More Between Us, Chapter 7/? "Mister Bear Gets Some"
Title: More Between Us Than A Wall part 7/?
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery, violence, angst, dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9,987
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): Collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN). 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, intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in those nasty plot-holes.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight and gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability allowing the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them. AKA Peter has all of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear when Peter sleeps, becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has recovered his memories with IA and regeneration and still has Nathan's memories. 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 \\ \\.
A/N: This chapter features a fist fight, molestation of a classic stuffed animal; nothing very explicit, but it is sexual. Hints at another pairing, mentions of potential rape.
Day 5
Sylar pulled to his feet as soon as Peter came out. Peter was relieved that the other man hadn’t left entirely. He considered that emotion for a moment. Or maybe he was just happy Sylar wasn’t trying to kill him. It had been a possibility, after all. He was distracted from those thoughts by Sylar looking him up and down, eyes focusing on his crotch just a little longer than he should have. Peter stood there and affected being relaxed and comfortable, not about to respond to Sylar doing the same thing to him that he’d done to the man. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Sylar looked flabbergasted though, which wasn’t the expression Peter really expected in a situation of dueling, sexually aggressive stares. He looked unbelieving even, then the taller man turned and strode off energetically. Peter followed more sedately, glancing discreetly down at himself and noticing the suspicious bulge near his groin. Oh. The razor. He grinned. Yes, well, Sylar, I was just trying to show you who was bigger, since we seem to have gotten into a dick-measuring contest. I really need to get a bag.
The question of Sylar’s sexual orientation drifted through his mind again, this time coming with memories of a number of moments of slightly unusual degrees of eye contact, motions and inadvertent touches on Sylar’s part, mostly while the man thought he was his brother at Pinehearst. Peter had dismissed it for exactly that reason. He and Nathan touched a lot. It was enough to have engendered more than a few unsavory comments. Once, at function Nathan had drug Peter to when he was still pre-law, an older man asked outright if Peter was Nathan’s ‘partner’ - Peter had pretended the man meant a partner in the law firm, denied it, then pointed out they were brothers. The old man had looked disappointed that the Petrelli reputation remained unstained by that particular misconduct.
But when you lived in the closet, you tended to get sensitive to certain things, keeping a lookout for certain behaviors and patterns. Sylar’s pattern…did not strike Peter as solely heterosexual. He frowned to himself. He didn’t know the other man well enough to be sure. He was sure that he didn’t really want to know him that well; but if he was stuck here for years, relative or not, he suspected he was going to find out. Given the situation, the only person whose desires Peter thought might be a complication would be Sylar’s.
Peter pushed open the door to the stairs, noting Sylar was finishing the stairs to the third floor, then went inside. I wonder why the stairs? He left his apple and his book at the elevators. Not that Peter was about to go get them to be helpful or anything. Maybe he’d mentioned it later when they left. These are all imaginary possessions. They don’t really matter. He snorted and made a mental note to himself to try to wish something into existence. It seemed that they did matter, whether he wanted them to or not. He strongly suspected that that pistol he’d found would have made a distinct difference in a fight, far more than an ‘imaginary’ object should.
XXX
Pushing open the doors to the stairwell, he climbed the flight to get to the third floor, immediately going into the nearest apartment. It was larger, obviously a family had lived here and it made Sylar’s stomach lurch. Family. Goddamn you, Petrelli, and your family! Lest he forget Peter was one of them. He cautiously entered the master bedroom, very careful not to touch any of the toys or objects in this room; he was worried about a different type of contamination this time.
That’s what a family was; a contaminant. It sucked you down and infected you, gave you an infection until you were too delirious and caught up and…. He took a deep breath. He also didn’t want to disturb something so precious. Kids had lived here, probably pretty happy and carefree. By stepping in he was the one doing the contaminating while Peter, when he arrived, would simply slip right into it and fit in, clean as a whistle.
He felt out of place in this environment; it was not for him.
XXX
He glanced through the window of the stairwell door at the third floor, then walked in. Sylar was nowhere to be seen, but the door to one of the nearer apartments was standing open. He stood beside it for a moment, looking at the closed door on the other side of the hall. It was some other apartment. He didn’t have to be in the same apartment as Sylar, after all. It might be wiser to reduce the chance of friction by keeping a little space between them. He walked through the open door anyway.
It was one of the larger floor plans, he saw, and apparently a family that had young children, judging from the toy box tucked up next to the couch and the highchair he could see in the dining room. No children here, though. No children, no adults, no elderly. The hospitals are empty. No one to help. No one to serve. No one. He shook off the moment of ennui without too much trouble and went into the kitchen, looking for a sack. He found a paper grocery sack tucked in next to the refrigerator. He opened it noisily and put the razor, can opener and food within.
He reached out to open the nearest drawer to find himself thwarted by a child safety lock. It was the first ‘lock’ he’d come across that was engaged. He bypassed it, fiddling with the little plastic latch and wondering if it meant anything. He thought not, but what did he know? He searched through the drawers steadily, finding nothing of great interest. He suspected his interest in the objects of this world would wane soon enough. Having free and easy access to everything meant that few things really mattered - items of comfort, maybe, or entertainment - those still mattered.
He wandered through the dining room towards the bedrooms, knowing from the occasional small sound that Sylar was in here somewhere. He glanced in the rooms to see which one he was in, intending to go to the other.
XXX
Sylar was at an emotional crossroads in the master bedroom, standing and staring around the room, not doing much of anything. Maybe that was supposed to make him feel better; the fact that Peter’s ‘family’ was just as fucked up (in its own way) as his own had been, however much less of a ‘family’.
Clenching his fists again, he stalked over to the bed stand, rifling through it with rough motions. It didn’t matter; no one was here, he didn’t need this family’s things, neither did Peter. They didn’t even need to be here looking for….whatever the fuck unless Peter had some kind of wish list that he wasn’t talking about.
He heard the distant crackle of a paper bag and hoped Peter was ‘taking care’ of whatever it was he’d had in his pants before he met up with Sylar again. That had been…unexpected to say the least. It was other things, but nothing that bore continued thought. Besides, Peter would want him to ignore such a happenstance.
More confusion filled his head and he snatched up a bed pillow and threw it at the window, just because. Let Peter find that! He thought derisively, being spiteful. Why was he angry again? Oh, yes. Why was he playing along with this charade again? Oh, yeah.
Stupid Peter, stupid family, stupid whatever it was that made Peter give him that look and whatever that damn cord was. Focus. Remember the game. Sylar cast a shady glance towards the door of the bedroom that Peter so obviously wasn’t entering. Hmm. There was nothing incriminating or even interesting in the bedroom; parents, he sighed to himself in his head.
He inwardly cringed at having to enter the kid’s rooms, but did it anyway. While he hadn’t looked very much in the first, dirty gun-bachelor’s apartment, he would have no such excuse as ‘imagined germs’ here. He could always play off kid-phobia…No, he’d be onto that. Sylar slowly padded into the little boy’s blue bedroom. Cowboys was the theme, the whole Toy Story get up, not that he knew anything about it or recognized it.
A noise clicked in his head, similar to one of his prized clocks as his eyes fell on a particularly special item to the boy that used to live here. Claire-bear. His eyes narrowed and he chuckled grim and amused, time to play. Moving forward and reaching for the teddy bear on the bed, he suddenly got a different wavelength full of static.
//Watching Pete sit on Santa’s lap. A tiny boy at two years old, those pleading hazel eyes locked on Saint Nick’s jovial (fake) face, Nathan at fourteen, having refused the opportunity, but stood near to Pete just….because.
He was the older brother, a role he’d accepted without much thought and he took it seriously. One look at Pete’s innocent, dreaming face could do that to you. His baby brother was handed a large chocolate plush teddy and Pete had locked it immediately in a death grip of a hug after staring into the bear’s glassy eyes for a moment.
Fast forward four years at the beach, a weekend vacation with Ma and Dad, complete with Izzie, the family spaniel, yapping down the surf, doubtlessly driving Dad’s nerves up the wall as usual. Of course Mister Bear came along for the trip, the plushy material that made up the bear’s fur long since worn. And of course the bear had to come in the water.
Nathan was holding Pete’s slightly reluctant, juice-sticky hand, leading him hip-deep (for the kid) into the ocean; the bear in the boy’s other hand, clutched loosely in kid-fingers. Pete kept making funny faces, obviously unsure of how to handle the water and he glanced up a ways at Nathan. Before they’d gotten in the water, Pete had asked of Ma, “I can wash him, right?” Ma had nodded distractedly, busy with the picnic lunch she’d brought, giving him a “Yes, of course, dear”, but he still seemed uncertain.
Seriously, that damn bear got more attention than Peter himself did. Nathan lifted Pete by the hand to raise him above the swell of a particularly large wave of salt water, trying to spare the boy a face full of icy ocean. Peter had cleared it, but the bear was sucked out in the pull before either Petrelli noticed its absence. Mister Bear was gone to sea and Peter had cried the rest of the day and on the road trip back.//
Sylar snarled and dug his fingers quickly into the soft fabric of the bear, pulling it into his hand, shaking off the memory with a shift of his shoulders. This is why I hate family; especially this one. Nothing but a bunch of mindfucks in a mansion. This bear was different that Peter’s in that it had a red bandana around his neck and a straw cowboy hat stuck to its head, but Sylar ignored the details.
“Oh, Peter….” He sing-songed to get the other man’s attention and, ideally, the man himself as an audience. Surely Peter knew about Claire’s bear fetish (or was it Bennet’s? Ugh). This was about to hit a dozen of Peter’s ‘things never to see or think about’ list.
XXX
Peter looked in the master bedroom. It was the first one he came to. It was in a little bit of disarray - nightstand drawer open, pillow on the floor. Nightstand - guns. His mind made an idle connection. Sylar had obviously been in here and wasn’t here now. He was debating checking out the room instead of bothering to confirm where his companion was when the man’s voice rang out in sing-song.
The tone alerted him instantly. Something was up. Sylar was up to something and very proud of whatever it was he was about to spring. Nightstand - guns ran through Peter’s mind again. A bullet through Peter’s leg would be something Sylar might find highly amusing and though Sylar surely wasn’t stupid enough to think that wouldn’t be a potentially fatal injury; he might be pissed off enough not to care. Then again, Peter couldn’t think of any of Sylar’s kills that involved a gun, other than cases where others had pulled the trigger, himself included.
No, Sylar had always preferred his abilities, as far as Peter knew. Telekinesis had featured just about every time. It had pretty much been Sylar’s introduction in that high school so long ago - years now, but it seemed like yesterday. Sylar, dark and shadowed at the end of the hall, Claire fleeing him, Peter being unsure, recognizing the figure from the paintings and the glimpses of the future he’d seen. And yeah, he’d been scared. Then a moment later the locker doors were flying at him. There was no reason to stay, so he’d fled. His job had not been to stop the killer, but instead to save the cheerleader.
What would Sylar do for violence if stripped of his powers? A knife? A gun? A baseball bat? Or would it be something more insidious like drugged food followed by restraints and torture? The sing-song tone said ‘I’m about to fuck with you.’ Peter knew that fully and yet he still went to the voice to see what Sylar was going to do. He did at least manage a modicum of caution, approaching the doorway in a very similar way to how Sylar had stood when Peter had handled the gun - leaning to the side slightly, leaving most of his body concealed.
Sylar did not have a gun in his hands. Or a knife. Or a baseball bat. He had a teddy bear. Peter stared at it dumbly, surprise making him less cautious than he was a moment before. A teddy bear. What the hell? Was Sylar going to hold the teddy bear hostage? Was he going to threaten to hurt Peter by tearing the stuffed animal’s head off and vicariously harming it? It wasn’t like he could intimidate him by killing a beloved pet, after all. He looked at the bear. It did have a fairly close resemblance to Mister Bear - same size and color, same well-worn fur. The accoutrements were out of place, but…but Sylar had Nathan’s memories. He knew what the bear looked like.
Peter’s eyes rose to Sylar’s, seeing the maliciously gleeful, anticipatory look on the other man’s face. Sylar was up to something, all right.
XXX
Sylar gave him a smirking grin once he peeked his head in, obviously wary. The man’s glance went from the bear, held at Sylar’s chest height, then up to his eyes, seeing something that set him on edge. Rightly so. If Peter thought he would get away scot-free with that look earlier, hell, with the (understandable) ‘scare’ with the gun, he was dead wrong.
Staring Peter down, Sylar hugged the bear to his chest, murmuring, “Look who I found.” He could see the individual thoughts racing through Peter’s head; confusion, disgust, annoyance and anger, but enough curiosity to keep him there. “Think I’ll call her….Mrs. Bear….No, no, I’ve got it.” The evil behavior he was subjecting the medic to was flexing so many muscles in his psyche; the flood of almost Hunger filling him. It felt so good, a rush of endorphins and adrenaline like he hadn’t had in literal years.
XXX
At first Peter didn’t have much reaction aside from a narrowing of the eyes. He frowned deeply, unimpressed at the moniker of ‘Mrs. Bear,’ surprised the asshole didn’t go for a direct copy of Peter’s childhood toy. The reason, he supposed, became clear as Sylar rubbed the stuffed animal against himself and moaned. Pervert. Weirdo. Is this supposed to impress me? I suppose it does - I didn’t think you’d sink this low right off the bat. So much for him being gay - if he can’t even label a fake bear as male for this sort of thing.
XXX
In response, he gave a hum, one that could have been interpreted as a moan if the other man chose, as he slowly dragged the teddy’s muzzle down his abdomen, slithering it downwards. Watching all the while as Peter’s gaze tracked the motion, blinking in confusion, the thought telegraphed over his hollow little head ‘Where the hell is this going?’ /God….this is fun./ “Think I’ll call her…Claire. Get it?” Sylar gave a wicked leer, holding the bear by its head and eventually placing it to face his groin. The placement was suspicious, but Peter was a little dense.
This was a test; Peter wouldn’t take up the gun, but Peter was no gunman…except for that time in Haiti. Hmm, singular event. He couldn’t even kill Arthur, something that still rattled in Nathan’s memory for some odd reason. /”You’re not a killer, Peter. I am.”/ The medic had made his intentions clear, but then backed it up with a snotty look at Sylar. How low will you go?
Still he wasn’t finished. He is not getting away with mocking me. I can call every shitty aspect of his life on stage in front of him and there’s nothing he can do about it. His next noise was a low rumble in his throat, depicting pleasure that he wasn’t receiving from the bear/Claire’s “mouth” while he began to roll his hips against it anyway. Whoa, hello…. His hormonal reaction was not what he’d anticipated. Huh. That shouldn’t feel good, maybe it looks good…something’s still not quite normal about that.
He recalled taunting Matt with a stuffed (pink) rabbit. /”Something doesn’t fit in this picture.” He recalled hiding his smugness from the oblivious cop, not that he needed to, clapping his hands together. “This house isn’t used for drugs. It’s used for something worse. A lot worse.” Why Matt believed him, oh, right, he was a ‘hero’. Why Sylar would point something like that out….well. He enjoyed the sport and Matt was so easy to string along, it was almost anticlimactic./
“Have you ever been in her room, Pete? I doubt those chaste hugs and lingering glances give you much of her scent, do they?” he rasped intimately towards the other man. Because, what…the fuck…had that look been about? He wanted to know. People didn’t….it was just…odd, out of place. “Vanilla,” Sylar whispered, grinding the bear around some personal areas for show.
XXX
Then the name changed to Claire and Sylar started pantomiming fellatio. That was…upsetting. Peter shifted position, coming more fully in the doorway but that wasn’t really his intention. He felt uncomfortable, so he shifted. What he was really doing, and had he been thinking about it he’d have known, was getting more balanced, more poised. Sylar didn’t have a gun and obviously wasn’t preparing to rush him, so there was no reason to be peeking around the corner like a frightened child. Peter’s eyes narrowed further as he weighed how much and if he needed to defend Claire’s name from being sullied like this.
He’s not worth it. Let him show off what a juvenile sense of humor he has. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s trying to get a rise out of you with this. Speaking of which…is he…?
His eyes pulled back up to Sylar’s face with the man’s next words and he felt his blood begin to boil despite his intentions. ‘Pete’ again. What is he trying to do - see how far he can push me? Does he think me putting down the gun gives him a free pass for anything? Does he think I’m toothless or something?
As for Claire, Peter had had a crush on her for a little while once…longer than he should have, really, but what the hell were you supposed to do when you had no idea the girl could possibly be related to you?!? She was a random teenager in Texas, for crying out loud! She was jailbait, the situation sucked (he was, specifically, in jail for part of that, after all), so he was thankful he hadn’t done anything, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t felt something. Even without that, she was his niece and this level of disrespect was intolerable. Not that he expected better from Sylar, but Peter couldn’t stand here and do nothing.
XXX
Keeping his voice low still, he continued, “Ever wonder why Claire’s a lesbian, Pete? One word; Stanton,” with that, he chuckled, amused and proud of his accomplishment: Peter was enraged by now and it showed, blazing through those hazel irises. To top it off, literally, Sylar mimed carving into the bear’s cranium under the hat, through it, whatever, as he bobbed it back and forth at his pelvis.
XXX
He knew Sylar had taken her ability. He’d always wondered if more than that had happened. It had never seemed appropriate to ask though, so he was gentle with Claire and left it at that. Sylar’s next words…Claire’s a lesbian? What? Peter had seriously, seriously been out of touch with his family for the last many months. He hadn’t even noticed that his brother, his beloved brother, had been replaced by an imposter. So the idea that Claire had perhaps come out of the closet and he hadn’t been in the loop - well, it was certainly possible. Maybe he’s lying? Why does he think I’d care? ‘Pete’ again. You do not get to call me that! And then that last word brought everything together.
Peter had never given so much as a single thought to what might have happened to Claire behind those doors at the Stanton. It wasn’t callousness, so much as having so many other things going on. She’d been clothed when thrown into the hall before Nathan and him; her voice had been steady and strong; things had started happening fast after that. But maybe they’d been happening fast before that, too. Suddenly his mind was trying to calculate times, consider Sylar’s personality, the gloating leer on his face right now, Claire’s personality…she’d become a lesbian? He’d raped her? He’s admitting this?!?
He couldn’t think anymore, but that was fine because he had no more need for it. He launched himself across the few steps between them. Sylar’s hands were occupied, his body obviously busy responding to a situation that did not prepare him well for Peter’s fist crashing down on his face. And Peter was doing his best to achieve just that.
XXX
He’d been more or less expecting this; violence. Usually Peter liked to avoid the fight and talk people down (sometimes literally), but this time he didn’t spare a word before he rushed Sylar. He took the initial blow across his cheekbone, the explosion of sensation snapping his head around to his right side, a coarse bark of pain escaping him. Dropping the bear from his right hand, still holding it in his left, he swung his freed fist for Peter’s oncoming face, snarling as he did.
You are not going to treat me like that, I won’t let you. You may be the last man on earth, but I’m still me. I’m not a piece of your Petrelli shitbag scam, I’m not a fucking toy! I won’t let you, I won’t let you, I won’t…The contact jarred up his arm and he hissed from the receiving pain. Fuck, forgot how much I hate this. Stupid bastard, asked for this.
/”NOW GIVE ME MY BROTHER BACK!” “Nathan’s pretty dead, Pete, I should know….What are you gonna do? Beat him out of me?”/
Then he remembered the reason for getting abilities: he didn’t do hand-to-hand well, technically ‘dying’ the last two times. Just because, Sylar swung the teddy bear at Peter; it was in his hand and he was angry and it was a sort of statement. Not like the real deal would break and it was a goddamn bear! The stuffy hit Peter at the neck before continuing past him to bounce on the ground, but neither man paid it any mind.
XXX
Peter was actually faintly surprised to have struck the man, not surprised at all that it hurt. Peter was a lot more familiar with hitting people than he wanted to be - more familiar with hitting Sylar than he wanted to be. Kirby Plaza, Pinehearst, Mercy Heights - all fistfights with this man and he’d won each time, more or less. Kirby Plaza was arguable - complicated by others, but Peter counted it as a win. All of those flashed behind his eyes with a weird sort of double exposure, like he was remembering the incidents from not just his own point of view, but Sylar’s. Peter’s own fists crashing down on him painfully; confusion; the simple stunned awareness with which he’d looked up at Peter at Pinehearst and did nothing to resist him while the Italian, the so-called empath, had hit him again and again, stopping to gloat between each blow.
“Uf.” Peter was hit solidly on the cheek as a reward for getting distracted. He shook off the bizarre memories, falling back and trying to dodge, more than a little disoriented from the blow. He didn’t have time to think things through, though if he had, he would have thought Sylar had done that to him intentionally somehow - some mental effect of being here. He’d lost the advantage of surprise. The stuffed animal hit him and bounced away - he felt an equally bizarre, but more understandable pang of concern for it.
XXX
Hit me once, shame on me....In the back of his mind, he knew he was purposefully provoking the conflict, but he just couldn't seem to stop himself. A lifetime's worth of frustration, repression, anger, loss, heartbreak, neglect and failure on both sides. And the additional (probably testosterone-fueled, adrenaline-filled) energy had to go somewhere; it had to be let out somehow. Sylar shoved Peter back by handfuls of his shirt, making use of his height and longer reach, stalking after the man. When he reached him again, he swung down at Peter, just lashing out to cause damage to something so frustrating and full of anger; really unaware that he was striking the only living thing in his world.
XXX
He grabbed at Sylar’s hand when it clutched his shirt. He was shoved back to where his own fists couldn’t make a solid contact with any critical part of the man’s body. He twisted to the side, heedless if the clothes ripped, but the cloth held. He hammered sideways with the knife edge of his hand at Sylar’s wrist, impacting hard and jarring his grip, getting loose quickly and staggering back a step. Quickly or not, it wasn’t quick enough - he regained his balance just in time to get hit in the face and staggered again, pain blooming between his eyes, making them water as his nose stung and felt wet. “Agh!”
Great. Fucking bloody nose. He bared his teeth and snarled.
He took another step back as Sylar took a couple more swings, not connecting solidly enough to matter.
XXX
A sudden blow to his wrist made him cry out, the tendons and fragile bones shooting pain into his hand, his hand faltering instantly as he pulled it back anyway. The urge to cradle his arm was strong, but Peter wasn’t calming down. Good, he thought at first, immediately followed by, bad. It’s a kid’s room, no box-cutters or guns in here, no powers here, no weapons, was his next rundown of the situation. Perhaps starting Peter up hadn’t been such a great idea; the medic was easy to start up, but not so easy to turn off when it came to this sort of thing; he was nothing but vengeful with a reason to be. Sylar always provided that reason.
In reaction to pain, something he hadn’t been handling as well of late, not handling it as efficiently as he had in the past; Sylar swung in what he thought was okay form. His fists would catch on Peter’s deltoids and graze his chest, missing his face completely after drawing blood from his nose that second time. Go figure stupid Peter would make him look like a fool, swinging blindly like an idiot. How is he….? He was firing away directly at Peter, but the EMT was moving, still catching his balance and moving to avoid Sylar’s fists.
The lack of physical connection only made him angrier, but he wasn’t stupid enough to allow the anger to overrun his instinct to put more force behind his rather unskilled jabs. That would only tire him and give Peter plenty of opportunity to beat his brains out. When Peter moved to Sylar’s left to avoid the right incoming fist; he pivoted and raised a leg to kick into Peter’s hip, the toe of his shoe connecting just shy of the joint, bruising deeply into his thigh. The contact sent the man stuttering away, pushing off the wall and homing in on Sylar’s position.
He himself took a step back, holding his fists up in a lightly-refined technique in preparation of defense, unaware he was probably giving off ‘schoolyard’ to the other man. Even if his fists were in an MMA style he’d read about; of course having no experience or sparring partner to learn more than that. It seemed like a good idea.
XXX
Get him down, beat the crap out of him, teach him that he can’t treat me like this, this is what he gets if he wants to spend his time taunting me, he deserves this…
Peter maneuvered back, trying to get some distance and get his balance. It was a good idea in theory, but as soon as he was out of range of fists, Sylar turned to feet and kicked him. Peter would have liked to credit footwork or dodging with why he managed to take the blow on his thigh instead of hip, but the reality was Sylar simply missed where he was aiming at. Still, it hurt badly and caused him to shift his weight awkwardly. He fell back against the wall and realized he was in a danger zone, too easily trapped and confined, his exit strategy foiled.
Sylar didn’t push his advantage, for whatever reason. Given how he’d fought in the past, Peter gauged that Sylar just didn’t know what he was doing in a fistfight. Had he put his hands down and relaxed his stance, Peter would have still carried the fight to him, but he’d have thought the other man had backed off to try to de-escalate things. Instead he backed up and raised his hands again in a fighting stance. Peter recognized it vaguely, but as the kick had hammered home to him, he had to get inside Sylar’s reach to win this. There was no way he was going to accept losing and being at this man’s mercy. Not ever.
Peter put his head down and bulled forward in a shoulder check, trying to get inside Sylar’s reach. He took a blow coming in, but Sylar had been set up to defend against strikes, not against a rush, which was part of why Peter did it. Sylar backed up a step, coming up against the footboard of the bed and for a moment they teetered there: Peter slugging at Sylar’s ribs without any power behind it (yet, because at the moment it was more an extension of the rush) and Sylar struggling to keep himself upright.
Get him over, knock him down, get on top of him, then pound him into the ground…
XXX
Ha. That’s what you get. In hindsight, he was overly cocky with this; but it was kind of a big deal to be able to lay blows on the infamous Peter Petrelli; some elation was involved by default. Had he been in the mood, he might have chuckled and snarked something at the man, but he had to stay focused for whatever the next-
Shit. Peter approached, but much too fast to be punching or kicking. Sylar recognized the move too late, which was the idea. He was set up for punches and kicks, set up pretty well, too; he hadn’t expected to be rushed and as such he’d cornered himself perfectly for Peter to do just that.
In a second, he was crammed against the bed stand; the rounded end of the stand jabbing into his spine as Peter rushed his upper half, practically bending him over it, leaving him to grunt. The blows to his ribs still hurt and left him a little breathless at the pin. He wasn’t a complete social outcast in that he didn’t watch movies, so he dropped his bent elbow down into Peter’s back as it presented itself, grabbing his hair next and shoving his head to the side. Of course the move worked, but not as planned; Sylar went the opposite direction and fell onto the bed with his legs tripped up and unable to move.
XXX
“Ow!” The elbow jab hurt and yanking on his hair didn’t help, but neither stopped Peter from managing to tip the other man onto the bed. So far, all his injuries were relatively superficial. He hadn’t even managed to lose any hair. The blood from his nose was running down his face and he could taste it, but he was breathing through his mouth fine.
Peter followed Sylar onto the bed, scrambling to get on top of him, straddle him, and get control of the situation. If he could get the man under him and sit up, then he could rain down blows and limit Sylar’s ability to retaliate. That was his plan at least, to the extent that he had formulated it. Sylar was obviously aware of his poor position and as soon as Peter started to lean away from him, Sylar hit him solidly on the right shoulder, following it up with hitting him in the face with his other hand.
God-damn reach! Peter couldn’t get back fast enough, a little stunned and mostly trying to get his face away from those fists. Okay, so maybe getting on top of Sylar wasn’t a good idea. Sylar had his shoulders and was trying to shove him off. For a moment they wrestled. Peter knew he was stronger - a lot stronger than Sylar - if he could just get his dominant arm to work right. He knocked Sylar’s hands off a few times; trying to get them out of the way so he could punch with his left. He swung, but he was blocked, probably giving Sylar a few bruises on his forearms, but they weren’t disabling blows in the least. The other man gave up on trying to shove him off like that - if that was what he was trying to do - and started twisting his whole body.
XXX
Peter followed him right down and he recognized the positioning for the second time. How did I get into this? No, how do I get OUT of this? He sent a fist into the nerves where Peter’s neck met his shoulder, numbing the arm somewhat before snapping at his face to stun him. Then he started twisting like a madman, fittingly enough, pushing on Peter’s shoulders; a molecular speck of fear from being pinned like this with this man. Mercy…Heights…(What a goddamn name for a fucking hospital. ‘Mercy’. Especially one where Pious Saint Peter works).He would have reached up to strangle him, except….that would take things to an undesired (sort of) level.
/All he could remember suddenly was a hand under his neck supporting his head in a strange display of care, a heat near his lap and the pressure of a sweaty hand on his forehead, hearing a growling voice above him, demanding something. Everything had slowly sapped from him at the time, like suddenly remembering less and less of yourself; having memories yanked out, no, memories just being gone, empty, but totally aware, for the moment, that someone was taking them away. He did remember looking up into vaguely familiar hazel eyes in a kind face that was set in a mask of a snarl, managing to grate out through a throat that could barely get air from shock. “Do it. KILL ME!”/
Peter kept getting his elbows into Sylar’s arms as he kept the man away, but not off him; the medic settling over his lap on the bed. The man would bend or break Sylar’s stiff-arm and try to strike him, but Sylar would raise his arm to fend it off, catching the blow with his arm, grunting at the blows. All the while he was squirming like a long eel from underneath Peter, grabbing at the bed to move himself away.
XXX
Teeth clenched, Peter hit Sylar in the shoulder, but he was being unseated from his superior position by the energy and force of the other man’s effort. He had a choice between trying to reestablish his pin or taking a few licks while he had the chance. He went for the latter, not passing up the chance. He hit the man again in the shoulder - nearly the same place, but it was unlikely do much other than hurt and bruise, maybe limit the strength of the arm much as Sylar’s blow had done to Peter. He aimed higher with his right, going for the side of Sylar’s head.
It was a moving target. Although Peter knew his right hand still didn’t have the strength it should have, numbed from the shoulder strike, he hadn’t thought about the implications of hitting a hard surface with a fist that wasn’t tight and firm. So when his balled hand came down on the rear side of Sylar’s skull, it hurt Peter a lot more than Sylar. Something snapped in his hand and his wrist wrenched. “Ah!”
XXX
He took a hard sock into his shoulder again as he managed roll onto his side, feeling his right arm tense and jerk in reaction, sound escaping him. Growling next to be intimidating and perhaps because it would help him wriggle free of Peter’s encasing legs (god, how awkward). His vision shuddered and his head snapped painfully into the bed, something in his neck popping from a swift blow from something hard to his skull.
“Uh…” was his groaned exhale of pain, an instant headache splitting up his cranium, throbbing around the impact site. He dimly heard the other man make a louder noise in agony, but he just kept moving, not at all pausing to survey the empath’s injuries because right now he didn’t care. Wonder of all wonders, this was so similar to another fight this pair had been in. Maybe everything had already been done before.
/"You're too weak to stop me! I know what it feels like now. All this power....I'm the one who's special."/
XXX
Shit! He jerked his hand back reflexively. He could still fight, but that injury by itself knocked his effectiveness down by more than a quarter, maybe half if something was actually broken, ceding the advantage entirely to Sylar. For the moment though, maybe Sylar didn’t realize that.
XXX
Peter stopped moving, stopped advancing so Sylar didn’t kick him as his legs cleared the other man’s straddle. He then took the opportunity to roll off the bed and onto the floor, sliding down in a muddled mess. Moving to his knees, he saw first that Peter still knelt on the bed, cradling his arm, possibly the one he’d hit Sylar’s head with.
Fuzzily he had a flash that his head had always been a little thick. The medic flexed his hand briefly, holding back his grimace of pain, but Sylar caught it; he must have done something to make the man look at him because Peter’s eyes rose from his arm to Sylar’s eyes and he began to move off the bed.
He took that as a move back into the field, injured or not. Looking around the room much faster, his eyes alighted on a baseball bat; crude and messy, but he didn't intend to use it and that fact was none of Peter's business. Grabbing hold of it, he wobbled to stand, something from the headshot disrupting his balance. "Enough," he rasped out, holding the bat in front of him for show.
Peter hadn't attempted to strangle him or otherwise bash his brains in; he hadn't even run for the gun. Sylar concluded that Peter in fact wouldn't go back for the gun or the nearest sharp object, Petrelli-style, for the final Medal of Honor. The bat wavered slightly in his hand and he blinked a few times at the injured man.
XXX
Peter looked over the bat carefully, noting how it wavered. It wasn’t held firm. He didn’t think Sylar truly intended to use it. That was good - Peter was done with the fight too. He took a half step back and to the side anyway, out of caution, keeping the corner of the bed between them so there was no way he could easily be rushed. People could be killed bare-handed, but a fight with weapons became all kinds of lethal that a fistfight was not. Sylar’s single word eased him a lot, turning the hefting of the bat from an escalation Peter wouldn’t win to a graceful way to back down. He’d made his point and even though he doubted Sylar understood why Peter had attacked him, Peter did and that was good enough. Absently he noted the stuffed bear was directly behind him. He nudged it back with his heel, unconsciously keeping himself between it and Sylar.
He waited a few more seconds just to be sure of the situation, then let his thoughts go back to what had started this - Sylar’s insinuations, or perhaps confessions. “Is there any low you won’t sink to? Rape?” It had provoked him because it was new, as a piece of information; because Sylar had been taunting him; because it seemed Sylar wanted to start a fight and would keep at it until he did. It was worse than his other sins - there was no excuse of the hunger or even self defense in taking advantage of Claire. A new low, yes. But it wasn’t like he’d had all that far to fall at that point.
Peter shook his head, lip curling in disgust. “Don’t talk to me about how you’ve hurt people. If you really think we’re stuck here forever together, don’t talk to me about that!” Peter’s voice rose in distress. “There’s nothing I can do about it!” Except beat the crap out of you. It’s already done. Maybe I could have been there faster. If I’d only known… “Just because you have powers doesn’t mean you have to use them that way!”
He licked at the blood on his lips and raised his left hand to wipe it off his chin. He eyed Sylar further, but the other man was holding his ground. Peter felt of his nose briefly. He didn’t think it was broken. His teeth were still solid. He took a quick catalog of his other injuries. Nothing seemed critical except for his hand. He flexed it, giving Sylar a sullen look, unwilling to explore it further right away. The other man looked fine - a little unsteady, with red marks blooming slowly as the first stage of bruising - but basically fine.
Peter remembered an exchange during his precepting as a paramedic, where his instructor was trying to treat a patient who had been in a bar room brawl. Either punch drunk or inebriated, the man kept demanding the paramedic ‘fix’ his injuries, which consisted of several blows to the face similar to Sylar’s, or Peter’s. No bones were broken, nothing was bleeding. The veteran medic had told him, ‘Buddy, you’ve been punched. I can’t un-punch you. Take some aspirin, use some cold packs, and don’t get in bar-fights.’
Peter dropped his eyes, backing up another short step, signaling more firmly he was done here and he was backing off.
XXX
Sylar blinked at the man a moment, taken aback by the one slur that was sent his way and attached to his name. Another and far greater sin to be associated with him. I. Hate. People. Sylar leaned forward and extended the bat at Peter’s chest, “I’m no rapist,” he snarled, body tensed. Of course Peter would think that; it was probably the only thing he heard from Sylar’s entire….speech. “The only thing I ever touched was her pretty blonde gray matter for her stupid ability.”
Peter’s voice rose and Sylar was left to wait out the tirade he presented, after the he finished, Sylar snapped back, barely restraining his own bitter anger, “Don’t you dare lecture me about abilities, Petrelli, don’t you dare.” He knew he didn’t need the bat, but it made him feel better regardless of Peter’s potential as a threat.
Who rescued who from killing their then-shared mother? Who had taken hits and been strapped down and drugged again just to be a good brother? Mommy’s good boy? Peter had gone crazier faster with the Hunger than Sylar had himself. But, no, Sylar was ever the monster because Peter, precious, perfect, loving and loved Peter could be forgiven. His body count was zero of course.
The other man’s eyes dropped and he backed down. “You’ve never seen me ‘low’, Peter, so don’t be so quick to judge. I can’t remember the last time I was laid and that was prior to three years ago.” Okay, a bit of an exaggeration; he did remember, but it was just to illustrate that he wasn’t the most social of men. His voice had relaxed but he still held himself stiffly, prepared for another foolish rush against the bat; typical Peter.
XXX
The bat made an annoying degree of difference in how he responded to what Sylar said. Peter had a feeling that were it not there as a glaring reminder of the next step in their conflict, that they’d still be fighting one way or another, steadily moving the relationship between them to more and more hostile. He leaned away and tensed in turn when Sylar gestured at him with it, but he didn’t give ground.
He believed Sylar instantly, which annoyed him even more. He should argue. He should demand proof (though what proof could the other man give?) He should demand an apology for Sylar even insinuating that he’d done that to Claire. But instead, the back of his head which judged people and made emotional decisions said, ‘oh yeah, that makes perfect sense’ and the more intellectual part was left gaping and struggling to disagree. He frowned deeply at Sylar and hoped he’d hurt the bastard worse than it looked, because if he’d said those sorts of things knowing they were false, then he’d done it just to start things, intentionally goading him.
Sylar’s eyes dropped and his tone eased back towards normal. Peter was left wondering what the hell ‘low’ was for Sylar if it wasn’t killing people and being a menace to everyone who got close to him. Really, molesting Claire at the Stanton seemed possible. Sylar’s outrage that Peter would jump to the obvious conclusion was irritating. Asshole. You have no grounds to say someone is being ‘quick to judge’ if they believe what you tell them. He supposed he didn’t really know much about the other man, but what was there worse than the murders? Sure, Peter’s imagination could fill in a lot of scenarios (cannibalism, child molestation, prolonged torture, and a sort of psychological torment of the sort Peter wondered if he was getting into with this current bullshit) - but it left a curiosity about what Sylar thought was out of bounds.
XXX
Actually, he should probably be more worried about being stabbed in the back as opposed to a frontal charge, but this was Peter of the manipulative clan Petrelli. “You are barking up the wrong tree if you think I’d willingly get it on with anyone in your family,” he said sneeringly serious.
XXX
So the Petrellis were safe from Sylar making passes at them. Fine. Sylar meant it as an insult - that was the only reason Peter found it objectionable. Just stop talking, he begged mentally. Stop insulting. Stop… Peter sighed. Like that’s going to happen. Maybe I’ve got to stop taking offense. He’s not going to change. I can’t make him change. Some part of himself ached and hurt and objected to the idea that he had to weather Sylar’s abuse and disrespect. There was a distant echo here of his father being overbearing and authoritarian in Sylar’s comportment, claiming absolute superiority with such infuriating constancy. He couldn’t slug his father; but by God that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to. His jaw worked. He said nothing.
XXX
“Your niece is about as loving as a porcupine, Peter. I never touched her like that. I prefer my partners willing.” Something that was hard to come by for a serial killer and psychopath. And even then the woman was manipulating him. Hell, once it wasn’t even his body. “When we find her waltzing around here after a dozen years or so, you can ask her your damn self.”
Sylar swung the bat into the wall, denting it easily and letting the would-be weapon drop to the floor amidst crumbs, dust, and rocks of dry wall. His expression dropped from dark and angry to hollow and lost as he looked at Peter as if asking ‘how could you?’ before he left the room. Far be it for him to walk away more hurt if he started the fight.
XXX
Sylar swung the bat into the wall and Peter jumped a little. Then he dropped it. Good. Peter swayed a little to the side, away from Sylar as he walked by, close enough to reach out and grab because Peter was not very far from the door. But Peter’s feet didn’t move and neither did his hands. His head hardly turned either, holding himself still. If Sylar had wanted to press the fight, he’d have done it when he had a weapon in hand, not now. As angry as Peter was - and partly because he was so angry - he wanted the fight over. He probably wouldn’t win it anyway with his hand messed up (not without resorting to something like the baseball bat, now lying unattended and available). Sylar passed by without incident to stalk off to wherever else he intended to go.
XXX
Sylar managed to walk in a straight line out the door, only half-heartedly expecting to get capped with the bat. Rape, now. Wonderful. He hadn’t felt like dying today (not really), so he didn’t push the big black button of Nathan; Claire was the other easiest target. Go figure it would come across as rape to the devoted and slightly infatuated do-good uncle.
May as well have for all he thinks, god….No more tests for him. They just hurt. All the more he was forced to remember that Peter was on the ignorant side of this…’partnership’. Sylar knew Peter, both as an enemy and a brother and something in between.
Rape. Won’t mom be proud. He rumbled in his throat and banished the haunting idea. /”You? You could never hurt anyone.”/
XXX
Peter took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders a little, working his right. He turned and picked up the bear with his left hand, looking it over briefly. He didn’t want to leave it here. He looked over at the bat. That he wanted to leave. He walked over and kicked it under the bed, then regretted it instantly. If Sylar looked back in here and it was gone…what would he think? Dammit. If he got down and crawled around to pull the damn thing out that would look even more suspicious. Whatever. Just get out of here. Carrying the bear, he walked out.
He felt a little ashamed to be carrying a stuffed bear. He thought it looked juvenile, or overprotective, or like he was seized of some irrational, displaced urge to protect and comfort one of Sylar’s victims. Well, the latter at least was probably exactly what it was. He tried to tell himself he didn’t give a shit about what Sylar thought.
XXX
Good news is he won’t kill you even he does believe a lie. That’s just what you get for opening your mouth. Why tell him anything? Unfortunately he was painfully aware that he wasn’t adept at keeping his mouth shut, censoring himself (hell, even wanting to) and that over the next hundred years he’d be coughing up more facts about himself than he had ever before.
If he’d had a therapist previous to this, he or she would probably drop dead from shock. He really had nothing to look forward to in that regard; hemorrhaging information about himself, secrets, regrets and fears; all the goddamn damage he carried around that someone who hadn’t read his file wouldn’t know. Fuck that. Just don’t tell him anything.
As a game plan he knew it sucked. Sylar weaved a line for the couch, collapsing on the cushions with an exhausted sigh. It was only then he allowed himself to catalogue his injuries. Pain itself was an afterthought but he just blinked down at his wrist already blooming with bruises, stiffening up. Hyperextension, he labeled dully. Nothing serious.
XXX
As he walked to the kitchen, he glanced at Sylar. Peter put the stuffed animal in his paper sack. He started cleaning himself up at the sink, wiping his face. His nose had pretty much stopped bleeding, but he couldn’t breathe out of it and it had dripped down his shirt. His hand hurt. He felt it up a little bit. He was pretty sure there was something broken there, but it was starting to swell.
He sorted through the cabinets for painkillers, found some and…couldn’t get the freaking child-proof lid off with one hand. It was one of those ultra-protective versions that required two hands, with a fair grip strength in both, to open it. Shit. He sorted around through the various other bottles of vitamins and children’s fever reducers (also equipped with ridiculously aggressive caps), but this was it. He could hold it with his right, but not with enough pressure to keep it in place while he triggered those tabs with his left. Peter thought they’d pulled this style of cap off the market ten years before, but this wasn’t the real world. If it hadn’t been in keeping with the latches on the drawers he’d found earlier, he’d have thought the cap was some subconscious attempt of Sylar’s mind to thwart him.
Well, I’m not going to be thwarted. He frowned deeply at the bottle. The idea of getting that baseball bat and smashing it was very appealing. Or he could put it on the linoleum floor, put his foot on it and get it with his left. Or…taking up the bottle in his left hand, he looked around to see where Sylar was at the moment.
XXX
He moved on, rolling his shoulder, feeling only a sharp bruise that ached to move his arm up. Bruising. He thought he’d tasted blood earlier, so he prodded his tongue around in his mouth for the cut, locating it, but his lips felt fine. Whether or not he had blood or cuts wasn’t a priority, but he did feel around over his face to locate the deep-stinging bruises to the bones there. Then there was that balance problem…Mild concussion. What was he thinking with that? That explained Peter’s pained hand.
His back was tender and stiffening up as was his neck, doubtless he’d wrenched both with the bed. His ribs weren’t hurt, but they did hurt. All he had was aches and pains and a serious headache. Once he’d finished with his assessment, he rested his elbows on his knees. Why am I still sitting here waiting for the tour to continue? That pulled a frown from his tired face and if he could have rubbed it without pain, he would have. Why do I feel like I lost the fight? He settled for digging his fingers into his tangled hair as the word ‘low’ echoed around in his ears.
He heard Peter moving around and glanced to see him carrying the bear into the kitchen. Sylar just closed his eyes and faced straight again, really trying not to consider that. For some reason that small gesture felt like a slap in the face, and it was probably intended as such.
Claire might be prone to keeping things from people, but she wasn’t shy about laying sins at Sylar’s door, surely everyone knew that? He’d been Nathan for god-knows how fucking long! She was still underage or looked it enough to be- I’m not even considering this. That’s just disgusting. It’s like saying I touched Molly Walker when she was eight or however old. He shook his head, sending pain shooting down his neck so he halted the action.
Is this Hell for immortals?
Sylar heard Peter clattering and huffing in the kitchen over a bottle of….pills, painkillers probably. ‘Suicide isn’t the answer, man!’ his overactive brain insisted he utter, but he had no real desire to and didn’t. Peter was taking this all surprisingly well; the whole ‘new life without PEOPLE’ thing. Aside from the fact that he was still looking for his cubbyhole out of here. That was the point of this whole exploration.
Peter emerged moments later and approached him with, whaddya know, a bottle of pain killers. What made him look twice was the child lock, still closed in the man’s swelling hand. Sylar’s eyes rose slowly from the bottle up to the man’s face, hesitant disbelief coming into his eyes. Help? Me? /”I’m not the savior kind.”/
Normally his first reaction would have been a quick mocking noise, possible laughter for someone failing to master something so simple, regardless of physical ability or pain. (He could just imagine it, too; Peter Petrell: boy wonder throughout the world for saving it above and beyond the call, foiled, not by Sylar, the monster, but by a child-locked bottle). The lack of sound coming from the man’s dead watch grated on his sense with the concussion. He let out the breath he’d been unaware of holding; Peter’s gesture, obviously genuine in its need, defusing Sylar’s tension.
When Peter approached and handed him the bottle, gesturing to his hand by way of explanation they both knew Sylar didn’t need. With bruised knuckles, he thumbed open the tab of the cap and handed Peter back the opened bottle. Thankful he’d left the bear in the kitchen. Again, the funny feeling ran down his spine to his stomach.
Sylar had initiated, insulted and insinuated, forcing Peter to act; he’d then been injured in doing so trying to hurt Sylar. Peter, the fearless mouse, then asking in such a diplomatic way, for assistance for such an obvious reason….He didn’t like that spiral feeling in his gut. Never had. So he ignored it.
He looked up at the medic, eyes reading ashamed as he dropped them quickly; the urge to apologize hanging on his lips.
This was really going to take some getting used to. Being safe with a man he’d so badly wronged; the same man who wouldn’t kill him even with just cause and weapons under provocation. Safe. He nearly laughed at himself.
XXX
Continued...
Characters: Peter Petrelli and Sylar/Gabriel Gray
Rating: PG-13/T to eventual NC-17/M
Warnings: Language, mind fuckery, violence, angst, dirty language/thoughts/actions but nothing explicit.
Setting: Inside the Wall, S4.
Words: 9,987
Summary: Peter has hacked into Sylar's mind on a rescue mission. Everything goes to Hell. Welcome to Sylar's mind!
Notes (Must Read): Collaboration with the wonderful Game_byrd (Gamebird- FFN). 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, intellect, imagination and a thing called common sense filling in those nasty plot-holes.
One deviation from canon: In The Fifth Stage Peter wipes Sylar's memory after the fight and gained all of Sylar's memories via Rene/The Haitian's ability allowing the user to remember the person's memories in addition to erasing them. AKA Peter has all of Sylar's memories stored in his subconscious. They appear when Peter sleeps, becomes distracted or experiences one of Sylar's deja vu's. Sylar has recovered his memories with IA and regeneration and still has Nathan's memories. 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 \\ \\.
A/N: This chapter features a fist fight, molestation of a classic stuffed animal; nothing very explicit, but it is sexual. Hints at another pairing, mentions of potential rape.
Day 5
Sylar pulled to his feet as soon as Peter came out. Peter was relieved that the other man hadn’t left entirely. He considered that emotion for a moment. Or maybe he was just happy Sylar wasn’t trying to kill him. It had been a possibility, after all. He was distracted from those thoughts by Sylar looking him up and down, eyes focusing on his crotch just a little longer than he should have. Peter stood there and affected being relaxed and comfortable, not about to respond to Sylar doing the same thing to him that he’d done to the man. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Sylar looked flabbergasted though, which wasn’t the expression Peter really expected in a situation of dueling, sexually aggressive stares. He looked unbelieving even, then the taller man turned and strode off energetically. Peter followed more sedately, glancing discreetly down at himself and noticing the suspicious bulge near his groin. Oh. The razor. He grinned. Yes, well, Sylar, I was just trying to show you who was bigger, since we seem to have gotten into a dick-measuring contest. I really need to get a bag.
The question of Sylar’s sexual orientation drifted through his mind again, this time coming with memories of a number of moments of slightly unusual degrees of eye contact, motions and inadvertent touches on Sylar’s part, mostly while the man thought he was his brother at Pinehearst. Peter had dismissed it for exactly that reason. He and Nathan touched a lot. It was enough to have engendered more than a few unsavory comments. Once, at function Nathan had drug Peter to when he was still pre-law, an older man asked outright if Peter was Nathan’s ‘partner’ - Peter had pretended the man meant a partner in the law firm, denied it, then pointed out they were brothers. The old man had looked disappointed that the Petrelli reputation remained unstained by that particular misconduct.
But when you lived in the closet, you tended to get sensitive to certain things, keeping a lookout for certain behaviors and patterns. Sylar’s pattern…did not strike Peter as solely heterosexual. He frowned to himself. He didn’t know the other man well enough to be sure. He was sure that he didn’t really want to know him that well; but if he was stuck here for years, relative or not, he suspected he was going to find out. Given the situation, the only person whose desires Peter thought might be a complication would be Sylar’s.
Peter pushed open the door to the stairs, noting Sylar was finishing the stairs to the third floor, then went inside. I wonder why the stairs? He left his apple and his book at the elevators. Not that Peter was about to go get them to be helpful or anything. Maybe he’d mentioned it later when they left. These are all imaginary possessions. They don’t really matter. He snorted and made a mental note to himself to try to wish something into existence. It seemed that they did matter, whether he wanted them to or not. He strongly suspected that that pistol he’d found would have made a distinct difference in a fight, far more than an ‘imaginary’ object should.
XXX
Pushing open the doors to the stairwell, he climbed the flight to get to the third floor, immediately going into the nearest apartment. It was larger, obviously a family had lived here and it made Sylar’s stomach lurch. Family. Goddamn you, Petrelli, and your family! Lest he forget Peter was one of them. He cautiously entered the master bedroom, very careful not to touch any of the toys or objects in this room; he was worried about a different type of contamination this time.
That’s what a family was; a contaminant. It sucked you down and infected you, gave you an infection until you were too delirious and caught up and…. He took a deep breath. He also didn’t want to disturb something so precious. Kids had lived here, probably pretty happy and carefree. By stepping in he was the one doing the contaminating while Peter, when he arrived, would simply slip right into it and fit in, clean as a whistle.
He felt out of place in this environment; it was not for him.
XXX
He glanced through the window of the stairwell door at the third floor, then walked in. Sylar was nowhere to be seen, but the door to one of the nearer apartments was standing open. He stood beside it for a moment, looking at the closed door on the other side of the hall. It was some other apartment. He didn’t have to be in the same apartment as Sylar, after all. It might be wiser to reduce the chance of friction by keeping a little space between them. He walked through the open door anyway.
It was one of the larger floor plans, he saw, and apparently a family that had young children, judging from the toy box tucked up next to the couch and the highchair he could see in the dining room. No children here, though. No children, no adults, no elderly. The hospitals are empty. No one to help. No one to serve. No one. He shook off the moment of ennui without too much trouble and went into the kitchen, looking for a sack. He found a paper grocery sack tucked in next to the refrigerator. He opened it noisily and put the razor, can opener and food within.
He reached out to open the nearest drawer to find himself thwarted by a child safety lock. It was the first ‘lock’ he’d come across that was engaged. He bypassed it, fiddling with the little plastic latch and wondering if it meant anything. He thought not, but what did he know? He searched through the drawers steadily, finding nothing of great interest. He suspected his interest in the objects of this world would wane soon enough. Having free and easy access to everything meant that few things really mattered - items of comfort, maybe, or entertainment - those still mattered.
He wandered through the dining room towards the bedrooms, knowing from the occasional small sound that Sylar was in here somewhere. He glanced in the rooms to see which one he was in, intending to go to the other.
XXX
Sylar was at an emotional crossroads in the master bedroom, standing and staring around the room, not doing much of anything. Maybe that was supposed to make him feel better; the fact that Peter’s ‘family’ was just as fucked up (in its own way) as his own had been, however much less of a ‘family’.
Clenching his fists again, he stalked over to the bed stand, rifling through it with rough motions. It didn’t matter; no one was here, he didn’t need this family’s things, neither did Peter. They didn’t even need to be here looking for….whatever the fuck unless Peter had some kind of wish list that he wasn’t talking about.
He heard the distant crackle of a paper bag and hoped Peter was ‘taking care’ of whatever it was he’d had in his pants before he met up with Sylar again. That had been…unexpected to say the least. It was other things, but nothing that bore continued thought. Besides, Peter would want him to ignore such a happenstance.
More confusion filled his head and he snatched up a bed pillow and threw it at the window, just because. Let Peter find that! He thought derisively, being spiteful. Why was he angry again? Oh, yes. Why was he playing along with this charade again? Oh, yeah.
Stupid Peter, stupid family, stupid whatever it was that made Peter give him that look and whatever that damn cord was. Focus. Remember the game. Sylar cast a shady glance towards the door of the bedroom that Peter so obviously wasn’t entering. Hmm. There was nothing incriminating or even interesting in the bedroom; parents, he sighed to himself in his head.
He inwardly cringed at having to enter the kid’s rooms, but did it anyway. While he hadn’t looked very much in the first, dirty gun-bachelor’s apartment, he would have no such excuse as ‘imagined germs’ here. He could always play off kid-phobia…No, he’d be onto that. Sylar slowly padded into the little boy’s blue bedroom. Cowboys was the theme, the whole Toy Story get up, not that he knew anything about it or recognized it.
A noise clicked in his head, similar to one of his prized clocks as his eyes fell on a particularly special item to the boy that used to live here. Claire-bear. His eyes narrowed and he chuckled grim and amused, time to play. Moving forward and reaching for the teddy bear on the bed, he suddenly got a different wavelength full of static.
//Watching Pete sit on Santa’s lap. A tiny boy at two years old, those pleading hazel eyes locked on Saint Nick’s jovial (fake) face, Nathan at fourteen, having refused the opportunity, but stood near to Pete just….because.
He was the older brother, a role he’d accepted without much thought and he took it seriously. One look at Pete’s innocent, dreaming face could do that to you. His baby brother was handed a large chocolate plush teddy and Pete had locked it immediately in a death grip of a hug after staring into the bear’s glassy eyes for a moment.
Fast forward four years at the beach, a weekend vacation with Ma and Dad, complete with Izzie, the family spaniel, yapping down the surf, doubtlessly driving Dad’s nerves up the wall as usual. Of course Mister Bear came along for the trip, the plushy material that made up the bear’s fur long since worn. And of course the bear had to come in the water.
Nathan was holding Pete’s slightly reluctant, juice-sticky hand, leading him hip-deep (for the kid) into the ocean; the bear in the boy’s other hand, clutched loosely in kid-fingers. Pete kept making funny faces, obviously unsure of how to handle the water and he glanced up a ways at Nathan. Before they’d gotten in the water, Pete had asked of Ma, “I can wash him, right?” Ma had nodded distractedly, busy with the picnic lunch she’d brought, giving him a “Yes, of course, dear”, but he still seemed uncertain.
Seriously, that damn bear got more attention than Peter himself did. Nathan lifted Pete by the hand to raise him above the swell of a particularly large wave of salt water, trying to spare the boy a face full of icy ocean. Peter had cleared it, but the bear was sucked out in the pull before either Petrelli noticed its absence. Mister Bear was gone to sea and Peter had cried the rest of the day and on the road trip back.//
Sylar snarled and dug his fingers quickly into the soft fabric of the bear, pulling it into his hand, shaking off the memory with a shift of his shoulders. This is why I hate family; especially this one. Nothing but a bunch of mindfucks in a mansion. This bear was different that Peter’s in that it had a red bandana around his neck and a straw cowboy hat stuck to its head, but Sylar ignored the details.
“Oh, Peter….” He sing-songed to get the other man’s attention and, ideally, the man himself as an audience. Surely Peter knew about Claire’s bear fetish (or was it Bennet’s? Ugh). This was about to hit a dozen of Peter’s ‘things never to see or think about’ list.
XXX
Peter looked in the master bedroom. It was the first one he came to. It was in a little bit of disarray - nightstand drawer open, pillow on the floor. Nightstand - guns. His mind made an idle connection. Sylar had obviously been in here and wasn’t here now. He was debating checking out the room instead of bothering to confirm where his companion was when the man’s voice rang out in sing-song.
The tone alerted him instantly. Something was up. Sylar was up to something and very proud of whatever it was he was about to spring. Nightstand - guns ran through Peter’s mind again. A bullet through Peter’s leg would be something Sylar might find highly amusing and though Sylar surely wasn’t stupid enough to think that wouldn’t be a potentially fatal injury; he might be pissed off enough not to care. Then again, Peter couldn’t think of any of Sylar’s kills that involved a gun, other than cases where others had pulled the trigger, himself included.
No, Sylar had always preferred his abilities, as far as Peter knew. Telekinesis had featured just about every time. It had pretty much been Sylar’s introduction in that high school so long ago - years now, but it seemed like yesterday. Sylar, dark and shadowed at the end of the hall, Claire fleeing him, Peter being unsure, recognizing the figure from the paintings and the glimpses of the future he’d seen. And yeah, he’d been scared. Then a moment later the locker doors were flying at him. There was no reason to stay, so he’d fled. His job had not been to stop the killer, but instead to save the cheerleader.
What would Sylar do for violence if stripped of his powers? A knife? A gun? A baseball bat? Or would it be something more insidious like drugged food followed by restraints and torture? The sing-song tone said ‘I’m about to fuck with you.’ Peter knew that fully and yet he still went to the voice to see what Sylar was going to do. He did at least manage a modicum of caution, approaching the doorway in a very similar way to how Sylar had stood when Peter had handled the gun - leaning to the side slightly, leaving most of his body concealed.
Sylar did not have a gun in his hands. Or a knife. Or a baseball bat. He had a teddy bear. Peter stared at it dumbly, surprise making him less cautious than he was a moment before. A teddy bear. What the hell? Was Sylar going to hold the teddy bear hostage? Was he going to threaten to hurt Peter by tearing the stuffed animal’s head off and vicariously harming it? It wasn’t like he could intimidate him by killing a beloved pet, after all. He looked at the bear. It did have a fairly close resemblance to Mister Bear - same size and color, same well-worn fur. The accoutrements were out of place, but…but Sylar had Nathan’s memories. He knew what the bear looked like.
Peter’s eyes rose to Sylar’s, seeing the maliciously gleeful, anticipatory look on the other man’s face. Sylar was up to something, all right.
XXX
Sylar gave him a smirking grin once he peeked his head in, obviously wary. The man’s glance went from the bear, held at Sylar’s chest height, then up to his eyes, seeing something that set him on edge. Rightly so. If Peter thought he would get away scot-free with that look earlier, hell, with the (understandable) ‘scare’ with the gun, he was dead wrong.
Staring Peter down, Sylar hugged the bear to his chest, murmuring, “Look who I found.” He could see the individual thoughts racing through Peter’s head; confusion, disgust, annoyance and anger, but enough curiosity to keep him there. “Think I’ll call her….Mrs. Bear….No, no, I’ve got it.” The evil behavior he was subjecting the medic to was flexing so many muscles in his psyche; the flood of almost Hunger filling him. It felt so good, a rush of endorphins and adrenaline like he hadn’t had in literal years.
XXX
At first Peter didn’t have much reaction aside from a narrowing of the eyes. He frowned deeply, unimpressed at the moniker of ‘Mrs. Bear,’ surprised the asshole didn’t go for a direct copy of Peter’s childhood toy. The reason, he supposed, became clear as Sylar rubbed the stuffed animal against himself and moaned. Pervert. Weirdo. Is this supposed to impress me? I suppose it does - I didn’t think you’d sink this low right off the bat. So much for him being gay - if he can’t even label a fake bear as male for this sort of thing.
XXX
In response, he gave a hum, one that could have been interpreted as a moan if the other man chose, as he slowly dragged the teddy’s muzzle down his abdomen, slithering it downwards. Watching all the while as Peter’s gaze tracked the motion, blinking in confusion, the thought telegraphed over his hollow little head ‘Where the hell is this going?’ /God….this is fun./ “Think I’ll call her…Claire. Get it?” Sylar gave a wicked leer, holding the bear by its head and eventually placing it to face his groin. The placement was suspicious, but Peter was a little dense.
This was a test; Peter wouldn’t take up the gun, but Peter was no gunman…except for that time in Haiti. Hmm, singular event. He couldn’t even kill Arthur, something that still rattled in Nathan’s memory for some odd reason. /”You’re not a killer, Peter. I am.”/ The medic had made his intentions clear, but then backed it up with a snotty look at Sylar. How low will you go?
Still he wasn’t finished. He is not getting away with mocking me. I can call every shitty aspect of his life on stage in front of him and there’s nothing he can do about it. His next noise was a low rumble in his throat, depicting pleasure that he wasn’t receiving from the bear/Claire’s “mouth” while he began to roll his hips against it anyway. Whoa, hello…. His hormonal reaction was not what he’d anticipated. Huh. That shouldn’t feel good, maybe it looks good…something’s still not quite normal about that.
He recalled taunting Matt with a stuffed (pink) rabbit. /”Something doesn’t fit in this picture.” He recalled hiding his smugness from the oblivious cop, not that he needed to, clapping his hands together. “This house isn’t used for drugs. It’s used for something worse. A lot worse.” Why Matt believed him, oh, right, he was a ‘hero’. Why Sylar would point something like that out….well. He enjoyed the sport and Matt was so easy to string along, it was almost anticlimactic./
“Have you ever been in her room, Pete? I doubt those chaste hugs and lingering glances give you much of her scent, do they?” he rasped intimately towards the other man. Because, what…the fuck…had that look been about? He wanted to know. People didn’t….it was just…odd, out of place. “Vanilla,” Sylar whispered, grinding the bear around some personal areas for show.
XXX
Then the name changed to Claire and Sylar started pantomiming fellatio. That was…upsetting. Peter shifted position, coming more fully in the doorway but that wasn’t really his intention. He felt uncomfortable, so he shifted. What he was really doing, and had he been thinking about it he’d have known, was getting more balanced, more poised. Sylar didn’t have a gun and obviously wasn’t preparing to rush him, so there was no reason to be peeking around the corner like a frightened child. Peter’s eyes narrowed further as he weighed how much and if he needed to defend Claire’s name from being sullied like this.
He’s not worth it. Let him show off what a juvenile sense of humor he has. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s trying to get a rise out of you with this. Speaking of which…is he…?
His eyes pulled back up to Sylar’s face with the man’s next words and he felt his blood begin to boil despite his intentions. ‘Pete’ again. What is he trying to do - see how far he can push me? Does he think me putting down the gun gives him a free pass for anything? Does he think I’m toothless or something?
As for Claire, Peter had had a crush on her for a little while once…longer than he should have, really, but what the hell were you supposed to do when you had no idea the girl could possibly be related to you?!? She was a random teenager in Texas, for crying out loud! She was jailbait, the situation sucked (he was, specifically, in jail for part of that, after all), so he was thankful he hadn’t done anything, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t felt something. Even without that, she was his niece and this level of disrespect was intolerable. Not that he expected better from Sylar, but Peter couldn’t stand here and do nothing.
XXX
Keeping his voice low still, he continued, “Ever wonder why Claire’s a lesbian, Pete? One word; Stanton,” with that, he chuckled, amused and proud of his accomplishment: Peter was enraged by now and it showed, blazing through those hazel irises. To top it off, literally, Sylar mimed carving into the bear’s cranium under the hat, through it, whatever, as he bobbed it back and forth at his pelvis.
XXX
He knew Sylar had taken her ability. He’d always wondered if more than that had happened. It had never seemed appropriate to ask though, so he was gentle with Claire and left it at that. Sylar’s next words…Claire’s a lesbian? What? Peter had seriously, seriously been out of touch with his family for the last many months. He hadn’t even noticed that his brother, his beloved brother, had been replaced by an imposter. So the idea that Claire had perhaps come out of the closet and he hadn’t been in the loop - well, it was certainly possible. Maybe he’s lying? Why does he think I’d care? ‘Pete’ again. You do not get to call me that! And then that last word brought everything together.
Peter had never given so much as a single thought to what might have happened to Claire behind those doors at the Stanton. It wasn’t callousness, so much as having so many other things going on. She’d been clothed when thrown into the hall before Nathan and him; her voice had been steady and strong; things had started happening fast after that. But maybe they’d been happening fast before that, too. Suddenly his mind was trying to calculate times, consider Sylar’s personality, the gloating leer on his face right now, Claire’s personality…she’d become a lesbian? He’d raped her? He’s admitting this?!?
He couldn’t think anymore, but that was fine because he had no more need for it. He launched himself across the few steps between them. Sylar’s hands were occupied, his body obviously busy responding to a situation that did not prepare him well for Peter’s fist crashing down on his face. And Peter was doing his best to achieve just that.
XXX
He’d been more or less expecting this; violence. Usually Peter liked to avoid the fight and talk people down (sometimes literally), but this time he didn’t spare a word before he rushed Sylar. He took the initial blow across his cheekbone, the explosion of sensation snapping his head around to his right side, a coarse bark of pain escaping him. Dropping the bear from his right hand, still holding it in his left, he swung his freed fist for Peter’s oncoming face, snarling as he did.
You are not going to treat me like that, I won’t let you. You may be the last man on earth, but I’m still me. I’m not a piece of your Petrelli shitbag scam, I’m not a fucking toy! I won’t let you, I won’t let you, I won’t…The contact jarred up his arm and he hissed from the receiving pain. Fuck, forgot how much I hate this. Stupid bastard, asked for this.
/”NOW GIVE ME MY BROTHER BACK!” “Nathan’s pretty dead, Pete, I should know….What are you gonna do? Beat him out of me?”/
Then he remembered the reason for getting abilities: he didn’t do hand-to-hand well, technically ‘dying’ the last two times. Just because, Sylar swung the teddy bear at Peter; it was in his hand and he was angry and it was a sort of statement. Not like the real deal would break and it was a goddamn bear! The stuffy hit Peter at the neck before continuing past him to bounce on the ground, but neither man paid it any mind.
XXX
Peter was actually faintly surprised to have struck the man, not surprised at all that it hurt. Peter was a lot more familiar with hitting people than he wanted to be - more familiar with hitting Sylar than he wanted to be. Kirby Plaza, Pinehearst, Mercy Heights - all fistfights with this man and he’d won each time, more or less. Kirby Plaza was arguable - complicated by others, but Peter counted it as a win. All of those flashed behind his eyes with a weird sort of double exposure, like he was remembering the incidents from not just his own point of view, but Sylar’s. Peter’s own fists crashing down on him painfully; confusion; the simple stunned awareness with which he’d looked up at Peter at Pinehearst and did nothing to resist him while the Italian, the so-called empath, had hit him again and again, stopping to gloat between each blow.
“Uf.” Peter was hit solidly on the cheek as a reward for getting distracted. He shook off the bizarre memories, falling back and trying to dodge, more than a little disoriented from the blow. He didn’t have time to think things through, though if he had, he would have thought Sylar had done that to him intentionally somehow - some mental effect of being here. He’d lost the advantage of surprise. The stuffed animal hit him and bounced away - he felt an equally bizarre, but more understandable pang of concern for it.
XXX
Hit me once, shame on me....In the back of his mind, he knew he was purposefully provoking the conflict, but he just couldn't seem to stop himself. A lifetime's worth of frustration, repression, anger, loss, heartbreak, neglect and failure on both sides. And the additional (probably testosterone-fueled, adrenaline-filled) energy had to go somewhere; it had to be let out somehow. Sylar shoved Peter back by handfuls of his shirt, making use of his height and longer reach, stalking after the man. When he reached him again, he swung down at Peter, just lashing out to cause damage to something so frustrating and full of anger; really unaware that he was striking the only living thing in his world.
XXX
He grabbed at Sylar’s hand when it clutched his shirt. He was shoved back to where his own fists couldn’t make a solid contact with any critical part of the man’s body. He twisted to the side, heedless if the clothes ripped, but the cloth held. He hammered sideways with the knife edge of his hand at Sylar’s wrist, impacting hard and jarring his grip, getting loose quickly and staggering back a step. Quickly or not, it wasn’t quick enough - he regained his balance just in time to get hit in the face and staggered again, pain blooming between his eyes, making them water as his nose stung and felt wet. “Agh!”
Great. Fucking bloody nose. He bared his teeth and snarled.
He took another step back as Sylar took a couple more swings, not connecting solidly enough to matter.
XXX
A sudden blow to his wrist made him cry out, the tendons and fragile bones shooting pain into his hand, his hand faltering instantly as he pulled it back anyway. The urge to cradle his arm was strong, but Peter wasn’t calming down. Good, he thought at first, immediately followed by, bad. It’s a kid’s room, no box-cutters or guns in here, no powers here, no weapons, was his next rundown of the situation. Perhaps starting Peter up hadn’t been such a great idea; the medic was easy to start up, but not so easy to turn off when it came to this sort of thing; he was nothing but vengeful with a reason to be. Sylar always provided that reason.
In reaction to pain, something he hadn’t been handling as well of late, not handling it as efficiently as he had in the past; Sylar swung in what he thought was okay form. His fists would catch on Peter’s deltoids and graze his chest, missing his face completely after drawing blood from his nose that second time. Go figure stupid Peter would make him look like a fool, swinging blindly like an idiot. How is he….? He was firing away directly at Peter, but the EMT was moving, still catching his balance and moving to avoid Sylar’s fists.
The lack of physical connection only made him angrier, but he wasn’t stupid enough to allow the anger to overrun his instinct to put more force behind his rather unskilled jabs. That would only tire him and give Peter plenty of opportunity to beat his brains out. When Peter moved to Sylar’s left to avoid the right incoming fist; he pivoted and raised a leg to kick into Peter’s hip, the toe of his shoe connecting just shy of the joint, bruising deeply into his thigh. The contact sent the man stuttering away, pushing off the wall and homing in on Sylar’s position.
He himself took a step back, holding his fists up in a lightly-refined technique in preparation of defense, unaware he was probably giving off ‘schoolyard’ to the other man. Even if his fists were in an MMA style he’d read about; of course having no experience or sparring partner to learn more than that. It seemed like a good idea.
XXX
Get him down, beat the crap out of him, teach him that he can’t treat me like this, this is what he gets if he wants to spend his time taunting me, he deserves this…
Peter maneuvered back, trying to get some distance and get his balance. It was a good idea in theory, but as soon as he was out of range of fists, Sylar turned to feet and kicked him. Peter would have liked to credit footwork or dodging with why he managed to take the blow on his thigh instead of hip, but the reality was Sylar simply missed where he was aiming at. Still, it hurt badly and caused him to shift his weight awkwardly. He fell back against the wall and realized he was in a danger zone, too easily trapped and confined, his exit strategy foiled.
Sylar didn’t push his advantage, for whatever reason. Given how he’d fought in the past, Peter gauged that Sylar just didn’t know what he was doing in a fistfight. Had he put his hands down and relaxed his stance, Peter would have still carried the fight to him, but he’d have thought the other man had backed off to try to de-escalate things. Instead he backed up and raised his hands again in a fighting stance. Peter recognized it vaguely, but as the kick had hammered home to him, he had to get inside Sylar’s reach to win this. There was no way he was going to accept losing and being at this man’s mercy. Not ever.
Peter put his head down and bulled forward in a shoulder check, trying to get inside Sylar’s reach. He took a blow coming in, but Sylar had been set up to defend against strikes, not against a rush, which was part of why Peter did it. Sylar backed up a step, coming up against the footboard of the bed and for a moment they teetered there: Peter slugging at Sylar’s ribs without any power behind it (yet, because at the moment it was more an extension of the rush) and Sylar struggling to keep himself upright.
Get him over, knock him down, get on top of him, then pound him into the ground…
XXX
Ha. That’s what you get. In hindsight, he was overly cocky with this; but it was kind of a big deal to be able to lay blows on the infamous Peter Petrelli; some elation was involved by default. Had he been in the mood, he might have chuckled and snarked something at the man, but he had to stay focused for whatever the next-
Shit. Peter approached, but much too fast to be punching or kicking. Sylar recognized the move too late, which was the idea. He was set up for punches and kicks, set up pretty well, too; he hadn’t expected to be rushed and as such he’d cornered himself perfectly for Peter to do just that.
In a second, he was crammed against the bed stand; the rounded end of the stand jabbing into his spine as Peter rushed his upper half, practically bending him over it, leaving him to grunt. The blows to his ribs still hurt and left him a little breathless at the pin. He wasn’t a complete social outcast in that he didn’t watch movies, so he dropped his bent elbow down into Peter’s back as it presented itself, grabbing his hair next and shoving his head to the side. Of course the move worked, but not as planned; Sylar went the opposite direction and fell onto the bed with his legs tripped up and unable to move.
XXX
“Ow!” The elbow jab hurt and yanking on his hair didn’t help, but neither stopped Peter from managing to tip the other man onto the bed. So far, all his injuries were relatively superficial. He hadn’t even managed to lose any hair. The blood from his nose was running down his face and he could taste it, but he was breathing through his mouth fine.
Peter followed Sylar onto the bed, scrambling to get on top of him, straddle him, and get control of the situation. If he could get the man under him and sit up, then he could rain down blows and limit Sylar’s ability to retaliate. That was his plan at least, to the extent that he had formulated it. Sylar was obviously aware of his poor position and as soon as Peter started to lean away from him, Sylar hit him solidly on the right shoulder, following it up with hitting him in the face with his other hand.
God-damn reach! Peter couldn’t get back fast enough, a little stunned and mostly trying to get his face away from those fists. Okay, so maybe getting on top of Sylar wasn’t a good idea. Sylar had his shoulders and was trying to shove him off. For a moment they wrestled. Peter knew he was stronger - a lot stronger than Sylar - if he could just get his dominant arm to work right. He knocked Sylar’s hands off a few times; trying to get them out of the way so he could punch with his left. He swung, but he was blocked, probably giving Sylar a few bruises on his forearms, but they weren’t disabling blows in the least. The other man gave up on trying to shove him off like that - if that was what he was trying to do - and started twisting his whole body.
XXX
Peter followed him right down and he recognized the positioning for the second time. How did I get into this? No, how do I get OUT of this? He sent a fist into the nerves where Peter’s neck met his shoulder, numbing the arm somewhat before snapping at his face to stun him. Then he started twisting like a madman, fittingly enough, pushing on Peter’s shoulders; a molecular speck of fear from being pinned like this with this man. Mercy…Heights…(What a goddamn name for a fucking hospital. ‘Mercy’. Especially one where Pious Saint Peter works).He would have reached up to strangle him, except….that would take things to an undesired (sort of) level.
/All he could remember suddenly was a hand under his neck supporting his head in a strange display of care, a heat near his lap and the pressure of a sweaty hand on his forehead, hearing a growling voice above him, demanding something. Everything had slowly sapped from him at the time, like suddenly remembering less and less of yourself; having memories yanked out, no, memories just being gone, empty, but totally aware, for the moment, that someone was taking them away. He did remember looking up into vaguely familiar hazel eyes in a kind face that was set in a mask of a snarl, managing to grate out through a throat that could barely get air from shock. “Do it. KILL ME!”/
Peter kept getting his elbows into Sylar’s arms as he kept the man away, but not off him; the medic settling over his lap on the bed. The man would bend or break Sylar’s stiff-arm and try to strike him, but Sylar would raise his arm to fend it off, catching the blow with his arm, grunting at the blows. All the while he was squirming like a long eel from underneath Peter, grabbing at the bed to move himself away.
XXX
Teeth clenched, Peter hit Sylar in the shoulder, but he was being unseated from his superior position by the energy and force of the other man’s effort. He had a choice between trying to reestablish his pin or taking a few licks while he had the chance. He went for the latter, not passing up the chance. He hit the man again in the shoulder - nearly the same place, but it was unlikely do much other than hurt and bruise, maybe limit the strength of the arm much as Sylar’s blow had done to Peter. He aimed higher with his right, going for the side of Sylar’s head.
It was a moving target. Although Peter knew his right hand still didn’t have the strength it should have, numbed from the shoulder strike, he hadn’t thought about the implications of hitting a hard surface with a fist that wasn’t tight and firm. So when his balled hand came down on the rear side of Sylar’s skull, it hurt Peter a lot more than Sylar. Something snapped in his hand and his wrist wrenched. “Ah!”
XXX
He took a hard sock into his shoulder again as he managed roll onto his side, feeling his right arm tense and jerk in reaction, sound escaping him. Growling next to be intimidating and perhaps because it would help him wriggle free of Peter’s encasing legs (god, how awkward). His vision shuddered and his head snapped painfully into the bed, something in his neck popping from a swift blow from something hard to his skull.
“Uh…” was his groaned exhale of pain, an instant headache splitting up his cranium, throbbing around the impact site. He dimly heard the other man make a louder noise in agony, but he just kept moving, not at all pausing to survey the empath’s injuries because right now he didn’t care. Wonder of all wonders, this was so similar to another fight this pair had been in. Maybe everything had already been done before.
/"You're too weak to stop me! I know what it feels like now. All this power....I'm the one who's special."/
XXX
Shit! He jerked his hand back reflexively. He could still fight, but that injury by itself knocked his effectiveness down by more than a quarter, maybe half if something was actually broken, ceding the advantage entirely to Sylar. For the moment though, maybe Sylar didn’t realize that.
XXX
Peter stopped moving, stopped advancing so Sylar didn’t kick him as his legs cleared the other man’s straddle. He then took the opportunity to roll off the bed and onto the floor, sliding down in a muddled mess. Moving to his knees, he saw first that Peter still knelt on the bed, cradling his arm, possibly the one he’d hit Sylar’s head with.
Fuzzily he had a flash that his head had always been a little thick. The medic flexed his hand briefly, holding back his grimace of pain, but Sylar caught it; he must have done something to make the man look at him because Peter’s eyes rose from his arm to Sylar’s eyes and he began to move off the bed.
He took that as a move back into the field, injured or not. Looking around the room much faster, his eyes alighted on a baseball bat; crude and messy, but he didn't intend to use it and that fact was none of Peter's business. Grabbing hold of it, he wobbled to stand, something from the headshot disrupting his balance. "Enough," he rasped out, holding the bat in front of him for show.
Peter hadn't attempted to strangle him or otherwise bash his brains in; he hadn't even run for the gun. Sylar concluded that Peter in fact wouldn't go back for the gun or the nearest sharp object, Petrelli-style, for the final Medal of Honor. The bat wavered slightly in his hand and he blinked a few times at the injured man.
XXX
Peter looked over the bat carefully, noting how it wavered. It wasn’t held firm. He didn’t think Sylar truly intended to use it. That was good - Peter was done with the fight too. He took a half step back and to the side anyway, out of caution, keeping the corner of the bed between them so there was no way he could easily be rushed. People could be killed bare-handed, but a fight with weapons became all kinds of lethal that a fistfight was not. Sylar’s single word eased him a lot, turning the hefting of the bat from an escalation Peter wouldn’t win to a graceful way to back down. He’d made his point and even though he doubted Sylar understood why Peter had attacked him, Peter did and that was good enough. Absently he noted the stuffed bear was directly behind him. He nudged it back with his heel, unconsciously keeping himself between it and Sylar.
He waited a few more seconds just to be sure of the situation, then let his thoughts go back to what had started this - Sylar’s insinuations, or perhaps confessions. “Is there any low you won’t sink to? Rape?” It had provoked him because it was new, as a piece of information; because Sylar had been taunting him; because it seemed Sylar wanted to start a fight and would keep at it until he did. It was worse than his other sins - there was no excuse of the hunger or even self defense in taking advantage of Claire. A new low, yes. But it wasn’t like he’d had all that far to fall at that point.
Peter shook his head, lip curling in disgust. “Don’t talk to me about how you’ve hurt people. If you really think we’re stuck here forever together, don’t talk to me about that!” Peter’s voice rose in distress. “There’s nothing I can do about it!” Except beat the crap out of you. It’s already done. Maybe I could have been there faster. If I’d only known… “Just because you have powers doesn’t mean you have to use them that way!”
He licked at the blood on his lips and raised his left hand to wipe it off his chin. He eyed Sylar further, but the other man was holding his ground. Peter felt of his nose briefly. He didn’t think it was broken. His teeth were still solid. He took a quick catalog of his other injuries. Nothing seemed critical except for his hand. He flexed it, giving Sylar a sullen look, unwilling to explore it further right away. The other man looked fine - a little unsteady, with red marks blooming slowly as the first stage of bruising - but basically fine.
Peter remembered an exchange during his precepting as a paramedic, where his instructor was trying to treat a patient who had been in a bar room brawl. Either punch drunk or inebriated, the man kept demanding the paramedic ‘fix’ his injuries, which consisted of several blows to the face similar to Sylar’s, or Peter’s. No bones were broken, nothing was bleeding. The veteran medic had told him, ‘Buddy, you’ve been punched. I can’t un-punch you. Take some aspirin, use some cold packs, and don’t get in bar-fights.’
Peter dropped his eyes, backing up another short step, signaling more firmly he was done here and he was backing off.
XXX
Sylar blinked at the man a moment, taken aback by the one slur that was sent his way and attached to his name. Another and far greater sin to be associated with him. I. Hate. People. Sylar leaned forward and extended the bat at Peter’s chest, “I’m no rapist,” he snarled, body tensed. Of course Peter would think that; it was probably the only thing he heard from Sylar’s entire….speech. “The only thing I ever touched was her pretty blonde gray matter for her stupid ability.”
Peter’s voice rose and Sylar was left to wait out the tirade he presented, after the he finished, Sylar snapped back, barely restraining his own bitter anger, “Don’t you dare lecture me about abilities, Petrelli, don’t you dare.” He knew he didn’t need the bat, but it made him feel better regardless of Peter’s potential as a threat.
Who rescued who from killing their then-shared mother? Who had taken hits and been strapped down and drugged again just to be a good brother? Mommy’s good boy? Peter had gone crazier faster with the Hunger than Sylar had himself. But, no, Sylar was ever the monster because Peter, precious, perfect, loving and loved Peter could be forgiven. His body count was zero of course.
The other man’s eyes dropped and he backed down. “You’ve never seen me ‘low’, Peter, so don’t be so quick to judge. I can’t remember the last time I was laid and that was prior to three years ago.” Okay, a bit of an exaggeration; he did remember, but it was just to illustrate that he wasn’t the most social of men. His voice had relaxed but he still held himself stiffly, prepared for another foolish rush against the bat; typical Peter.
XXX
The bat made an annoying degree of difference in how he responded to what Sylar said. Peter had a feeling that were it not there as a glaring reminder of the next step in their conflict, that they’d still be fighting one way or another, steadily moving the relationship between them to more and more hostile. He leaned away and tensed in turn when Sylar gestured at him with it, but he didn’t give ground.
He believed Sylar instantly, which annoyed him even more. He should argue. He should demand proof (though what proof could the other man give?) He should demand an apology for Sylar even insinuating that he’d done that to Claire. But instead, the back of his head which judged people and made emotional decisions said, ‘oh yeah, that makes perfect sense’ and the more intellectual part was left gaping and struggling to disagree. He frowned deeply at Sylar and hoped he’d hurt the bastard worse than it looked, because if he’d said those sorts of things knowing they were false, then he’d done it just to start things, intentionally goading him.
Sylar’s eyes dropped and his tone eased back towards normal. Peter was left wondering what the hell ‘low’ was for Sylar if it wasn’t killing people and being a menace to everyone who got close to him. Really, molesting Claire at the Stanton seemed possible. Sylar’s outrage that Peter would jump to the obvious conclusion was irritating. Asshole. You have no grounds to say someone is being ‘quick to judge’ if they believe what you tell them. He supposed he didn’t really know much about the other man, but what was there worse than the murders? Sure, Peter’s imagination could fill in a lot of scenarios (cannibalism, child molestation, prolonged torture, and a sort of psychological torment of the sort Peter wondered if he was getting into with this current bullshit) - but it left a curiosity about what Sylar thought was out of bounds.
XXX
Actually, he should probably be more worried about being stabbed in the back as opposed to a frontal charge, but this was Peter of the manipulative clan Petrelli. “You are barking up the wrong tree if you think I’d willingly get it on with anyone in your family,” he said sneeringly serious.
XXX
So the Petrellis were safe from Sylar making passes at them. Fine. Sylar meant it as an insult - that was the only reason Peter found it objectionable. Just stop talking, he begged mentally. Stop insulting. Stop… Peter sighed. Like that’s going to happen. Maybe I’ve got to stop taking offense. He’s not going to change. I can’t make him change. Some part of himself ached and hurt and objected to the idea that he had to weather Sylar’s abuse and disrespect. There was a distant echo here of his father being overbearing and authoritarian in Sylar’s comportment, claiming absolute superiority with such infuriating constancy. He couldn’t slug his father; but by God that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to. His jaw worked. He said nothing.
XXX
“Your niece is about as loving as a porcupine, Peter. I never touched her like that. I prefer my partners willing.” Something that was hard to come by for a serial killer and psychopath. And even then the woman was manipulating him. Hell, once it wasn’t even his body. “When we find her waltzing around here after a dozen years or so, you can ask her your damn self.”
Sylar swung the bat into the wall, denting it easily and letting the would-be weapon drop to the floor amidst crumbs, dust, and rocks of dry wall. His expression dropped from dark and angry to hollow and lost as he looked at Peter as if asking ‘how could you?’ before he left the room. Far be it for him to walk away more hurt if he started the fight.
XXX
Sylar swung the bat into the wall and Peter jumped a little. Then he dropped it. Good. Peter swayed a little to the side, away from Sylar as he walked by, close enough to reach out and grab because Peter was not very far from the door. But Peter’s feet didn’t move and neither did his hands. His head hardly turned either, holding himself still. If Sylar had wanted to press the fight, he’d have done it when he had a weapon in hand, not now. As angry as Peter was - and partly because he was so angry - he wanted the fight over. He probably wouldn’t win it anyway with his hand messed up (not without resorting to something like the baseball bat, now lying unattended and available). Sylar passed by without incident to stalk off to wherever else he intended to go.
XXX
Sylar managed to walk in a straight line out the door, only half-heartedly expecting to get capped with the bat. Rape, now. Wonderful. He hadn’t felt like dying today (not really), so he didn’t push the big black button of Nathan; Claire was the other easiest target. Go figure it would come across as rape to the devoted and slightly infatuated do-good uncle.
May as well have for all he thinks, god….No more tests for him. They just hurt. All the more he was forced to remember that Peter was on the ignorant side of this…’partnership’. Sylar knew Peter, both as an enemy and a brother and something in between.
Rape. Won’t mom be proud. He rumbled in his throat and banished the haunting idea. /”You? You could never hurt anyone.”/
XXX
Peter took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders a little, working his right. He turned and picked up the bear with his left hand, looking it over briefly. He didn’t want to leave it here. He looked over at the bat. That he wanted to leave. He walked over and kicked it under the bed, then regretted it instantly. If Sylar looked back in here and it was gone…what would he think? Dammit. If he got down and crawled around to pull the damn thing out that would look even more suspicious. Whatever. Just get out of here. Carrying the bear, he walked out.
He felt a little ashamed to be carrying a stuffed bear. He thought it looked juvenile, or overprotective, or like he was seized of some irrational, displaced urge to protect and comfort one of Sylar’s victims. Well, the latter at least was probably exactly what it was. He tried to tell himself he didn’t give a shit about what Sylar thought.
XXX
Good news is he won’t kill you even he does believe a lie. That’s just what you get for opening your mouth. Why tell him anything? Unfortunately he was painfully aware that he wasn’t adept at keeping his mouth shut, censoring himself (hell, even wanting to) and that over the next hundred years he’d be coughing up more facts about himself than he had ever before.
If he’d had a therapist previous to this, he or she would probably drop dead from shock. He really had nothing to look forward to in that regard; hemorrhaging information about himself, secrets, regrets and fears; all the goddamn damage he carried around that someone who hadn’t read his file wouldn’t know. Fuck that. Just don’t tell him anything.
As a game plan he knew it sucked. Sylar weaved a line for the couch, collapsing on the cushions with an exhausted sigh. It was only then he allowed himself to catalogue his injuries. Pain itself was an afterthought but he just blinked down at his wrist already blooming with bruises, stiffening up. Hyperextension, he labeled dully. Nothing serious.
XXX
As he walked to the kitchen, he glanced at Sylar. Peter put the stuffed animal in his paper sack. He started cleaning himself up at the sink, wiping his face. His nose had pretty much stopped bleeding, but he couldn’t breathe out of it and it had dripped down his shirt. His hand hurt. He felt it up a little bit. He was pretty sure there was something broken there, but it was starting to swell.
He sorted through the cabinets for painkillers, found some and…couldn’t get the freaking child-proof lid off with one hand. It was one of those ultra-protective versions that required two hands, with a fair grip strength in both, to open it. Shit. He sorted around through the various other bottles of vitamins and children’s fever reducers (also equipped with ridiculously aggressive caps), but this was it. He could hold it with his right, but not with enough pressure to keep it in place while he triggered those tabs with his left. Peter thought they’d pulled this style of cap off the market ten years before, but this wasn’t the real world. If it hadn’t been in keeping with the latches on the drawers he’d found earlier, he’d have thought the cap was some subconscious attempt of Sylar’s mind to thwart him.
Well, I’m not going to be thwarted. He frowned deeply at the bottle. The idea of getting that baseball bat and smashing it was very appealing. Or he could put it on the linoleum floor, put his foot on it and get it with his left. Or…taking up the bottle in his left hand, he looked around to see where Sylar was at the moment.
XXX
He moved on, rolling his shoulder, feeling only a sharp bruise that ached to move his arm up. Bruising. He thought he’d tasted blood earlier, so he prodded his tongue around in his mouth for the cut, locating it, but his lips felt fine. Whether or not he had blood or cuts wasn’t a priority, but he did feel around over his face to locate the deep-stinging bruises to the bones there. Then there was that balance problem…Mild concussion. What was he thinking with that? That explained Peter’s pained hand.
His back was tender and stiffening up as was his neck, doubtless he’d wrenched both with the bed. His ribs weren’t hurt, but they did hurt. All he had was aches and pains and a serious headache. Once he’d finished with his assessment, he rested his elbows on his knees. Why am I still sitting here waiting for the tour to continue? That pulled a frown from his tired face and if he could have rubbed it without pain, he would have. Why do I feel like I lost the fight? He settled for digging his fingers into his tangled hair as the word ‘low’ echoed around in his ears.
He heard Peter moving around and glanced to see him carrying the bear into the kitchen. Sylar just closed his eyes and faced straight again, really trying not to consider that. For some reason that small gesture felt like a slap in the face, and it was probably intended as such.
Claire might be prone to keeping things from people, but she wasn’t shy about laying sins at Sylar’s door, surely everyone knew that? He’d been Nathan for god-knows how fucking long! She was still underage or looked it enough to be- I’m not even considering this. That’s just disgusting. It’s like saying I touched Molly Walker when she was eight or however old. He shook his head, sending pain shooting down his neck so he halted the action.
Is this Hell for immortals?
Sylar heard Peter clattering and huffing in the kitchen over a bottle of….pills, painkillers probably. ‘Suicide isn’t the answer, man!’ his overactive brain insisted he utter, but he had no real desire to and didn’t. Peter was taking this all surprisingly well; the whole ‘new life without PEOPLE’ thing. Aside from the fact that he was still looking for his cubbyhole out of here. That was the point of this whole exploration.
Peter emerged moments later and approached him with, whaddya know, a bottle of pain killers. What made him look twice was the child lock, still closed in the man’s swelling hand. Sylar’s eyes rose slowly from the bottle up to the man’s face, hesitant disbelief coming into his eyes. Help? Me? /”I’m not the savior kind.”/
Normally his first reaction would have been a quick mocking noise, possible laughter for someone failing to master something so simple, regardless of physical ability or pain. (He could just imagine it, too; Peter Petrell: boy wonder throughout the world for saving it above and beyond the call, foiled, not by Sylar, the monster, but by a child-locked bottle). The lack of sound coming from the man’s dead watch grated on his sense with the concussion. He let out the breath he’d been unaware of holding; Peter’s gesture, obviously genuine in its need, defusing Sylar’s tension.
When Peter approached and handed him the bottle, gesturing to his hand by way of explanation they both knew Sylar didn’t need. With bruised knuckles, he thumbed open the tab of the cap and handed Peter back the opened bottle. Thankful he’d left the bear in the kitchen. Again, the funny feeling ran down his spine to his stomach.
Sylar had initiated, insulted and insinuated, forcing Peter to act; he’d then been injured in doing so trying to hurt Sylar. Peter, the fearless mouse, then asking in such a diplomatic way, for assistance for such an obvious reason….He didn’t like that spiral feeling in his gut. Never had. So he ignored it.
He looked up at the medic, eyes reading ashamed as he dropped them quickly; the urge to apologize hanging on his lips.
This was really going to take some getting used to. Being safe with a man he’d so badly wronged; the same man who wouldn’t kill him even with just cause and weapons under provocation. Safe. He nearly laughed at himself.
XXX
Continued...