. He took a bigger drink and held it in his mouth for a long moment, tasting the lighter, simpler flavor and trying to focus on that to the exclusion of all the other swirling thoughts.
It didn't help much. Sensory overload was helpful, but what worked most reliably for directing Peter's thoughts was interacting with people. He swallowed and looked across the table, asking, “So, did you ever drink much? Beer, wine, mixed drinks, or none of it?”
XXX
Sylar laughed, watching the knife with slight wariness. “Cheese is a protein. I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t turn down ice cream, though.” He tiredly noted the knife was placed to his advantage, ignoring it thereafter. Sylar put a cheddar…chunk, he supposed it was, on the wheat cracker to try it out. He shrugged. “Triscuits go great with cheese, too.” He went back to digging out a handful of Saltines, laying them out rather neatly before alternating the toppings - brie, cheddar, swiss - in a clockwise direction. A second to admire it before he started it at the six o’clock cracker, sliding it whole into his mouth. Cheese is going to make me thirsty, he realized after a few chews.
Sylar glanced up to see Peter looking at him, asking about alcohol. Another realization struck: Peter was had a system, a reason to his rhythm. All Peter had to do was put things in the environment and ask Sylar about it, the champagne for instance, or a cracker type. It was ingenious and so subtle he’d missed it. It was a unique process of elimination. Clever, clever. Of course, that just raised more questions about why Peter wanted to know about his alcohol intake specifically. What would (or could) Peter do to him drunk that he couldn’t do when Sylar was sober?
He shook his head, “No. I wasn’t...Alcohol was really frowned on. I never got into it. Before…my abilities,” he phrased gently instead of saying ‘before I murdered people, including you,’ “I was more of a wine person, barely drank at all, ever.” Something about drinking alone and the idea that it was a sin anyway. That and it had a bad tendency of making him completely horny (perhaps it was the taboo of it) coupled with the ‘alone’ part meant he had nowhere to go but his hand. It was a recipe for guilt and more trouble than it was worth. He felt out of control, too. “After that…I got regeneration.” He shrugged that off, poking at his crackers before looking up to speak, “No point drinking if you can’t get drunk, you know?”
Already he began to feel Nathan’s more alcoholic urges, the feeling that being drunk and numb and out of it was pleasurable. //He’d needed it to cope at times. Deaths in the family, utter betrayals, life doing down the tubes. Mexico came to mind - his failure and guilt, cowardly running and involving the daughter he’d wanted to impress…His last binge had been…the night before Thanksgiving.// He’d slept in his brother’s familiarly-scented bed, safe for the moment from the outside world while his mind tore him apart in his dreams. He’d woken to Angela, lies, and pumpkin pie. “It’s kinda nice here, though.” I can get drunk now, if I want. He didn’t want to advertise that in case Peter got ideas. A concussion and more randy horniness than he knew how to handle, with Peter here, would not be a good combination.
XXX
Peter nodded agreeably, listening.
XXX
Sylar felt that he’d been talking so long, he’d missed the question so he tried to review it. “I don’t…um. Most drinks are fine. I don’t know that I really have a preference.” He shoved another cracker in his mouth just to shut up and look occupied.
XXX
“Can't say I have the best relationship with it, myself. I think alcoholism runs in my family.” Peter hesitated, not sure what he wanted to say to Sylar about that. More quietly he said, “People say a lot of hurtful things while they're drunk.” He toyed with his glass, interest in drinking it abruptly over. Peter set the glass down and stood up, a carefully polite expression on his face to hide his anger at himself - for spoiling the moment, for not being able to shut away the past, for even thinking that drinking might be a nice way to ease that pain in his back and hand. “I'm going to get one of those bottles of water. Do you want one?”
XXX
That was something that Nathan had never understood - but Sylar had grasped instantly - Angela’s wine habit. It was because of her ability. Nathan didn’t know about that until his forties, though he knew Angela came from a less-influential family than Arthur, a lawyer, businessman and a war veteran who also drank. If anything Arthur showed Nathan the ropes of alcohol - it was almost expected of him. He’d taken the brunt of imbibed Arthur to shield Peter; therefor Nathan knew just what kinds of things Arthur talked about when he’d been in his drink. And that decisive, so-called honesty turning cutting, looking for any vulnerable spot or perceived flaw under the influence when it stripped away any censor. Nathan himself had called Peter a few names after a few beers - the kid’s idealism, rebellion, and pacifism making him nauseous at the time.
There were things Sylar could say to that but he wanted to relax, at least a little, enough to rest later and not worry about an attack in the night - which he would worry about if he snarked off about the familial addiction. He was just being pragmatic. He didn’t want to get involved or endanger himself. Although his curiosity stood at attention, wondering what exactly Peter had heard (or said!). Gabriel’s own upbringing hadn’t required alcohol to allow poisonous words or phrases, even Bible versus to embed in his brain to be remembered forever. It was almost an every day occurrence for the over-sensitive and that had been torture. It wasn’t like Gabriel had ever figured out the source or purpose behind any of it, eventually he gave up trying to reason it out and just accepted what was. He could definitely relate to that feeling and maybe that helped keep his mouth shut. “Yes, please.”
At least…Peter and I turned out better than our fathers. Not by much in my case, but…I think that still matters.
XXX
Peter walked to the fridge, pausing to roll his shoulders and try to center himself before he opened the door. He got what he came for and returned. Small talk about cheese came to mind and was dismissed. Instead, after settling himself back in his chair, Peter said, “My back hurts. My hand hurts. I'm not feeling good.” I'm sure you aren't, either. The real reason why he was suddenly cranky wasn't because of his hand or back - it was thinking about his family. He didn't want to talk about that, though, so he picked up a cracker with brie on it, relying on the soft cheese to hold the cracker together after he bit off half of it. A swallow and a drink of water later, he said, “But you're right - it is nice here in a lot of ways. It's quiet. That's good and bad, but I really noticed it when I was playing the piano. Inside of your apartment has the clocks, but outside it's always so silent. You can definitely hear yourself think.” Maybe kind of literally.
XXX
And what do you want me to do about it? Sylar pondered Peter’s pointing out his symptoms, taking the second water bottle and a drink from it. Maybe you need to be eating the Saltines.
XXX
“There's a lot of time here. I kind of like that. It's … new.” He gave Sylar a frail smile, going back to eating.
XXX
Sylar had opened his mouth to say why he had the clocks (and the noise) in the first place, but that sweet, fleeting little smile stopped him. “So you spend it beating things up and tuning pianos.” A commonality struck him, “Hey, you tunes pianos and I fix clocks.” I wonder if there’s pianos at hotels he can tune? Is it a hobby or…Obviously it isn’t - he doesn’t know how to tune a piano. Why do something you don’t know how to do? “It’s probably good for you. You work too much anyway. No one here to save now.” Not even me. “You can do anything you want.” Sylar thought about that, then shrugged. It was….too much world, even for him. It was too big, too much room, empty space. He couldn’t fill it or be in it all at the same time. Hence his small apartment, stuffed to the ceiling with entertaining, special items. It was a comfortable, familiar, safe nest he barely fit in. That was also what he was used to.
Any conspirator who claimed he was out for world domination was dead wrong - literally, dead and wrong now. Making a change for him was both more difficult and more profound; for Peter change was easy and accessible, possible and somewhat approved of. Maybe it came down to inborn skillsets. Saving an individual life was more a personal thing whereas being president…would affect thousands if not millions of lives. “I was here first, though, so I make the rules,” Sylar sniffed, throwing that out casually and surely, munching on another cracker. He didn’t think that one through because while he would have liked to establish dominance, he couldn’t back it up at the moment or maybe ever.
XXX
Peter had been introspectively musing over Sylar's words until the man got to the last ones. For a moment, Peter's eyes danced over Sylar's serious face, trying to judge if he really meant that. Because it was still embedded in Peter's mind that this was Sylar he was dealing with and Sylar was an unpredictably violent, homicidal man with baggage Peter couldn't even begin to unpack. He was also an unpredictably violent, homicidal man who had just fed Peter a straight joke. In a twisted sort of way, he was not only acknowledging his past, but also making a joke of it. After three seconds of looking at him intently, Peter burst out in a very amused laugh.
XXX
Sylar’s eyes narrowed at the laughter. It mocked him. It wasn’t funny. Okay, maybe he’d meant it a little light-hearted but he was serious. Peter didn’t like it here; he was new; from out of town (or wherever - Peter still thought he was in California for fuck’s sake); he was younger and he was only here because Sylar had something he wanted. Besides, who had won the last two fight-fights? He wound up glowering.
XXX
Peter continued chuckling as he put some smoked cheddar on a couple more wheat crackers and leaned back, cracker in hand. “Okay, let's play that game. If you were king of the world here, what's the first law you'd pass?”
XXX
“I am king of the world here,” Sylar corrected with half his attention.
XXX
That spawned another bout of chuckles from Peter, who struggled to tamp it down. Sylar seemed serious, which was funny either way - if he'd intended it as a joke, then being serious was just Sylar playing along and it was definitely humorous; but if he hadn't intended it as a joke, then it was so preposterous that Peter couldn't help but laugh. He cleared his throat and forced an expression of soberness onto his face, difficult though that was.
XXX
Sylar ignored the peanut gallery this time. Already he was contemplating the question - a good one, too. The parameters were obvious - he was king and whatever law he made would be followed. Or else. It wasn’t…’make a wish; what wish would you make?’ The problem was he didn’t know the answer to either - wish or law ‘game.’ Peter can’t rape me. Peter has to sleep with me? Peter can’t laugh at me. Peter can’t leave. Peter can’t touch my stuff. Peter has to believe me? Peter has to play with me? Peter has to like me? Peter…does what I say? Or maybe…‘Sylar will be safe from all physical, mental and emotional harm’? Maybe ‘I’m special, not a monster’?
Sylar had zoned out completely, staring sightless at the tabletop at Peter’s right. As he came back to more conscious and social awareness, he could feel he’d been frowning. He licked his lips. “Uh…I’d make a constitution to begin with. Put…lots of things on it.”
XXX
“Write it all down? That's a good idea,” Peter said as he genuinely sobered. “I hadn't thought of that.”
XXX
Sylar thought some more, slowly formulating because he knew he had to have an answer. Not having one was…well, it would look weird. Saying something that didn’t match Peter’s concept of Sylar the monster, Sylar the murderer would set off alarm bells and raise more personal questions he didn’t want to answer. But damnit, he didn’t have just one and the ones he had he couldn’t or didn’t want to divulge. So he prioritized as best he could. “I guess…my first law would be that…you couldn’t leave. You have to stay living in whatever building you choose.” That’s not weird or conspicuous at all. But I can work down the list from there; what’s possible on it, anyway.
XXX
Peter lifted a brow. He already has that. Damn, that really is important to him. I guess we have an exemption for tonight?
XXX
Sylar bit off a corner of Swiss Saltine, entertaining his mind with multiple fantasies. After a moment, his curiosity peaked again. “How about you? Assuming you were king of the world, of course,” Sylar smirked without much energy, downplaying that likelihood.
XXX
“Ha,” Peter said, taking a liberal drink of champagne because it went better with the taste of smoked cheddar than water did. (He would have said it had nothing at all to do with any latent alcoholism that ran in his family - or tendencies towards denial.) “If I were king of the world … this world … and I don't want to over-think it, but I think we shouldn't beat each other up.” He took a moderate sip. “So this situation is one where whatever I order would really happen? Not just be something everyone agreed was a good idea?”
Peter knew that this proposed rule of his would impact him as much as Sylar, but he'd be somewhat gentler with Sylar if he wasn't feeling he needed to go over-the-top with violence to deter the homicidal maniac Sylar has proven himself to be in the past - the recent past, too. Again, though, this was what Peter would tell himself, because the admission that he really wanted to hurt people of his own desire rather than as a defense wasn't something he was prepared to make.
“I'd want to write it up in that constitution of yours, so we both knew what it meant.”
XXX
When do you overthink anything, Petrelli? Sylar queried to himself. He nodded agreement, though, when Peter seemed to look for one. He gave Peter nearly the capacity of his attention, the rest of it spared for his cracker. Although…I’m king of the world so the only ‘game’ is letting you pretend to put things in my constitution. If we’re both putting things in, then, yeah, it’s on a democratic basis.
XXX
It occurred to Peter that he might have stumbled upon a sideways method to working out some ground rules for interacting, if they could agree what was kosher and what wasn't between them. Sylar's 'rule' of Peter not leaving wasn't abusive or even megalomaniacal. Peter could live with it. He wondered what else he could live with from the other man. “So I can't leave, and neither of us can beat up on the other. What else should we have in the constitution?”
XXX
Sylar’s face was droll and unimpressed. ‘We’ can’t beat on each other. Think you can handle not beating me up, Petrelli? You seemed to like it even though I won. Peter’s last question was different than the ‘game.’ It sounded familiar, too, so he wasn’t unaware of the angle of Peter’s motives. Whatever. Let the kid think what he wanted to. Sylar was king and this wasn’t a democracy. Even if it was, both of them were far too different to reach agreement. The empath didn’t balk at the enforced living condition; that was hopeful.
“Guests have to be respectful of the owner’s apartment, including rare collectables and food.” Sylar gave an unmistakably pointed look at Peter. “Don’t make a mess. Don’t break things, like doors or people’s faces. Don’t take their things, like combs. Don’t move their things without permission - clocks and watches are delicate and probably have loose parts and the books are where I want them to be. Always wash your hands and don’t leave the toilet seat up.” Sylar finished his speech and took a drink from his champagne, suspecting that those terms wouldn’t go over as well as the first one had. Most of that was repetitious - Peter had heard it before - but some of it was new and advertising what he wanted as just as likely to wind up happening because…well, he wanted it. Peter now knew how to drive him up a wall and might do it on a whim. “The infraction of which may result in breach in contract of rule number two,” he muttered to himself.
XXX
Peter stifled a laugh at the emphasis on 'food'. He reached up and rubbed at his upper lip, his mouth, and then scratched at his chin, all the while failing to get an amused smile off his face. “I don't know, man. I might want to move things around just to upset you. That's worth seeing,” he teased.
XXX
“Ha ha.” Sylar deadpanned with so much seriousness it was nearly a threat. I don’t think it will be worth seeing. I won’t make it worth your while.
XXX
More seriously, Peter said, “But I'll try not to break things.” Thankfully, he wasn't a klutz. He took another sip of champagne and set about building another couple of crackers. As he finished, he said, “Guess it's my turn. Don't chase me. If I get upset and I want my space, let me have it. I've got to feel like I can get away from you when I need to or else we'll have some of those 'infractions' you're talking about.” Peter knew he got emotional and more demonstrative than a lot of other people. Which was fine most of the time, but there were a lot of feelings he harbored towards Sylar which probably wouldn't be healthy for either of them for Peter to let out. Putting pressure on him or getting in his face seemed like a sure way to break Peter's tenuous control on his more violent impulses.
XXX
Sylar was quiet, lips pursed. He didn’t like that one so much. It robbed him of an opportunity to get under Peter’s skin, should he ever feel the need. When I want your attention and your presence, I’m going to try to get it. There’s no guarantee you’ll come back. You’re asking me to just…let you go? Trust you’ll come back? (What if I want some infractions? They were just another way to get attention and the fighting rule was Peter’s, not his). Sylar was aware that he had, perhaps, something of paranoid phobia about being abandoned and/or neglected. That saying about ‘its not paranoia if they’re all out to get you’ came truthfully to mind even if he felt like some tacky alien conspiracy theorist about it. Having to remember that Peter needed him, too, just as badly - hell, Sylar was his mission here - seemed like small fry compared to being abandoned. It was difficult rationale to ask him to justify. Apparently his silence was read as acquiescence and Peter continued.
XXX
“Some of your rules from before that I'm okay with: don't lie, don't manipulate. At least not in a bad way. Influencing is different. So's persuading. Maybe what I'm saying is that being above-board is all right, but nothing underhanded. None of that 'I got away with it so it's okay' stuff.” Peter paused for a bite, swallowed quickly and added, “Not that I've seen you do that, but a lot of people do - Nathan always did - and it's not something I like. No one does and it's only the two of us here, so ...” He let that trail off with an expressive shrug as he finished his current cracker.
XXX
“Nuh-uh, Petrelli. One rule at a time. Wait your turn,” Sylar brandished a cracker at him warningly. The idea of being bound to tell the truth was…well, both very serious in applied reality and laughable as a concept. He didn’t have to agree to that one; he didn’t have to follow it - Peter didn’t have to know. Peter had already caught him lying about his medical status, how he’d done it, Sylar wasn’t sure. He’d been picturing the morally upright hero (Peter) would be held accountable for lying and manipulating since his last name was Petrelli back when he made that condition. The other one being that Peter not treat him like a sanitarium inmate had, for the most part, been upheld, to his surprise.
Sylar didn’t talk to people; it was just too dangerous. Already Peter figured how to use his preferences against him with that book rearranging comment. The last semi-truthful conversation Sylar had…he couldn’t recall. Madeline? Luke? Claire even? Or farther back to Danko or Chandra? The idea of honesty was a frightening one. It implied…safety and trust. He could always agree to the rule but distract and avoid answering, which wasn’t lying…“Besides,” he mused, “you’ll assume I’m lying anyway.” So let I’ll let you think what you want, believe what you want to believe. I don’t think my truth is going to make a difference here, now, with you, where it hasn’t done any good before. What’s so important that he needs to know the truth? All he asks are…weird get-to-know-you questions about my childhood. Like any of that matters. He’s not writing a book or planning a hit and he didn’t read my file. It’s just weird.
Sylar was a bit surprised Peter had so openly named his brother. He assumed the mere mention was a salted wound too deep to touch. Nathan’s bipolar conscience was certainly a pain in everyone’s ass; Sylar ought to know and clearly Peter did, too. Does he mention him now because…he thinks I’ll do something Nathan would do? That was an unpleasant thought.
“In my constitution I’d make it a law that you have to treat me at least like a coworker. None of that Company, hero under-the-rug stuff.” Peter felt like a brother and a friend to him, like a little shadow almost. It was jarring when Peter held him at arm’s length all the time with none of the familiarities he expected to receive, the ones he was used to. Sylar knew that was just Nathan’s ghost, but he wanted a foothold towards making that a reality because being the monster-next-door was going to make him crazy.
XXX
“A coworker?” Peter pulled his head back, brows down and lips pouted slightly. Like a partner? Like Hesam? He gave Sylar a quizzical look over another piece of cracker. Hesam knew his cell number, they talked about school and saving people’s lives and what it meant to be a medic together. They were in each other’s business enough that it really bothered Peter that he couldn’t tell Hesam the truth about his family or anything about abilities. Despite that, there was a lot more of a bond there than he had yet with Sylar. He doesn’t rate that!
XXX
Sylar frowned deeply at that. Yeah. So? I’ve worked with heroes before. His back was up over the mere suggestion that he wasn’t good enough for that. You need me enough to come get me; is this so much to ask?
XXX
Peter blinked a few times and took another drink, washing down his food and finally moving his thoughts along to the rest of what Sylar had said. “What do you mean by that? Not just the coworker stuff, but the hero-under-the-rug thing? Because … the people I work with, we’re kind of teamed up. We have each other’s back.” He dipped his head a little to the side, leaning forward inquisitively now. “Are you saying you’re on the same team with me? That we’re working together towards something?” Like getting out? Or saving Emma? That seemed too good to be true, not to mention Peter wasn’t entirely sure he wanted Sylar on the same ‘team’ as him.
XXX
Just like that, Sylar’s expression loosened as Peter made sense of his earlier tone and hesitation. He understood the problem because that would be asking for quite a bit, a partnership like that. “I wasn’t thinking about your job. Nursing- paramedic, whatever. That’s…” Does he even have a frame of reference for what I’m asking? How do I explain it? It’s not like I’ve ever had it either. “Different,” he tried to clarify. “I meant like an office coworker or something.” He shrugged off the whole idea because it wasn’t working. Peter had all but stated he was asking for too much. Sylar noticed how interested Peter was; he’d definitely stumbled onto something of value. He didn’t bother to address the ‘hero-under-the-rug’ part.
“I don’t know how well a team would work when we don’t trust each other and we have no common goals. Except maybe keeping sane here. That I can work toward.” I’ve been trying to work towards it. I want to get laid, maybe have a friend; you wanna save your not-so-girlfriend girlfriend and probably kill me after. Of the two, mine seems more likely (except the ‘killing me’ part) but apparently its all a matter of perspective, warped or otherwise. “Besides, you don’t really do ‘teams’, do you, Peter?”
XXX
Peter frowned at him briefly, lips pursed and affecting a sullen expression for a moment to get his feelings across about what Sylar had said. He was just emoting; it wasn't a lasting mood. He sucked down the remainder of his champagne - the last third of the glass - and set it back down. “I suppose my teamwork skills could use some work,” he allowed. At least, he knew Hesam would say his teamwork skills needed work. And maybe Noah or Matt or anyone else whom he'd tried to work with on anything of importance. Me and Noah seemed to be working together okay, once he started taking me seriously … He wasn't sure how Sylar felt about Noah, though, so he left that thought unspoken.
XXX
Sylar was a little surprised to get an admission at all, let alone one so direct. He didn’t know what to do with it, even though he supposed it was what he wanted, so he nodded his approval.
XXX
“We have more common goals than that,” Peter chided lightly, getting to his feet. “Keeping you alive. Keeping me alive.” He made some loose, wide gestures with his words. “Staying sane's a good one.” Peter ambled into the kitchen, calling back, “Maybe … finding some ice cream?” as he opened the freezer and checked their options. “Hm.” He dug around and emerged with a cardboard box, the outside illustrating the contents as ice cream bars - vanilla with a chocolate coating. “This is good enough,” Peter declared, pulling out two and putting the box back in the freezer before returning to the table. He offered one to Sylar.
XXX
People who want to keep others alive usually don’t beat them to concussions, plural, Sylar noted, but let it slide. It was strange to think that he took the idea of life more seriously than Peter did - Peter who was here, supposedly, to save his girlfriend. The idea of partnering up for the grand scheme of ice cream was funny - Sylar caught himself chuckling despite himself. He could definitely get on board a master plan for frozen dairy treats. The ‘good enough’ comment was equally amusing - it wasn’t strawberry and it didn’t have fun kiddie-chunks in it. It was vanilla, probably a cheap kind with equally cheap chocolate coating, but it was vanilla all the same, thus it was Sylar’s type of ice cream, not Peter’s. He took slightly sadistic pleasure in that as he took the ice cream bar, “Thanks.” I picked a good apartment then - convenient ice cream.
XXX
“I trust you some,” Peter said, settling back into his seat and picking at the wrapper for his dessert. “Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been sitting down to eat with you, getting you ice cream, dragging you out to make you listen to my horrible piano playing.” He smiled charmingly at Sylar - a staged smile more familiar to Nathan's face than Peter's, but it was the same sort of emoting he'd done earlier, just this time it was a positive emotion he was trying to project. “There's hope for us yet.”
XXX
Continued...